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cielrouge · 3 years

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YA SFF Books by Black Authors

A Song Below Water by Bethany C. Morrow: About the strength of black sisterhood set in Portland, OR, best friends Tavi and Effie discover their true supernatural identity when Effie starts being haunted by demons from her past, and Tavia accidentally lets out her magical siren voice during a police stop.

A Chorus Rises (A Song Below Water #2) by Bethany C. Morrow: Teen influencer Naema Bradshaw is an Eloko, a person who’s gifted with a song that woos anyone who hears it. Everyone loves her — well, until she's cast as the awful person who exposed Tavia’s secret siren powers. When a new, flourishing segment of Naema’s online supporters start targeting black girls, however, Naema must discover the true purpose of her magical voice.

A Song of Wraiths and Ruin by Roseanne A. Brown: Inspired by West African folklore in which a grieving crown princess, Karina, and a desperate refugee, Malik, find themselves on a collision course to murder each other, despite their growing attraction.

Akata Witch by Nnedi Okorafor: Sunny Nwazue, an American-born albino child of Nigerian parents, moves with her family back to Nigeria, where she learns that she has latent magical powers which she and three similarly gifted friends use to catch a serial killer.

Akata Warrior (Akata Witch #2) by Nnedi Okorafor: Now stronger, feistier, and a bit older, Sunny Nwazue, along with her friends from the the Leopard Society, travel through worlds, both visible and invisible, to the mysterious town of Osisi, where they fight in a climactic battle to save humanity.

Bad Witch Burning by Jessica Lewis: For fans of Us and The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina comes a witchy story full of black girl magic as one girl’s dark ability to summon the dead offers her a chance at a new life, while revealing to her an even darker future.

Beasts Made of Night by Tochi Onyebuchi: After he eats the sin of a royal, Taj, a talented aki, or sin-eater who consumes the guilt of others whose transgressions are exorcised from them by powerful but corrupt Mages, is drawn into a plot to destroy the city, and he must fight to save the princess he loves and his own life.

Beasts of Prey by Ayana Gray: Two Black teenagers, talented Beastkeeper Koffi and warrior-in-training Ekon, must trek into a magical jungle to take down an ancient creature menacing the city of Lkossa, before they become the hunted.

The Belles by Dhonielle Clayton: In the opulent world of Orléans, where Beauty is a commodity only a few control, Belle Camellia Beauregard will learn the dark secrets behind her powers, and rise up to change the world.

A Blade So Black by L.L. McKinney: A whimsical and butt-kicking Alice in Wonderland retelling featuring a black teen heroine who battles Nightmares in the dark and terrifying dream realm known as Wonderland.

Bleeding Violet by Dia Reeves: 16-year-old Hanna reunites with her estranged mother in an East Texas town that is haunted with doors to dimensions of the dead and protected by demon hunters called Mortmaine.

Blood Like Magic by Liselle Sambury: Set in near-future Toronto in which, after failing to come into her powers, 16-year-old Black witch Voya Thomas must choose between losing her family’s magic forever or murdering her first love.

The Bones of Ruin by Sarah Raughley: Set in Victorian England, African tightrope walker Iris cannot die; but soon gets drafted in the fight-to-the-death tournament of freaks where she learns the terrible truth of who and what she really is.

The Cost of Knowing by Brittney Morris: A gripping, evocative novel about Black teen Alex Rufus, who has the power to see into the future, and whose life turns upside down when he foresees his younger brother’s imminent death.

Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi: 17-year-old Zélie and companions journey to a mythic island seeking a chance to bring back magic to the land of Orïsha, in a fantasy world infused with the textures of West Africa.

Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha #2) by Tomi Adeyemi: After battling the impossible, Zélie and Amari have finally succeeded in bringing magic back to the land of Orïsha. But with civil war looming on the horizon, Zélie finds herself at a breaking point: she must discover a way to bring the kingdom together or watch as Orïsha tears itself apart.

Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron: 16-year-old Sophia would much rather marry Erin, her childhood best friend, than parade in front of suitors. At the ball, Sophia flees, hiding in Cinderella’s mausoleum. There, she meets Constance, the last known descendant of Cinderella and her step sisters. Together they vow to bring down the king once and for all.

Crown of Thunder (Beasts Made of Night #2) by Tochi Onyebuchi: Taj has escaped Kos, but Queen Karima will go to any means necessary--including using the most deadly magic--to track him down.

A Crown So Cursed (Nightmare Verse #3) by L.L. McKinney: Alice is ready to jump into battle when she learns that someone is building an army of Nightmares to attack the mortal world, before she learns of a personal connection to Wonderland.

Daughters of Jubilation by Kara Lee Corthron: In Jim Crow South, black teen Evalene Deschamps finds her place among a family of women gifted with magical abilities, known as jubilation - a gift passed down from generations of black women since the time of slavery.

Dread Nation by Justina Ireland: The Civil War is over, but mostly because the dead rose at Gettysburg—and then started rising everywhere else. Fighting the undead is a breeze for Jane McKenne, an Attendant, trained in both weaponry and etiquette to protect the well-to-do. But the fight for freedom? That’s a different story.

Deathless Divide (Dread Nation #2) by Justina Ireland: After the fall of Summerland, Jane McKeene hoped her life would get simpler. But nothing is easy when you’re a girl trained in putting down the restless dead, and a devastating loss on the road to Nicodermus has Jane questioning everything she thought she knew about surviving in 1880’s America.

A Dream So Dark (Nightmare Verse #2) by L.L. McKinney: Still reeling from her recent battle (and grounded until she graduates) Alice must cross the Veil to rescue her friends and stop the Black Knight once and for all in Wonderland.

Early Departures by Justin A. Reynolds: Jamal’s best friend Q is brought back to life after a freak accident … but they only have a short time together before he will die again. How can Jamal fix his friendship without the truth?

Fate of Flames by Sarah Raughley: Before they can save the world from the monstrous phantoms, four girls who have the power to control the classical elements: earth, air, fire, and water must first try to figure out how to work together.

For All Time by Shanna Miles: Tamar and Fayard, two Black teens, are fated to repeat their love story across hundreds of lifetimes, from 14th-century Mali to the distant future, as they struggle to break the cycle.

The Gilded Ones by Namina Forna: Inspired by the culture of West Africa, a feminist fantasy debut traces the experiences of 16-year-old Deka, who is invited to leave her discriminatory village to join the emperor’s army of near-immortal women warriors.

The Good Luck Girls by Charlotte Nicole Davis: The country of Arketta calls them Good Luck Girls--they know their luck is anything but. Sold to a "welcome house" as children and branded with cursed markings. When Clementine accidentally kills a man, the girls risk a dangerous escape to find freedom, justice, and revenge.

Kingdom of Souls by Rena Barron: Set in a West African-inspired fantasy kingdom, Arrah comes from a long line of powerful witchdoctors, yet fails at magic. When Arrah trade years off her life for magic to stop the Demon King from destroying the world—that is if it doesn’t kill her first.

Legacy of Light (The Effgies #3) by Sarah Raughley: After Saul’s strike on Oslo—one seemingly led by Maia herself—the Effigies’ reputation is in shambles. Belle has gone rogue, Chae Rin and Lake have disappeared, and the Sect is being dismantled and replaced by a terrifying new world order helmed by Blackwell. If the Effigies can’t put the pieces together soon, there may not be much left of the world they’ve fought so desperately to save.

Legendborn by Tracy Deonn: In this King Arthur retelling, Black teen Bree Matthews infiltrates a secret society of powerful magic wielders to find out the truth behind her mother’s untimely death.

Mem by Bethany C. Morrow: In alternate reality Montreal (1925), a young woman’s personality is the result of a startling experimental procedure, leaving her to struggle with the question of who she really is.

Miles Morales, Spider-Man by Jason Reynolds: But Miles Morales accidentally discovers a villainous teacher's plan to turn good kids bad, he will need to come to terms with his own destiny as the new Spider-man.

Oh My Gods by Alexandra Sheppard: Half-mortal teenager Helen Thomas goes to live with her father—who is Zeus, masquerading as a university professor—and must do her best to keep the family secret intact.

The Opposite of Always by Justin A. Reynolds: After falling for Kate, her unexpected death sends Jack back in time to the moment they first met, but he soon learns that his actions have consequences when someone else close to him dies.

Orleans by Sherri L. Smith: Set in a futuristic, hostile Orleans landscape, Fen de la Guerre must deliver her tribe leader's baby over the Wall into the Outer States before her blood becomes tainted with Delta Fever.

Nubia: Real One by L.L. McKinney & Robyn Smith: When Nubia’s best friend, Quisha, is threatened by a boy who thinks he owns the town, Nubia will risk it all—her safety, her home, and her crush on that cute kid in English class—to become the hero society tells her she isn’t.

A Phoenix First Must Burn: 16 Stories of Black Girl Magic, Resistance, and Hope edited by Patrice Caldwell: Filled with stories of love and betrayal, strength and resistance, this collection contains an array of complex and true-to-life characters in which you cannot help but see yourself reflected. Witches and scientists, sisters and lovers, priestesses and rebels.

This Poison Heart by Kalynn Bayron: In this contemporary fantasy inspired by The Secret Garden, Black teen Briseis has a gift: she can grow plants with a single touch. Up against a centuries-old curse and the deadliest plant on earth, Bri must harness her gift to protect herself and her family, when a nefarious group comes after her in search of a rare and dangerous immortality elixir.

A Psalm of Storm and Silence (A Song of Wraiths and Ruin #2) by Roseanne A. Brown: As the fabric holding Sonande together begins to tear, Malik and Karina once again find themselves torn between their duties and their desires.

A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) by Amanda Joy: After learning the truth of her heritage, Eva is on the run with her sister Isa as her captive, but with the Queendom of Myre on the brink of revolution, Eva and Isa must make peace with each other to save their kingdom.

Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko: In a West African-inspired empire, Tarisai is raised by The Lady and sent to kill the Crown Prince once she gains his trust. Tarisai won’t stand by and become someone’s pawn—but is she strong enough to choose a different path for herself?

Redemptor (Raybearer #2) by Jordan Ifueko: For the first time, an Empress Redemptor sits on Aritsar's throne. To appease the sinister spirits of the dead, Tarisai must now anoint a council of her own, coming into her full power as a Raybearer.

The Ravens by Danielle Page & Kass Morgan: The sisters of Kappu Rho Nu share a secret: they’re a coven of witches. For Vivi Deveraux, being one of Kappa Rho Nu’s Ravens means getting a chance to redefine herself. For Scarlett Winters, a bonafide Raven and daughter of a legacy Raven. When Vivi and Scarlett are paired as big and little for initiation, they find themselves sinking into the sinister world of blood oaths and betrayals.

Rebel Sisters (War Girls #2) by Tochi Onyebuchi: Though they are working toward common goals of helping those who suffered, Ify and Uzo are worlds apart. But when a mysterious virus breaks out among the children in the Space Colonies, their paths collide.

Reaper of Souls (Kingdom of Souls #2) by Rena Barron: After so many years yearning for the gift of magic, Arrah has the one thing she’s always wanted—at a terrible price. But the Demon King’s shadow looms closer than she thinks. And as Arrah struggles to unravel her connection to him, defeating him begins to seem more and more impossible.

A River of Royal Blood by Amanda Joy: A North African-inspired feminist fantasy in which two sisters, Eva and Isa must compete in a magical duel to the death for the right to inherit the queendom of Myre.

Slice of Cherry by Dia Reeves: In Portero, Texas, teens Kit and Fancy Cordelle, daughters of the infamous Bonesaw Killer, bring two boys with similar tendencies to a world of endless possibilities they have discovered behind a mysterious door.

Siege of Shadows (The Effigies #2) by Sarah Raughley: After Saul reappears with an army of soldiers with Effigy-like abilities, threatening to unleash the monstrous Phantoms, e-year-old Maia and the other Effigies hope to defeat him by discovering the source of their power over the four classical elements, but they are betrayed by the Sect and bogged down by questions about the previous Fire Effigy's murder.

The Sisters of Reckoning (The Good Luck Girls #2) by Charlotte Nicole Davis: The blockbuster sequel to an alternate Old West-set commercial fantasy adventure.

The Sound of Stars by Alechia Dow: Set in the near-future, in which a captive teen human and a young alien leader—bonded by their love of forbidden books and music—embark on a desperate road trip as they attempt to overturn alien rule and save humankind.

War Girls by Tochi Onyebuchi: Set in a futuristic, Black Panther-inspired Nigeria, sisters Onyii and Ify, separated by a devastating civil war, must fight their way back to each other against all odds.

Vessel by Sarah Beth Durst: When the goddess Bayla fails to take over Liyana's body, Liyana's people abandon her in the desert to find a more worthy vessel, but she soon meets Korbyn, who says the souls of seven deities have been stolen and he needs Liyana's help to find them.

The Weight of Stars by K. Ancrum: After a horrific accident brings loners Ryann and Alexandria together, Ryann learns that Alexandria's mother is an astronaut who volunteered for a one-way trip to the edge of the solar system.

White Smoke by Tiffany D. Jackson: Black teen Marigold and her blended family move into a newly renovated, picture-perfect home in a dilapidated Midwestern city, and are haunted by what she thinks are ghosts, but might be far worse.

Wings of Ebony by J. Elle: Black teen Rue, from a poor neighborhood who, after learning she is half-human, half-goddess, must embrace both sides of her heritage to unlock her magic and destroy the racist gods poisoning her neighborhood with violence, drugs, and crime.

Witches Steeped in Gold by Ciannon Thomas: In this Jamaican-inspired fantasy debut, two witches from enemy castes—one seeking power, and one seeking revenge—will stop at nothing to overthrow the witch queen, even if it means forming an alliance with each other and unleashing chaos on their island nation.

Within These Wicked Walls by Lauren Blackwood: An Ethiopian-inspired Jane Eyre retelling in which an unlicensed debtera, or exorcist, Andromeda, is hired to rid a castle of its dangerous curses, only to fall in love with Magnus Rochester, a boy whose life hangs in the balance.

Yesterday Is History by Kosoko Jackson: Black teen Andre Cobb undergoes a liver transplant and as a side effect winds up slipping through time from present-day Boston to 1969 NYC on the eve of the Stonewall riots, delivering a story that is part romance, part gay history, and part time-travel drama, exploring how far we have and haven't come.

#yalit #black authors #ya sff #black ya sff #booklr #book recs #book recommendations

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rotten-games · 3 years

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City of Immortals RO List

Okay so here it is, the list of ROs like I promised. Both mc's have their own pool of love interests to choose from with little overlap.

Here you’ll get a description of the ROs and some information on how the mc or others might view them. Also some info on the mc’s.

Mc1

Born to be a soldier by design, they were afflicted with immortality and stopped aging entirely once they hit thirty. A side effect—or perhaps a feature—is the beast that all but lives inside them, taking control when they feel incredibly strong emotions, though most often when anger is present. Where once they held full control of it, of the transformation they go through, now they must wrestle with its control with each passing day.

You are what’s called a Hunter. Every settlement has them, but Eden has the most. Caroline controls all her hunters from Eden, though ‘Hunter’ may be a bit of an oversimplification of the job description. Yes, one of their main jobs is providing food and other resources for the settlement, but they’re also bounty hunters, keepers of the peace, and are also often recruited for odd jobs when they have no contracts to fill. Perhaps the most important rule in Hunting, is that you always work in pairs.

Caroline: She/her

The best way to describe Carol is ‘short’, with a pair of unblinking amber eyes and a wind-buffeted, naturally tanned complexion. Her russet curls, while usually out of her face, never seem to stay tied back for long, a seemingly constant slew of curls sticking to her forehead. A jagged scar cuts across the knuckles on her right hand.

Caroline is unrelenting. She knows what her settlement needs and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get it—to save the lives of those she must oversee she is willing to do anything. Within reason. Truthfully, Caroline never asked to be made the leader of Eden, the job just sort of fell into her lap one day and no one bothered to take it from her. You’ve worked for her for years by the start of chapter one, and if you’ve learned anything about her it’s that she doesn’t do smalltalk. She’s been in a relationship with Lowrie for years now, and as far as you can tell, they’re very happy with one another.

Lowrie: non-binary, they/them pronouns

Impossibly tall and scrawny, Lowrie’s skin is constantly burned red by the sun, seemingly unable to tan no matter what they do. Their face is long, with ash-coloured, shoulder-length hair that would usually hide their grey eyes but is otherwise kept out of their face with a blue-patterned scarf.

Some have called Lowrie stuck up in the past for their less than talkative nature but that would be an oversimplification. In truth, they just aren’t fond of talking—which is probably why they get on with Harley so well—and more shy than anything else. One of Eden’s finest Hunters, they spend most of their time in the sweltering heat of Wasteland bringing bandits in and shooting any of the mangy beasts that stray too close to Eden. The rest of their time is spent managing the bar with Caroline and Harley, tending to keep to themself. You’ve worked with Lowrie in the past, and as far as you can tell there’s little love lost between the two of you.

Carol + Lowrie poly:

Caroline and Lowrie are poly and in a committed relationship with one another. They will not leave one another for monogamy with mc, however, you don’t have to be in a throuple with them—though that’s definitely on the table—you can simply be with one, who is with both you and the other. Lowrie is also currently casually seeing Harley. Carol is not seeing anyone else.

Mordred: he/him.

With a seemingly constant fuzz along his jaw, and a never-ending supply of little scars littering his warm olive skin, his hair tends to cover everything but his yellow eyes and the deep bags underneath. His hair is typically tied into a loose bun at the back of his head, mostly obscuring his pierced, slightly pointed ears.

