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caffiend-queen · 1 month

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Do NOT Say 'Always After My Lucky Charms,' Or I Will Stab You

Welcome to another addition to the Holidays in Hel series! Where Loki and Mina attempt to save the Avengers from yet another catastrophic holiday fuckup.

I've been cleaning up and adding bits to my Holidays in Hel series because really, it's my favorite. I hope you enjoy, and thank you as always for reading!

Chapter One: An Unmitigated Disaster Awaits

In which Loki and Mina once again find themselves in the middle of a colossal Avengers holiday fuckup. And who knew the Fey Folk were such assholes?

If there was blame to be assigned for the night that destroyed any charm and mystery left in St. Patrick’s Day, it should really go to The Paddy O’Hoolihan’s, an Irish folk band with a painfully cheesy name. But their music- it was frenzied and delightful, which was why Mina, Wanda, Jane, Pepper, Darcy, and even Natasha were swirling madly in some sort of a jig between each other like a flutter of butterflies, colorful spring dresses flaring out in a pleasing way that exposed a toned thigh or two. They were so fascinating to watch that the rest of the Avengers agreed right then that a Night Out On The Town would be necessary in the hopes of seeing more of this.

“A flutter of butterflies?” Tony blustered. “That can’t be right.”

Loki was seated elegantly on a comfortable chair in the middle of Central Park while most of the other male Avengers were seated in the grass, soaking the seat of their jeans. “A flutter,” he confirmed, watching closely as Mina sent him a saucy little wink. “Known also as a kaleidoscope or a swarm.”

“Swarm isn’t the right word,” mused Steve, still brushing at the green streaks on his pressed chinos. “That sounds like bugs. The girls are definitely butterflies.”

“Butterflies are bugs,” grunted Bucky, eyes closed and soaking in the weak spring sunlight.

“You romantic bastard,” chortled Sam, who was watching Thor capering with the women and getting the dance steps wrong. “I’m gonna go save those ladies from his bigass feet.”

“That slick son of a bitch,” Tony observed morosely, watching Sam gracefully sweep Pepper under one arm and Natasha with the other.

It was a rare day, a blissful day where nothing was exploding, no one was invading anyone else’s borders, no one was getting kidnapped, and even HYDRA appeared to be taking a long afternoon nap. The Avengers were all lazing in Central Park on an almost unnaturally warm day for March 17th and enjoying a holiday where they were, for once, not urgently needed. Anywhere.

“To St. Patrick’s Day!” toasted Bucky, raising his bottle of Guinness to clink with Steve’s. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

Tony pulled another bottle from the specialty vibranium cooler that floated next to him, its propulsion jets hissing softly. “Watch the parade from Stark Tower, say a prayer at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and hit The Dead Rabbit Grocery & Grog. The Dropkick Murphy’s are headlining.”

Loki sniffed, still watching keenly as Mina took the hands of an elderly gentleman so wizened and stooped that he could legally be classified as a leprechaun. “My lady and I will be spending the evening safely at the Tower. I do not understand this keen desire for holiday-based mayhem and disaster, but I assure you we shall not participate.”

“Brother!” Thor’s voice was unfortunately right next to Loki’s ear, and God or no, the roar from the oaf seared through his ear canal and scrambled his ganglia. “You must bring the Lady Mina, she will be terribly disappointed! Darcy has been telling her of the majesty of the Celtic celebrations here. She must pay homage to her ancestors.”

Loki frowned. Mina had Irish blood? He would rather crush his own skull with Thor’s hammer than admit that his brother knew something about his Mina that he did not, so he settled for a haughty sniff. “Why must I be the sole sentinel during every holiday on this benighted excuse for a realm to remind you all that it will always, always invariably result in death and destruction? That there will be some unnatural force that will target the Avengers and endanger all those we love? Why must I be the-”

“Hey, did you hear that?” Tony interrupted happily, “Loki looooves Mina!”

And then the tiresome chorus rose from this pack of imbeciles. Loki rolled his eyes, wondering if he sent a hailstorm of toads down upon this crowd if it would immediately be traced back to him. But then his Mina returned and sat down in his lap. Kissing him on the tip of his aquiline nose, she sighed, “And Mina loves Loki, so all of you hush.”

“Darling, are you indeed of Irish descent?”

Mina looked up from the 3D chemical strain she was modeling for one of Jane’s experiments. “Yes, and Scottish. How did this come up?”

Loki sniffed haughtily. “My oaf of a brother attempted to claim that I must indulge you in a night of drunken excess with the rest of the team as some sort of homage to your heritage. Is this night one that must be dedicated to your ancestors? Is it a sacred rite?”

Giving a very unladylike snort, Mina said, “Nothing sacred about gulping down too much green beer and singing Irish folk songs. But…” Loki groaned internally. His sweet girl had a look of longing as she continued. “But it’s always such a fun night! I get to dance and sing, and the saying is that ‘On St. Patrick’s Day, everyone is Irish.’” She smiled up at him sweetly. “Even you, Loki.”

Lip curled, he snarled, “Do not assign me a heritage from this insignificant rock!” Traditionally, this sort of elegant sneer would quail Mina, but this time, she gave him a sneer of her own.

“Oh, you do not disrespect my people, Loki!” She quailed slightly before seeing his curled lip stretch into a smile.

“My, my. Look at my fierce little banshee! I would not think of it.” Mina gave him the sort of shameless, hopeful grin that crumbled the God of Lies and Mischief’s will more often than he’d care to admit.

Sliding her hands over his broad shoulders, admiring the hard muscle beneath, she asked, “Does that mean you might be willing to join the group tonight at the Dead Rabbit?”

His elegant head pulled back from hers, “What a truly bizarre name. Does the proprietor wish to drive people away from his tavern?”

Mina cackled a bit. “We Irish are tough. We like it rough and difficult.” She instantly realized her mistake as Loki’s pupils flared.

“Really…” he purred, his deep tone more like a rumble against her spine. “You like it, ‘rough,’ do you, darling?”

It was a desperate scramble to get away from her God’s ruthless grasp, but Mina found herself pulling on her old plaid kilt and cream Irish fisherman’s sweater after a promise to show Loki later the bit of “rough” that a good girl from the Emerald Isle could handle. “My lovely Mina,” he approved, stepping behind her in the dressing room mirror to straighten his cuffs. She’d just pulled on some warm black tights and her knee-high riding boots. “You have a very delectable ‘upper-crust schoolgirl’ sort of look here. I find myself quite interested in knowing what good Irish schoolgirls wear under their kilts.”

“Well, I imagine a big, strong man like you can find out for yourself,” Mina answered primly, then leaped over the bench with a yelp when Loki made a sudden move at her. Chuckling, he straightened his tie and strolled sedately after her.

It was, of course, vile. Loki sighed in a long-suffering way as he surveyed the crowded bar, one hand securely on Mina’s back. “The sun barely set and here are your countrymen, already intoxicated,” he said, leaning in close so she could hear him over the drunken chorus of “Whiskey You’re the Devil.”

“Oh, look!” Mina shouted back, “There they are! In the Snug.”

“I beg your pardon?” Loki raised a brow.

“The Snug,” Mina was the one carving a path through the partygoers, heading for their friends. “There’s one in every proper Irish bar. It’s the room right off of the bar where the ladies used to go to have a pint or a sherry and not have to worry about being considered loose. Now the bars just rent them out as a VIP space.”

In his usual fashion, Tony had not only bought out the Snug, which had an excellent view of the rest of the pub, but he also had the management re-create the magnificent, shining walnut bar that ran nearly the length of the main room into a private version for the Avengers. When they drew closer, they found Thor in a handstand with one end of a tube in his mouth and the other in a cask of aged whiskey.

Sam, Clint, Darcy, and the usually shy Bucky were circling the spectacle, shouting “Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!” Thor finished the cask and flipped upright with a flourish, raising his huge arms and roaring in triumph.

“What are you wearing?” Loki frowned, all the men were sporting hideous green plaid patterned neckties, and the more drunken amongst them - namely Clint and Tony - had little green bowler hats perched atop their messy hair.

“It was Tony’s idea, where’s your tie?” asked Bruce, who looked distinctly put out that he’d been forced to wear this itchy novelty neckwear while Loki looked as smooth and perfectly put together as always in an onyx Tom Ford suit.

Loki sniffed, “Ideally, at the bottom of the Hudson River.”

Tony stumbled up behind Loki and Mina, sunglasses askew as he looped an arm around each of them. “Your brother knows how to party, Severus Snape! Let’s tap another cask for you!”

“It is a crime to treat a good whiskey so,” admonished Loki, “and Thor must consume twenty or so of those casks for him to find something even approaching intoxication.” Nonetheless, he found himself relaxing and even amused as his Mina dragged Natasha up on to the bar for a round of Irish Ceili dancing, the Russian gracefully moving along as if she’d performed Irish jigs all her life.

“Man, is there anything Natasha can’t do perfectly?” groused Darcy, watching the footwork until it made her dizzy.

Bucky put his arm around her. “She can’t make that cute little noise you make when I…” She dissolved into a round of giggles and Loki rolled his eyes, looking around the pub. There was a thicket of drunk college students, singing along off-key with the Dropkick Murphys, who’d moved on to “Rose Tattoo.” The main bar was claimed by the regulars, who held court and toasted something new at least every sixty seconds, based on the cheers and clinking of glasses. Small islands of tourists floated through the crowd, gripping a beer mug in one hand and a souvenir Dead Rabbit t-shirt in the other. Irish flags were draped in every corner and the light glowed off the massive selection of alcohol behind the bar, bathing everything in a pleasingly golden glow. And… Loki raised one elegant brow. There was a small group of… small people?

“Little people,” Steve said, leaning in. “The correct phrase is little people.”

“Descendants of a visit long past from a group of lustful and irresponsible Nidavellir,” mused Loki, “the dwarves always eager to spread their seed.”

Steve looked alarmed, “I don’t think you want to be floating that theory, Loki. Especially not here, and not tonight.”

Before the God of Mischief could further discuss Nidavellir sex tourism, he heard a loud “Hellooo, Monty!” from his sweet girl, still tip-tapping away atop the bar.

One of the men broke away from the group and waved eagerly. “Éire go Brách, Mina!”

Leaping rather gracefully from the bar, she took his small hand, greeting him warmly. “Éire go Brách, Monty! I’m so glad you came.”

