#like I NEED someone unwavering in Arthur's corner

[pandasaurio-espacial]

Even the most loyal of Arthur's people defending Merlin in a magic reveal scenario, not for Merlin's sake but Arthur's is so important to me

[pollyrepents]

where his tenderness resides | thomas shelby

Summary: To others it would seem Tommy’s love comes in the lavish gifts he gives, but the jewelry and clothing and horses mean nothing when you know he takes the care to feel his love.

Warnings: Nothing major. Reference to John’s fate, so a little bit of hurt. Or a lot a bit of hurt, that’s all dependent on you, really.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I’m absolutely obsessed with the idea of Tommy’s romantic love language being touch and that he only really indulges in it when he knows they won’t been seen. It haunts me, truly. I have a whole tag dedicated to it on my blog. This got kind of sad without meaning to, but that’s just how I write. Enjoy!

He was always careful when he paid attention to you in front of others.

A polite hand on your lower back, guiding you away from unpleasant conversation or steering you into a needed one with potential donors or the wives of lucrative business partners, wanting small talk to take the place of touchy conversations and new business ventures you could strangle him for ruining your evening with. 

His attention was gentle and calloused at the same time, with his hands rubbing up and down your arm in a weak attempt at soothing as soon as you dragged him to a dark corridor for questioning.

“What happened to minimal business tonight?” You rose the glass in your gloved hand to sip your champagne, raising an eyebrow as he opened his mouth to speak, “You’ve snuck off twice and now I’m hearing from Polly there’s powerful people here?”

“Yes, there’s powerful people here for the charity-” His attempt to clarify made you click your tongue.

“There’s blinder business, Thomas.” You pursed your lips and he nodded once, unable to deny anything under your scrutinizing gaze. He focused himself on something outside, trying to pull enough words together to excuse himself from your discussion. “Why is there blinder business here, Tommy? At our charity event for ailing orphans?” You straightened up, eyes unwavering as you tried to meet his.

Tommy turned back to you and his icy blue eyes met yours. “They’re making sure you’re safe, is all.” He lifted a hand to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with a reserved gentleness despite the roughness of his skin. The tone was nothing other than truthful, steady as ever while he spoke. “I can’t have anything happen to you. Extra security for my peace of mind.”

“Or the dress.” You quipped, proving your point by turning your hips slightly to make the fabric swish. “I spent a long time picking this out as I wanted it to pair perfectly with the apology earrings you left me on the dresser.”

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling briefly at the mention of the new pearls, and you didn’t doubt he was pushing his tongue against his teeth as he gathered his words. “Alright. Not a mark on either of you. You or the fucking dress you picked out just for me, Y/N. ” 

“I didn’t pick out anything for you.” You pecked his lips briefly, smiling softly as he moved in for another, whispering between the two of you, “The dress is mine.”

“And what’s under the dress is mine, ay.” He had that tone to him, treading the line of authoritative only you got to hear behind closed doors, the kind that came with pushing his buttons. You felt a smile pass your lips before schooling your features, an imitation of the man who undoubtedly knew you best. You pushed a stray curl behind your ear as you looked him over.

“As long as you keep your minimal business to a minimum,” You tutted and straightened his bowtie, the careful knot your own doing while Tommy had made his initial promise in the sanctuary of your bedroom during the early evening hours. “what’s under the dress if yours.”

His hand was on your lower back again and you relaxed into the touch, a warm smile coming to your face as you examined his. The cold, determined Tommy melted away for a split second, the changes you had learned to savor coming forth easy to spot in the dark of the cold hall. The corner of his eyes pinched slightly, the corner of his lips turning upward for a brief moment. He tilted his chin down, pressing his lips to yours softly.

“Now,” You cleared your throat, gently pushing his hand off of your lower back in exchange for his arm. “Back to minimal business, Tommy.”

There were mornings when his lips never left your skin for more than a few moments, the both of you needing tangible assurance of someone’s love. Yours usually came in the middle of the night when you would tuck yourself against his twitching body, his limbs settling as he felt the pressure of you against his side, the smell of your soap and hair oils pushing through the clay and muck of the reimagined tunnels. Where the mumbling and quiet gasping would ease as you rubbed his chest and whispered to him that he was home, that he was safe, that he was with you in your bed. 

His came in the mornings, seeing through the teasing to assure you that although he was off to a dealing business meeting  or political business in London or factory business in the shit and smog of Small Heath in a moment, he would not stray for too long. His mornings were always early, always that sweet spot in time when you were too drowsy to put up a believable act in front of Tommy and would grumble an answer to any question he had without thinking twice as long as he stopped talking soon enough.

“Is there anything else, Mister Shelby?” The voice recognized as Frances’ was distant, the old woman’s voice more delicate than usual.

“That’ll be it, Frances, thank you.” His low voice came next and made you stir slightly, taking a deep breath and turning over to bury your face in his warmth that lingered on the blankets, begging for sleep to whisk you away again.

The door shut and a moment later the mattress dipped behind you, the smell of burning tobacco and aftershave enveloped your nearly sleeping form. Soft lips pressed against the back of your neck and you tried to remain still, breathing evenly as his lips trailed across your shoulder.

“You’re awake.” The words rumbled against your skin, soft lips moving against your neck as he kissed where he had marked in the earliest morning hours. 

“Mm-mm.” You hummed, pressing your face into the pillow. “Not yet.”

“Frances has brought you breakfast.”

“You made that woman get up before the sun rose?” You mumbled into the pillow, furrowing your eyebrows despite your act. 

“That is what I pay her for.” Tommy reminded. “The sun is up, dearest. Open your eyes, see it for yourself.” 

“Come back to bed, Thomas.” You verged on a whine, reaching a hand back to try and run your fingers through his hair. Your nose wrinkled at the lack of contact on your part as he slipped away. “It’s Sunday. Let Linda and Arthur go to church then handle the business. Just take a day, we can even take Charlie out for a picnic.”

Skillfully and typically he ignored your request for his leisure time. “I’m Thomas now?”  His fingers trailed down the curve of your back and you all but arched into his touch like a spoiled cat.

“You were Thomas last night.” You reminded as you rolled over to face him and stretched out on the mattress. His fingers trailed up and down your side lightly and you flinched away from the ticklish touch, grabbing his wrist in your hand. “Watch it, Thomas.”

The corners of his lips twitched upward and something resembling mischief sparked in his eye and you narrowed your own at him, challenging, “Do you think they’d miss you?”

“I think you would.” He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss between your eyebrows. “How would you explain yourself then, ay?”

“Thomas Shelby was taken care of,” He snorted at your wording as he crossed the room but you persisted anyway. “Thomas Shelby was handled after pushing his lover to the limit so early in the morning after waking her up so rudely.”

He moved to where he had Frances place the tray of food and lifted it, nodding for you to shift yourself among the sheets. You propped yourself up, holding a hand out to stop him as he reached your bedside. Tommy quirked an eyebrow.

“Only if you’re planning on staying.” You raised your eyebrows to mirror him. “If not, I’ll eat at the window. On my own.”

Tommy looked at you momentarily, the smoke from his cigarette swirling upward and around him as he examined you for any sign of relenting. He sighed and nodded, placing the tray over your legs and trying not to show any amusement at your triumphant smile as he came to the empty side of the bed. 

“Your meetings can wait for a bit, Tommy-don’t get into bed with the suit.” You cautioned. “It’ll wrinkle.”

He sighed, patience steady as he listened to you. “Am I expected to feed you the toast as well?” He unbuckled his belt and slipped his gray suit pants off, folding them and placing them on the end of the bed. “Is that what you need me here for?” He slid out of his waist coat, placing it atop his matching pants. His fingers made quick work of the tiny white buttons on his shirt, lying it over his other clothes.

“Well, if you’re offering, how could I say no.” You laughed lightly, bringing your legs up under you as he laid out next to you, leaning back against the headboard. You took a bite of buttered toast, holding the slice to Tommy’s lips as you chewed. His unamused look made you giggle and you pulled the cigarette from between his lips and moved the toast slightly closer still, prompting him to take a small bite.

“Good boy.” You patted his face lightly and ignored the scoff, leaning in to kiss him around the crumbs. “Can I expect you back before midnight?”

He nodded once, pulling another drag from the cigarette and blowing it upwards toward your painted ceiling. “I’ll try for a reasonable hour.” He muttered to himself, lifting his fingers to try to tuck away the fabric where your scarf had slipped from its knot during the night. “No idea how you keep this fucking thing on all the time.”

“Enough magic to give me a headache.” You batted at his fingers, unraveling the knot and letting your curls loose. You massaged your scalp, shaking out the tightened coils. “I’m sure I’m a real vision right now. Looking like I’ve been shocked by a wool touch or something.”

Tommy puffed smoke out through his nose, a hand reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of your neck. Your shoulders relaxed at his touch “Not a bad sight so early in the morning.”

“If you’re softening me up with the affection and compliments so you can leave, it’s not going to work.” 

His hand fell to the spot where your shoulder met your neck and he pulled you down slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple, mumbling something along the lines of you being insatiable and a menace, but his nonetheless.

It was rare he let you hold him first.

He was mourning.

Different than Arthur, who was weeping aloud and different than Polly who rolled the rosary beads between her fingers more often those days. It was a different mourning, when his persistent mind stopped for a moment and his thoughts droned into white noise and the realization that John was gone-permanently gone, at the fault of his own greed and impulse washed over him the way the panic in the tunnels would. You found him hunched over on his bed in their Watery Lane home, shaking breaths making the hunch of his back rise and fall unsteadily. In the candlelight beside him you could make out his hands-your favorite hands- hands trembling as they gripped at his hair.

“Tommy,” You spoke up carefully, staring at him from the doorway. You reached behind you, closing the door in an attempt to shield him from a passerby’s view. “Tommy, you’ll hurt yourself.” You took slow and measured steps toward him, fearful of creaky floorboards that would alert the other nearby Shelbys, or knocking anything to the ground that would set him off. His trembling form made a knot in your throat tighten and you reached out your hand, startling when Tommy sprung up. Automatically, his hand reached under his pillow and his wet eyes found yours, his normally calm eyes flashing with something wild before he reconnected himself to the present moment.

“It’s just me, Tommy.” Your hand that had flown up to stop him arming himself dropped, cupping his stubbly chin. Your thumb caressed his jaw, trying to push away the tension for a moment. “Couldn’t find you after dinner, I got scared.”

He nodded, pulling away from your touch. He cleared his throat. “So many places to check in the house.”

“I thought you’d be out smoking or at the Garrison.” Your fingers sought out his hair where he had been pulling at it, rubbing your fingertips in soothing circles on his scalp. “Taking your mind off of things.”

“I can’t be drunk if we’re being hunted, Y/N.” His tone was dismissive and reached for his cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table.

“Everyone in the house is armed.” Your hands reached out to touch him again, blocked as he rolled his cigarette between his slightly swollen and raw lips. You assumed he had been biting them, one of his tells that things had bubbled up while he was alone. “We’ve all got guns under our pillows and in our pockets. Even Linda’s got one on her.”

“Fear convinces people better than simple words can.” He rested his elbow on his knee, hunching over. He smoked for a moment, long drags and lingering clouds of smoke swirled around the two of you. You stepped in front of him and reached down to take the cigarette, watching him closely as his fingers went limp. You placed it between your own lips, both hands coming up to cup the back of his head. You listened to his breathing, waiting until the stuttering breaths became fewer and farther between.

“He was your brother.” You traced your finger upward over the shell of his ear, lightly tracing the outline of his forehead. “He was a Shelby.”

“Yeah.” Tommy spoke into your nightdress, his eyes shutting as your finger came to brush against his lashes. “Yeah, I know he was.”

“So you know you can mourn him.”

The next breath was shaky and Tommy’s hands began to tremble again. You took your final drag and snubbed out the cigarette, letting it smoulder in his aged ashtray. 

He pressed his face into your stomach, hands pressing into your lower back as he sought refuge in your being. You tilted your head to the side, taking in his closed eyes and clenched jaw before he turned his head away from the flickering candle light.

“Mourn him, Thomas.” You whispered downwards at his hair, a hand coming up to rub his cheek. Your fingers met wetness just under his eyes and you ignored it, stroking his cheek with your thumb as Tommy held onto you for dear life. “It’s alright.”

His hand began to move against the material of your nightclothes, palms pressing more firmly than before. You settled yourself across his lap, one knee on either side of him on the edge of the bed. You gripped at his shirt, still smelling of the day’s whiskey he had taken and cigarettes he had found a way to take more of recently. His face tucked into your neck and you wrapped your arms around him tightly, letting his forearms squeeze you close around your lower back. He took breath after shaking breath against you, his fingers holding the fabric of your clothes in an iron grip. 

You held him, pressing your face into his hair as he held you as close as possible, hiding above the blankets in the flickering candle light.

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

[me-and-your-husband]

Need Someone (Part 2)

Summary: Reader gets into some trouble, and doesn’t know who else to call besides her best friend’s dad, District Attorney Andy Barber.

Warnings: age gap, kidnapping and attempted sexual assault.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Note: Lets say reader is 18 and in senior year.

    I had managed to get my captor to untie me from the bed, which was the first step in the right direction. Now, I sat with my legs hanging off the side of the bed, trembling. He sat beside me, stroking my hair. I could feel his hot breath on my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that I would be able to endure less of it. When I was finally able to stop thinking about the man’s lingering breath on my neck, I felt his dry lips attach to my neck in a chaste kiss. I let out a noise of disgust, and my eyes widened when I realized what I just did.

   A calloused hand came up to grip my jaw, and the man swiftly turned my face to meet his. His eyebrows met in a frenzy of anger, yet the corners of his mouth curled up in a sinister smirk. 

“I thought you were ‘gonna be cooperative, Hon’,” He said rhetorically. My bottom lip trembled out of fear when I tried to speak. Breaking eye contact, I moved my gaze back down to my hands, clutching the bed sheets.

Just then, I felt a cold force hit my cheek, sending me flying to the floor with a thud. I pressed my hand to my cheek, my cold hand being a vast contrast to the burning flesh where the mark was left. A shaky breath escaped my lips, as my eyes darted around the room, searching for a plan. The man let out an almost grizzly-like growl at this, and lunged toward me. Luckily, I was able to bound away and stumble through the bedroom door. Trying to navigate my way through this house was difficult; the man had carried me up here when I was unconscious. 

     Sprinting to the door to what I assumed would be the stairs, I slammed the door behind me and my trembling hand frantically moved to lock it, but the whole door handle had been removed. Adrenaline pumped through my body as I looked around the room. It seemed to be a guest room, decorated with little but a bed, a nightstand with a single lamp on it, and a rocking chair sat by the small window, which was currently open, letting a draft in, causing the thin curtains to sway in the breeze.

   My legs took me to the window, where I yelled for help as loud as I could, even sticking my head out the window to wave to anyone passing by. It was light now, around noon, according to the place of the sun in the sky. Surely, the Barbers had realized something was wrong when Jacob didn’t hear from me yet today. 

“Come here, you bitch!” is what echoed through the hall, heavy footsteps approaching the door. The thought went into my head for a brief moment, and I knew I had to at least try. I grabbed the lamp from the nightstand and removed the shade, revealing a glass lightbulb. Quickly, I ran to hide behind the doorknob-less door, and held the lamp close to my chest, Drawing a deep breath in, I waited for the door to swing open.

  Once the door opened, I waited for the man to step far enough into the room. His sweaty figure had it’s back turned towards me, to which I stepped forward, raising the lamp above my head. I brought it down with force, and the sound of glass shattering could be heard amongst the throaty groan the man let out. Blood trickled from his bald skull, as his hand came up to check the wound site. When he seen that crimson painted his fingers, he slowly turned around to face me. The lamp in my hands, which were cut and bleeding from the glass, fell onto the ground in between us. 

“You little slut. You think you can do this to me? Just wait until I get my hands on you, you little...” I couldn’t hear the rest, as my legs took me down the stairs, as if I knew this house like my own, and for some reason I ran right past the back door, and went for the kitchen. Flying around the kitchen island, I grabbed a knife from the knife block. Getting down with my back up against the cabinet of the kitchen island, I tried to steady my breath. For a few minutes, I heard nothing but silence. Then, a low, steady, unwavering, monotone groan, and something dragging. Then, more silence. 

     Hot tears spilled onto my cheeks, and the copper taste filled my mouth. I let go of the bottom lip that I had been anxiously gnawing on and stood up to take a peek over the island. My face was met with the man, blood running down the side of his face, leaning forward over the counter. 