Mordred is a hot-headed, easily irritated young man who’s been by your side since day one. You dragged yourselves out of the crumbling ruins of Ledala together, you fought together, and now you work together as Hunters. Partner’s in crime doesn’t quite cover your relationship but it’s certainly close. In recent years, however, your relationship has strained—perhaps it’s due to past mistakes getting in the way, or past feelings, but either way at the start of the book he’s nowhere to be found.

At the start of the game you can determine just what your relationship is with him—it’s strained at this point but the reasons why are totally up to you. He can also potentially have been an old flame of MC2.

Ridley: Gender variable

Ridley is an energetic person with a pair of bright green eyes constantly sparkling with a glint of adventure. Despite their heavily-muscled frame, they seem to constantly be hiding behind their oversized glasses, a veil of their shaggy red hair, and a slouch that makes them out to be much smaller than they are.

Ridley is… an enigma. While technically a Hunter, they seem much more interested in the pursuits of science and research than holding off rabid beasts with nothing but a gun that’s falling apart and a rusty sword. Of course, they can hold their own well enough, but when they’re meant to be spending their time training or helping out—and indeed, even on their time off—they’re usually found traipsing around in the desert looking for… who knows what.

Doc: She/her

Doc is stocky and sharp-jawed, dark brown, almost black eyes always watching. Her dense curls are shoulder-length and appear twisted together and held back behind her head. The tip of her left ear appears to have been torn off somehow.

Not known for her bedside manner, Doc travels between settlements to tend to the sick, injured, and broken, and though none can particularly vouch for her interpersonal skills (though who can say anyone has particularly good ones, these days?), they can certainly do so for her medicinal accomplishments. Some think her a wandering ghost, aiding those who need help to make up for the sins of her past, others simply see her as a woman seeking to do her part for the good of Wasteland, regardless, if you get on her bad side she’s been known to be liberal with her gun. Or so the rumors say.

J. Allard: Gender variable

Allard is a nervous-looking, shifty individual with short but messy brown hair flecked with grey. Constantly fidgeting with the ring on their thumb, their stutter becomes more obvious the more nervous they are. Though their eyes hide behind a pair of darkened glasses, a pallid face a week out from its last wash they are, completely, honest. Trust me.

J. Allard is a totally normal priest. There is nothing strange about them, they simply want what is best for you and your companions.

Mc2

Dragged down into the depths of the earth on the day Ledala fell, you never knew of the city beneath the surface. Your sibling died that day, you’re sure of it, and a part of you died with them—the beast no longer responds to your call and you’re still left injured from whatever afflicted you and your comrades that day. The man who saved you set you to work for him—sorry, with him—and now you walk perpetually in the darkness of a city long since forgotten by the sun, with people named after the remnants of an old world you never knew existed. You were never meant to survive that night, and every day the world around you reminds you of that.

Arthur: he/him

Arthur doesn’t look quite there half the time. His skin is translucent, his pale blue eyes impossibly far away, platinum blond hair little more than wispy strands atop his head. Most of his body is otherwise covered completely by that old, brown coat of his. There’s light freckling across his nose.

Arthur saved you that night. A Private Investigator by trade, he brought you on to work together because you had no where else to go. Maybe because of it you should be closer than you are but there’s always been a distance between you he’s been unwilling to cross. Either way, despite working together—living together—he keeps to himself and you try to keep to yourself in turn. Still, you can’t help but notice the disdain he has for the City Council and their lackeys.

Perci: she/her

Perci is constantly smiling. Relaxed of posture, her straight hair once ashy brown is now dyed silver. It’s cut short at the sides and back, creating an undercut, most of her fringe tucked behind her ears to reveal a pair of dark brown, monolid eyes. She seems allergic to sleeves, taking whatever chance she gets to show off her cybernetic arm and the colourful tattoos that adorn her flesh arm.

A friend of Arthur who sometimes helps with investigations. She’s friendlier than he is with you, even inviting you out on occasion, but rebellion is on her lips more and more nowadays, and she isn’t subtle about it. You haven’t seen her in quite a while—as far as you can tell she and Arthur aren’t on speaking terms anymore after that big fight they had a few months back. As far as you can tell, she’s moved on and you certainly wouldn’t blame her if she has Council dogs on her heels.

Saga: Saga is always the same gender as your mc is.

Saga’s hair is a deep blue in colour, their black roots just barely growing through. Half of their head is shaved, the other half left chest-length and braided over their shoulder. Though their entire body seems to interwoven with tech, what is perhaps most interesting about them is the angular tattoo that crawls down the right side of their face. This is probably why they come to you completely covered in muck and baggy clothing.

Saga shows up at your door with a different name and a job. You aren’t given why, only the how, only the what. They’re stubborn and flighty in equal measure, suspicious of everyone around them including yourself. Oh, they dress the part of a street rat well, but the cash they have just on hand is nothing to blink at and, underneath all that grime, their skin is perfectly unmarred by the ravages of time.

Deimos: he/him, gay

Whether or not Deimos’ strength is his own or from borrowed, military-grade tech is anyone’s guess, but no one’s ever bothered to ask. Though he’s tall, he isn’t necessarily as muscular as the fear he commands would suggest. His eyes glow orange, black hair trimmed but not maintained, and his grin is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. For whatever reason, he always wears warm clothes.

Deimos is a Council dog who’s been hounding Arthur for a few years now. You’ve never officially met him; somehow whenever he drops into the office you always manage to be out. Whether that’s coincidence or because Arthur sends you out on errands very conveniently at those times it’s not for you to say. Somehow, he never seems to do too much damage to your colleague.

Adrastea: Non-binary, they/them or she/her pronouns, only attracted to nb or female mc’s

Adrastea has been voted the city’s most attractive person many years in a row now. Everything about them is perfect; perfect smile, perfect blue eyes, perfect cascading coils of iridescent hair, yet somehow despite their well-calculated appearance it’s like there’s a tiger waiting to pounce on any wary admirer who comes too close.

While not a member of the council they hold great sway simply by virtue of their age and the fact they’re so beloved by the populace. You’ve seen them on the holos, how they’re oh, so giving to the needy and even invite the commonfolk to their lavish parties all the important council members attend. It’s an act, it has to be; through their gorgeous smile and all those sheer dresses they seek nothing if not attention. A lot of their history is shrouded and deleted from public record, but you do know that they were once a head scientist that took part in the very same project that supposedly made you what you are today.

Dagda: gender variable

Dagda is the perfectly attractive face everyone sees on their screens every night. In a world of cybernetic bodies and unnaturally bright lights, they are the one person who almost looks... natural. With a perfectly cultivated appearance of salt and pepper hair, soulful brown eyes, and that winning smile, nothing about them is their own; everything they do exactly what everyone else tells them to do.

The mouthpiece of the Council, Dagda is seen to be charming and down to earth in the vids. They say Ledala is prospering more than it has in decades, that the crime rates are lowering thanks to the wonderful work they and their colleagues on the Council are doing. Of course, there always has been a certain emptiness behind their eyes. When the camera isn’t rolling, you wonder what they really think.

#lore #coi game

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shootybangbang · 3 years

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[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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shima-draws · 4 years

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Tell us abt the story, Shima. I would D I E for your stories (also, an ATS game would make my entire LIFE I would be so broke on it)

[[Anonymous said: hey- hey shima.... what;s ur new story about?]]

uwu

So this is based off of Arthurian lore and has some elements of it but it’s mostly (?) original!

It starts out in a normal high school setting, centered around these two kids named Elin and Niro. Niro’s had a life of total misfortune—his parents died when he was little and there was nobody else to take him in, so he was forced into foster care, and has switched schools so often that he never really got to make any permanent friendships. He’s a quiet guy, sort of weighed down by all of the loss he’s experienced, so that sort of makes him a mysterious and attractive sort of person, which gains him immediate popularity as the school’s handsome new kid. (He’s in his senior year, now, and has been at this school for almost the full year.) Despite his withdrawn personality Niro actually gets along well with his peers, but mostly because he’s a very agreeable sort of person that just goes along with what he’s told to do to fit in. He’s just going through the motions at this point, trying to survive and figure out what he wants to do in life. It isn’t really working out too well because Niro has major depression so every day is a struggle, but his current “guardian” at the foster home he’s staying in helps a lot with that, and Niro views her as sort of a mother figure to him, and it’s soft :’)

Elin, on the other hand, is the school’s laughingstock, and gets picked on a LOT by his classmates. He never fights back and tries to stay out of everybody’s way, so people think him even weirder because of it. He rarely talks and is always found with his nose stuck in a book, which has also labeled him as a major geek, so you can bet he gets targeted a lot because of this;;

Unfortunately, the kids that Niro’s friends with are the group that picks on Elin the most, and it always makes Niro uncomfortable but he’s too hesitant to really speak up about it, especially since Elin just. Sort of takes it and never outwardly complains. It’s basically just Niro making excuses to himself, and whenever he DOES try to talk his buddies out of it they’re like come on man we’re just joking around it’s not a big deal. So that sucks. One day when Niro’s walking to school he notices he’s being followed by a weirdly dressed girl. Eventually she corners him and she’s like “Merlin’s been taking too long to find you so I took things into my own hands since we’re running out of time” and Niro’s like ???? Excuse me? But she doesn’t explain and literally yanks him into a portal and that’s that. LMAO

When they emerge, the girl introduces herself as Lunete, and reveals that she’s taken Niro to the world of Avilion, in the kingdom of starlight called Inlustria. Niro’s still processing that he’s been pulled into another world entirely when Lunete begins to escort him to the castle, and pretty much dumps the world’s lore and his Destiny™️ on him on the way.

Rest is under the cut to save space because it is loooong lol

Lunete explains that there have always been two central figures in Inlustria, for many centuries across many generations. Those figures are Merlin, the wizard, and Arthur, the king meant to wield the holy sword and unify the five kingdoms on the continent together. Currently there are two Merlins, with the second being younger and newer to the position, still in training. However, she adds that this particular Merlin is the most powerful they’ve ever seen in the long history of Merlins to exist, and that he’s basically a child prodigy. It is Merlin’s task to watch over, guide and protect Arthur, so that peace can remain and the cycle can continue anew. The current Arthur is sadly old and very ill, practically on his deathbed, so the process of choosing a new Arthur to replace him had to be rushed.

Lunete then tells Niro that the Arthurs are chosen by fate before birth and are always humans from the other world. Arthurs are always loyal, confident and kindhearted, so there’s never a chance of an Arthur going astray (unless their Merlin purposefully leads them down that path). Niro’s like why are you telling me all this and Lunete goes well isn’t it obvious? Why else would I be telling you. And then Niro realizes that he has been chosen as the new Arthur, and immediately goes into panic mode. Lunete apologizes for the abrupt introduction and Avilion crash course lol but she says that usually it’s the Merlin’s job to remain in the human world, scout out the new Arthur, and bring them to Avilion, since they’re naturally drawn to them by their magic. But this Merlin is particularly stubborn and wants nothing to do with Arthur or his born duty to essentially serve the king, so he’s been stalling on locating him out of sheer spite.

Lunete and Niro arrive at the castle and she leads him into the grand library, where Merlins usually spend most of their time. Niro is shocked to find out that Elin is Merlin, and Elin immediately goes “You have GOT to be kidding me” when he realizes that the new Arthur—who he has to spend the rest of his life with btw—is Niro.

Niro’s even more shocked to find out that Elin is a completely different person than how he is at school. Elin is witty, arrogant and very sassy, and constantly throws shade at Niro for doing nothing while he was being bullied. (Niro then accuses Elin for not standing up for himself when he’s CLEARLY capable of it with both his silver tongue and his knack for magic, but Elin explains that it’s a rule for Merlins not to make a big presence of themselves in the human world. Then Niro feels very guilty.) Elin swears off of accepting Niro as the new Arthur and says he can protect the kingdom all on his own.

Naturally Niro is very reluctant to take on the position of Arthur and become the ruler of an entire kingdom, but Lunete tells him he doesn’t really have a choice, and that all Arthurs fall into the role eventually, so it will be something he’ll automatically adapt to because he’s The Chosen One and it’s meant to be. Niro continuously tries to reach out to Merlin, but he’s notoriously stubborn and refuses to acknowledge Niro.

Eventually Lunete lets slip that Merlin had a complicated history with another human in his childhood that ended...not so well (and no it’s not Esca lol), hence his general distaste towards the other world and humans in general. Ofc that’s not all Merlin is hiding, there’s another enormous secret he doesn’t want coming into the light. And you bet Niro’s going to discover them all ;)

So yeah there’s obviously a lot more that goes on after that—Niro trains to fit into the Arthur role (with a lot of sexy swordfighting training montages), Merlin eventually accepts him and they grow closer (yes. In that way ;D), Merlin shows off how skilled he is with his magic and Niro goes oh no I think I might be in love with him, there’s trouble with the northern kingdom they’re trying to deal with involving a new villain that’s popped up, Niro gets to meet a king from the southern kingdom who sort of becomes his father figure/mentor so that’s cool? Niro finds out exactly what sins Merlin committed in the past, and that past sadly catches up with him and nearly ruins everything so that’s fun. Niro finds out some shit and almost abandons his role as Arthur but eventually returns to Inlustria and obtains Excalibur to save Merlin’s ass, etc. etc. I think after the “main” story ends I’m going to send them out to sea so they can go on an epic magic pirate adventure, because when Niro was a kid he was super into pirates and treasure hunting and the ocean, he was never really a “magic and kingdoms” type of guy which is super ironic. Merlin’s excited about traveling but it turns out he’s really seasick and it’s hilarious. Somewhere down the line they’ll probably find out why there’s always been a “Merlin” and “Arthur” role in their kingdom as well. So LOTS of fun stuff is in store! And my brain hasn’t been shutting up about lore and worldbuilding for this story ever since I came up with it >;)

#I STILL DON'T HAVE A NAME FOR THIS YET SO.#And now you guys can send me asks about this ;))))))#Shima answers questions #Long post #Shima's OCs #Anyway yeah there's a LOT going into this but that's just the basic plot #Esca is involved in a big way but I won't say how yet ;)

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ghost1643 · 4 years

Text

Modern imagine AU-Merlin has a baby

Imagine in a modern AU the sins live in a bar together in a modern AU. Ban and Meliodas share a room. King shares a room with his girlfriend Diane. Escanor shares a room with Gowther. And Merlin, who is the oldest next to Escanor, has her room to herself, but the extra room left over has her adopted 12 year old son Arthur living in it.

Anyways one night there a big party and everyone gets drunk. Thankfully Arthur is with one of his relatives for the night. Yet, after that night Merlin acts weird. No one knows why, that is before she revealed she got black out drunk and slept with someone. And she is now expecting a baby.

As you can guess, this starts a bit of drama, but no who you think. Oh no, the sins start competing for best uncle/aunt. Which involved kings making hand made baby clothes and Gowther trying to compete with him by buy clothes for children when the child is older. And as they get ready for baby Samuel, the following events occur.:

1.Meliodas tried to make a baby bottle out of a wine bottle at one point.

2.Diane tries to get the baby crib together and some how makes it into a shape of triangle. Don't ask her how.

3.King cries more than Merlin, scared that she'll dying having her son like his mother died when she had his sister.

4.Arthur starts researching how to be the best older brother. He tries asking around and King just says he should listen to his baby sibling. Meliodas says to just rough house hard to show dominance. (He's joking of course but his answer scares Arthur so much that he stops asking him questions.) when he asks Escanor, he finds out he is the little brother which takes weeks to believe. And finally when he asks again, he gets good answers. Ban just tells him as long as you try, you're a good brother.

5.Gwother implies to King on a drunken night that Merlin said Escanor was the father. So Merlin has to get king to swear to stay quiet about it or else so he gets more stressed.

6.Diane throws a baby shower where it's revealed Merlin is having a little girl. And from that point on, Arthur is more excited to have a baby sister just like the best big brothers he knows, Uncle King and Uncle Ban.

7. Diane shows Arthur how to braid hair because he needs to.

8.Gwother teaches Arthur how to paint nails and ends up with nail polish over one of his arms and a crying 12 year old. You know until Merlin helps and teaches him the right way.

9. meliodas tried to one up Diane’s baby shower by paying for a maternity shoot. And it’s the only time Merlin cries...mainly because she gets morning sickness the whole time and can’t take more than two photos. She’s just so upset he wasted her money on her that she ends up crying. So Gowther put on one of her dresses and gets out there rocking the photos to take away Merlin’s guilt and turns it into a uncle photo shoot with his nephew.

10. Arthur asks Elaine when she comes to visit one day what she wanted when she was a little girl. Elaine thinks before saying a pony for many years. Like she wanted one from the age of 3-the age of 9. So Arthur makes a plan. If he saves his allowance of $10, all his birthday money for the next few years and saves the money he gets from walking their neighbours dogs with uncle Escanor, he can buy his baby sister a pony when she is roughly 5. When he tells his uncles, Escanor offers to put a few hundred dollars towards it as a joke, but Arthur actually puts it in his saving plan, (which is just a note book he’s filled with ideas on how to get money in order to get his sister a pony, which Diane finds adorable.)

11.The sins painted the baby’s room to look like the night sky while Merlin is off at a doctors visit. Ironically Escanor is gone then too.

12. Escanor and Merlin announce they’re dating and he’s the father of her child. Once they announced it they start planning another date, one where unknown to Merlin, is when Escanor is gonna purpose.