The gentlemen had a face like a withered crabapple, all wrinkles and slightly sunken, but when he glanced at Loki, there was a spark of… something in his eye. One trickster always knew another, and he recognized the elderly gentleman she’d favored with a dance that afternoon at the park. “Well, when you promised me another dance, my dear, how could I not?” Monty turned to Loki and bent his head in a courtly gesture, “If your date for the evening has no objection, of course.”

Oddly, Loki did have an objection. The gleam in the small man’s eye was growing brighter, and his own emerald ones narrowed. “And what brings you to New York, Monty? Your accent has all the slurs and ellipses of a Dubliner, born and bred.”

Mina’s new friend threw back his head and laughed grandly, “Ach, you’ve caught me. I am, indeed. But I find that here in America, the Irish celebrate this day with greater enthusiasm.”

Just then the Dropkick Murphys launched into “The Boys are Back” and Mina squealed. “Monty! This is my song, let’s go!” And with a final smirk at Loki, her diminutive beau allowed her to pull him into the crowd.

He stared after them disapprovingly. The Dead Rabbit was even louder - if possible - than it had been when they arrived and the discordant screech of electric guitar and the accompaniment of the Uilleann pipes rose over the crowd.

The boys are back

And they're looking for trouble

Standing on the highway, ???

I'm missing my home, and it's killing me

Down the ramp past the jail, I'm feeling alright

Bought roses for my ladies from a corner delight

It's time to get ready for that song and dance

Let's go my friends, it's time to take a chance

We're back in town, we're gonna get it done

We got nowhere to hide, we got nowhere to run

It's been a long time coming,

The boys are back

And they're looking for trouble

And in the blink of an eye, Mina and her questionable dance partner were swallowed up into the crowd. “Did he not seem unnatural to you?” Loki asked Tony, who was leaning heavily on his shoulder and wrinkling the perfect cut of his jacket.

Tony stumbled back, “Woah, Lokes, prejudiced much? What’s next, snide comments about the little people always being after your Lucky Charms?” He said the last in a deplorably bad Irish accent, and Loki’s brow furrowed. Tony (partially sober) was just barely endurable. Completely intoxicated Tony was a punishment that could make the strongest Asgardian choose Odin’s dungeons over Stark Tower.

Bucky gently elbowed Tony into a seat, where his head tipped back and a gentle snore rose from his slack mouth. “Ignore him, Loki. What’s the problem?”

“Most pressing,” he said, “is that my dear Mina seems to have disappeared into this drunken throng with a most untrustworthy creature.”

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky agreed, but he refused to take offense, still searching the crowd. Looking around, he frowned. “And where’s Darcy and Jane? And Pepper? And Natasha?” By now the others were closing in. Thor shouldered his way into the knot of drunken, flailing New Yorkers and Clint hopped up on the table.

Pale hands shooting out, Loki sent a silver stream of energy that coiled and ripped around the pub, curling and snaking along, but there was no sign of the women. “By the NORNIR!” he shouted. “Why? Why must it always be the holidays? You Avengers are a curse, I swear it!”

“Huh?” Tony woke up, standing and rubbing his face. “What?”

Loki turned on him. “You will never heed my warning, will you? All our women- they are gone. Gone!”

“Aw, damn,” sighed Steve, "AGAIN?"

Chapter Two is up tomorrow. You know, the one with all the smut.

I'm starting over with a vague memory of who might like my Loki and Avengers tales. If you would like on or off this list, please let me know! Thank you. Mwah!

@what-is-your-plan-today

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork

@the-soulofdevil

@americasass81

@mdemontespan1667

@sultry-rachael

@myoxisbroken

@gigglingtiggerv2

@notpedeka

@narnianarcher

@sylviefromneptune

@winterslove1917

@kimanne723

@hawkeyes-queen

@grymrayven

@stevihj

@lizette50

@jevans2

@wolfsmom1

@devikafernando

@wegingerangelica

@nildespirandum

@alexakeyloveloki

@thebatshitcrazyfangirl

@thehumming6ird

@archy3001

@iheartsebastianstan

@tomstinkerbell

@wolfpawn

@rayofdawnworld

@thecutestlittlebunbunfairy

@dangertoozmanykids101

@alexakeyloveloki

@nuggsmum

@boredbrooder

@fairlightswiftly

@inkededucatednnerdy

@nonsensicalobsessions

@viv-annelore

@eleniblue

#tumblr besties and beloveds #loki fandom #tom hiddleston #loki smut #Avengers Holidays in Hel #yet another Avengers holiday fuckup #St. Patrick's Day with Loki

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sempersirens · 9 months

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a bird in your teeth, epilogue

masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: mentions of past trauma, ptsd, nightmares. so much fluff

a/n: a little palate cleanser. sun bleached flies joel is on the naughty step rn

December 24th, (five years later)

God only knows, what I'd be without you...

The TV turned black as the credits rolled, only the warm flickering lights from the Christmas tree left to illuminate the room.

You took a steady breath in through your nose and locked eyes with Sarah, both suppressing a laugh before simultaneously turning to finally face Joel, who had been trying to silently bite back small sobs for the past forty-five minutes.

"How you holding up, boys?" Sarah teased, lovingly.

"You girls are damn evil. Pickin' such an emotional film on Christmas Eve."

"It's heartwarming!" You interjected.

"My heart is feelin' a lot of things right now but warm ain't one of 'em." Tommy murmured, wiping his eyes with the back of his sweatshirt.

"I just can't believe neither of you had ever watched Love Actually."

"May 'swell have, the number of times I've seen you two watchin' it, all damn year round," Joel said.

"Keep talking like that, Miller, and I won't make you an Irish coffee." You warned, earning oooh's from Tommy and Sarah.

You pulled yourself off the sofa and moved to the kitchen, proving your threat entirely empty. As you pottered around the room, collecting all of the ingredients for the drinks, you listened to the noise of the three people you loved most in the world simply existing in the room next to you. The haze of their laughter mixed with the song still warbling through the TV was softened by the wall separating you, a honeyed prayer just for you.

Somehow, life kept moving after that night. Everything thereafter seemed to be measured in the passing of time. Four days for your lip to heal. Three weeks for you to return Daisy's calls. Seven months until you could stop taking the long route to pick Sarah up and drive down that street again. Two years for the panic attacks to stop, for good. Five years, and counting, for an uninterrupted night's sleep.

Two months passed before your tenancy was over, but you had woken beside Joel each morning nonetheless. Sometimes, before the others had risen for the day, you would creep down the stairs and pour yourself a cup of coffee, sit on the porch, and look at that house across the street. You would watch the lights slowly turn on, see the silhouette of life taking shape. A young family had taken over your lease, and it comforted you to know another life was being nurtured within those walls.

Neither you nor Joel had ever discussed what happened that morning in that apartment. And you didn't need to know; you were content with the understanding you both did what you needed to go on. Call it closure.

"What's goin' on in that head of yours, pretty girl?" You felt his chest pressing against your back, his arms leaning on either side of your body, entrapping you against the counter.

His face nuzzled in the curve of your neck, breath tickling your hair against your skin.

"Just wondering if you're on the nice list this year." You turned to face him, staring up through your lashes at the man you love.

"That so? We've got about," he checked his watch, "two hours until midnight. M'sure I can do enough to make it on each of your nice lists for the next twenty years."

"You're planning on keeping me around for that long? Maybe I'll have a love affair with a real cowboy." You teased.

"Good luck gettin' him to watch a Hugh Grant film with ya."

You rested your hands on his face, using your thumb to trace his cheek lightly.

"How did I get so lucky?" You smiled, shaking your head softly in disbelief.

There had always been a surplus of love inside you, even when you were little. Throughout your life, you had poured it into the wrong people, time and time again. Belittled, taken for granted, chastised. Even though the love remained, you had grown to fear it. It would be like riding an escalator and instinctively grabbing the handrail, but being zapped by an electric shock. Each time thereafter, your hand would hesitate in reaching for the supportive grip. Sometimes it would tentatively hover above, trying to gage the sting of electricity a few millimetres away.

But loving Joel came so easy. Everything about him made you want to tear yourself open and offer him everything you had, everything you ever had been, and all you ever would be. You would wake in the night simply craving the feeling of his skin against yours. And every single time you reached out to him, even in his sleep, he would pull you in.

From the other room, an old Christmas song hummed through the walls.

Merry Christmas, baby / Sure did treat me nice...

"I should be the one askin' that question, darlin'." His right hand flexed in and out of a tight fist, the same way it did when he felt a bout of anxiety rise in his chest.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" You asked, concern digging itself into the furrow of your brows.

"I'm no good at this, you know that."

"No good at what, Joel?"

He pulled away from you slightly, lowering himself onto one knee, suppressing the groan you knew he desperately wanted to release at the tightness of his back and knees.

"My sweet girl, I will never understand why y'picked me. Out of all the men in this damn world, even Hugh Grant, I get to be the one who calls you mine."

"Joel..."

"I don't know much, but I know that I need t'spend the rest of my life by your side. And I need you by mine. Would you do me the honour of being my wife?"

"Oh my god, yes! Of course, I will, Joel."

Joel slipped the ring he had presented from a small box in his back pocket onto your finger. His smile showed off the creases by his eyes that you often wished you could dive into and engulf yourself in each feeling that caused them to deepen.

"Get up, you idiot. Your poor back. I don't want to be pushing you around in a wheelchair just yet." You laughed into his kiss, your bodies merging together like it was all they had ever been made to do.

"Can we come in yet?" Sarah called from around the corner.

"Yes! Come in, both of you." You replied, cheeks wet and aching from the smile etched into your face.

"No chance of those Irish coffees, I guess?" Tommy smirked, you softly clipped him round the back of the head before suffocating him into a hug. "Welcome to the family, Mrs Miller."

Merry Christmas, honey / Everything here is beautiful, I love you, baby / For everything that you give me.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #my fic #joel miller x female reader #joel tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #a bird in your teeth #a bird in your teeth fic #dee writes

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badolmen · 3 months

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When I was little, some Palestinian Christians came to our church.

They didn’t call themselves that, of course, being in a white, right leaning American town in the mid to early 2010s. ‘Fellow Catholics from the Holy Land’ the reader for the week announced them as. After mass there were always announcements, and I remember this Arab man with a dark jacket taking to the pulpit. He and those with him were sitting in the front pew - just ahead of where my family sat each week.

He talked about his home in Bethlehem - though it was a little out of season, Christmas well since passed. He talked about the poverty there, the socioeconomic factors that made life difficult for Palestinians, but this was after a long Irish mass with a long Irish homily and no one was listening that intently. My mom whispered that he didn’t have much of an accent, and my dad whispered back that he agreed - not too difficult to understand.