“Well, hi there,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. A blood-curdling shriek left my lips, one that felt like I had been holding back for a century. His large hand grabbed me by the hair, picking me up and throwing me across the kitchen floor, causing the knife in my hand to fall and slide across the floor.. I landed with a crack, and tried to ignore the pain resonating in my arm. 

“No, no please stop, you don’t have to do this,” I cried, crawling backwards as best as I could on my elbows. I inched towards the knife, as he stalked towards me. He brought his foot out and gave me a hard kick in the ribs, gaining another cry out of me. As I lay there clutching my side, he sat on my legs, keeping me in place. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a small gadget. Flipping it open , he revealed that it was a pocket knife. 

“Now, since you won’t behave, I’ll give you something to remember me every time you look in the mirror,” He stated dastardly. Despite my thrashing, he brought the knife up to just under my left eye on my cheek, and pressed into the skin. He didn’t go deep enough for me to bleed out, nor for it to scar, but it still hurt like a bitch, 

    His other hand came up to cover my mouth, muffling my screams and protests. He dragged the blade along my flesh, but in moment of his hesitation, I caught him off guard and brought my fist up to his stomach. The blow was hard enough for him to fall off of me, releasing my legs. I crawled on my stomach over to the knife that was now a few feet away from me. 

When my fingertips brushed the hilt of it, A strong hand wrapped around my ankle. He pulled me back towards him, but luckily I had managed to wrap my hand around the knife’s blade, cutting into my hand. I moved my hand down to the hilt, and turned around. I plunged it straight into his neck, and his eyes popped out of their sockets. Both of his hands immediately came up to clutch his bleeding neck. Blood gushed and squirted out of it. Within ten seconds, we were both laying in a pool of our blood, more his than mine.

    I listened to his breathing patterns. They finally went form sounding mucus-filled and clotted, to none at all. Once I had realized he was really dead and he was safe, the adrenaline started to wear off and I became tired. 

   The realization that I needed help was what brought me back from drifting off. I managed to climb off the floor, and reach the house phone that sat on the counter by the stove. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, but a thought crossed my mind. What if I get charged for murder? What if they don’t understand it was self defense?

    I finally make up my mind, and make the decision to call the only other person I know that can for sure help me. I dialed Andy Barber’s number, and waited as it rung. I crossed my fingers in hopes that he would pick up. While it was ringing, I took in my surroundings. The white kitchen walls were now splattered with blood, the tiled floor flooded in it. My clothes were soaked in either his blood or mine. This reminded me of my cheek, to which I brought my hand up to swipe across. This was a bad idea, as the touch made it sting more.

 I was pulled out of my trance by a tired, raspy voice. “Andy Barber speaking,” came from the other line, and I let out a breath I had been holding in. 

“Andy?” I said, but it came out in almost a whisper. It was like I could physically feel him perk up.

“Y/N? Is that you? Where are you?”

“Andy, I don’t know where I am. I’m in a house,” I told him earnestly. 

“Alright,” he sighed. I could just imagine him running his hand over his face. “Look for bills, or anything that could have the address on it,” 

I hummed in response and began scavenging the kitchen for bills or documents. I went through all of the drawers and cupboards with the phone between my ear and shoulder, finding nothing. I was just about ready to give up when I noticed a paper pinned on the stainless steel refrigerator with a magnet. I crept up to the fridge, almost cautiously. I held the phone to my ear with one hand and reached out for the paper slowly with the other. I plucked it off of the fridge and held it in front of me. My trembling hand made it difficult to read, but I could make out a name. 

ROBERT ARTHUR HADDOCK

1271 ASPIN WAY

“1271 Aspin Way, that’s where I am,” I said in monotone to the phone. Andy cleared his throat. 

“Okay, alright. Just hang tight, honey. I’ll send the police down, they’ll be there shortly. Stay on the line, okay?” he said soothingly. 

“No, no Andy you can’t, I-”

“It’s alright, honey it’ll be fine, I trust these people. I wouldn’t let them anywhere near you if I didn’t,” He reassured me. It might have been inappropriate, the time and place considered, but the pet name he kept using made my heart flutter.

“It’s not that, I...I killed him,”

Silence from the other end. I could picture Andy’s mouth agape. 

“But-but it was in self defense, I swear! He was trying to hurt me, he did hurt me. Oh right, I’m still bleeding,” I said, voice trailing off at the end. This brought him out of his silence.

“What! Y/N, you’re hurt? How bad is it?” He badgered, concern laced in his voice.

“I think my arm’s broke, he cut my cheek, and he kicked me in the ribs. There’s blood everywhere, oh God. I don’t even know how much of it’s mine...” I mewled, my voice cracking at the end, the tears coming back down again.

“I’m on my way,” Andy stated.

“Please don’t tell Jacob, and don’t bring anybody else, please,” I begged.

“I won’t,” he said gently, before I heard a car door open and shut swiftly. “...Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“It’s been nearly three days. For three fucking days you could have been dead,”

Sitting on the floor by the front door, I sat talking to Andy as he drove. This house was on the other side of Newton. 

The phone I was using gave a warning beep, to let me know that it was almost dead.

“Andy. the phone’s almost dead,” I said softly.

“It’s okay, I’m almost there. I’m about five minutes away, you can unlock the-” 

The phone died.

Letting out a sigh, I threw the drained house phone across the room. “Damn it,” I murmured to myself. It was then, sitting in the approaching darkness, utterly alone, that I realized that I needed to use the washroom. The only problem was, I didn’t know where it was, and I just killed the guy who owns it. 

I stood up with a grunt, and started opening random doors. When I opened the last one at the end of a long, white corridor, a foul smell floated into the air. Trying to keep down the lunch I was deprived of, I plugged my nose. My eyes found a small string hanging from the ceiling, to which I assumed would turn on a light. I was correct.

    Bright orange light flooded the small room, which revealed to me that there was one flight of stairs below me. At the bottom, the sight I was presented with shook me to my core.

    Seven women lay on the landing at the end of the stairs, all defiled and mutilated. The bodies of the women were bloated and purple, and some even looked like they had started rotting. 

    The scream that left my mouth this time was so vile and so loud, that I couldn’t hear Andy forcefully opening the front door and stumbling in, yelling my name. I only stopped screaming when I fell to the ground, either passing out from blood loss or shock, cheeks wet from tears. Andy’s thick arms wrapped around me, catching me before I hit the hard ground.

Tags: @zaddychris @kyrarose16 @lexeeehhh @kelbabyblue​ @lovelivelife128

@kalesrebellion​

[juniweasley]

Each and Every Kiss

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!OC (Rosie)

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Narrator thinks about her relationship with Fred Weasley as she walks down the aisle.

Warnings: None other than fluff, mention of Battle of Hogwarts

A/N: This was written for an assignment for a creative fiction writing class where we had to play on time, using flashbacks in reverse order and playing with tense changes with the flashbacks. (I changed the names for the assignment buuuut...)

To help with readability, I also put the ‘flashbacks’ in italics.

This is my first fic and really, first original post on this account, so I hope you all like it!!

          I’m bouncing on the balls of my bare feet – having the ceremony outside on Fred's family’s lawn was a good choice. Feeling the cool grass between my toes is proving to be a good grounding technique, and my breathing slows down. My palms are clammy, and my hands are wound tightly around the bouquet of freshly picked daisies, so tight I can almost bet my knuckles are a shade of ghostly white. But I’m smiling, smiling so hard I can hardly feel my cheeks that are surely redder than my soon-to-be husband’s hair on his head.

          Husband. Wow. Today. I’m attempting to slow my thoughts, staring up at the few clouds that litter an otherwise clear, blue sky. I jump when I hear someone clearing their throat, and I realize the music has started, and my soon-to-be father-in-law Arthur is standing at the corner of the house, his arm out for me to take. I take a deep breath and put my arm in his, my smile unwavering. I’m practically vibrating with joy as he leads me around the house on the makeshift path covered in daisy petals. As we round the corner, I spot the arch that marks the beginning of the aisle. I can feel everyone staring at me, but I only focus on one set of eyes – the mahogany brown eyes at the other end of the aisle, the ones I feel like a magnet drawing me to him, making me want to walk so much faster than this slow wedding song allows.

          I had stared into those same eyes last night while I told him we should just elope that second, that I couldn’t wait any longer. He quieted those feeble attempts at coercion with a soft kiss – one would think that kiss was just the same as any of the other kisses we had shared, but it wasn’t. It was gentle, yet urgent - loving and careful and demanding at the same time. It was a plea to stay, stay with him, though I had already promised a thousand times. He was trying to make sure I was here, really here, and I let him know that I was. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said before he nimbly climbed out the window. How cliché.

          His eyes shine with tears as he watches me pace closer to him. His eyes are filled with love and wonder and awe – I know mine are, too.

          I remember that exact same look present in his eyes after the battle. When the school fell and everyone lost so much, we hadn’t lost each other. When we realized it was over, he turned to me, his hand in mine as it had unconsciously been for the last hour or so, and he looked at me with love and wonder and awe. Awe that we were still alive, that we were safe, that we hadn’t lost each other. We stood for a moment, bathing in that awe, before he kissed me so desperately that I wondered if he had thought he had lost me after all. That kiss was a kiss of relief, full of sadness and haste, and I poured all those emotions right back into his lips. It was a necessary kiss, one that tasted of blood and tears and unspoken “I love you”’s.

          I’m halfway there and I still can’t feel my cheeks from smiling so much, but I know there are tears falling down my face. A few tears escape his eyes as well, resting on his high cheekbones for a second before completing their journey to his jaw and falling onto the grass below him. He brings a hand up too late to wipe them away, but he swipes at the wetness anyways. I can’t hear the music now, nor can I hear the sniffles of family members in the crowd. The world falls away and I only see him, in the emerald dress robes I’ve always said were my favorite.

          He wore the same color dress robes to the dance in our sixth year. He went with a seventh-year girl and I went with a group of friends who ended up leaving me alone at our table to dance with their partners. I sat alone all night – well, almost all night, until he approached me. I saw him walking toward me and decided to avoid that conversation at all costs by getting up and going out to the garden. His date tried to follow him, but he shoved her off and followed me. It didn’t take him long to find me on the bench in front of the fountain, and he sat next to me without saying a word. After an uncomfortable amount of time, I turned to see him staring at me, with what looked like pain and regret in his beautiful mahogany eyes. I was confused. After the confusion came anger, and I stood up, scoffing.

            “Don’t look so sheepish, Fred. I’m sure your date misses you; you should go join her.”

          He stood up as well, reaching a hand out but not quite touching mine. “Rosie…”

          I scoffed again at his use of my nickname. “Don’t.” I turned to leave, but I was stopped by his hand on my wrist.

          “Rosie, please. Wait,” he pleaded. When I turned back, his hand left my wrist. He started to say something, but closed his mouth again, seeming to contemplate what exactly he needed to say. “I… What’s going on? Why aren’t you speaking to me? I don’t understand.”

          I was done. Did I have to spell it out for him? I scoffed for a third time, not being able to help it. 

          “Do I really have to say it? Really?”

          “Please.”

          After a moment of hesitation, I looked down at my shoes and asked quietly, “Why didn’t you ask me?” I hesitated. “To the dance, I mean.”

          He stuttered a bit, probably in disbelief. “I-I didn’t… I didn’t know you…”

          Frustrated and feeling done with the painful interaction, craving to just get it over with, I interrupted him. “Damn it, Fred, I love you!” I shouted as I looked up to meet his eyes again. His mouth was agape, as if he were about to say something but it got caught in his throat.

          Without warning, he was stepping towards me, his hands were on my cheeks, and he bent down and kissed me – this one was insistent, reassuring, and nervous. It was a kiss built of all the previous almost-kisses and pent up feelings all coming out at once. He pulled away to utter a breathless “I love you, too, Rosie,” before kissing me again in earnest.

          I reach the altar and Arthur leaves to go to his seat. I still haven’t taken my eyes off of him. I take my place in front of him and we say our vows that we spent all week writing. I tell him of my love and how it has blossomed and bloomed over the years and will never stop, and I promise to never leave. He tells me of when he first knew he loved me.

          It was on a summer break before our fifth year. I was visiting for the last month of the summer, staying in his sister’s room. I’d become close friends with the entire family, but it was Fred with whom I was closest. Fred, his sister, two of his brothers, and I were working in the garden for their mother. It was getting close to sunset and I was watering daisies. When their mother called for dinner, Fred and I were the last ones to leave the garden. He waited for me without saying anything. When I turned to leave, I saw him looking at me.

          “What?” I laughed.

          He shook his head. “Nothing. Your hair just… looks really pretty. In the sun. Right now.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Should we head back in?”

          He threw his arm around my shoulders and I put mine around his waist, and we loped inside. I could’ve sworn I felt his lips on the top of my head for just a split second. I didn’t say anything, though. Just smiled and kept walking.

          I smile as I hear him recount his side of the story like he has so many times since then. We say our “I do’s,” and before his lips reach mine, I say, “I love you.” 

          “I love you more, darling,” he replies, and he kisses me with the sweetest kiss he has ever placed upon my lips, with both gentle affection and fervor. Each kiss we have ever shared has been unique from the rest, and always better than the last. This kiss is no different.

[lilulo-12fanfiction]

Rain Song- Prolouge

So I promised myself I wouldn’t start any new stories until I worked on my pre-existing works. But...I just haven’t gotten anywhere with them creatively. I tried doing requests for one shots to spark my writers block and it didn’t work. This, however...came flowing out rather easily. So I’m going with it.

This is my first toe dip into Harry Potter. I’ve had this idea for a really long time. It will probably not follow cannon completely as I am creating an original character. But the bones remain the same.

Here’s the skinny- Sirius Black falls in love with Remus Lupin’s younger sister. Evanora Lupin-Black is a powerful Witch & Seer. (I’m kind of going with my own ideas with Seer mythology based on some HP stuff and some of my own ideas). 

Sirius and Nora have a daughter who Remus Lupin must raise after the death of his sister and the imprisonment of is brother-in-law

Let me know what you think!

You are the sunlight in my growing - So little warmth I’ve felt before 

October 31, 1981 “Remus...Remus you must take her and go! Please!” Evanora begged her big brother to take the sleeping child wrapped in her arms. She looked down at her daughter, the unfairness of the situation was palpable. She knew this was the last time she would see the most perfect thing she had ever done. She had spent the time waiting for her brother staring at a picture of her daughter and her father. She wanted the faces of the two loves of her life to be seared into her brain when the lights went out. 

“What of Sirius?” Remus couldn’t take her. She was safer with Sirius. “She should be with her father.” Remus felt a pang. Sirius had recently been keeping him at arms length. Almost two years ago he trusted Remus with the life of his daughter when he was named as her Godfather. Now...Remus didn’t know what had caused the change. Perhaps the stress of the war. The fear for his family. The fear that Voldemort would take James, Lily and Harry. Fear sowed doubt. But Nora...Nora’s faith in her brother was unwavering. It always had been. Lycanthropy be dammed. Remus knew there had been contention between his sister and his friend because of Sirius’ change in attitude. Yet Remus knew, no matter what, his sister was meant to be with Sirius Black.

 “He’s- I don’t know where he is. Please Remus. They’re coming. I won’t survive this. But she MUST. Please-“ Her voice broke as she choked back a sob. Nora had been preparing for this for months. Filling books with letters and instructions for her daughter. Pulling memories for her to see. Nora quite literally saw it all coming, yet she could say nothing. Nora couldn’t warn her husband. She tried to steer him in the right direction but his stubbornness knew no bounds. And now? Nora knew what would become of him. It broke her heart but she knew this was how it had to be. The conflict on her brothers face almost broke her resolve. She couldn't tell him about what had happened to her husband. Time would reveal all to her brother. It would be a hard road, but it was one he must travel. Her only concern could be for that of her daughter. Her survival was essential. She could only pray that the love and faith she had always instilled in her brother would be enough. He had to be strong now. They all had to be strong.

 “Nora- let me get you both to safety. I cannot leave you behind.”

 “Rem- you must. It is meant to be this way. She must be protected. I cannot follow her where she goes. To keep her safe I must stay behind. Big brother please.” He could never deny his sister. She was only a year younger than he and she had him wrapped around her finger from the moment they were old enough to know they needed each other. Remus didn’t even try to hide his tears. He reluctantly took the now almost toddler from his sister. He knew this was her end. He hated that she wouldn’t tell him more. But she never did. She would never upset the balance. She never messed with fate.

 “Nora- I...I wish we had more time.” He wanted to say so much more, but he could not find the words. 

 “Me too Rem. Tell Sirius that I loved him, until my dying breath. Tell her...”Nora couldn’t hold back her sob. 

