#Arthur pining made me sad

[senditothemoonn]

#Arthur pining made me sad #had to draw this to cheer myself up #my art #fruk #ukfr #hetalia #aph england #aph france #hws france #hws england #they are dancing to cheesy Beatles love songs 🥺

[serawritesthings]

AS FAR AS DREAMS GO

Pairing | Arthur Morgan x fem! reader Summary | While Arthur found sanction in his dreams, you would fret about them every night. While he longed for the sweet caress of your hands, you were unknowing, fooled by his stoic facade as your dreams only brought you nightmares. Tags |  Angsty, Arthur Morgan pining for the reader, hinting at smut, intimacy, two idiots clearly in love, some sadness ensues Word Count | 10.3k A/N | Hello, lovelies! It's my second-ever fanfic; I hope you like it! Also, I got carried away, so it’s quite long (sorry)… It's loosely based on the mission with Uncle when you rob a wagon, but I have my spin on it. It’ll work more with the story this way. If you want, it can fit in with my recent fanfic about Arthur, but maybe set earlier in their “relationship.” ;D THANKS FOR READING!♡ Part two

Arthur felt you in his sleep last night. 

He remembered the caress of your fingers on his icy skin, leaving scorching traces of blazing fire in its wake as your hearts collided and molded into his deepest longing. Like a strange mirror, it portrayed you as you always were: tender and loving, fiery but forgiving. But it wasn’t you; instead, it was a thought of you. Like when walking down the street and catching a glance of a person that seemed familiar, but with another look, was someone else entirely. Only in his dream-filled sleep could he allow himself the sweet torture of your presence, for in those moments, he didn’t have to think of the consequences his thoughts would bring. His dreams of you overtook his mind, whether he was willing or not. For in his mind, you had carved a path so profound that it would be etched into his senses until his last breath, clouding his sanity, never again being able to differentiate dreams from reality.

Oh, how you held him in your embrace. It made him long for the sun to disappear under the horizon once more when the warm springs of light found him in the chilly dawn. He could still feel traces of your touch in the short period between sleep and consciousness. For a brief moment, it made him question whether it was a dream or if his deepest desire had come true. You were his.

But he would wake up and find that the warmth he held in his hands had dissipated, like hot ash falling between his fingers, making Arthur attempt to dig up what remained of you from the ground. He was left aching with no relief, cold and shuddering in the chilly morning, standing over the remains of your ghost. It was like his heart had been burned with it, only coming alive once more when you returned to him at midnight.

But for you, dreams had trouble finding you at night, if they even found you at all. You could never escape reality to find sanction in the warm blanket of imagination. When dreams did reach you, memories replaced fantasy and washed over like cold, freezing water. You would fret and worry, tossing around wishing you could melt into the sheets and float to where you could become someone else. There was a time when the dreams would bring you solace, whether it was a conjecture of old memories or what your younger self would conjure up. But that was a long time ago, and you find that the older you get, those dreams drift further away. So, you had nowhere to escape, nothing to ease the hardship that daytime brought. So, sleeping is just a blink of an eye nowadays to make the night pass faster.

After a sleepless night, you sat by a tree overlooking the vast landscape. It’s quiet between the trees this morning. It brought a sense of calm to the otherwise quite hectic place. Although chilly, the wind carried a frisk waft, clearing your head. You enjoyed these mornings and often found yourself awake before the others. It’s a habit you picked up through the years, though a younger you would complain about having to rise that early in the morning. It felt like the world was entirely your own. It is even calmer in times like this, where the residents consist mainly of women when the men are out. It brought a sense of comfort to you, for they were the ones that had been kind and welcoming to you. Unfortunately, your time alone didn’t last long, for you have learned that people rose relatively early here. But the time you did get for yourself gave you a chance to ponder the time that had passed up until now.

Sean, a peculiar man, had recently been brought back from being held captive by bounty hunters soon to be transported up the Upper Montana River to a federal prison. You had immensely worried for him, finding his presence over the last few months to lighten your sometimes rather gloomy mood with his ridiculous shenanigans. Some had been unsure if going back for him posed as a good idea, but the thought of leaving him behind saddened you and many others. Somehow, you had managed to convince Arthur to lend a hand, with considerable help from Javier You knew Arthur cared for Sean, even though he’d probably rather die before admitting it.

When you first got wrapped up with these people, you admit that Arthur scared the living daylight out of you. There was a certain air around him that exuded strength and authority, never stopping short of resorting to violence. You were no stranger to what kind of man he was, what they were; neither were you of their business, but you were apprehensive of them more often than not. The womenfolk had told you countless times that Arthur could be immensely ruthless when needed and had done things that would leave your blood running cold. And you didn’t doubt them. Behind those calculating eyes and quiet demeanor lay a long life of violence and hardship. You were sure of it.

That’s why you felt stuck when it came to him. Despite all this, he was a kind man. However, he didn’t speak much when it concerned you. More so, he worked hard, and you rarely spotted him in camp. Freezing your guts out in those mountains was the longest time you had seen his face consistently. You couldn’t do more than respect him, and although apprehensive around him, you had found yourself doing it less because of his dangerous aura and more because he made chills run down your back and a warmth spread in your stomach like wildfire when he set his eyes on you. It wasn’t a fire that spread fast, destroying everything in its path and bringing misery. Instead, a fire dispersed like slow poison, mingling with your blood as it flowed through your body, claiming you bit by bit until you surrendered to its ever-so-prolonged heat.

“I heard you begged for the boys to come get me!” Time had flown by quickly, and soon, you heard the clanking of pots and the sound of steel against the wood. Sean had suddenly spoke up as he neared you, his Irish accent lacing his words heavily. Although you had missed him and didn’t want to leave him to an insufferable fate, you hadn’t forgotten his teasing. He knew very well he was exaggerating, but he wouldn’t let go of the chance to bury you in his flamboyant personality.

“That’s quite the exaggeration, Sean.” A small smile spread on your lips. “Don’t make me regret standing in favor of your return.” A snort left the red-headed man at your words. Pursing your lips, you put your gaze on him as he stood beside your seated form with his arms crossed, gazing out onto the open landscape of Horseshoe Overlook.

“Ah, how I missed ya big words and harmless threats.” You could hear a few snickers at his statement from the people gathering around the campfire. A blush covered your cheeks. You had a reputation for sounding smart sometimes, and people did not stop at anything to tease you, especially the man in front of you.

 “Did ya miss me?” A cheeky grin grew on his punchable face as he raised his eyebrows, expectantly leaning closer to you.

A scoff left your lips, but you didn’t have time to answer him as the sound of hooves drew near. A certain dread always filled you at the sound. Even though you knew it most likely was someone returning to camp, you could never be too sure what state they would be in. You often worked alongside Ms. Grimshaw to help when someone got hurt, having extensive knowledge of tending to wounds and other bodily harm. It worried you, for the possibility of not being able to help someone would someday appear. Like that poor man, Davey. Luckily, you had managed to take care of Marston well enough. But he did look awful these days with that scar adorning his face; there was no denying that.

You and Sean looked up as the horses raced through the path among the trees that led to your whereabouts. You could see Dutch among them, with Arthur and Hosea. Scowls were apparent on their faces as their loud voices broke the solitude in the air, seeming to argue viciously about something.

“What’s that about?” You questioned the man beside you. “God knows, but I’d stay outta it if I were you.” He gave you a knowing look and slouched away to bother someone else. Your curiosity was piqued, but you let it be for now, raising to help Mary-Beth wash some foul shirts she was struggling with—damned Reverend.

The day continued, mindless chatter filling the space between you and the girls as you worked under Ms. Grimshaw’s sharp, watchful eyes. She had been in a terrible mood today, so her reign was relentless.  

“Do you think she would be mad if we threw the clothes from the cliff edge?” A grumpy Tilly spoke up, her hands relentless as she scrubbed the fabric that never seemed to get cleaner. Sadly, it only became filthier the more she worked on it. Karen laughed as she raised her eyebrows, a mocking expression on her face. “Oh no, that won’t do for great Ms. Grimshaw. She would probably throw you right along with it.” Their laughter cut through the air, contagious as you smiled at their exchange, glancing up to see if Ms. Grimshaw had her eyes on you. But instead, your eyes found a pair of blue ones staring at you when you looked up—the brief moment left you unsure where to put your gaze after the contact broke. 

You cleared your throat as you spoke quietly. “Grimshaw means well.” They groaned at you, rolling their eyes. “Sure, Miss Righteous.” They laughed again as you joined them. Before you could hinder yourself, your eyes gazed up at Arthur again, finding him staring at you again; a particular fervency lay deep within them. However, he directed his eyes away from you hastily, like you caught him doing something he shouldn’t have. Seemingly tense, the man grabs a match from his pocket, lighting its phosphorus tip from his booth’s worn leather soles. When he took a drag, he peeked at you again, his head bowed, hiding under his worn hat. 

Dutch and Hosea were in a heated discussion, with Arthur listening in languidly. It probably related to what had transpired before they returned to camp. Although more collected now, there was still a tension in the air. By your observations, they were the “three main men” around here. They had been holding together most of their lives, naturally giving them authority over the gang. When they talked, you listened. Simple as that.

You touched your face discreetly, wondering if you had gotten soot from tending the fire on your cheeks again. What else could be the reason for Arthur’s stare? How embarrassing that would be. He made you somewhat uncertain already; you couldn’t possibly handle his mocking adding to that.

“I wonder what they’re talking about?” The question you asked left the girls perking their heads up and gazing at you before following your gaze, looking at the men arguing. “Yeah, it seems pretty serious,” Mary-Beth said, curious about their exchange. They had been going at it for quite a while now as evening drew closer. You observed them with intrigue. That’s when Hosea’s eyes planted on you, beckoning you over with his finger. He looked cunning as he settled leisurely in his chair, content. You gazed questingly at the girls as they shrugged their shoulders, looking as confused as you.

Dusting off your skirt, you rose from the small barrel you used as a makeshift chair and approached the men. You gave them an unsure smile, still confused, wondering what they could want to bring you into their apparent disagreement. 

“Well, we have a perfect actress with us, gentlemen. I’m sure she could charm our seemingly formidable friends.” Hosea patted your arms as your feet shifted under you when he spoke up. What could they possibly be talking about? Dutch was gazing at you indescribably as Arthur stared at the table. His arms crossed, not meeting your gaze.

“Well, her damsel in distress act has saved us before.” A low chuckle left Dutch as he drummed his fingers on the wooden table.

“May I ask what you’re talking about?” As the question left you, you could see Arthur raise his head to watch you. His expression was blank, but his eyes seemed sullen, the smoke from his cigarette filling the air as he took a drag. 

“Uncle’s received a tip of a supply wagon passing through carrying a payroll, lookin’ to be unguarded. They want you to help us.” His voice was quiet as he observed you, his accent thick. You had helped them on some jobs before, although only smaller ones since you weren’t as acquainted with the work as the others. You mainly had accompanied Hosea on his schemes, finding that both of you had quite the same proficiency in depicting a role. Although you had taken up some theatrics when you were a small child, you had never imagined you would use them to deceive people. You found Hosea to be a spiritful figure despite his age. When thinking about it, he reminded you immensely of your father. He was too stubborn to let himself grow old, and his spark for living and refusal to take on the habits of an older man made him seem immortal to you. But he wasn’t, which became evident to you the older you had gotten.

“Of course, if I can be of help.” You offered them a small smile, surprised they decided on you, not someone else. It didn’t seem scary for you; you would, of course, be accompanied. And they knew what they were doing, which had become apparent to you since they always managed to get out of trouble. Compared to some of the things they did, stealing from a wagon seemed mild. And with Arthur accompanying, you knew you would feel completely safe.

“S’not a good idea.” The words that left Arthur made you furrow your brows. What could be the reason for his doubt? Some parts of you understood that you might not be as proficient as the other women, but as you mentioned, playing the damsel in distress was right up your alley. And you already felt as if you were a burden around here.

He avoided your offended look as he continued, pointing his finger at Hosea. “I ain’t lettin’ h-anyone get hurt just cause Uncle got told a tip from some sad, half-witted lowlife! Now, I ain’t against looking up the lead, but we handle it without the theatrics an’ all, Hosea.” 

You were about to speak up, but Dutch did before you could. “It would give you the advantage to have someone stop the wagon; that way, you have the man unguarded and on the ground.” He gave you a look-over. You leaned slightly away from his calculating gaze, his squinting eyes examining you.

 “Yeah, that’ll do; let Uncle prove his worth this time. Bring Bill and Charles with ya.” With that said, he stood up from his chair and nodded at you with a beaming grin, and sauntered off. Wonder what Molly saw in him. Often, you found him to lean towards arrogancy, the way he let everyone else do his dirty work. But they all seemed to listen to him, which meant what he did gave some positive outcome. 

“Trust me, Arthur, she’ll do good. And she might make up for your dumbness.” As Hosea’s chuckling figure slowly disappeared, you gazed curiously at Arthur, who was scoffing, staring after the man. 

“I know how to handle myself, Arthur. And I know you know that too.”

“Sure.” He dragged out the word, voice mirroring his now grumpy mood.

“So?” You raised your eyebrows. He gave you a questioning look. “What’s the matter?” You asked. 

He let out a long breath. “It ain’t safe. A random tip could be risky. It probably means someone else heard ’bout it, too, if the man was willing to give up the information. Likewise, it could be a setup. We don’t know, do we?” You leaned on the table before him, placing your hand to stead his bouncing knee. You knew what he meant. But every mission was risky, especially these days when you had law coming at you from what appeared to be every direction. Despite this, you had to do it to survive, and you wanted to show them you were capable.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to find out.” Your voice was mild, an undertone of understanding lacing your words. Even if it were Uncle’s idea, it would fall on Arthur either way if things went wrong, as it always did. And you knew he cared, even though he never showed it. Or think he didn’t show it.

He was about to speak, but a loud voice broke through your conversation. “Gotten over me that fast, has she? Already moving on to the gang’s grouch? I’m hurt. Here I walked around thinkin’ you missed me!” You gave Arthur a last look, squeezing his knee to gaze at Sean as he dramatically held his hands to his heart. Laughing at his antics, you stood up. “I’m not sure anyone missed you when you were gone, right Arthur?” You strolled off with the Irish man following you, not noticing the wistful, prolonged stare the blue-eyed man had set on you since you touched his knee with your delicate hand, the feeling of your skin leaving a fire trail he couldn’t douse.

-

“That’s it, Ada.” The grey coat of the Andulasian was silky under your palm as you graced her sun-warmed coat, giving her a carrot you stole from Pearson’s wagon as you distracted him with your mindless chatter the following evening. Her ears perked up at your soft voice, munching. She nickered contentedly as her mane blew under the frisk breeze that wafted around you.

“You know, you should’ve settled for a faster horse instead of an Andalusian. She’ll slow you down.” A gruff voice broke out in the otherwise calm spot as the sound of spurs clanking was accompanied by heavy footsteps. You looked up at the man, noting how he leaned lazily against the empty hitching post and put his hands on his belt. It surprised you, it did. He didn’t usually instigate a conversation with you.

“She’s fast enough, my Ada. And she’s family now, so.” You voiced your thoughts softly, hearing his statement from many others when Arthur, Dutch, and Micha returned to the desolated mining town with two horses and a crying Sadie up in Colter. The horse piqued your interest when you set your eyes on her, and Arthur kindly let you keep her for the time being, planning on selling her when they got the chance. Your disagreement was apparent, and not putting up much of a fight; he let you keep her. Hosea, too, opposed it when he saw the mare, but your stubbornness made him laugh. I’ll let you figure it out on your own then, he had told you.

“Well, at least we’ll know you’re safe if you get attacked by a snake.” A low chuckle left Arthur, still finding you’re choice of a companion foolish. 

“Oh, are you making jokes now?” You looked at him as he straightened and strode towards you. “Cause if you are, it’s not very funny.” You backed away slightly, not used to him being so close. He put his gloved hand on Ada’s soft coat and patted her softly. A waft of smoke reached your nose as he stood next to you, coupled with the smell of a man who did hard labor. But amidst that, there was something else, something warmer and manlier. “Well, she’s real pretty, that’s for sure.” His gaze went down to you before he directed his gaze, fastening the tie strap you didn’t secure well enough.

You rarely saw Arthur with his hat off, his hair usually peaking out from under the well-worn leather. But he didn’t wear it this morning, and you wondered why. It blew softly in the wind, a slight beard adorning his face. It fit him well, adding to his roguish appearance. He was pretty handsome.

You didn’t realize you were observing him as he focused on your not-so-good job putting on the saddle. He didn’t seem as on edge as usual, the constant frown gone and replaced with a serene expression. Arthur didn’t look as frightening this way when he was relaxed, although his advantage in height and bulky form made up for it. 

“Be careful today, yeah?” He gave you a curt nod when you replied that you would, walking over to his horse. You saw Charles walking in your direction, greeting you with a smile when he got close. 

“We should head off as soon as possible; I’m worried we might miss the wagon.” His voice was calm, as it tended to be often. Sometimes, it felt like Charles was a shadow as he kept quiet, primarily to himself. He rarely got into trouble and handled things with a clear mind. You could but only like him, finding his solitude comforting and much like your own. 

When Bill and Uncle appeared, you hoisted yourself into the saddle, giving Ada a soft pat before setting her in motion. Uncle had told you it was just up the road from camp, near the crossroads where an old, ruined church remained. “You ride first and hitch up the horse in the trees behind the church. We will stop near the crossroads to look for the wagon passing through as you get them to stop and get down on the ground.” Arthur said calmly, pointedly looking at you. 

As you rode off, Arthur stared after you as you disappeared between the trees. The worry had settled in his stomach when Hosea brought up the idea for you to tag along. He wasn’t opposed to you doing your share in the gang, but bringing you on such a spontaneous mission made him uneasy.

“She’ll be fine, Arthur, and we’ll have our eyes on her the whole time.” Charles’s hushed voice dragged him out of his thoughts as he secured his gun on the saddle. Even though Charles seemed calm, a slight worry still tainted his words. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” 

“I understand.” They sat in their saddles, heading out after Uncle’s lead. 

“You know, after this, you will realize how much I do for this gang. Looking up this lead has not been an easy feat, gentlemen.” He looked proud in his seat, bringing his hands up like he already had secured the money. “Sure, Uncle, drinking and talking to some bum who just might be lying to you is exactly what this gang needs right now.” Uncle just scoffed at Arthur. 

“You know, you should be nicer to me, Arthur, and you will be after you realize this will bring us a well-deserved fortune.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to spend it on? More booze?”

-

The church where you said goodbye to Ada was no short of run-down. Missing planks, bottles with an unnamed liquid inside, and cigarettes everywhere made you wonder what kind of people sought shelter here. You didn’t have trouble finding it because it wasn’t too far from camp like you were told. Trying not to think about leaving Ada in such an environment, you wandered towards the road you were told they would pass through. 

‘

You hid behind a tree, shielding you from anyone coming down the path. You hoped Uncle was correct; otherwise, things could go south fast. No stranger would let a hurt woman linger on the road; likewise, they wouldn’t let her stumble to the seat with a hurt leg, meaning you would get the driver on the ground. Simple but effective. You only hoped Uncle had been correct, that this would be easy. 

Taking Karen’s advice to loosen a few buttons on your shirt, you revealed some of your cleavage. Make him more willing, quoting her words. The skin now exposed glows in the sunlight from the light layer of sweat coating your skin from the heat. You smile to yourself. This’ll do just fine. You run your hands on the ground to dirty up your skirt like you had been crawling in the dirt. You didn’t want to think about how hard it would be to get it out of the fabric since you likely had to clean it.

Peaking up from the tree, you could spot Arthur, Uncle, Bill, and Charles from a distance, gazing upon your spot as masks adorned their faces. Who were they trying to fool? They looked ominous where they sat on their horses. God, if the driver got the slightest look at them, he would run the other way, and the operation would be over. You felt your hands grow clammy at the suspense as your shoulders tensed, sitting on the ground as you leaned against the tree. 

You took your face in your hands, massaging your temple. “Okay, wagon approaches; I frantically run out from the woods, screaming at the driver to help. He stops and steps down on the ground to ask me what’s going on, hopefully worried. I tell him I’m getting chased by a maniac, and the others will handle the rest.” You breathed out as your heart beat wildly, voicing your plan aloud. “Easy peasy, right?”

That’s when you heard it, the crunch of the wheels rolling in the ground in the distance growing louder. Taking a deep breath, you ruffled your hair slightly and leaped out from the tree, running towards the road like satan himself was after you.

“Mister, please!” Your voice shrieked out, startling the man. With an exasperated expression, you stumbled down after tripping on your skirt, getting dirtier from the mud covering the path. Holding your hand on your leg, you gazed up at the men above you who looked at you alarmed. His face was adorned with small eyes and wrinkles that depicted his old age as he had to squint to see you. It made you question why such an old man drove a fortune alone but pushed the thoughts away. “You have to help me!”

“Miss, what’s happened to ya?” Immediately, he slowed the horses, stepping down from the wagon to inspect the predicament before him. He looked friendly, just like his tone was kind, and worry filled his eyes as he jogged towards you. Kind, but foolish.

“Some men trailed me, oh some god-awful men trailed me, and when I cut through the woods with my horse, she freaked out and bucked me off!” Panic settled in your voice as you looked pleadingly at the man holding your shoulder. “Please, mister, my leg hurts awfully bad; I think it’s broken.” Tears filled your voice, choking up the words leaving your mouth. His hands found your shoulders as he kneeled. “Come here, Miss. We’ll get you home, yeah?” You nodded at him with pleading eyes.

The air around you was calm, and the wind blew softly, contrasting your shrill voice in the early morning as he helped you stand up. With your weight on his shoulders, he didn’t even have the time to turn around before the cold metal of a pistol met the back of his head.

The pistol cocked. Frozen beside you, the hands supporting you grew still as the blood on his face drained, eyes staring into yours like he could see Arthur behind him in the reflection of your eyes.

“Let’s not do that. Why don’t you step away from the woman and throw your gun on the ground?” Arthur’s cold but calm demeanor frightened even you, looking different from the man you were used to. “Real slow now.” His eyes found yours, staring from under his hat as he spoke. A chill went down your spine, now understanding why he had a reputation for coming off as frightening. Behind him, Charles was rummaging through the wagon as Uncle and Bill stood behind him on their horses, acting as lookouts as their rifles were pointed at the man beside you. 

“Listen, I work for Kerosene and Tar, Leviticus Cornwall, alright?” His voice was shaking, but he still tried to scare the men. Bold. You could hear Bill curse in the distance, the name familiar to them. Judging from their reaction, it wasn’t good news, and the anxiety rose in you like wildfire again as you tried to get away from the man holding you, his presence now suffocating.

“Hey, step away from her old man.” Arthurs’s voice grew firmer as the words rumbled in his chest, pushing the gun tighter against his temple when the man grabbed your shoulders harder. When you turned your head towards the elderly man, he looked as frightened as you, shocked by how the situation had transpired.

“Hey, Arthur, I got the money!” Charle’s satisfied voice made you both look up, but as you did, the sight of horses charging towards you in the distance made your eyes widen. Your breath stuck in your throat at the picture, your pulse rising as you struggled to control your quivering palms.

“Aw, shit. Uncle!” Arthurs voiced his annoyance at the downturn of the situation as he hit the elderly man with his gun, his body falling limp beside you as he held his head in his hands. Shocked, you looked at his squirming body as he writhed on the ground. Before you could shake away the shock that nailed your feet shut, you felt a pair of arms shake your petrified form.

“Get your head straight girl!” Amidst the loud sound of hooves filling your ears from every direction, Arthur shouted at you as he grabbed the horn on the saddle and hopped onto his horse. Sitting tall, he placed his arms under yours so he could lift you. Now seated before him, the sudden motion made your head spin as the world around you stayed a constant blur.

“Bill! We’ll split up, make it harder for them to track us. You go with Charles and Uncle to the left, and we’ll go straight! Stay out of camp for awhile!” His shouting brought you back to reality, the sound of bullets heading towards you growing louder the clearer your head got. Bill shouted in agreement as he cursed loudly and took off hastily, rifle in his hands as the three escaped the scene. Making a clicking noise, Arthur urged the horse to move, the force pushing your body forward from the sudden speed. The severity of the situation dawned on you when you glanced back at the riders following you. Your heart beat heavily against your chest; the number of men chasing after you could only be likened to a whole army. 

“There’s so many!” The wind wisped your hair around you as you flew through the country. You glanced back at Arthur. “Yeah, I know! But I think the others got the worst of it!” His statement did nothing to calm your racing nerves as bullets rushed past you. Boadicea’s muscles moved fervently under you as Arthur spurred her on. Fast didn’t seem like fast enough. The pace painted the world blurry as you 

rode on for a long time, the skies beginning to turn dark.

After a long while following the road, Arthur steered off it and up a hill into a tightly grown forest. “I think we’re losing them!” Your voice flew in the air as the wind in your ears whistled when you looked back. Almost stumbling on a rock, you both flew forward as Arthur’s heavy weight fell on you momentarily. A choked sound left your throat as the air left you, and you heard him curse out a sorry behind you. Recovering quickly, Boadicea picked up the pace once again as you gazed behind you, trying to see if they had gained on you.

Why in the world were there so many? Maybe Arthur was right, and it was a setup. After a while, the sound of hooves slowly grew distant, the only noise being your heavy breaths intermingling as you felt the adrenalin still run through your veins. 

“Shit, Arthur. What the hell was that?”