13. The day they're supposed to go on the date, Merlin's water breaks. She walks down the stairs all dressed up saying goodbye to her friends handing Arthur over to Ban to babysit when it happened infront of her friends..and well chaos in sues. Like Escanor carried her to the car screaming like a baby. Meliodas gets knocked out by King, when king carries the baby bag downstairs and ends up throwing it at him. Diane is trying her best to calm down Merlin which is just Diane stressing all the time. Gowther ends up calling everyone on their phone and making everyone wait in the car for an extra 39 minutes. Ban has to carry Meliodas to the car and King cries over what he did the whole time.

14.when the little girl is born, Arthur is the one holding her when everyone comes in to meet her. And he refused to let anyone hold her because as he words it, “if you drop her she’s gonna get hurt....and uncle Meloidas has already been knocked out today and my baby sister is not the next one to go.”. And he just lets them kiss her head no matter what his mom says. That is unless it’s Escanor..if it is he lets him hold his baby sister, Morgana.

15.Ban ends up waking up the first few night when the new family gets home and keeps the little girl calm...unless she needs milk. Then she is her moms issue. But, it does end up with a cute photos of Ban holding the little girls hand as she sleeps in her crib while he sleeps on the floor.

#reblogs welcome #nnt #seven deadly sins au #merlin #arthur #escanor #escalin #sds meliodas #meliodas #sds #ban #king #diane #gwother #kiane #story

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hysterialevi · 4 years

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His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 4

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: Thank you guys for all the support you’ve given so far! The messages and comments I’ve received have all been so kind and caring. It really means the world to me. Hope you enjoy this part :)

Previous chapter | Next chapter

This story is also on AO3

LATER THAT DAY

AURORA BASIN

“You ever wonder about eternity?” Mrs. Downes’ voice echoed in Arthur’s head, ringing like a distant bell.

“...You should.”

These days, it felt like that was all he could think about. With Hosea dead, Marston gone, and Dutch’s life hanging by a thread, Arthur often found himself pondering what awaited them in the near-future.

Their gang was pretty much done, despite how much Dutch tried to deny it. He may have acted as if they were still in their prime and running around like in the good ol’ days, but with both the Pinkertons and Skinner Brothers crying out for blood on the horizon, Arthur didn’t see much of a future for them at all. If anything, the only thing he saw coming for the Van der Lindes... was an end.

They were already living on borrowed time as it was. Their gang had experienced so many close calls and damned so many lives, that Arthur figured they were due to pay for their crimes sooner or later.

He had lived long enough to see that there was no such thing as getting away with a sin, and considering how things had been going for them lately, he assumed that their time would run out before they even realized it.

Civilization was the new foundation for America... and without anywhere else to run to anymore, Arthur only hoped he’d be able to wake Dutch up before it was too late.

Otherwise... he didn’t know what they would do.

Scribbling down a few more lines into his journal, Arthur threw together a simple portrait of Dutch as he quietly relaxed by the campfire, allowing his mind to drift away with the soft crackling that emitted from the flames.

He had just finished his heated conversation with the old man and left him to rest in the cabin, but even after calming him down, Arthur couldn’t deny that he was still on edge.

The way he acted back there... it was nothing like the Dutch he knew. In Arthur’s head, he still pictured the outlaw as a paternal figure. He saw Dutch as someone who cared for others and dared to question what everyone else accepted as their perpetual reality.

He was a guardian. A father. A dreamer. A lost soul trying to find his way back home.

But the man in the cabin? ...He was nothing but a stranger to Arthur. His mind and mannerisms both remained a mystery, and the added layer of insanity on top of all that did nothing except further his paranoia.

His life revolved solely around greed and pride these days, and if Arthur didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that Dutch himself didn’t even care anymore.

They both knew their life as outlaws was done for. That much was obvious. But the difference was -- only one of them was willing to accept it.

“Spoke with Dutch about the robbery today,” Arthur wrote next to his drawing. “...It didn’t go so well. His illness keeps getting worse, and his mind ain’t doing much better neither. He’s deranged. Lost. Nothing but a memory of his true self.”

“It just makes me wonder how life is gonna be after he passes. I didn’t say it to Dutch’s face back at the cabin... but one of my biggest fears in life is the idea of being left alone. Family’s pretty much the only thing I live for nowadays, and without anyone else to stand by my side, part of me wonders if the world is just gonna stop turning when Dutch dies.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll want to stay with the gang at that point. I suppose I could try to make contact with John and the others once again. Try to live a normal life. But knowing Abigail, she’d probably want nothing to do with me. They have Jack to take care of, after all, and it’s no secret that Abigail despises anything to do with criminals. Not that I blame her.”

“I guess I’ll just have to wait and see where this goes. I ain’t got that many options left in life, that’s true. But that don’t mean I’m not gonna try to do the right thing. We was born to be outlaws. And it’s clear to me now that that’s how we’ll die too. But I may as well try to make amends while I still have the opportunity.”

“It’s the only thing I can do at this point.”

Setting his pencil down with a conflicted sigh, Arthur stuck it in between the pages and shut his journal closed, shoving the thing back into his satchel. He figured he had wasted enough time skulking around in his head for one day, and decided it would be best if he just focused on preparing for the bank robbery ahead.

There were weapons to load, guns to clean, plans to lay out... and judging by how Dutch was doing just a few minutes ago, Arthur assumed most of the work would fall on him and Micah. That was usually how things went.

Before he could return to the task at hand however, a pair of men approached him.

“Morgan!” Shay called out as Bill Williamson walked alongside him.

Arthur mentally groaned to himself, admittedly not in the mood for socializing. “Shay. Bill.”

Mackintosh had a seat at the campfire, making himself comfortable on a crate. “Heard you had a talk with Dutch. How’d it go?”

Arthur took his hat off, combing a tired hand through his hair. “About as well as you’d expect.”

Bill joined in. “So, we’re robbin’ the bank then?”

He put his hat back on. “Yep. Looks like it.”

Shay was obviously disappointed by the news and shook his head in disapproval, glancing at the cabin. “...He’s gonna get everyone killed, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed in a defeated tone. “Look, I tried to get through to him, but his mind’s been set. It’s clear that he ain’t leavin’ Blackwater anytime soon, and if we try to push any harder, I’m worried he’ll kill someone. Dutch already pulled a gun on me when I talked to him. We’ll just have to do our best during this robbery.”

Shay stared at Arthur for a moment, evidently not reassured.

“...We have seven people, Arthur. Seven. And two are staying behind to guard the camp. That’s four outlaws and a dying man against what, a dozen lawmen? Pinkertons, too? This robbery is gonna be a suicide mission.”

Arthur rested a hand on his knee. “Well, we don’t have a choice. Alright? I don’t like it either, but no matter how unstable he might be, Dutch is still the boss. If he says we’re gonna rob the bank, then...” his eyes fell to the ground, “...that’s what we’ll do. You don’t wanna do it, you can always sit it out.”

“No, I’ll come.” Shay confirmed. “But you can’t deny that this is a stupid idea. We should be movin’ away from the Pinkertons. Not straight towards them. That was kinda the whole reason we even bothered travelin’ this far west.”

Mackintosh let out a breath and backed down for a moment, dragging a hand down his face. “Ah... I’m sorry, Arthur. I dunno why I’m puttin’ all this on you. I know it ain’t your fault. You tried your best to talk to Dutch, so, really... I should be thanking you. I just wish he would’ve listened.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, standing up from the campfire. “...Yeah. Me too. Sadly, my words seem to always fall on deaf ears these days. Feels like no one’s listenin’ to us. Not even ourselves.”

Strolling away from the fire, Arthur suddenly stopped in his tracks when he noticed that someone was missing from the vicinity. He assumed that everyone was at camp and getting ready for their upcoming job in the next few days, but upon further observation, the gang appeared to be one man short.

Arthur turned back to Shay and Bill, quirking a brow at them.

“Hey, have either of you boys seen Micah?”

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

BLACKWATER SALOON

Laying the weathered piece of paper down on the desk, Micah presented his roughly-drawn map of Aurora Basin to Isaac as the young man relaxed in a wooden chair, studying the map with one hand and holding onto his rifle with the other. He and Micah may have been partners for the time being, but that didn’t mean he trusted the outlaw for one second.

“...Aurora Basin.” Isaac read aloud, his eyes skimming over the text. “So this is your camp?”

Micah nodded, crossing his arms. “Sure is, cowpoke. You ever heard of it?”

The young man shook his head. “No.”

“Good. Then that means I chose a good spot. Or not, depending on how you approach it.”

Isaac pulled his chair closer, taking a better look at the map. “Well, what’s the best way in? Is it well-defended?”

Micah rested a hand on the desk. “Overall, I’d say yes. There ain’t nothin’ but mountains on the west side of the camp, and the region of Tall Trees completely envelopes the other. If you wanna attack the gang, you’re gonna have to get real close. Unfortunately for you though, there’s only one way in.”

“I thought so. Is it this path here?” He pointed to the road on the eastern side of the map.

“Yep. That’s where we post our guards. We’ve always got two men standing there just in case anyone... unfriendly shows up.”

Isaac leaned back, contemplating his next move. “So... there’s no way in from the east or the west. What about the north and south? Is it possible I could sneak in from there?”

Micah rejected the idea. “Surrounded by mountains too, I’m afraid.”

The young man furrowed his brow. “Well, shit. Looks like this is gonna more difficult than I thought. What about the guards who are posted at the entrance? When do they switch out? That might be the only opening I can seize.”

“Every couple hours or so. But they don’t switch at the same time, so there’s always gonna be at least one person there who can see you.”

The outlaw offered an alternative. “Though... it might interest you to know that the gang’s headed out for a robbery in two days.”

Isaac perked his head up. “It is? Where?”

Micah chuckled. “That information’s irrelevant to you. The part you should care about is the fact that everyone’ll be gone for a while. The only people who’ll be left are the two guards at the entrance. But I’m sure a tough boy such as yourself can handle them just fine. Can’t you?”

Isaac rubbed his chin in thought. “I should be able to sneak in, but I need to know more about the camp itself first. Where do you keep your supplies?”

Micah pointed to a group of wagons stationed near the hitching posts. “Here. That’s where we store most of our food, weapons, medicine, ammo... you name it.”

The young man diverted his gaze to another location. “And what about this cabin here?”

The outlaw followed his line of sight. “Oh, that? That’s where our leader lives.”

“You mean Dutch van der Linde?” Isaac clarified. “I’ve heard he’s quite the unpredictable man.”

Micah sighed. “Unpredictable, paranoid, and dying. The deadliest combination. I’d suggest leavin’ him alone for now.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind. But tell me more about this robbery. When are you boys setting out? How long d’you reckon you’ll be gone?”

The outlaw took a moment to think. “Oh, I dunno... about an hour, I’d guess? Not a lotta time for you to find the camp and do what you need to do, but it’s the only chance you’ll get. As for when we’re leaving, we usually start robberies early in the morning. We don’t wanna give the law a chance to wake up properly before the chaos ensues.”

Isaac stood up from the desk. “That works for me.”

Micah eyed the young man with a cautionary glare. “...Just remember who helped you get this done, princess. You may be payin’ me, but I still got guns of my own. I won’t hesitate to use ‘em if you leave me no other choice. Understand?”

Isaac took the map and folded it in his hand, casually assuring the outlaw. “Of course, Micah. I won’t forget.”

“Good. Then I think I’ve given you your eighteen dollars’ worth of information. You wanna know more, you’ll have to pay more. For now, though...” Micah made his way to the exit, resting a hand on the doorknob, “...all I can say is good luck.”

“Wait.” Isaac said, stopping the other man before he could leave.

Micah lazily glanced over his shoulder, clearly eager to get out of here. “What is it?”

Isaac took a seat on the edge of the bed, placing his rifle on his lap. He seemed a little too calm for Micah’s liking, and the next words that came out of his mouth did nothing to ease the man.

“...Don’t eat the food after you return from the robbery.” He warned plainly, obviously thinking of something.

“Otherwise, it won’t be pretty.”

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #isaac morgan #dutch van der linde #Micah Bell #Bill Williamson #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 oc

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mister-fleck · 5 years

Text

blue heart: arthur fleck x reader

Prompt: All of my Arthur/Male Reader requests combined into one.

Standing here, neck stiff and blood cold in Hoyt’s office, Arthur daydreamed about what his life would be like if he hadn’t been born into poverty.

Would he still have the same morals, the same gentle mentality if he had been raised like Thomas Wayne? If he had been taught arithmetic at a private school, instead of half-heartedly lectured on his mother’s couch? If he had the luxury of showering with shampoo rather than discounted bar soap? If he had been able to celebrate his birthday as a child, rather than wistfully wonder how old he even was?

“Why would I keep a sign?” Arthur heard himself defend, barely audible, hardly there. It was beyond him why somebody would think that he would lie about being jumped. By children. How mortifying. If it hadn’t been work related, Arthur would have easily kept it to himself.

And yet, his boss brushed it off, scoffing and rolling his eyes as he continued to go down the list as to why Arthur was an inadequate human being. Normally, Arthur would reach into his pocket and take out his rolodex of coping mechanisms for this exact occasion, but there was something in the way Hoyt dipped his chin, looked at him as if to say really?

As his pulse reached his ears like the drums of war, Arthur knew that if he didn’t get out of there soon he would be leaving with blood on his hands. So he smiled, he smiled, he smiled all the way through the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the alleyway.

But once he was alone in the shadows, Arthur snapped. He felt himself fly out of his body, abruptly disassociating, and watched himself werewolf. It frightened him, what years of rage looked like, of how he was capable of muting the pain in his shoulder and ribs as he drove his foot into the nearest dumpster.

He imagined Hoyt lying there, blood pouring out of his nose, begging for mercy as Arthur stomped his face in. How blissful it would be to finally shut him up. Arthur transcribed his violence into music — the low notes of sin, the high falsettos of redemption.

Arthur’s lungs burned, each inhale ragged and unfaithful as he continued to plow the imaginary corpse of his boss. Eventually his body gave out, not cut out for such brutality — it had been days since he had eaten a solid meal — and he found himself collapsing within the heaps of trash.

But as he did so, the heel of his shoe skidded across something slick and Arthur didn’t land as he had hoped — no, he was forced to put his hands out behind him to stop himself from ramming his head into the dumpster, which in turn led to —

“Fuck, ow!”

Seething in an agonized breath through his teeth, Arthur forced himself into a sitting position and cradled his right hand in alarm. Pain shot through the tendons of his wrist, white-hot and throbbing, and Arthur found himself blinking away tears. It was just his luck. The one time he had allowed himself to vent, he wound up injured. Nothing surprised him anymore.

Now back at home, Arthur rolled up his sleeve and sat down at the kitchen table to examine the damage. There wasn’t anything gruesome, thankfully — no bones sticking out or deep gashes — but it was still spasming and tender to the touch.

“What the hell did I do?” He mumbled to himself, thick brows furrowing as he turned on the lamp nearby to take a closer look. His hand was starting to swell. Wanting to test just how hurt he was, Arthur attempted to clench his hand up into a fist but cried out at the unexpected, blinding pain that coursed through his wrist and up his arm.

“Happy? What’s going on?”

Arthur’s head shot up. He had forgotten about his mother trying to sleep down the hall. “Sorry, Ma!” He hesitated, grasping at excuses with a vague hand gesture. “Just, uh, banged my knee!”

“Don’t do that,” his mother called out wearily, as if Arthur needed to be instructed. “It’s bad for you.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Arthur pushed himself up onto his feet and padded his way over to the kitchen cabinets. His body ached all over and he cursed his poor behavior. Why would he throw such an irresponsible tantrum after being beaten the day before? It made Arthur feel like a child, this new situation, and he felt his eyes burn again. Would a day go by where Arthur didn’t feel like crying?

On the top shelf of the furthest cabinet sat a paper bag, the contents within something of a first aid kit. It wasn’t anything grand, just some bandages and disinfectant that Arthur had gathered over the years due to, well — life. Thankfully there was still half a roll of gauze left. He figured he could put together some sort of makeshift brace. How hard could it be?

The following morning, Arthur trembled with frustration as his bandages came loose once again. He was back at work, midway through opening his tray of face paints when he felt the gauze begin to unravel for the third time that day. Thankfully, he was the first one in and consequently alone, so Arthur didn’t feel too self-conscious when he let out a gruff:

“God damn it.”

“Are you okay?”

A little spooked, Arthur gasped and whipped around, a few of his paint brushes rolling off of the vanity counter in the process. He could have sworn that he was all by himself.

An embarrassed flush painted Arthur’s chest and neck upon noticing an unfamiliar young man standing at the top of the staircase. Was this a client? A lawyer? His heart seized as he remembered the gun tucked away in his locker. Would he get in trouble for that?

The man raised his eyebrows apologetically and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. But you sounded like you were in pain,” he explained, his voice smooth and sweet. He made his way over to Arthur, kneeling immediately to pick up the fallen brushes. Gazing up at him beneath long lashes, the man threw him a smile so charming that Arthur could have collapsed. “Here you go.”

Arthur shyly accepted them with a smile of his own, though he doubted it was anything nearly as arresting as what this man had gifted him. “Thank you. Yeah, I — uh, fell yesterday,” he managed to stammer, glancing down at his stupid, stupid hand.

“Can I take a look?” The stranger almost perked up at the news. “I know first aid, I might be able to help.”

Really out of his element here, Arthur sat back a little and tilted his head. “Who are you?”

The man laughed softly and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Sorry, I’m Hoyt’s nephew. I’ll be working here as his new assistant.” He remained kneeling, seemingly completely comfortable with their close proximity, and held out his hand. “May I see?”