“I’ll tell her everything. How beautiful and brave her mother was. How she loved her broken shell of a brother. How she made her father a better man. That he became the very best version of himself because of how much her mother loved him. She will know her mother’s grace and her ferocity. Her loyalness. Her ability to be all others above herself. How she was so wonderfully kind. She will know you Nora.” Nora nodded.

 “Remus. You are not a broken shell of a man. You must remember how wonderful YOU are. She will need you. Be strong for her and for me. There is- there are journals and vials. She’ll need it to learn. Remus he will be back. He will fall, but he will be back.” Remus shifted his niece to one arm and hugged his sister and kissed her forehead. 

 “I love you.”

 “I love you too brother now go!” He rushed out of the house after he threw the bags his sister had packed over his shoulder. He looked back at her one last time, she smiled through the tears in her eyes. She was always smiling. He forced himself to look away and fled. 

Once outside he disapparated from the cottage. When he reached safety, he looked down at his niece. She had slept through the entire dramatic ordeal. She was the only person who his love for rivaled that of his sister. Her dark blonde hair already cursed with the wild curls of her mother. She had Nora’s features; pale and delicate skin, full lips and long lashes. She had her mothers radiating smile that would haunt Remus for the rest of his days. But he knew when she opened her big eyes the stormy grey of his best friend would be looking back at him. She already had Sirius’ proclivity for mischief and his full barky laugh. Her laugh was a sound that Remus could never get enough of. Her innocent looks would get her out of the many corners she would undoubtedly paint herself into. She had the charm of Sirius Black pumping through her veins. 

He knew not of what happened to his best friend, he just hoped that whatever rift was between them could be mended. Remus didn’t know how Sirius would survive the loss of his sister. She had been the one to tame Sirius. While he was always  a prankster, he mellowed for her. He renounced his play boy ways for her. And while he still a shameless flirt, he began to reserve it only for Nora. He knew Sirius was a good man. When Sirius asked him permission to pursue his sister Remus had laughed. It didn’t matter what Remus had to say, it was Nora he had to convince. He gave him his blessing and wished him luck. Watching his best friend and sister fall in love was the honor of his life thus far. Now, Remus would need help to tell Sirius that the love of his life was gone and it was now up to him to protect his special child.

 He really wanted to go to Lily and James but it wasn’t possible with how they were heavily hidden. It gave Remus comfort to know that his niece would grow up loved by not only her father, but Lily and James as well. She would have Harry as a life long friend. He knew his condition would take him away from her and Sirius for stretches of time. James and Lily would help, once it was safe for them to come out of hiding. 

He looked up at the house that would offer himself and the child safety until he could figure things out. It was several stories high, slightly crooked with multiple chimneys. The only other place he could think of that would offer him refuge was The Burrow. 

He will return? Who will return? She had to have been talking of Voldemort. It didn’t make sense to him. Remus was confused. His sister, plagued with sight had painstakingly learned how to hone her gift without the help of an accomplished Seer. It was impressive. Her daughter would carry the same burden, Nora had seen it. Now it would be up to Sirius to find someone to help her, he had no idea who. Most of the Seers he knew were quacks or had a meager amount of talent compared to his sister. Remus wished he could take the power of sight from the child he loved like his own. He recalled the nightmares of Nora’s childhood and the intense headaches that had once plagued his sister. She could often see into a persons memories by touching them. She had pulled away from most until she learned how to shut that off. He didn’t want this for her child. It was different when Nora would be here to guide her. He sighed and walked towards the warm home of the Weasley family. He felt guilty for coming. While he knew the Weasley family supported the cause- they opted out as their children were so young. They had all met Arthur and Molly through Molly’s brothers who were active Order members. 

“Remus?!” Molly had heard the sound of his apparition and had run down the stairs to greet him. “Where is Nora?” She looked wide eyed at the man before her. She looked at the child in his arms. When she looked back up at the man before her, Remus’ body began to shake. Molly, alarmed scooped the little girl from his arms and ushered him into the house. He needn’t tell her what happened, she knew, but she let him speak.

 “I don’t know where Sirius is. But Nora....they came for her. They came for them both. She had me take her and she stayed behind. She said- she couldn’t follow her. If she was to survive she had to stay behind. I should have made her come. Oh God Molly. I left my sister to die.” Remus finally wailed. Molly was silent for a moment. She wanted to cry with him. She couldn’t imagine the wherewithal it took Remus to walk away from his sister. Had it not been for the girl, he would have stayed and died with her.

“She told you to take her because if she knew if she didn’t stay behind they would both be dead. You would be dead. You didn’t allow your sister to die, you’ve given your niece the chance to live.”  

“How am I going to tell Sirius?” Remus saw something pass over Molly’s face but she didn’t not share what she was thinking. There was something beneath the surface but he did not have the strength to ask. 

“Come, come inside. I’ll put the kettle in and we’ll wait. Arthur should be here soon. Let me take her up and lay her with Ronald. She can sleep and we’ll contact Dumbledore.” She patted Remus on the shoulder. She couldn’t tell him. Albus would have to be the one. She slowly walked up the stairs to her son’s room as she tried to maintain control of her emotions. She could feel her own feelings later. Remus needed them now. She stifled the feelings of loss. She laid the sweet child next to her son.

 “I am so sorry darling.” Molly took a few moments to compose herself as she looked down at her son sleeping. They were children of war and while it seemed her son would go unscathed, the beauty next to him would not be so lucky.

 Hope Euphemia Black, named for her maternal grandmother and paternal surrogate grandmother, would not know her parents. She would never know her would be Aunt and Uncle Lily and James. It would be years before she knew Harry. It would be up to Remus now to take care of her. Poor Remus, was all that Molly could think. The man who suffered and struggled all of his life lost his sister and 3 best friends in one fell swoop. Molly didn't know how Remus would take the betrayal of his brother-in-law, but it would not be good. 

Molly was pulled out of her thoughts as the clock chimed. Undoubtedly Dumbledore would have secured Harry with Lily’s sister and would soon be on his way to find Remus. Molly would just have to hold it together for now.  She closed the door quietly behind her as to not to disturb the children. As she walked down the stairs, the voice of her husband set her at ease. 

“Dumbledore is on his way Remus.” She heard the clink of a glass. Arthur must have thought Fire Whiskey more appropriate given the circumstances. “I’m so sorry about Evanora. She was quite remarkable.” 

“Her body-“ Remus couldn’t finish his sentence. “I’ve already dispatched the ministry to recover it. She will get a proper send off Remus.” Arthur was stalling, like Molly, he wanted Dumbledore to be the one to tell him about James, Peter and the fate that would be Sirius Black. Arthur knew that it would break him. Arthur barely knew the group of men and it tore him up. 

A month later...

”Remus, you can’t be serious!” Minerva was incredulous. “You’ll need our help during the full moon. You need support. You both do.” 

“We cannot stay here. She’s not safe. After what happened to Alice and Frank- I have to take her away from here. There are still Death Eaters afoot looking for Voldemort. He will return. She can’t be here when he does.” 

“This isn’t what Nora would have wanted.” Minerva could barely speak her name. She tried not to have favorite students, but Nora Lupin had enchanted all those that came in her wake. 

“NORA ISN’T HERE!” He regretted yelling as soon as the words left his mouth. She said nothing. He sat slowly and placed his head in his hands. “She entrusted her to me. Walburga is already trying to get her hands on Hope. I won’t let it happen.”

 “And what of the full moon?” Remus sighed. “Andromeda and Molly offered to help. But with the supply of Wolfsbane we should be alright.”

 “Where will you go?” Remus didn’t want to give the location away. He wanted Hope to know peace. 

“My parents bought a beach front cottage. It was Nora’s favorite place. We’ll go there. It’s beautiful and peaceful. It’s a home that Nora loved that hasn’t been tainted by the war.” “And when she turns 11?” 

Remus sighed. “Well...I have a little over 9 years to decide. I guess it will depend on how much control she has.” The idea of not having the opportunity to teach the daughter of Nora Lupin and Sirius Black was too much for Minerva. She didn’t know what caused Sirius to turn, but the boy she knew was who she decided to remember.

“Professor-“

 “I think we’ve hit the point where you can call me Minerva.” Remus smiles sheepishly.  

“Minerva- why did he do it? I cannot for the life of me piece it together. He loved my sister. He loved his daughter. How? Why?” Remus was beside himself with grief. Minerva could see the pain wearing on his features, more so than his lycanthropy ever did.

“Sirius maintains his innocence. Perhaps he was given the choice of his family or The Potters. I wish I knew. I wish I had the answers you need. Remus- you must promise me something.” Remus looked up at Minerva McGonagall and was met with tear filled eyes. “You’ll send me the occasional owl?” He nodded and she patted him on the shoulder. 

The two remained silent until the sound of Hope’s laugh came closer and closer. The sound of Sirius echoed through the corridor. Moments later in walked Albus Dumbledore carrying the happy child along with him. In her hands were all sorts of treats the Headmaster had bestowed. He knew Remus’ mind could not be changed. He also agreed that it was for the best, for now.  Remus watched as your face lit up and you reached for him. 

“Come darling, it’s time to go home.” 

“Remus.” Dumbledore stopped the tired looking man. “Remember- help will always be found at Hogwarts for those who need it.” Remus paused for a moment and nodded before heading out into the hallway. As he walked down the corridor with Hope in his arms listening to her chatter, there was one thing he felt certain about, he had no intention of bringing his niece back to Hogwarts. Perhaps he’d send her to a school abroad or he would teach her himself. His fear that the dark world that took your mother would take his Hope too.   

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Promises Not Kept Part 2

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 2: Tommy can’t keep Leah out of his head. Leah can’t accept what he’s offering her.

           “Tom.” Arthur rapped at the doorjamb as he entered the dimly lit office.

           “Yeah, Arthur, come in.” Tommy waved his brother into the office.

           “Something the matter?” Arthur asked as he sat. “You’ve been…not yourself the past few days.”

           Tommy’s piercing eyes gazed out the window. “Do you happen to remember Jonah Ward?” He chose not to comment on his brother’s observation. He knew he wasn’t himself since that night with Leah.

           “Sounds a bit familiar.”

           “He was in France with us. I was there when he died.”

           Arthur nodded slowly. Tommy rarely, if ever, talked about their time in France. He seemed keen to lock it away and never dig the memories back up. But they’d always be there for all of them, never quieting in the silence of the night.

           “Yeah, think I can picture the face. Why’d you bring him up?”

           “I promised to take care of his wife ‘fore he died.” He absent-mindedly ran his thumb over his chin. “I never did try to find her. Now she works at Midland.”

           Arthur raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re fucking her.” It was a reasonable assumption. Tommy had gone a little off the rails after Grace died. He was unstable, to say the least, and partaking in some questionable activities. But that was Tommy.

           His brother nodded slowly.

           “And how much is she asking for?”

           Tommy’s blue eyes moved from the window. “Nothing, that’s the problem.” He muttered. “She won’t take any help, I’ve offered her a job, fucking anything and she turned it down.”

           Arthur came to an understanding. “You feel guilty, then.” He surmised.

           The Blinder rolled his eyes. Of course, he felt guilty but he wasn’t fond of people pointing out his emotions. He was meant to be a stoic man; capable of whatever it took to get to the top of the food chain. “I’m looking for advice, not a fucking talk ‘bout feelings, Arthur.”

           “We were raised to uphold our promises, we pay our debts, Tom,” Arthur spoke with gentle insistence. But he didn’t want to rub salt in the wound. “S’pose you can’t force her to take anything, but don’t hurt to try one more time. If she says no, then you’ve done what you can.”

           “She looks a little like Grace,” Tommy admitted in a daze. He couldn’t get the image of Leah out of his head and his thoughts were in turmoil over that fact.

           Arthur sighed. “She in’t Grace.”

           “I know.” He spoke in a voice barely above a gravelly whisper. “I know.”

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

           Leah couldn’t bring herself to go back to the hotel. She needed a few days to clear her head without running the risk of seeing Tommy. She was afraid that if he returned, she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself. His request was a decision she needed to make with a sound mind, not in a lust-addled state.

           But, she still needed to work in order to survive. So the next night she went to the brothel owned by the woman she worked for.

           “What’re you doing here?” Madame Rosetta was a stern woman who only enjoyed a profit. A tall, hardened woman, she didn’t care much for the girls in her employ but tended to treat the Midland hotel ones better. Usually, because they made her more money and kept up a constant flow of wealthy patrons.

           Leah could hardly meet her cold gaze. “Was hoping to work here for a few nights.”

           “You givin’ up your spot?” She raised an eyebrow. “’Cause I’ve got other girls who’d kill ya to work there.”

           “N-no, no, I know. I just needed a break from the girls there.” She lied.

           Rosetta didn’t care about catty behavior between her girls as long as it didn’t interfere with her business. “Fine, two nights.” She relented and waved her away.

           It had been almost three years since Leah worked at the brothel. She recognized only a few faces around the front room and bar. There was always a high turnover of women. She’d gotten accustomed to the quiet and space she was granted between clients. Now she had to weave her way through the rowdy area. Drunk men spoke loudly to one another with girls laughing and hanging off them to score tips.

           It wasn’t long before a man grabbed Leah by the wrist. “Why don’t ya take me back to yer room, love?” The man was an average visitor of the den of sin. Middle-aged, working class, slightly untidy from a day’s work or a night’s drinking, and grabby.

           Leah forced a smile. Her stomach turned when she realized she would give anything to be alone with Tommy in that very moment. But she had nothing to give. So she led the man to the back rooms.

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

           Tommy did his best to keep control of the reins. He needed to be sharp, quick thinking and acting swiftly on his feet. He needed to be one step ahead of his enemies and those he was suspicious of. But Leah wouldn’t leave his mind. After speaking to Arthur, he returned to the hotel to try again. But Billy informed him that she wasn’t in. Unsure of where she was, the man couldn’t offer Tommy any explanations. He tried again the night after that but Billy had the same news. Leah hadn’t shown up.

           It got to the point that Tommy was afraid for her safety and afraid she was intentionally avoiding him.

           He sent word out to a few men about her. Someone alerted that she’d been seen at Madame Rosetta’s brothel. So Tommy went there first. But again, he was informed she wasn’t there. Instead, the barmaid said she’d gone back to the hotel. Unbelievably frustrated, Tommy went back to the hotel for the third night in a row. He didn’t have time to chase one woman around London. But he felt like if he gave up, he’d never forget and would never be at peace with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           It was pouring as he left the car and walked up the hotel steps. He shook out his coat as he headed to the second floor.

           Billy saw the Shelby looking a little worse for wear. He hadn’t been sleeping, was surviving off of cigarettes and alcohol, and had about a million stressors poking at his side. Now he stood there, drenched from the rain and certainly intent on something.

           “Mr. Shelby, can I get you a whiskey?” Billy offered.

           “Can you send her out to me?” Tommy wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He was fed up with given the roundabout.

           His face wrinkled in concern. Not many people were fond of telling a Shelby news they didn’t want to hear and Billy had done it twice in the past two days. “I’m afraid she’s just gone back with another gentleman.”

           Exasperated and impatient beyond belief, Tommy started for the hallway. He rounded a corner and saw familiar blonde hair. “Leah.” He called with an unwavering assertion.

           She turned and her eyes widened. “Tommy…”

           “I need to speak with you.” His quiet voice was demanding simply because he was desperate. The thought of her had driven him up the wall and he couldn’t waste any more time.

           “C’mon.” The client intended for Leah protested. It didn’t matter; he was nothing but a pesky fly so Tommy ignored him.

           “I know what you said but-”

           “Tommy, please. Now’s not the time.” Shame settled over Leah. She longed for Tommy but she had to do what she needed to survive.

           “I had no idea where you were. Were fucking worried ‘bout you.”

           “For God’s sake.” The man threw his hands up in disbelief.

           “I was fine. Please, if you’d just wait…”

           Tommy continued to completely block out the presence of the client. “Just come talk to me.” His blue eyes were yearning.

           “Look, mate, you can have her after I’ve finished. That’s what she’s supposed to do.”

           A spark lit inside Tommy, boiling his blood in an instant. “Fucking what?” He whipped around to finally face the man.

           Either he didn’t recognize the Blinder or was unaware, so he went on without knowledge of the peril. “You and I probably couldn’t count how many times she takes it every night. I mean she is a whore.”

           Tommy snapped. He punched him so hard that the man’s head ricocheted off the nearby wall.

           Cursing and clutching his face, the man doubled over. “What the fuck?” He shouted.

           He went to deliver another well-deserved blow when Leah forcefully stepped in. She shoved Tommy’s chest to keep him at bay. “What the hell is your problem?” She cried.