“That is why you don’t trust Uncle’s shit plans!” His voice was sharp like glass as he realized he was right like he usually was. “Foolish-minded fools, the lot of ’em!” He voiced his thoughts angrily. He was tense behind you, every move filled with a raging fury as he swiftly urged the horse forward.

“What do we do now?” You voiced your concerns worryingly. You had no idea where you were; the place was unfamiliar. It had grown chilly as the sun disappeared from the blue sky, the cold wind now apparent as the danger dissipated, and your body grew aware. 

“We find somewhere to hide until the next morning; they’ll probably be out looking for us, seeing as they think we have their money.” You hoped the others were well, even though you weren’t entirely too happy with how things had transpired. If Arthur wasn’t lying, they got the worst of it. You wanted to voice your concerns but decided to keep it to yourself for the time being; not entirely too sure that’s what he wanted to hear right now.

“I know a place where we can hide. It’ll be cold, but we’ll be safe. For now.” Unbeknownst to you, he glanced down at your shivering form. 

After a while, you could feel your breath calm down enough for you to relax slightly. Although you were still sitting up tensely, aware of the position you were in. Arthur was a big man, towering behind you, almost embracing you as his arms held the reigns at your sides. The warmth radiating from him was immense, and the softness of his scout jacket softened the impact of your back to his chest as the horse galloped. It did make you somewhat uncomfortable being that close to the man, but as time passed and the colder the air got, you found yourself sheepishly leaning backward to stop the chills running through your body. You hoped he wouldn’t mention it or, worse, push you away from him. 

The top of your head only reached his jaw when you glanced up at him, leaning your head back slightly. He was focused on the road ahead; eyes squinted angrily as he still grumbled bitterly under his breath. The corners of your mouth raised slightly before you curled your lips under your teeth, turning to look forward. He really was a grump sometimes.

Leaning forward, you ran your fingers through Boadicea’s mane as you patted her neck to try to calm your nerves. “You know, I’ve never been good at riding horses, so thank god you’re with me. No coordination whatsoever.” You laughed, trying to distract yourself from being chased through the now-dark country. Even though you couldn’t see them anymore, they were probably still on your lead. “We should be lucky we didn’t end up in a ditch somewhere. When we stumbled over that rock, I thought we were don-”

“That’s the place over there.” His gruff voice interrupted your nervous blabbering.

Your head perked up at his mention. It wasn’t much to cheer for, run-down seeming like a compliment compared to this place. Although still standing, it looked like it would fall apart if someone as much as touched it. But it had a door, and the windows were barred, protecting it from the winds rummaging through the landscape. I guess that counts for something.

“You sure they won’t find us here?” A gust of smoke from the cold surrounded you when you spoke. Logically, if they had followed your direction, they would probably have gone rummaging through every abandoned house they encountered on the way. The only answer you got was a grunt, and you almost rolled your eyes at him. What splendid company you would have for the rest of the night. Although, he had been right about the whole ordeal, so it wasn’t hard for you to see where he came from. If your previous thought had been correct, all of this would fall on Arthur. With him being in higher authority in the gang, he also held more responsibility and had to make sure the plans went along smoothly.

As you approached the cabin hastily, he stopped the horse in a quick motion, the dirt flying in the air as it surrounded you both. Hopping down from the saddle, he patted Boadicea gently on the neck. “Come ‘ere.” His hands went around your waist as he hoisted you down from the tall animal, fingers squeezing subtly around your waist as he steadied you on the ground, avoiding your gaze. 

“Why don’t you hitch her up by the door? I’ll have a quick look in the cabin.” As he pointed to Boadicea, you gave him a curt nod as you did what he asked. “Will she be alright out here all night?” You blurted out as you fastened the rope against one of the planks in the fence surrounding the cabin’s front porch. A distant reassurance from Arthur could be heard as he ensured you would be alone and undisturbed. Giving the animal one last pat, you stepped up the wooden stairs, wrapping your arms around you. Since the sun had disappeared from the sky, it was dark inside, and your eyes found it troubling to adapt since the moon didn’t light up the room. 

The house was eerie. Furniture still adorned the chipped, wooden planks with thick dust covering the various surfaces. The air was cold, with the smell of wood mingling with the ever-so-slightly scent of moldy food left on the plates. It looked like the people that had been living here had just walked away during their dinner.

“I wonder who lived here.” you thought out loud. Your voice was barely a whisper like the people were still sleeping upstairs. Although muted by the carpet, the floorboards creaked when you stepped inside, the fabric now muddy from your shoes. Arthur was shaking the planks nailed to the windows from the inside, making sure they would stay in their place

“Come on. I’ll keep a lookout for a while, see if I can hear them passing by. Get some rest.” He pointed you toward a botched chair in the corner. It didn’t look like the most comfortable chair, but it would have to do for the night. Not that you had a choice anyway.

“Are you sure? I can accompany you if you want.” Your words grew warm at his selfness, looking at him with a prolonged gaze as he reached to take off his jacket. He held it towards you and, as he secured his hat, bowed his head as he headed out the door.

“Nah, get some rest, alright?” You were left in the darkness as the door closed, trembling from the shivers racking through you with the heavy jacket hanging from your grasp.

-

What the hell was he thinking? He daydreamed about you like he had every right to imagine you that way when you rode with him. Hell, you would probably spit in his face if you knew that most of his thoughts involved you. What a sad man you are, Arthur Morgan, thinking you could ever get your hands on her. Pure and warm, that’s what you were. You were too good. Your care extended further than his ever had, treating him like he deserved your kindness. Deserved you. He kept his distance from you, only speaking to you when necessary to try to make you understand that he wasn’t a good man—but being as close to you as he had during the ride shut off his brain entirely.

The guilt ran through him as he sat on the porch, leaning against the door. Being in the same space as you proved to be too much for him now, the smell of your hair still clouding his mind. Shit, it was impossible to keep you out of his mind. Raising from the coldness of the ground, he swept his hands over his face, leaning his arms to rest against the fence as he observed into the distance. The place was surrounded by trees, somewhat deep in the woods, quite far from the path. He hoped it was far enough, not wanting to put you in more danger than he already had. 

Irritation was still running through him at the outcome of the situation. He knew this would happen. At least they got away with the money. But if Cornwall’s men managed to get ahold of Bill, Uncle, and Charles, it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t feel up for a rescue mission right now; they had far more complicated things to think about.

-

As you sat in the chair for a while, wrapped in the oversized jacket Arthur lent you, your eyes became familiar with your surroundings. Finally, you could breathe out, although the stress from the predicament you just got yourself into raced through your body, making it hard for you to rest. It was dark and cold, and you missed the comforts of falling asleep in your bedroll at the lookout, surrounded by the women’s quiet whispering. Although, you felt safe enough knowing Arthur was outside in case anyone would stumble upon you two. 

There was a large table in the middle of the room where Arthur had placed his satchel and some benches adorning the walls by the stove. A fireplace was by one of the walls with various portraits perched on it, along with some candles and other trinkets. Yawning, you stepped up from the seat, wrapping the jacket tighter around you as you stepped towards the wall, examining the portraits. You wondered who they were as you ran your nimble fingers over the dusty surface, a stoic face now starting to show. You laughed slightly under your breath; the man looked downright horrified as the woman beside him smiled warmly. Was that his wife? You turned the frame, squinting so you could read the writing. 

“Ms.Hevett with son, Mr.Hevett.” Hmm, they both appeared to be very old. Mamas-boy maybe? You giggled again, putting your hand over your mouth to dull the sound. Returning the portrait, you glanced around. Oh, maybe Arthur had a match to light the candle! Well, of course, he had a match; he smoked every chance he got.

You tiptoed towards the door as it creaked when you pushed it open quietly. You called out for Arthur gently, seeing him leaning on the fence. His head turned to yours, alarmed, looking behind you as his hand rested on the gun in his holster. “You alright?” The words flew out from his mouth as he tensed, walking towards you. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wondered if you have a match.” He looked at you for a moment, then furrowed his brows as he grabbed the edge of the door. “A match? Why? You don’t smoke.” 

You glanced sheepishly at him now, realizing you might be bothering him. “Well, there’s a candle in there, and I just, I, would be more comfortable if it wasn’t so dark. That’s all.” He scoffed slightly at your words. “You supposed to be sleepin’; what does it matter if it’s dark?” He asked you in disbelief. You only pursed your lips, staring at him as the moonlight reflected on his face. A sigh left him as he beckoned you inside, giving one last glance around the outside of the cabin. 

“This candle right here. If only we had some firewood, we could also warm the place. See, there’s a fireplace! I imagine the house was cozy when it wasn’t run-down.” You babbled as he followed behind you, reaching for a match in his bag. As he did at camp yesterday, he lights the match at the sole of his boot. Immediately, it casts the room in a warm blanket. It didn’t feel so eerily anymore, and the flame flickered around you softly.

He raised his brows as he spoke. “First, you want me to light this damned candle, and now you want me to go chop us up some wood?” He sounded more amused than his earlier cranky mood, but still, you looked at him unamused. “It was just an observation, alright?”

He chuckled lightly as he looked at you, observing you for a few seconds before speaking up. “You okay to sleep now?” His rough voice spoke the words as he motioned to leave again.

“Um, sure. Arthur, did you know a mother and her son had been living here? It said so on the portrait. I wonder what happened to them?” The words left you hurriedly, looking to say something to make him stay with you for a while longer. It was hard to explain, but you felt safer with him. In here. With you. 

You pointed towards the portrait. He glanced at you shortly before stepping back into the room. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been here a few times.” His answer was short.

“Oh.”

The air was stuffy, and the tension grew thick as you looked at each other. Neither of you knew what to say since Arthur always seemed to get tongue-tied around you, and you were unsure of how to converse with him. You draped the jacket even closer, staring at the floorboards.

“Ya still cold?” He startled you slightly, your head perking up at his words. “Umm, yeah, a little, but the jacket’s helping… so.” He nodded at you, grabbing the belt with his hands, tightening his lips together, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like he was expecting you to say something, waiting for the words to leave your mouth.

“Oh, sorry, you’re probably cold as well. Here you can have it back.” You stepped towards him, the jacket slipping off your shoulder. 

“No, no. You take it, I’m used to it, alright?” His words were kind and selfless, and you felt terrible for not bringing your own jacket. Of course, he was cold; it was freezing in here. Knowing he cared enough for you to put your comfort before his own made your heart beat slightly faster. 

Once again, he went to exit the door and leave you in the empty house, but the moment he opened it, the words left you before you could stop them.

“Will you stay in here?” It was silent as the raindrops started to fall outside, pattering on the roof as the tension grew suffocatingly thick. Glancing at you with his head bowed, he cleared his throat. 

“It’s just I’ll feel safer with you in here. That’s all.” Feeling the need to explain your sudden outburst, you felt a blush rise at the humiliating situation. He probably thought you were childish, finding your words annoying and demanding.

Giving you a curt nod, he closed the door behind him, pushed one of the side tables against the door, and locked it.

“It won’t rain in, so don’t worry. Now,” He leaned back on the chair by the table in the middle of the room, putting one leg over his other to lean the ankle against it, taking his gun out of the holster and cleaning the dirty metal. “Get some sleep. We’ll set out in the morning.”

You listened to him this time and sat on the chair, bringing your legs up towards your chest as you closed your eyes. You knew it would. be hard for sleep to find you, but you still gave it a chance. 

-

You were wrong; you were able to sleep. But it didn’t last you very long, for the cold had seeped through both skin and bones, leaving you with tremors running through your already shaking body. You could still hear the thunder in the distance and the heavy rain splattering against the wooden roof. You opened your eyes, finding another pair staring right at you. You felt your stomach turn, the display of emotions running deep in his eyes as he observed you. His legs were spread wide where he sat, keeping sight of both you and the door in case someone barged through. The flickering of the faint light hit his eyes, painting his otherwise blue eyes a darker tone. It felt like a dream.

“Alright, that’s enough.” A heavy sigh left the man as he stood up. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked over to you. Grabbing under your arms, he lifted you as he sat on the chair. Gently, he placed you on his lap, with your head resting on his neck and legs draped over his thighs. 

“Jesus, woman, you’re freezing.” As he talked lowly, you could feel his voice rumble in his chest, the feeling soothing against you.

Oh, darn it, he was warm. How could he be so warm? No thoughts except warming your freezing frame made you wrap your arms around his waist, the thick jacket covering both of you. You felt his hands run over your arms, trying to warm you up as you moved against him, relishing in the heat from his body as you nuzzled your cheeks in the crook of his neck.

And finally, you fell asleep. 

-

“Arthur.” Jolting awake, Arthur’s eyes widened in the candle-lit room. His whole body tensed up as he gazed down at you, alarmed. 

Seemingly unhurt, a worried expression was on your beautiful face.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked you. Shushing him, you placed your hand on his bicep carefully. 

“You were mumbling in your sleep. Is everything alright?” Your eyes were tired but warm as he blinked down at you, now noticing his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you towards him. “Yeah, ’m alright.” His words were low, choked at the sight of you staring this tenderly at him. This was a dream, he told himself.

As his arms relaxed around you slightly, you wrapped yours tighter around his neck. He was so suffocating, his scent surrounding you from every direction as you basked in its grasp. His eyes were intense, the now sullen look he always carried vulnerable, as the folds around his eyes evened out. It still felt like you were in a dream, and you longed for it never to end. Good dreams never found you, but now you had it in your hands as the comforting blanket cloaked around you like Arthur was wrapped around your scorching body.

No words were spoken as you gasped slightly, nimble hands stroking up his arms as the broadness stretched against his shirt. His cheek was warm when you placed your trembling fingers on his scruff, tracing small figures as you observed the scar on his jaw and the slight bend of his nose from getting it dislocated often. As you grazed his skin, your eyes never left him, even when he closed them to revel in your touch. Being this close to him was comforting; the contact was foreign to you but something you had longed for. Feeling wanted by him was what you wanted your dreams to turn into for the longest time. And it finally did.

The world around you grew quiet; only your breathing was audible as his chest moved under you, heavy intakes of breath raking through him. Letting your gaze fall to his lips, yours parted slightly. Through hazy eyes, you closed the small distance between you. A warm surge spread through you as his chapped lips met yours, his slight beard tickling your skin. A low moan escaped at the contact, and your heart burst at the seams, the fire flaring and oozing with each movement. You always wondered what pressing your lips against his would be like, his stoic character making it feel like your wishes were miles away. But now you knew, and it felt better than you imagined. His hands were still around your waist, holding you tightly as you felt all the excitement overflowing in your veins at his apparent contentment of your actions.  

You snuggled into him, holding his cheeks and caressing them with your thumb. Slowly, you leaned your head back, feeling dizzy from the emotions clouding your brain. He followed you as you pulled away, almost as if you hauled him towards you like tied with a lasso. His breath warmed your skin as his lips were placed in the conjecture of your neck as he leaned against you. As you giggled slightly from the tickling sensation, he breathlessly chuckled as he left wet trails up to the space under your ear, caressing the small of your back with his large hands. His gloved hand against the fabric of your blouse felt enticing, your back arching due to his touch, your upper body now pressed flush against him. You held his head close as your hands were buried in his thick hair. His lips found yours again, shifting against you fervently as he moved with more vigor. 

Of course, it was a dream, Arthur thought to himself. It bled into every nightly thought he has had of you now for the longest time. Your scent reached his nostrils. It was so sweet, so you. Small arms were wrapped around him, and your legs were now glued at either side of his thighs as your soft lips touched the skin under his ears in a silent kiss. Shivers wracked through his body as he ran his coarse hand alongside your waist, the soft woolen fabric hugging the curve of your waist tightly. Small gasps emitted from you as your hands ran up his stomach to his chest, planting small, tender packs against the slightly sunburnt skin, looking up at him through hooded eyes. Sinful, that’s how you looked. 

He lifted you slightly, capturing your soft lips in his. The sweet caress of your skin against his felt divine, the wet noise of your tongues finding each other mingling with the sound of the rain outside. As the jacket slid down your shoulder, the man was left staring at the soft curve of your round breasts, revealed from the unbuttoned cotton of your blouse, the slight hardness of your nipples showing through the fabric.

“Arthur”

“Mmh.” He was too far gone now, but he kept assuring himself he was dreaming. You would have never put your hands on him if he wasn’t. He had noticed how you huddled closer to him from the cold when you rode on the horse, your figure nestling against his, curves snug against him. Did you do it on purpose? Were you aware of what you were doing to him? He was still trying to recover from what transpired in his head when you escaped the riders. No, not from the bullets seeking to pierce his flesh, but your bottom. Your soft, tantalizing rear. It had been flush against him as you leaned forward earlier, the round hips taunting him temptingly, almost as if they begged for his hands to caress the soft curves that stretched the fabric that covered it. Damned skirt. What he would have done to push it up your legs and reveal the tender flesh hidden beneath them. Your slit bare against the saddle’s leather as you squirmed, jiggling your cheeks like you were begging Arthur to give in to your desire. Shit. He shouldn’t have been thinking about you like that, not when you were right before him.

Leaning forward slightly, you ran your fingers through Boadicea’s mane as you patted her neck. You spoke, but the words that left your mouth turned into nonsense in his clouded head. 

He had given you some nonsensical answer as he stared down at you through hazy eyes as your hips moved in sync with the horse’s motion, words flexed mindlessly out of his mouth as his restraint seemed non-existent. Your terms of cheerful disbelief grew distant as heat traveled through his body at his unholy thoughts, mouth too dry to give you a coherent answer. His hands moving on the reigns, trying to keep them from indulging your softness against him so he could feel the tremendous friction he was sure would send him straight to heaven. Christ, you riding on a horse should be illegal.

But now you were here, with him, and he had your soft body in his grasp. The tension from his earlier thoughts became apparent, his hands moving on their own as they familiarized themselves with your curves that felt so real. Too real.

Suddenly, you felt his hands on your button as he hastily lifts you. Automatically, your legs seek ahold of his waist, arms around his neck. He moved quickly over the floor as the lightning lit up the room from the cracks in the door, laying you down on the table and leaning down to cover your body with his. He was so close to you now, feeling every part of him press against you—every aspect. 

Snap!

Frozen in place, wide eyes adorn your face from the sudden sound. Arthur was still above you as he sharpened his ears, finding it difficult to hear since the rain hit the ground loudly outside. The snap had been just outdoor, like someone stepping on a branch. Panicked, you tried to find a reasonable explanation: an animal, a branch falling, or maybe Boadicea had moved.

Slowly, Arthur raised his body from yours, leaving you flustered and scared on the table. With a frightened stare, you looked at him as he raised his finger to his mouth, slowly stepping away so the wooden planks wouldn’t creek. Leaning against the door’s side, his hand rested on his pistol. Stay still. His eyes told you to do as he said, and so you did. It’s not like you were able to anyway, your muscles petrified. They had found you. The worst outcome filled your mind; what would they do to you if they got the upper hand? Turn you in, or worse, put a bullet between your eyes?

The loud noise of the door slamming open made you shoot your eyes toward it, finding Arthur standing in the doorway with his pistol pointed out into the dark.

“Aw, shit.” His throaty voice was laced with disbelief, making you lift your head from the table. Your laugh filled the space as the back of your head hit the table with a loud clang, eyes squeezed shut from the sight in front of you. It had seemed like Boadicea had found a friend, the stallion standing still from the sudden intrusion and ran away in haste. “C’mon, get outta here!” The surprised man cursed after the horse, beckoning it out as your hands found your face. The adrenaline still racing through you made your hands shake as the hilarity of the situation made you speechless. Placing your hand on your racing heart, you sat up as the old cutlery clinked underneath you, hearing Arthur’s loud, angry steps hit the porch steps. 

Standing before you, he sighed at your amusement, but you could see a slight smile worm its way underneath his frown. Although it quickly disappeared as he gazed at you before him. Right.

What in the world were you thinking? Now clear-minded, the intimacy you had shared entered your mind. Shame rose in you as your cheeks blazed, taking ahold of your blouse to cover your exposed state.

“Um…” You didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence before he cut you off. Hastily, he grabbed his rifle on the table and the pouch in harsh movements, making sure not to touch you before he went towards the door with big steps.

“It’s soon morning. Stay here until then; we’ll leave in a while.”

After the door slammed shut, the quietness was deafening. Now alone, you could see the slightest bit of light entering the cracks in the walls, but it didn’t ease the heaviness in your chest. It hadn’t been a dream, you thought to yourself. Every minute had been actual: his coarse hands, desperate lips, and body heat. If you closed your eyes and focused enough, you could still feel the traces of fingers over your clothing as his smell reached your nose once again, like he had united with the ghosts of this house and now haunted you. Taunting you. Why had he reacted so yet touched you so fiercely? You felt a pang in your chest at the thought, not understanding. 

Opening your eyes, you buttoned your blouse in shame and put your hands on your cheeks as you lifted yourself off the table. It was still chilly in the room but not as bad as the night before. Mindlessly, you wandered over the space, sat in the chair where Arthurs’s jacket lay, and brought your knees up to your chest, hugging it tight with your arms. The blissful moment you had together faded, the warm touches dimmed into cold, malicious blows to your heart as the hope of finally having a pleasant dream vanished, the moment turning into an all too familiar nightmare.

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[ladyfogg]

The Arrangement - Part 2

The Arrangement – Part 2

Fic Summary: Drowning in problems of his own making, Arthur Havisham seeks the aid of the one person in the world who knows him better than anyone else. But what will it cost him this time? (Part 1) (Part 3)

Fic Rating: 18+

Pairing: Arthur Havisham/Male Reader

Warnings: Language, Sexual Content, Mentions of Abuse (physical proof of abuse), Mutual Pining, Oral (Male Receiving and Giving), Anal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Internalized Homophobia

A/N: I really wasn’t intending to make a part 2. I loved how the original came out and I thought my brain would finally let Arthur Havisham go but yeah, that didn’t happen lol. As it stands, this will be 3 parts.

Arthur awakens from the best sleep of his life. He’s surrounded by comfort and warmth, his body wonderfully loose. Not even the dull pain of the wounds on his back is enough to ruin his mood. He’d been having the most glorious dream, filled with rough hands and a wicked tongue. He’s sad to see it go.

Eyes slowly opening, he frowns, glancing at the unfamiliar surroundings. It takes a moment for him to process that the night before was not a dream. Everything comes back and he remembers, he’s in your home. Your bed. The two of you made love the night before and the world had not ended. In fact, Arthur feels like his life is finally beginning. He rolls over to reach for you, only to find cool sheets.

Alarmed, he sits up.

“Good morning, love.”

Arthur’s shoulders relax when he spots you on the other side of the room, getting dressed. His anxieties are pushed to the side. Of course you’re still there. You would never abandon him.

“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Early but I wanted to get to the guest room before Marina makes her way upstairs,” you explain, fastening your waistcoat. “If you require more sleep, you would be wise to do so in the guest bed.”

“I’d rather sleep here.”

You smile softly, crossing the room and crawling up the bed toward him. Your lips find his and Arthur smiles into the kiss. He’s not sure what he was anticipating this morning. Part of him was afraid you had changed your mind or wouldn’t be as affectionate, but he should know better. After all, this is you. You’ve never been shy about what you want.

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” you say between kisses. “Lord knows I won’t stop you. I was only suggesting discretion to appease your concerns. Trust me, there’s nothing I want more than to have a naked Arthur Havisham lounging in my bed, waiting for me to return.”

Wouldn’t that be a decadent way to spend the day?

Arthur lays back, pulling you with him. He’s aware that you are right. If he’s going to continue this newfound relationship it’s best for both of you to be careful. However, in this beautiful moment, he can’t find it within himself to feel concern.

“I’ll get up,” he says with a sigh as you curl against his chest. “I just don’t want this moment to end.”

“Neither do I.”

Your fingers trace the lines of his body, brushing over red love bites that remain from your tryst. These Arthur doesn’t mind. They aren’t like the welts and cuts on his back. These were born from love, not hate. Now that he looks, he’s sporting a fair number of them and is sure there are even some on his neck. He’ll need to make sure his collar is particularly high today. He also needs to return the favor and mark you when he gets the chance.

You rest your chin on his chest, smiling up at him. “What are you thinking, my love?”

He reaches out to touch your cheek. “About you. About the years I wasted keeping my distance when all I wanted was to be in your arms again.”

“You’re in my arms now. And that’s all that matters.” For a moment, doubt shows in your eyes. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

How could you doubt Arthur enjoyed himself? He realizes that despite the confident aura you present, you’re just like him. You have similar anxieties and concerns, though you needn’t worry yourself.

“I’m angry we didn’t do this sooner,” Arthur says.

“You and me both.” You press a kiss to his sternum before heaving yourself off of him. “Alright, I need to get up before I strip down and ravish you again.”

Arthur’s face flushes at the thought. “I wouldn’t mind it.” He wraps his arms around you to stop you from moving. In a fluid motion, he turns and pins you to the bed, straddling your legs in the process. You haven’t fully put yourself together quite yet and Arthur takes full advantage of your half-dressed state. Reaching for your trousers, he hastily pulls the ties loose, slipping his hand into the tight fabric in search of his prize.

“Arthur,” you moan, head falling back onto the pillow. “We have things to do.”

“And we’ll do them. But first…” Arthur tugs your trousers down just enough to free your cock from their confines. “There’s something I must do.”

Bending his head, he takes the blunt end of your cock in his mouth. You swell against his tongue instantly, making Arthur’s own manhood throb with excitement. He works his mouth up and down on you, moaning when he has you slick from his saliva. He was never any good at this but what he lacks in experience he more than makes up for with enthusiasm. He needs to show you that he meant every word last night, that he still wants this, wants you. He’s always wanted you. Seeing you doubt yourself even for a moment does not sit right with him.