They were here to sell treasures from the Holy Land. Hand carved olive wood rosaries and prayer beads, nativity sets, reliefs of the last supper. ‘A trade passed down from father to son for generations.’

The most expensive item they had was a lovely crucifix - olive wood inlaid with a hand carved mosaic of mother of pearl, four wells at the end of each piece of the cross containing olive leaves, incense, stones, and soil. It was over $50 - I remember because I begged my mother to let me spend my usual summer stipend of $25 for the next two years, and it still wasn’t quite enough. A few dollars short. But he gave it to me anyway.

For years I almost never took it out of its box - it was too pretty, I was too afraid to break it. I first hung it up after I moved out for college - it always caught the thin winter sunlight in my dorm room and seemed to glow. But it got dusty, and was difficult to clean with all its intricacies, so I put it back in its box. Safe with the dried palm leaves from last year’s Lent.

I saw a post a bit ago, mentioning how hand carved mother of pearl is a more obscure Palestinian art form, and I remembered my crucifix. I remembered the Palestinian Christian man who nobody really listened to at 9 AM on a Sunday while their kids begged to leave and get breakfast.

I counted the individual pieces of mother of pearl today. There’s 89. The cross itself is made of 14 pieces of olive wood perfectly slotted together. The figure of Christ is silver, weathering green with age. I’ve never washed this crucifix, but I probably should. There’s a stamp across the back - ‘Jerusalem’ - and another, fainter (quickly pressed with just too little ink) - ‘Mother of Pearl is Hand Made by Christian Families in the Hole Land.’ That’s not a typo - the stamp has an ‘e’ instead of a ‘y.’ It’s smudged, so maybe there’s an ‘i’ in there, but maybe not.

I looked up the company that made it today. Their website is freshly dated for 2024 in the bottom right hand corner, but they haven’t updated their blog posts since 2022. The posts that are up talk of sites of faith, the art process, and COVID. There’s a noticeable number of spelling and grammar errors, but I don’t really care.

The cross I own is listed as a work from Majdi Alshayeb. I can’t find them on social media, not at first glance. I hope they’re well. I wish they knew how I’ve revered this crucifix more as a work of art than as a symbol of faith. I hope God is with them.

#ra speaks #long post #personal #art #woodcarving #palestine #religion #christianity #I could make an essay about how western Christians treat ‘the holy land’ as this mythical cop out so they don’t acknowledge #israel or palestine or any of its history #but that’s not what this post is for. I’m reflecting and reminiscing and considering sending a message to their info email

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outlaw-apologist · 1 year

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Bitter Sweet Goodbye - RDR2 - You Die In Their Arms

Imagine you, as their lover, die in their arms (Fem!Reader)

Characters: Arthur, Charles, Micah, Dutch, Hosea

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and character death, mentions of Chapter 4, use of Y/N and L/N

If anyone has any writing requests or want to see any other characters/scenarios please let me know! :D If you rather read it on AO3 it can be found here! ______

Arthur

This couldn’t be happening. Arthur would have laughed at the absurdity of it, really. If he weren’t so choked up by the gnawing realization that you weren’t going to make it. Micah had insisted on pulling another O’Driscoll bust. Stealing the mother-load from a bank transport wagon the rival gang had their eye on. “C’mon Arthur. After what they did to you and Kieran? They deserve it.” He coerced you both into it. “And Y/N is a quick shot. In and out, easy job.”

You were excited to fuck over the Irish gang. When Arthur returned half dead on his horse you were in shambles. Heartbroken over seeing your lover at death’s door. “Let’s do this!” You exclaimed. “Let’s make their pockets hurt.” Just as Micah had pointed out, you were quite experienced. You had been running with the gang for a long while and your talents were admirable. Hell, you even saved Arthur from getting shot a few times.

“Okay.” He agreed reluctantly. “Let’s go.” He didn’t trust Micah but if you were there… Well… The job would probably be fine.

Arthur should have known by now it was another setup. After the O’Driscoll boys strung him up in that cellar he should have known… After Sean’s head was blown off during the blood feud he should have known. When he saw you fall from your horse everything clicked for him. The world slowed as he watched the horses of the men behind you trample your limp body mercilessly into the dust. The O'Driscolls outnumbered the three of you greatly and it was clear they were out for blood. Arthur shot every single one of them with little hesitation, leaving behind no survivors.

Micah rejoiced while the dirt cleared from the air. “Whoo-hoo!” He laughed, sliding from his saddle to loot the O’Driscoll corpses. “They got some good money!” Micah gazed up, tilting the brim of his hat while scanning the area for you. “Shit-” He breathed. Your horse was dead and you… Well, he could tell by the way Arthur dropped everything to rush to your side that something not so good probably happened.

Arthur noticed you hadn’t moved in awhile. By the time he collapsed by your side and held you in his arms he was able to take in how much you were in rough shape. Arthur swallowed hard, watching you gurgle on your blood and gasp, struggling to breathe. “Arthur-” He winced when the broken sound of your usually sweet voice reached his ears.

“Shhh, Y/N. Save your energy. It’s gonna be okay, we’re gettin’ you outta this.” Though they were meant to be soothing, his words were desperate. A silent prayer to whatever god above had long abandoned him and his friends, and now his lover who was suffering badly. Arthur knew you wouldn’t make it to camp. Shit, you probably wouldn’t even live long enough for him to get you both on his horse. All he could do was hold you in his arms. Memorizing the weight of your body against his. The warmth of your skin and how beautifully you always looked up at him even in your last few moments.

Despite the drying blood coating your bruising face you were still the most ethereal being Arthur had ever laid eyes upon. He could have laughed right then and there. He could have cried. He could have begged; ‘No! Not Y/N too. Please- take anyone but Y/N! Take me instead!’ but who would listen? The universe never answered his prayers or his pleas. Surely the universe would be quiet today too.

He didn’t want your last moments to be scary. Instead he pet your hair, kissing your lips while trying to make sure you were laying in a comfortable position. It wasn’t easy since your ribs were shattered but it was all he could think to do. “Guess what?”

“What?” Your voice was barely just above a whisper.

“I wanted to tell you earlier, but… We finally have enough money to get ourselves a nice cabin out West. Just you and me. Maybe we can get ourselves a dog. Doesn’t that sound nice?” It was a lie but it was also a beautiful dream.

“Mmmm.” Your breaths were shallow now. There was a smile growing on your busted lips. Arthur’s heart sunk as he watched your eyes flutter shut. You looked so exhausted. Ready for eternal rest. Never had he felt such heartache. “It does sound nice. I really….. really want a dog.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. I know.” His voice trembled, finally giving away his emotions. When your breathing slowly came to a stop he pressed your foreheads together letting out a soft anguished cry. ‘I love you.’ He wanted to say, but who would listen? You were gone. The whole world fell silent. The birds didn’t chirp, the coyotes didn’t bark, and Micah Bell somehow had enough wit to him to give you both privacy in your final moments.

Arthur held you until the sun had long set and your body was growing cold. He couldn’t let go – wouldn’t…. Until Hosea finally came and squeezed his shoulder. “Arthur, my boy… I’m so sorry. Micah told me everything. Charles and I are here to help. Let’s let Y/N rest.” Slowly, Arthur uncurled from you, reluctantly passing your body to Hosea. Even as you were taken away he stared blankly at the spot you had been before slowly staring up at the twinkling stars above. Finally, he laughed. A cold hard grief filled laugh that was as heavy as his heart and mind.

“This is it for us.” He murmured, taking out a cigarette. “None of us are long for this world now.” Lighting it between his lips he flicked the match away then took a long drag. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” The breeze pushed back his hair while he smoked. Just taking in the scene before him. This was a scene he’ll never bear to draw in his journal. A scene that he’ll carry, burned into his memory, to fuel him until he too takes his final breaths.

Arthur Morgan stood. Covered in the blood of the only person who had genuinely loved him for who he was. In the blood of the most beautiful human being he had ever had the privilege of sharing life with. He carried his trembling body to his horse. “Follow me. I know where she’d wanna be laid to rest.” __________

Charles

Charles took you hunting in the Grizzlies West, an activity you and him have done a dozen times together if not more. Pelts were needed to upgrade things around camp and to keep everyone warm, it was a simple task. You were an experienced hunter and he loved spending quiet lazy days with you out in the mountains. That was, until today.

You had tracked a moose to cliff overlooking a nearby river. “We’re close.” Charles admired the snowflakes shimmering in your hair as the sun moved through the trees. The day had been long and you two were wrapping up for the evening. Just one last catch…

Then, you were suddenly gone.

Charles blinked in confusion. It happened sp quickly his mind struggled to make sense of it even as the loud SLASH of your body hitting the frozen water reached his ears. “Y/N!?” Charles rushed to the ledge, watching you scramble to catch onto a rock since you were swept away by the deadly current.

He wasted no time in mounting his horse, riding fast and hard to catch up to you long enough to toss you his lasso. “Y/N!” He tried hard to call your name over the rushing sound of water. “Y/N grab the rope!”

You coughed and sputtered, flailing wildly. You couldn’t see anything in the water, the current dragging you under every few seconds. “Charles!” You sobbed out. Finally you felt something wrap around your wrist. Charles managed to throw his lasso just right for you to grab onto. The frigid water bit into your skin like a thousand stinging needles while you were being pulled to the bank.

“You poor thing.” Charles breathed, gathering you into his arms once you were close enough for him to grab. You were half frozen and turning blue with hypothermia. Teeth chattering and shaking so hard you couldn’t even speak. Your skin burned so badly your brain was begging you to rip it off. The cold was a shock to your system, all you could to was press helplessly against your lover’s warm chest. Never had you felt such pain.

Charles did the best he could. He knew he had to get you warm or else…. Luckily you were close enough to Colter, he was able to bring you there quickly. Returning to the spot was bitter sweet. He set you up in the warmest cabin, stripping your wet clothes off. Charles then covered you in his coat and the furs you two managed to collect earlier. Finding dry firewood was a struggle so he ended up burning little kindling with paper from a book and some fat from an animal you both killed.

“S-s-so c-cold.” You whispered. All of your energy had depleted trying to keep your body warm and now your eyes were growing heavy.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’ll be warmer soon.” The fire really wasn’t heating fast enough. Charles gathered you in his arms again in an attempt to share his warmth with you. He could tell you weren’t doing well. Even if he could bring you into the warmest place possible you probably weren’t going to make it, you had been in that water for far too long. He tried not to let that get to him. If he ignored that fact, maybe it would disappear from existance and you would be okay.