           His anger was hard to pull back in once it was unleashed. Tommy never liked to let a man escape his grip. But he wouldn’t overpower Leah. He put pressure against her hands to try and coax her to step aside but she stood her ground.

           A few of the girls came out of the room to see what the commotion was. Billy had heard the shouting as well and rushed over. He hurried to usher the man down the hall and back to the lobby. The police wouldn’t be called. No one would speak a word about it.

           Except for Leah that is. She grabbed him by the chin to make him look at her. “Answer me!” She demanded. “What is your problem?”

           Tommy’s anger simmered and he swallowed hard. Her fingernails dug into his pale skin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. He didn’t speak.

           She let out a noise of frustration and opened the room that she was about to enter before he interrupted. “You’re making a scene.” She urged him inside.

           Tommy ran a hand through his still-damp hair and paced a little. “This is my last time, I promise.” He muttered.

           “What gives you the right to act that way?” She wouldn’t let him control the conversation like he so often did in his life. The woman crossed her arms over her chest.

           He looked at her with wounded eyes. She was beautiful in a dark blue dressing gown, her hair curled, and makeup done up. His insides twisted up and he wanted to drop to his knees for her. Wanted her to bring him back to that place. The high that nothing or no one could bring him.

           “I know what you said to Jonah, but-but he had no right to decide my life for me. I make my own decisions.” Leah’s arms tightened around herself and she couldn’t get him to speak. “You’ve gone and slept with every other girl here. You paid them but you didn’t care that they were with other men before and afterward. Now you suddenly care because you feel like you owe me something?” Her forehead wrinkled and her eyes watered. She wanted to be angry but there was only grief and confusion left in her body.

           Tommy stood stiff, like a soldier awaiting orders. “I need you.” He finally spoke. The words came out unusually weak. His initial reason for being there was thrown out the window. She wouldn’t accept money or help so maybe she’d accept him instead. A terrible alternative to money, in his opinion, but he was selfishly desperate for her.

           Her painted lips parted in disbelief. A tear slipped down her powdered cheeks. “What do you want with me, Tommy?” She begged for an answer.

           He didn’t know for sure. There were many reasons that came to mind but he wasn’t sure if they originated from his ego, his loneliness, or from the heart. He stepped towards her and tilted his chin down.

           “Answer me.” She whispered, her breath shakily passing over his neck.

           “I can’t.”

           Leah knew that despite the two days away from him, she hadn’t come to a conclusion about him. He was an enigma. Maybe it was something she couldn't figure out until she immersed herself in him. Took his hand and followed him into the obscure haze. So she kissed him.

           His lips weren’t desperate like they had been the last times. He moved slow and patiently. A hand cupped her cheek so tenderly it made more tears escape her brown eyes. It had been so long since someone showed her true affection. Tommy’s motives were unknown but there wasn’t denying the softness in his touch.

           He drew away and used his thumb to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Let me take you away from here.”

           The idea sounded heavenly, escaping the hotel, the clients, Madame Rosetta. She could be free of the sickening feeling she got every time she woke up and faced her fate.

           “I can’t.”

           “You’re stubborn like me.” He didn’t move his hand, cradling her face. “I’ll leave you be if you wish, but just know I’ll never forget about you.” He shook his head. “You don’t know how numb I’ve been. Fucking every day…nothing. But m’not numb to you.”  

           Leah touched the scar on his cheek. She had been numb since she accidentally cut her finger while opening the letter of condolence for Jonah. Her knees didn’t feel the impact of the floor as she fell. Her ears blocked out her own screams. She didn’t feel the touch of other men. The burn of alcohol and taste of cigarettes on her lips. But she could feel Tommy. The way his fingers dug into her hips, his lips hot against hers, the heavenly sounds of his moans, and his weight against her. She felt his hand on her cheek.

           “You don’t want me. I’ve nothing to give you. My heart’s broken.” Her voice was thick with tears.

           Tommy reached for her hand and placed it over his chest. “Mine is too.”

           Her knees buckled when she felt his heart beating through his shirt. He supported her weight as she crumbled. “Take me away from here, Tommy.” She sobbed. “I can’t face it anymore. I can’t cope. I can’t…”

           Tommy hushed her softly and pulled her to his chest. “I will.” He promised.

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

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[eagesoldartblog]

angst 44, with whatever pairing suits your fancy?

This had been going on long enough. 

Vivi grinds her teeth together, looking at the plate set beside the man- full of food (abet, not the best, but it was food)- untouched, lacking the steam it had hours ago. And him? Arthur hadn’t moved for hours. Still typing away at his computer, eyes trained and focused, with bags even larger drooping beneath them. 

Typing, driving, crashing when hes too tired because he wont fucking eat or sleep.

This pattern has practically taken over his life. Vivi for one, was pissed. 

First of all, because who wouldn’t be infuriated with the love of your life running himself utterly ragged. 

Second of all, its for someone who is supposedly her boyfriend.

Which, all in all, made no sense. Considering Arthur was her boyfriend. But with his behavior lately, she couldn’t tell if he even wanted to. Obsessed with a man named L-… 

Hissing through her teeth, Vivi presses her palm to her eye, Drat. Headache- the sparks dancing in her eye with the pounding in her head. Eyes- well, eye- never leaving Arthur for a second. 

Who finally noticed her staring at him. His eyebrows shoot up and he swivels around, unfolding his legs (and whining from the ache in them) to get up and make his way over to her. Another little thing in his usual routine. 

Typing, driving, crashing, helping her.

As if on cue, he forces himself up, and then his knees buckle and jerk. Forcing him to hunch over and grab the bed and an invisible railing for support as he nearly falls over from the dizziness rushing to his head. Even then, it doesn’t deter Arthur from hobbling over to her, nearly leaning on her with all of his weight as he gently takes her shoulder with his right hand and takes her wrist with his mechanical one. Somehow, despite being so tired and dizzy, he managed to focus enough to look into her eyes for… something.  

“‘Re you okay?” He asks, a bit of his accent bleeding through, “You shoul’ lay ‘own, I’ll fetcha some tea-”

“Are you?” It may have been the headache, or the fact that Arthur had only just gotten up, but she couldn’t resist the irritability lacing her voice, eyebrows knitted into a near perfect vee. Arthur flinches back, shocked. 

“Wha-” he blinks heavily, and Vivi can make out the stars that he saw behind his eyelids. Only worsening the anger bubbling in her stomach. 

Mystery- who had been snuggled up behind her in the blankets, lifted his head, blinking in confusion as he takes in the scene before him. Standing up, Arthur notices him and gasps. Stumbling back with complete fear covering his face. 

“Arthur-!” Leaping up, Vivi grabs his arm, and holding him steady, eyes glancing over to Mystery for just a moment, who drops down to his stomach slowly, tail flat. She sighs, and turns to Arthur, “I think you need to get some sleep.” 

“What!” Arthur gasps, mouth twisting, “I can’t do that- I’m still-”

“Still what?” Vivi barks back, “Looking for L-” headache, “that guy? Arthur, you’ve been running yourself ragged and you need to stop and rest!” 

“I can’t!” He rips himself away. Stumbling on his shaky legs.

“Why not?” She demands. Fists tight. She’ll grab him if she needs to-

“Because he could be dead, Vivi!” Arthur’s voice strains, the starts of tears brimming his eyes, and he runs a trembling hand harshly through his hairline, “I can’t- I can’t live with that thought..! I have to find him- and-! And make sure that he’s okay- hell! If he isn’t, then I can give his family closure! His- they need to know that he’s okay.” At this point, hes almost pleading, curled in on himself like he was backed into a corner, and Vivi only stared at him. A plethora of emotion swirling in her face before settling on- 

“At that expense of yourself?” She asks, unwavering, strong. Everything she wished Arthur knew he was, “I want you to good okay, at the very least-”

“I am okay!” Arthur said, taking seven steps back, his chest heaving, Vivi frowns and mimiks him, taking a step back. Making sure that there was plenty of space in between them.

“People who are okay don’t act like this, Arthur.” Vivi said, eyes focusing on the darkened shadows of his face, and how they only highlighted how tired and broken he was, spare tears rolling down his cheeks, illuminated by the dimmed light of his laptop, “You won’t be able to find anything if you keep doing this to yourself.”

Arthur’s body sags, and his shoulders shake. Eyes drifting from her to the laptop, a small whisper escaping his lips, “I.. I have to find him. I have to… V-viv..” 

He was tired, he’s been exhausted for who knows how long, going closer, Vivi slips her hands over his arms, and pulls him into a soft hug. With no resistance, Arthur sinks down and leans over her shoulder, meekly wrapping his arms around her. 

“Its okay, we will tomorrow. But you have to promise me to rest.”

Arthur is silent for a few moments, his breathing hitching the smallest bit, “… Yeah.. okay.”

Vivi holds him tightly, scratching his back lightly under his vest, and she lays her head against his shoulder. Listening to him start to… cry. 

She swallows and steps back, guiding him forward. Slowly making their way back to the bed, and for a short moment, he stops.

“Is something wrong, Arthur?” She asks.

“Uh… i- … you’re alright with me sleeping in your bed?” He asks, as if worried, like he shouldn’t even consider it.

Vivi glanced over at him, slipping her feet under the covers and forcing mystery to move over. 

“Uh, yeah, I need to keep all the bad dreams away. I know those always get to you,” she murmurs, gripping the blanket and tossing it open so Arthur can crawl in. For a few minutes, Arthur just… stares at it dumbly, eyes glazed over with the promise of sleep right there. As if he hadn’t ever seen a bed or heard of it. Vivi was two seconds away from just grabbing him and forcing him into the bed, but just as she went to grab him, Arthur kicks off his shoes. Next goes his trousers, and then his vest. Faintly, Vivi recalls him mentioning his favorite pajamas being his underwear and a shirt. 

Snickering, Vivi raises her eyebrows, “Better hope you don’t pop a b-“

He plops down, face first, a silver hand sneaking up and pressing them against her lips. “Shh…” he mumbles. 

Vivi laughs this time, quietly to not wake him up anymore, but whatever, “Alright, big spoon or little spoon?”

“…. Little.” 

Vivi smiles, getting into position and holding Arthur aroujd his waist, while the man hardly moved from his spot. Already, she could hear his breath slowing. 

“I love you, Arthur.” She whispers, ready to doze herself.

“I love you too… Vivi..” Arthur murmurs past half closed lips. And a certain stench finally reached her nose. 

Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulls out her small packet of breath mints, and presses one against Arthur’s lips, “Take one, your breath stinks.”

[reeree1500]

The Return-Part 7

Disclaimer: Hey ya’ll sorry about the delay😅 I've been sick the past week and the original part 7 was complete shit. So I decided to re do it😬 Please dont kill me 😂 Anyway as always sucky ass writing and bad grammar and spelling. Part is full of angst (sorry for the inconvenience😂😬) Here’s part 7...

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 part 8 part 9 Part 10

Taglist: @yanii-the-hippie @oceans-daughter-3 @laketaj24 @peaceisadirtyword @camatsuru @calum-hoodwinked-me @cutegyrl927 @youbloodymadgenius @wuxiesalt @readsalot73 @cindy-exo @amy8220 @affection-rabbit @mel0nch0ly @queenofallthyfandoms @limbo-limbo-limbo @ragnarssonsbitch @supernaturalvikingwhore @ifihadwings128 @jenny-the-lover @paintballkid711 @funmadnessandbadassvikings 

-Sorry if I forgot anyone, list is getting long😍💕 As always thanks for the overwhelming support guys❤️ Love y’all❤️

Arthur POV

In a matter of seconds I caught (y/n) in my arms. I felt horrible about this whole situation. I knew that she never wanted to be in an arranged marriage...she wanted to fall in love. This is why this whole situation killed me. I was the reason my best friend wouldn’t be happy and I couldn't live with that, but I had too. My country and my father needed me, this marriage would secure an alliance with both Frankia and Kattegat, but she would be caught in a situation she wouldn't want and that kills me inside. Holding her close I look towards her father and uncle as to ask for permission to take her to one of their rooms here. “Here, take her to mine... It’s where she's been staying for the past couple of months...” says the dark haired one that was sitting with her earlier. He’s been eyeing me since I walked through the doors and I have a feeling we won't be the best of friends. Not paying much attention to the eery feeling I’m getting, I balance (y/n) in my arms and follow the young prince. Reaching the doors to the room, I make my way inside after him. Walking towards the bed I place her down and then turn towards him. I find him staring at me with what seems like rage and jealousy in his eyes. Why would he be jealous? It’s his sister, he should be glad that she's at least engaged to someone she knows and not some strange old man... 

“Could you perhaps see if one of the thralls could get me a bucket of water and a clean cloth? I want to make sure she's okay and doesn't get a fever.” Without any expression on his face he slams the door on his way out. Turning towards her on the bed, I catch a small strand of her (y/h/c) hair and tuck it away behind her ears. “Im so sorry that you have to go through this... I wish there was another way...” It wasn't until I felt her hands caress my cheeks that I knew she was awake and alright.“Arthur, it is not your fault. Someone has been out to get me since I stepped foot back in Kattegat, if anything you’re my salvation.” The tears in my eyes fell down my cheeks like a waterfall. I embraced her and whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Whether it was to calm myself or her I could not tell by now. All I knew was that I would do anything to protect her, even if that meant laying down my life for her.

Your POV

My mind still had not processed and grabbed onto the dire state of this situation. Arthur was to be my husband. A younger version of myself could probably not contain her happiness, but now... Now I feel lost and indecisive. On one hand Arthur is the most magnificent person in this world. He’s my best friend and we know each other to our very cores. In the other however is Ivar. The one person besides Arthur that I can really be myself around. However, that what intrigues me about him is his mysterious and eery vibe. Arthur is my comfort and safe space, but Ivar is the unknown. And Im intrigued by the fact that I still haven't figured him out. He truly challenges me and that excites me in every way possible...

“Im sorry, to interrupt you love birds, but if the damsel in distress is finally alright father would like us all to meet in the town square.” Ivar’s voice booms throughout the once quiet bedroom. At the sound of his voice I quickly let go of our embrace and turn towards Ivar with shock in my eyes. Ivar only looked at me for 3 seconds with no emotion in his eyes and left the room. It felt like my heart shattered in that instant. I had hurt him, unintentionally. But, I still hurt him. 

All I could do was stare at the spot where he once stood. Unbeknownst to me, Arthur saw our whole interaction. “It’s him isn't it?” He asked me while looking out towards the window. “Huh?” “He's the one you're in love with right?” At his words I couldn't come up with an excuse. I couldn't deny it, I wouldn't deny it. Not to Arthur, he knew everything about me. And I knew everything about him and the love he always held for me. “He’s your brother (y/n), it will never work. Let alone it is a sin against God.” He voiced to me. “I know... But I cannot get rid of this feeling. Ive tried to let him go, believe me I tried. But, every time that I get close to leaving him behind, he pulls be right back in and I don’t want to leave anymore. I love him...” Tears fell down my cheeks by this moment. I didn't have anyone that I could tell these things to, since Mira was killed. She was usually the one I would be all sappy around, but I couldnt hold it in anymore. Arthur sighed and kneeled in front of me. “Although I may not approve of your choice and wish that it had been me that would receive that kind of love from you once again. I understand and will support you no matter what. Even if that means losing the love of my life.” Arthur places his soft tender lips on my forehead. And with that he grasps my hand in his and we walk towards the door. Neither one of us acknowledging the fact that he just admitted that he was in love with me.

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

Bjorn POV

I couldn’t believe it. That piece of scum had destroyed by family once again. Why was it that Aslaug had it out for my sister so much? Staring out towards what once was a place filled with happy memories, I cannot help but let myself breakdown. The tears that Ive held back for years poured out of my eyes. The rejection, the disappointment and the overbearing feeling that I could not protect my sisters once again took over me. “Why! Why is it that you make me suffer this way! Have I not done enough for you! Have I not conquered lands in your name and murdered millions with my sword to earn a place in Valhalla! And for what? For you to come and take my family from me once again!” My sobs couldn't be heard by anyone. But it felt good to finally let out all this anger and sadness that I had been struggling with throughout most of my life. From the cliff I could see a perfect view of Kattegat. Especially the square, where our family and the people of Kattegat were now gathered. My father would announce the marriage of my sister to Arthur. He was a good man, but he wasn't the one for her. She loved Ivar and it was evident. I knew my sister more than anyone on this earth and I knew 100% that they loved each other. What impeded them form being together however was the fact that they were siblings. But in truth they weren't and that was something that I had to tell them...