Arthur vows to make sure you will never doubt your relationship again. He has a lot of time to make up for.

Your hands tangle in his messy curls, blunt nails digging into his scalp. The noises spilling from your lips spur him on, encourage him. They let him know that he is doing something right. He can feel your hips straining against his arms and he eases up, letting you thrust into his open mouth. Arthur gags at first and the sound makes you freeze in place.

“I’m sorry, love,” you pant. “I forget myself sometimes…”

Arthur doesn’t let you finish your thought. He takes you in as far as you can go, feeling his throat constrict for a moment. He forces himself to relax and the next thing he knows, he’s taken all of you down to the base.

“Fucking hell, Arthur.”

He loves the way you say his name, loves the uncouth words that spill from your lips when you are in the throes of pleasure. He eases up on your cock, letting you slip from his mouth so he may catch his breath. You’re glistening from his spit, twitching with desire. Arthur admires, stares without shame before bending to take you into his mouth once more. He dares to say he is getting the hang of this.

He falls into a steady pace, remembering what you did for him the night before and trying to match it. He uses his hand to stroke what cannot fit, flicks his tongue over the small slit at the tip when he can.

You are moaning his name, body in a constant state of motion.

Arthur stares up at you, smirking around your cock, power unlike anything he has ever felt before coursing through his veins at reducing a man of your stature to a shuddering mess.

The second time he lets you slip from his mouth, you’re on him in an instant. You grab his arms and are pulling him over you, seeking a hungry kiss. Arthur kisses back, reaching down to take both his and your erections into his hand. Feeling you hot and needy alongside him is more than enough. Arthur strokes you both all while his mouth never leaves yours.

You come a few seconds later. He feels it before it happens, feels the way you become impossibly hard before you’re chanting his name, covering his hand and cock in your release. Arthur is not too far behind you, joining your moans and your pleasure with his own. When he’s finished, he’s red and aching but what a beautiful ache. His lips and tongue tingle, already hungering for the taste of you again.

Arthur slides onto his side, dragging you with him, unable and unwilling to stop kissing you. “Arthur Havisham, you will be the death of me,” you mutter against his lips.

“Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay in bed?”

Laughing, you playfully bite his shoulder before soothing the area with your tongue. “If you want me to keep you in the lifestyle you are accustomed to, you’ll let me get my work done, you minx.”

Arthur watches you slip out of bed and strip, removing your soiled clothing and reaching for fresh ones. Something you’ve said registers with him. “You know that’s not why I came here last night,” he’s quick to say. “I don’t want you to think I only needed your help. I did, but I also wanted to see you.”

“I know, love. If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have taken my advice about the passageway. I hold no suspicions about your intentions. Especially not after that performance.”

Relieved, Arthur eased himself out of bed as well. He goes to your side so he can have another kiss, before making his way over to the water basin. Cleaning himself, he jokes, “I had forgotten how messy things tend to get when we’re alone together.”

Chuckling, you bend down and pick up his discarded clothing. “I shall have plenty of clean clothes and linen on hand in the future. Perhaps tonight we can switch roles,” you suggest with a smirk. “I’m more than a little curious to experience your cock inside me.”

Even spent Arthur’s cock still twitches with interest and a flush comes over his pale skin. “Dear Lord, man. You can’t expect me to leave this room when you keep saying things like that.”

Laughing, you bring his clothes to him, reaching out to smack his arse, making him jump. “Get dressed, love. There’s work to be done today.”

While you finish putting yourself together, Arthur throws his clothes on without care. After all, he’s only going to strip again once he gets to the guest room, fully intent on taking advantage of the comforts your manor provides. Once he’s gathered his belongings, the two of you quietly leave the sanctuary of the master’s suite. Instead of feeling nervous, Arthur enjoys the mischievous sneaking. It reminds him of your younger years.

From downstairs, he can hear the sounds of the staff beginning their day. You lead the way, motioning for Arthur to follow once the coast is clear.

In the guest room, Arthur sets about getting back into bed while you start a fire in the hearth. The room is one Arthur has stayed in many times before and is comfortable with. However, if it were up to him, he would give anything to be back in your bed, your naked body pressed against his.

“Where are you off to so early?” he asks, once you have the fire going. He’s kept his trousers on and now sits shirtless.

“First, I’m going to send for your things and have them brought here. I imagine they need to be laundered and pressed. In the meantime, there are spare clothes in the closet,” you say, sitting next to him. Arthur takes your hand. “Then I have work to contend with and a few other errands. I should be back by lunch, which you are more than welcome to join.”

“I will,” Arthur promises. “Once I’ve had a proper bath and visited Mr. Scrooge.”

You brush his curls back from the base of his neck and start to place kisses there. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as he surrenders to the sensation. It seems now that he is yours, you are intent on touching and kissing him whenever possible. He is more than happy with the arrangement.

“Hopefully you won’t run into that arsehole Compeyson,” you say between kisses. “If you do, do your best not to engage in whatever horseshit he is peddling.”

Arthur swallows down his fear. “I shall try. I also have to speak to Amelia, though I’m unsure if I’m ready to do so right now.”

“I can come with you if you’d like.”

“No, but thank you. This is something I must do on my own.”

“I’ll have the servants draw you a bath. Take all the time you need, love. I will also stop by the pharmacy and see if they have a salve for your back so you don’t scar. I hate the thought of that man leaving marks on you.” Your hand gingerly strokes his wounds. “The only marks I want to see are the ones I give you.”

“You are too good to me.”

Playfully, you nip at his throat one last time, drawing a moan out of him as you stand. “Just wait until I get my hands on you later and we’ll see how good I am.”

“Mmm, I thought you showed me last night.”

“Oh, there is still so much to show you.”

Arthur’s heart flutters, however, he can’t help the cloud of self-doubt that washes over him. It’s clear your experience far exceeds what you two had done together in the past. Even back then he suspected you knew more than you let on but he never had the chance or confidence to ask. On your way to the door, he calls to you, forcing you to look back.

“Who was it?” he asks, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “The man who shared your bed instead of me.”

Your smile fades. Clearly, you were not expecting the question. You look at the floor for a moment, only meeting his gaze when he says your name. “It was a classmate at boarding school,” you say. “I could not understand what I was feeling and he did. It wasn’t like last night, though. With you, it’s different. In a good way.”

“Boarding school?” Arthur asks. “But that was years ago. That would mean…”

“I haven’t had anyone since, Arthur. Man nor woman. I’ve had dates and social affairs to keep up appearances but that’s all. Why would I be with someone else when I love you?”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. The words, those words. He assumed yet to hear you say them out loud fills him with elation. “I love you too,” he says. “How did you know I’d come back?”

“I didn’t. But I always hoped.” Your smile has his heart racing. “You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say those words. Now, you rest and take your time. Marina will fill your bath and then you can have some breakfast. I’ll see you later.”

Arthur watches you leave. Laying down, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as he buries it into the soft pillows. For the first time in his life, he feels giddy. Not even the thought of running into Compeyson can darken his mood. You say you’ll take care of things and he knows it to be true. You’ve never lied to him before and have no reason to lie to him now. The fact that you waited for him, that you kept his letters even after all these years and kept hope in your heart that you two would be reunited, is more than he could have ever wished for.

Despite his fatigue, Arthur does not stay in bed for long. His mind races far too quickly to allow him to fall back to sleep. There is so much to be done. A short time later, Marina knocks on the door to let him know his bath has been drawn.

His sore body weeps with relief once he sinks into the hot water, resting his head back on the rim of the tub. His backside and lower back ache some, serving as a wonderful reminder of last night.

The bathroom is large, much larger than his at the Havisham estate. When he was younger, he used to envy you for your family’s wealth, and now he gets to enjoy it. A collection of soaps and oils line the small table next to him and Arthur helps himself. It’s been days since he’s had a proper bath and he intends to take full advantage of all the amenities available.

Once the water is cool, he gets out and dries himself with a large, fluffy towel. He sets about shaving and by the time he is done, he feels like a new man.

Standing before the mirror, his appearance is a stark contrast to what it was last night. His eyes are no longer puffy and red, his face is relaxed and there’s a smile hanging on his lips. The red love bites travel from his neck all the way down to his hips and he feels instant desire as he reaches out to touch one. He never wants them to fade. He wants them to always be there so he has a constant reminder of your love for him.

In the guest room, he finds the clothes you mentioned, all pressed and perfectly respectable. He takes great care when dressing. His appearance and behavior over the weeks have not been befitting a man of his social standing and he aims to rectify that. For the first time in days, he has no interest or thirst for alcohol. The clothing fits well and he wonders if that is on purpose. Did you purchase them with him in mind? He would not put it past you.

In the dining room, breakfast is laid out for him. Smoked meats and cheeses, sweet-tasting fruits, along with freshly baked rolls, and beautifully churned butter. He takes his seat, thrilled to find the morning paper neatly folded by his plate.

“Thank you, Marina,” he says to the servant when she pours him a steaming cup of coffee. “I imagine the master already took his leave?”

“Yes, sir,” she says with a smile. “He gave implicit instructions that we are to answer your requests should you have any. I am to take care of your belongings when they arrive. I hope the storm did not leave you with a chill. It was a nasty one last night.”

“Your master’s hospitality more than made up for it,” Arthur says, smirking to himself. “I have errands to run but I shall be back later.”

“Very good, sir.”

She makes herself scarce after that. Arthur enjoys the quiet of the house, eating his breakfast and reading the morning paper. He almost feels like himself again, maybe even a little better now that he did not have the weight of your absence leaning on his shoulders. He could get used to this, having mornings in your home, and enjoying a quiet breakfast. Of course, it would be better if you were there with him. Once he is finished, he collects his hat, coat, and walking stick from the hall where you stored them earlier.

Outside, the entire city is covered in a beautiful blanket of white. The snow must have stopped early in the morning because some of the sidewalks have not been cleared as of yet. Arthur leaves the manor, already anticipating his return later.

The hour is early. So much so that when he reaches Scrooge’s office, the money lender himself is only just unlocking the front door.

“This is a surprise, Mr. Havisham,” he grumbles, entering the drafty building. “I must admit, I did not anticipate seeing you this morning.”

“Here is what I owe, paid in full, plus extra to cover any interest,” Arthur says, handing the man the money once they are inside away from prying eyes. “I trust we are squared away and my share of the brewery remains intact.”

Through squinted, distrusting eyes, Scrooge counts the money in his hand. When he glances up at Arthur, he’s trying not to show his surprise but it’s clearly there. “Very well, sir,” he says, opening his ledger. “All is square. If you would sign here…”

A minute later, Arthur leaves and takes a deep, shaking breath. He’s aware he owes money on his lodgings however is hesitant to go there. Compeyson will no doubt be hanging around. Arthur straightens his back, keeps his head high, and reminds himself he has nothing to be afraid of. He’s Arthur Havisham for crying out loud. He is not going to let a two-bit swindler and brute control his life anymore.

When he comes to his lodgings, he speaks to the landlord, fully intent on paying. “It’s been takin’ care of, sir,” the man says. “’Bout twenty or so minutes ago. Your belongings were collected.”

He knew you were going to get his things, he did not expect you to pay the room off. “Ah, yes, of course. Must have slipped my mind,” he says, putting the money back into his pocket. “Thank you for your assistance. Good day.”

Smiling, he turns around, only to find himself face-to-face with his adversary. The smile instantly vanishes and panic threatens to take hold. “Where have you been?” Compeyson asks, eyes flashing dangerously.

“The day Arthur Havisham answers to you again is the day the world stands still,” Arthur says in a crisp tone. “We have no more business together, Compeyson. Good riddance.”

He makes a move to walk past. Compeyson grabs his arm, fingers digging into him. Arthur winces and tries to pull away but cannot. “What have you been up to?” Compeyson asks, anger dripping from his voice. “You’re bathed and pressed. Where did you get the money to pay for your room? Did you go running back to your sister? Did you ruin everything we have been working weeks to achieve? I swear, Arthur, if you sold me out—”

“What I do with my time is none of your concern.”

“It very much is my concern!”

He won’t let Arthur go and now, Arthur’s panic is steadily increasing. Just then, a familiar voice sounds behind the two of them. “Is there a problem here?”

Arthur looks to meet your gaze.

You’re standing only an inch or two away, both hands resting on the top of your walking stick as you glare daggers at Compeyson. The power and respect radiating off of you are palpable. Even still, Compeyson does not let go of Arthur.

Steeling his expression and trying to appear calm, Compeyson turns his head in your direction. “This is none of your concern. Just a simple chat between friends,” he says.

“Is that so?” you ask. “Because it looks to me like you are threatening Mr. Havisham. And that is not something I am willing to look past.”

“We were only talking,” Compeyson says, though he has yet to let go of Arthur. “A minor disagreement is all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Compeyson narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Your ignorance does you no favors.”

The next thing Arthur knows, two large burly men step from the nearby alley, seizing Compeyson and prying him away from Arthur. Stumbling towards you, Arthur rubs the soreness from his arm. Compeyson is looking frantically between the men and you. He’s smart, smarter than Arthur realizes. It doesn’t take much for him to put two-and-two together.

“Ah, I see,” he says. “Looks like you found another one like you, eh, Arthur? Did you whore yourself out to settle your debts? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

The men yank him off the street and down the alley. You follow coolly, your eyes never leaving his. “Wait here,” you say to Arthur as you pass.

“No. No, I’m coming with you.”

There’s a moment where you turn your stern eye on him. But when he meets your gaze with defiance, you nod and keep going, Arthur following behind after glancing down the street to make sure your little scuffle hasn’t been spotted. Away from the bustling crowd, Compeyson is dragged through the mushy snow, trying to struggle against his captors but failing miserably.

“I can assure you, sir, you are making a mistake,” Compeyson says. “If you will allow me to speak freely—”

“I have no interest in what you have to say, Mr. Compeyson. It’s my understanding anything that passes through your lips is a lie.”

Compeyson turns his gaze on Arthur. “Arthur, tell him I mean you no harm. Tell him we’re friends.”

Arthur cocks his head, feeling secure now that you’re with him. “Why would I do that? When we both know that it’s not the truth.”

“Mr. Havisham and I go way back, Mr. Compeyson,” you say, carefully removing your gloves. “I trust his word over yours any day.”

Compeyson drops his act and laughs. “I’ll be damned. Is it a plague? I wasn’t aware it was something you could catch.”

Arthur sees you move and for the first time in his life, your cool exterior breaks. Face twisted with loathing, your fist connects with Compeyson’s face so hard it knocks a tooth free. “You mistake my intentions,” you say as if you didn’t just try to dislocate the man’s jaw. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

When you tell him your name, Arthur sees the moment Compeyson realizes he messed up. He may not know much, but he knows who the powerful people in London are. And he knows that you’re one of them, even more powerful than the Havishams themselves. Once he takes in, truly takes in the situation, Compeyson knows he’s lost.

“What can I do to smooth this over?” he asks.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

The two men start to beat him, while you stand there and watch. “Mr. Havisham and I know each other through our fathers,” you say as if you’re having a polite conversation over dinner and not watching a man being attacked. “When I heard of his debt, I of course stepped up to help him as my father would have done for his. Imagine my surprise when I learned he was working with you. A man claiming to be of stature and yet, no one knows exactly who you are. Of course, that instantly made me suspicious, especially when my dear friend, Amelia, mentioned you as well this morning when I ran into her. You certainly get around for someone who has nothing.”

Arthur is impressed with all you’ve managed to accomplish so early in the morning. Watching Compeyson being attacked fills Arthur with perverse glee. He can feel the wounds on his back and remembers how it was to be beaten. He feels no remorse. Not for this man.

“You see, Compeyson, there is a certain hierarchy in this city,” you continue. “And when someone tries to insert themselves into the hierarchy without doing the work, well, it makes some of us a little nervous.”

The two thugs throw Compeyson to the ground. He’s unrecognizable, his face a bloody mess. You lean down towards him, lowering your voice so only he and Arthur can hear.

“I suggest you leave and never return. Every businessman worth his weight in gold knows who you are now and have a description of your likeness. Whatever game you thought you were playing is over. If I ever see you around here again, a beating isn’t the only thing you’ll need to worry about.”

And with that, you turn and leave. Arthur stands for a moment, studying the pitiful creature at his feet. Compeyson stares up at him, glaring and showing bloody clenched teeth.

“Goodbye, Compeyson,” he says. “I shall give Amelia your regards.”

Back on the street, Arthur hurries his steps to catch up to you. “That was certainly something to see.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” you say. “I was hoping to handle it when you weren’t around.”

“I chose to stay. I think I needed to see it for myself, to know it was over.”

“Let’s hope it is. I’m not naïve enough to dismiss him just yet. Though, I do think you need to go see Amelia post haste. Just in case he thinks he can use this beating to his advantage.”

“Agreed. I’ll go there now.” Arthur pauses for a moment. He knows he told you earlier he wanted to do it on his own, yet now that you’re here, he quickly changes his mind. “Will you come?”

“Absolutely.”

Together the two of you make your way to the Havisham estate. It seems Amelia is only just getting back herself as you meet her at the front gate.

“Arthur!” she says with a smile. “You’re looking well. I’m happy to see you.” She turns to look at you. “And you’re with him. I’ll admit it’s a pleasant surprise to see you twice in one morning. I say it’s been some time since I’ve seen you two troublemakers together. It’s a welcomed sight.”

“Amelia, there’s something important we need to discuss,” Arthur says, looking around to make sure Compeyson hasn’t followed. Not that he seemed to be in any state to.

Her smile fades. “Is everything alright?”

“No, but it will be,” you say. “May we come in?”

“Of course. You needn’t ask.”

She opens the gate and leads you into the house. Arthur relishes being home, if only for a moment. His nerves have started to get the best of him and his hands shake when he takes off his gloves. After removing your coats and such, the two of you follow Amelia into the sitting room. She leaves word with the servants you are not to be disturbed before she closes the door behind you. Instinctively, you and Arthur sit next to each other on the lounge seat.

Amelia turns her attention to her brother, concern etched on her beautiful face. “Arthur,” she says, kneeling in front of him, taking both his hands in her own. “You’re shaking. Are you not well? Please, tell me what’s going on.”

Arthur stalls for a moment, unsure if he has the will to say the words out loud. When he looks at you, however, you give him a smile and an encouraging nod.

“What I have to say is difficult,” he begins, looking back at his sister. “I’ve done something horrible and I don’t know if you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“Arthur, you’re my brother, I love you,” Amelia says. “You’re scaring me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have the time.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and begins to tell his tale. It’s harder getting the words out with Amelia than it was with you. After all, he hadn’t been trying to swindle you, take away your livelihood. Amelia’s face is not as passive as yours was. She wears her emotions, first disbelief, and anger, then grief and concern when he tells her about Compeyson. By the time he’s done talking, she’s no longer kneeling before him. Instead, she stands by the fire, her back to you both.

Arthur wrings his hands, waiting for a response. Something, anything is better than this oppressive silence. He’s braced for her to yell at him and scold him. All she does is sigh heavily and hang her head.

“What a fool I’ve been,” she mutters.

You and Arthur share a look of concern. “You are not the fool, Amelia,” you say. “Compeyson is a con artist. From what little information I was able to gather on the man, this is not the first time he’s tried to pull something like this.”

That’s news to Arthur. He looks at you questioningly, but you shake your head. Not now. You’ll tell him later. Arthur turns his attention back to his Amelia. “This is my fault, not yours, sister,” he says, getting to his feet. “I was being selfish and childish. I should have never gotten involved with that man in the first place. He was supposed to help me get my fair share of the inheritance and instead he used my pain to further his own agenda.”

“I understand, Arthur,” she says, turning around to face him. “Despite how angry I am, I know why you felt you had to do what you did. Father left you so little by comparison. It stands to reason you would be angry.”

“No. No, you don’t understand.”

Arthur can see the guilt on her face, the anger that’s not only directed at him but directed at herself as well. She doesn’t know, not fully. She thinks it’s because he felt second-class to her but that’s not it. At least, that’s not entirely it. In that moment, Arthur realizes that he cannot let her continue to think this way. He has to tell her the truth. The whole truth.

“Father disinherited me for a reason,” he says, a lump forming in his throat. His eyes sting with the tears he tries not to let fall. “And it wasn’t because my mother was a cook or because he wanted me to make my own way.”

“What do you mean? Why would he do such a thing?”

Arthur walks back to the lounge chair where you’re sitting. He takes the spot next to you, and after a moment of hesitation, reaches for your hand. Your eyes widen but you give it, smiling at him lovingly before you both look at Amelia.

Her expression is unreadable. Arthur notes her eyebrows are knitted together in confusion until she’s had a moment to process the meaning of the touch. She was always quick, always clever. It doesn’t take her long to fully understand. Once she does, realization washes over her and she puts a hand over her heart.

“Oh, Arthur,” she says, crossing to him. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t. Father knew and he was furious. Compeyson figured out my preference and was using it to blackmail me,” Arthur explains. “I tried to push my feelings aside, Amelia. I did. After Father found out I told him it didn’t mean anything, but that was a lie. It did mean something, does mean something.” He looks over at you, reaching out to lay a hand on your cheek. “Why deny myself a love that’s so freely returned?”

Amelia’s skirts rustle as she closes the distance between them, gathering him into a large hug. It takes Arthur by surprise and nearly knocks him back. When she draws back, she takes his face in her hands. “Never be ashamed of who you are,” she says in a stern voice. “You’re Arthur Havisham. You’re my brother and I love you, no matter what.”

Arthur cries. He hates himself for it. Having cried so much over the last few weeks, he’s grown tired of the tears. At least this time they’re happy. He hugs his sister back, relishing the acceptance he never thought he’d receive or deserve. He takes the moment to finally breathe freely. Now he has no more secrets, now the two people he loves most are there and they love him back.

Amelia draws away and then pulls you into a hug as well. “I’m so happy for the both of you. Thank you for taking care of my brother.”

“Thank you, Amelia, for being so understanding.”

When she draws away, she wipes the tears from her eyes and straightens her stance. “Now, what are we to do with the wicked Mr. Compeyson?”

“That, I have taken care of,” you say. “If he knows what’s good for him, he shall not be darkening your doorsteps ever again.”

“Good riddance, I say,” she says with a huff. “This further strengthens my resolve to avoid marriage at all costs.”

“At least marriage to a two-bit thief with too much time on his hands,” you say.

Arthur chuckles despite himself. He’s feeling lighter than he’s felt in years. He never imagined coming clean to his sister about his feelings for you, nor did he imagine they would be accepted so freely. Amelia takes the seat across from you both.

“Does this mean you’re coming home, Arthur?” she asks.

“No, I won’t be,” Arthur says, turning his smile to you. “I’m staying with him for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s all well and good but what about the long term?” Amelia asks. “I want you to be happy, I do. Won’t people grow suspicious after time? We must find a more permanent solution that protects you both.”

“See, that is what I was thinking,” you say. Arthur recognizes your tone from the night before when you told him you had a plan. “Are you quite certain that you never intend to marry?”

Arthur and Amelia both turn to you with twin looks of confusion. “After today, I shall think the very thought of it repulses me,” Amelia says.

“What if you were to marry me?”

Arthur’s eyes widen and his heart nearly stops. Amelia looks thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“I’ve thought about this far longer than I care to admit,” you say, sitting up. “But, as Arthur pointed out to me yesterday, I’ve been a bachelor for some years. Should anyone see Arthur and me at the manor too many times, people will talk. However, if I am in business with my ‘brother-in-law’, and he and his sister live with me, well, that would hardly be suspicious at all.”

You’re brilliant.

Though Arthur loathes the idea that his sister gets to marry you while he cannot, he’s well aware that a marriage of convenience for both of you would be incredibly beneficial. It would bring the two people he loves under the same roof and increase everyone’s fortune. Amelia sits back in her seat, fingers pressed to her lips as she ponders your suggestion.

“Father always did want to find a way to match your family’s wealth,” she says. “Combining our resources would be incredibly lucrative. My hesitations, however, are twofold. For one, I would want to and demand to remain in control of the brewery and all Havisham dealings per my father’s will. And secondly,” she looks at Arthur. “I cannot hurt you that way, brother. Me marrying your love hardly seems fair.”

“But it is smart,” Arthur says, slowly getting on board. “Think of it. With the income from both families’ ventures, we’d be the most powerful family in London. No one will try to marry either of you for your wealth and all three of us would be free to continue our lives how we’d like.”

“And what of you?” she asks. “Your bachelor status would be tempting to any socialite looking to appease her father.”

“There’s really no reason or urge for me to marry,” Arthur says. “Father is gone which means there is no one to push the issue. Besides, it’s not like I have prospects lining up at the door. If I have to step out on a few social visits here or there to keep up appearances, it will hardly matter. You, Amelia, have always had the public’s focus more than I. I’ll simply use that to my advantage.”

Amelia looks over at you. You’re smiling with excitement, clearly proud of yourself. Arthur is proud of you too. A small, conspiratory smile forms on Amelia’s face as she continues to ponder your suggestion. “You have a keen mind, sir,” she says to you. “I daresay, a positively wicked one.”

“You have no idea,” Arthur blurts out before he can stop himself.

Amelia laughs, cheeks red with embarrassment though she’s clearly amused. Once the laughter dies down, she regards him with a soft expression. “Are you absolutely sure about this, brother? What of you and your feelings?”

“What about me? I’d be set for life,” Arthur says, leaning into you with a smirk. “A certain handsome suitor promised to take care of me and I daresay, with both of us in his life, he’ll have no choice but to follow through.”