A little guarded but hopeful, Arthur gave him a short nod and extended his bandaged wrist, face pinched with pain as he held his breath. “I think it might be sprained. I don’t know.”

Hoyt’s nephew frowned, gingerly turning over Arthur’s hand. “You should definitely get this wrapped. Properly.” He shifted, preparing to unwind the gauze, but something caught his eye.

The bruises on his shoulder. The damage to his ribs. Arthur had forgotten that he had been shirtless this entire time.

“Yeah, I really took a spill,” Arthur spoke up awkwardly, definitely not prepared to admit to this kind stranger that a handful of kids had beaten him up. “Fell down the stairs.”

The man winced sympathetically, beginning to cautiously wind the bandage up and over the dip of his thumb. “I’m sorry to hear that, Arthur.”

All of this positive attention was starting to make Arthur nervous. He knew that it never lasted very long. “How do you know my name?”

With a quirk of his lips, the stranger playfully tilted his head toward the plastic tray of paint on the counter. Upon its lid in permanent marker was a smudged Arthur F.

“Oh,” Arthur let out a sheepish laugh. “Right.”

—

To Arthur’s bewilderment, the kindness didn’t stop there. It seemed as though they tended to arrive at the same time, a few minutes earlier than everybody else. They bonded over cheap coffee and cigarettes, even gossiping about the other workers, how they performed and what gimmicks they used. He was so delighted — for the first time in his entire career as a clown, Arthur was excited to wake up in the morning. To see him.

It took a while for his wrist to heal and as much as Arthur tried to hide his exasperation, the young man caught onto it.

“Hey, maybe I could help?” He had offered one morning after watching Arthur struggle to apply the blue paint near his eyes. “I’ve practically memorized your routine.”

Arthur dipped his chin bashfully and lifted one of his shoulders. “No, I could never ask you to do that.”

“You weren’t the one that asked,” he replied easily, and before Arthur could react the younger man had lowered himself onto his lap. “C’mon. Give me the brush.”

He smelled like vanilla and coffee and aftershave and Arthur felt himself fall in love. “Oh.”

“You do that a lot,” the man teased, carefully dipping the brush into blue. He lifted his voice to match the pitch of Arthur’s. “Oh.”

Blushing wildly, Arthur gripped at the sides of the chair, knuckles white. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A gentle swipe near the swell of his cheek. “It’s cute.”

Arthur was beside himself with pride when a laughing attack never came.

—

Having his make up done became the newest addition to his routine. You’re a star, Arthur, the man would admonish upon each protest. You’ll have to get used to having a make-up artist. Might as well start now.

Those here-and-there compliments were the highlights of Arthur’s day. Not because he was a narcissist — far from it. Because they were genuine. And warm. Arthur was finally starting to understand what it felt like to be noticed.

It was a Wednesday when Arthur mustered up the courage to touch him. They were alone again, the sun barely having risen, cigarettes long forgotten as they sat close together. His new friend had openly fancied sitting in his lap each morning, flippantly defending that it was the best angle to do his work. Arthur would never complain.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Arthur questioned, feeling like a child again. His voice wavered. “I don’t understand.”

The man smiled his Arthur smile. “Because I like you, silly boy.” Confident as always, he reached out and tucked away some of Arthur’s hair — but didn’t stop there. It turned into a bit of an affectionate stroke, twirling brown locks between his fingers. “How could I not be nice to you, Arthur? You’re such a sweetie.”

Arthur was very rarely bold, but there was something about that smile that inspired him to reach forward and mimic, twirl his own fingers around the man’s hair. He soon pulled away, though, not quite that bold. Arthur swallowed hard, counted the freckles on the man’s nose. They were sitting so close. “I like you, too.”

The heavy, familiar slam of the employee entrance echoed its way up the stairs and the two wordlessly separated. They had a mutual, silent understanding that their behavior was a little too friendly for the workplace. But Arthur didn’t mind it. He found something romantic in keeping their moments a secret. They didn’t need to be shared. He’d rather keep them protected.

With a small squeeze to Arthur’s shoulder and a smile, the man slipped away, passing Randall as he descended the stairs. His gaze lingered there, already missing his company.

“What’s with the face?” Randall barked at him, moseying his way over to the lockers. “Are you high?”

Turning back around to face the mirror, Arthur let out a quiet, painless laugh upon seeing a tiny blue heart painted on his cheek bone. “No,” he murmured, fuzzy all over. “Just happy.”

—

Arthur dreamt of him that night. It was a simple dream — just the two of them, cuddled up on a love seat, watching an old film. The house was foreign to him, but nice and clean. They were holding hands. Dinner was warming in the oven. They had matching slippers. It felt like home.

Even Arthur’s mother, despite how far, far away she always was, started to notice the change in him.

“You seem lighter, Happy,” she commented one morning, watching as he pranced his way over to the coffee maker, freshly-shaven and whistling. “Are you on new medication?”

Arthur had to laugh. He laughed often now, freely. “No, Ma. Just excited for work.”

“Be careful, smiling that much,” she looked at him pointedly before sitting down in her arm chair. “Somebody might take advantage of you.”

Shaking his head, Arthur twirled his spoon between his fingers. His wrist was healed now, though he’d continue to fake it. He’d never want to give his only friend, the only man who ever showed him affection, reason to slip away. Checking his watch, Arthur jumped a little and made his way to the door.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” his mother added, “There’s a message for you on the machine.”

Knowing that he was running a little late, Arthur brushed it off. It was probably a telemarketer trying to sell him another vacuum. He hastily slipped on his jacket, his coffee long forgotten on the counter. It wasn’t the same drinking alone, anyway. “I’ll listen to it later, Ma, I’ve got to go.”

“But, Happy — “

—

Arthur wasn’t proud to admit that he virtually ran to the subway station and then off of it to work, but if looking foolish meant arriving on time — he could care less. He was a clown, after all. Looking foolish was his profession.

He ascended the stairs two steps at a time, a little sweaty and out of breath once he reached the top, but let out a heavy sigh of relief upon finding it empty. If Randall or any of the other’s spontaneously decided to show up before him, it would ruin everything.

Taking off his shoes and swapping them out for a pair three sizes too big, Arthur whistled to himself and retrieved his makeup and wig from the top shelf of his locker. He shook his head with a chuckle at the paper bag shoved towards the back. Carrying a gun sounded appealing, once upon a time. But he was more alert now, present and secure. It didn’t seem necessary.

The butterflies in his stomach forced him to take a deep breath to steady himself. Arthur always had to give himself a bit of a pep-talk each morning. Be normal, Arthur. Sitting down in front of the mirror, he looked himself in the eye. Don’t scare him away.

Knees bouncing in anticipation, Arthur set out his makeup just so and waited for him to arrive. It should be any moment now. The sun was beginning to spread over Gotham, painting the sky orange and yellow. He smiled. If he could compare his friend to anything, it would be a sunrise. Warm, full of hope, beautiful.

A few minutes passed. Arthur turned in his seat, green eyes glued to the top of the stairs. He thought back on that first day, on how unprepared he had been for joy to enter his life. The happy memory helped soothe his nerves, but only just. The sun was up high in the sky, now.

Once the clock struck eight, Arthur knew something was wrong. In the two months they had known each other, he had never been late. Maybe by a minute or two, but never half an hour. Tormented by the idea that something terrible may have happened, that he might be harmed in some way, Arthur smoothed back his hair and hastily made his way down the hall to Hoyt’s office.

He knocked twice, waited.

“Yeah, what is it?”

Arthur poked his head into the room with an apprehensive smile. “Hi, Hoyt. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

Looking unimpressed and bored, Hoyt leaned forward, silently begging him to spit it out.

Wringing his hands together, Arthur briefly cleared his throat. “I was wondering if your nephew was coming in today? It’s past eight now — “

Hoyt made a face, scratched at the back of his head with his pen. “Nephew?”

Arthur frowned, frustrated that his boss wasn’t showing the same level of concern. “Yes, him. He’s late, which isn’t like him at all — “

Rolling his eyes, Hoyt looked back down at the paperwork he had been working on. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m busy, Arthur.”

“C’mon, now,” Arthur pleaded, taking a step forward, “You’re his uncle, shouldn’t you be worried, too? I know you may see him as only an assistant, but he’s your family — ”

“I’m not an uncle, Fleck. I’m an only child.” Hoyt looked disturbed, pissed. “Stop spouting bull shit. Get out of my office.”

Arthur didn’t move. He blinked rapidly, the flurry of excitement that he had woken up with dwindling down into nothing. “I don’t understand. He comes in every day. He — He helps you with your accounting. That’s what he told me.”

“Listen, if you’re going to come to work high, you can forget about having a job here.”

“I’m not on anything!” Arthur snapped at him, feeling hot in the face. “Why does everybody think that I have to get high to feel something, huh? Why can’t I just — can’t I just find happiness the normal way? Through people? Am I that detached to you? Am I that pathetic?” His throat began to seize. Arthur let out a strangled little noise, not wanting to have to deal with that right now. “Just tell me where he is!”

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Hoyt spat at him. “Whoever you’ve been imagining, whoever you’ve been talking to, he doesn’t exist.”

Arthur shook his head weakly, brought his hands up to cover his ears like a little boy. He didn’t want to listen to this.

“I haven’t hired anybody new in the last two years, alright? Get the fuck out of here. Come back when you’ve stopped being such a freak.”

Blurry-eyed and wheezing, Arthur pushed himself through the door and stumbled his way through the hallway. He grasped at his throat, choking on the first terrible ripple of laughter. The first laughs were always the worst. They hurt the most.

By the time he entered the locker room, most of his coworkers had arrived. They were huddled together at the center table, whispering to themselves and all seemed to collectively turn towards Arthur upon his arrival.

“You okay there, pal?” Randall was the first to speak, his mouth twitching. He had a terrible poker face.

Arthur couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. He stood hunched over in front of his locker, hand pressed to his gut as if he were vomiting, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest.

“What, did you finally get fired?” One of the other clowns jabbed, a different kind of laughter hidden in his throat. “Figures.”

He waved him off, trying his best to tell them to stop, but their laughter started to gather into something ugly and cold. It had been Arthur’s goal to change his shoes, but he couldn’t spend one minute more in this building. This locker room only mattered when — when he was here. A fresh bout of sharp laughter clawed at his throat and rattled his brain. Covering his ears again, Arthur bolted down the stairs, tripping on the last one — which of course fueled the laughter above. He had to leave. He had to leave. He had to leave.

—

Blowing your nose for what felt like the one hundredth time, you sighed and sunk back into the couch. You hated being sick, it threw your entire day off. You weren’t ashamed of your morning routine — meditation, smoothie, positive affirmations — and not being able to indulge in this simple necessity put you in a foul mood.

You had slept most of the day away, curled up pathetically on your uncle’s sofa. You didn’t care if you got your germs all over his living room — the man was an ass anyway. If it wasn’t for your complete lack of income due to the recent move, you’d be living on your own. Anything was better than tiny cowtown Ohio, you supposed. Even if it meant listening to your uncle drunkenly rant about his political and religious beliefs every evening. As if anybody would ever sign up for that.

Around half past nine, Uncle Hoyt came strolling into the loft. Strolled. He never had such a bouncy gait. Wiping at your nose, you massaged absently at your sore throat and spoke up. “You seem happy.”

Hoyt promptly burst into a fit of throaty giggles, wheezing in an ugly fashion, as if being tickled on the spot. “You should have seen his face, buddy. God, you really missed out, there.”

Wrinkling your nose in confusion, you frowned, tissue balled up in your fist. “What are you talking about?”

“Fleck. You know, the skinny one with the weird smile?”

Your heart jolted to a stop. “Arthur?” Sitting upright, you set your jaw. “What happened with Arthur?”

Tossing his keys and jacket onto the kitchen counter, your uncle covered his face and continued to snort obnoxiously. “I can’t get over how priceless — guy looked like he was losing his damn mind.”

You felt yourself beginning to tremble. Throwing the blanket off of your lap, you stood and stalked over to him, voice very low. “What are you talking about? What did you say to him?”

Hoyt needed a moment to catch his breath. “Told him — Told him you didn’t exist — “ He was wiping tears out of his eyes now. “Made him think that he dreamed you up. What a fucking idiot—“

You had never punched anybody before and immediately realized that you weren’t good at it — the ache in your knuckles after connecting with his jaw almost pulled you out of the moment, but even your uncle’s bloody nose wasn’t enough to quell your rage.

“You told him that I didn’t exist?” You shrieked, your voice reaching the high pitch that it normally did when you were stressed. It didn’t help that your throat was on fire due to whatever virus had been holding you hostage. “Are you sick? Why the hell would you do that!”

But you didn’t give Hoyt the chance to reply or defend. You had pushed him into the wall, kneed him in the stomach, sent another punch to his face — any and all energy left in you was directed at your uncle until he was nearly gasping for breath on the kitchen floor.

Red in the face, Hoyt tried to push himself up but stumbled back down, the wind having been knocked out of him.

You paced and paced and paced, shaking hard, forced to imagine poor Arthur’s face upon being lied to so horrendously. Your sweet, silly, green-eyed boy.

Not being able to take it anymore, you stumbled towards your room and slipped on some shoes and a sweatshirt before booking it out of the loft with a hard, “Fuck you, Hoyt.”

—

Arthur wished he had his own room. God, did he, because it was only upon arriving home that he realized that there was nowhere to go, no where to hide and scream and process. He heard his mother question him, sounding half-asleep, but Arthur knew that he wouldn’t be able to put it into words.

How could he explain to his mother that he had gone insane? That he had fallen in love with a hallucination? That the hallucination had been a man?

He ended up locking himself up in the bathroom. His mother gave up trying to connect with him fairly quickly, this was hardly his first emotional break down. She was notoriously lazy when it came to anything maternal.

Knees pushed up to his chest and arms curled around them, Arthur sat in the middle of the tub, wet face pressed into the fabric of his pants. His stupid clown shoes had been tossed to the side of the room, along with his shirt. He cried and laughed and cried and laughed until he felt physically sickened — but the sun setting in the window behind him brought on another devastating wave of grief.

Was it even possible to grieve over something that was never truly there?

It was only when Arthur heard his mother close the door to her bedroom that he managed to get up out of the tub. He had to catch himself from falling, both of his legs asleep from lack of movement, but eventually found enough balance to exit the bathroom.

His eyes fell straight away to the couch, the cushions and quilt so inviting after hours of weeping against cold, hard tile. Arthur’s entire face was sore from crying. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to feel.

He had been lying down barely ten minutes before a series of impatient knocks fell against his front door. The rate of the pounding told Arthur that whomever it was wasn’t going to leave any time soon, so he grabbed a shirt out of the laundry basket nearby and pulled it over his head.

Arthur’s footing wasn’t quite there yet, but with shaking limbs he managed to reach the door and peer through the peephole. He instantly stumbled backwards with a horrified grimace, desperately distancing himself from the entrance.

“Stop it!” Arthur demanded, voice thick with tears all over again, “Go away! Get out of my head!”

The knocking ceased, and Arthur thought that he had won until he heard a voice — your voice.

“Please open the door, Arthur, please.”

“No!” Arthur took a few more steps away, wrapping his arms around himself to find some semblance of comfort. “You aren’t there! I know that now!” He hiccuped around a cry, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been a fool.”

—

Pressing both hands flat against the door, you let your head fall forward to rest there as well.

“He’s a liar, Arthur,” you pleaded, beginning to seethe with anger all over again at the thought of him. “It was some sort of sick prank. He’s —” You gritted your teeth. “He’s an awful man.”

You heard a soft sob on the other side of the door, breaking your heart.

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur replied after a long moment, but his voice was louder now. He had moved closer. “I’m just a freak, that’s what they all say. Because they’re right. I dream up love because a part of me knows that I’ll never have it.”

Your chin began to tremble. You had never heard Arthur talk about himself like this. Fighting back your own tears, you shook your head. “Arthur. You have it.” You shut your eyes tight. “Of course you have it.”

You were met with silence and as the moments passed by, your stomach twisted. Had he left the room? Was he doing something to harm himself? Frightened, you began to knock again, much harder now.

“Where are you?” More silence. Your itchy throat grew tight. “I’m so sorry for what he did, Arthur. I was hoping you would have gotten the message I left last night. I shouldn’t have called so late.” You didn’t want to cry. You hadn’t been the one abused. “Please come back.”

There was shuffling on the other side of the door and you pressed your ear to it, straining to hear what was happening. Just as you were about to speak up again, you heard your own voice play throughout his apartment.

Hey, Arthur. It’s me. Sorry if my call woke you up, but I just — I wanted to let you know as soon as I could that I’ve come down with a cold. A beat. That sounded weird, what I meant was that I won’t be at work tomorrow and… well, you know. Another pause. I’ll miss you. Hope to see you soon.

A slow beep followed the recording and you held your breath. God, did you sound lame. You winced and looked down to your shoes, only just now realizing that you were wearing two different pairs. What a mess. You wouldn’t blame him if he lost interest. If he told you to leave anyway. If he —

The door ripped open and you promptly fell forward into Arthur’s arms.

He caught you easily — you always loved that he was taller than you — and helped you back up onto your feet, his eyes wide and searching. Your heart sank into your stomach at the sight of him, at how exhausted he looked. At how puffy and red his eyes were.

You reached out without thinking, brushing the pad of your thumb below his eye. “You poor thing.”

Arthur sniffled abruptly, still not looking stable. He leaned into your hand and closed his eyes, breathing out brokenly, “I want you to be real.”

“Arthur,” you heard yourself whispering, “I’m right here.”