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

As I approach the square I can hear the voice of my father. Booming, and making its way through the square. Out the corner of my eye I could see Torvi making her way towards me. We were playing happy family in front of everyone, but earlier in the week I had asked her for a divorce. I could not be with someone who would hurt my family deliberately, no matter what. “Hey, your father has been looking for you everywhere they're about to announce your sister’s engagement.” She says excitedly. “I know” with that short reply I shake her hands off of my arm and make my way towards my family. (Y/n) is standing beside Arthur sneaking glances over to where Ivar stands, beside Aslaug. I can tell that he is doing his best to ignore her, but you can see the pain in his eyes as well. Aslaug looks as triumphant as ever. A huge smile graces her lips and at that my blood begins to boil. “Bjorn! Over here!” (y/n) calls me over a huge smile on her lips when she sees me walking over. At that I feel myself calm down, my sisters are the only people that could ever achieve to bring me down from the edge. Not even my mother could do so and that is why we have such a special bond and why this hurts me so much. I know that its for her own protection, but the thought of losing (y/n) again is something unfathomable to me. Something that I wish was not a reality, but has sadly become one. “Bjorn, thank you for being here. It truly means a lot to me to be able to depend and count on you. Now more than ever. I hope that the ties between England, Frankia and Kattegat may now be stronger and unwavering.” Arthur says whilst shaking my hand. I respect him, he's a good man that I know will take care of (y/n) and for that I did not oppose this union. “Thank you, as do I Arthur. All I can hope for is that you make my sister happy. And that she will have everything she deserves and desires. Free from persecution from those we call family...” I murmur the last part just so that she can hear what Im implying.

Your POV

Could it be? Were Bjorn’s assumptions true? Could Aslaug truly be the one behind all of this? My father’s announcement of my engagement went by as quick as the breeze. I couldn’t even tell if he had finished or not till I hear the cheering of our people. The wedding was to be held later on in the week, I tried my best to put on a fake smile so that no one knew how I was truly feeling inside. But in truth I was devastated, the fact that I would not only marry someone I wasn't in love with, but the fact I had to flee from my home again was killing me inside. And the mother of the man I loved could have very well been behind it all...

As the people begin to celebrate I murmur to Arthur that I will retire early to my bedchambers. He only nods and gives me a sad smile seemed with a kiss on my forehead. I quickly rush to my room and shut the door behind me. Throwing myself on the bed I scream and let all of my frustration out onto the pillows that hold mine and Ivar’s heads at night. Hugging them close trying to imprint that scent into my memory as hard as I can. I did not notice the dark hooded figure that was behind me and that was my mistake. “(Y/n) Lothbrok... Long time no see” My whole body is drained of its (s/t) colour and that is when I turn around facing the man that haunted my dreams since I was a small child. 

“F..Floki...”

Ivar’s POV

I can't believe that the one person that I have grown to love is now being ripped away from me. This must be a sick joke that Odin is playing with me. It cannot be that when I have become so close to finding true happiness that it is ripped away from me so easily. No! I will not stand for this! Making my way away from the so called “celebrations” I begin to walk towards our room. Before I could prance in and let (y/n) know that we would be running away tonight. My mouth is covered and I am too pulled into another room. Ready to kill whoever has pulled me I begin to reach for my knife. “I swear to Odin, if you try and stab me I will kill you Ivar...” Bjorn says before letting go of me. Before I could scream at him however, Bjorn continues. “Do not scream or talk until I get this out please. And this information that I am about to share with you is very sensitive and is known by only a few members of our family so hush. You understand puppy?” Nodding at him in disbelief, I motion for him to continue. It is then that he proceeds to tell me about how he had met (y/n) and the day that she was born. “That’s all nice Bjorn, but what do I care about the day of our sister’s birth?” I say a bot irritated at the fact that I could've been half way gone by now with (y/n) if he had not pulled me in here. 

“You're gonna care when I tell you that I will no longer stand in your way, or be against you both being together. I see the way you look at each other and its the same way that my parents looked at each other before your mother got in the way.” I roll my eyes at his last remark. “Ivar, I beg you to take (y/n) away as far away from here as possible. Especially away from your mother. She's the one behind all the killings and she is willing to do anything to get (y/n) not only away from here and our family. But if possible out of this world.” Anger rises in me and I begin to shake. “Why is it that my mother is always the one to get shit on. She’s a beautiful woman that would not hurt anyone or anything. The fact that you have gone touch lengths to try and make some story up about she wants (y/n) dead is absurd. But I will entertain your stupid idea, just because I’m curious Bjorn. Now, tell me why is it that my mother wishes to kill our sister?” 

“Because Ivar, (y/n) isn't our sister. She's the priest’s daughter. Our father’s best friend that your mother ordered Floki to kill... Which is why he’s been gone so long. It was a plot to kill the only proof that Vikings and Christians could co-exist. They wanted to make sure that no one would know about the Christian-Viking child and they would do anything to protect that.” After hearing Bjorn out, I knew that there was some truth to what he was saying. My mother and Floki hated the Christian God and would do anything to erase him from the minds of our people. I made my way out the room where Bjorn and I were and made my way to mine. Turning the doorknob I find that the room is locked and rustling and screaming could be heard on the other side. Panicked set in and I tried hurling myself on the door multiple times in order to break it down, but it would budge. 

The real panic set in when the rustling and screaming stopped. For then I knew that I was too late...

[trig-loves-clowning-around]

Burning Bodies

Burning Bodies

This is an original story with various acts of violence

Tw: Stalking and murder and a writer that can't write action sequences or making Read More work on mobile

"Chrissy do not go near that! Dad'll have a cow!" Derek called to his little sister that was hovering dangerously close to the old house.  It was the eyesore of the neighborhood, a husk of its former glory. No one told them how the house across the street had been burnt. The older teens of the neighborhood said it was a meth house accident and that's why no one lived there. 

If someone asked the adults they would wave it off as a natural disaster and the whole family moved away, but no one bought the property. That was all, but it never felt like they were telling the truth.

Most people thought it was a safe haven for squatters.  Kids always whispered about how it was full of ghosts.

Derek was older and wiser, however, and he knew there was no such things as ghosts.  It was probably just the homeless trying to avoid the harsh weather of autumn nights. 

"But Derry, I can see a ghost!" The child squeaked, her red curls bouncing in the soft fall sunlight as she skipped over to press her tiny hands against the old windowsill trying to get a peek into a broken window. The shattered glass shards seemed to have been cleaned up long ago, however the pane was still jagged along the edges as if something large had been thrown through the window. 

"Christina!" Derek called running to drag her away, ghosts or no ghosts that house put him on edge.

 "I'm in charge right now! When I tell you to stay away from that house, you listen!" he grumbled as the little girl started to cry at her older brother raising his voice at her. She was just a kid after all. 

The wind whipped loudly around the two, the breeze was getting more intense as he all but dragged the upset child across the street to the safety of their front yard.  

The hairs on the back of the teen boys neck stood on edge. He couldn't tell if he heard breathing at the old meth house or if it really was just the wind.

If only Derek knew that this was the closest they would get to confronting death and walking away safely. 

At 2:35 A.M September 13th the Cadans Park police dispatch got a call, someone was found standing outside the home and was banging on the door of 2463 West, Police were dispatched to deal with the situation however upon arrival there was no sign that anyone there. 37 year old, Edwin Marshall was advised to set up security cameras after the area was secured. 

Edwin Marshall was snuggled up to his beautiful wife Stacey Marshall in bed. A normal, perfect evening for the pair.

That is...

It was perfect until he heard his 6 year old daughter scream from her bedroom. 

His eyes opened and he was looking into his wife's beautiful green eyes, she had clearly been startled awake.

"I'll go see what's wrong" Edwin insisted on getting out of bed, glancing at the digital alarm clock that read 2:30 in its harsh red numbers as he rushed out the door down the hall of their small home, he saw his son Derek rushing the opposite direction... to the kitchen.

Edwin ran in to see her daughter pressed up into the corner of her room (farthest away from the window facing the front yard), large tears trailed down her chubby pale cheeks and her father ran over to gather her in his strong arms. 

"What? What's wrong?" He cooed in his soft voice as he scanned the room until he saw it. 

A large shadow outside her bedroom window, the moonlight backlit the large shadow and no one could see the face of the predator looming outside. 

Edwin took a bit to realize someone was out there. Once it dawned on him it was a person scaring his daughter, he was full of rage "FUCK OFF" he yelled as he saw Derek reemerging from the hall a large kitchen knife in his hand for protection, he was a brave teen. 

But this wasn't the first time there had been someone outside in their yard at such an hour. His wife's family was very unhappy that she married a dark skinned man like Edwin and when they cut contact her father had started to stalk them.

However, this man was much taller than the stout man that was his father in law, in the moment he didn't realize it.

Edwin also seemed to forget his In-Law was across country with a restraining order, but they hadn't seen him since Derek was nine years old, 

"ARTHUR! LEAVE OR I'LL CALL THE COPS" he called out, the only response that was had was a hand coming up to violently smack the glass with an open palm making little Christina burst into even more tears, there was too much yelling at confusion as the shadow stood unwavering as his teen boy waved a knife around like a mad man. 

"It's too late, Father! I've called the Police!" Stacey yelled in a tired panic from the hall, sadly she had always been too terrified to confront even the idea of her father after they married. 

It felt like an eternity but eventually the shadow figure turned to stalk off into the night, right before a police car pulled up lighting the street with their police lights yet no one was around. 

After the officers made sure the area was safe they went inside to get statements, little Christina was cuddled up in her mother's lap, almost a clone of her mother, as they tried to coax a story out of her over some hot cocoa.

She was blubbering and sobbing about a scary noise, a scary noise woke her up and she saw the scary shadow outside the window waving at her. 

Edwin was pacing in the living room as the police got statements, he was sure his crazy father-in-law had finally found them. 

The two police officers told them they should invest in some cameras so they could get evidence and convict Arthur if he was violating his restraining order and kick him back to where he came from. 

Edwin and Derek got to work on that the next morning after a sleepless night with Edwin guarding the door with a kitchen knife. 

September 19th 2:40 P.M 

Derek Marshall placed a call to Cadans Park Police to report a break-in. Officer Jarvas was dispatched to clear the scene, door was destroyed completely 

"Complete splinters" to quote Officer Jarvas, once scene was secured Derek Marshall commented that nothing seemed missing as they did the traditional walk through. 

Until discovery that the master bedroom, shared by the parents, had been "Fucking Trashed" to quote Derek Marshall. 

Officer Tom noted that all electronic devices in the room had been destroyed, theorized that it was smashed with some sharp object, possibly a machete. 

A police officer is to be posted outside their home during the evening when the family is home. 

The call was made after school got out, at first it was assumed it was going to be an accident from the student drivers, however when the dispatcher heard a teen cussing about the door being "fuckin destroyed" she sent an officer.

There was a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, it was the house across from… THAT house. 

Derek was freaking out, the door was half way off its hinges, slashed in half diagonally.

"Don't worry sonny with the cameras ya got should be all good and caught the criminal" Officer Jarvas smiled at him as he went to make sure no one was inside, took him a long time to scan through the windows carefully before entering the house. 

"Stay right here"

Despite what Derek was told he felt off, like someone was watching him and he ran into the house to join the officer 

"Buddy I told you to stay outs-" 

"I'd rather be with you it's safer here" derek insisted "you're supposed to protect and serve right? Well I feel more protected here" he grumbled and Jarvas sighed and gave in. 

The one story house had a simple layout, a living room and kitchen were first when you enter, other than the destroyed door everything seemed fine and untouched, each step on the tile floor sounded like a drum beat in Derek's ears, eyes scanning as the officer had his gun at the ready for anyone to hop out. 

They left after checking the pantry, all was clear. Next to the right there was a long hall that held the bathroom and the three bedrooms. The bathroom was the closest on the left, it was untouched, next Derek's room right across the hallway, once the door opened Derek flinched waiting to see something like his electric base or PC missing but, no nothing had been touched. They looked around his room, Derek checked everything even under his bed but, there was nothing at all. 

Finally came the master bedroom, they slowly walked in and Derek looked around in shock, everything from the walls to the bed frame was hacked to all hell.

"Oh fuck mom's gonna have a heart attack its fucking trashed in here" he cussed and Officer Tom nodded his head.

"Oh god this is… more than I expected" he mumbled looking around for anyone, Derek all but glued to his side. 

In the corner was a computer, his dad's personal computer that controlled their new cameras everything was destroyed, even the monitor was smashed in until the screen was all but a fine powder. The Tv? destroyed. Headboard? Hacked up, some pieces were laying on the torn up mattress. 

Yet it was lacking any signs of life other than the two males sneaking around. 

Lastly they went to Christina's room, it was in its natural state of chaos from a little girl with an overactive imagination. Her bedroom closet had all the clothes pushed to one side but other than that it was completely fine. 

Derek had to call his parents about their houses break in while the officer called in for a report.

Before long the family was on the way to spend some time at their grandparents' place.

Little Chrissy was very upset when she was told that they couldn't take anything, everything was evidence in the end and they needed to leave everything but the clothes on their backs. 

She was whining that she couldn't sleep without Joy, her favorite Raggedy Anne doll, as they drove out of town for a weekend to try to think of their next steps since this stalker was clearly violent they would need to think away from the home. 

Of course Edwin's parents were ecstatic to see their precious grandkids again, they made their home open for them. The house was bigger than the one they left with a few guests rooms for emergencies such as the one they were in. 

Christina lit up at seeing "pop pops and mumsy" and the thought of the missing doll left her 6 year old mind. 

That is until dinner had passed.

The family was in the front room talking to happily, Derek was in the corner playing on his phone watching youtube videos ignoring it all until there was a knock at the front door. 

"I'll get it" pop pops smiled and stood on his old shaky legs as he walked to the front door, the old hinges squealed in protest as he opened the heavy oak door. The relaxed chatter didn't end, little Christina was leaning over to try and watch what Derek was watching whining even when the adults happy chatter turned into terrified silence. 

The two youngest looked up to see Pop pops holding a well loved Raggedy Ann in his hands. Christina lit up like a christmas tree, "Joy!" She squealed running to grab the doll from her beloved grandfather's hands.

"Thank you pop pop! You're the best!" She squeaked happily unaware of the terror behind her elders' eyes. 

September, 27 

Due to lack of evidence and activity the squad car will be left on the street however due to understaffing the Cadans Police Department needs to pull the officers out to only check every few hours at night while the Marshall family gathers their belongings to move.

Crime was something that increased every so often in Cadans Park, most in the town blamed the increase of drifters. With several entrances to the highway and the train tracks running through town it wasn't hard for hitchhikers to get there. 

Especially in the winter when they were trying to get out of the cold at any cost begging for mercy from shop owners or homeowners alike. Seen as an eyesore of the "good community"

Mayor Justin Lancaster wanted to take the problem out before winter by arresting and charging the homeless with any crime from loitering to disturbing the peace, a disgusting act but the squatters at least got a warm place to sleep while awaiting trial.

At least that's what the officers told themselves being forced to arrest the helpless, unfortunate people. The mayor seemed to not understand empathy, he never did and used that to his advantage to twist people's metaphorical hands behind their back until they had to cry for mercy. 

However with the amount of the small force already having to be on the lookout for the homeless to arrest the rest of the town was left unsupervised, that put the police chief on edge and he made a decision. 

This decision was questionable and put a family at risk but what else could the man do? 

He pulled the physical police presence at the Marshall's house but left the squad car hoping it would be enough. 

October, 3rd 9:33 P.M 

Cadans Fire Department, police, and paramedics were called by the 64 year old Joseph Markus Hughes, the Marshall's home had been found up in flames, no knowledge if the family was inside, firefighters were dispatched immediately.

 One more night. Just one more. 

They were moving with Edwin's parents while they sold the house, safety in numbers and all, they had spent the whole day packing up everything they could so they wouldn't have to sleep in the house where the stalker knew to look.

 It took a lot longer than expected and soon it was dusk. 

Derek was busy dragging a box of his room decor when he heard it. Heavy breathing His parents were outside loading in the heavy furniture into the moving van that was farther than necessary thanks to the empty squad car taking up space.

"Chrissy?" Derek called walking to her room where she was left to play with Joy.

The breathing got louder as he crept forward fear made his blood run cold, the breathing was far too deep to be the breathing of a child's. 

The door silently opened and he could feel his heart stop at what he was witnessing.

Someone was on top of his sister, large mostly gloved hand wrapped around her tiny throat she wasn't moving. 

The man (woman?) Was wrapped in bandages, reflective black goggles staring into Derek's very soul as they were tucking the doll next to Christina's 'unconscious' body (Derek refused to accept the truth of his sister's condition in his shock). The sound of heavy breathing was amplified by the gas mask on the assailant's face, it was hard to see them breathing as the large body armor seemed to mask their level breathing 

Derek Marshall let out a noise that could only be described as a choked sob before he threw his box at his sister's attacker. "Get the fuck off Chrissy!" He yelled before he could think he blindly charged at the person. 