You chuckle and press an affectionate kiss to his temple. “I believe my father always intended for me to be with a Havisham. He just never specified which one.”

Amelia laughs again, looking far more relaxed than Arthur has seen her in weeks. “And, as my brother, you of course will be required to chaperone,” she hints to Arthur. “Spend time with my suitor and make sure the union is the right decision for the family. Considering the timing, I daresay I haven’t quite finished mourning. It will take considerable time before I even begin to think of marriage.”

Arthur is getting more excited as the talk continues. Can this really happen? Can he have everything he wants? Is that allowed?

“I will also need Arthur’s help with my businesses,” you say, reaching up to gently rub the back of his neck. “While I don’t mind the workload, I cannot be a neglectful husband and family man.”

“No, of course not,” Amelia says with a playful grin. Though it does falter. “There is one thing we aren’t considering.”

“Which is?” Arthur asks.

“Children,” Amelia says. “Or at least a child. Someone to inherit our fortunes when we are gone. I always assumed Arthur would marry and the business would pass to my niece or nephew. Since that will not be the case, it’s something to consider.”

Yes, it is.

You are quiet and Arthur cranes his neck to look back at you. He knows it’s something you’ve thought about, it has to be with as long as you’ve been planning this arrangement. He has a feeling your silence has to do with sparing Arthur’s feelings. So he takes it upon himself to speak.

“I understand certain compromises have to be made,” he says, sitting up. “Children would cement the ruse.” He reaches over to take your hand. “I know your heart is mine. That will not change should you and Amelia need to actually consummate the marriage.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “I mean no offense, Amelia.”

“None was taken,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I imagine we would only do so when ready for a child.”

“Agreed,” you say. With a dramatic flourish, you slide onto one knee in front of her and take her hand. “Ms. Amelia Havisham, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife so that I may continue to share my life with your brother and so you will be left alone to do as you please?”

Amelia laughs, pretending to fan herself with her free hand. “Why, sir, you flatter me. The honor would be all mine.”

Arthur is shaking his head at your performance when you turn to look at him, your face growing serious. “Arthur Havisham,” you say. “Will you be my true love, my husband?”

That he is not expecting. His heart skips a beat and his face grows warm at the loving look in your eyes. His mouth is suddenly dry. “Yes. I will.”

You stand and pull him with you, yanking him into a loving kiss. When you withdraw, Amelia is smiling, tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Amelia,” Arthur says, gathering her into a firm hug. “After everything I’ve done, I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Hush, Arthur. You deserve it more than ever.”

“Well, now,” you say, putting your arm around both Havishams. “I daresay we have a courtship to parade and a wedding to plan.”

“That we do, my fiancé,” Amelia says, tweaking your nose. “That we do.”

Taglist:

@spicytrashthe1st​

#arthur havisham #arthur havisham x male reader #arthur havisham x reader #arthur havisham x you #joseph quinn #joe quinn

[pyjamacryptid]

artists self rec! when you get this, reply with your favourite five arts/sets/edits/gifs that you've done, then pass on to at least five other people. time to shine and spread some self-love and appreciation 🥰 <3

oh my god sia i am SO SORRY i am only just now seeing this ask it's been so long i am so so--

Sia!!!

This was so hard to choose wow.

FANVIDS FIRST:

I'm Sorry | Merlin & Arthur from BBC Merlin [tumblr link] [direct yt link]

This took me over 2 months and, so far, it's the best fanvid I've ever made. I'm ridiculously proud of it and I only have a tiny bit of shame in saying so XD. The finished product ended up far better than the original concept I had in my head. I wanted to make a video that focused on how Merlin and Arthur forgave one another; Merlin, since the day he met Arthur, and Arthur when he learned the truth. Because the core of their relationship was unconditional love, to their own strength and detriment. I cried almost each time I worked on it.

2. I Became Greedy | Kurosawa & Adachi from Cherry Magic [tumblr link] [direct yt link]

This took me about .. I want to say a month? I'm also proud of this one. Cherry Magic is a light-hearted BL j-drama that - at its core - is about the importance of reaching out to others, and the bravery of reaching out and accepting someone else's outreached hand. I eventually want to edit a video on the overarching meaning of the show. But I... am a sucker for pining lol and I was so taken in by Kurosawa's pining. It was so poignant, I was literally clutching my chest in sympathy pangs. So, I wanted to edit a vid that emulated that and focused just on that feeling. And I think I??? did!

3. it's not living if it's not with you | Wei Wuxian & Lan Wangji from The Untamed/CQL [direct yt link]

This was the second fanvid I had posted to my youtube channel and I used a lot of editing techniques I had never tried before, so I learned a lot! I wanted to show as many aspects of wangxian's story and relationship in one video as I could without mucking up the pacing or making it messy in general. I love the colour palette and font I chose. Something else I really wanted to achieve was using a light-hearted song with a sad meaning over both sad and happy scenes, because that's a recipe for EMOTION. And judging by the comments I got on this vid, I dare say I succeeded XD I had a lot of fun making this! Even if I got stuck on it for a month and then thankfully could finish it when I was hit with an epiphany. I also cried quite a bit while making it shkgjhdf

Listen. I have. Emotions.

ART:

4. A Favourable Misunderstanding | Merlin & Arthur [link to full comic here]

A meme re-draw turned into a fluffy comic because it took on a life of it's own and Merlin & Arthur are a force to be reckoned with when being idiots in love. I was also super proud of this! Despite the many styles in one comic (which is fine, I was just worried about nothing looking like it matched) I was happy with how I drew them! Especially as I find Merlin's face very difficult to get a grasp of, for some reason. And I was also proud of their characterisations! I still get so happy to see how well-loved it is, and so perhaps it doesn't need its own rec but what the hell. I love it, too hehe.

5. Balls the Unfathomable | a comic about a weirdly wholesome demon summoning [link to full comic here]

My friends and I, while on a call, fell into doing a bit. That lasted a really long time. And during it, I became a summoned demon nicknamed "Balls". No, I'm not joking. It was ridiculous and hilarious.

Thankfully, I remembered most of it and immediately tried to commit it to paper for - what I thought - was going to be a short, half-assed sketch comic. Nope. I ended up with a multi-page comic with clean lines and everything.

Funnily enough, I hadn't actually ever finished a multi-page comic before this. Not one so polished anyway. Balls has that effect on people, I suppose. skjdhjkfdg

So yeah, I was proud of finishing it, and of choosing a cute, simple style and sticking to it (cute, "less realistic" styles don't come easy to me, so I struggled more than you'd think trying to figure out how I was going to draw this skdjhkfg) and of how I structured the panels, especially when I really was just winging it. I do not know how to panel (yet).

Basically; I adore my friends and the fun we have together and I had to share this particular shenanigan and Balls themself. They've become a beloved character amongst my friends and I.

_________

That's it! Long-winded commentary and all.

Thank you again for the self-rec, Sia! 🥺💕💕💕

psst hey, you should go totally check out Sia's blog - she does amazing edits and gifs

#once again i'm so sorry I saw this so late skjhgdfg #ask #ren replies #courtjestermerlin #self-rec #my art #pyjamacryptid edits #fanvid #artists on tumblr #merthur #kurodachi #wangxian #the untamed #cherry magic #mdzs #viddingisart #merlin #gayble tag

[swashbucklery]

Things I’ve been into this week:

1. Got my COVID booster, spent 3 days in a Side Effect Fever Nest and am just now coming out of it, science rules but also science hurts just a little bit.

2. Re: point 1, am now a scant 40 hours behind on Critical Role C3 which feels like ~practically nothing~. I have several complex theories on the ways in which EXU is secret lore dumping for C3 and am struggling with how to find the people in this fandom that are Cool To Engage With. Accepting recs if you know anyone.

3. I checked my Switch profile and did you know that I’ve played 375+ hours of Animal Crossing since March 2020 because fuck me I sure didn’t. It’s that ten minutes a day thing, it catches up. Anyway I’m really proud of my island and since I’m still working through 2020s pop culture please know that I just now discovered the acnh.guide app which has made it a million times easier to actually figure out which bugs and fish I’m missing. I’ve made a ton of progress on completing my museum which makes me happy. I’ve also made a twitter account to share photos of my island build bc I’m really pleased with how it’s (slowly) coming together, if that’s your jam I’m @mermaidlamp on Twitter and I’m happy to make a tumblr to crosspost photos to if there’s interest. It’s night themed so it’s mostly just me on an eternal quest for lamp diys but maybe that’s your thing!

4. Last night I was rewatching some Buffy and I got to the scene in Once More With Feeling where Willow and Tara have a whole number about oral sex and like. Just thinking about the ways in which people make art about queerness has changed and the ways in which - like - when you couldn’t show two women kissing on TV you had to think a little harder? And the ways that intimacy and longing and desire can be communicated without kissing and the ways that on the one hand we’ve made such progress and on the other hand I think there’s an art that’s been lost? And maybe this just circles back to Everyone Is Beautiful But No One Is Horny but I really felt it, you know?

5. Has anyone played RDR Online recently? I’m downloading RDR2 onto my PS5 finally and I want to play Sad Cowboy Horse Sim because Laura Bailey being bad at describing horses made me absolutely pine for the RDR2 horse engine, but also as with point 2 I don’t have time to get cyberbullied by children. I can always play infinite post-game and I probably will; I could start a new game on the PS5 but gosh that epilogue broke my heart, you know? Anyway, I like to know my options.

6. Has anyone actually played the RDR1 port on the new PS Store Classics Collection? Does it work? Is RDR1 actually a bad game when played with fresh eyes or does mourning Arthur Morgan along with John add a certain je ne sais quoi that compensates for the pre-2010 graphics. If it helps I’m very bad at video games and am very attached to a few of the modern accessibility features to make games work for me.

I hope you’re having a good Tuesday. I love you and appreciate you. I’m thinking of doing a Legends rewatch from the very beginning and trying to decide if I’m going to rewatch Supergirl in parallel or if the complexity of that will make me lose steam. Always accepting new recs for television that is a) good b) going to scratch the Genre Fandom part of my brain real good and c I cannot stress this enough) not spooky or gory.

#i think my twitter name is hilarious in part because i can't believe it wasn't taken #and also because i'm currently on a quest to actually get the fucking mermaid lamp diy #pascal is on thin. ice. #also i shoot down EVERY balloon looking for summer diys i want that shell lamp #and it's always just a bag of money or the most bizarre item #i have a sushi costume when am i ever going to wear that #come on #also bless you emma for warning me about how spooky the sandman was #because netflix gave me a trailer and between that + the johanna constantine gifs i was almost sucked in #and then i gave it a quick google and sigh. hard pass. #anyway #the matthew mercer dungeons and dragons twitch cinematic universe #animal crossing new horizons #sometimes i play a video game #i need a tag for how much of a lesbian i am #grouchy aunt j talks to the tumblr void

[valiantsword]

gwen @sacraementals asked, " are you happy now? "

he'd been happy the second he discovered the she still lived. the second he discovered he no longer needed to pine or stand vigil at the remnants of their home from all those centuries ago. that the reason he'd never found or even heard of a body was because guinevere was roaming the earth just as he was.

so, yes. arthur pruit, former king of tintagel was happy now and forever more.

but, the answer was not so simple to give. in all their years, he'd never learned to be quite so upfront with such words. just one of the many reasons lancelot filled the gap between them so well.

the entire trek back to tintagel had him on his toes. every sound made his muscles tense and his heart skip a beat. would she think him mad for preserving their life? would she be sad to see he was still so stuck on what was that he never gave through to what could be? whenever the guard made him feel overwhelmingly sad or alone he tucked tail and returned back home. well, not always. sometimes he chose a different stash house located somewhere around the world. either way, he tended to go into hiding.

" yes, " the blonde says simply. standing behind her, arthur wraps his arms around her shoulders as they stand on what used to be the dining hall. ocean spreads out in front of them, as far as the eye can see. somewhere below them is what had become known as ' merlin's cave, ' which he always secretly thought myrddin would get a kick out of. " happy enough that i'd quit fighting right this second if you asked me to. "

something settled in him. broken pieces of his heart clicked into place in ways they hadn't been able to even with her body keeping him warm at night.

a lung full of ocean breeze made him realize that feeling was being able to stop. for centuries he'd been running towards or, perhaps, away from something. with guinevere in his arms again arthur felt it was okay to simply stand there, watch the waves, and be.

" but, are you happy? that's the real question. "

#✭ ㅤ answer ㅤ ››› ㅤ his work is never done ㅤ . #sacraementals #✭ ㅤ main verse ㅤ ››› ㅤ we’re not meant to be alone ㅤ .

[heavensickness]

if its inconvient though stories/poetry that you enjoy would be great :-)

It would be too long if I put my favorite poems AND poets in the same post so I decided to give the poets whom works I read the most & my favorites from them

Poets

John Keats (Ode to a Nightingale)

Arthur Rimbaud (The Drunken Boat, Comedy of Thirst)

Paul Verlaine (A Poor Young Shepherd)

Emily Dickinson (I Am Nobody! Who Are You?)

Mary Oliver (The Wild Geese, Invitation, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, October, Moments, Starlings in Winter, Little Crazy Love Song, I Worried, Worm Moon, Black Oaks, We Should Be Well Prepared, In Blackwater Woods, Someday... You know what, read any and every work by her that you can find)

Frank O'Hara (Having a Coke with You, For Grace, After a Party, Steps)

Audre Lorde (Pirouette, A Litany for Survival)

Alice Notley (Songs and Stories of the Ghouls and In The Pines (poetry collections), Love Song, Have Made Earth as the Mirror of Heaven, An Excerpt from In The Pines)

Louise Glück (Averno (poetry collection), Departure, Lament, Persephone the Wanderer, A Myth of Devotion, Sunrise, Marina, A Fable)

e. e. cummings (i carry your heart with me, somewhere i have never travelled gladly beyond, i like my body when it is with your…)

Chen Chen (When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities (poetry collection), Self Portrait as So Much Potential, Race to the Tree, Chapter VIII, Poplar Street, Elegy for My Sadness, How I Became Sagacious)

Jeremy Radin (So I Locked Myself Inside A Star for Twenty Years, With These Hands, Sign, A Word)

Andrea Gibson (The Madness Vase & Lord of the Butterflies (poetry collections) Asking Too Much, I Sing the Body Electric, Birthday for Jenn, Yellowbird, Your Life)

Mahmoud Darvish (In The Presence of Absence (poetry collection), Sonnet V, Your Night is of Lilac, In Her Absence I Created Her Image)

Ocean Vuong (Night Sky With Exit Wounds (poetry collection) Thanksgiving 2006, Homewrecker, Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong, Threshold, Untitled (Blue, Green, & Brown): oil on canvas: Mark Rothko: 1952, Reasons for Staying)

Richard Siken (his entire poem collection of Crush, i've read it at one sitting)

Clementine Von Radics (In A Dream You Saw A Way to Survive (poetry collection) Courtney Love Prays to Oregon, The Grapefruit Poem, It's The Way, Mouthful of Forevers, That Spring Everything Grew Wild and the Rain Came Down Like Punishment, I No Longer Believe Anger Will Save Me, Bitter, Storm, A conversation between / my therapist / and the mouth that sometimes belongs to me, Sweet The Sound)

Ada Limón

Margaret Atwood (Power Politics and Interlunar (poem collections) A Sad Child, There Are Better Ways of Doing This, Eurydice, Night Poem, Eating Snake, Half Hanged Mary)

Ursula K. Le Guin (Looking Back, The Drowned Girl)

Franz Wright (God's Silence (poetry collection), On Earth, The Heaven, Quandary, Clarification, To Her, The Poem, East Boston 1996 Night Walk)

Rainer Maria Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus (sonnet collection), First Elegy, Second Elegy, Go to The Limits of Your Longing, Evening, Part One IV)

Anne Carson (Tango XXII. Homo Ludens, Apostle Town, The Glass Essay, Plainwater (essay and poetry collection), Autobiography of Red (verse novel), O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love, Stanzas Sexes Seductions, On Hedonism (an excerpt from Plainwater)

#this took 3 hours andkajdwj #poems #poetry #poetry recommendation #poem recommendation #keep #i hope tumblr search system doesnt ignore this so i can find it on my blog #ref #poetry ref #personal

[lottiebagley]

Family Reunions- George Weasley

Three years imagining a life together Love your family more than we loved each other I said I’d keep in touch and I did But the more we keep in touch, the more I miss him

The second she enters her small flat she can feel her entire world shatter around her. Leaning her back against the door as she sinks to the ground, head dropping into her hands as she wipes furiously at her eyes, trying to push the tears back in.

Once a week she had attended dinner at the burrow, it was nice, good to see Molly and Arthur and whichever kids were around, of course George was never there, the date marked in his calendar in a red pen reminder to not go home that day. To sleep and eat at the flat.

The family had been heartbroken to hear that he had broken up with his girlfriend, after the war he had committed all his time to helping Fred. His twin needed every last bit of his attention, helping with his physical therapy and his dwindling mental state and so George's relationship had taken a back seat. She hadn't minded, in fact she had understood, she even committed herself to helping too.

But a year after George decided to call things off, Fred was better, he was walking and he was happier and he was working again. It was the perfect time for him to focus on his relationship, after all the girl had proven herself time and time again. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe it was that he felt like he needed a minute alone.

Maybe it was the feeling that she was so much better than him. Maybe it was his mother's constant talks of rings and weddings. He wasn't quite sure but all of a sudden he felt like he was suffocating.

He sat her down in his bedroom in the flat. Explained that she wasn't the one and it didn't feel right anymore. He had watched as she cried and had attempted to comfort her only for her to push him away, fleeing his flat leaving a baffled Fred on the living room sofa, television on in front of him, wondering why the girl who may as well be a sister just left the flat in floods of tears.

George still visions his mother's face when he closes his eyes, the look on her face when he told her he ended his relationship. He remembers her disappointment. He remembers his brothers shock. He remembers his dad's sad sigh. He remembers his sister's passionate rant about how he never deserved her anyway.

As the girl cries on her hallway floor she vows that she will stop. Stop seeing the Weasley's. Not because she doesn't love them with every fibre of her being but because she couldn't handle the heart break. Couldn't keep sitting at their dinner table without his hand on her knee. Couldn't keep sitting on the swing set without him laughing and pushing her. Couldn't keep helping Molly clean plates without him sat on the counter teasing her.

Tell your sister if she hears from her ex I can’t be the one that she calls And as much as I love talks with your dad I need him to leave me alone Cause I can’t find the words to express The way that I wish I was the one But friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

Her resolve to stop seeing the Weasley's was gone by the next morning.

She woke up to a missed call from Charlie and called back, chattering away about his upcoming trip home as she got ready.

She arrived at her job at the ministry and met up with Hermione for coffee, deciding that when she eventually cut her ties she would keep Hermione. The girl was like a younger sister, although so was Ginny, but she figured one last tie to the family, someone to hear their news from would do no harm.

Arthur knocked on her office door in his lunch break, bringing with him sandwiches made by Molly and asking her to eat with him and she didn't have the heart to say no, so instead they ate in her office and talked merrily about the infestation of singing sunglasses he was dealing with today.

As she left her office she received a phone call from Ginny, who ranted about how annoying Harry was being and how now she had graduated and was training she felt like she had no time to focus on her relationship.

It was after she assured the girl that her and Harry were meant to be as she walked through the Leaky Cauldron she knew what she had to do.

She got a flat above a bookshop on Diagon Alley simply to be near George and now everyday, walking past his store, felt like torture. She hadn't been in the store, she'd avoided it like the plague even when Fred asked her to come and hang out with him and George wasn't working. So as she walked into the atmospheric shop her heart felt like it was sinking in her chest.

"Hey sweetheart, you all okay?" Fred asks with a bright grin, he's leaning on his cane for support and eyeing the door.

She could cry looking at him. Not just because he looks identical to the man who fell out of love with her and she still pined desperately for. No. Today the tears she blinks back are practically grief, she knew that, realistically, she would see Fred around, but she wouldn't be able to call him a friend anymore.

"I uh- could I speak to George?" she questions, Fred smiles gently, noticing her pained tone.

"Yeah, of course, you can go on up," he assures. She nods shooting him a small smile, but pauses on the stairs.

"Hey Freddie,"

"Yeah,"

"I want you to know that I am really proud of you, of the shop and of how much better you are and I mean when I first met you who'd have thought you'd end up here. I just-well I love you and I am really proud," She blinks back tears as she speaks, almost wishing she would get a chance to say a goodbye to all the Weasley's.

Fred smiles gently, somewhere in him he can tell, tell that this is goodbye and he's about to loose a friend.

"I love you too sweetheart, just remember no matter what that I am always going to be here for you,"

They share eye contact for a moment, both knowing and not saying it. Fred understood, he can only imagine how hard it must be to still be a part of his family's lives after George. He knew the girl in front of him loved his twin brother more than anything, he knew that deep down George loved her just as much, and yet here Fred stands, a silent goodbye hanging in the air.

Phone calls Sweet notes All the little things I used to love Now they just remind me that I was never enough We said we’d keep in touch and I tried But the more we keep in touch, the less I move on in life

"Hey George," she speaks quietly, standing in the hallway of his flat as he stands staring at her shock.

It's been a month since he saw her and his heart leaps at the sight of her, at her standing there with a small smile and teary eyes and a pencil skirt and blazer and messy hair and she's just her. She is her and it's everything he's been missing. He wonders as he stares at her how he ever thought that she wasn't the one. That she wasn't perfect. That she wasn't made for him.

Her own eyes are wide, seeing him sparking something in her that she didn't even know existed. He's shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his hips and his hair damp from the shower he just clearly had. Her eyes scan his toned chest, his broad shoulders, the light sprinkles of freckles. His scent, his cinnamon body wash, is so strong that it practically invades her body and she could scream and cry and all she wants is to kiss him.

"Oh-shit-hi. Is everything alright?" He's worried to see her, had someone died? Was she okay? Merlin, he wanted her to be happy more than anything in the world.

"Hey," she speaks quietly, backing a way a little when he tries to move closer, not wanting to be close enough that she could reach out and touch him.

"You said that already," he teases gently, testing the waters.

"I'm sorry- I-" she cuts herself off, not sure how to say anything that she wants to

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay," he comforts her gently "Why don't you go sit down, I'll get dressed and come, just give me a minute," he offers, she nods her head slowly.

When he enters the living room it feels natural. Seeing her sat on his sofa waiting for him feels right. He thinks for a second about how it could all be different. How he could be in pyjamas and she could be in one of his shirts, how he would jump on her and laugh when she tells him he is squashing her, how he'd have held her as they watch a film and make-out and he'd cook for her and they'd drink wine and enjoy a blissful Friday evening, wrapped up in each other.  

"You're all dressed up. Going anywhere nice?" she questions, eyes scanning his white dress shirt and jeans.

"The Italian, the one in Camden town,"

"With the little dog and the red wine?" she questions, George lets out a laugh at the memory of the time he took her there, it was a month after the war, thinking back it was probably the last time he took her out. He got so busy with Fred and the shop and she'd not been a priority when he knew she should have been, she never seemed to mind though.

"That's the one,"

"So, it's a date," she smiles gently, heart splintering in her chest

"Uh, yeah. Yeah it is," he confirms, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly

"That's great, do I know her?"

"Angelina," He admits quietly. She nods, forcing a smile.

"That's great George, I'm really happy for you. I'm sorry to disturb you-"

"No!" he cuts her off a little too eagerly, a little too happy to see her. "No, you are fine being here. I want to help with whatever is happening," he assures her

"Right, well I won't keep you long," she nods awkwardly

"Hush, none of that nonsense, take all the time you need," he reassures her, sitting down next to her on the sofa but keeping a respectful distance apart.

"So-well- I know that this is-" she cuts herself off with a sigh "Sorry, this is just...awkward,"

"Hey, it's just me. You can say anything," He moves his hand to place it gently on her knee, his heart stops at the way she gently pulls her leg away.

"I need you to tell your family to stop talking to me,"

"What?" he snaps, suddenly quite offended. "My family have been nothing but kind to you and-"

"Christ! it's not like that!" she gasps, he sighs

"Then what?"

"I can't be a part of their lives anymore. I know it sounds so selfish and I wish it was different but- George- I love your family. I really do. I just- being around them hurts. It kills me. It makes me want to just drop dead because every time I talk to them I think of you. Being in your house I can feel you and- I- it hurts. It hurts too much," She admits it in a tired whisper, George feels his heart break at the thought of her heartbroken because of him.

"Okay. I'll talk to them," he speaks quietly, she nods and stands.

"Goodbye George,"

"I'll see you around?" he asks quietly, the thought of this being it makes his heart hurt. When his family were stealing seeing him all the time it wasn't as bad, he always knew what was happening in her life. This, this was final.

"Yeah. Yeah maybe,"

Tell your sister if she hears from her ex I can’t be the one that she calls And as much as I’ll miss talks with your dad I need him to leave me alone Cause I can’t find the words to express The way you don’t think I am the one And friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

For the next six months George hears nothing. Without his family seeing her he has no idea how she is, if she's okay, if she's happier now. He lays up at night thinking about her and wishing he could turn back time.

She hears scraps, staying in touch with Hermione, she knows about Ron in depth, hears bits and pieces about the rest of the family. Too awkward to ask if George is okay, if he's happier without her, if he's with Angelina now.

Bill receives a card when his little girl is born but she doesn't pick up the phone when he calls her. Fred gets a text message when he finishes his physical therapy but when he replies it's left on delivered. Ginny swears up and down that she saw her in the stands of her first professional quidditch game but can't prove it.