Charles brushed the hair from your face, kissing your forehead. Your head rest against his chest and he stared into the fire as he rocked you gently. He was silent for awhile, trying to conjure ways to save your life or to ease your suffering. Nothing came to mind and Charles was beginning to feel terrified. “Don’t go to sleep.” He whispered, resting his chin on top of your head.

“I’m trying not to.”

Oh, your voice was so strained and weak. Was this the last time he’ll ever hear you speak?

“I love you.”

Charles swallowed hard. He looked down at you again, searching your face with desperation. “I know. I love you too.”

“I know.” You teased him, snuggling up to your lover one final time. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Y/N…..” His brow furrowed. A part of him didn’t understand why you were saying these things while the other half was realizing the reality and severity of the situation. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He held you tighter as if that would somehow keep you bound to this world. “Always.” He whispered. “Now and in the future.” Please… please let there be a future…

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were shut peacefully and your breathing began to fade. Feeling helpless now that his best friend was slipping away in his arms, all Charles could do was silently cry. He kept rocking you, singing a lullaby his mother had sang for him as a child. He wanted you to go peacefully and well loved. It was the least he could do.

Only hours ago you both were on top of the world. Enjoying each others company. Giving thanks to the animals you hunted. Only this morning he woke up to you in his arms kissing all over his face while giggling. And now…. Now you were gone. In his arms, yes, but not really here at all. He’ll never see you again.

Charles sobbed, his whole body shaking as he clung to you. He wasn’t ready for you to leave. Not like this… He stayed with you until the sun rose and a new day broke. Placing one final kiss to your lips he carefully bundled you up in the pelts and brought you to his horse. It was too cold up in Colter to dig a grave and he wanted to place you somewhere beautiful. Somewhere meaningful. The ride down the mountain was slow and painful. Charles sang sorrowfully his lullaby the whole way.

After that day, Charles no longer found any peace in hunting. It only brought memories of you. ____________

Micah

Micah had a hard time loving people. Letting people in. He was shown from a young age that love was a weakness and he was a survivor. That was, until you came around and somehow tore down those walls. With you in his life he was calmer, milder, less likely to shoot up a town for looking at him wrong. If he had to do a job you were always right there by his side.

Micah didn’t consider this might be a setup. He thought it was just another day out and easy money. A house robbery where the occupants had recently come into some decent cash while gambling in Saint Denis. However, they were simple country folk and seemed innocent enough. The wife was supposedly away visiting her sister with their children and the husband was fast asleep. Easy. Sneak in, grab the money, sneak out. Maybe steal their carriage. Something you could probably handle on your own but Micah thought the two of you riding off into the moonlight with pockets overstuffed with ritches was rather romantic.

It was an ambush.

You found the cash effortlessly just as assumed. There was a book here you picked up and glance at, or a bottle of alcohol there you stowed away in case it was useful. You always had a good eye for these things and since you’ve robbed plenty of homesteads you weren’t too concerned with things going south. Instead you took your sweet time as quiet as a mouse.

Micah was right behind you. He even teasingly spanked your ass at one point, causing you to glare playfully at him. “Really?” You mouthed. He shrugged. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.” His hand was on your hip as you opened the front door. Micah could feel you freeze.

“Shit-” Was all you could manage before stumbling backwards, clutching your throat in a feeble attempt to stop from bleeding out. Bounty hunters! They had surrounded the house as soon as you two entered, waiting for an opening. One hiding behind the door had shot you point blank in the jugular.

“Mother fucker!” Micah’s voice cracked with rage. His eyes were wild with insanity as he shot the man to death. Micah kicked the door shut in an attempt to buy you both a bit of coverage, dragging you to lay in the safety of his lap. “Come on out Micah Bell. We know you’re in there!” The team of bounty hunters circled the house, shooting at its walls, shattering the windows.

Micah ignored them the best he could. They could wait. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your writhing choking form. You couldn’t breathe. Your hands reached out for him, clawing at his arms desperately as if Micah could give you your breath back. Crimson stained the both of you and your clothes.

“Shit baby-doll.” He let out a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make ‘em pay. I’m so sorry, I shoulda known.” He brushed the hair from your face, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with his shirt sleeve while his free hand put pressure on your spewing neck. There was so much blood and he could tell by the way your wide eyes glistened you were in pain. “I know, I know.” He hugged you while listening to your gurgled plea. “I know it hurts. It’ll go away soon.”

His hand wet with your life force slid down your body to rest over your still beating heart. He felt it thrum a moment longer before pressing his gun to the area. “I love you baby-doll.”

BANG!

Your body falling limp brought relief to Micah’s own lungs and he let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t stand the thought of you dying while wretching like a wounded animal. A mercy killing was most fitting of his sweetheart, he thought darkly with a heavy heart. Micah stayed with you a moment longer, whispering soft nothings until the bounty hunters caught his attention again. All of that rage filled him once more and he wasted no time in kicking open the front door and gunning them down in cold blood.

Silence filled the midnight air accompanied by crickets. The scent of gunpowder and iron was so thick he could taste it. It was peaceful. Life and death mingled in silent spaces held in the shadows. It was as expected, Micah thought.

Shrugging off his jacket he slid it on your form before scooping your lifeless body up in his arms. He set you on the back of Baylock before dragging the other corpses into the house and lighting it on fire. Micah watched it burn, smoking a cigarette. The dancing images cast over the land in a faint glow amused him. Were you there? Rejoicing in the death of the men who killed you? He wanted to think so. To think that you would dance in every fire he lit from here on out.

Once dawn broke Micah finally mounted his horse to find a place to bury you. He actually considered this a lot. He wanted to lay you to rest in a place easily accessible so he could visit you often. He stayed silent the whole ride, replaying memories of you in his mind. You were his one and only and Micah knew he would never find love again. _____________

Dutch

Dutch had many lovers but none were quite like you. You were ethereal. Special. All he ever wanted to do was make his plans then return to his tent to hold you in his arms as you both spoke about the future and fell asleep for the night. He looked forward to his time with you. Unlike his other lovers you enjoyed going out and working for money. Charming a fella for his days wage, or stealing from a rich man’s wife during teatime. It was a quality about you he found… Well… Sexy.

When Dutch met with Colm O’Driscoll he thought it went rather well. Arthur never met them on the road home but he didn’t think too much of it. Riding back to camp he was in high spirits. Speaking loudly to Micah about how they were finally moving forward in life. “Where’s Y/N? I have wonderful news!” He announced after hitching his horse. Charles and Ms. Grimshaw exchanged looks.

“She hasn’t returned yet Dutch, I thought you went to meet her in Rhodes.” Grimshaw flattened her skirt.

Dutch scoffed. “Now why would I go and do that?”

“She said she’d be back in the evening.”

“It’s evening now, Ms. Grimshaw.”

“I know. We were waiting for her.”

With a sigh, Dutch simply stalked back to The Count, climbing onto his saddle. “I’ll go fetch her then.” It was such a chore! He shouldn’t be out when he has such a price on his head. But Dutch was quite giddy after Colm complimented him and he wanted you to be the first to hear about how the meeting went.

He rode into town, walking through on his horse as his eyes scanned the buildings for any sign of you. Maybe you were mingling? Before he could consider any other possibilities something caught his ear. His heart sank while he overheard words he never dared imagine the combination of.

“O’Driscolls? Down this far South? Unheard of. I guess they were searching for a gal. Grabbed her and took off with the Lemoyne Raiders hot on their tail. Nasty business.”

Nasty business indeed. Now, he could be slow but Dutch van der Linde was no fool. Why else would the O’Driscolls be down this way, during the day of their meeting no less, to kidnap a random girl? Oh, he knew. This was their idea all along. To kill his other sweetheart.

Dutch’s knuckles turned white with rage, snapping the reigns violently. The Count whirled around, running out of Rhodes until he carried Dutch back to camp. “Micah, Bill, with me. Now!” He barked through gritted teeth, pacing straight to his tent to grab his revolver. “Y/N has been taken. By Colm O’Driscoll.”

“Shit! That bastard. You shoulda’ killed ‘em!” Bill ran, grabbing his rifle while Micah walked leisurely to mount Baylock, completely unbothered.

“I should have, Bill. I should have. Now com’mon!”

They rode fast and hard. Somehow catching up to the O’Driscoll’s little posse before they could reach some encampment with you stowed on a horse. Micah flanked the enemy gang on one side while Bill came in from the other. Dutch held the back, eyeing you tied up and gagged. The sight made his blood boil. There was eight O’Driscolls in total and their horses were fast, but Dutch, Bill, and Micah managed to keep up. Riding and shooting at each other as they went.

The Irishmen fell from their horses like flies. Some with their face half blown off, others screaming as their horses dragged them to death. One by one they were picked off until there were only two left. Dutch dug his spurs into his horse, moving him to ride along the man who held you captive on horseback. “Give it up son. Give me the lady and we’ll spare your life.” He didn’t want to shoot the man just yet in case you got hurt.

When a gun was pulled out of his pocket, Dutch veered to the side, assuming the fucker was going to shoot at him. His eyes widened when he realized the O’Driscoll boy wasn’t aiming for him at all. A severe miscalculation on Dutch’s part. “Colm says hello.”

BANG!

“God damn you!” He snarled. Dutch finally raised his pistol.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He emptied a barrage of shots into the man until the gun clicked and no more bullets came out. Dutch chased after the boy’s horse, corralling the spooked animal into stopping. Time seemed slow. Too slow. Dutch tried his best to calm the horse enough for him to safely take you off its back and into the comfort of his arms. “Oh, my darling.” Dutch fell to his knees, untying you so he could inspect the growing blood stain near your abdomen.

“Dutch! You came for me. You came-” You sobbed, gripping your side in pain.

“Shhh. Of course I did.” He placed a kiss to your trembling lips. The wound was bad. This situation was bad. Everything was fucked. He had seen men shot in this area more times than he could count and he knew they never survived for more than a day at most.

“Com’ere.” He picked you up, carrying you to his horse. After sitting you down he climbed into the saddle. “Tell the others…” His mouth opened and closed for a moment. What does he even say? He didn’t want to scare you but… He didn’t want that filthy camp to be the last thing you see. He knew how much you hated it...

“Alright.” Bill said, seeming to understand what was happening. He took his hat off, staring at you for a moment before bowing politely. “I’m happy you’re safe, Ms. L/N.”

You smiled gently. “Thank you Bill.” Your throat was dry and your words were weak.