The attacker stood and took the hit square in the chest but it only sent the two tripping over the child's body falling backwards onto the carpeted floor. 

Derek, now on top, threw a punch to the masked attackers face but they grabbed his fist, it was such a painful grip the boy let out a cry of pain before the assailant punched him square in the chin dazing him and sending him flat on the back laying on top of his sister's still warm body. The masked attacker got up and grabbed something he couldn't see leaning against the wall as his vision swam as he grabbed his sister's limp  hand and started to scoot backwards to try to save her to get away from the man as fast as he could. 

"Dad!" He yelled as loud as possible struggling to stand up to run, his little sister still being dragged away as he heard the front door slam open 

"Derek?!" 

Stacey had heard the scream of there son first and started running, her husband following close behind as they ran into the house, almost breaking the brand new door. 

They saw a hopeful look in their son's eyes as he dragged their seemingly unconscious daughter from the bedroom by her hands. The two parents started to run to him until an axe flew by hitting him square in the shoulder, making him scream in pain and collapse to the floor. 

Stacey let out a high pitched scream, one that could break glass as she watched the masked attacker stride out to take the axe out of her son's shoulder, he was still alive as it didn't go in too deep he was shaking in pain groaning weakly. 

Edwin acted fast running at the masked assailant trying to fight the axe out of the murderers hands yelling at Stacey to call the police and she scrambled to find her phone dropping it as she heard her husband scream in pain. She looked up in shock to see her husband alight like a candle, dropping to the ground to try and roll out the flames. His movements seemed spasming from the pain and Stacey couldn't take her eyes off her husband, time seemed to stand still as the axe came down to take Edwin's head off his shoulders with a clean slam through the neck. She felt faint and tried to stumble to her true love and babies… 

Her family

Her reason to keep going 

She didn't have to be full of such pain for long however when the axe slammed it into her gut. The killer started to stalk forward, going to finish her off when Derek lashed out with all his strength getting in front of his mother trying to stop him with a punch to the nose of the gas mask the killer flinched it off and grabbed the boy by the face slamming him into the ground. 

The killer spared no mercy to Stacey, hacking up her body, starting with her legs. 

Derek weakly crawled  to the killer grabbing their leg as a silent plea for mercy.

The fire from his father's body spread to the walls as the murderer paid the boy no mind, dismembering Stacey her screams died out with her. 

"Mommy" Derek hiccuped letting out a dry sob as he dragged himself to her decapitated head cradling it in his good hand staring into her vibrant green eyes until he felt a boot on the back of his head. 

The attacker raised their foot and the boy turned fearfully to look up at them as they brought their large foot down over and over, stomping the boy's head until they heard a satisfying crack even still the assailant continued to stomp as the fire raged around them, no stopping until the bottom of their boot was covered in his brains. 

The killer seemed satisfied, leaving through the back door into the dark, letting the evidence burn behind them, their axe dragging in the grass behind them.

Joseph Markus Hughes sat in his front room watching the television reading the subtitles of the soap opera he had been sucked into. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and looked down to read a text from his son, he sent a text back, he loved that he could still communicate with his far away family even with his disability, the future was so wonderful. 

He got up with his cane, he wanted to bring his dog inside for the night when he caught a glimpse out of the window and his jaw dropped. 

His neighbors home, the house across the street, was set ablaze panicking he pressed his panic button or as his children called it "I've fallen and can't get up" button 

Due to him being nonverbal the police, ambulance, and firefighters showed up, obviously they found the problem by then and got to work quickly. 

October 4th, 12:00 A.M 

Fire was extinguished, spread up to the nearby homes, family found dead. Sent in for autopsy while paramedics take care of the wounded, foul play suspected.

In the early hours of the morning in the neighborhood meth house there was a quiet click of a battery operated radio, tuning into the morning news already announcing the fire and death of the family.

"Police suspect Father of Stacey Marshall, Arthur Jacob Jones as committing the murder, for now we can only be struck with grief with such a tragedy" 

There was a wheeze of a laugh 

Grief from a tragic loss 

Good

They understood 

Click 

It was silent in the house once more

[ahomeganeyatsu]

Ran Off in the Night (Part 3)

Monday dawned cloudy and just as windy as Sunday. Somewhere between 3 and 4, Lucas had dozed off. In his own humble opinion, that was better than nothing. Monday brought Madam Rigaux and Lucas could not afford face-planting on his desk from being sleep-deprived. It has only been three weeks since school started but he was already in her bad books. (Maybe he should have reconsidered sitting next to Arthur in that class.) Despite the insufficient sleep, he was also feeling better. It didn't hurt too much when he breathed nor did his body protest at movement. The events of Saturday night were still patchy at best―much to his chagrin. But a guy could hope, right?

He went through his morning ablutions with the same mindless tenacity Mondays afforded. He debated wearing the hoodie to school, but the prospect of fielding questions from his friends were already giving him mild anxiety. Lucas may be the master at lying, but even he had his limits. The best lies were the ones that held a kernel of truth in them. He couldn't just tell them he has no fucking idea where he got the hoodie. Or it didn't sit quite well that he's feeling good. As if there should be something wrong with him.

And perhaps there was. Lucas wasn't the type to get black out drunk. He was even careful to limit his weed intake because it messes with him. It was never good to mix too much alcohol and weed when Lucas was what he was. It was asking for trouble. I mean, look where it got him last Saturday. A new hoodie―albeit a really comfy one―and a spotty memory.

He stared at the hoodie in his hands before sighing and folding it up. He placed it gently at the foot of his bed, his fingers lingering on the soft black fabric. Lucas puffed his cheeks and blew out another breath. He seriously has got to put a stop to this fixation on the damned hoodie. He grabbed his bag and phone, and finally exited his room.

Mika looked up from his mug, only dressed in boxers and his half-opened, offensively bright yellow robe. “Good morning, kitten. You're up early today.”

“And you're much chipper from what should be humanly possible on a Monday morning,” he retorted. He opened a cupboard to get a mug and poured himself the much needed black nectar of the gods. He nearly moaned as it touched his tongue, but promptly held himself back. He could not afford Mika holding that over his head.

“What can I say?” Mika gestured to himself as a showman would to the next wonderful attraction. “I'm a ray of sunshine that people desperately need in their lives.”

“Uh-huh.” He ignored the tirade Mika was warming up to. Finishing his coffee in silence as he checked any new notifications on his phone. He liked Arthur and Yann's posts from the party last Saturday and caught up in their group chat. Arthur had messaged him to compare their homework, completely forgetting that they've been assigned different problem sets to answer. He typed another text to his dad, reminding him of the transfer. He was running low on food and the meal tickets in the cafeteria could only take him so far. Lastly, he sent a text to his maman, checking up on her and telling her he was alright and not to worry.

Though their relationship may be rocky at the moment, Lucas loved his maman. He put majority of the blame on his dad for what happened to their family. But at night, alone in his bed and only his thoughts for company, Lucas blamed himself for their divorce. Knew it was because of him. If he wasn't like this, if he had been normal, not worrying his maman, not stressing his dad―maybe, just maybe, his parents would have worked out. Maybe he would still have a family.

What's done is done now, and Lucas had to deal with the aftermath of it all.

“I'm off,” he declared as he drank the last drops of his coffee. He placed the mug in the sink. Mika had dish duty today and Lucas was taking full advantage of it. He was about to step out of the front door when he heard Mika call him.

He rolled his eyes and turned to face him. The sarcastic remark died at his throat as he took in the expression on Mika's face. It had the teen automatically straightening. The expression was the same one he had when he had offered Lucas to sleep in the basement. It's wasn't a good deal, but during that time it had been ideal, practically god-sent, in Lucas eyes. He understood that whatever Mika was going to say next, it was serious.

“Lucas, don't repeat what happened yesterday. I don't want you staying out that late again. Not without telling any of us.”

He didn't say he hadn't planned on doing it again. Nor was there any inclination in him to even repeat the act in the foreseeable future. Lucas only nodded. It was enough of an answer for Mika. With that, he left the flat.

  Lucas might be imagining things. Or he might not be.

Being him, it was usually the latter.

He just had a knack for these things.

Still, with the lack of sleep these days, it might just be his mind playing tricks on him. It has happened before. Besides, it wasn’t like he was alone. He was walking in public. To the bus stop on his way to school.

The footsteps he could hear weren’t trailing after him.

Why would anyone be following him anyway?

  It took him half a day, but it became clear; he wasn’t imaging things as he had thought.

He was being watched.

Lucas can’t say how he knew. He just did. He had developed a certain awareness when it came to it. He grew up being monitored. His maman always there to remind him what to do and what not to do. Always whispering how God was watching over him, that angels were there to guard him, that the devil remained a constant presence at his shoulder.

His maman’s words never reassured him. Not when he could see the things he could. Not when no one ever seems to believe him. Lucas had lived a childhood in a perpetual state of fright. Eyes watchful and senses keyed up to the tiniest of shifts in his surroundings. It’s a habit he was forced to develop because he could not afford a repeat of last time.

Last time left him with a scar on his ankle. Long stripes entwined around his foot and licked just below his calf.

He still had nightmares about it. He still didn’t know how he was alive.

Lucas did his best not to catch anyone’s attention. He tried being normal, ordinary, average. Someone possessing his ability was better off being unnoticed. He didn’t want any trouble. As a kid, he could admit he already had his fair share. Lucas just wanted to be able to reach eighteen without dying.

Unfortunately, his efforts of remaining unnoticed failed spectacularly.

He could sense the gaze on him. The presence tailing him just out of his sight. Whoever it was, they were good. And Lucas understood that they would not reveal themselves unless they wanted to.

So, he let them be. Maybe they’ll grow tired of him. See that there was nothing interesting about him. That he was mundane.

He frowned at the word. He was often referred to as such whenever he came across one of them. Or stumbled upon a store that looked different from what it advertised. Their tones were always curious, a little intrigued—you smell like one of them, but you have no marks. This time though, Lucas felt the poison dripping from it. Like the word was dirt, unsavory.

He didn’t understand where it came from. Where he heard someone say the word like that. He shook his head to dislodge the thought.

A shadow shifted in his peripheral. Lucas ignored it.

He also ignored the grunt of disappointment.

 Lucas stared at Imane in disbelief. Was this woman fucking serious?

The unwavering stare she leveled him and the waves of not-taking-any-of-your-bullshit-Lallemant coming from her had made him fidget and unconsciously shrink on himself. He had always found her scary, but facing her had only solidified how tough she really was.

“Okay, fine. We'll try to come,” he conceded.

Imane Bakhellal was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

 His tail disappeared for a few days.

He only felt their gaze on certain parts of the day. Like on his way to and from school. In between his classes, and sometimes in the bustling cafeteria. There were also moments when Lucas would feel the urge to look out of his balcony. Hoping to catch a glimpse of something but always ending a second too late.

It made him wonder when his life became the mirror of Laelaps: Doomed to hunt the Teumessian fox for eternity.

He certainly wished Zeus wouldn't turn him to stone and make him into a fucking constellation.

  The Gang

 You

Guys quick, come to the common room. There are girls and free drinks.

[16:45]

  Basile

Is Daphne there?

[16:46]

  Arthur

No, Baz, she’s not.

She didn’t give us invitations last Monday. It was just us collectively hallucinating that conversation.

[16:48]

  Yann

Yeah, Baz. It was all just our imagination.

[16:49]

  Basile

You guys are such assholes, you know that?

[16:49]

You

Hurry up guys!

[16:50]

  Arthur

I'm at the stairs. Where the hell are you guys?

[16:51]

  Yann

We’re on our way, Lulu.

[16:52]

 Lucas closed the app. A smile played at the corner of his lips. The boys were definitely going to get him back for this.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 3 (Revised)

The Tiger and the Dragon by George deValier

A faint ringing reverberated through the corners of Yao's mind, an insistent light creeping under his eyelids. When he finally fought his way to consciousness, Yao found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. Blinking the bleariness from his eyes, he slowly turned his head to take in the room around him - average size, with stark white walls and a small simple table beside the bed. Bright light and muffled noise from the street outside drifted through a sliding glass door bordered by red curtains. Yao pushed himself up with his hands, his head swimming in confusion. Then he was suddenly confronted with the sight of Ivan Braginski, the strangely hot, probably dangerous Russian stranger he'd met only hours earlier. The man leant on a table against the wall, his arms folded before him and that small, serene smile on his lips. It all came flooding back - sitting at the bar, drinking wine, passing out - and Yao suppressed the urge to dive under the bed. He was mortified.

"Oh. Hi."

"Good evening, little Dragon. You are feeling better after your sleep, yes?"

"Well…" Well, actually his head hurt and the overhead lamp was blinding him and he didn't know where he was and he felt more embarrassed than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life. "Yeah, a little." Yao ran a hand over his aching head. Drinking countless glasses of wine after a week of working late and barely eating probably wasn't the best idea. Still, he couldn't believe he'd passed out. He looked around again. "Where am I? How did I get here?"

"This is my room upstairs. I carried you here."

"You… carried me." Yao could feel his pulse racing beneath his skin. He wasn't sure if it was from indignation or something else, something he didn't think he could acknowledge right now…

"Of course." Ivan spoke as though this was all completely normal. An anxious knot started to grow in Yao's stomach.

"You carried me, unconscious, to a room above your private bar."

Ivan smiled cheerfully. "Yes."

Yao furrowed his brows in confusion. "That's really a bit, er… a bit weird, you know."

Ivan tilted his head slightly. "Is it?"

Yao was pretty sure he should feel even more nervous than he actually did. He surreptitiously looked for the exit. "Why… um… why do you have a room above your bar?"

Ivan's smile almost became a smirk. "Because sometimes business talks go late and is easier to sleep here."

"Oh." Yao felt slightly relieved, while at the same time acutely aware of how intensely Ivan was looking at him. It was strange, uncomfortable, and oddly exciting all at once.

Ivan studied Yao silently for a few seconds more before saying, "Someone named Alfred called you."

Yao turned and swung his legs off the bed, so fast the room spun around him. "What? What did he say?"

"He asked where you were," Ivan answered plainly.

"Well, what did you tell him?" Yao prompted.

"That you are unconscious in my bed."

Yao's mouth fell open and his stomach fell to his feet. "Oh, shit."

"This was wrong?" Ivan looked gleeful as he asked.

"Not if you want him to track me down by GPS and burst in here and…" Yao paused, looking the huge Russian up and down. Actually, for once Alfred was likely to come off worst in that situation. Yao shook that image out of his head and looked around frantically. "Where's my phone?" Ivan held up Yao's cell phone, smirked slightly, then tossed it to Yao. He fumbled to catch it and quickly dialled Alfred.

Alfred answered after one ring. "Listen here, commie, if you've done anything to Yao I'm gonna knock out your teeth and shove 'em up your…"

"Alfred, it's me."

Alfred's angry tone changed to relief. "Yao! Where are you, I'll be there in five minutes!"

"Calm down, everything's…"

"Did he slip you a roofie?"

Yao rolled his eyes. "No, I just had a bit too much to drink. I'm at a bar on the corner of the main road, down that little alley by the sushi place. But don't…"

"I am on my way to rescue you, don't worry!"

Yao put a hand to his head. "I do not need rescuing, Alfred." He mouthed an apology to Ivan, who stood watching with a sort of intrigued amusement.

"Did he do anything else to you? I'll kick his ass."

Yao couldn't help but laugh. "You're annoyingly cute when you're all protective, Alfred." Ivan raised an eyebrow at that.

"How many times do I have to tell you to carry a can of mace!"

There came the sounds of a short scuffle on the other side of the phone, some particularly inventive swearing, then a familiar French accent came over the line. "Yao."

Yao sighed wearily. "Francis."

"Is it true what they say of Russian men?"

"Huh? What about them?"

"You know, that they have enormous…"

"I'll call you back." Yao quickly ended the call, shot an apologetic look at Ivan, then glanced around the room uncertainly. Now this was a situation he really didn't know the etiquette for.

"He has interesting vocabulary, that American," said Ivan. He still leant easily against the table, completely at ease. His eyes had not moved from Yao once.

Yao laughed nervously. "Yeah, sorry. He's a little, well, loud… and kind of has a hero complex. I'm certain he thinks I'm completely helpless."

Ivan seemed to find that amusing. "He is not your boyfriend?"