So, with dread filling her body and curses at her nephew flying in her mind she enters Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. She's hoping to go unseen by the twins, they had staff now and maybe they would never have to find out her annoyingly loveable nephew wanted a reusable swamp for his 12th birthday and absolutely nothing else would do.

"Hello, welcome to Weasley's Wizard- oh, hi," George's voice sounds anxious when he snaps his head up to see her standing like a deer in the headlights in the almost empty shop.

"Hey,"

"Is everything alright?" George wonders if the way his mind automatically jumps to something awful having happened because of the war or because he can't think of any other reason after everything he put her through that she would want to be anywhere near him.

"It's Max's birthday next week," she announces

"Yeah. 12, right?" George questions with a lopsided grin. He adored her nephew, the kid as giggly and energetic and just like him and Fred were as kids. He also loved the way she was around kids.

"Yeah," she confirms, surprised he remembers. "He, uh, started school,"

"Made Gryffindor I'm sure," George smiles, it's the first genuine smile he's let out in weeks

"Yeah. The first thing he said when he saw me at Christmas was that I just had to tell uncle George, didn't shut up about you once. I didn't have the heart to tell him we broke up so..." she trails off.

"He's a good kid,"

"He is. Professor McGonogall isn't quite so set on him,"

"Nah, she always loves the trouble makers," George smirks

"That's true," She smiles gently "Anyway, so he wants a portable swamp and nothing else instead for his birthday, so," she trails off once more, gesturing to herself.

"Well of course," George grins, pushing himself off the front desk that he had been resting on and striding across the shop floor to grab one. He grabs a basket, walking around the floor and plucking any product he thinks the kid might like, even a few unreleased things from the back room before returning to where she is standing at the front till with a small smile on her face.

"George-" she starts, he shushes her immediately.

"I'll gift wrap them for you," he announces, placing the full basket on the till

"You don't have to that," she protests but he laughs

"Actually, I kinda do. You are the worst at wrapping gifts," he teases making her smile.

"You got me there," she admits

"Yeah. So, how've you been," He begins scanning products through the till and wrapping them with ease

"Uh good. I got a promotion-"

"Wow! that's fantastic, and so well deserved,"

"How would you know?" She blushes as she speaks, not looking at the boy

"I do read the paper y'know? What is it now 100 war criminals you have single handedly found," he bolsters, she'd always wanted to be an auror but becoming so high up that she reported directly to the minister and had a big fancy office was only in her wildest dreams until now.

"What about you? How's things?" she questions

"They're good. Shop's going great and Fred's only getting better by the day. Little Victorie is so perfect and yeah life is, well, it's good," He can't bring himself to say that as much as everything is perfect he can't find it in him to be happy without her by his side.

"And Angelina?"

"We decided we were way better as friends. You dating?"

"I'm married to the job," she shrugs, not wanting to say she doubted she would ever fall in love again without him.

"I get that," he nods, placing the pile of wrapped up parcels into bags. He physically laughs when she grabs her purse and begins to gather money

"Sweetheart, you're not paying for any of this. I only rang it through the till because we have to stock management,"

"George, that is so kind but I can-"

"Yes you can, if it makes you feel better stick my name on a couple of the tags alright?"

"I will, I promise that I will," she nods, taking the bags from his hand "Thank you,"

"No bother. Give Max my best, yeah?" He smiles, she nods and he watches as she leaves the store, his heart that he hadn't even realised was practically beaming dulls back down when she goes.

Tell your mom to stop sending me recipes she finds on the internet And when your brother wins homecoming king

I won’t be there to witness it And when you find the words to express the way you don’t think I am the one And friends don’t bring friends to family reunions If we’re just friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

"You busy?" Hermione leans in the doorway of her office

"I can make a couple minutes, what's up? We had coffee three days ago," she reminds as the brunette steps into the office, closing the door behind her and settling in the seat across the desk.

"I know and I wanted to ask then but I couldn't bring myself to it because I feel so bad asking," Hermione explains, twisting the diamond ring on her finger anxiously.

"'Mione, you can ask me anything. You know that if it's physically possible I'll do it," she assures, putting the papers she had been reading down to give her friend undivided attention.

"You're one of my best friends," Hermione states

"And you're one of mine," The girl nods, eyebrows furrowed in concern

"And when somebody does something big in their life they want their best friends there,"

"Hermione what ever you need I'm there. 100%"

"Big things like getting married. I'm getting married, you know that, I mean to say Ron and I have picked a date and it's four months away and we are getting married at the burrow in a marquee by the lake. I know it's a lot to ask of you. I mean it's not just some ex, it's George, and I know how hard it's been for you without him and I hate myself for asking. And it's not just seeing him it's being there, I mean you fell in love with him there and it's not just him it's all of them and I understand if you say no, but, I want you there," Hermione rambles

"Of course," She speaks without thinking, never would she not attend her friends wedding "Hermione, I would love nothing more than to be there,"

"Really?" Hermione beams

"Merlin, 'Mione did you think for a second I wouldn't come, it's your wedding,"

Love them like they are my own But I don’t think I’ll ever move on If you don’t , If  you don't

It had been the most obvious thing in the world to say yes when Hermione asked, but now, standing in a stupid, but undeniably beautiful, pale blue bridesmaid dress she felt nervous. Hermione had insisted she had no obligation to see the Weasley's until the wedding day, she knew how her friends heart ached for not just George but the whole family, and wanted to make the whole thing as painless as possible.

But now, standing in the empty kitchen the morning of the wedding, the girl wondered how to breathe. She arrived by floo powder, already changed and ready like Hermione had instructed as she was getting ready with her muggle family.

She wasn't sure what she expected but it wasn't the empty, quiet room she was standing in.

She lets out a sigh, blinking back tears, the scent feeling like coming home.

"Sweetie, how are you?" She hadn't even realised Molly had entered the room from the back door until the familiar woman is pulling her into a hug.

"I'm okay, how are you?" she questions as Molly pulls away. If it were anyone else Molly would have rushed away, much too busy with preparations, but it wasn't. Molly loved the kids her children brought home in her life like her own, she missed the girl but understood that she needed space. One look at the tears in her eyes tells Molly that right now she needs to be here.

"I'm good. We are all good," Molly assures, gently guiding the girl to sit. "Now, tell me honestly, how are you?

"I'm just sorry," She admits, voice cracking and tears spilling onto her cheeks. "You must all hate me,"

"Sweetie, no one here hates you, not even for a second. We adore you," she assures, rubbing the girl's shoulder comfortingly

"All of you were always so welcoming and kind and then I just stop speaking to you all. I was so rude and I'm so sorry. Merlin, I didn't even tell you myself I made George do it,"

"None of that. You don't have to be sorry. We are the sorry ones. My son broke your heart and we were all wrapped up in loving you and wanting to be part of your life that we didn't stop to think how hard it would be for you. To be here and to talk to us. You needed to heal, no one is mad at you. We just miss you, and when or if you ever want to come back you will be welcomed with open arms," Molly assures her, grabbing a tissue to dab the girls cheeks dry.

"I missed you so much Molly," she sighs

"I missed you too dear, and I know George misses you,"

"I miss him. Every day I miss him,"

The moment is cut short when Charlie strides in through the front door "Thought I smelt trouble," He beams, wrapping his arms around the girl "Come help me with the daises, Hermione wants like a thousand and Perce is useless,"  He informs, an arm wrapped around her shoulder. She looks almost anxious and he rubs her shoulder gently "He's upstairs with Ron," he whispers gently

"You're welcome to go and speak to him if you'd rather," Molly informs, she wanted her son to be back with the girl more than anything.

"It's okay I'm happy to help,"

"Thank Merlin, I'd strangle Percy if you aren't there to stop me,"

Tell your sister if she hears from her ex I can’t be the one that she calls And as much as I’ll miss talks with your dad I need him to leave me alone Cause I can’t find words to express The way that I wish I was the one But friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

"I saw mum put you to work earlier," George's voice calls through the dark night air. She's sat in the tree house in the garden, the wedding a small distance away.

"I never mind," she shrugs as she watched him climb the ladder, he sits down next to her, legs dangling over the edge next to hers.

"Thought I'd find you here," He comments, he had built the tree house one summer when they couldn't get a minute alone. It was the first summer she spent there, between 4th and 5th year, she fell in love with him in that tree house.

"Just needed a minute," she sighs

"Yeah. It's beautiful but it's kind of a lot,"

"Weddings when you're depressingly single are often a lot," she shrugs, he chuckles at that.

"I have no clue how you are single," He comments, eyes trained on the starry sky above them

"Well, you dumped me so," she teases, a light laugh in her voice. He rolls his eyes, bumping his body to hers, for the first time since the breakup she doesn't move away from his touch. Not wanting to waste the opportunity but also not wanting to push her he settles for pressing his leg next to hers, her foot wraps around his leg holding him close to her without her even noticing, it's second nature, instinctive.

"I'm serious. You're so incredibly kind, and funny, and smart and good in bed," he adds the last one as a joke, laughing when she playfully swats his arm "and I mean, look at you right now, you're like a fucking goddess. You always are. How had no one swept you up?" He questions, and he means every word of it.

"Honestly?" she questions

"Always,"

"They've tried. I mean boys ask me out or try and get with me, but- I- well I never say yes, it's not fair to go on a date with someone when you're in love with someone else,"  She admits, she is staring straight ahead, not looking at him, so she misses the grin that brightens his face.

"That's why Angelina and I decided on friends," he admits, she hums in response not sure what to say. A comfortable silence falls over them, the sound of music from the party the only thing filling the air.

"You wanna dance?"he asks suddenly

"Sure," she agrees, he jumps down from the tree house, it's a little stupid but not unsafe and they've done it a thousand times before. She follows suit and his hands grab her waist to steady her when she stumbles a little in her heels.

He keeps his hands there, pulling her closer to him as hers wrap around his neck.

"Always thought you looked so good in blue," he admits as his thumb strokes her waist, the silky material soft under his grip. "Like a princess," he adds

"Always thought you looked so good in a suit," she grins, blushing a little as he twirls her around

"I miss you," he hums out, pulling her back closer this time, her head resting on his chest.

"I miss you," she returns.

"Y'know I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second. I regret it. More than anything," he's practically whispering and his heart stops when she stills in his arms.

"I can't do this," She whispers, tugging herself from his arms

"Darling-"

"No. George, I love you, more than anything. So I can't. It's your little brother's wedding and you are lonely and you are all mixed up and we haven't seen each other in so long and weddings, merlin weddings, they confuse everything and I can't. I can't do this one last night thing. I'm sorry,"

Before George can reply, can tell her that she's so far from right she's turned around and is speeding back towards the party.

Tell your mom to stop sending me recipes she finds on the internet And when your brother wins homecoming king I won’t be there to witness it And when you find the words to express That you don’t think I am the one And friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

She pulls her apartment door open a week after the wedding, surprised to see George Weasley a determined look in his eyes and soaking wet from the rain.

"George,"

"Hi. I need to talk to you," he doesn't seem nervous, he seems like there's a fire in his belly, a determination, a purpose, a need.

"Oh, sure. Come in," She moves aside, letting him in. "The living area is at the end of the hall. I'll go grab a towel," she directs.

He looks around the living area, it's open plan to the kitchen and it's cosy. Full of pictures and little trinkets, it is fundamentally her and his he feels more at home there despite having never been before than he does in his own flat.

She re-enters, throwing a fluffy baby pink towel at George before heading into the kitchen, grabbing an extra mug having been in the process of making tea when he arrived, and fixing them both a tea how they like it.

"So, you wanted to talk?" she prompts, sitting crosslegged on the couch, her fuzzy pjs and messy hair so domestic and beautiful he would marry her on the spot to get to see her like that every day.

"You said that you didn't want to do one last night, well, I don't either. It wasn't wedding goggles making me look at you different. I am in love with you. So, in love with you that being without you makes it hard to breathe and I want you back, not just for a night but for the rest of my life," He thinks he should be nervous but he's not. It's her. He could never be nervous with her.

"George, that makes no sense why would you-"

"Listen, I have never felt good enough for you. The whole time I've known you it was like you were so above me and I could never be on your level, no matter what happened you were always perfect. You were, and are, too good for me,"

"George, I have never been-" she starts but he cuts her off

"I had to help Fred. He is my twin brother, my best friend. He nearly died and I was terrified. He was nearly crushed to death and I realised I could loose him, I could loose anyone I loved. That included you, obviously, and that's how it started. I was scared to be with you because if I lost you I couldn't cope. I couldn't survive. So I started pushing you away. But you. Merlin, you're so good that it didn't matter. I pushed you away and I was wrong to do that but you didn't waver for a second. It was my responsibility to help Fred. To go to physical therapy with him. To hold him when he cried. To be there no matter. I would have done it no matter what. But you. You didn't have to do that. But you did. You didn't complain. You didn't walk away. You helped fix Fred even when I was being crappy to you," He rants

"George, I loved you and I still do. I would have done anything you asked me to, I still would. But I didn't help Fred because of you. I didn't do it for you. Not cause I was too good. I helped Fred because he's been my friend since I was 11. I helped Fred for Fred. Not for you," She explains, George sighs.

"I know. I just was in this state right? I was scared to loose you and you've always been too good for me and I just didn't know what to do. Then, Fred was getting better, and I felt empty. I wanted Fred happy and healthy of course but I'd become so used to spending all my time trying to fix things, trying to keep everyone afloat. It felt like everything stopped. Like no one needed me. I became obsessed with things I could. I couldn't fix you, I couldn't fix us, because nothing needed fixing. You were so perfect for me that I didn't need to fix it. That scared me. The more I thought about it the more I realised if I lost you, no one could fix me, I couldn't loose you but I wasn't good enough for you. It had to be me. My terms. My breakup. It was stupid, but that was I hadn't lost you I'd given you up and that was better," he explains, tears flooding her cheeks as she suddenly understands everything that's been happening for the past months.

"Georgie, you never needed to be scared. I'm not going anywhere, I promise,"

"I know. I'm sorry that I hurt you,"

"George, I love you,"

"I love you darling, more than anything," he smiles

"So another go?" she questions timidly

"If you'll have me," he nods, she grins. Hands shoving his shoulder's back to lay against the sofa, knees on either side of his waist. Her lips touch his for the first time in months and it's like they can breathe again.

They lay side by side in her bed that night, bare skin pressed to each other, holding each other as tightly as humanly possible.

"Can we stay here all day tomorrow? I just wanna lay with you," she speaks tiredly, her head on his chest

"Ron and Hermione get home from the honeymoon tomorrow," George informs, she moves her head to look at him "We have a dinner thing, looking at the wedding pictures too,"he continues

"That'll be nice. You aren't leaving my bed till the very last minute though," she decides

"You should come," he prompts, giving her a squeeze

"You really think your family won't mind?"

"Please, they love you. They'll just be glad to see we are back together,"

"We could be going as friends," She teases, he rolls his eyes

"Not to a family reunion we couldn't. Besides, I have every intention to hold your hand and kiss you the whole night so they'll probably catch on. Aside from Percy, bless him, he's socially inept,"

If we’re just friends don’t bring friends to family reunions If we’re just friends don’t bring friends to family reunions

**

Masterlist

#george wealsey x reader #george weasley #george #george x reader #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter #weasley twins #weasley

[micahscowgirl]

Bite Me ~ Chapter 6

Micah Bell x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (finally), cussing, biting kink (w/blood)

Word Count: 2550

Wow. This just happened.

Chapter 6

“What’s taking you so damn long?” 

“Quit yappin’,” you sternly bite back at Micah through the curtain. “I’m not even done trying everything on”

Micah has brought you to the tailor shop in Valentine to pick out some new clothes. You have a small pile of garments sitting on the bench and floor next to you. You wouldn’t admit to Micah, but you have already tried everything on, but are debating between a few options. 

After trying on a very different combinations of tops and pants, you finally settled on a grey, long-sleeved button up, a leather jacket, and black riding pants. You pull the curtain back and do a quick little model for Micah, fully aware of the flattering fit of the pants. 

“So, what do you think?”

“My, my,” He starts, “who’re you trying to impress, doll?” 

You shoot him a quick glance before returning to collect the clothes you didn’t want. “A lady’s got to make herself presentable, don’t you agree?”

When you turn your head towards him again, you notice him biting his bottom lip while admiring you. His hat was tilted in front of his eyes, so he didn’t realize you caught him. The sight gave you butterflies and you felt yourself throb slightly. You quickly push any thoughts that might have been making their way into your head away.

“So, uh, what do you normally do whenever the camp moves without you?” you try to make conversation.

“Well, it’s definitely not as simple as asking around. Hey Mister!” He begins to mock towards an imaginary man. “Can I bother you with a question? You see, I’ve lost my crew, most of whom have a huge criminal bounty, you wouldn’t happen to know where they headed off to, do ya now?”

This puts a grin on your face, “Well, well, Mister Bell, I never would’ve pegged you for the comedic type.”

He smiles, “Well, doll, I don’t show that side to many people.” When he makes eye contact with you, he turns away and clears his throat, “Ahem, anyway we should, uh, probably be off now.”

He pays the shopkeeper for your clothes, and walks out of the shop, leaving you to finish folding the clothes. You know you should be upset, but you’re not. You can’t help but feel sorry for him. 

I wonder why he conceals himself so much. And what makes me different from everyone else?

~~~~~~

Micah had tracked the wagon trail tp the train tracks before turning towards town that morning, so that’s where you returned to. It was a silent ride, so all you had were your thoughts. No matter how many times you tried not to, you couldn’t stop thinking of the way he looked at you in the shop. What was he thinking about? Was he simply admiring you? Or was he imagining all the things he would do to you, given the chance? 

“You ain’t falling asleep back there, are you?” He startles you out of your thoughts. Without realizing it, you had slowly started to lean onto his back, like you had slept the night before.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I was just, uh, lost in thought.” you stutter, trying to not make anything obvious.

“Oh? What were you thinking about, doll?”

Oh my God, does he know? He couldn’t know, right? Or--

“Micah? Is that you?” someone calls from up ahead. 

“Yeah, me and Y/N.”

Bill steps from behind a tree, “Camp’s right up ahead.” he says to Micah. As y’all pass him, he nods to you. “Glad you made it back safe.” After some distance is made, Micah scoffs.

“Figures.” He says.

“What?”

“They’re only glad you made it back.”

Without knowing what to say, the trot towards the camp is a silent one.

Once you arrive at camp, you begin to notice the same reaction from everyone.

“Y/N, you made it!” Arthur walks up to the horse. Micah hops off, and knowing you’re still sore from the night before turns to help you, but not before Arthur beats him to it. “Dutch was so worried about you after he sent you off to Strawberry.” You accept his help and Micah turns and walks away stubbornly off into the trees.

“I ran into some trouble up that way, thankfully Micah was there to save me,” you say, giving him the credit. Even so, it was brushed away.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” Mary-Beth chimes in, taking you by the arm and pulling you away. “Charles and Hosea said they’d hitch your tent if you made it back today.” You turn your head and get one more glimpse of Micah before he is erased by the trees. I wouldn’t be back if it wasn’t for him.

~~~~~~

The afternoon is full of celebration led by Dutch. You can’t help but feel that this is his way of hiding that he did choose to move without waiting for you or sending anyone to find you. If it wasn’t for Micah, you’d be dead or even worse. “You’re going to be my little whore.” The voice of the O'Driscol echoes in your head. 

Even though your sitting in front of a warm fire and everyone is singing and laughing, you can’t help but feel cold and sad. Micah hasn’t come back since he walked off earlier. He’s the one who saved your life and no one batted an eye for it. 

When no one is paying attention, you stand and sneak your way to behind the tents. You make your way over to the horses and Baylock is still there. For the first time all night, you felt a small smile sneak it’s way onto your face. Micah must still be here somewhere.

“Y/N,” you jump and turn to see Arthur walking towards you. “What are you doing over here? You missing all the fun!” Arthur isn’t a heavy drinker, but you can tell he’s a little more than tipsy. 

“I just needed a moment from the crowd.” You say, trying to hint at him to leave. With no prevail, you continue. “I was just going to take a small walk by myself.”

“Well, I can keep you comp’ny!” he slurs. 

Dammit, Arthur.

You have an idea. “You know, Arthur, I think Mary-Beth has quite the thing for you.” He looks intrigued. “And, coming from a women’s perspective, a nice cool night like this is quite the romantic setting. I think you could make a pretty good move tonight.” You wink. 

“You really think so?” he ponders the idea. “If you think I have a chance, maybe I’ll go for it!”

You gentle grab his arm and turn him to face the camp. “Go get’em, cowboy.” 

You sigh as he makes his way back to the camp, now to find Micah.

~~~~~~

You had made your way into the trees. Thankfully, the moon was bright tonight and you could see under the shade of the trees. Finding him shouldn’t be a problem. Your confidence grew thin the longer you looked, though. You were about to give up when you saw a small wisp of smoke glow from behind a tree. The pine needles beneath your feet made it hard for him to hear you, so you speak softly as to not startle him.

“Micah, is that you?” 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

You approach the tree he is leaning on and turn to face him. He is sitting on the ground and his head is tilted so you can’t see his eyes. You want nothing more than to see them and get lost in their deep blue color.

“What’re you doing way out here?” You know the answer, but you needed something to say.

“Same thing I always do, sweetheart. Avoiding those who despise me, which unfortunately seems to be everyone at the moment.”

After a small pause, you say, “I don’t despise you.”

He takes a long draw from his cigarette before he looks up. “And why is that? What do you see in me? ‘Cause there ain’t nothing here worth giving two shits about.”

You can’t think of anything to say that won’t set him off. You can tell he’s right on the edge of snapping.

He sighs, “That’s what I thought, there ain’t--” He stops when he sees you walking towards him.

You move so your standing over him, one foot on either side of his legs. He flicks away his cigarette and slowly runs his hands softly up your legs. Once he reached your thighs, you lower yourself to straddle him. Your heart is pounding, but you don’t want to let him see how nervous you really are. 

One of his hands stops on your hip, while the other one continues. He runs his fingers up your arm, following them with his eyes. They brush over your shoulder, onto your neck, and down your jaw. He finally makes eye-contact with you making you shiver. 

“Now what do you think you’re up to, doll.” 

You don’t respond with words. Instead, you place your hands on his chest, grab the fabric of his shirt, and lean in to kiss him. You pull away, stopping only a few inches back, just so you can look into his eyes. 

He moves one hand around your waist and the other gets lost in your hair as he pulls you in to a much deeper kiss. As his tongue enters you mouth, you begin to feel yourself throb. You’ve been hoping for this for so long and it’s finally happening. Your heart beats faster as you begin to grind against him slowly but rough.

He pulls himself away from the kiss. “Are you sure you want this? With me?”

You reach down to start undoing the buttons on your shirt. “I want this. I want you, Micah.”

You pull off your shirt and your battered undershirt, revealing your breasts. He glances at you approval before he grabs them. He leans back in to kiss you. As he moves his hands to hold your waist again, he grazes your nipple, causing you to moan into the kiss. That must’ve been what did it for him because he grabs tightly onto your hips. 

“If you want me, your gonna need to loose these,” He runs his fingers down your pants. Before you can respond, his thumb has reached down the the seam right in-between your legs. You didn’t realize how wet you had became until he started to apply pressure. You let out a small moan again. You were so sensitive from anticipation for the moment, you could hardly stand it.

He begins to rub more as he leans in to start sucking on your neck. It’s becoming too much for you; you want him so bad. You reach down, moving your hand past his to grab onto his bulge through his pants. When you do this, he bites down onto the spot he had just made on your neck, causing you to whimper. All at once, he removes his mouth from your neck and his hand from your pants. You let out a sigh, missing the sensation. 

He starts to undo his belt. Taking that as a sign, you stand to remove your pants and panties. Wasting no time, you straddle him again. 

“This is your last chance, doll, you sure you want this. I can��t promise I’ll be gentle.”

“Yes, Micah, please. I’ve been wanting this for so long.”

He smiles as he moves his hand back down, starting to run small circles or your clit. “Trust me, princess, I’ve been wanting this too.”

You lean in to kiss him again, trying to silence your moans. He slowly begins to move two fingers to enter you. You can’t hold back the whimpers escaping your throat; you crave him so much.

He continues to rub your clit with his thumb as the two fingers curl inside of you.

“P-please, Micah, I can’t take it. I want you.”

As much as he was trying to hold back as long as he could, your begs pushed him over once again. He reaches into his pants and pulls out his dick. 

“Look at me,” He says. You do as you’re told. You bite your lip as he rubs his member over your clit and entrance, wetting himself with your slick. All at once, he shoves himself into you, causing you to let out a loud moan. He reaches up and covers your mouth.

“Shhh. You don’t want the whole camp coming over here and interrupting us, do you, doll?” He hisses. You shake your head, his hand holding back muffled whimpers as you get use to his size. Once you’re quiet, he moves his hand away. “Good girl.” 

He grabs onto your hips tightly, his thumbs digging into them hard. He lifts you and slams you back onto him. Another moan tries to escape you. “I’m not going to continue until I know you can be quiet, babe.” he teases. You pout your lips at him. He smiles and tilts his head, exposing his neck from underneath his hair. You look at his neck then back at him. He grins.

“Bite me.” he says in a deep tone that you can feel in your chest, causing you to shiver and tighten on his cock that’s deep inside you. “Well?” he smirks.

You put your arms on his shoulders and place your lips on his neck. You can’t imagine actually biting him, that would hurt too much, right?

He starts to slowly lift you and thrust into you. You wants to moan so badly, but you know he’ll only stop again. You keep your lips shut tightly, keeping them pressed up against him.

He begins to thrust harder, grinding your clit against him every time. It’s too much and you open your mouth to moan, but instead bite down onto his neck. You hear him snarl and feel a growl in his throat. He speeds up, lifting you high enough each time to take in his whole shaft. He pounds into you, you feel your clit start to throb more and more and your insides tighten. 

You start to taste the metallic flavor of blood right as you tip over the edge. You can’t help it, you pull away from him to arch your back and ride through your climax. The feeling keeps getting better and better. You sense he’s lifting you lower as his arms grow tired. You begin to lift yourself, riding him until he’s finished. You feel his cock grow stiffer and begin to throb as he’s about to come.

He reaches up and grabs your hair, pulling you forward into a sloppy kiss. He reaches down and grabs your hips a final time to slam into you as hard as he can. He let’s out a deep moan through gritted teeth and he finishes, filling you up. This causes you to let out one final moan before you fall onto his chest.

“God-dammit, Y/N.” He pushes you up so he can look at you. “What the hell got into you?” 

You smile, too exhausted for words. You lean forward and lick the small drops of blood from his neck.

“You wouldn’t happen to have enough space in that tent of yours for one more, would you?” he says. He leans forward to leave a small trail of kisses up your neck and across you jaw.

“Hmm, I think I can make some room.”

#wow #micah bell #micah bell smut #smut #yummy #rdr2 #Red Dead Redemption #it's about time #yay

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,” Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.  

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.  

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?”

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

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[fleckcmscott]

Way Back Home - Chapter 11

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Summary: Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.

Chapter warning: Swearing

Words: 3,421

A/N: Lots of hugs and gratitude to @jokerownsmysoul and @iartsometimes​ for beta reading! 🤗 And a shoutout to @sweet-nothings04 for the brainstorming session that helped crack the structure of this chapter! 💜

One item was on Y/N's agenda this morning: aspirin.

Sprawled on her stomach, a flapjack of fatigue, she reached out from under the covers to feel around the nightstand. Fingertips met the familiar curve of a lamp, but the usual glass of water was missing. She hooked her pointer through the drawer pull, tugged once, twice, only to be denied. A grunt rumbled through her chest, reverberated through her throbbing skull. She flung the blanket to her waist, snailed across Arthur's side of the bed, and blinked at the clock.

2:17 PM

Oh, fuck.

A jolt went through her, sent her straight to her feet. She hadn't slumbered that late since Jeff had passed the bar, the aftermath of a blowout foisted on him by past friends and future clients. She yanked on a pair of shorts, tucked in her nightie, threw on the cardigan Arthur had worn to bed. Smoky pine paused her, the scent hidden in the hollows of his neck, the creases above his underarms, evoking the stairway and his almost unbearable tenderness. Plucking at the imitation horn buttons, she opened the door.

The TV murmured oldies from Country Music Television Network. (First in the nation with full time western swing - in stereo!) Across from the entertainment center, Arthur studied his shoes. Mabel rocked Ashley to and fro from her perch on the coffee table. She pointed at the floor with her elbow. "Put your weight on the ball of your - no, don't put your feet together."

He pivoted a quarter turn in Y/N's direction, then stopped in his tracks, a light smile at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, hey."

"Finally decided to rise and shine, sleepyhead?" Mabel laughed the laugh of a person who longed for everything to be a-okay and plunked the baby in the corner playpen. "Arthur gave strict instructions to let you hibernate. He wouldn't even let me slip you a cup of coffee. You want one now? I'll head to the kitchen and make a new pot. It's seven hours cold."

"Just microwave it," Y/N called after her, lukewarm on her heels.

Arthur snuck a toe in her path. His hands appeared to be the verge of wringing, "How are you?"

She wasn't sure, to be honest. The heightened senses of dawn conceded to the harshness of daylight, brought reality to bear. Though she believed - no, knew - that spilling her deepest secrets was the right call, it didn't make her wrongs any easier to live with. At least she could quit failing to pretend. Keep letting him in. "A little hungover and a lot tired. Did you get any rest?"

"No, but it's fine."

Given that Arthur had had to fend off Mabel and her caffeine offerings, Y/N had to assume her disclosure had been a hot topic. A questioning gaze narrowed her eyes. How much had Mabel managed to prod out of him?

As if reading Y/N's mind, Arthur put her speculation to rest. "She asked if being here made you sad and I said yes. Because of your mom and dad. That's all." He pecked her brow, the bridge of her nose, and excused himself for a shower.

She sighed. Pulling his sweater tighter around herself, she put a foot forward.