Dutch held you close to him as you rode off.

“Where are we going?” You wondered.

“Somewhere nice, my dear. With a wound like that you need rest and fresh air. Simple as that.” Somehow Dutch managed to keep his voice calm even as his heart churned with sorrow.

He brought the both of you to stop overlooking a beautiful meadow with a perfect view of the lake. After placing a sweet kiss to the top of your head Dutch scooped you into his arms, carrying you to a nice tree where he then settled you in his lap. “Here, take this.” He pressed a bottle of alcohol into your hands. “It’ll help take the pain away and you’ll be able to sleep.”

Dutch pet your hair as he watched you. Studying your face. Every bump, wrinkle, scar, and blemish. He wanted to remember every single aspect of you. His last lover… Whenever he tried to recall her face the picture was fuzzy. He couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to remember you. “I love you so much, you know that? You were so brave today. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Real proud.”

“I wasn’t really…” You gave a little laugh, wincing as the alcohol burned your throat. “I love you too. Thank you for saving me.” You felt stiff and exhausted. Snuggling against his chest you both watched the sunrise and Dutch began reciting lines from your favorite book he had memorized. It was lovely, you thought as your eyes became too heavy and sleep was hard to battle. You hummed happily, a smile on your face as you drifted off peacefully.

Long after he felt your breathing stop did Dutch keep telling your favorite story. As if your spirit were lingering around and would return to your body. Then, maybe, everything would be okay. When he reached the final line of his remembrance only then did he cry. Burying his face into your hair he sobbed and took in your scent one final time.

The last thread of his sanity broke that day. He no longer cared about what future the gang might have. What future he would have with the price on his head… The only future he ever cared about was with you and you were gone now. He held you until Hosea came looking for him. Together they buried you somewhere meaningful. This was the only time Dutch actually payed for a headstone to be made. In your honor. __________________

Hosea

You and Hosea were always together no matter what you were doing. Half of the time you didn’t even need to speak with each other and just silently enjoyed each others company. Naturally you joined him on many outings to scope out who to rob. This particular occasion was a party on the outskirts of Saint Denis located in a beautiful garden home. You were dressed brilliantly, posing as Hosea’s lawful wife.

You’re charming. More charming than anyone else in the gang. With your sweet angel face and your gentle voice, everyone who spoke to you immediately thought of you as a good friend. And so there you were, mingling with the other guests. Giggling with the ladies and awe-ing (falsely so) with the rich gentlemen. Everyone loved you! So many people were trying to speak with you and flag down your attention.

It wasn’t usual to have such an elegant, smart, sweet, kind, and funny lady in their midst. You were a bit of a commodity. Hosea could hardly make his way to your side there were so many people surrounding you. He watched fondly from afar. Many times men would approach him to compliment you. “You’re one lucky man, Mr. Matthews. Mrs. Matthews is such a charmer.”

“Oh, I know it!” He laughed.” Trust me, fellas, it’s hard to keep my wife for myself some days.”

They all laughed. One man handing him a cigar which he happily accepted. The evening was bright and joyful. Though he nor you enjoyed events like this somehow you both were having fun this time. Hosea followed a group of men into a private back study to discuss investments while he left you at the main party.

This particular crowd was juicy, you thought. You heard so much gossip and many of the attendees were telling on themselves; bragging to you about what they’ve recently purchased for themselves or who’s neighbor was hoarding cash in personal safes. You were careful to make a mental note of each and every person as you nursed a glass of champagne.

“Did you hear?” A woman leaned close to you and a few of her friends.

“Hear what?” You inquired.

“Apparently Mrs. Conway has asked the local apothecary for… a permanent sleep cure.”

You tilt your head as the other ladies gasped and giggled. “Mrs. Conway… Our host for the evening?” Were they really gossiping about this woman in her own home?

“Yes. Oh, she must be dreadfully bored of Mr. Conway. I wonder if he’ll join us this evening.”

All you could do was smile and nod to blend in. It wasn’t the first time you had heard of a woman wanting to poison her rich husband. To each their own, you didn’t really care. You flinched as a loud clattering noise reached your ears. Looking behind you your eyes settled towards the source of the sound. The kitchens.

“I heard they hired new help and the kitchens are a mess tonight.” Another older woman snickered. “The Conways are lucky mingling has been this evening’s high point. Otherwise a ruined meal would sully the party.”

“Absolutely.” You agreed, setting your glass aside. “Will you please excuse me? I wish to powder my nose before dinner.” With a hum you moved away from the group to find Hosea. It wasn’t hard for you to follow his voice down the hallway. You smiled to yourself, simply listening to him work his magic. He truly was such a likable man.

Once dinner arrived Hosea had met up with you and brought you to the dining room where he pulled out your chair. Even if you two weren’t in such a luxurious setting he would have still done this. Always such a gentlemen to the love of his life. “How goes it?”

“Quite well. The ladies here are wonderfully friendly. I’ve learned a lot from them.”

Hosea admired how stunning you looked in the chandelier lighting, ignoring the help as plates of food were set in front of each guest. “I’m happy to hear that, honey.” He gave you an easy but loving smile. A smile you were quite familiar with.

There was a short speech given by Mrs. Conway, who’s party this was, where she thanked everyone and made a few jokes that earned a chuckle here and there. Finally you were able to eat. It was spaghetti which was, apparently, an Italian dish. Jack had told you and Hosea all about it when he returned to Shady Belle.

There was still chatter in the air as you took your first bite. It was delicious! It made your throat tingle a little but you thought nothing of it. Perhaps it was just the spices used. After your third bite your throat suddenly completely restricted. Your fork clattered against the table, hands flying to your throat. You couldn’t swallow. You couldn’t breathe.

“Y/N?” Hosea’s startled gaze snapped to you immediately. The room went silent as looks of horror washed over the faces of guests. “Y/N!?” Hosea gasped when your body began convulsing. He quickly took you into his arms, helping you to the floor so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. “Someone call the doctor! Quick!” He screamed. His eyes met with Mrs. Conway’s only for a split moment. She was frozen into place, guilt written all over her face. “Hurry!” Hosea pleaded.

You cried out the best you could. Holding onto Hosea who tried his best to calm you. “I’m here my love. I’m here. Hang on. Please Y/N.” He felt so helpless. All he could do was wipe the spit from the corner of your mouth and the tears from your cheeks while whispering soft soothing words. He held eye contact with you, shushing you, promising you help was on the way. “Stay with me, love. Stay with me.” His words were desperate. Eyes filled with tears.

Your face was turning blue. Your body trembling, writhing and heaving. It was a disturbing sight for Hosea, who had always assumed he would meet his end far before you ever met yours. The poison was swift. As soon as it started it ended and you finally fell limply against his chest. Hosea paused, studying your face. He couldn’t understand at first why you were quiet. “Y/N?” He gently shook you.

“No…. No! Y/N!” He cried out for you. Hosea pulled you tightly against him, wrapping his arms to cradle your head away from prying eyes as he sobbed openly. The whole thing was a whirlwind. What was supposed to be a tantalizing evening ended in tragedy. A selfish woman meaning to poison her husband. The messy kitchen staff mixing up the guests’ plates. You choking to death on an elixir from hell. Hosea Matthews experiencing his lover being ripped away from him violently a second time.

To onlookers he was nothing but a broken man refusing to let go of his murdered wife even as the police came and tried to break them apart. He wanted so desperately to fight them away, but he knew he couldn’t.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Matthews. I never meant for-” Ms. Conway whimpered pathetically while her hands were being bound by an officer for her arrest.

“You never meant for what?” He snapped. “An innocent person to die? You didn’t mean to get caught? You didn’t mean for your greed to bring you to such lows?” His eyes were cold and Ms. Conway hung her head in shame. “Go to hell, Ms. Conway. Where you belong.”

Once it was allowed, Hosea left the party. He went straight to the Saint Denis morgue to see you one last time before making funeral arrangements. It felt fake. As if the events of the night were a figment of his imagination. The gravity of reality didn’t sink in until he returned to Shady Belle alone. Every ne was asking where you were. All he could do was drag his old bones to his room, collapse onto his cot, and cry.

#RDR2 Reader Insert #RDR2 Imagines #Arthur Morgan #Charles Smith #Micah Bell #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Charles Smith x reader #Micah Bell x Reader #Dutch van der linde x reader #Hosea Matthews x reader #reader dies #rdr2

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15-lizards · 1 month

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✨ riverlands using weaving as a form of prayer do you see where im headinf with this. riverlands folk catholicism of the faith you know ….. do you have any other thoughts about what practices would be like in the home vs the septs . Does that question make sense i worry it doesn’t

No wait I’m seeing the vision…weaving and needlepoint while they pray to imbue whatever they’re making with a protective energy from the gods so that the blanket or dress or whatever keeps someone safe or brings in good fortune. And this seems a little pagan to the septs but ppl still do it anyway in their homes and outside of the Faith as an institution.

Veneration of saints that are not technically recognized by the faith but are still prominent figures within the religion so it’s tolerated. Basically folk heroes they might pray to for intercession

Also veneration of the dead/ancestor worship bc the riverlands are stuck in time and ghosts are almost as tangible as the living! Holy days where they give offerings to their deceased and pray for their spirits to come and give them guidance

A lot of Irish folk practices are really fitting too. The cross of st Brigid, the idea of holy wells, the blessing of a ribbon by a saint to that they will be protected throughout the year, etc etc. lots of leftovers from the time of the old gods mixed in with the doctrine of the new

#asoiaf worldbuilding #folk religions godddddd my absolute fave type #I love it when belief finds a way

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arcielee · 8 months

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Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ murder by Temes, character death, angst like a mofo, evil plotting, sexual themes, unprotected sex, oral (female receiving) Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 6941 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: Thank you @sylas-the-grim for helping me edit this chapter. Thank you everyone who loved Keavy and Osferth [I am not opposed to a epilogue, let me know]. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chonky chapter. 💜 Deireadh is end in Irish. Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @myfandomprompts @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurss [bold means I was unable to tag you!]

Chapter 7

The seasons had gone and Osferth found himself back within the walls of Wintanceaster. Darkness drafted over the city with the swell of storm clouds, heavy with their threat of the last of the summer rains, with flashes of white and its low rumble of thunder; it mixed with the nightfall, casting long shadows from the bold posts of amber light that was stilted in the streets, leading up to the castle.

His legs ached from the time spent on horseback, as they had traveled North to see Ragnar and his swell of rebellion in Dunholm, only to come back again, flitting amongst the cities that thread throughout East Anglia, Mercia, and then back to Wessex. They moved almost headlong, avoiding the threat of the king that hung over their heads, knitted along with the poisoned whisper of Bloodhair’s seer.