You kissed him. You wrapped your free hand around the back of his neck, took a step closer, and poured your heart into a kiss so adamant that you’d surely die if he pushed you away.

It took him a moment, but soon the hands holding you steady slackened and smoothed over your back, pulling you closer. Arthur kissed you back so sweetly, held you so dearly, but his breath hitched audibly midway. He was crying.

You pulled back — but only an inch, just so you could press your lips to his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.

“You’re really here?” Arthur croaked, fingers tightening in your sweatshirt as you smothered his face in affection. “I’m not dreaming?”

“My silly boy,” you murmured, leaning back to take his face in your hands, wanting to catch his gaze. You smiled up at him. “You’re wide awake.”

Slowly, beautifully, Arthur smiled back.

reader tag: @taintednihilist @galaxycat-1459 @hxneyboy @sebastianshoe @insomniabird @jesstaggartt@lenawiinchester @emissarydecksetter @ghoulsguilty @vampirozi @spaceinvader @aclownthing @zy-nnic @alirabbitt @mapreza1 @the-jokers-wolf @nicimixerxoxo @catch-a-star-wish-from-afar @umetsa @skaravile @live-love-loki @clowneyrat @darknessisafriend @chaosheartjester

(if you’d like to be added to the reader tag, shoot me a message! sorry if i’m missing anybody!)

#arthur x reader #arthur fleck #joker x reader #joker #got a little carried away #drabble

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emachinescat · 4 years

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Night and Morning with My Tears

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 20 - betrayal

Summary: Takes place when Merlin is Morgana’s prisoner in "A Servant of Two Masters.” When Morgana looks into Merlin’s eyes, what she sees there surprises and angers her in equal measure. Merlin has no right to act betrayed, not when his betrayal was so much worse.

Characters: Morgana, Merlin

Words: 1,756

TW: None

Notes: Takes place during “A Master of Two Servants,” with flashbacks to “The Fires of Idirsholas,” so there will be spoilers for both of those episodes!

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

- From “A Poison Tree” by William Blake

And I watered it in fears.

Night and morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles.

And with soft deceitful wiles.

Morgana Pendragon stands before her prisoner, eyes cold and green like the deep forest. Despite her anger at her men for failing so miserably in their task, she cannot say that she is displeased to see Merlin again. Although the servant’s mere presence incites a furnace of rage within her, he could prove very useful in her plans to kill Arthur – and if she is able to play with him in the process, make him pay for what he did to her sister, then all the better.

Merlin hangs, unconscious, from his wrists. He is too tall for the stooping ceiling of her hovel, so his legs fold awkwardly beneath him. His chin rests against his chest, and he sports a nasty wound on one shoulder. She will probably end up healing it eventually, as infection is beginning to set in. She needs Merlin healthy for her plans for him. Still, she supposes she can let him suffer a bit before she takes on the task of cleaning the wound. Any amount of pain he endures will be nothing compared to what he has inflicted upon her, time and time again.

When she throws a cold bucket of water into his face, he wakes, coughing, and gasping; she smirks. When he regains his bearings and locks eyes with her, any satisfaction or pleasure she receives from his struggles melts away like candle wax under a flame. It has been a long time since she has looked into those very blue eyes from mere feet away, and what she finds in them is unsettling and unexpected – they are familiar, but foreign, and they stir up memories that she prefers to keep hidden, even from herself.

Stolen glances, conspiring winks, soft smiles. Fighting bandits in Ealdor, not out of duty, not for Camelot, but out of loyalty, for a friend. Defeating a clay monster, teasing Arthur, smuggling Mordred out of the citadel. This is a part of her life so disconnected from herself that she has all but convinced herself that it happened to someone else.

But a chilly fierceness has descended over his eyes like a veil, and it is as if she is looking at an entirely different person all together. Long ago, back before Morgana knew of her powers and heritage, when she was young and naive and living a life of luxury, Merlin had never failed to have a smile on his face. He spoke softly and kindly, and Morgana had loved the compassion for others she could sense in his gaze. That innocence has vanished, leaving him suspicious, cruel, and hard.

There is one emotion that Morgana detects in those blue eyes that causes a righteous fury to swell inside her like a summer tempest, tints her vision red and sends her hurtling back into her past, to the worst moment of her entire life, and she has to restrain herself from ending Merlin’s miserable existence then and there. Pace yourself, Morgana. You have use for him yet.

But it is a hard battle. Indignation seizes her heart and squeezes. How dare Merlin have the audacity to look betrayed when he looks back at her? How dare he act as if she is in the wrong, as if she is the one who has turned against her friends? Morgana has no friends, not anymore. She has no family. And she has Merlin to thank for that.

He has no right to act like she is betraying him by capturing him, holding him as her prisoner in the hovel he might as well have picked out for her. Morgana is the only one who has the right to feel betrayed – what she has planned for Merlin is nothing, nothing, compared to what he did to her.

***

Dying is strange, if you think about it. It is the one thing, other than being born, that unites all of humanity, all creatures. Two people may live out lives on opposite ends of the map, may never meet one another; one may be a king, the other a slave, one a scholar, the other a simpleton. And yet, someday, they both will die. Death unites us all, even as it tears us apart. The funny thing is, although everyone is plodding forward to the same destiny, only those who have walked the path to completion know what it is like. Death is the great equalizer, but no one who meets it can divulge its secret. It is at once the most common experience of mankind and its greatest secret.

Morgana came closer to discovering that secret than most people who have played the delicate strings of life and death when she was poisoned by a man she called her friend. Even now, when she recalls that moment when she realized that something was wrong – I can’t breathe, oh gods – her blood drains from her body and fear replaces it, cold and numbing and terrible. She remembers with complete clarity the feel of her throat swelling, can hear the rasp of her breath and see her vision becoming a vignette, dark around the edges, closing in, prowling ever closer.

Dying was bad enough. Dying of poison, feeling her body shut down, attack itself, turn on her, was hell. By far the worst part of Morgana’s death, however, was the moment she realized who was responsible. Her entire world came crashing down when her eyes, bulging from the panicked strain of trying to pull in breath where none existed, traveled from the discarded water-skin to the servant she called her friend. If she had doubted his involvement before, it was confirmed with the expression on his face. He reeked of regret and guilt; shame radiated off of him and contaminated the air around them.

Merlin had poisoned her. Merlin, the clumsy, goofy, kind-hearted, loyal servant of the prince, the man she had risked her life for more than once, who had treated her like a person instead of royalty, who had been her friend when she felt alone and afraid as her powers blossomed – Merlin was killing her. It was like she had been stabbed in the heart, that realization, and for a brief moment that could have been the rest of her life, that knowledge that she was dying at the hand of her friend hurt far more than her closing airway, than her lungs starved for air, than the pain and the fear and the darkness of death swooping ever closer.

She backed away, her limbs clumsy; they no longer belonged to her, only the living had use of them. Through pain-hazed vision, she watched as Merlin walked over, sat near her, saw his lips move without hearing his words, and then he was gathering her into his arms, holding her close, and she tried to fight, tried to call out, tried to escape, but – she was helpless.

He sat with her, held her, rocked her like she was a child, and she felt his face against the top of her head, felt warm tears hit her scalp, and she couldn’t breathe, her ears rang like tinny chimes and her vision flickered, her hands and feet tingled like she’d been sitting on them all day, and her chest wouldn’t move.

Oh gods.

The feel of his touch made her want to scream, burning vile fingerprints into her skin. She heard a terrible noise, a choking, garbled sound, and realized it was her. She tried to squirm away from him, from this disgusting facsimile of comfort, partially wondering what his game was, why he was acting like he cared about her, what he could possibly gain by holding her as she died of a poison he had administered. The other part of her knew that it didn’t matter, and resigned itself to the fact that the last touch she was going to feel before she died was that of the man who had killed her.

Her last few seconds of consciousness were comprised of pure terror; she floated in that empty space between life and death, felt everything and nothing, and was consumed by her fear and the overwhelming, blood-freezing understanding that she didn’t want to die. She had done nothing to deserve this; she had only been his friend. It didn’t matter that she didn’t wish for death, that she had plans for her life, that she could have made a difference, that she had a sister she was just getting to know and that she could do so much more. All control had been stripped away, any choice and free will had been stolen in an act of violence and betrayal that she simply could not understand.

Right before she gave in to the pain and the cold and the dark, she realized that she hated Merlin.

When she awoke, sometime later, to Morgause’s concerned brown eyes, not knowing how she could be alive but grateful nonetheless, that feeling of hatred hadn’t dimmed. In fact, it had grown, and it continued to fester, burrowing deep into her soul like a cherished tumor, one that she fed and nurtured, loved and despised in equal measure.

And she waited, knowing that a time would come to repay Merlin for the terrible sins he had committed against her, for taking the trust she had in him and crushing it beneath his ratty servant’s boot.

***

No, Merlin does not deserve to feel betrayed, to look at her through eyes tinted with hurt. He has no right to speak of loyalty, or friends. He pretends at being loyal to Arthur, but Morgana has seen his heart, has felt the rot inside of his soul, and knows that it is only a matter of time before he betrays his beloved king as well. Merlin is no mere servant – he is a hollow man, filled only with cruelty and hate, and sooner or later, he will destroy everything he loves.

Morgana is only helping that process along with the Fomorroh. She relishes the look of betrayal melting into fear. His wide eyes and hitched breath whisper comfort to her innermost hurts.

And when he screams, she smiles.

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angelaiswriting · 5 years

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Listen to Me | Tommy Shelby x reader

[original picture from pinterest]

✏️ Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader

✏️ Requested by Anonymous: I love that you're doing the Peaky Blinders boys now! I'd very much enjoy some possible fluff and/or smut with an over-protective Tommy?? Or anyone else?? I'm a sucker for a protective boi haha! Love your blog!! 💞

✏️ A/N: thank you sooo much for this request (and the compliment, I’m sobbing)! It made me so excited I was literally trembling and unable to write for a while haha hopefully you’ll enjoy this! It’s not smut yet, but it could be one day. Also, if you want to be added to my brand-new Peaky Blinders tag list, hit me up! Meanwhile, I’m just tagging peeps that could be interested. Also, many thanks to my MB @sweetvengeancee for being my new beta, apparently haha ily 💞

✏️ Warnings: implied illegal activities I guess ? + pre smut, and yet not NSFW ? so at the discretion of the reader

✏️ Word-count: 2,650

PART ONE: LISTEN TO ME | >> part two: kiss me >>

The Garrison was packed, buzzing with life as men, both drunk and sober, chatted and joked the night away.

It was the ordered chaos Thomas Shelby enjoyed, a nice distraction from the upcoming race he was planning on fixing and from that nagging thought that followed him from a distance any time his plan popped up unsolicited in his mind. He was a good horse, Monaghan Boy – black and strong and magnificent, a born winner. But if Tommy wanted to go far, if he wanted to take Kimber’s place, he had to play all his cards and he had to play them right.

Y/N was the only one who knew – she had torn the truth out of him with that sinful mouth of hers, a few days before, in that very private room he had just got out of. She had always had her own way of doing things, ever since John had brought her home one day after school, and it had been her bluntness and utter lack of fear – probably her madness, too – that had never managed to tear her away from her Shelby friends first and the Peaky Blinders later, when they had all outgrown their childhood.

It was exactly her he didn’t expect to see that night at the bar. He had told her many a time he didn’t want her at the Garrison, didn’t want her around the men he so frequently had to deal with – he knew how they were, the things they did and how, exactly, they did them.

And yet, there she was, sitting at a table opposite Polly and with Finn cuddled up in her lap. They were laughing at something his youngest brother was saying, probably one of the crazy stories he made up with his friends, both women sipping on freshly-poured booze.

“For fuck’s sake.” The words punched their way out of his mouth without him being able to stop them as he leaned against the counter. The more he told her what to do, the more she did the opposite. Whether it was her wicked way to wrap him even tighter around her pinkie finger or something she did out of habit, Tommy truly didn’t know.

What he did know, though, was that he didn’t want her here. And as he gestured for the bartender to come, all he wished for, was for her to fucking listen for once.

Harry, ever zealous as he was, was in front of him in a second, a bottle of Irish whiskey raised in mid-air as the silent question lingered in the space between them. It was an almost automatic choice by now, but when the Blinders were involved, he’d rather not make a mistake.

Tommy gave a curt nod of his head as his left hand came up to massage his forehead. It had been a longer day than usual and while he did his best not to pay them too much attention, the worries that floated around Sunday’s race and his plan for success bubbled up in his mind like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

“Leave the bottle,” he groaned the second before downing the contents of his glass. He was going to need all the whiskey he could get his hands on if he wanted to keep sane. “When did they arrive?”

Even without saying the names, the bartender knew who the question was about. Polly Shelby had put him back to his place when she had marched into his bar with her kid nephew and Y/N by her side and had demanded he gave her and her guests a table. It hadn’t sounded like such a bad idea when he had cleaned a table for those women, and even less when they had ordered their drinks, but as he met Tommy’s gaze now, he found himself wishing he hadn’t given in to their request.

“Don’t know,” he tried to shrug it off. “Must be twenty minutes at most.” It had been double that time, almost as long as the private Shelby meeting in the back room had lasted. There was nothing else he could do, though, as the very Polly Shelby that turned his bones into a quivering mess sent him a glare that could have been translated as behave! at best and I’m going to fucking kill you at worst.

“Fuck.”

Tommy poured himself some more whiskey. He turned around for a moment, met Y/N’s playful gaze as she looked up at him from above Finn’s ruffled hair and wondered, why her. It probably hadn’t been a conscious choice – she hadn’t been a conscious choice.

She had just been there, at the station, when he and his brothers had come back battered and broken from France. She had been there before that, too, and he knew she was still going to be in his family’s life years from now.

She had also been there when the idea of laying eyes on a woman repulsed him, his mind still struggling in the mud of the recently-won war. A friend of John ever since their school days, Tommy had ended up growing attached to her more than he cared to admit. When opium was the only remedy to the gurgling void he carried inside, she was there, her hand on his, shooing the bombings away. He had ended up taking more than she had initially offered and she had ended up taking all he had to give – skin, wounds, Romani words whispered in the semi-darkness of his room as the ricocheting echoes of the nightmares he had found himself living in for four years tumbled down those four walls that always seemed to close in on him, turning everything into a never-ending tunnel.

“Fuck,” he groaned again, unable to help himself.

Her stubbornness had been one of the things that had helped his business stand on its feet while he, Arthur and John had been away, he was sure of that, but now he needed her alive. Needed her safe. Safe from what he knew his life could cause her.

“Have you seen who’s come?” John sounded both happy and tired as he called him from behind before moving to stand by his side. He took a glance at the bottle of whiskey on the counter before pouring himself some into his brother’s tumbler.

Tommy’s answer was a groan.

“Polly will go bonkers when she finds out we had a meeting without her.”

“Oh, she already knows,” Tommy sighed, daring another glance behind his shoulder. “That’s why she’s here. And that’s why she’s brought Y/N.”

“To cause a bigger scene?” John joked, but his chuckle faded into silence when he met nothing but steel in his brother’s eyes.

“You come with me now,” the oldest said, taking a swig from the bottle and relishing in the burning that scratched down his throat. “And you take both Finn and Poll home. Make sure Finn’s in bed before you update her.”

“She won’t listen, you know that, don’t you?” John smirked, turning to glance at his childhood friend. There was no need to specify it was her he was talking about because he was more than sure that his brother knew. “She never does. That’s why I like her: she just doesn’t give a fuck about who we are.” And with a chuckle, he shook his head.

“There was no need to send Finn back home, it’s still early,” Y/N half-heartedly complained when Tommy pushed her into the tranquillity of the Shelbys’ private back room. “He just wanted to hang out around his brothers. You know he admires you.”

He didn’t turn to look at her: he simply walked past her and, unhurried, closed the small window that gave on the counter of the bar, providing them with much-needed privacy in a place like the Garrison. He didn’t need to see those loose hair that had escaped her hairdo and that he found stupidly… cute. Nor did he need to put two and two together and focus on the fact that she was wearing the dress he – he – had given her on her birthday.

Instead, he focused on the table in front of him: he walked up to it, put the bottle of whiskey he had left the counter with down on it and moved the glass ashtray closer to where he was going to sit. “It’s not Finn’s presence that bothers me,” he said eventually.

“Polly’s always-”

“What do I always tell you? This place-”

“If you’re implying that it’s my presence here that bothers you, Tommy Shelby, you can stick it up your-”

“Those are strong words for a lady.” He stared at her as he fixed a cigarette between his lips, lit it and took a first drag. He was trying to keep the ice in his eyes, but it never lasted, not with her. Not when she was the light next to him in the tunnel, not when she was the burning day that dug the French darkness away.

She shrugged, taking a step forward to rest her hands on the seatback of one of the chairs. Freshly manicured nails, painted red, for once – a clear sign that she had spent the day with his sister Ada. “Foolish of you to think, after all the years we’ve known each other, that I am a lady.”

Tommy smirked. “You like to pretend you are one, though.”

For a moment, her only answer was a chuckle as she bent forward to steal the cigarette from his lips. He watched as she took a drag, mere centimetres from his face, her twinkling eyes set on his, before she exhaled the smoke when she moved ever closer and her cheek brushed against his.

She was warm against him, with that perfume of jasmines wrapping her like a bridal veil. “Only with you, Mr. Shelby.”

She straightened her back, then, stood as tall and proud as only she could be in that blue dress of hers. Before he could stop her, she put out the unfinished cigarette in the ashtray.

He sat back, unbothered, and lit himself another cigarette and in the process, he never took his eyes off of her. He looked at her, he truly did, maybe for the first time that night.