~~~~~

Mabel flipped through the contents of her closet like she was on a mission from God.

Blurs of candy apple red, ludicrous lemon, and a god-awful siren of fuchsia whipped by. Legs crossed at the knee, Y/N sat on the bed and rubbed at her aching temple. Whatever The Choice was, it'd better not lend the air of too cheap and too desperate. Resembling a dollar store mannequin she could handle; a doll from a five-and-dime she could not. "I can't believe you brought up the bar - and now I have to fit into one of your blouses." Mabel was a solid B cup; Y/N was a floppy C.

"We may be terrible at holding our liquor, but we might as well look good," Mabel said. Her first reference to the prior evening.

"You sure you want to repeat it all tonight?"

"Absolutely. Arthur's been practicing since I put the kids on the school bus." Hangers screeched along the steel closet rod. "Here we are!" Like a model on It Could Be Yours, she presented her find with a graceful curtsy.

It was an acrylic camisole, cream in color, its scalloped edges adorned with gold trim. Metallic threads weaved wavy stripes across the middle. The shoulder straps masquerading as sleeves widened Y/N's glare. "I'll spill out of this."

"Ed's got double-sided tape in the garage." Mabel threw the camisole and a matching skirt on the mattress. "I should have a pair of stilettos in here. You still an eight?"

"Seven and a half."

"Suppose you can squeeze into some sevens?"

"My sandal's'll be fine."

Mabel stretched to her tiptoes. "Let me just check the top shelf." She pushed another box to the left, revealing her Beauty Boutique sales kit, glamor in a hot pink briefcase.

A plan formed between Y/N's ears, crystallized as clearly as her caper to sneak into NCB studios. "Actually, could I take another peek at your makeup samples?"

Her sister caught herself on the doorframe. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. And if you have a curling iron, I'll do my hair."

On that remark, Mabel tossed the attaché Y/N's way and darted out the bedroom door. "I'll plug it in!"

Ears aimed towards the bathroom down the hall, Y/N popped the briefcase's latches. Pawed through sample palates. Chose gold tone eyeshadow and butter rum lipstick to keep her cover. Stuck her hand in the file pocket, rummaged until her fingers closed around a booklet. She scanned the Beauty Boutique Consultant's Handbook and paged through to the order slips and charts of commission rates. Her nail followed the row for bulk sales...

Footsteps jogged nearer. Y/N shoved the booklet in her bra, winced when the corner stabbed her left nipple.

Mabel reappeared, determination dazzling her stare. "We'll be better than mortal man deserves."

~~~~~

When Y/N had first passed beneath the neon cowboy boot - the size of a Volkswagen and humming like a bug zapper - she'd been twenty-six and fresh off moving into a nine-by-twelve room rented out by the Widow Brown, a kindly old woman who'd made Mayberry's Aunt Bea look like a party animal.

Ms. Brown frowned on late nights out, kept a dry house, and forbade gentleman callers under any circumstances. Her free time (of which there was too much) was spent in her rocking chair cross-stitching, gospel records warbling in the background on her old Victrola. Crosses covered in primrose and indigo petals, blessings and pleas for protection overflowed from her hoops and frames.

She'd taken Y/N's liberation as a hard luck story and reduced the rent by twenty-five percent. But the pity settled in Ms. Brown's wrinkles, her implorations for Y/N to give everything up to the lord, because a lovely girl like her surely wouldn't be alone for very long, had driven her to call Mabel and beg for a break. After all, who could say anything against a woman finding consolation in the company of her dear sister? Even if they got home well after dark? That call had begun a tradition that reflected like a kaleidoscope, full of the confetti of new possibilities.

The biggest difference between 1968's Rusty Spur and 1984's was the folding sign at the entrance: "Singles only mingle! $5.00 Koul-Brau pitchers, $2.00 margaritas." Specials that would no doubt lead to bad conversation and worse sex. Left hand strategically hidden in her pocket, she dropped the dollar cover charge in the collection jar and eschewed the nametag proffered by the hostess. Inched her way through the small crowd gathered inside the wooden doors.

Smoke clouded the air, twitched Y/N's nostrils, combined with the low lighting to create a dreamy haze the place hadn't quite earned. The rear wall was painted in the crisscross patterns of a barn door. Bales of hay decorated a small stage, where a cover band played bass and an acoustic guitar that was slightly out of tune, the leading lady's mezzo voice rising to the heights of rockets in flight and afternoon delights. Billiard balls clacked in the corner, where cowboys tried to impress cowgirls, and cowgirls feigned interest until their second pitcher. The bar stretched to the right, booths ran along the left, tables covered by the red and white tablecloths of cheap college dates.

A tap, tap, tap to her shoulder spun her on her kitten heel. For a split second, she prayed she hadn't been recognized again. That none of the high school acquaintances who'd asked how she could lose a catch like Jeff would now assume her move to Gotham hadn't worked out.

Arthur, wedding ring on his right ring finger and "Howdy, my name is" sticker stuck to his boyish polo shirt, shoved a name tag at her. The letters had been traced and retraced into a bold affirmation: "Y/N Itsflecknow." Snorting, she peeled away the label sheet and pressed the sticker to her left breast.

Mabel waved at them from the booth nearest the concrete dance floor. Once settled on the opposite bench, she made recommendations without browsing the menu. The shrimp cocktail was a gamble, a loss to the house being a night spent in the restroom. The onion rings were the best this side of the Mississippi, and the zucchini sticks with marinara sounded cosmopolitan enough for a city guy like Arthur. He picked corn on the cob with butter and a side of chicken fingers. It was the spread of a twelve-year old's palate. Salty, greasy, sure to be enjoyed by all.

"So let me get this straight." Mabel double-dipped a chicken finger in a mound of tangy barbeque sauce. "Arthur was in your way in the grocery store. And instead of asking him to move, you decided to ask him out."

Y/N chuckled. "Well, there were a few steps in between. But then I asked him to move in. He left me no choice after our first date, helping me into my coat and bragging about dancing."

"Where'd you learn to dance, anyway?"

"Um," Arthur said. "My mom always had the Lawrence Welk show on. I watched a lot of musicals."

"It was a substitute for phys ed here," Mabel continued. "Something light and easy for girls who had their monthly, which I had every other week to get out of gym class. I bet you were one of those kids who was too cool for school, smoking up against the wall, wearing sunglasses when it rained."

Shrugging, Arthur grinned into his ice water. "Something like that."

"Look at you, marrying a square like Y/N."

"I'm more of a cube, thank you," Y/N said. "And who'd have thought you'd marry a college boy after your crush on that dairy farmer's son. What was his name again? Seth?"

"I'll have you know Seth studied animal husbandry. He was a true gentleman. Never asked me to milk his cow or sweep the stalls." A sharp laugh escaped Arthur, a tad exaggerated. The kind that meant he'd detected innuendo but hadn't quite deciphered the naughty bits. Mabel directed a smile his way and tapped Y/N's calf with her toe. "It's too bad you didn't marry Arthur the first time. We could have made a real country boy out of him."

Y/N spoke between crunches. "We'd have to have met a decade later. He was twelve when I got married."

He nabbed a napkin to sweep away crumbs, rub at a sticky spot he'd gotten his elbow in. "Well, I would've liked knowing you. Maybe I could have helped. With what you told me earlier."

A frown set Y/N's features, a subtle downward turn of her mouth. It would have been a mere three years before Arthur took up the mantle of head of household, caring for his mother after the blackhole of her lobotomy. That he would suggest adopting that role earlier was a reminder that responsibility had been thrust on him at way too young an age. And an echo of his innate goodness.

"That would have been good for her," Mabel said, her expression a balloon that had had all the air let out of it.

"Yeah." Dimples deepened, Arthur cleaned his greasy fingers, slid out of the booth, and asked Y/N to join him. "I practiced to this song earlier."

"Go on ahead," she said. "I'll join you soon."

A light nod and he was off. The band continued to honky tonk in the background. Y/N prodded the untouched zucchini sticks, watched them go limp as they cooled.

Mabel brought the plastic pitcher of sour ale to the lip of her glass. "I'll just polish this off."

There it was again: her pattern of narrating action. When she hadn't been kidding around, she'd detailed her intentions all afternoon. An I'm going to change Ashley or I'll finish writing out bills, even an I'll make you a late lunch, an offer Y/N had declined. It was a pattern she recognized from their mother, in how Agnes had presented tea after she and Jeff had announced their plans to separate. A way to sidestep when matters of the heart were too heavy to bear.

Y/N sipped at her margarita. For all the love, admiration, adoration she had for her parents, it struck her that their family hadn't ever really acknowledged the hard times. The Harrises groused for ten seconds and got on with it, a peck to the cheek and words of encouragement at their heels. It was the story of their generation, who'd missed out on feminism and popular psychology. Who'd lived and lost through a world war.

"For your next visit," Mabel started, grabbing a straw to swirl in her beer. "We'll get you a room at Four Acre."

"Gotham has plenty of bed bugs. We don't need any souvenirs.

"It's been remodeled. New owners and everything." Bubbles climbed the striped plastic. "If there is a next visit."

"Mabel-"

"Please. If I want to sleep tonight, I need to say this." She put both palms flat on the table. "Letting you down, leaving you to do it all was stupid. I was wrong. If visiting is too much, too hard, I'll understand if you can't again."

A wave of affection overcame Y/N, powerful enough to propel her upward. She squished into the seat beside Mabel, hugged her about the shoulder. Mascara had blotted under her left eye, prompting Y/N to lick her thumb and try to wipe it away. She took her chin, guided her to meet her gaze. "I forgave you for all that a long time ago."

Mabel's face broke wide open, all teeth and pink gums. Wiping her nose, she leaned her forehead to Y/N's temple. "You always were the wiser one. Any tips on forgiving myself?"

"That'll come," Y/N whispered, a wish upon the neon star above the bar.

Three minutes later, eyes dry and stomachs growling, Mabel grabbed the last onion ring. Smoothed her hair and raised her hand to summon a waitress. But she stopped mid-wave, a target over Y/N's shoulder catching her eye. "Wow, look at him go."

One leg crossing behind the other, Arthur grapevined to the right, grapevined to the left, threw in a clap as he changed directions. Movements a mix of grace and erraticism, he rocked forward a little further, leaned back a little extra, guffawed with a toss of his head. It was as though music resided in him, possessed his body, fought his insecurities to burst forth. With the gladness animating his joints, he stood out from the jostling crowd like a robin against a dreary winter sky.

A robin that was all hers.

Two women at the bar gestured at him, giggling and gossiping, Who is this Guy grins on their faces. A fantasy he'd disclosed over late-night chamomile dawned on Y/N, a flight of fancy that'd made him flush like a schoolboy who'd met the class flirt.

This was singles night, right? They were supposed to be strangers. She'd gone undercover before. This was a role she could play.

Adjusting the elastic waistband of her borrowed skirt, she stepped nearer, positioned herself in front of the pretty young things. She cupped her palm to the side of her mouth to compete with the beat. "Hey, what's your name?"

Surprise made him momentarily motionless, but then he flashed a playful smile. "Arthur."

"Hi, Arthur. You're a wonderful dancer."

"I know."

She slipped into the empty spot beside him. Here in the second line, she was far enough out of sight to not embarrass herself. She flipped through the mental filing cabinet of steps she remembered. A stomp and a kick, a triple to the rear. Though her shuffle began as more of a drag of her feet, observing the row in front of her for cues, she quickly picked up steam. Sure, she was half a second behind everyone else, but she could feign having a complete pair of feet instead of two left for a change.

Before long, the musicians took a break and the song wound down into a heartbreaker. A scratchy LP playback of drums and pedal steel guitar, melancholy twang in the key of D.

Arthur drew closer and offered Y/N his arm. "You are pretty good at line dancing. How are you always stepping on my toes at home?"

"I count the seconds between steps and keep an eye on the people in front of me." Her hand went to his shoulder. "There's only so much I can screw up in a two-by-two square."

Laughter wrinkled the bridge of his nose. Splaying his fingers on the small of her back, he guided her a gentle sway. "I like this better."

A woman's voice enveloped them, pining for her sweet Funny Face. Lyrics of apology flamed Y/N's cheeks. She knew she'd gone bright pink, which made her blush all the more. Arms encircling his neck, she scooted nearer, her foot between his. "I'm sorry."

"I yelled, too."

"That doesn't mean being an asshole was all right. Or that-"

"Just dance with me." His fingertips whispered along the strap of her camisole.

"But you didn't deserve-"

"Y/N..." He cupped her face, held her like a bauble of blown glass, thumbs skimming a line to the apples of her cheeks. Her pulse quivered in her neck, raced until she could have sworn it had stopped. A curl brushed her forehead, gentle breath caressed her face. Though sweat flattened his hair, and the polyester of his shirt served as memory foam for stale body odor, he'd never been so beautiful. Clear green irises locked upon hers. "I wouldn't love you more if you were perfect." Then he caught her in a supple kiss.

His lips parted in a way that made her want to drink from them forever. When his tongue swept the corner of her mouth, she stood on her toes and pressed into his body, a column of inviting comfort. Now that he'd seen her, all of her, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. And with hiding no longer possible, perhaps the seed of grace he'd planted would one day blossom, allow her to heal. Heart in her throat, her grip went to his forearms, begged him to never let her go. To brighten blue rainbows and push her up hills. To find her again and again and again.

She led them to their booth, murmuring appreciation into his skin. He looked slightly puzzled, as if he'd simply done what a husband was supposed to do and therefore didn't need it. Before he could ask her to elaborate, she bent to him and stole another smooch.

But their dishes had been bussed, crumbled napkins were gone, the ketchup bottle claimed by the group seated next to them. There were no signs of Mabel, not even her purse. Just as Y/N was about to check their tab, Mabel emerged from a short hallway with bathrooms and a row of payphones, a fresh spring her step.

She clipped her coin purse shut. "I couldn't stand it anymore," she said, holding up four fingers to their waitress. The waitress nodded and headed to the bar. "I called Ed. He's gonna order a pizza and give Jason twenty bucks to watch the kids. It's our turn to make you two jealous."

~~~~~

Donna Fargo - Funny Face

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​ @rommies​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​​​  @another-day-in-chuckletown​​​ @hhandley80​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​ @rafaelbottom​​​ @ralugraphics​​​ @iartsometimes​​​ @fleckficgirl​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[comfortwriting]

Her Façade - F.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompts

Fred Weasley x Fem Hufflepuff Reader

Prompt 23: “your brother fancies me” you teased him, smirking. 

Requested/About: The reader hides behind a façade that everyone believes so easily but Fred. The two of them hook up occasionally but every time it happens, Fred swears he’ll never do it again. Ron is crushing on the reader and Fred dares him to make a move, which he does and succeeds. Fred thinks he can handle things until Ron invites the reader to the burrow for the summer, pushing Fred to his limits. 

Warnings: Jealous Fred, unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of choking, swearing, mention of Dom/Sub.

Walking out of the great hall, Fred’s eyes burned into you from head to toe, watching you laughing at some lads terrible jokes. He couldn’t stand it, the innocent act you put on like a regular part of your clothing - because you weren’t innocent, you weren’t the ‘submissive little angel’ the Hufflepuff team gloated about and Fred knew it. 

You would bat your eyes, smile slightly, laugh lightly and sway. When having sex, you would obey your partner, lay on your back and act the part of the façade you picked out for yourself  - but when it came to Fred, you did nothing of the sort. You didn’t obey him, he obeyed you, you didn’t bat your eyes, you didn’t sway - you would mount him whilst he lay down, choking him whilst you fucked him.

Fred loved spending time with you, he loved the sex, he loved anything if you were in the picture - but after each hook up, Fred left feeling guilty, swearing to himself that would be the last time the two of you merge as one - and you noticed, and truth be told, you were hurt. 

“Hey Freddie” you chirped, snatching your attention from the Ravenclaw student.

Fred turned to face you, his hands stuffed in his pockets, the conversations between other students breaking through his head and drowning out his thoughts.  

“Alright Y/N?” he replied coolly.

Shaking your head you crossed your arms “not really” you replied “why have you been avoiding me since last week? was the sex too much for you-”

Fred tried to shush you, not wanting everyone around him to hear how you dominated him “no, I’ve just been busy” he lied “the usual, joke shop ideas and stuff, look - I’ve got to go.”

Pushing past you, Fred blended into the crowd of students before you had a chance to stop him, your heart pained for a moment but you didn’t ponder on it, Fred always came back to you, you didn’t even need to ask.

Fred would rather avoid you and you hate him than you knowing the real reason why he couldn’t bare to be around you. He shook his head, trying to rid the memories of you and him -  blaming himself for the reason you changed, for your true innocence to now be nothing but fake. 

Before you met Fred, you were innocent, you were a virgin, you knew nothing about asphyxiation, edging, squirting - and he changed all of that for you.

 Instead of showing up for Quidditch practice one afternoon, you laid in Fred’s bed, staring up at him, moaning out in pleasure and holding onto him tightly whilst he took your virginity. 

“You feel amazing Freddie” you moaned out, gripping onto him tighter.

Fred grunted and continued to penetrate you “I’m not hurting you am I?”

“Not at all”

One game absence multiplied and before you knew it hooking up with the more outgoing twin became a regular thing and because you weren’t dating - the two of you also saw other people which allowed you to remain your old self with them but become someone else entirely with Fred.

Riding him, your hand fastened around Fred’s neck whilst you moved your hips in circular motions.

“you look so hot with my hand around your throat” you moaned out.

“What's up Freddie?” George asked, seeing his distressed twin barge into the common room. 

Fred shrugged and sat next to George and his younger brother Ron, “just tired” he replied. 

“Well you’ll be glad to know, Ron is finally brave enough to tell us who he’s been fancying for the past year” George smirked.

Ron rolled his eyes and nudged his brother in the arm “shut up” 

12 months ago Ron noticed you, your gorgeous face, your stunning body, the way you laughed, smiled and the tone of your voice sounded when you got excited - the way you looked in your house colours making his heart skip beats. He constantly spoke about you to his older brothers, the two of them mocking him but ever so eager to put a face with the mystery girl. 

“go on then” Fred encouraged Ron “who is it?”

“Y/N Y/L/N” he muttered.

George raised his eyebrows and let out a whistle but his twin felt his heart split in two, he felt enraged knowing his little brother had fallen for your façade - not even close to knowing the real you. 

“I heard she’s a bloody good sub”

Fred couldn’t take it anymore, hoe everyone talked about you, the image of you laying with other people splashing in front of him, knowing how everyone wanted you and there was nothing he could do to stop it because you weren't his. 

“Just go talk to her!” Fred burst out “shoot your shot, make your move” 

Ron and George gave each other a strange look, both of them unsure as to why Fred sounded and looked so angry but Ron followed his brothers advice, and by the end of the school year, Fred couldn’t wait to be back at home, as far away from you as he could be - you and Ron flirting made him sick to his stomach.

“your hair looks so good when it’s long” you blushed, pushing Ron’s hair out of his face. 

Ron smiled “well, you look so good all together”

Fred in the distance watched, grumbling to himself knowing it wasn’t right for him to say a word - he felt relieved knowing that over the summer he wouldn’t have to see or hear anymore of you and Ron together.

“just tell her how you feel, Freddie.” George encouraged his brother, sitting on his bed. 

Fred sighed “there's no point, she prefers Ron anyway”

“don’t be bloody stupid, she’ll realise how much of a plonker he is.”

“I just don’t want to make things worse”

The first week back at the burrow felt like absolute bliss for Fred up until he heard your voice ringing through the kitchen, he paused and held his breath, looking at his brother George.

“is that Y/N?” George beamed, hopping off his bed to his feet, leaving the room and running down the stairs.

Fred took a deep breath and pursed his lips, also getting to his feet and leaving the bedroom, he walked down the many flights of stairs and down to the kitchen. 

“It’s so lovely to meet you.” you smiled at Molly, accepting a warm and loving hug from her. 

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like dear, Ron has told us so much about you” 

Ron smiled and offered to give you a tour of the house and show you to his bedroom, Fred stared at you, his heart pining for you and aching in desperation to break free and hold you but the more he stared, the more infuriated he grew over his little brother having you.

You stay at the burrow went fast, in fact they had been the fastest three weeks of your life. You loved the atmosphere of the house, helping Molly cook, getting to know Arthur and his obsession with muggles, getting to know all of the family was an honour; you felt quite sad knowing that tomorrow you were going back home.

As much as you liked Ron, you couldn’t help but notice the lack of chemistry, he made you laugh, he made you blush and had lots to keep you engaged in conversation - but he didn’t really know you, like everyone else but Fred, you felt like you couldn’t be your true self around him. 

Over the dinner table you kept flashing looks at Fred, smirking at him, winking, running your foot against his leg under the table - anything to get his attention you had been deprived of for over a month now. 

Fred shuffled in his chair, clearing his throat and trying to contain himself, flashing looks of annoyance over at you, earning a grin from George who knew how much the tension had grown between you, how much it had been rising to the surface.

Sitting outside next to Ron in the garden in front of the outdoor fire, you sipped on Molly’s delicious hot chocolate which engulfed your insides in warmth, the sugar rushing to your head. Fred watched and chewed on his bottom lip in frustration at the sight of Ron making you laugh, he balled his hands into fists. 