She was now dead but death followed them still, something now palpable within the castle walls of the city.

There was an eerie familiarity as he moved with deliberate steps, following two paces behind Uhtred, who followed behind the priest, and they moved, quick and quiet, through the corridor. Osferth thought back to the last time his father dared to publicly acknowledge him, how his large palm had wrapped around his arm, his staggered steps on wiry legs to keep pace with the stride of the King of Wessex.

Until that moment, Osferth had only been a shadow, a murmur of the ealdorman amongst the stone walls. He was only acknowledged by his sister, who would often pull him away to play games, as Edward was too small to be bothered with.

These were moments he cherished, but they were always fleeting, always ending with the sharp gaze of the queen over her pointed nose; it proceeded the rustle of her skirt with her curt pace, as she would sweep Æthelflæd away for prayer and penitence, leaving Osferth to fade away into the shadows once again.

If it had been left to the queen, she would see him to not exist within the walls, but here he now walked, as requested by Uhtred, his steps joining the soft echo of their footfalls. They stopped outside an oak door and Beocca held up his hand before slipping into the room first, leaving them for a moment.

In the quiet, Osferth dared ask. “Why did you bring me here, lord?”

“Why not?” Uhtred turned to face him, his voice low.

“You could have brought Finan to witness what the king wished to say,” he explained, pausing only to wet his lips. “But you chose me.” There was a hum to fill the silence and Osferth could see gold rings reflecting from the candlelight in the blues of his eyes; Uhtred did not answer his question. “The last time we were in Wintanceaster, my grief and my actions led to consequences…”

“You did what was right by your gods, lord.”

There was a subtle quirk of his lips as Uhtred watched him before he continued. “Nonetheless, it did not affect only me, but it still resulted in us being banished and torn from,” and his expression showed consideration for his next words chosen, “those we care deeply for.”

Keavy.

The thought of her name alone sent an ardent surge through his veins, something that always thrummed beneath, knotting with his yearn for her touch, for her smile again. She remained with him, heavy on his heart, alongside the cross pendant gifted that was safely tucked beneath his embossed, leather cuirass and ratted albe; its cool metal often served as a balm for the heartsore he woke up with ever since she left for Saltwic.

It had been thirteen months since he last saw her, since he last touched her or tasted her, her lips haunting the curve of his mouth. He often thought of the moment in the stables, their last kiss shared, how she felt beneath his large palms when he placed them on her hips to help her aback; his fingers ached to let her go and his desperate reach to touch her one last time, trailing up the curve of her calf.

Keavy had looked at him, the green of her brilliant eyes focusing beneath the flutter of her dark lashes; his eyes etched the rose color that nipped at her features, blooming from the cool night’s air, from the urgency to leave the city.

He grasped at these moments, but they seemed to spill between his fingers, a thousand words perched on his tongue but he could only squeeze her calf gently, he could only manage the simple promise, “I will return to you,” and then she was gone, leaving him to choke on the unsaid.

“How long has it been?” Untred asked, his voice low, kind, and easing him back into the hallway of the castle of Wintanceaster.

Four hundred and twelve days. “Over a year now, lord.”

Uhtred hummed again. “Osferth, I brought you here to hold me accountable when we face Alfred, so that we may right what is needed and be able to return to Saltwic, but without the echoes of outcast or fugitive to follow our steps.” He offered a wry smile.

Osferth felt his heart flutter with his words, his fingers pressing to feel the soft crinkle of parchment of the letter tucked away, its edges fraying, and each word memorized. As they traveled, updates were fleetingly sent from Saltwic, and only just a quick recount from Æthelflæd that all was well, that they, that Keavy, were still safe.

She studies beside Oswald, who is becoming your namesake, Æthelflæd’s words teased. She is adamant to continue learning so she may send her own words to you.

His heart held onto these words and the bit of hope they offered, as it was all that could be done with the unprecedented time and travel. But when the threat of Æthelflæd was vocalized in Dunholm, they were quick to come to her aid and learned of Æthelred’s intended ill-will.

It was a mixture of frustration, of exhaustion, just the sheer disappointment to return and find Saltwic empty… “They are safe,” his sister was quick to say, her eyes flitting from Osferth, then to Sihtric, and the rest of them. “I had them sent to Alencestre when Aldhelm warned me…” and she faltered.

It was a wrath returned and Osferth spoke low. “I will kill him,” and he felt Uhtred rest his palm on his shoulder, grounding him.

Æthelflæd watched him, a slight curl to her pink lips, and she stepped towards him. “I swore to you that I would keep her safe,” her words just for him and his gaze flicked to meet her own; she reached for his hands. “This is for you.”

A letter, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, using the fading sunlight to read. Osferth, it began, the sweet curl of her lettering to the piece of parchment, and he could hear her musical lilt with the few lines she had written, I have not forgotten what you have promised me, and I hold onto the hope that neither have you. I am waiting, still, and I will do so until you return to me.

The simplicity of her message warmed his heart; he took care to refold its creases and tuck it away, carrying it with him always. In the days that followed, he came across an intimate moment shared between his sister and Uhtred; he saw her blush, her swift steps to pull away from him and her expression when she spotted Osferth.

He offered his arm, watching how her brow furrowed, the bob of her neck as she swallowed thickly. “Show me the gardens by the chapel,” he offered a scapegoat.

She tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm, keeping with his languid pace; she did not speak of the greenery. “Love is peculiar, isn’t it?” Æthelflæd, if anything, was fearsome, but in that moment she gave a wistful look over her shoulder to see the embrace the seer pressed onto Uhtred. “It has a way to thread within your heart, but life has chapters that must be completed first until it is ready to blossom, or so it seems.”

Osferth hummed, his steps slowed to keep with her, his mind returning to the words written: I am waiting.

“Do you love her, Osferth?”

It was a relief to admit it outloud, to say something that pressed within his heart, heavy with his steps that traveled northwards and back again. It was a thought that sung with the rising sun and carried throughout to a melodious lull at night. But he also confided his hesitation to tell Keavy just this.

“What keeps you from saying this to her?”

Osferth swallowed, his lips pursed in debate of what words he would choose, deciding to trust his sister: the sin’s of their father and the curse that he was born into.

She stopped walking and he followed, turning to look at her; he saw the maturity to her beauty, the hereditary severity that lined her lovely face with her smile. “Oh Osferth,” she began, reaching for his hand to hold his attention, “I think life is cruel enough on its own without this perpetual penance. God be damned,” she almost laughed, “I see that Keavy has a strength knitted within her very bones. I believe you should allow her to decide her own fate, to allow her to choose to spend our given time on this earth with you or not.”

Osferth blinked. “Promise me you will tell her when you see her again,” she continued, and he saw a sadness to her smile, “as I know she loves you.”

His heart lifted with her words, but the sadness was heavy still with his sister. “What of Lord Uhtred?” His curiosity could not be helped; since the nunnery, he was too aware of the lingering glances, their subtle touches shared, how their every movement was scrutinized from the sharp glare of the witch.

Plumes of red stained her porcelain tones and her lashes fluttered as she forced herself to keep his gaze. “I believe,” her tone slow with a recognition all her own, “that Uhtred and I are maimed by a great love lost, that our sorrow recognizes one another and we cannot help but be drawn towards each other.”

Osferth nodded; the guilt, the weight of Gisela’s death nearly killed Uhtred on the way to Dunholm, and this was first he had seen his smile in months. “I only wish for you to find happiness, Æthelflæd.”

“And I, you, Osferth,” her eyes glassy with her words. “You will always be welcomed in Mercia.”

They were quick to move, called to Aegelesburg and spoke strategy on how to cripple the Dane army that grew. After the bloodshed, they returned to Coccham and found the village thriving, though once they passed through the archway, Osferth could not shake the haunted feeling of the transitory happiness that seemed an eternity ago.

The pagan hall had the spilled stain of lords unwelcomed, with their placed ornaments of the Christian God hanging above while they ate their fill; they were seated at the same table where he helped Keavy tutor Stiorra and Oswald, her endless patience and sweet smile, and how Gisela watched over them, her eyes glittering.

But that warmth was swept from the great hall and Osferth left without a word, following the dirt path that returned him to the room he and Keavy shared. The air was stale, her lingering scent gone, and nothing but a dust that covered the bare furniture left behind.

He took deep breaths through his mouth, the heartache still pressing, and he felt jolted from his self-wallowing.

I know she loves you.

He then heard Leofric, his words clawing through the earth, an echo that rang bold from his grave: a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny.

Osferth felt embolden, something that now seared through his veins, propelling his steps forward with the earth crunching beneath his boots. He thought of the time lost to his damn hesitation, for some curse mentioned by a faith lost, a curse deemed by his very existence and damned by the sins of his father, and how he foolishly allowed it to still his tongue when it came to her.

He knew he loved Keavy, just as Uhtred described once, something that thrummed beneath his skin, in tandem with his heartbeat.

He moved towards the Temes, to allow a new breath, a moment to clear his mind of this burdened relief carried that now was dissipating with each step. He only stopped when he saw Untred and the witch, but he dared to creep forward, silent, wary, watching how the tension lifted in his lord’s shoulders when he released her and how she drifted away with the current.

Uhtred seemed surprised as Osferth moved to the dock, reaching to pull him from the river. He was quiet through the confession, how Uhtred was not proud of what he had done, and he was quick to stop his lament. “You have taken control of your destiny, lord,” and his words burned in his chest, as if branded by the Celtic cross worn. “Today, I have decided to do the very same.”

Curse be damned.

“I will not leave this city,” and Uhtred’s voice returned his attention back to the hallway, perched outside the king’s door, “until we have been reinstated, free men once more. And besides,” Uhtred was watching him, “don’t you wish to see your father?”

Osferth returned the stare; this thought had been furthest from his mind, but the words spoken wrapped around his throat and he swallowed hard. The silence was heavy and his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, lord.”

It was then that Beocca peered out, gesturing to Osferth. “The king wishes to speak with you first,” and the priest moved aside.

Osferth looked to Uhtred for a moment, who nodded his encouragement, and he moved past the priest, slipping into the room.

Orange hues pooled around the bed from the thick tapers lit and the king was swathed in woolen blankets, propped against overstuffed cushions to hold him upright. Osferth marveled at the vestige of the man from Aescengum months prior, his complexion waxen and his skin taught over his bones, with dark rings beneath his closed eyes. He would have assumed the king was already dead had he not noticed the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the muted labored breaths beneath the layers.