She was a dream. A dream and a nightmare all in one, for she was stubborn and headstrong and probably had more balls than many of the men at his service. She never cowered – not under his gaze, not under Arthur’s, and even less under John’s. His men didn’t scare her, his business didn’t scare her, the dark corners of Small Heath didn’t scare her. That was probably the reason why he had taken it upon himself to protect her – from bullets, from secrets, from any bad dream-inducing aspect of his life.

Not that she needed it, but a man could still dream.

“How many times have I told you not to come here at night?” he asked her, puffing out smoke in her direction, twirling the cigarette between his fingers.

The right corner of her lips rose up into a half-smirk as she exhaled from the nose, loudly, trying to keep in the chuckle. “I don’t know,” she answered, drawing her shoulders back a little. “I seldom listen when you talk.”

Tommy resisted the impulse of pinching the bridge of his nose, but not the one that pushed him to close his eyes for a couple of seconds before grunting. “Do you at least know why I ask you the things I do?”

“Tommy Shelby never wants me to have fun, officer!” she drawled out, reminding him more of John than of the serious young woman she knew how to be.

“Stop being foolish and come here.”

She grabbed onto his outstretched hand and let him gently pull her forward until she was standing next to him. A more demanding tug on her arm forced her between his legs before he hoisted her up on the table. “Stop being so serious, Tommy.” She rested her hands on his, still on her hips, and dragged a foot along his thigh. “What’s the answer to that question?”

God, the things he couldn’t tell her!

“The men could get the wrong idea.” It was true, it was a possibility, one very near and always looming over any nice lady that walked through the doors of the Garrison.

She nodded. “I’m not scared of these men.”

“You should be.”

He couldn’t tell her he was doing anything in his power to protect her because she wouldn’t listen and in her haste to prove him wrong, he was sure she would end up proving him right.

“Half of them is too drunk to piss outside their pants and the other half of them is not drunk enough to fight a Shelby. And the ones that don’t know who you are, who this place,” and she gestured vaguely at the walls of the room, “belongs to, don’t scare me because I always have a knife in my boot.”

He wasn’t shocked to hear that revelation. And if he had to be honest, finding out that she walked around unarmed would have left him speechless.

“I still need you to listen to me when I talk to you.” He was slowly pushing the gown of her dress up her legs, exposing the silk of her tights. Hands rough and calloused against her clothed skin, he felt her boot until he found her knife. And smirked.

Tommy Shelby rarely smiled but his smirks were still enough to make Y/N’s heart stop beating for a second before starting to race like a racehorse.

“I’m listening now,” she breathed as he stood between her legs, his hands coming up her shins and pushing the dress over her knees.

“I want you to do the things I tell you to,” he continued.

“I take no orders.”

He leant forward, his lips as light as the touch of a feather against the base of her neck. “If I tell you not to come to the Garrison alone at night, you don’t come.”

“I wasn’t alone.” She was panting, her hands now supporting her weight on the table as he made her lean backwards a little. “I was with Polly. And Finn.”

He didn’t say anything, he let his touches speak for him. His lips kissed up the side of her neck, the tip of his tongue coming out to swipe along her skin every now and then as his hands moved from her knees to her inner thighs and inched closer to her core.

“Tommy…”

“If I say, listen to me, you do,” he whispered in her ear, lips brushing against the lobe before moving to kiss just below it. Her breath shivered against the skin of his cheek as she tilted her head back slightly. “If I want to keep you safe, you better let me.”

“You worry too much.” Her voice was a breath against his lips when he cradled her face in his hands. Lips brushing against lips, she could barely keep her gaze focused on his.

“And you worry too little.”

He kissed her, then. Slow and tender at first, almost innocently, before he let his tongue swipe along her lower lip, tasting the wax of her lipstick, and the kiss deepened. She tasted like whiskey and there was a hint of cigarette from when she had taken a drag from his.

“I’ll make sure you listen this time,” he murmured against the skin of her neck as his hands slid down her sides and back between her legs, fingertips gently tracing a line on her covered core.

“I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he chuckled, pushing the table back and kneeling down in front of her.

Please, please, please, let me know how this story was. I’m new in this fandom and I’m both excited and terrified haha

Again, if you want to be tagged in my PB stuff, just let me know somehow :)

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892 @mblaqgi

People that might be interested: @sweetvengeancee @kind-wolf @flowers-in-your-hayr

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #angelaiswriting

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irregularjohnnywiggins · 4 years

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So, hey, a while ago I came up with this ask game about songs I associate with Arthurian characters. I had a lot of fun with that, but really wanted it to be more streamlined, so I came up with this solution - a list of Arthurian characters and the songs I associate with them.

Now, before we get into the list proper, I need to establish some things, the main one being that these song choices are primarily based on my interpretations of the characters, which is going to become extremely relevant with a few key choices that deviate completely from the normal story. Also, as an inevitable follow-through of this, these songs are entirely subject to my musical tastes, so if you're wondering why most of this list is either Heather Dale, Miracle of Sound or Jeff and Casey Lee Williams that's why. Finally, obviously not every Arthurian character is on this list - with some of the big-name ones like Merlin that's because I couldn't come up with a song choice, with others it's because I haven't fully come up with my version of them and as a result I'm still figuring them out.

With all that out of the way, I hope you enjoy this list!

King Arthur – Kingsword by Heather Dale

Kinda an obvious one - it's literally about Arthur - but I really like it and think it fits well with my version of Arthur, especially the last line of the chorus, 'A boy's hand will grasp it/A man's raise it high' - a major plot point of The Boy King is that Arthur has to grow up incredibly fast after the Sword in the Stone, and this song reflects that.

Guinevere – As I Am by Heather Dale

Again, another obvious one. This song brings into focus one major aspect of the Arthur/Guinevere relationship I play up - it's as much about their ideals as their attraction. Guinevere marries Arthur because she believes in his vision for Britain, and Arthur relies on Guinevere a lot for moral support. This is their greatest strength together, but it's also their greatest weakness - Arthur will later place faith in Guinevere's understanding of his vision where he shouldn't, and that will be the thing that turns Guinevere to Lancelot.

Morgan le Fay – Divide & Armed and Ready by Casey Lee Williams

Moving on to my favourite character in Arthuriana, Morgan gets two songs because... I wanted to give Morgan two songs. No, really it's because Morgan is complicated, and the two songs present her two moods more or less throughout her story - either vengefully, apocalyptically angry, or just righteously angry. That's my favourite thing about Morgan's story - she has a redemption arc, to be sure, but at no point during it does she accept that her motivation was wrong - Uther and Merlin deserved what she wanted to give them, her sin was in taking her anger out on people that had nothing to do with her revenge. So, whilst it's not as simple as a black and white 'Divide is Morgan pre-redemption, Armed and Ready is Morgan post', there is a sense that Armed and Ready is Morgan at her calmest. Also, because visually Morgan takes a lot of cues from the Trollhunters version of her, I've had a lot of fun with the 'I am the Golden One' line.

Morgause – Mordred’s Lullaby by Heather Dale

Yet another easy one - some might think it works better for Mordred, but I have other ideas for him. Not really much else to say - it's Morgause at her most evil, going places even Morgan won't - note how Divide calls out using children as weapons, whereas Lullaby goes 'yeah, I'm doing that Count of Monte Christo shit'.

Mordred – Mordred’s Song by Blind Guardian

Because edgelord Mordred gets edgelord rock song. Mordred is interesting, because I really don’t like the ‘born pure evil’ idea of Mordred, and as such his story is much more of a tragedy than even Arthur - a man who makes what he feels are the best decisions with what he has to work with, who slowly comes to the realisation that he's the villain of this story. Hence, a song that refers to his acts of evil as 'No one asked if I want this/If I like this'.

Nimue – Indomitable by Casey Lee Williams

This one was tough to keep in - whilst I'm absolutely certain that it fits my version of Nimue, the song itself is deeply personal for the people who made it, about an actual tragedy that happened to them, and I'm deeply uncomfortable saying that 'actually it's about this'. So, provided we're all aware that this is, more than any other song on the list, me twisting the original intent to fit my own idea, this is perfect for Nimue, particularly Nimue immediately after imprisoning Merlin and taking over his role as The Light Mage, the Big Good of the magical world. Her story’s pretty interesting, but the theme of trying to fill shoes that are way to big for you and eventually realising you can’t and the best you can do is try your best and do your own thing is prevalent and reflected perfectly by this song.

Lancelot – C’est Moi by Frederick Loewe and Alan Jay Lerner/Bad Luck Charm by Jeff Williams

Like Morgan, Lancelot gets two songs, but unlike Morgan there is an absolutely sharp divide between these two. To use a Fate reference as shorthand, C'est Moi is Lancelot as a Saber, whilst Bad Luck Charm is Lancelot as Beserker. C'est Moi is kinda the perfect song for Lancelot for most of the story - oozing self-confidence, probably too smug for his own good but exactly the right level of smug where you're not sure if you want to punch him or kiss him, it's great for Lancelot. Bad Luck Charm, on the other hand, is basically what's playing on a loop in Lancelot's head as soon as he gets caught with Guinevere, especially given he survives Camlann. Countless dead, two civil wars ripping the country apart, his friends either killed at his hands or cursing his name, his king and queen in a place he cannot get to, and all the while he's left to wander the world knowing that it's all his fault.

Gawain – Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by Heather Dale

Not really much to say about this one - it's definitely influenced my interpretation of Gawain as the Pagan Knight to Lancelot's Christian Knight, and a lot of the events the song describes are what happens when the Green Knight comes to play, but all in all its just a really good song.

Kay – True and Destined Prince by Heather Dale

Being the deuteragonist of the Boy King, Kay is someone I've put a lot of thought into, and this song is definitely a part of my writers playlist I keep listening to to get into the Kay mood. In particular the key defining factor of Kay is loyalty - particularly to Arthur the person, because obviously anyone trying to hurt his little brother is getting smacked. Kay is basically the Leo McGarry to Arthur's Jed Bartlet if that makes any sense, helping to make Arthur's dreams a reality, and there's also the factor that Kay and Arthur always consider one another brothers, which the song definitely reflects.

Bedivere – I Follow My King by Heather Dale

You may notice that this song is basically the same thematically as Kay's song. This is because Kay and Bedivere are a healthy couple that communicate their feelings with one another and come to reasonable compromises, so obviously their attitudes towards certain things are very similar. But talking about Bedivere in particular, this song works better for him than Kay because of one key aspect about Bedivere - whereas Gawain swears allegiance to Arthur for initially very mercenary ideals, and Lancelot swears to Arthur because of Arthur's reputation, Bedivere swears to Arthur because he's experienced Arthur growing up, he's seen the kind of man he's grown into, and he knows that Arthur's going to be a great king. Also the song works better for Bedivere because if Arthur tried pulling the shit the subject of this song does on Kay he's get locked in his room until he learnt not to be an idiot.

Ragnelle – Force of Nature by Miracle of Sound

Tbh it's mainly here for the line 'They rant of redemption/As I leave them long behind' which is peak Ragnelle energy - Ragnelle doesn't care about your feelings or what you think about her, she's doing her own thing and she demands you take her seriously. Aside from that, Ragnelle in my version has a faintly Fae connection to the Otherworld, and even if I go with the idea of her dying (I'm still undecided on that) it's more than likely that she ends up in some other place where her and Gawain can spend their days, so there's a particular melancholy to the lines 'I can hear the worlds unseen/I can hear them call to me'.

Galahad – A Thousand Eyes by Miracle of Sound

This definitely doesn't seem like a song that fits Galahad, does it? It's certainly not the one I picked when I did the original format of this list, so what gives? Well, more than maybe any other song on this list, this one is influenced by my specific version of Galahad, and that is influenced by my specific version of the Grail Quest, which I only codified a few months ago - namely, by saying 'fuck it' and making it a horror story. I'm not kidding. There's a lot of complexity in this interpretation, and I'd love to go more in depth about it at a later date, but for now know that my Galahad isn't a clumsy Jesus stand-in, he's more like a Lovecraft protagonist briefly brushing against things beyond mortal ken before being consumed by them, and as such I could think of no better song than this one.

Gareth – Touch the Sky by Casey Lee Williams

Now, as with Galahad there are certain key things you need to know about my version of Gareth before the song makes sense. Unlike Galahad, this one is very simple: the boy is trans. Absolutely, unambiguously trans. His story is explicitly trans, he's explicitly trans, and as I've been reliabily informed by certain people this song has a lot of Good Trans Vibes, which I can definitely see. Honestly Gareth's story is another one I could probably talk about for a while, especially because I'm really unsure about certain bits of it, being cis and very wary of screwing up trans rep, but for now I'll leave it at this song being perfect for Gareth in Camelot, finally able to be himself and not Morgause junior - because if you expected Morgause to be a good mum you need to listen to Mordred’s Lullaby again.

Ywain – Stay By My Side by Miracle of Sound

Cute friendship song for the boy with the lioness companion, not much more to say about it. There is a search for identity element in both Journey and Ywain's story, in Ywain's case being a search for his own meaning outside of his family, but mainly its a cute soft song for a cute soft lion boy.

Dinadan – Knights of the Round Table by Monty Python

Because what else would it be?

Uther – Lionize by Jeff Williams

Asshole attracts asshole, and Uther's just enough of a dick that Adam's particular brand of 'everyone who isn't like me is weak and cowardly and only I can see what's necessary to save us all, you'll see I'm right in the end'. Also, you may notice there's no Merlin song here, and whilst that's partially because I don't know a song that could explain my complicated feelings towards Merlin, this song also tells you everything you need to know about Merlin, because if Merlin can look at someone who's got this in their heads and think he's a perfect candidate for the throne then maybe Morgan has a point after all.

Igraine – The Best I Can by Miracle of Sound

Igraine might have one of the most complicated backstories in The Boy King, involving mermaids, Mirror Universe Wonder Woman and the plot of ICO, but none of that is strictly speaking relevant to the story as is told. Basically, Igraine has been through a lot, and this song is about her trying to prepare all her children for the cruel world out there, and also knowing that she can't. It's kind of a downer to end on, but hey it's Arthurian Legend - it's all a downer.

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years

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Moonlight Chapter 20: Magdalene

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 20/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Nineteen+

Chapter Twenty-one+ >>

Severus paused at the top of the steps leading into St. Thomas’s Church and exchanged a glare with the green copper head of a wild man that stood guard over the door. He tugged at the sleeve of his dark gray suit, agitated that it was not nearly long enough. In spite of Mr. Frost’s insistence that Muggle clothes became Severus far better than the ‘damned clerical dress’ that was his usual attire, Severus hated wearing them. They reminded him of all the days of his childhood that he had spent in clothes from Cokeworth Priory's charity bin that had neither matched nor fit. It wasn’t as though his father had been unable to afford proper clothing for his son. Tobias Snape had never paid for anything that he could get for free. And he had been very good at getting things for free. Ever since Severus had attained his majority, he had taken all of his clothing, magic and muggle alike, to Mr. Frost, Cokeworth’s venerable tailor. The man was free with his opinions about Severus’s sartorial sins, but he did good work and he was far more affordable than Madame Malkin’s or Twilfitt and Tatting's in Diagon Alley.

But the christening of the Lee child was to be held in this Muggle church, and so Muggle clothes it had to be. The brass knocker dangling from the wild man’s mouth was rough and heavy in Severus’s hand, and he was once again plagued by the indecision that had been troubling him all afternoon. A fit of good humor had addled his brains after his pleasant excursion to Romania, and he had accepted the Lees’ invitation to the event. He hated changing plans once they were made but, the closer the actual day came, the less his mind dwelt on Miranda and her smiles, and the more it dwelt on everything that could go terribly wrong. Being caught in a church with his Muggle-born lover and a slew of Muggle-loving purebloods would not do much for Severus’s precarious reputation among the Dark Lord’s minions. Not that it was terribly likely that any of those minions would cross his path today in this church or at the Embassy afterwards. He had gone to Spinner’s End to change after his classes, rather than risk leaving Hogwarts dressed as a Muggle, and had lost some time taking a circuitous route from Spinner’s End to St. Thomas’s in an attempt to ensure he was not followed. Beyond going home now and forgetting the whole thing there wasn’t much else he could do. With a sigh that was equal parts irritation and resignation, he jerked the ominous door open and took his decision.

“Bless my soul, Severus, you did come!” exclaimed Molly Weasley in a loud whisper.

She appeared from the shadows of the dimly lit church. It was late afternoon on a lethargic, cloudy day, and the flickering candles grouped around various pictures and statues provided more light than what managed to filter in through the windows. For a terrible moment he was sure that she was going to attempt to embrace him, but thankfully she stopped short and her outstretched arms dropped to her sides so that her hands might fidget with her bag. She looked a mess, her dress a clash of patterns and colors that had no business being seen in the same room, let alone on the same person. There was a reason that Severus stuck to black and gray.

“Molly,” he said shortly, barely inclining his head to her.

“It’s so good to see you somewhere outside of a meeting about You-Know-Who or a meeting about one of my children making trouble,” she went on bravely.

“Indeed.” Merlin, how long was this tête à tête going to last? “I was under the impression that Arthur would be here as well.”

“He should be along any minute once he finishes up at the Ministry. Did you have a nice day at school?”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s a shame. I hope it wasn’t one of my children’s fault.”

“No more than it is any other day.”