“I think I’m going to call it a night” you beamed “got a busy day tomorrow”

Everyone waved and said goodnight, Fred stood up and said he needed to get his scarf as it was getting quite cold. 

Walking up the stairs, Fred followed you as silently as he could, walking into Ron’s room you picked up your belongings and turned around to shove them into your bag, bumping into Fred. 

“Do you mind?!” you hissed, clutching your chest.

Fred stared at you and scoffed “I could ask you the same thing”

Pushing past him, you stuffed your belongings in your bag “you’ve been acting as if I don’t exist Fred” 

“because you’re a liar, all you do is trick people, acting like you’re innocent when you’re not - you’ve roped my little brother into it!” Fred sounded more furious than ever.

Sighing, you zipped your bag shut and faced the lad your heart ached for “I don’t lie or trick people, I just don’t share every part of me with them.” You defended yourself “why do you care Freddie? why now?” 

“You wouldn’t understand” Fred started to pace around his brothers room, his hands stuck to his forehead. 

“your brother fancies me” you teased him, smirking.

Fred lost it, the desperation and hunger gleamed in his eyes, storming over to you, he pushed you against the wall and smashed his lips against yours. His tongue dragged across your bottom lip and you opened up your mouth, his tongue dancing with yours, his silky saliva pooling into your mouth. 

Letting out a moan, Fred’s hands went underneath your top, his long fingers fumbling with your bra strap and undoing it whilst your hands worked on getting him out of his trousers. 

Melting into his touch, you could feel yourself getting wet through your knickers and noticed Fred’s hard on poking through his trousers.

Pulling away from the kiss and pulling your shirt off, the two of you undressing one another, Fred lead you over to his little brothers bed, his hands gripping you by the hair. 

“do you want to know why I care?” he growled, bending you over the bed. 

You could feel yourself getting wet, the excitement fluttering in your tummy “yes Freddie, tell me.”

Fred kicked your legs apart, his free hand applying lube to his hard length and your desperate entrance he missed so much.

“I care because I’m in love with you” he finally confessed, lining his hard cock against your entrance “it infuriates me knowing that you pretend to be something you’re not to please other people you fuck, hearing them gloat about it riles me up, you’re fucking mine.” 

Fred slammed himself inside you without warning, causing you to yelp out in both pleasure and surprise, you missed the feeling of him inside of you, the way he filled you all the way, never making you feel empty.

“then make me yours Freddie, because I’m in love with you too”

Fred felt his heart skip a beat, all he ever wanted was now underneath him, telling him something he thought he wouldn’t ever hear. 

Continuing to slam inside of you, your juices coated his cock and his grip on your hair tightened. 

“I’ll make you mine” he growled lowly “cum deep inside of you and get you pregnant”

You moaned out, pushing yourself back against him so he could get deeper inside of you, your moans muffled against the bedsheets “I want to feel you shoot your load inside of me so bad.”

Fred started to pick up the pace, fucking you faster, his cock now shiny from your juices, the sound of him slapping against you filling the room.

“I will Y/N, everyone will know and you won’t be able to hide it.”

You moaned out even more, gripping onto the bed, your cunt wet and your walls tightening around his glossy hard cock.

“No one else will be able to go near you” Fred grunted “fuck... I’ll have you right where I want you”

As your walls continued to tighten around Fred’s length, his cock couldn’t stop twitching inside of you - the two of you getting closer and closer, being this close after so long apart, it finally filled the holes in your hearts.

“Freddie, I’m cumming!”

Fred smirked and pounded you faster “come for me Y/N, get yourself ready for my seed.”

The tension in your stomach built up and finally burst, your cum seeping out all over his cock, Fred watched and pushed himself deeper inside of you, releasing his seed.

Fred waited for a moment, the two of you cooking down and letting his load embed inside you to avoid any spillage.

Pulling out, you instantly felt empty and already missed him being inside you, Fred laid on the bed and pulled you into his arms, placing a loving kiss on your forehead.

“I meant everything, well, the I love you part.” He said softly, stroking your hair.

“Me too, Freddie. I want to be with you.”

Fred smiled and placed his hand against your cheek “me too.”

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @inglourious-imagines @reeophidian @alwaysnforeverfangirl

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #george weasley #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley fanfiction #George Weasley one shot #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter fanfic

[somedrunkpirate]

learn the dead | Arthur/Eames

Read here on ao3 or continue below Tags: Presumed Dead, First Time, Angst with a happy ending, pining Rating: T Wordcount: 5,4k 

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

Everything checks out. 

The hospital records, the police report, even the fucking local news because, to quote scruffy looking anchor, with a stutter no less, “There has— sn’t been an lethal acc—sident for over ten years on this s—street.” 

The information is bare-bones, but that isn’t remarkable for an open and shut case like this: drunk driver meets tree trunk. Happens a thousand times a year, and will continue to happen whether you make a fuss out of it or not. Write down the licence plate, try (and fail) to inform relatives, do the paperwork and get home on time for dinner for once. Simple as pie. 

Except. Except Arthur wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have driven drunk. His stick reaches too far up his ass to do something so utterly reckless in reality. 

That thought is what had spurred Eames to begin his search— there had to be something, anything, that could explain the whole bullshit situation. Even if that something is a hit, covered up like an accident. Then at least Eames would have some to blame— Someone to kill. 

But everything checks out. 

Even that initial discrepancy. Arthur couldn’t have been drunk, but after many phone calls and bribes, Eames had learned what Arthur could have been. 

He could have been high. 

His last job had been an experimental trial. Not with a chemist Eames knew. An academic who had shit his pants when Eames barged in with a smile as sharp as a knife— and a knife in his hand, of course. Wouldn’t do to be less than intimidating in this case. The chemist had spluttered into a rant Eames had understood half of, so he’d called Yusuf and held the phone up without responding to the cursing at being awoken in the middle of the night. But he’d caught on quickly, started to ask questions Eames wouldn’t have thought to ask. Then more, sharper. With a hiss.  

“What is he saying?” Eames had asked, after the chemist had run out of breath. 

“Eames—“ 

The way Yusuf sounded, a sigh more than an utterance. The tone of his voice as it tried to fold in pity— badly. Yusuf was never quite made for compassion. Though the attempt had been enough to haunt Eames’ nightmares since. 

“Eames. He’s dead.” 

The confirmation had come without fanfare in the end. Eames didn’t even kill the chemist, after. It hadn’t been his fault that the mix Arthur had taken voluntarily turned out to suppress reflexes when tired. Not tired as they would call it— after a rush job, when exhaustion nipped at your heels. Just tired; about to drink a cup of coffee tired. Arthur probably hadn’t even felt any different until it was too late. But it had been raining, and he’d been driving for more than six hours. It was no one’s fault that Arthur had lost control over the vehicle just in front of the only tree in a three mile radius.There had been a rabbit flattened between the car and the bark. He’d probably been trying to save it. 

A fucking rabbit. 

Eames had hung up on Yusuf without a word. It had been the last time he’d spoken to anyone for a long time. 

Except that isn’t quite true. 

“Well, darling, you’ve gotten me in quite a pickle.” 

The grave doesn’t respond. It never does. 

— — — — —

If someone had told him that his reaction to Arthur’s death would be to stand before his grave every day for a month straight, he'd have laughed his lungs out of his chest. 

It would’ve been sad, of course, to see such a talented colleague go. He might even have gone on a bender for a week— drinking away the sorrows that come with a lost acquaintance— maybe a friend. But he’d have better things to do than indulge himself for longer than that. He’d been indulging himself with Arthur for far too long, and death should have been the end to it. 

Because he had been thinking about it, sometimes, when he was feeling fanciful. You would have had to be blind not to see the chemistry. The push and pull that led to delicious flirtation — as much as Arthur wanted to deny it — and even more delicious dreamsharing. They made each other better and that was honestly the only thing Eames ever looked for, when, if ever, he thought about that nebulous concept of ‘settling down’. 

So yes, there would be something more to losing Arthur. Eames had known even then. It was losing that slight hint of potential. Though that is always a treacherous word. 

Because he never truly believed he’d make it that far— not just with Arthur, who would’ve laughed even harder if Eames were ever to confess his vague future plans for them — but with life in general. Why plan for something that would be cut short anyway? Even if Arthur could be persuaded to make something out of the spark between them, it would’ve been cruel to do so. Eames knew himself well. He wouldn’t have stopped taking risks, stop wanting more-- craving freedom like a drug. The idea to set Arthur up for inevitable heartbreak had been enough to avoid thinking about practical steps. A fantasy was fine. Eames got paid to live in them. He didn’t get paid for reality. 

So, Arthur’s death would of course be sad. But it shouldn’t have been more than another scar on his back— the punishment of the trade he chose, along with a whisper of nostalgia at losing a construct of his imagination. Even he wouldn’t have had the heart to keep the fantasy of a dead man alive for his own entertainment. A week, a few drinks, and it should’ve been over. 

It shouldn’t have destroyed him. 

“I just never thought I’d be the one left behind, darling,” Eames says to the wet dirt below him. It feels off to tell the headstone itself— the name is fake. Aaron Fister. Arthur had thrown a knife past his head when Eames had shown him the forged papers. To say he regrets the joke now is an understatement. 

“In all fairness, it should’ve been you here, it would make more sense for you to fall in love with me, once I’m not there to bother you anymore. Absentia makes the heart go fonder, hmm?” 

The dirt seems to be judging him. It’s good that some things never change. 

“I know— I know it's hypocritical. I didn’t even— I didn’t even love you. It was just a game. A fun thing to theorise about when the goings got tough. Would you be as snappish if we lived together? Would you forgive me faster if I sucked you off? Would you kiss me goodbye in the airport?” Eames stops himself, and rubs a hand over his face, groaning. “It’s humiliating, darling. I should’ve just gotten off at the thought of you like half of the dreamshare community was doing. Hand on or in their whatever and imagine you moaning next to them. But I had to be pathetic about it. Though this is reaching new heights, I must say.” 

He leaves, abruptly sick of himself. He comes back the next day, as always. 

Some days, though, Eames doesn’t devolve into confessions that make the little old ladies passing by their lost friend’s grave raise their eyebrows and linger by a random grave to listen anyway. 

Some days, Eames is angry. 

The first time, he breaks his toe in the process. 

“You bloody cunt!” He’s aware that he’s shouting, but he doesn’t stop. “Never experiment alone! Isn’t that what you fucking say to the newbies? You need someone to be a baseline. Someone who can bring you home safe. You fuck. Why didn’t you call me. Why didn’t you fucking—“ 

Kicking the gravestone had not been his best idea, but the pain of it brings a rush of satisfaction. There is— so much, inside of him. Eames is drowning in it, and the throb in his feet cuts right through it. Clarity. He kicks again. 

“You fucking bastard.” 

The old ladies have gone from curious to concerned now. Eames hobbles away, hissing, before he gets a restraining order on a grave. 

The next day he’s back, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and finds himself apologising. 

“I know— I never made it quite clear that you could call me, for stuff like that. That I would pick up. Maybe I wouldn’t have. Or no, I would have, but I might not have bothered for that. The jobs— I knew how to handle you on the job. But outside of that. I don’t think I would’ve had the courage. I wouldn’t think that way then, of course. Convince myself that I’m above errand runs like that. Throw you a bone recommending some up and coming kid I knew or something— intern type, for all that we have those here. But I don’t think I would’ve come. So it isn’t your fault. You made a mistake, not getting back-up, but it isn’t your fault. You didn’t know you had any. And I didn’t dare to believe I could be yours. That you would let me. That it wouldn’t end in disaster.” 

Eames leans against the cold stone and sighs. “’Suppose it has, already. Would’ve been too good to have it end any other way.” 

— — — — —

When Eames isn’t in a graveyard, or in a bar, he’s in the warehouse. 

It had felt too… personal, to get a hotel room for this. To do his research in a living room, as opposed to the dreary, dusty and echoey spaces where most of their professional relationship had flourished. It’s too big for a one-man job, but Eames had managed to fill it up anyway. Boxes upon boxes of information, any trace of Arthur he could find. Every email, record, police report, college paper— printed and archived. Eames can find his way through the documents blind and drunk. Arthur has taken over every nook and cranny of the warehouse— and every nook and cranny of Eames’ mind. Eames has read everything, twice over. 

If Arthur had been alive to know, he would’ve killed him. 

Because Arthur had always been a private person, for all that he pries in the lives of clients and collaborators both. He was the one who asked the questions and rarely answered them. It had always been a luxury— a rare reward, to be thrown a scrap of information. He’d always said something with that slight subtle smile, like he knew the power his breadcrumbs of personal life held over others. Everyone ravenous for more intel on one of the greatest pointmen of their generation. 

How horrible is it then to revel in the mountains of information that Eames had been able to gather after his death. He’d always known he’d had enough pull to find something, and after the inception job he’d had more than enough cash to buy the rest. But he’d never done it; at first because of the wrath that would quickly follow. Then because he’d known it would tarnish Arthur’s trust in him— something he’d wanted to protect at all costs. And then lastly — but maybe from the start — because it was so much more thrilling to learn bit by bit, piece by piece. To earn his knowledge of Arthur, and to ensure that his curiosity would never run out. He’d become slightly addicted to the feeling. 

But now, with no one left to tell, it had only taken the excuse of the suspicious circumstances of his death for Eames to turn into the hoarder he’d always known he could be. It had gotten to a point where new packages arrived every so often— criminals even beyond dreamshare having caught wind of an individual willing to invest heavily on any information. Someone had even hacked the pentagon to get classified documents. From the message on the box, the hacker thought they were helping a spy of some kind. Eames had sent him enough bitcoin to blow wind in the direction of that particular fire hearth of urban legend. He’d rather have people think there is a whole network of people digging into this, than anyone realising it’s in truth only one pathetic man. 

So Eames drinks. Eames talks to a grave. And Eames reads. It only takes him two boxes until Arthur makes him laugh for the first time since the car crash. It was due to a spirited essay on the importance of open source information that was clearly written to spite the professor leading the course, who’d been forced to give it an A+ regardless. Eames had chuckled, imagining the self-righteous satisfaction of this young Arthur as he got his grade back, and then began crying. Not to grieve the loss of a future he hadn’t realised how much he wanted, as is his wont, these days. But from the unfairness of it all. That a person like this, who had so much to say in this world, should’ve been taken so early, and in such a meaningless way. 

Arthur would’ve denied it, but Eames knows he’d only be content with a death from sacrifice . He’d shown that side of him clearly when he jumped into Cobb’s mess headfirst and without hesitation. If Arthur had died from a bullet taken for Cobb, Ariadne, or maybe even Eames, he would’ve been at peace— or as much as you can while bleeding out. 

Eames had known that, but as he learns more and more of Arthur, he realises how true it is. How, despite everything, Arthur cannot stop himself from being a silent hero. There are so many instances where Arthur, behind the screens, helps someone. Whether it was connecting the right people to each other under the mum of a potential project, or taking jobs way below his pay grade because he sympathised with the client, Arthur did not let their line of work destroy the possibility to be kind, every once in a while. 

It’s not like he advertised it. He didn’t do it in a way people would recognize his actions— which was smart, as it could be seen as a weakness in their circles. But whenever the chance came along, even if it was to his own detriment, Arthur chose the rough road home if it would ease someone else’s way. 

And this, Eames realises, is the secret to his competency. All other pointmen are expert researchers through and through, but no one had the reach Arthur had. Arthur knew everything, and if he didn’t know, he knew someone who knew— and most importantly, someone who would tell him. Eames doesn’t even know if Arthur ever realised that it was his kindesses, in and out the community, which led him into such a position of power. His actions are too random and inconsistent to be a strategic scheme to build an empire. Some of his biggest successes are results of a nicety five or ten years ago, something that he might have forgotten doing, but the people receiving it definitely haven’t. 

On the surface Arthur had been known as cool and effective— someone with a distance to the rest of the world that resulted in a highly detailed overview of any situation, even if it brought a side of professionalism to even the most informal of interactions. The people who witnessed a more casual side of him were few and far in between, but even those came away with the impression that to Arthur, doing the job in the best way possible was the only drive to his actions. 

No one had seen every little thing he did that had no other reason at all besides that he could do them for someone.

Eames maps out everything on the walls of the warehouse. And when he stands back to take it all in, he realises that more than anyone, the person Arthur had silently helped was him. 

Everything he’d done for Cobb had been grand and obvious, but more out of loyalty to Mal and her children than kindness without any other motivation. And Ariadne’s training had been as much for the inception job than for herself— maybe introducing her to the life hadn’t been a kindness at all. Continuing after could be seen as one, even if you could argue that her honing her raw talent would directly result in better and more stable dreams in later jobs. 

But Eames— what Arthur had done for Eames—

Eames can’t think of a single reason besides just being plain nice. 

Because it hadn’t been like he needed to. Eames had made him very clear that he’d be down for almost any job Arthur put in front of him. Just him being himself had always been enough, he didn’t need to do him any favours to persuade him like everyone else did.

And maybe Arthur had gotten the memo, because he’d done Eames favours without ever telling him, and those you can’t pay back. Eames had no idea the reason he got out of that trouble in Chicago was because Arthur bailed him out— it was presented to him as a procedure mistake. And then there was the Telula job, with an extractor-architect team Eames had wanted to work with for ages, but the chemist they’d been looking to hire was someone from Eames’ not so smooth first years of dream-share and he’d almost cut out of the job to not be forced to confront that past. That was until the chemist suddenly dropped out with an offer he couldn’t refuse— an offer Arthur had been behind. 

There were so many things like that. Little things, small things— warehouses next to Eames’ favourite restaurants; nuggets of information given anonymously through the channels of dreamshare gossip to hit Eames’ ears right on time before a betrayal; a job a week delayed because of Eames’ mother’s funeral. 

It’s not like Eames had been the only one, but he was by far the most frequent of all of them. More and more so over the years, like Arthur had been finding more reasons to be nice to him, while Eames had still been stuck in his pathetic imaginations, blind to what was already in front of him. 

A friendship. 

He’d been so preoccupied with his own flights of fancy, that he only realises how close they had been all this time until it was too late to experience it. Too late to thank Arthur for everything he’s done. 

The agony of it— the longing. His heart thundering with the sudden need to have Arthur in his arms, alive and real and—

“Oh god. I love him.” 

Eames drinks until he can’t remember. He manages to avoid the grave for a little while, but he doesn’t last long. Inevitably he’s pulled back to the grave yard, whiskey in hand, ready to talk to the love he lost again. 

— — — — —

His cemetery  routine— because he has one of those now — is usually to be at the grave around noon. Late enough to roll out of bed reasonably comfortably after a long night of drinking and/or reading, but early enough for there to be time left to check the new documents coming along and pay the right people before they send thugs to his hideout. 

But this time the afternoon light shines golden over the rows and rows of headstones and Eames shivers in the Autumn breeze. The old ladies are all dressed in fur coats. He recognizes some of them, and wonders if they noticed he was gone. None of them greet him as he passes, so he assumes not. 

Eames takes another sip of his bottle, allowing his feet to lead him over the familiar path up the hill, and then he drops his bottle all together. 

A man is standing before the grave. 

Tall, hunched a little in the wind. Long coat and thick black beanie. Nondescript. Anonymous. 

He does not turn as Eames nears. 

“You’re late.” 

Eames’ hand is on his gun at the first syllable, but before he can put it on his temple a leather gloved hand snatches it from his fingers. The clip ejects with a decisive click. 

Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. “Don’t be dramatic. We don’t need a scene.” 

His face— a little gaunt. His eyes— tense, intent, darker than they should be. Eames doesn’t recognize the coat. But he’s there, pressed in close to hide the gun between their bodies. His breath— warm, hits Eames’ cheek. It isn’t— It can’t. He can’t be breathing because he’s—

Eames squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of metal against the palm of his hand, the smell of gunpowder. 

A sigh falls between them. “It won’t work. This isn’t a dream, Eames.” 

The hell it isn’t. “Experimental somacin, three levels.” 

Raised eyebrows shouldn’t be audible only through speech. “Do you remember how you got here?” 

Eames opens his eyes and says, “Deep immersion dream.” 

Arthur huffs at that. “Do you really think they’ve been keeping you under for years? Fine. When have you last lost memories?” 

Oh, that’s easy. “Two days ago.” 

There is a pause, and Eames hates the fact that he can see the exact moment of tension in Arthur’s jaw that signals him suppressing a question. It’s too detailed, too precise, too re—

“Later,” Arthur murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. Like later is a given between them. He seems frustrated. His eyes keep flicking to the side and his hand hovers near Eames’ arm, like he’s trying to keep himself from hurrying Eames along and is annoyed that Eames is stalling them. 

“I’m sorry darling,’” Eames drawls, “but in case it has escaped your notice: we are having this discussion on your fucking grave, so forgive me for being reasonably sceptical about the reality of this situation.” 

Arthur breathes out a deep sigh, clenched teeth. “Eames, think about it, is there any forger you know capable of forging me in a way you can’t see through it? Or for that matter, is there anyone who would dare to try steal from the fucking person who invented the craft?” 

No. The answer is no. It hits Eames with a muffled weight. He wonders what his face is doing, but whatever it is, Arthur responds to it with a curt nod. It suddenly strikes Eames as absurdly hilarious, in the way only the most traumatic experiences can. 

“You know, complimenting me really doesn’t help with the reality argument. Never mind doing it twice. Death changed you, darling.” 

Arthur stills in the middle of putting the clip back in Eames’ gun. There is the slightest flicker of his lips, and he huffs. “Maybe it did— can I trust you not to shoot yourself the moment I hand this back?” 

“Come on now Arthur,” Eames says, “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

And there— there it is. Arthur rolls his eyes as he presses the gun into Eames’ waiting hands, and a part of Eames’ breaks with it. Still muffled, still numb, but something is lumbering closer. He can almost hear its laboured breaths. 

“There you are,” Eames says, smiling. “You don’t know how much I missed that.” 

It is a miracle he doesn’t choke on the words. 

“Glad to be remembered for something,” Arthur is saying, and now he’s pushing Eames— gently but with intent, away from the grave. “And I’d like to keep it that way, so we need to talk before your insatiable curiosity ruins everything I worked for.” 

Eames doesn’t know if it's the words, or the press of Arthur’s hand against his back— barely sensable beneath all the layers but even the slightest hint of pressure sets him alight— but all at once everything falls into place. 

“You faked your death.” 

“Have you always been this slow on the uptake?” 

Eames barely hears him. Reality is roaring and there is space for nothing else. Arthur isn’t dead. Arthur isn’t dead. They’re standing on Arthur’s grave— an empty grave. A lie. A trick. He’s been fooled because Arthur isn’t dead, he’s right here. He’s touching him because he isn’t— 

Arthur isn’t. He isn’t. 

He’s alive. 

Eames doesn’t say anything the rest of the way to wherever. If Arthur speaks, he doesn’t strain to listen. Because Arthur isn’t dead and if he hears anything at all he’s either going to scream or kick the shit out of him just like he did on that stupid fucking grave— just to check that this one isn’t made of stone but flesh and blood and he is alive.

His fists hurt from clenching by the time they enter a hotel room. Something of the turmoil must have reached Arthur because he’s gone quiet. The roar lets off the very moment the door clicks closed and Arthur stands before it, uncertain, almost as if he regrets closing off his only exit. His expression is one Eames knows very well— preparing himself for a fight he saw coming too late. But he isn’t reaching for his gun. He just stands there. 

He’s just waiting to take it. 

Eames kisses him. 

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s—

A heartbeat feels more real when it’s underneath your lips. A pulse against a jaw— up, up to feel breath against breath. To hear the rush of it— a hitch of— of surprise. 

Strength— dead people don’t have strength and Arthur is pushing him so he can’t be dead. 

“Eames—“ 

Alive, alive, alive. 

“Eames! Wait!” 

Eames pushes closer. He places his forehead against Arthur’s, presses them both against the door. Arthur isn’t pushing him away anymore but his hands are still on his chest. Eames wonders if he can feel the beat of his heart. He hopes, quietly insane for a moment, that Arthur will never forget to make his heart beat as long as he is feeling one. As long as he’s given an example on how to live. 

“Eames,” Arthur says. A word, a question, a name. All in one. His eyes are wide. Breathing heavy— breathing, breathing, breathing— and he’s flushed. Sharp cheekbones stained red. Lips wet. 

Eames’ hands move of their own accord and cradle each side of Arthur’s face. 

“Let me, darling. Just let me.” 

Arthur breathes again. 

Eames trembles, trying to hold himself back. Trying to breathe. But one more moment and he will collapse and he can’t— he can’t risk it. He can’t risk losing another chance. He needs this as much as he needs Arthur to be alive. He needs to stop regretting not having done this when he could and now he can again and how can he let this undeserved second chance slip through his fingers. He has to. Please. He has to. 

Arthur’s mouth falls open. “Eames. Eames, it’s okay. You don’t have to— You don’t have to beg. It’s okay.” 

“Let me, Arthur,” Eames repeats, “Let me.” 

Arthur lets him. 

Arthur lets him do everything. 

— — — — —

It’s after when Arthur whispers, “I didn’t know.” 

His head is on Eames chest, moving ever so slightly when he breathes. In and out. Eames has his fingers tangled in his hair. The strands slip away when Arthur turns around to look up at him. 

“I didn’t know,” he says again. There is a rasp in his voice and his eyes are wet. Eames has never been apologised to like this before. Arthur sounds as if he believes sorry would be an insult, the word too small to encompass his regret. There is guilt there, in the flush of his cheeks, and the way he can’t seem to hold eye contact. His pupils flickering, microscopic twitches of shame. 