And then the king opened his eyes, their shared blue that was muddled with his sickness and that wavered until they fell to where Osfeth stood. There was the shudder of his youth, his want to wilt away from the direct gaze, but instead he moved towards the bedside.

King Alfred watched with bruised, hooded eyes as Osferth seated himself on the ottoman, pulling himself close enough to see that candlelight show the last glimmer of life touching his pallid features. “Osferth,” the king began, his name foreign, spilling from his cracked tongue and lips.

A cough came, a wet rasp that was covered by a handkerchief spotted with blood; Osferth looked to grab a goblet at the bedside, offering a drink that he gratefully took. When he set the mug down, he felt the king clasped his hand onto his other, a papery thin touch, and Osferth dutifully reached with his other hand, dutiful to his dying father, solemn with his returned gesture.

“I know what you have done,” Alfred continued between ragged breaths. “I have heard of your bravery,” and he paused. “You are a good man and I am proud.”

Osferth shifted his weight from his words and the king did not notice, or if he did, he continued anyway. “Death allows you to reflect on your failures, your misdoings in your life,” he released his hold, pressing his palms against the top blanket; the skin clung thin to the bones, his knuckles jutted against. “There is a letter prepared. Bring it to Æthelflæd, she will know what must be done.”

His eyes followed the weak wave to see the parchment folded and the red wax of the king’s seal placed. “I only ever wished to do what was right by you,” and Osferth jerked back towards the murmur of the king, a man of regal regret, and saw that Alfred held a look of awe, as if it was his first time to truly see his eldest son.

“Osferth,” he repeated, his voice weak and his eyes glassy. “I am proud.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, the threat of tears in the same eyes he shared with his father.

Osferth felt a warm touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Uhtred standing over, a gentle squeeze. He moved to stand, excusing himself to leave the room, pausing in the doorway for a final look at his father, who managed a second wind to greet Uhtred; dutiful until the end.

Only in the corridor did he dare peer at the letter in hand, at the king’s penmanship that began: To my kinsman, Osferth.

+ + + +

“I see horsemen.”

Keavy sat below the tree that Stiorra climbed, her back against the trunk and a tome opened across her lap; the girl was growing long like her mother, allowing a reach for the higher limbs, and still slender enough for the branches to hold her weight. Keavy squinted upwards to where the girl was perched, watching. “Tradesmen?”

The cool breeze rippled through her hair and she used one hand to push it from her view. “If they are tradesmen, they travel light.”

Keavy closed the book and set it on top of the quilt spread at the base, pushing to her feet. “Climb down, Stiorra,” she swallowed the tinge of panic to her tone. “It would be best to alert Lady Æthelflæd…” in case they are unfriendly, but she could not say that out loud.

It had been weeks since the Battle of Holme, as it now known; it was a bloodshed of Danes, a revolt orchestrated by Æthelwold that had been met by Lord Uhtred and his valiant men, as well as the Anglo-Saxon allied militia. Despite the victory, the Danes that escaped flitted across the villages of Northumbria, still raiding, still vengeful.

“They may be Dane,” Stiorra continued her assessment, her head tilting; it was one of the many traits passed from Gisela, her unwavering fearlessness as in this moment, watching still. “Or some of them, anyway…”

“Stiorra,” her voice was sharper. “Now.”

She reached for a thicker branch to begin her descent, pausing to say, “Keavy,” and she looked down. “It is my father!”

It had been fourteen months since they had arrived at Saltwic; they rode through the night and following day, coming just as the amber streaks of dusk splayed behind the stoned rook. Lady Æthelflæd came to the courtyard at the call of her men, wearing with the same severity of her brother that was etched onto her features.

She recognized Hild and beckoned them inside at once, with Sigdeflaed guiding the bleary eyed children and Keavy lingering behind with the nun. While Hild recounted the prior days, Keavy was drawn to watch the emotions playing across her fair features in a way that was akin to Osferth, subtle but austere; only when Keavy was mentioned by name was the noticeable flicker, the small curl upwards of her lips.

“You are Keavy?”

She felt the blood pour into her cheeks as Æthelflæd turned her attention towards her, with the same blue that belonged to Osferth. “I am,” Keavy gave a small nod.

“I have heard so much about you,” and she smiled with a warmth that reached her eyes. “You are safe here, I swear it. For as long as it is needed.”

The weeks that followed were quiet, uneventful, though Keavy still kept her seax and dagger on her person out of caution, or perhaps comfort. She still pressed for a new normalcy for both Stiorra and Oswald, who seemed to have aged with their grief.

Stiorra mirrored her mother in so many ways, though her willful temperament came from Uhtred; she had no interest in her studies, but still would participate, in part to torment her brother, but mostly she pushed to learn how to handle a real blade. Whereas Oswald had grown solemn in Saltwic, embracing the supplied priest for their tutoring lessons, newly dedicated to the faith.

Keavy remained present, sitting with Æthelflæd, who would often use the time to pen a letter for Osferth. She was aware of the Irishwoman’s gaze and asked her, “Would you care to add something?”

She blushed as she shyly admitted that Osferth had been teaching her to read whenever he was in Coccham, but never to write; with this Æthelflæd smiled, a soft hum of encouragement for her to sit alongside the priest, taking a personal interest for Keavy to practice her penmanship.

The seasons rolled away as the autumn’s yellows, oranges, and reds were soon covered by the first dusting of snowfall, enveloping Saltwic in white; the only color shown were the rich tones of primrose that bloomed throughout the gardens.

Inside, fresh parchment was placed onto the table and Keavy looked up to see the same kind smile, the same kind eyes that she recognized in Osferth with Æthelflæd’s features. “This is for you, so you may write to him,” was all she said.

Æthelflæd seemed very aware of whatever was between Keavy and her brother, but she still could not help the color that flushed her cheeks. “What would I even tell him?”

“Whatever it is that you are carrying in your heart,” Æthelflæd replied, a knowing smile curling on her rosy lips.

The empty page seemed to taunt her and Keavy remained seated long after the rest retired to their quarters. The quiet, the solitude allowed her to finally pull from her heart as suggested, blowing on the ink to dry.

She heard steps and turned to see Æthelflæd returning downstairs with a man in her shadow. Keavy pushed from her seat, her seax and dagger drawn, her heart in her teeth. “Keavy, it’s okay, I know him–” she held up her hands, a flush of color to her cheeks. “We must act quickly.”

Saltwic was no longer safe and they were to leave for Alencestra at once; the words clawed within her chest as Æthelflæd continued, “I will leave for Wincelcumb, and I will send for Uhtred.” Her eyes were bright with her plan. “You all will be safe there until I come for you… once this matter is dealt with.”

“Uhtred will kill him,” and Keavy sheathed her steel, her eyes still wary of the man. “They both will kill him.” Osferth.

Æthelflæd nodded. “I hope it does not come to that.”

“Lady, be safe.” Keavy reached for the parchment, folding it. “And… if you see Osferth, could you give him this?”

Her knowing smile hinted, the newfound worry lifting for a moment until the hushed whisper came: “Lady, we must hurry.”

The time in Alencestra was long enough for Oswald to announce his departure for St. Wilfrid’s Church, to go back to Wessex, refusing to return with them to Saltwic. Keavy watched him, finally seeing the flare of his father in Oswald, the young man's eyes bold with his conviction. Stiorra was incredulous and only Æthelflæd seemed supportive.

“Father will understand my decision,” he finished.

But Keavy knew that would not be the case.

They returned to Saltwic just as the snow melted with the returned plumes of color from the flowers that sprouted through, followed by the summer rains that thundered and muddied the earth, and continued until it was blanketed once again with the amber colors of autumn, sprawling as far as the eye could see.

And they remained still, without word, without direction from Uhtred, without an update from Osferth. Instead, news only came second-hand: the death of the king of Wessex and the succession of the aetheling Edward, and the bloodied battle won against his uncle Æthelwold.

Kevay tried to smother her impatience, her anxiety that knotted in her chest, waiting for a whisper, a murmur of news, to know if Osferth still lived or if he had died. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him what she failed to write to him.

That she loved him, and she always would.

And now the words that spilled from Stiorra swept the air from her lungs, her stance wavering slightly. “Stiorra… are you certain?” The girl moved with a newfound eagerness, branch over branch, uncaring how her skirts caught and tore them free. “I see the glint of Serpent-Breath’s handle!” Her tone was gleeful. “He is back as he promised! And he brings your beau!”

Keavy flushed crimson. “You know not what you talk about–”

“I am only young, I am not blind,” she continued with her cheeky tone, teasing just as Gisela had always done. The heartache of her loss remained, but Keavy always pressed for them to recall the good, that it was the love they held for their mother that would keep her memory alive. “I remember how you were sweet on him and besides,” and her grin matched her tone, “I also remember mother saying he was your beau.”

It was as if Gisela was able to still tease beyond the grave. “Nevermind what she said–” Keavy burned as she struggled for her words. “Just, come down, quick!”

Stiorra gave another cheeky grin before dropping from the last branch and landing back onto the ground; her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes bright with her discovery.

Keavy took her hand, the fevered pull of her heart with their hurried steps, her mind repeating the same hope she clung to the prior fourteen months: they have returned, Osferth is here!

It was called throughout and soon there was the spill into the courtyard, the gates opening as they gathered. Keavy stood solid despite the flurried anticipation that trilled her spine, watching until her vision blurred and blinking to clear it again.

Uhtred led the men into Saltwic and its welcoming cries. Stiorra, who was a young woman in so many ways but at that moment, she was a child again and happy to see her father; she preened as he dismounted, pulling her close and pressing a kiss on top of her head. His steady gaze fell to Æthelflæd, her modest smile and the rose color pluming on her fair complexion as she watched.

Then there was the reunion of man and wife, with Sihtric quick to pull Sigdeflaed for a kiss, of Finan calling loudly to their public display, but Keavy ignored it all; her eyes sought for Osferth alone.

And she saw him, further back with Pyrlig, swinging his leg over the cantle and dropping off the side of his horse. He seemed taller than she remembered, a beacon that cut through once his eyes found Keavy, navigating through the men with his long legs.

She willed herself forward, but remained rooted with her awestruck–he’s here. Osferth pressed forward until he was able to reach for her hand, and she was quick to take it, as she always had, as she always would.