“Aren’t Aaron and Rachel lovely people? They’ve come by for dinner a few times and it’s so sweet to see a nice young couple right at the beginning of starting their family. Makes you nostalgic, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Her eyes widened and she started laughing. “How silly of me, of course you wouldn’t know. Yet. Arthur tells me you have a friend that you’ve been hiding from everyone and that she’s quite a catch. Maybe you will know before too long.”

Severus was starting to feel dizzy from Molly’s chattering and, worse, the back of his neck was getting hot the way it did when he was particularly embarrassed. He had a strong desire to turn up the collar of his coat and he wished that he had left his hair down instead of tying it back. All of his usual masks were gone in these wretched Muggle clothes, so he made do tugging at his sleeve and glaring at his companion.

“I hope that Arthur was not remiss in explaining to you the dangers both to Miranda and to myself if you were to repeat that nonsense anywhere, even to our allies,” he said coldly.

The effect was instantaneous. She stopped laughing, the smile fell from her face, and the intelligent woman who sometimes hid behind the facade of the doting mother revealed herself.

“I understand completely,” she said seriously, putting a hand on his arm. “And while I’m sorry that things have to be this way for you, I am happy to know that you find other things to do with your time besides disciplining students and risking your neck. Your secret is safe with us.”

She gave his arm a brief squeeze that he supposed she meant to be consoling, and released him.

“I am aware that you and Arthur are capable of keeping a secret,” he allowed.

They lapsed into a silence that lasted long enough for her to return to fidgeting with her bag and him to wonder if he would fray the hem of his sleeve with tugging on it. He would have been perfectly happy to remain silent until the others arrived, but he was concerned that Molly would not allow such a thing to happen. In an effort to avoid speaking any more about his friend, he attempted to think of some topic of conversation, but neither magical tactics nor the behavior of potions students seemed quite the thing for the occasion.

“How did you meet her?” Molly asked abruptly, returning to the unfortunate topic.

Severus could feel his eyebrow start twitching. “By the caprices of fate.”

Thankfully he was preserved from having to continue that explanation by the noise of the door opening and the arrival of the rest of their party. Both he and Molly turned at the sound, perhaps equally grateful to be rescued, and Molly was halfway across the church to meet the group before Severus could blink. Amidst the tumult of embraces, introductions, and the crying infant, Severus took the opportunity to drift up the aisle, making a show of studying the stained glass pictures in the windows as he worried the hem of his sleeve. The sun outside made a feeble attempt to break through the clouds, and the rich colors of the glass responded with a pleasing glow. Judging by the obscured, but undressed figures and the riot of animal and plant life, it depicted the Garden of Eden. He busied himself picking out the various flora in an attempt to ignore all of the doubts that were creeping to the fore of his mind.

“You look nice,” Miranda said, her light step coming to a stop next to him.

She was near enough that he could feel the warmth of her body, but she did not attempt to touch him. He looked from the window to her and, from the blush that pinked her cheeks when he did, he rather suspected that his own face was betraying how pleased he was to see her.

“And you appear to have recovered from your illness,” he replied.

“Now, I already admitted you were right. I don’t think I should have to keep stroking your ego.”

“But it makes me so agreeable when you do.” Her flaring temper amused him, as usual, and he could not deny even to himself that at that moment he didn’t give a damn if all the Death Eaters in the Dark Lord’s army burst into the church and caught him.

“I don’t think you’d know agreeable if it bit you.”

“Fortunately I have you to explain these things to me. And perhaps I merely commented on your appearance in order to admire it.”

This won him a smile, and, as the others were busy settling the child and speaking to the priest, he allowed himself the indulgence of returning it with one of his own. The sun outside the window continued its mission to break through the clouds, drawing his eyes back to the image.

“There is a fascinating mix of plants in this window,” he observed.

“Is there?”

“Yes. There are chamomile and comfry tangled together with belladonna and cicuta. I had thought that this was supposed to be a picture of paradise, but perhaps it is some other strange, Popeish thing.”

“No, it is the Garden of Eden. But it’s before the Fall.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Before the Fall, all of the plants were helpful and benevolent. It was only after that some became deadly. Or, that’s what my brother Columba used to say.”

“I see.”

“I’ve always wondered what those sorts of plants were like before. What sort of good use they might have been put to.”

“Interesting question.”

Footsteps approached and a well-dressed but obviously sleep-deprived Aaron interrupted their conversation. His face was haggard enough that Severus decided not to glare at the new father when he gave Severus’s back a friendly slap.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal Miranda for a while, Severus. Thanks for being here,” Aaron said.

“Of course,” Severus replied.

He followed the Americans to a small alcove in the back of the church where a pair of clerics and the rest of the company were waiting. Severus fell back to stand behind Molly, the other extraneous person in this business, and his height enabled him to observe the rite from that spot. A pale but lovely Rachel cradled the infant who was all but swallowed up in a voluminous gown of satin and lace, and the efficient, owlish priest began intoning Latin texts with a rapidity that bespoke his understanding. At first Severus took the trouble to translate the words to himself but, before long, the rhythm and the quiet lulled him and his mind began to wander.

During his childhood, Severus had gone to service most Sundays, morning and evening. As Tobias had refused to darken the door of Cokeworth Priory, unless it was to receive some embarrassing form of charity that the Snape family did not actually require, this had been a welcome escape for both Severus and his mother from Tobias’s mercurial temper. Severus had found the morning service to be tedious, especially when it was interrupted by overlong and circular sermons, but he had found Evensong to be much more pleasant. There had been something about the way the afternoon light would break into the run-down church. It lit up the sad, neglected space, making it seem clean and otherworldly—almost magical. Sometimes, if they were lucky, Tobias would be gone when Severus and his mother returned home, and they would spend the rest of the evening together. Those were the times when his mother had given him the most attention, and he had held those moments close during the long hours and days when she had none to give. If he were asked, he would say that he had seen too much evil in the world to believe that God and Christianity were anything other fables and fairy stories, but he did remember the peace of those Sunday afternoons with something that bordered on fondness.

That same magical afternoon light broke through the clouds now, and came slanting in through the windows of St. Thomas’s, haloing the infant, her tired parents, and Miranda in its radiance. As Miranda held the child over the font, her face displayed an open, honest joy that made Severus’s breath catch to see.

“Magdalene Tokoyo, ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spritus Sancti,” the priest murmured, pouring three measures of water over Magdalene’s head.

The infant blinked, as though surprised, but did not cry. Silence really was the order of the moment, and Severus found that he could recapture that fleeting feeling of peace that he had experienced during Evensong, far from his tormenting father. He could forget for a moment about the Dark Lord, and Albus, and the war, and Potter, and all the rest of it. He could just be.

*****

“Eh, you’ll be in the same boat soon enough, Severus,” Aaron observed between puffs of smoke. “It’s only a matter of time before…”

“Before what?” Miranda interrupted as she came out onto the Lee’s charmed porch. It was a nice piece of spell-work, just worn enough to seem real. Aaron, Severus, and Arthur were seated in the group of well-used chairs that looked out over the white painted wood and onto a lawn that was a replica of Aaron’s childhood home. The false sun had set, and the sky was a hazy grey as the stars started showing their faces. There was even a breeze of sorts, and it was easy to pretend that they were not far underground. Aaron’s face was jovial and pink, Severus was giving the man a narrow glare, and Arthur was staring up at the slow-turning fan on the ceiling of the porch, apparently trying very hard not to laugh. Miranda raised her eyebrows in order to give Aaron the ‘you’d better quit while you’re ahead’ warning.

“Oh nothing. Nothing at all,” Aaron hedged, offering Miranda a cigarette.

“No, thanks. I’ve been sent to collect Severus. Rachel wants to thank you for the present you gave to Maggie.”

“That would be preferable to continuing this conversation,” Severus said.

He rose silently and followed Miranda into the living room, both of them pretending not to hear the laughter that erupted from Aaron and Arthur as soon as they were off the porch. Rachel and Magdalene were snuggled together in the rocking chair and Molly was cleaning up the wrapping paper and dirty plates. Severus’s offering was currently floating above the sleeping baby; a rotating mobile of animated figures on silver strings. The figures went about a soundless play of a young woman slaying a sea serpent at a stately pace.

“Severus, thank you,” Rachel said, her tired face serene. “It was so nice of you to come and to bring this for Maggie. Wherever did you get it?”

Miranda could see the tips of Severus’s ears pinking and he cleared his throat before answering.

“I made it. You can change the scene as well, thus,” he explained.

He flicked the top of it with his long fingers, and the players transfigured into a new set. Now there was a young woman, flying up to the sky in a chariot of flowers.

“A nicely done piece of magic,” Miranda said, moved that Severus had taken so much trouble. “I had no idea that you made children’s toys.”

“It is not my habit but, as I did make one for Draco Malfoy on the occasion of his christening, I thought it would be acceptable to do as much now.”

“Draco Malfoy’s christening?” Molly asked. “What was that like?”

“Obnoxiously loud and insufferably crowded. Not at all like today.”

“I assume you didn’t put scenes from Japanese fairy tales and the Tenchi on Draco’s mobile,” Miranda said.

“No. Constellations. I thought it best not to depict the Miss Lee’s actual namesake. Rachel, I have no idea why you would choose to name your child after a woman who was murdered by being hung upside down in a vat of refuse.”

Rachel laughed. “Catholics sometimes make little sense to people who aren’t Catholic. But there are many martyrs with more gruesome deaths.”

“Besides,” Molly added, “you invoke a martyr to prevent whatever happened to them from happening to you.”

“It still seems macabre to me,” Severus insisted.

“It’s important to give expression to all sides of the human condition. And Magdalene is a lovely name,” Miranda countered.

“I never said that it wasn’t,” Severus protested.

“I’m afraid it will be a while before I’m able to finish the translations of that potions book I mentioned,” Rachel said, stifling a yawn.

“I quite understand. I look forward to when you are able to complete it, but I am aware that you have other demands on your time,” Severus said. “I do not have much reference for judging, but you appear to have produced a fine child. She has all of her limbs and seems able to eat and cry.”

“Why thank you. She cries especially well at night.” Rachel was not able to stifle the next yawn.

“So I see. I shall take my leave of you then, before those festivities start. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“And thank you for being here. I’m sure I’ll be back to normal one of these days. Maybe three years or so from now.”

He gave Rachel a short bow and Miranda accompanied him out of the room, amused by his gruff kindness to Rachel. But Rachel was a woman who made it easy to be kind. When they reached the door, his eyes darted about the room briefly. It was empty, and his kiss was surprisingly tender, but his expression when he pulled back was dark, as though he were thinking of something unpleasant.

“You are staying here tonight, correct?” he asked.

“I am. Tomorrow night too. Maggie doesn’t like to sleep unless someone is rocking her or walking with her, so I’m going to take a shift to give Aaron and Rachel a chance to rest,” Miranda replied.

“And you are meeting with Lucius tomorrow?”

“Yes. But don’t worry, Arthur will be there right on time to escort me away.”

He frowned and started tugging at the sleeve of his suit coat. “You should know that Lucius is fully aware that Black is not in Romania. He doesn’t know what you are doing there, but he is certain that whatever it is, it is not his bidding.”

Ah, that must be why Severus was acting so seriously. Miranda was touched by his concern, but she’d been handling Lucius Malfoy for the better part of a year now. She could take care of herself.

“Well, the Aurors are doing a pretty good job of watching my family. It may simply be time for me to cut ties with Malfoy. We’ve had a good run.”

His frown deepened and he traced her cheek with his finger. “Do try to be careful tomorrow. Lucius is not to be trifled with.

“I know. You warned him about me months ago.”

“I did, but sometimes warnings seem to go in one of your pretty ears and straight out the other.”

“Why don’t you come by tomorrow evening for supper? You can sit up with me while I rock the baby and we can hold hands like a pair of love-sick teenagers.”

This wrung a smile out of him, and he replied haughtily, “I have never been a love-sick teenager. I was born at the age of forty-five. But I will come, if only to hear about the afternoon’s disaster.”

“And to give me my birthday present,” Miranda reminded him.

“Yes. And to do that as well.”

*****

“Good day, gentlemen, it’s been entertaining. Papa will send over the exit papers tomorrow,” Miranda said as she sailed out the door, shutting it in her former employers’ sputtering faces.

Her heart was pounding in triumph, although she knew Papa was going to give her an earful. He’d understand though, he’d been at this long enough to know when a job was sour. Albus might be angry as well, but he’d just have to deal with it. She was doing enough for the Order in Romania that he’d better be happy with that.

The meeting had been unexpectedly short and Arthur wasn’t there waiting for her. The lift was out of the question at the moment, for she was far too jittery to be that confined. The stairway was deserted when she reached it, and her boots echoed off the ceiling as the torches flared to life and helpful signs on the walls chirped at her to watch her step. She was nearly to Arthur’s floor when she heard another set of footsteps on the stairs above her. Their rapidity and haughty sound told her they were Lucius’s. She quickened her step, but did not run, and she was not surprised to find the door leading out of the stairway locked. With a bored expression fixed on her face, she turned to watch Malfoy descend the final flight of stairs.

“A moment, Miss Rose,” he sneered.

“Mr. Malfoy, I think we’ve said everything we need to say to each other. I’m no longer in your employ, you may wash your hands of me and my behavior.”

He halted an arms length from her and his height forced her to look up at him.

“I don’t think you understand,” he continued. “You are meddling in forces that are far larger than Cornelius Fudge and the Ministry.”

“I think I understand plenty.”

“All the more reason that you should watch your step. You are still my pet to do with as I like.”

Only the knowledge that whipping out her wand and hexing Lucius within an inch of his life would bring down a host of Aurors and mountains of paperwork kept Miranda from doing so.

“Mr. Malfoy, I think we both know that I can kick your ass any time, anywhere. When you’re ready for a rematch, you just let me know and I’ll be happy to oblige you. And this time let’s say that the Unforgivables are on the table from the start. I think a nice round of Crucio followed by a quick Avada is just what you need.”

He grabbed her chin the way he had the night of his Christmas party, and Miranda decided she’d had enough. The way that his face blanched in surprise and confusion when the barrel of her pistol hit his chest was worth all the trouble of the day. He stared at it stupidly, and then let go of her chin to retreat a few steps.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now if you have anything further to say to me, why don’t you do it from right there.”

“If you think that Severus won’t hand you over when the time comes, you are sadly mistaken. And he will be the first in line to torture you when it comes to that,” he said, his voice shaking with rage.

She laughed harshly. “Do you think you’re telling me anything I don’t already know? Of course he’ll hand me over. I’m nothing but his plaything. All American women exist for the sole purpose of fulfilling the sexual fantasies of repressed Englishmen.” She cocked the gun and aimed it at his nether regions. “Go back upstairs, Mr. Malfoy. Before I get really angry.”

“You wouldn’t dare! We’re in the middle of the Ministry of Magic!”

“You sure you wanna try me? I do this for a living. I can get rid of you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and no one will know where to start looking for the pieces.”

Lucius glared at her, but continued his retreat. When he reached the landing, he turned and started stomping back the way he had come. The door behind Miranda unlocked itself, but she kept her gun in her hand until she was safely through it. Just as she was closing the door, she heard Lucius’s parting shot from above her.

“I am going to thoroughly enjoy your demise, Miss Rose. I promise you that.”

*****

“Sit down, Miranda, your pacing is making me dizzy,” Severus complained that evening. He was sitting on the sofa in the Lee’s homey living room, reading Coleridge aloud while Miranda paced with the sleeping Lee infant in her arms. The constant movement was distracting Severus from sorting the many thoughts twisting through his mind into appropriate categories in a vain attempt to pretend that he was in control of the situation. He knew he must bring up a terrifying subject this evening, before Miranda returned to Romania, and he found that he would prefer a meeting with the Dark Lord to the current situation.

“I’ll try, but I’ll probably be up again in five minutes,” Miranda agreed. She lowered herself into the rocking chair smoothly and Magdalene remained asleep. After the two of them were settled, she added, “You should have seen the looks on Malfoy’s and Fudge’s faces when I quit. I’ve never seen that particular shade of purple.”

Severus snorted. Although he would rather not deal with this new complication, part of him did wish that he had witnessed the scene in the stairwell. It was not often that Lucius met someone willing and able to stand up to him.

“I suppose it was impossible for you to continue playing that game any longer. I wish that I knew why Lucius is so sure about Black’s whereabouts. The idiot must have left cover when he well knows he is to remain indoors at all times.”

“What’s Black like? I’ve been pretending to hunt him for so long that I feel like I ought to know him.”

“He is a disgrace of a wizard and I do not wish to discuss him.”

“Sorry. We can talk about something else. I hear you have a birthday present for me.”

Yes, the present. That was by far the more comfortable topic. He was more than willing to postpone the other, even if this show of sentimentality on his part embarrassed him almost as much. He cleared his throat and pulled a small black box out of his pocket.

Eyeing Miranda’s full hands, he said, “Perhaps I should do the honors.”

“Please do.”

As uncomfortable as he was, he could not deny the warm rush of pleasure that went through him when he opened the box and saw her reaction to the tear-drop filigree necklace that waited inside of it. A lovely line of pink spread over her cheeks, her lips parted in surprise, and her eyes became the soft, calm gray of the sky after a storm.

“It’s beautiful.” She smiled up at him and added playfully, “Although Mama would say I have no business accepting jewelry from men.”

“I assure you that this is purely a practical present.” He hung the necklace lightly around her neck so as not to disturb the infant. It was a handsome piece of frippery if he did say so himself. He’d passed it in the village near Miranda’s cabin several times before finally going back to purchase it. With a few well-placed charms it had become the perfect vessel for the real gift he had made for her.

“Oh? I see, there must be a potion inside of it. Is it a new one?”