Sometimes he’d dream of this. Arthur’s return. A fantasy, a different one, yet still addictive like a drug. He’d expected to be angry, to want to spill his pain onto Arthur’s feet and watch him try and walk through it; burn in it. A stimulation of the magmatic life Eames has been living since his death. 

But now, face to face with an Arthur who is alive, Eames doesn’t want any of it. 

So he leans down, and kisses Arthur on the forehead, like a benediction, trying to extract the regret from his face. And he tells him, honest in a way he’s learned to be in the last scant weeks, “I didn’t either, darling.” 

Arthur doesn’t relax, but there is something about his misery that is easily pushed to the side for curiosity. 

Eames smiles at him and continues. “You were— you were a fantasy. A what if. Something amusing to think of when I was bored, or something  life saving to dive into when reality drew a knife and stabbed me with it— literally, sometimes. But it was always a fantasy. An escape. It— it couldn’t have become real, if you’d given it a chance back then.” Eames takes a breath, shakes his head. 

Arthur reaches up with a hand, frowning, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“But the trouble is, darling, it is incredibly hard not to fall in love with you the more I learn about you.” Eames smiles under his finger tips. “That is what changed. You never let me learn you. But who is to stop anyone from learning the dead?” 

Something flickers over Arthur’s face— guilt, again, but different. “I didn’t know you wanted to learn about me— I thought you only gave a fuck about what I could be for you.” 

Eames lays his hand over Arthur’s. “You’re right. I was blind— too blinded by the possibilities and too selfish to do anything about it. Maybe I needed to lose you in order to learn how to see .” 

“No— No I should’ve,” Arthur shakes his head sharply. “I should have told you. There would’ve been another way without— How long have you been drinking?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to darling.”

“Eames.” 

Arthur takes his hand off and moves off of Eames’ chest, sitting up straight. Eames follows him, struck by a sudden vision of Arthur slipping out of bed— out of his life, dogged by misplaced guilt and regret. He curls his hands around Arthur’s wrists, as gently as he can. Don’t trap him. Don’t chase him away. 

“No. It’s fine. We’re fine,” Eames hurries to say. “Why would you tell me? I was a colleague at best, bane of your existence at worst. I had— I have no right—“ 

“I should have told you because I did know you,” Arthur interrupts him. “I was supposed to know. You said possibilities? I am supposed to be the one who sees them— all of them. I’m the one who has to prepare for all scenarios, know the players, do the research and put the pieces together. That is what I do, Eames. And I missed something.” Arthur takes a shuddering breath, looking forlorn and tired. “I’m so sorry for missing the most important part.” 

“You can’t apologise for missing something that wasn’t even really there yet.” 

“Yes, I can. I’m sorry for missing our potential. For underestimating us. Underestimating you.” Arthur laughs. “I’m so fucking stupid. I thought you kept searching for me out of— curiosity. Or that I fucked up, left a trail somewhere and you wanted to prove to me that you found it, you figured it out. Fuck. I never thought it was because you missed me.” 

“I did,” Eames says, and it almost chokes him. “Every day.” 

Arthur looks at him then, eyes flicking to the side, his hair covering half of his face, but his smile is visible. “You know, I did too. That’s why I knew you were looking for me. Kept tabs on you, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.” 

Eames swallows at the sight— at the hope it instills in him. Arthur let him, yes. It could have been a kindness. But this smile, shy and bashful, and the words that follow it. Maybe potential comes in twos. “I didn’t keep looking because I missed you,” Eames tells him, because he has no time for secrets anymore, no time for regret, for either of them. “I kept looking because I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t bear it. Darling.” Eames slips his hands from Arthur’s wrists and puts them on either side of Arthur’s face instead, bracketing the smile. “You’re my future. You couldn’t be dead.” 

“I’m not,” Arthur tells him, like a confession of his own. “I’m not dead, Eames.” 

“Good.” Eames pulls him in closer, and Arthur lets him. He lets him trace the smile with his thumbs, lets him breathe close against his mouth and whisper, “Next time darling, when decide to you kill yourself. Kill me too.”  

The grin that blooms doesn’t fit between Eames’ fingers, so he kisses Arthur instead. Deep, possessive. Loving. Arthur lets him, and he never stops. 

#arthur/eames #fanfiction #fanfic #inception #inception fic #inception fic rec #arthur/eames fic #dreamhusbands #dreamhusbands fic #im back to writing? #honestly from all the wips and ideas that i have #no clue why this one ended up being the first #but i like how it turned out

[alby-rei]

Piano Heist (Arthur x MC)

a/n: In which MC can’t resist the urge to steal Mozart’s piano, and Arthur pays for it. 

[Characters]: MC, Arthur, Mozart, and Theo

[Genre]: Comedy with a hint of pining  

[Warning]: One Very Angry Austrian None

~*~

Do you ever get that feeling…?

When the more forbidden something is, the more you really want it?

When all logic and reason tell you to look away, to let go of your inner desires?

What I’m referring to, of course, is the desire to play on Mozart’s precious fortepiano.

Every time I walked by his room, and the sound of his elegant performance drifted through the hallway, I could feel my fingers twitch at the thought of doing the same. And today was no different.

Mozart was out to rehearse with his orchestra, and I was in charge of cleaning his piano room.

Okay, more like I appointed myself in charge of cleaning his piano room.

The more I darted around the magnificent instrument that sat proudly in the middle of the secluded room, the more my mind began to swarm with plans to steal it, to take it for myself. No other piano has made me feel this way…

…except maybe the modern Steinway, but that wasn’t invented yet… 

I circled the piano, shifting my gaze between it and the door. I carefully walked towards the open door that led to the hallway. I leaned against the door frame to scan the hall for any signs of vampiric presence.

None. My mind was set. 

I’m stealing Mozart’s fortepiano.

I looked down at the legs of the piano. It looked like wheels were installed.

Must’ve been recent, perfect! 

I unlocked them, moving behind the piano to start pushing it towards the door. I struggled with the sheer mass of it, but I kept going. I wasn’t going to back out now.

I had about half of it through the double doors barely; it was a tight fit. I winced every time any edge of the piano made even a hint of a scraping sound.

Just then, I heard a low whistle rightward outside of the door. A mop of blue hair peaked inside. Identical blue eyes narrowed with a mischievous grin to match. All the telltale signs of one curious Arthur Conan Doyle.

“What do we have here, luv?”

I brought the piano to an abrupt halt and stood leaning on it casually. 

“…Nothing.”  

“Well, it seems to me a lot like you’re trying to snatch Wolfie’s piano.”

I stared long and hard back at his keen azure eyes, my position unchanging.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

He flinched. His grin melted off of his face into something between a grimace and a pout.

“MC!!” He whined, “You know I don’t like being compared to that woman-hating bloke.”

“Shhhhhh!” I attempted to hush discretely and assertively. I paused, on the lookout for any signs of more vampiric movement.  

None.

I rolled my eyes at his insistent snickering.

“I am taking this piano for myself, now are you going to help me, or do I have to eliminate you first?”

“Eliminate me? Last I checked, I won our last bet, and you owe me a favor.”

“You cheated! I called out your loophole and you still haven’t paid up for that.”

“…alright, dove, I’ll relent this time, but I’m not back down from my favor rights.”

The thought of Mozart’s absolutely livid expression when he finds out about this was an utter delight to the resident troublemaker.

“Oi!” I glared at the sudden feeling of contact from a gloved hand, swatting the offensive hand away.

“You’re not getting any favor until this mission is completed, Sir Arthur.”

“Alright, alright. Just don’t call me Sir again. It’s much too formal for us, pretty bird.”

Arthur proceeded to push the piano, flashing a practiced flirty wink to me.

I could not roll my eyes any further back than I already did. This man never rests, does he? Not that I minded.

Not that I would ever admit to him that I did not, in fact, mind it.

‘Focus. Piano. Mine. First.’

“Where are we taking this to anyways?”

“Your room,” I answered instantly, “Duh.”

~*~

It was a long day at rehearsal. Mozart’s entire body ached from standing, conducting, yelling, and just being out in public in general. He rubbed his temples insistently on his carriage ride home with Jean, praying he could just be in his piano room at last.

Arriving after sundown, Mozart made a beeline for his room to change clothes, then to his sacred piano room. He had a stack of sheet music tucked under his arm, as he went to unlock the room.

Wait. It was already unlocked.

Oh no. Oh no.

He opened the door with the force of a hurricane. His lavender eyes wide and enraged. The sheet music scattered on the floor haphazardly.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The vampire composer’s sadness and sorrow could be heard loud and clear in every corner of the mansion. The crows flew off of their tree branches, the squirrels scurried off into the wilderness, and the worms hid beneath the dirt. But none of these creatures were half as terrified as the mansion’s residents.

Well, almost all of the residents.

Two lovely troublemakers leaned against the subject of Mozart’s anguish, laughing hysterically together. We currently settled in Arthur’s room with the hostage piano standing proud, nestled between his bed and his writing desk. The chaise-lounge was moved to the side for space. The fortepiano’s solid white wood contrasted with Arthur’s dark oak furniture, creating a magical air to it. It carried itself like a precious treasure out of a dragon’s den. 

Our laughter died down as I slid Arthur’s chair in front of the guest piano of honor, sitting elegantly as I would in front of an audience. I brought my hands gingerly over the keys, softly pressing to play excerpts of pieces I learned in the 21st century.

Arthur slowly settled into his chaise-lounge on the sidelines. It may have started as a prank, but now he deemed himself the luckiest man in the world to be the sole audience member in this moment.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of a furious Mozart loudly announcing his presence in the room next to us. The suddenness of it caused me to strike a harsh dissonant chord that surely reached the composer’s ears.

‘Shit shit shit shit.’

Wordlessly, I flattened myself on the floor and rolled under Arthur’s bed to hide, leaving Arthur to confront Mozart’s rage single-handedly. Luckily for me, Arthur was too caught up by the sound of Mozart’s entrance to notice. 

“Arthur…” Mozart was seething, every word dripped with venom, “what is my fortepiano doing in your room?”

Mozart’s expression was deadly calm, but the intensity in his eyes caught Arthur off-guard.

“Mozart, mate, you see… Me and—” Arthur’s confident aura dissipated as he found no MC behind the piano anymore.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t report you to le Comte.”

Arthur received his second shock of this conversation. His mind swirled with flashbacks to Comte’s relentless scolding and subsequent punishments.

“I… have none. But what I can do is help you return it to its original place.”

THE Arthur Conan Doyle... bargaining? I pressed my lips to avoid making a sound as I shook from laughter.

“Help me?! This is all your responsibility to put back without a single scratch.”

Arthur’s eyes darted for a split second to the edge of the piano.

Uh oh, Mozart noticed.

“ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, YOU DARE DAMAGE MY PIANO?!”

Needless to say, Arthur would expect an earful from le Comte after the earful he just received from Mozart. Oh, he was definitely going to abuse his favor from MC after this.

Once the sound of their footsteps grew fainter with time, I slowly rolled out to run where no one could hear my laughter that was kept bottled up for the past 30 minutes.

I stumbled a bit as I tried to compose myself in the hallway when—

“Oi, Hondje. What are you off giggling about?”

Despite having calmed down from my previous laughing fit, recalling the past hour’s events got me doubling over in laughter again. I held up a hand as a signal to give me a minute. Theo pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about his time being precious.

“Ok, so basically…”

As I told him everything that unfolded, Theo went from facepalming to slightly shook to cracking a smile at Arthur’s demise.

“You brilliant Hondje,” he chuckled unexpectedly. 

I straightened up and courtsied as dramatically as I could muster with arms outstretched.

“Why, thank you.”

His smirk straighted into a line, his eyes carrying a challenging glint, “Pull that shit on me and I won’t let you go that easy.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try to stop me,” while maintaining eye contact, I pointed a finger at his chest, “you’re next.” 

MC: 1, Arthur: 0

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire arthur #ikemen vampire mozart #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp mozart #Theo guest appearance #protect your pancakes theo #cuz you're next #and MC doesn't back down from a challenge #to be continued!! #alby one-shots #MC Pranks

[blrush]

Rec List Request

A personalised list for @jammy-boy 🥰 could be of interest to others, so enjoy!

Basic requirements: - just finished and loved SOTUS - is Arthur/Merlin trash - loves a twist or reversal of classic “power-dynamic” - loves angst with happy ending ______________________________

Theory of Love

Film student Third (Gun) has been secretly in love with his best friend Khai (Off) for three years, but Khai is straight, a massive player, and a total arsehole if we’re being honest. This starts painful, but then they start playing around with tropes and expectations and then it changes POV which just HITS so hard and completely changes your whole perception. You know the movie Flipped? It references that, and then does the flip - so good.

Knowing the level of pining, pain and angst that you love (plus your background in film studies) I feel like this is required viewing. Get out the tissues. But also, it’s still really funny and cute/dumb (cause gmmtv) and the production was excellent. Also, Off/Gun are PEAK natural chemistry and Gun is such an incredible actor that watching him cry or yell at someone is still preferable to other actors being happy.

Watch on YouTube HERE

He’s Coming To Me

Precious baby boi Singto plays Med, a ghost, who is is stuck in limbo for 20 years - until he meets a boy who can see him, Thun (my baby boi Ohm) who promises to help him figure out his unfinished business and cross over. And then they were roommates! And then they start falling in love and it’s ANGSTY because they know Med will have to leave one day. Ouch, my heart.

You will enjoy the mixture of domestic fluff and tragic angst in this. But don’t worry it has a happy ending (kind of, I think, from memory haha). Also, you will enjoy the fact that they can’t touch (cause, ghost) which is *chefs kiss* except for moments of heightened emotions when Thun’s powers become strong enough that he can touch Med (FUCK YES, THIS TROPE IS EVERYTHING)

After much whining from fans, they put it up on Youtube haha so watch HERE. 

Until We Meet Again

ANNGST. RE.IN.CAR.NA.TION. ANGST. What else do you need to know?!?! Reincarnated soulmates trope?!!? HELLO!?!?  It’s so beautiful. I’m still not over it. And yes it has a happy ending, it starts super sad, then ends up super fluffy and the romantic fluffy moments oh god it’s so romantic. I know you love like soft domestic food sharing etc - this show is ALL about the cooking.

The casting, the characterisation, the acting, the story, the music, even the friendship group and the side-couple, it’s perfection *chefs kiss* PERFECTION

Watch on youtube HERE

A Tale of A Thousand Stars

After the lovely volunteer teacher Torfun dies (RIP poor torfun) in a tragic accident, her heart is transplanted into selfish pretty rich boy Tian (played by the beautiful Mix). After learning of her selfless character, he feels guilt and shame for living (the angst is very real) and makes it his mission to complete her life’s wishes and follow in her footsteps. 

As the new village volunteer teacher, he then falls in love with the very handsome and very shirtless chief Phupha (Earth), who lives to protect the trees, we stan an environmental man. Angst, fluff, complications, and many miscommunications ensue. I was tearing my hair out by the end of this show. Yes, it has a happy ending (eventually). Earth x Mix was a pairing we did not know we even wanted or needed until this show happened and now I cry every time I see a picture of them together. Every single time Phupha looks at Tian in this show I literally tear up. HE LOVES HIM SO MUUUUUCHHH *crying again*

Watch on youtube HERE

I Told Sunset About You

Childhood best-friends, turned enemies (for stupid kid reasons), to lovers. This is ANGSTY but so fucking beautiful it’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t even class this as “BL” because it doesn’t have any of the standard tropes, and there’s no silly sound-effects or innuendo jokes. This is like genuine lgbt+ indie-film realness. You can honestly just watch it for the cinematography and the music. The AESTHETIC of this show is what truly makes it special. The symbolism, the colours, this show said CINEMA. And the sexual tension is absolutely WILD. You will live for the angst (with a happy ending). And no, do not bother watching season 2, it’s perfect as a stand-alone mini-series. (I’m still upset).

Watch HERE 

and now for some stand-out non-Thai series...

Where Your Eyes Linger

Korea has gotten on the BL train, and has now made a whole bunch of viki mini-series that are all cute but this one is right up your alley. This is VERY merthur. It’s literally servant/master, bodyguard/prince trope. But, I thought the characterisation was nicely thought out and wasn’t what I was expecting. The tension is palpable, the angst is juicy, and the soft kdrama vibes are cheesy and wonderful. Angst with a happy ending (of course).

Watch on VIKI

HIStory 3: Trapped

So the Taiwanese HIStory series has been around forever, and I love the whole series (History 2: Crossing The Line is my all time fav). But for youuuu, I think the most appropriate is Trapped. Police detective single-mindedly obsessed with a gang leader? Yes please. But whatever power-dynamic expectations you would have of a police/criminal couple are twisted and warped immediately! This series is so endearing, it’s mostly comedy/action, and whilst it has plenty of angst, mostly it’s just CUTE as fuck. Also the side couple are adorable too!

The whole History series is on Viki now yay!

The Untamed

Look, I KNOW 50 episodes of plot-heavy chinese historical fantasy is a lot. But there’s a reason this show was soooo popular. It only took me like 3 attempts and a whole ass “guide” pdf to figure out what the fuck was happening in the first ep cause its non-linear. But, if you are in the right mood (ie; sick, or in lockdown) and need something to get completely LOST in for like a week, then watch this haha. I know you couldn’t make it through Guardian, but maybe this one will hit the spot.

This has all the angsty character tropes you live for. And cause it’s censored, there’s no actual romance, so instead it’s just the best kind of UST, character driven, emotional soulmate angst. To summarise: Wei Wuxian is; adopted, a trouble-maker, impetuous, head-strong, fun-loving, has a martyr complex and wants to save everyone. Meanwhile, Lan Zhan is; lawful good to a fault, stoic, shy, and has a martyr complex about saving Wei Wuxian and Wei Wuxian ONLY. Now throw them into the middle of supernatural / political turmoil and see what happens. Well I’ll tell you what happens, Wei Wuxian becomes the “villain”, gets killed, and Lan Zhan spends 16 years looking for him. FUCKING KILL ME OKAY. (No, that’s not a spoiler it happens in the first episode haha)

Do NOT watch on Netflix the subs are trash. Watch on Youtube or Viki

 ~ ~ ~

This list may seem long but I was VERY reserved in my selection okay you have no idea how tiny this tip of the iceberg is 😂

Also, knowing your love of no-touching, tension, and angst. I would also briefly draw your attention so School 2013 in my bromance list which is the single most angsty show about friendship ever made.

Enjoy!

#rec list #bl series #thai bl #taiwanese bl #chinese bl

[marvelbbyx]

Can I Be Him? (Carol Danvers x Fem! Reader) Part two!

Summary: You and Carol have been the best of friends for years and years, to you it’s simply platonic. Whereas for Carol, she tortures herself constantly pining after you. The situation only gets worse when you get engaged to your boyfriend of three years and Carol has to leave for a mission (that could more or less take her six years to get back from).

The day before Carol has to leave, she admits her feelings for you, giving you two choices: to leave him and go with her or stay with him and get married.

Who will you choose and what will be your outcome?

Author’s Note: Second part to Can I be Him? You guys seemed to really like it as much as I did, so thank you all! And enjoy!!

Warnings! ANGST

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

“Hey, Kevin,” Carol greeted bitterly.

“Carol? Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” Kevin comes into sight, a puzzled expression on his face when he sees both of you with tearful eyes.

“I was just leaving,” She replies dryly, moving towards the door and pausing near Kevin. “Congrats on your engagement, I’m sure you’re both very happy.” She stole a passing at you before walking out the door.

“Hold on,” You say to Kevin as you followed Carol out the door, closing it securely once you were in the hallway. Carol had made it down two flights before you shouted her name. “Carol! Carol, wait!” She stops mid-step and looks up at you as you descend the two flights. “Don’t walk away from me, not like this...”

“What’d you expect me to do, stay? Stay and watch you move on with your life?” Carol bit harshly. “I’m sorry, but that’s not happening.”

“I don’t want—“

“You don’t want what? Me to leave?” She prodded. “Well, you know what I wanted? I wanted to be the one you’d tell stories about—to be the reason why your eyes would light up—I wanted to be the person everyone would hate hearing about, because you’d talk about me so much. I wanted it to be me.”

You were silent for a few minutes before you finally opened your mouth to say, “...it is you.”

Carol had a wild urge to throw her arms around your waist and kiss the sorrow from every square inch of your face, but she couldn’t.

On second thought...

Screw it.

She moved in close, moving her hands to your cheeks, cradling your face gently. And you let it happen, anticipating the thing that would now seal your bond forever, you closed your eyes as did she and awaited the warmth from each other’s lips. You nuzzle into each other, the tips of your noses bumping against each other as you both went in close. Behind you, though vaguely, you heard a door open followed by approaching footsteps, before your lips were able to touch you gasped and pulled away, turning to run, but she reached out and grabbed your hand.

“Don’t go...please, don’t go.” She whispered.

“I’m sorry...” You cried, tears filling your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

With that, you pull yourself out of her grip and run up the stars. You stopped by your apartment door, now too sick to go inside and face Kevin. Your heart sank when you heard her footsteps stride away from her spot, it sank deeper once you finally regained the courage to go back inside. As you opened the door, you heard Kevin on the phone, he sounded excited about something judging by the lilt in his tone. You stood by the doorway fiddling with your ring until you heard him hang up the phone.

“Oh, Y/N! Good, you’re back! I’ve made us reservations at the restaurant on 5th—“ He comes into your vision, taking notice of your eyes and the way that your lip quivered. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk...”

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

I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me.

Like it was a private show, but I know you never saw me.

When the lights come on and I'm on my own

Will you be there to sing it again?

Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?

Can I be the one?

Can I be the one?

Can I be the one?

Oh, can I, can I be him?

Won't you sing it again?

Oh, when you sing it again,

Can I be him?

Oh, sing it again, yeah,

Oh, when you sing it again,

Can I be him?

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

3:30 a.m.

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

You ran as far as your legs could carry you, feeling sorry for any disturbances that you could’ve—did cause. Your talk with Kevin ended on a note that you didn’t expect for a long shot. You told him the truth and gave him the ring back, you’d thought that he’d be offended, proposing to you the day before and the day after receiving the ring back. But Kevin—sweet Kevin—took it with class.

“In a way—I’m sorry too. I made things worse for you and Carol,” He said to you. “I was so determined to be that person for you...even though it was her the whole time.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m mad at myself. You two belonged together and I ripped you apart, you still belong together.”

“Kevin—“

“No, Y/N, go to her. And tell her I’m sorry.”

Now you were at the Avengers compound running like someone lit a fire under your ass, you had to find Carol, who most likely was asleep in her room. Resting up for the mission. You ascended the stairs with a quickness, the elevators took too long and you weren’t about to wait another second to be apart from Carol. Exhaustion be damned.

You made it to her floor, your legs warm and tense from the workout of the stairs. You knocked on her door with haste, no answer. You knocked again, still no answer. Now you assumed that she was ignoring you, which you felt you deserved after today.

You spoke up, now, “Carol? It’s me...Y/N, I know that you probably don’t wanna talk to me. If I were you I wouldn’t wanna talk to me either. But it’s over now—me and him—I wanted you to know that. I just had to let you know...even if—“ You twisted the doorknob to find that it was unlocked, making your way into the room.

Carol was always a neat person, drilled into her from the Air Force. Her bed was made, the small kitchenette spotless, and the floor looked like it had just been vacuumed. Disbelief spread across your face. No, she couldn’t have left. Not yet.

You walked around the room, scanning for any evidence that Carol was still here. You opened the closet searching for clothes, boots, ripped jeans, her super suit, anything of hers. But the only thing that was there...was an old Aerosmith t-shirt of yours hanging by itself.

Your mouth dropped open, and sadness crossed your features. You take the t-shirt holding it close to you. “No...”

You heard someone knock on the door quietly, you poked your head out to see Sam and Bucky standing there at the door. They’re tired, it showed in their eyes, they probably came over to tell you to shut up and stop making so much noise. But judging by the regrettable glance they shot you, it was nothing like that.

“Hey,” You breathe out, giving a half-smile.

“What are you doing here?” Sam inquired. “It’s three am, you okay?”

“We heard a noise,” Bucky says, his voice deep from his slumber.

“Where’s Carol?” You ask, clutching the t-shirt tighter.

They sigh in unison, looking to you with pity. Bucky was the first to speak up,

“She left, doll.” He says quietly.

“As soon as she got here...” Sam added.

You shake your head. “No...no—no, she said tomorrow morning—so she should still be here. Right? Carol wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. She wouldn’t.” You were telling yourself more that you were telling them, and the more you said it, the more heart broken you became. “Please...tell me that you’re joking and she’s still here.”

They were quiet. Watching the two of them, it was all you could do, you could hardly contain your own tears, falling to your knees and sobbing hysterically...the realization that this was partly your fault, filled you with immeasurable guilt.

Knowing that now, you wouldn’t be able to see her until next time...whenever that was.

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

I swear that every word you sang, you wrote 'em for me.

Like it was a private show, but I know you never saw me.

When the lights come on and I'm on my own,

Will you be there, will you be there?

Can I be the one you talk about in all your stories,

Can I be him?

Can I be him?

Can I be him?

Can I be him?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Tag list: @captains-simp @blackluthxr @your-my-mission @wolfyalice-x @natblidaclexa @an-evergreen-rose @xxxtwilightaxelxxx

Read Part One Here!

#brie larson #captain marvel #carol danvers #carol danvers imagine #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers angst #carol danvers imagines #captain marvel imagines #captain marvel imagine