It was the familiar fit she longed for, how her hand fit into his own; his fingers still slender, his grip hardened with callouses from the reins, from his sword, but was gentle still, and firm with his hold, as if anything less would allow her to float away. Keavy followed his steps as he pulled her away from the crowd–though she felt their eyes follow, and they walked until they came around to the gardens, where the small chapel stood.

There was the crunch of the auburn foliage with the season change beneath their feet, the cold nipping in the air. Osferth stopped and turned to face Keavy, his hands moving to the dip of her waist; she felt the air wrung from her chest with how he looked at her, the same brilliant blue of his eyes, rose hues that stained his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

“Keavy,” began the gentle timbre of his voice, another flutter that swept through her with how he said her name, “may I kiss you?”

She almost cried with his request, but instead gave a small nod; his lips curled, the blood beneath his skin darkening his features, and he dipped his head forward, the soft touch of his lips before he pressed against her. Keavy melted against him, her hands clasping on his forearms with a tight hold to keep her standing. She was unaware she was even crying until he pulled away, his concern knitting his sharp features and his large palms moving to cup her face.

His touch was still gentle, warm and mindful of her mar, his thumb careful to wipe away the large tears that spilled. “You are crying?” He sounded alarmed, as if he held himself the cause.

“You came back,” was all she could say, a hoarse whisper that broke away from her throat.

“Keavy,” his relief washed over and his lips curled upwards, his gaze softening with her words, “I told you that I would.”

Her laugh was choked with tears and he gave a chaste kiss before he pulled away, not outside of arms’ reach, but space enough to pull the Celtic silver cross from beneath his clothes; it gleamed in the sunlight. “I said I would bring this back. It always seemed to bring me luck,” he teased as he untied the leather. “May I?”

She nodded again, her hands trembling to gather her dark hair as he moved behind her, bringing the necklace and knotting it at the nape of her neck; her skin rose with his warm touch, his thumb against her spine, and she felt his lips touch, his rumbled hum reverberating throughout her.

“Would you rather just keep it?” she felt silly with her question, her fingers coming to touch the metal and turning to meet with his eyes.

Osferth looked to her hand before resting his large palm over, and her heart rattled in her chest. “This is where it belongs,” and she saw how his neck bobbed as he swallowed. “Keavy,” he seemed solemn, almost uneasy, “I know so much has happened, so much that I wish to tell you…” he shifted his weight. “Keavy, I am a man cursed–”

“Osferth?” Her brow quirked.

He shook his head, searching for the words, “I mean this in the biblical sense–”

“I refuse to hear this, damn the Saxon God,” she burst, the flash of severity brightening her eyes as she spoke. “Your worth is not deemed by the sins of another man!”

Osferth watched her with a pursed smile that deepened his dimples, and he leaned forward to capture her mouth; the kiss was soft, it was warm, and when she sighed, his tongue curled within her mouth, a languid pace to taste. When he pulled back, Keavy sighed again, the warmth burning her cheeks, her lips slightly swollen. “Allow me to finish?” His whisper fanned her face and she nodded numbly.

“I am cursed, mayhaps,” and his gaze shifted a moment, but he did not continue with that thought, but instead, “I know that I have nothing to offer your affection, but know that with what I have, I will give you. I knew from the moment I saw you, from the moment we touch, how it gave me a sense of home I had never felt before,” he looked at the hold, how her palm curled within his own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, “I wish you to be my wife, Keavy. I love you.”

And only then did he meet with her eyes, and Keavy could feel how her scar ached with how she smiled. “Say it again, Osferth.”

“That I am cursed?” He seemed uncertain, and even more as she laughed.

“No,” and she pulled her hands away, sliding them to curl against the base of his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss. “Only the last part,” she whispered against his mouth.

Osferth smiled, glowing. “I love you, Keavy.”

And they kissed.

+ + + +

There was a call for the staff to prepare a feast, for barrels to be rolled out so no mug would be empty, as there was much cause for a celebration this day.

Æthelflæd and Sigdeflaed pulled Keavy away, helping her scrub every inch of skin and combing her curls with a rose oil gleam; a cream tunic and kirtle was gifted, cinching at her waist, a rich plum that complemented her fair skin and brought out her green eyes.

There was a soft tap at the door that showed Stiorra holding a garland crown of primroses from the garden. “Just as you would do for me,” she smiled as Keavy placed it on top of her head before pulling her in for a hug.

Arms linked, they walked back outside just as the last stretch of sunlight tucked away, the beginning blue hues that mixed with the burnt oranges and stars beginning to dot the sky. Keavy felt as if she were walking on the air as they entered the small chapel to see Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, and the priest Pylrig towards the back where the stained glass reflected the tapers lit. She smiled at the sight of Osferth, and he returned it, his dimples lining his cheeks watching her eager steps to meet him.

The priest officiated, taking Osferth’s large hand and placing it on top of Keavy’s. He felt her slight tremble and peered to see the flush of color with her grin; his thumb drew small circles and only then did she look to him, the color deepening on her cheeks.

A quick prayer at the end was followed with a sweet kiss, and Finan crowed loudly. “Fucking finally!”

Night spilled over Saltwic and torches were lit to show the way back, able to follow the rich aroma of the feast prepared; cups brimmed and toasts given to the new king, to the safe return of Uhtred and his men, and to the new lordship, which cause Keavy to look at Osferth.

His grin was shy and he brought her knuckles up for a kiss. “I promise I will tell you everything, but this night I only wish to celebrate my beautiful wife.”

She glowed with his words, leaning forward for a kiss to his jaw with the whisper, “Whatever you desire,” and her tone sultry, “my lord.”

Osferth did not let go of her hand, his slender fingers interlacing with her own, and she followed his sure steps that led away from the continued festivities and towards the room that had been prepared for them. When they came to the door, he drew her close by bringing the back of her palm to his lips for a gentle kiss, relishing in the flush of color to her cheeks before he opened the door.

He pulled her inside, making sure to close and lock the door before he turned to capture her mouth; he pressed against her and she moaned in response, her arms wrapping around his neck, his tongue clever to taste. His large hands that had been hardened from battle showed grace with the intricacies of the lacings on her dress, with Osferth pausing to kiss the bit of new skin he exposed until Keavy was fully bare.

Each touch of his lips seemed to spark against her skin, fluttering to her nerve endings and back again; she felt the coiled fervor in her lower abdomen, a wetness that pooled between her thighs, an ache to be touched by his hands.

“Osferth,” she breathed against his lips, “I need you.”

But instead he pulled back, taking away the warmth he embodied, and Keavy could not help her soft whine, feeling her blush spill with intimate rose hues that stained her skin. He watched, his eyes rolling over her, his brilliant blue swallowed by his lustful haze and an almost playful curl to his lips.

Osferth closed the space he created, a hot whisper in the shell of her ear, “I know,” and he moved closer, feeling her shuddered response beneath his fingertips, gentle to touch her hips and bring her flush against his chest; she sighed at the heavy shaft that pressed onto her lower stomach, “I promise, but first…”

Keavy looked to see a pink dusting that covered his cheeks, his smile almost shy with his continued confession. “You must be first… I certainly will not last.”

She kissed him again, her fingers pulling at the tunic he still wore; they moved towards the bed, a trail of his clothing in their wake, until she was able to fall back against the mattress. Osferth remained standing, a moment to admire her curves, from the width of her hips to her waist, the natural slope of her breasts and watching their rise and fall with her breath.

He climbed onto the bed, moving between her plush thighs; it was a scent intimately her own, mixing pleasantly with the fresh straw and linen. Osferth dipped his head to place a kiss to the bloom above her entrance and she sighed, her thighs clenching in response, but his large hands moved to grip into the softness, pulling them apart so he could sink further.

Keavy felt the blood rush to her head; his touch was familiar, remembered, with his soft nuzzle between and his kisses that led towards her center. She gasped and he only hummed in response, his lips curling upwards as they pressed to savor her essence; it was overwhelming after so long, and Keavy could not help but jump, another gasp that ripped from her chest.

His hold tightened, his pleading murmur against her folds, “Let me, let me,” as he continued.

She could not help but squirm, her fingers combing through his locks to root herself, and Osferth hummed again, a vibration that fluttered throughout her. She felt his fingers press against her silken slit, the curl of one digit within and another followed, creating sparks of pleasure that trilled up her spine with his come hither motion; her heart pounded against her chest from his sensual ministrations, the blood roaring towards her center as each euphoric wave began to crest and press against her seams.

“Osferth,” she cried, pearled tears clumping her lashes together.

“My beautiful wife,” his breathless praise against her wet cunt, “just like that…”

Osferth continued and her stomach tightened before the coiling passion finally burst, stars dancing before her eyes and her sinful clench around his fingers as he continued to coax through its entirety. Once her breath steadied, once her vision cleared, did she look to see he was now standing, his fingers now wrapped around the base his length, heady and heavy and glistening from her release.

She pushed to her elbows to meet as he moved on top of her, capturing his lips and she licked herself off his chin with a giggle. Osferth grinned, moving into the cradle of her hips, resting on his elbows to hold his weight, but she clenched her thighs to draw him closer for another breathless kiss.

Keavy melted against the warmth of his bare skin, the tickle of his chest hair, and his arm dipped between them to line the crown of his cock to her entrance, the gratifying stretch as he filled her. She gasped from the slow roll of his hips, sheathing his length and rekindling a passion with his each thrust; her nails bit into his shoulders, gasping to catch her breath that was being pulled away with the returning crests of pleasure, of something deeper within that caused her walls to flutter.

“Again?” Osferth was flushed, pleased, but his pace did not falter.

She could only give a mewled response, a clenching release, an intensity from the depth he reached inside her, and its rapturous pull that left her boneless and breathless, caged in his arms. Osferth followed her over the edge, tucking his head into the junction of her neck to her shoulder, a muted groan as his cocked pulsed within her velvet walls.

And they laid for a moment before he began to place soft kisses against the curve of her neck, his lips trailing her jaw, and she giggled from his touch. He grinned again, another chaste kiss on her lips before he pulled away, moving to grab a cloth that was draped by the washbin, wringing it out and returning to wipe away the sex, pausing a moment to admire the spill of his seed and how it gleamed against her rosy folds.

The hour was late when they finally crawled beneath the layers of blankets, of furs, and Osferth curled behind her with a deep inhale then a sigh from feeling the softness of her backside pressed against his chest, from how she fit into his embrace as his arms wrapped around her waist. He nestled further into her curls, a scent sorely missed of rose oil against her flushed skin, until his lips touched the back of her neck, eliciting a sleepy sigh from her lips.

He smiled, the low murmur, “My sweet wife.”

Deireadh.

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