"Oh, no! We did go on a date a few years ago." Yao started babbling as he became increasingly jumpy. He also felt a bit drunk still, which probably wasn't helping matters. "But then Arthur found out about it, and he punched Alfred on the after-school bus, and it turned out that Alfred only did it to make Arthur jealous, and I got really angry and wouldn't speak to either of them for a month. Uh, we were fifteen. Aru." Damn.

Ivan regarded Yao curiously, his intense violet eyes piercing through the short distance between them. "You are still nervous, Dragon?"

Yao faltered, completely unsure what to say. That unwavering gaze kept trapping him like a deer in headlights. How was the look in Ivan's eyes so different from the smile on his lips? And why did he keep calling Yao Dragon? "I…my name isn't…" Yao trailed off. He was too confused to even form a proper sentence. And still the words kept tumbling out... "I'm sorry, I'm not exactly used to waking up in stranger's beds, and I'm sorry that I drank all your wine and that my friend threatened you, but look I'll be honest, I suppose I am still nervous because this is a very odd situation and…" A sudden loud bang filled the room and Yao jumped. "What was that?"

Ivan's eyes flashed as he unexpectedly leapt forward, breaking into a grin. "Fireworks!"

Yao almost gasped in surprise as Ivan's large hand grasped his and pulled him easily to his feet. Ivan led him across the room to the long glass doors, throwing them open and stepping out onto a small, railed balcony. Yao felt the ground start to spin. But then Ivan's arms surrounded him from behind and, without even knowing why, Yao leant back gratefully. It took him a few seconds to comprehend that Ivan was holding him. His heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing to keep up with this mad turn of events. The air was cooler out here; the loud, busy street below still packed with shouting people and colourful revelry. The crack of fireworks again burst through the air, filling the sky overhead with brilliant explosions of red and gold. Yao was actually surprised by the good view from this second story balcony.

"They are lovely, da?" The warm touch of Ivan's breath on his ear sent shivers down Yao's neck.

"Yes," Yao whispered back. "Lovely." Ivan's fingers entwined with his, and Yao hoped his rapid pulse could not be felt between their hands. Maybe it was the alcohol, but everything still seemed to be going so fast. He had not been on many dates, and most of them hadn't gone very well, but Yao was fairly sure this whole evening had been fairly unusual. It felt a little frightening, sure… frightening, but exhilarating.

"Happy New Year, Dragon." Ivan ran his other hand softly up Yao's throat and over his cheek, gently turning his head back. His fingers seemed to burn where they touched. They finally reached into his hair and, just as Yao realised what was happening, Ivan's lips were against his, warm and strong. Yao's eyes fluttered shut and he breathed in sharply.

Yao had only been kissed twice. Once by his Korean cousin Yong Soo, who was strangely fascinated by Yao and liked to cause a scene at family gatherings. Once by Francis, at a drunken New Year's Eve two years ago, but the Frenchman hadn't gotten far before Alfred punched him. Both had been unwanted and incredibly awkward. Neither had felt anything like this.

Because when Ivan's lips met his, Yao forgot to feel embarrassed. He forgot to feel nervous. Yao forgot about everything but this one moment, this mad, dizzying, knee-weakening moment, on this fire-lit balcony, with Ivan's lips against his and Ivan's arms around him. This was what Yao had hoped for since he first realised he was gay; this was what Yao dreamt of from the first moment he knew he wanted a man to kiss him. This was a gorgeous, strong, intriguing man, softly parting his lips, touching his tongue and firing through his veins, holding him close and sending shockwaves across his skin. This was… incredible… Right when Yao thought he might just pass out again, Ivan gently pulled away and placed a light kiss on Yao's forehead. Yao opened his eyes dazedly and focused on breathing deeply. The whole thing was over almost before he had grasped what was happening.

"Here." Ivan reached into his pocket then placed something into Yao's hand. "I think you dropped this."

Yao blinked down at the tiny fat, brown Buddha statue resting in his palm. It must have dropped from his pocket when he had taken out the zodiac chart in the bar. "Oh! Thank you. I would have been upset if I'd lost it. Francis gave it to me tonight. It's supposed to bring me luck."

Ivan squeezed Yao's hand. "Is it working?"

Yao paused, ran his thumb over the figurine, then looked back up into Ivan's intense gaze. His heart was still racing, but he felt strangely calmer now. "I suppose we'll see."

Ivan laughed softly. "Then you should keep it always close, little Dragon."

Another firework burst overhead. Yao had barely realised they'd been exploding the whole time. With Ivan's arms around his waist, they watched the rest of the fireworks in silence; the cool air gusting softly around them, the soft touch of Ivan's scarf warm against Yao's cheek. How incredibly odd, that he had complained so bitterly about being dragged out of the house, when only hours later the night had turned so surprisingly wonderful. Finally, the skies fell silent; reluctantly, Yao managed to pull away. "Thank you, Ivan. That was… nice." Yao immediately winced and tried to hide it. Nice? But Ivan only looked kindly amused, so Yao continued quickly. "I'd better go meet my friends, though. Alfred is probably contacting the police by now." Ivan's eyes flashed strangely at that, and Yao quickly added, "Um, not really…"

Ivan just nodded. He silently took Yao's hand and led him back through the white room, into a narrow hallway. When they reached the stairs, Ivan put his arm around Yao's waist. A burning ache shot through Yao at the touch, yet he simply raised his eyebrows. Ivan smiled back. "I do not want you to fall."

Yao almost laughed. How utterly ridiculous. And yet… It might be a bit late for that... Yao let himself lean into Ivan as they descended the stairs. Well, he was still a little dizzy, after all. The light grew dimmer as they entered the room downstairs, and Yao glanced over at Toris as they passed the bar. The look the bartender threw Yao almost made him shiver. It was a combination of anger, frustration… and sadness. Yao quickly looked away.

"You will find your friends?" asked Ivan as they reached the door of the bar, stepping onto the street outside.

Yao nodded, already disappointed that this brief, unusual, world-changing encounter was drawing to an end. "Yes. They won't be far away."

Ivan nodded, looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, then slowly removed his scarf. Yao noticed that his throat was still covered by a pale cloth behind his collar. Ivan smiled, and gently wrapped the scarf around Yao's neck and shoulders. "Is cold tonight."

"Oh." Yao touched the warm cloth. "Thank you." Somehow he sensed this was a big gesture.

"I am only lending it." Ivan looked intently into Yao's eyes. Once again, Yao felt immobilised. "Next time we meet you will give it back."

Yao nodded. He did not think to ask when they would meet next. Strangely, he just felt sure that they would. "Of course."

Ivan smiled, leant down, and kissed Yao on the cheek. Yao felt the touch fire through his entire body. "Good night, little Dragon."

Then he was gone. Yao ran his hands over the scarf and held it to his face, breathing deeply. It was soft, and smelt like Ivan; like that kiss on the balcony - spicy, warm and smooth, with a hint of smoke and leather. Yao felt like his world had been turned upside down. He couldn't quite believe the events of the evening. This sort of thing did not happen to someone like him. It was almost surreal, and he kept expecting to wake up, in his own bed this time. His attempt at being unpredictable had certainly worked out rather intriguingly.

Yao had a very strong suspicion that Ivan was dangerous. Somehow it was obvious. However, he couldn't deny the blinding, magnetic attraction the Russian held. Yao could not deny the flush of his cheeks, or the quickness of his breath. And he certainly couldn't deny the uncomfortable situation occurring south of his belt.

"Yao!"

Yao swore to himself, bit his lip as hard as he could, and reluctantly turned to find Arthur, Alfred and Francis pressing through the crowd. He sighed as he went to meet them. How was he supposed to explain all this…

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[zagamalli]

“Rock Bottom” //Part Three

John jumped down off of old boy as Dutch and Hosea raced to Arthur's side, his breathing shallow. Arthur's vision blurred, the panicked voices surrounding him distant and muffled. Arthur pushed his hand against the ground, the attempt to stand only proving useless once he felt hands guiding him back to the damp ground.

"Mfine-" he mumbled, still trying to pull away from Hosea, hands wavering and strength gradually diminishing, shamed and embarrassed that he couldn't even pull away from Hosea of all people. Absence of strength concerning everyone. A hand rested on Arthur's forehead, sweat bearing on his forehead. "He's burning up," Hosea declared, trying his best to keep calm. "John, get back up there." Dutch ordered, he and Hosea doing their best to get Arthur standing, limping over to Old Boy.

"Come on son, let's get you up there." Instructed Arthur. Getting him onto the Hungarian halfbred was a struggle, any and every tug provoking a whimper from Arthur, too exhausted by the endeavor to hold back, every one making his face flush red, ashamed of how weak he's feeling, especially in front of his brother.

'Goddamnit Arthur, you useless son of a bitch' he thought, bitter with himself, his knuckles going white around the saddle horn. "Hey, you alright?" John questioned, noticing how his hand encompassed the horn, accompanied by the red tint on his face. "I'm fine." Arthur growled, sounding harsher than he'd initially intended, but John didn't seem to mind all that much.

"Keep your eyes open for us, alright, son?" Dutch ordered, voice unwavering. Energy depleted, all he could manage was a meager nod. Wrapping his arm around Arthur's chest, to keep the older one from falling out of the saddle. It wasn't necessarily meant to be a comforting gesture, but it was to Arthur. He tried to keep his eyes open, he really did, but exhaustion won in the end, as soon as the horse started into a canter towards Horseshoe Overlook.

The ride was a blur to Arthur, phasing in and out of consciousness yet again. Whenever he was mildly cognizant he'd look at the azure sky, birds passing overhead. In due time after regaining consciousness for a few minutes, the sky overhead had turned pink, gray streaks phasing throughout.

Next thing he knew, he was being lowered off of the horse, voices around him foggy and distant, groggily opening his eyes, a black sky loomed above, a brilliant Galaxy visable, hundred of stars decorating the sky. Voices dragged him out of his thoughts, "thur- Arthur, are you with me?" Someone asked, voice calm and gruff. "Hey, Charlie." Arthur chuckled, a coughing fit erupting, blood splattering on Arthur's hand and shirt, but nothing compared to the amount of blood already on his tattered shirt, the blue now a mix of maroon and ebony.

'Did I really just call him Charlie?'

"Let's get you to your tent," Charles started, Arthur already trying to stand up himself, a set of hands on his arm, Arthur trying to shake them off to no avail. "Et offa me-" Arthur growled, only for another coughing fit to attack his throat, the attack hurting more than the others, blood splattering onto the already red grass. "Arthur let me help you-" Charles said, no room for argument in his tone. "Charles, you ain't gotta-" Arthur's breath hitched, his broken foot moving into an awkward position. "C'mon." Charles ordered, another set of hands grabbing onto him, helping him onto his feet, er, foot.

Limping over to his cot was a blur, each step sending pain jolting through him, tugging on the ribs he was sure are broken. The other two sat him on the cot, Bill going back to give Arthur space while Hosea is was barking orders. The other man turned to leave as well, Arthur tried to say something, vaguely resembling Charles's name. Turning around he looked at Arthur. "L-Lenny-" "He's fine Arthur." The blonde man breathed a sigh of relief.

'Thank god' Arthur wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to Lenny, what if his idea didn't work? Would Lenny be in the same condition as Arthur? Would he-

"Arthur, you alright?" Hosea was there now, when did he get there? Oh well, that's not important right now. "Y-yeah," he barely managed to get out, blood dripping from his lip. "We need to stitch you up, okay? This is going to hurt." He said, a hint of remorse audible in his voice, and sadness visable in his eyes. A nod was the only response Arthur could muster, even that causing him to wince.

Arthur never liked the feeling of a needle tugging against his skin, but he was used to it. It wasn't his first time being stitched up and certainly wouldn't be his last. Hosea peeled the remains of Arthur's favorite shirt off, heart sinking with every new wound revealed. Skin black, blue and purple in multiple spots, the only normal looking spots covered in blood, both dried and some still oozing down his side. Darkness was starting to encompass Arthur's vision, stars dancing in the corner. "Arthur?" Hosea asked, Arthur starting to slump back towards Hosea. "John!" Hosea yelled, the younger man coming over as quickly as he could manage. "What's wrong?" Urgency in his voice, "Nothing, I just need you to hold him up for me." "Okay," John agreed, putting his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Im-Im fine-" Arthur slurred, almost immediately darkness washed over him.

A sound came from in front of Arthur, his eyes groggily opened. "Where-" "Morning sunshine!" Someone cheered. That voice, he knew that voice. Who- "Seems like you were having a dream of sorts!" The man chuckled, a tin badge on his coat. A blade shone in the sheriff's hand, Arthur's eyes widening, attempting to move against the pain. Why can't he move? A silver blade was up to his throat now, Lenny nowhere in the room. "Where's-" "Your friend? Didn't you hear the cheering already?" Panic raced throughout Arthur, still trying to move, but there he sat. Paralyzed. At the mercy of the sadistic bastard in front of him.

"thur- Arthur wake up, Arthur-" he woke with a jolt, panic coursing through his veins. "Where's Lenny-" "Arthur," "Goddamnit where is he?" Arthur snapped at John, startling the younger man. "He's asleep, Arthur." Arthur's irratic breathing had started to slow, tears starting to slide down his bruised and bloodied cheek. Before he knew it, there was an arm wrapped around him, John embracing his brother in a hug. "I'm glad you're okay." John stated, Arthur still holding onto him like he was his lifeline. "John, I'm sorry-" "It's okay, you're home." The blonde man drifted back into a dreamless slumber.

He woke to birda chirping outside of his cot, and could see someone walking towards it through the sheet that had been hastily put up to give Arthur privacy. A part of the sheet had been pulled away, Hosea entering with Dutch. "How are you feeling?" Dutch asked, brows furrowed and face in an unreadable expression. "Okay, considering." Arthur said, a dark chuckle came from both him and Hosea. "Stay strong son, we need you." "I know." And that was all Dutch said before walking out, shouting orders at random gang members.

"I'm- I'm sorry, Hosea. "Arthur-" "None of this wouldve happened if it weren't for me," "Arthur." "Lenny wouldn't have gotten hurt, you wouldn't have-" His ramblings were cut off when he was enwrapped in a hug, Hosea soothing Arthur the best he could. The older man wiped a tear off or his son, who wasn't even aware he'd been crying. "It isn't your fault, Arthur. I'm going to be here if you need me." He said, Arthur lowering back onto the cot, the birds cooing lulling him to sleep.

Hosea stood after a few minutes, making sure Arthur was asleep. Spotting Lenny by the campfire he approached, pulling him aside. "Lenny, what happened while you two were gone?" Hosea asked, noticing Lenny's expression turn sullen, Lenny started to speak.

[garrisonsnug]

the tide of his breathing // shelby sister

warning for depictions of verbal & physical abuse within a relationship, plus troubling reactions to it. see this post for more detail (with spoilers).

'alright, fuck off. that's all in for this round. john? y'hear?'

you swallow the rest of your whiskey, laughing at john's pout, and slide your empty glass towards tommy. he raises his eyebrow but pours you another, and you can tell he wants to smile. he's gone quiet, the way he does when he drinks. if anything, the whiskey seems to sober him up nowadays.

you, john, and arthur are the polar opposite. between the drink, the poker and the two lines of snow, the smallest thing is enough for the three of you to be bent double, cackling and clinging to each other so you don't fall off your chairs.

arthur claps you on the shoulder as you push the remainder of your money into the centre of the table. 

'god, it's a laugh with you around. you never stay this late on a friday night. like you're observing a fucking holy day, usually.'

you grin and pull his cigarette from the corner of its mouth, taking a pull. 'except it's not friday, you lug. it's still thursday. i think you're on too much of the good stuff, art.'

john sputters with laughter, but tommy clears his throat as he counts coins into the pile. 'it's friday night, i'm afraid,’ he says. ‘i’m not surprised the days go quickly when you work like you do.'

the warmth of the whiskey in your belly turns to ice, and you cough around a mouthful of smoke. 'no, it's - you're fucking me around, you are.' arthur and john are too far gone, laughing at your thinly veiled panic, but tommy narrows his eyes.

you stand up from the table, chair clattering. 'i've got a fucking early morning tomorrow. i'll see you later.'

'your fucking money, mate!' john calls, but you're already turning on your heel. you wave a dismissive hand at them, barely remembering to pull your coat off the wall before stepping into the biting wind.

three in the fucking morning. fuck, fuck, fuck. as you rummage through your purse, you stop and take a deep, shaky breath. if you're going to do this, you have to be quiet. no use shaking so badly the key wakes him up as you let yourself in. if he's asleep, that is, and not sitting up waiting.

you hold your breath as you step over the threshold and climb the narrow - old, fucking old and noisy - stairs, and don't let it out until you're standing at the top. from here you can make out the shape of nick in the bed, the side of him gently rising and falling with what looks like the rhythm of sleep. in careful silence, you slip off your coat, shoes and hat, placing them over the nearest chair. deliberating, you look from the bed to the loveseat. if you climb into bed it might wake him, but sleeping on the lounge will be hard to explain in the morning. fuck's sake, this'll all be hard to explain in the morning.