“Correct on both counts. A Stasis Potion.”

“What does it do?”

“The next time you decide to get yourself maimed, you will drink it and it should keep you alive long enough for you to find further help.

“Should keep me alive? I don’t remember volunteering to be your test subject.”

“One of the hazards of keeping company with a Potions Master. I have tested it and it shows great potential.”

“Potential?”

“Being as you should only take it in a dire emergency, you will have nothing to lose should it fail to work. Of course, if you don’t care for it, you needn’t keep it. I am certain I can put it to another use.”

“No,” she said quickly, putting a protective hand over the pendant. “I love it. All of it. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He leaned down to kiss her but, before he could make contact, the infant started fussing again, requiring Miranda to resume her pacing. Reluctantly, he reclaimed his spot on the sofa and opened the book. His agitation returned full force as he fidgeted with the pages without starting to read. Aaron’s off-handed remark from the day before had been plaguing him, as it had brought on the realization that he had been careless in the extreme. Carelessness was a trait that Severus despised and one that he could ill afford. Much as he dreaded the next topic of conversation, he knew that it was as unavoidable as it was tardy.

“You should keep reading,” Miranda said. “I think your voice was helping Maggie stay asleep.”

Best to get on with it before the infant started squalling again.

“There is something that I need to speak to you about first,” he began. It was good that he had left his hair down tonight. He could already feel his ears growing hot.

“If it’s about Malfoy, I know that you’ll hand me over to the Dark Lord if you have to. I understand.”

“That’s not at all what I was going to say. And I would not give you to the Dark Lord.”

“Yes you would. If your cover depended on it, you would do what you had to do.”

“I should think that I am clever enough to avoid doing that if at all possible.”

“I know that too. I just wanted you to know that I understand that it’s a risk.”

“Now that I have your permission to sacrifice you, would it be quite acceptable for us to discuss a more pressing difficulty?”

“More pressing? What might that be?”

“It has come to my attention that we have not been terribly cautious in our relationship.” Not his best opening.

“I’ve never been cautious in all my life. So?”

“I don’t think you take my meaning. I was referring particularly to the carnal aspect of our relationship.” She blinked and bit her lips, and he knew she wanted to laugh at him. “I mean to say…I am concerned that long term consequences may develop…or may already be developing….”

Mercifully, she interrupted him, although she couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of her voice. “Severus, are you asking me if I’m pregnant?”

He was almost pathetically grateful she’d said it for him. “Yes, I am.”

“It’s a little late to worry about that, don’t you think?”

Did that mean she was? “Be that as it may, there are plans that need to be made. I cannot think of a worse time for such an event, but that is all the more reason we should deal with it purposefully.”

“I see you have a plan.”

In an attempt to manage his discomfort, he stood and paced over to the fireplace, tapping his fingers irritably on the mantelpiece. The figures in the framed pictures perched on it were whispering and grinning at him, but his stern glare sent them back to minding their own affairs. His eyes drifted down to the merry jumping of the flames and he forced himself to continue.

“I always have a plan. There is no escaping from either your current obligation in Romania, nor can I leave my position at Hogwarts. I will explain the situation to Albus and I am certain that he can be persuaded to spare us a member of the Order to help you and to ensure your and the child’s safety. Once you are free of your blasted mission, you will return to your family in America and stay there until the problem of the Dark Lord is resolved. We should also get married sometime before the child is born, but I expect that you will have some opinions about how that is to be accomplished.”

“You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?”

“I was remiss in not thinking of it before. I hope never to be so incautious again. It is highly unusual for me to be so careless.”

“Severus, stop. I’m not pregnant. And, before you ask, yes, I’m sure.”

“Ah.” God, he was a idiot. “Well. Good.”

“Did this have to do with whatever Aaron was teasing you about yesterday? For a diplomat, he can be pretty tactless when he’s sleep-deprived and inebriated.”

“His comments merely reminded me that I had not been cautious with regards to that aspect of our relationship. I could not recall ever seeing the necessary potions in your cabin, nor the ingredients for them. And, in any case, I would rather prepare such potions myself.”

“You didn’t see any of those potions because I don’t need them. I can’t have children.”

Her voice was light, but there was a strange undercurrent of tension in it. When he turned his gaze from the fire to glance at her, the mask of her smile reminded him of the one she’d shown him during that wretched exchange of insults at her cabin when they had first met.

“There’s no need for you to worry, you’re quite safe,” she went on. “We can be as careless as we like and there won’t be any mud-blood brats running around afterwards.”

“Don’t use that word,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“Call a spade a spade. Why else are you so relieved that I’m not knocked up?”

“I should think that it were apparent that now would be a terrible time to have a child. You are trapped by bond in a dangerous mission in Romania and I am bound to the precarious life of a spy.”

“It’s not because you don’t want to further pollute the Prince bloodlines?”

“When did I ever say that?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, her mask falling away. When she opened them, they were soft again, but with sadness, not with pleasure.

“You didn’t,” she conceded. “That was unfair of me.”

The sorrow in her eyes hurt him, and he came away from the fire that he might run his fingers over her dry cheek. She leaned into his touch, and the sweet smell of the balsam oil the priest had put on Magdalene’s head the day before filled his nose. Miranda held the infant tucked under her chin with a natural grace, the way she did everything. The pair of them made such a comfortable image that he felt irrationally disappointed he could not hope ever to see Miranda pacing by his fire, cradling a dark-haired child of their own.

“It is true that I have never desired to become a father,” he said, his eyes on Magdalene’s downy black curls, “but, if it had to happen, I would not be sorry that it was with you.”

The child began to stir and Miranda broke away to resume her pacing. He could not bring himself to look at her face after such an admission, and he was relieved that her voice was returning to its usual sanguine tone when she spoke.

“I…I could use a cup of tea, I think. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Relieved to have something mundane to do, he started for the kitchen. But he could not quit the room without his curiosity prompting him to say, “Miranda, I must ask why you are so certain that you cannot have children.”

“Just trust me on this. I don’t think you want to hear all the gory details.”

“No. I suppose I don’t.”

His thoughts were a tangled mess as he went into the kitchen and began the calming ritual of making tea. Methodically filling the kettle, setting it to boil by charm and measuring the tea leaves into Rachel’s white and blue teapot brought him back to earth. All the while, his instinct was pricking him, telling him that there was more to Miranda’s explanation, and he had the urge to continue digging until he uncovered what it was. He did his best to crush the urge and let whatever it was lie. Their relationship was quickly becoming confusing and more complicated than was at all prudent.

It was for the best that she would be returning to Romania tomorrow. Distance would help to put things back into their usual places. Their casual relationship was perfectly pleasing as it was. Best not to think of anything else.

Somewhere in his heart he knew this was a lie. He embraced it like a lover and poured out the kettle over the leaves.

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

End Notes:

Belladonna is deadly nightshade and Cicuta is water hemlock.

Magdalene Tokoyo Lee is named for St. Magdalene of Nagasaki, who was brutally martyred in 1620 and Tokoyo, a young lady who killed a sea serpent.

Newly baptized babies are the best smelling creatures in the world.

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

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Nineteen+

Chapter Twenty-one+ >>

#severus snape #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #severus snape fanfic #severus snape fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #ocappreciation #snape x oc #second wizarding war #espionage #spying #adventure #romance #ilvermorny #baptism

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dreamdaddydutch · 6 years

Text

‘I See You’ - Reader x Charles

18+ for smut (there’s also angst/hurt/comfort)

Set after the events in RDR2, the reader (general neutral) was Arthur’s s/o, Charles made a promise to Arthur to keep them safe. I’ve always been fond of comfort sex, or using sex as a way to process emotions and move on, so this happened. Also, I made myself sad. (edit - there’s an amendment to the final line which initially read ‘girl’ it’s now ‘girl/boy’)

If anyone is interested, this is what I was listening to whilst writing this - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSjSozKL_EA&t=2315s (starting at around 14 mins in)

I know you’re hurting... I know that you feel lost....that the sun won’t rise again..that the air hurts to breathe... I know that I know nothing of how you feel and yet I know that your lungs feel about ready to burst. There’s a thousand things Charles wants to say to you, but in the end, he knows that there is nothing he can say that will lift the burden, relieve the pain that has been devouring you ever since that day. Arthur, his name haunts you, his wit, charm, his humanity in the end. But it wasn’t just Arthur, it was the loss of family, home, hope...

You tried to piece together the moments where it went wrong, but there were so many minutes to consider. And then there was Hosea...A father figure to you, gone just like that. Yes, the cracks started to show some time ago, but after Guarma, that was when it was worse.

Charles’ arms had held you strong, passing some of his own strength to you. He had made promises to Arthur, promises that he now transferred to you, he wouldn’t abandon you, he’d take care of you.

You dug Arthur’s grave together, one another keeping the other strong. You dug in the dying light of the day, the sun’s rays guiding Arthur home. You didn’t cry then, the tears had come all at once and then nothing for weeks. It wasn’t sorrow or anguish as such, that would have been easier than the numbness that now possessed you.

You would curl up into his side at night, sometimes he would hold you from behind, sometimes there would space between you, but you always shared blankets. Charles became your home. You watched the stars together, you hunted together, occasionally when in a chirpier mood you would reminisce about the old days. You wondered with some sorrow what had become of your other friends, of Javier, John, Tilly....

It is months after Arthur’s passing when Charles sits across the campfire from you, watching the flames flicker in your eyes, your cheeks glowing red.

“He wasn’t a bad man, not in the end,” you say suddenly one night.

You had been thinking about what you wanted for a long time, your mind was made up, wheels turned in motion before you had a chance to stop it.

Charles offers a smile, “He was better than most of us.” He pauses, “You know a part of him will always live on, that nothing truly dies, not really. We live, we die, but our actions in life, they count for something.”

You nod and then fall silent, shifting on the ground, your hands reaching for the campfire to warm them up. You try to think of something to say, and it’s there, a monologue, hundreds of words pent up, but when you open your mouth to speak, it may as well have been dust that fell from your parched lips. Nothing came, just a choking sound from deep within, the place where the weeds had grow and tangled, suppressing emotion, was finally being overgrown by new buds. But the battle within seemed to strangle you, and every word you tried to speak wouldn't come, just a series of barely audible noises and the sound of your tongue against teeth.

You met Charles’ eye line, he shifted his weight forward a little, concerned for you, he spoke, “It’s okay, I know.”

“I....” it’s a moment later, when you try to talk again. But there’s something else that's getting in the way of you expressing how you feel. Five months have passed without the touch of another’s skin, at least, in that way. Long ago, five months would have been nothing, even when you and Arthur dedicated yourselves to one another, he didn’t have the highest sex drive, but still... You missed being needed, wanted like that.

“I...” you wanted to ask Charles to take you, to kill the pain for a moment, embarrassment stung your cheeks as you choked on your words and bile rose in your throat. You hadn’t even realised you were doing it but the way you were sat, your legs were parting more than normal, you were holding yourself higher, as you stared at Charles your heart rate begun to increase.

Charles gets up and moves round to sit next to you, you rest your head on his shoulder, nuzzling into him. “I would give you the world if I could,” he speaks so softly it could have lulled you to sleep.

You reach out for him, resting a hand on his knee, your fingers moving in slow circles which clearly tickled him a little. You slowly move your hand up his leg towards his thigh. As your hand travels further you feel a deep sense of trepidation at your own actions, but hearing Charles’ breath hitch when your hand started to massage the inside of his thigh, tells you that he wants this too. Looking down at his pants you see already that his bulge is growing, stretching the material tightly.

“Charles...” you spoke so softly, but your voice was drenched in need.

The two of you don’t need to say anything more, you don’t need words, you don’t need to explain to Charles what you need or why. When his large hands come up to cup your chin and trace gently along your jawline. Your mouth falls open just slightly as you had moan in anticipation.

Charles searches your face, looking for permission to continue, in response you take one of his fingers in your mouth, sucking gently, your tongue moves in circles across the tip.

“Y/N,” Charles moans as you suck two of his fingers.

The moment you let his fingers fall from your mouth, his lips meet yours, they are not greedy, but soft, need wrecks through your core as you pull him in closer, then push him away, straddling his hips. You continue to kiss him, deepening the kiss as your tongues explore each other’s mouths, he sucks on your lips, his hands now a mess, reaching round to grab your ass. You slowly rock your hips in his lap, feeling him now so hard against your sex.

Charles reaches down and undoes his belt-buckle, undoing his pants a second later and allows his cock, large and heavy to spring free. You let out a moan just at the sight of it, he’s larger than Arthur, larger than any man you’ve been with before. Your hand reaches down, there is a moment where you pause, but it’s already too late, your hand wraps around him, eliciting a hiss from his lips. You slowly pump his cock, gripping hard at the base and then softer towards the head. You are careful not to go overboard, you guess that Charles has a lot of self-control, but want to make sure that this lasts.

Charles stops you suddenly and rolls you over, you entwine your fingers with his, his weight on top of you feels like safety.

There isn’t a lot of foreplay, no giggling or anticipation or slow build. The sex wasn’t for that, in a way, it wasn’t even born of a desire for one another and the pleasure sex can bring. It was born of desperation, of an ache that only built and needed release. Charles could do that for you, bring you to your knees, and when he filled you, you knew you would be whole again, even if just for a moment.

You stare up at the sky, the rapidly setting sun, wondering how many sunsets you had watched with Arthur. A sudden guilt builds and you try to push it to the back of your mind.

And then Charles is kissing you again, his tongue in your mouth, his hands breaking free from yours reaching down between your legs. You lift your hips a little as you feel him undo your belt buckle so that he can slip your clothes and underclothes over your ass and allow him access. Only it’s no good, you want to be naked under him, if you are to sin, you wish to do it bared.

“Charles,” you gently push him up. For a moment he looks confused, hurt even, but when he sees you removing your shirt and baring your chest for him, then removing your clothes completely so they lay in an undignified pile on the ground, he smiles. It’s a slightly wicked smile, a smile you haven’t seen him wear before, it sends desire pulsing to your core.

Charles pushes you gently back to the ground, his hand traveling between your legs, slowly caressing the most delicate part of you. Your lips are open, head thrown back in pleasure as you try to grind your hips upwards.

He reaches into a bag and pulls out some oil, squeezing a generous helping onto his hand he reaches back down between your legs and makes sure you are well prepared. The cold sensation causes you to shiver, but you soon feel at ease when he slips one, large finger inside of you. He gently pulls it out and back in, slowly fucking you before slipping a second digit in alongside the first and finally a third. The third nearly causes you to cry out, he’s stretching you in a way you haven’t been stretched before, but you know it is needed to accommodate his width and you are glad for the care.

He looks up at you after pumping three fingers into you several times to gauge your reaction, you nod at him and he remove the fingers, shifts his weight back on top of you and lines himself up at your entrance.

He enters you slowly, allowing you to feel at ease with him, to stretch you slowly, his size taking your breath away. In a way you wanted to scream, out of pain, out of pleasure, out of agony that he was filling you and not Arthur. But Charles was handsome, he was beautiful and had become everything you knew, past, present, future.

Charles stays still for a moment, brushes some of the hair which has stuck to your forehead, to the side. He kisses your flushed cheeks and then moves his hips, slowly drawing out of you before thrusting back in a little quicker.

For a moment you forget everything as Charles pounds you hard into the ground, your back arching, your hips thrust up to grind against his. He is every part the expert, knowing just where to angle to hit your most sensitive spot. The moans that come from your lips get louder, more frequent, but Charles remains almost silent. Arthur starts to fade, the memory of his touch though is still there and anger once again fills you, the anger that Dutch could give up on his ‘sons.’ No, you try to focus on Charles, on the feeling of him inside you, you try to channel all the anger into your grunts and moans, into the way you thrust your hips and allow yourself to be so completely ruined by Charles.

Your hands wrap round his torso, they snake up to back and your fingernails dig into his skin, it is only now he moans and hisses at your touch. You can tell by his pace he's getting close, there’s still the control, but it’s a little more irregular and it’s working, your mind is blank, Arthur no longer exists in your world. One of Charles’ hands lifts and for a moment you believe he is going to place it at your neck, but instead he goes back to between your legs, making sure you feel every part as good as he does. And oh does it feel good.

You clench around his cock and watch as Charles’ face contorts, his body trembles, you feel him pump inside you several times and as he gives one final thrust you feel him twitch. He remains inside you as his hand works at you to bring you to orgasm, a few second later you cry out and bite your lower lip.

As you orgasm, Charles’ name spills from your lips. Arthur faded into the past, joining a thousand hearts, into the black.

Afterwards Charles pulls blankets over the two of you and cradles you in his arms, your head rests on his chest listening to his heart beat slowly return to normal pace. His fingers lovingly play with your hair, you’re sure he’s braiding a small section of it.

The setting sun had finally given birth to the night, neither of you spoke a word for a long time. At first you enjoyed the silence, but soon the old fears returned, the air around you felt heavy as the light slipped away.

Charles eventually breaks the silence and with it, the stagnant air that has been choking you, “Are you okay?”

You prop yourself up and look down into his kind eyes, “I will be now, yes.”

You smile and lean down to kiss his lips, it’s far more gentle than it was before. When you break away he moans your name, mutters something you can barely understand, but it’s clear to you how much he cares for you.

As you lay back down and go to rest your head on his chest you are sure you see Arthur, just for a moment. He’s stood over the two of you, a smile playing on his face, hat in hand, you’re sure you hear him say, “That’s a good girl/boy...”

#Charles Smith #rdr2 #rdr2 spoilers #charles smith x reader #angst #smut #you know you'd feel safe in his arms

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