'decided to show up, did you?'

your heart sinks. you close your eyes and take a long, uneven breath. 'hello, darling. sorry to wake you.'

'can smell the drink on you from here.' he still hasn't rolled over, his body a dark and anonymous shape in the bed. 'and the men.'

'haven't been with any men, nick. just my brothers. and i'm sorry for staying out so late.'

he gets out of bed then, throwing the covers aside and crossing the room to confront you in three burning strides. 'how do you think it fucking feels,' he fumes, 'to come home, and find this place cold, and empty, with no fucking food on the table?'

his face is inches from yours. your fists are hard, shaking with the tension in them, but your face threatens to crumble. 'i'm sorry.'

'that's all i ask. is it too much? is it?'

you stare determinedly at the floor, silent, trembling. the slap comes quickly from his left hand (southpaw, your brothers used to call him, used to laugh, when it was different), blood flowing to your cheek and stinging hot with pain. your hand instinctively goes to your face but he knocks it away and takes your chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye.

‘no, it isn’t, nick.’ you hate the way the words sound, watery and thin. you hate that you say them every other night. 

the bruises are never where your brothers can see them. dark, purplish fingerprints along the softest part of your upper arm. fading brown-green mottled across your ribcage. a seething red welt striped across the back of your thigh, the one that had you on your feet all day.

the betting shop in the morning. the easy distraction of the numbers, the endless chatter of the men there. esme’s sly, catlike smile when you indulge her and listen to her gossip, offering tuts and nods and input when she expects it. it’s a routine - comforting, distracting enough that you don’t dwell on the wince of pain when you bend the wrong way or move too quickly. 

nick doesn’t come around anymore, doesn’t see your brothers. he used to, before the war. now he’s at home or at work. he’s changed, is your explanation. it hurt him.  repeated so often it feels like a mantra. he’s changed, he’s changed, he’s changed. he’s different, now. like you, tom. 

they don’t ask many questions. there’s always polly’s watchful eye, the arch of one brow as you head home for the evening. 

‘never expected anyone to make a housewife out of you,’ she told you once. 

you had laughed uneasily as you pulled on your coat, paused in the doorway. ‘i don’t mind it, pol. he needs someone to look after him.’ 

she didn’t say anything, but the look on her face stayed with you for the night.

there are times when you think it’s going to unravel. the night you drop the bottle of gin and it smashes across the floor, the smell of it astringent, clinical, and without thinking he splits your lip with a crack of his left hand. the blood is hot on your chin, running between your fingers. it shocks you both, nick so badly that he apologises. it was an accident, lovely, i’m sorry, i wasn’t thinking.

and you tell everyone as much the next morning. an accident. nick and i were drinking gin and i tripped, can you believe it, the dresser has a nasty edge on it. sell it with an airy laugh, as if you can’t believe yourself. polly is gone for the week, thank christ. the woman’s a bloodhound for lies, but by the time she returns your lip will have scabbed over, ready to be painted with lipstick and ignored resolutely. 

what you don’t anticipate is ada. something strictly financial, apparently. something that tommy would normally visit london for - but london hasn’t been a safe place for tom for a while, now. she walks in looking more tired than anything else.

you go to hold her, to press your lips against her cheek and ask her how she is, but she stops you at arm’s length.

‘fucking hell, what happened to your lip?’ 

the story is so well-rehearsed, so fine tuned, that you let the room tell it for you. scud, mostly, esme chiming in to laugh about your clumsiness. you smile self-deprecatingly and shrug at ada. she shakes her head, draws you in and hugs you hello, but her face is fixed in an expression that unsettles you. 

your small mercy is that she hates being here, and wants to keep her visits short. it’s when she’s leaving tommy’s office and collecting her things that the door clatters open and arthur walks in with a cry of ‘ada!’

at the sudden, thunderous noise your heart rises into your throat and with a sharp inhale you drop the books you’re carrying. they land askew on the floor, loose papers strewn everywhere. you give a shaky laugh and apologise to no one in particular as you gather them. arthur barely seems to notice as he crosses the shop floor to greet your sister.

you look up in enough time for your stomach to drop as you see ada turn on her heel back into tommy’s office, glancing back at you fleetingly. 

‘how long?’

tommy’s eyes are his only tell. the rest of him - the line of his mouth, his shoulders - is sober and businesslike. but the eyes flare. ada stands by his desk, arms folded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. 

‘how long what, tom?’

he glances to ada and then turns his stare back to you, meeting your eye with an unwavering steadiness. he wants you to cave, to back into denial without him ever having to say it. you stare back, feigning confusion. 

‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’ ada fumes. ‘how long has he been hitting you?’ there’s a righteous anger about her, but also a worry that splits it down the middle.

you scoff. ‘if you’re talking about my lip, i told you -’

‘out there, the way you jumped when arthur surprised you,’ ada says. ‘we are from the same family, you know. you used to be impossible to frighten.’ 

you think of being six, nine, thirteen. of your brothers - john, mostly - hiding behind doorways and in closets in their endless mission to shock you. they would have tired of it quicker if it hadn’t been for your reaction. you would turn flatly, without even a whisper of a scream, and box the offending sibling around the ear if they weren’t fast enough. it became a game, a competition, to make you lose your nerve. funny that, years later, nick finally won. 

your silence has given you away. tommy silently opens a drawer in his desk and takes from it a knife, small, pearly-handled. nearly feminine. you wonder if it’s something of polly’s. 

‘part of me wants to wait for him in his house and slice him open,’ he says simply. ada makes a slight noise of agreement. ‘but this is yours. he touches you one more time, you bury it in him.’ 

the silence in the room, tommy holding the knife by the blade, outstretched towards you - it all seems to make time waver. you wonder why he hasn’t already killed nick, on suspicion. perhaps something in him wants to believe your stories. you think of the two of them, seventeen, laughing. he was the one who introduced you to nick, who tacitly approved your engagement in lieu of your father. you sense, in tom, a difficulty in reconciling the nick that came home from war with the nick he knew. there’s an irony in that.

you sleep with the knife for a week. you touch it, sometimes, the cold handle and sharp reassurance of the blade. but, more than a comfort, it’s a reminder that you’ll never really bring yourself to use it. a reminder that the war changed the blood that runs through tommy’s veins, same as it changed nick’s, and left yours with a weakness. 

it’s polly you collapse into. you tell her when she returns. tell her everything, like a bloodletting. your ribs smarting from last night’s beating and the tender spot where the knife is tucked into your belt, pressing against them. she simply listens, silent behind her desk, raises an eyebrow when you pull your skirts up and show her a boot-sized swell of bruise on your thigh. 

‘but i can’t do it, pol. i can’t be the one,’ you tell her. your face is hot with tears, your nose running. she hasn’t seen you this way since you were eleven. ‘he’s - i think about the man he used to be, and i - he’s made me weak. he’s made me so fucking weak.’ the last syllables choked out in sobs. 

that’s when polly quiets you, drawing a deep breath. ‘weak, no. enduring this for so fucking long - it’s certainly something. but not weak.’ her voice is less terse when she speaks again. ‘i would say i don’t know why you didn’t leave him earlier, but i do.’ 

you wipe your face on your sleeve. you’re not quite sure what to say, so you thank her. she smiles grimly. 

‘i hope you know that when you leave this room, i’m making a few calls.’ 

you nod with a sniff. you didn’t expect anything less. it was part of both the fear and the desperation to tell her. as you turn to leave the room, she calls your name.

‘stay at mine for a little while, love.’

two days pass, and then thomas presses a set of keys into your hand one morning as you enter the shop. you meet his eyes. you want to ask, and you don’t. 

‘this one’s the front door,’ he says, pointing to the largest key. ‘there’s the bedroom, and that’s the pantry.’

you nod, closing your fist around the keys. he stays silent for a moment, and then places a hand on your shoulder.

‘i’m sorry.’

‘thank you, tom,’ you say, and you mean it. for what he’s done, and for the apology. for the house, which he’s pulled out of god knows where. 

he clears his throat. ‘i can drive you to the new house, if you like. show you where it is.’ 

you consider saying no, not yet. almost ask him to take you to the old house, a skeleton of a thing now, empty of the horrible pulse of your relationship that made it a comfort and a prison. but you know that this is rare for tom. that he might be feeling the same as you, confused and freed and grieving all at once. 

‘that’s a good idea, tom. cheers.’ 

you fish into his pocket to pinch a cigarette on the way out, and he elbows you gently, and you laugh. a real laugh. 

[collecting-stories]

Sobriety - Arthur Shelby

I remember you saying you aren’t a huge fan of cleaned up/PG Arthur, but would you consider maybe writing something for him going through withdrawals and being looked after (despite his protests)? Helpless poorly man making himself ill to better himself for someone else it’s so cute!

Sobriety - Arthur Shelby

Before he asked you to marry him, Arthur promised himself he was going to sober up. You hadn’t said anything directly to him, and most of his self-doubt was internalised but Arthur felt like he needed to prove that he was worthy of becoming the sort of man he always wanted as a father. The sort of man who was, most importantly, sober. 

Arthur decided to embark on this journey alone. He didn’t want to tell Polly or Tommy because he didn’t want to hear them laugh in his face or hear their ‘I told you so’ when he failed. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to get your hopes up. He knew he was bound to fail, Arthur’s self had become synonymous with failure throughout his life. All he wanted was to succeed for you, to prove that he was a better man.  

But being sober was hard, especially alone. Because alone meant no support from family or friends, who readily drank at every occasion. So he stopped going out to the Garrison or going round for dinner at Polly’s. He told her he was sick. Isolating himself helped to keep the alcohol and cocaine away but it did nothing to combat the depression. If anything, being alone and sober felt worse than being drunk or high, but he tried to persevere for you.  

“Arthur?” You had come round to his house, worried because he seemed to be withdrawing himself from normal life. You were scared that he was sick.

No answer came so you headed for the staircase, hoping maybe you’d just find him tucked in early, peaceful and sleeping. The upstairs was small, just two bedrooms and a bathroom. You followed the light that was on in the bathroom and walked in to find Arthur there.    

This was the third night in a row that Arthur had been unable to sleep. Every time he tried to lie down he felt dizzy or nauseous. He sat on the end of the bathtub in just his underwear, trying to steady his breathing so that he could stand.  

“Arthur!” You dropped your coat and bag on the ground and rushed over to him.  

He seemed awake but somewhat out of it, entirely unresponsive as you slipped his arm over your shoulder and helped him up. You walked him back to his room, thinking that he looked much skinnier than usual. Once you got to the bed you helped him lay down, easing him back onto propped up pillows.

“Arthur?” You laid a hand on his forehead, trying to feel for a fever. He was sweating profusely, his eyes were watering and he was sniffling. “Arthur, it’s me.”

He lurched forward suddenly and vomited, mostly on your lap. The action seemed to bring him more to his senses because he focused on you, realizing you were there with him and not just some illusion his brain was creating, and began crying.  

“It’s alright,” You placed a hand on his back, rubbing gently. “Let me get you a pail to throw up in.”  

“No,” Arthur pushed you slightly, just enough to get you away from him, “I can do this myself, I don’t want help.”

“You may not want it but you need it. Arthur please, you look sick, let me at least get a pail for you.” 

“No!” What would’ve usually been a loud holler came out as more of a cracked, raspy, whisper. He was so tired and broken down that he’d lost the energy he required to put up any fight. 

“I’ll be right back. You’re not well.”

You stood and quickly pulled your clothes off, tossing them to the corner to be trashed later. You weren’t upset with him but the moment you left the room to retrieve a bucket he began to worry. He felt horrible, the last week and a half had been torture and he could feel his body beginning to worsen still.  

“I’ve found a pail and I made some tea as well.” You announced, coming back into the room with one of Arthur’s shirts on. You placed the pail on the ground and then sat beside him on the bed, placing a hand on his knee. “Are you okay Arthur? Are you sick?”

“I stopped,” Arthur managed to say, laying back on the pillows. “I didn’t want you to know.”  

“Stopped what love?” You asked. When he began to shiver you pulled the blanket up to him.  

“The drinking and the stuff Tommy was giving me. I stopped doing it.”  

You pushed his hair back from his face, not bothered by it’s greasiness and kissed Arthur’s forehead. “I’m very proud of you love, but why didn’t you tell me that what you were doing, you know I would’ve been here sooner. I’ve hardly seen you I was worried.”

“I’ve been here.” He replied. Arthur laid his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes again. The exhaustion making him fall asleep.  

Once Arthur was asleep you went about cleaning the bathroom and bedroom for him. You tossed your clothes in the bin outside, along with any other trash that Arthur had been unable to clean up. You found some food in his kitchen and fixed a brisket for dinner, putting it in the oven before going back up to check on him. When you went into his bedroom he was awake, leaning over with the pail in his lap. You sat beside him and rubbed his back, whispering that you loved him and that he was going to be alright.  

“I can’t do it.” Arthur finally said, watching you take the pail from him and toss the vomit out the back window into the alley.  

You sat back down on the bed beside him and reached for his hand, running fingers up and down his forearm. “Whether you can or you can’t, Arthur, I’ll be here.”  

“I was gonna ask you-“ Arthur began but was cut off by a fit of coughing. You got the pail for him again, holding it in your lap as he threw up once more.  

“It’s okay, just wait until you feel yourself again.” You said, trying to calm him down, “I’ll be here.” You repeated.  

You stayed with Arthur for the next two weeks, seeing him through the worst of his withdrawal. When Tommy asked after his older brother you simply told him that Arthur was sick with a fever. If he hadn’t told Tommy you assumed there was a good reason for it. As the days passed his anxiety and delusions turned into angry and frustration. The pain in his muscles was unwavering and he felt weak both physically and mentally. You ran him baths daily, sitting with him and making sure he was clean. You were patient during his fits and held him when he was sleeping.  

You had met Arthur when a friend had taken you to the Garrison for your birthday. He had been there with his brothers and caught sight of you at the bar. You had been out drinking with friends before but had never been approached, and certainly not by a Shelby.  

Your friend was more animated than you, greeting Arthur for the both of you and trying to lean closer to him when stepped into the space between you and her. Arthur was polite to her, saying hello and tipping his cap but he had come over to talk to you and he made that abundantly clear when he turned his whole body away from her. He put his hand on the back of your chair and leaned in a bit, as if you wouldn’t hear him talk unless he was close.  

“Can I get you a drink?”  

“Don’t you drink for free?” You asked.  

“That’s true,” Arthur was grinning, “but where’s the fun in drinking for free if your drinking alone?”  

“I’ll have a gin and tonic.” You couldn’t keep the smile off your face as you watched him. He kept his eyes on you as he flagged down the bartender and ordered drinks. The hand on the back of the stool gently brushed your against your back.  

That was the first night of many. You kept going back to the Garrison after that, always eager to see Arthur. He was just as eager to see you, though he kept his cool far better. Walks home at night turned into mornings of him sneaking out, trying not to disturb you, to go to work. You fell in love with every part of Arthur, though his aptitude for being drunk or high at any time being something that you learned to accept.  

When his fevers finally seemed to be breaking and the vomiting stopped, Arthur apologized again for what he saw as forcing you to take care of him. He wanted to sober up so that he wasn’t always a burden and had, in turn, made himself a burden. You had placed tea at his bedside and taken a seat, ready to see him to bed like every other night when he stopped you. He took hold of your wrist before you could speak.  

“I just want to say something,” he began.  

“Arthur, love, it’s okay, it can wait. You need your strength.” You insisted, placing your free hand over his.  

“It can’t.” He sat himself up more in bed, preparing. “I’m sorry for all this.”

“It’s okay,” you repeated, “what you’re doing is admirable. I’ve always supported any decision you’ve made.”

“I just want you to be proud of me.”

“I always am.”

“No, I know how disappointed you used to look when I’d come home after doing cocaine.” He replied, “you didn’t say anything but I saw it.”

“Arthur-”

“I wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to get through this and have you see me as someone sober and right for…well, I was gonna propose to you, once I got through this.”

You knew there were tears in your eyes, without a doubt. You wiped them away furiously, blushing at his admission. Arthur wanting to marry you made your stomach fill with butterflies. “Well then when you do I’ll be right here, waiting to say yes.”

tagged: @weirdnewbie @ducks-are-kwl @crowleyismybabycakes @photograiphy-00 @clairyfaiiry @ifoundmyhappythought @thinemineours @holy-minseok @baygabb