#i just love fics where arthur draws like. that is so special to me

[forsakenmissives]

inspired by long, nightly talks on the fire escape from @mobycotton's fic, some things are better left behind

moby, i couldn't figure out a specific scene to draw so here's a post-fic scene, i hope u like it regardless T_T <3

[scummy-writes]

Scum talks about OCs

In this I'm just going to go over my Ocs in sections of their own. I'm not really using a special Oc template, I'm just talking about them and what fics they appear in, because to be blunt, I do write 'reader inserts', but some fics are written with these ocs in mind even if they're not detailed out specifically.

I'm just chatting about for fun, this will not change how I write currently. I would not expect fanfics about these characters specifically.

Amélie - Drawn by @beni-draw-ikemen-please. (Full picture is her in a chair with Isaac sittin on the arm of it, and Arthur resting his head on her lap <3 I love it)

Anju, made with a Picrew here. I think her expression is a bit too gentle here, and she would mainly wear warmer yellows or cool toned blues, not the shirt in the image.

SS from Prince of my WIP OC for it, since she's fuckin impossible to make on picrews. Her current name is Constance.

I am honestly surprised people showed some interest in this, so bear with me through my bumbling please. A lot of these say 'mc' but they are 'reader insert' fics still. Previous fandoms had 'mc' interchangable with 'reader' so...

If you have any questions, feel free to ask, just know I might not have all the answered.

╰❧ Amélie

Amélie has been around for a few years, and Beni has been a saint for letting me comm her to draw her. Because of this, I was able to make a character profile for her Here. Additionally, a much older one Here that details some vague things about her past, and including her past with Sebastian (Childhood friends).

-> Fanfics she has been 'in': Breathless Discoveries (Isaac/Mc), Mental Gravity (Isaac/Mc), Blessed Accidents (Isaac/Mc), Exercise in Restraint (Isaac/Mc), Temptations (Arthur/Mc), A Helping Hand (Arthur/Mc), His (Theo/Mc), Playful Punishments [vaguely] (Isaac/Mc/Arthur), Midnight Impulses [Vaguely] (Isaac/Mc/Arthur), Musings (Isaac/Mc), Oral Prompt with Isaac, First Steps (Isaac/Mc), The Talk (Isaac/Mc), The Shirt Thief (Isaac/Mc), Isaac Overworking (Isaac/Mc/Arthur), Awkward Dates (Isaac/Mc), and likely some other small drabbles I have missed...!

─❧ Summary: (Brief mentions of abuse/SA/Trauma but not explicit details)

A lot of her general background is covered in the second character profile I linked above. It sounds vague, and well! That is because it is a bit traumatic. I don't want to gloss over the fact that she has been through a lot, primarily SA, but I don't like focusing entirely on it to where that is the Only thing about her. Her previous job was ... an 'idol'? I never fleshed it out fully, due to self embarassment, but I wanted her to be a singer with a 'small' following, who got connected with shitty producers and signed a contract way too young without understanding the full implications of it, which caused most of her money to not actually be Hers. Due to her parents strongly against her career choice, going as far as rushing a contract ended up having her cut off from her family. With Sebastian gone, her support network disappeared completely.

She Vaguely goes over this in Patchworked Pieces (be mindful of tags), which was supposed to be a full fanfic detailing her story, but I am not meant for long fanfics at all so I posted what scenes I had typed enough with. on the chapter On Failed Attempts, she details a bit more of her experiences.

How she met Comte was through the normal opening of visiting the muesuem. She did it under distress and wanting a distraction, she was weighing options and considing some pretty awful things! I like to think Comte could tell she was beside herself and trying to calm down a little. I like to think he could sense the distress and the thing she was contemplating, and led her back to the mansion.

Which! Is rocky. She's terrified of everyone, until she sees Sebastian, and he helps ease her into her mansion life. She never tells Sebastian what she went through, due to worries and fears that he would manage to blame himself. So in her story, he never finds out.

Isaac is the primary person who knows some details, but not everything. She'd tell both him and Arthur some bare minimums, just so that when things got intimate, her panic attacks for 'random' reasons wouldn't make them believe it was because of them.

As for how they all entangle with each other? Well... Amélie is not what brings them together, necessarily.

Before she arrives, Arthur attempts to get close to Isaac. It is platonic at first, perhaps he had a crush on him but waves it off. But alcohol is introduced, they start 'drinking' together (Isaac is still a lightweight so he barely builds up his tolerance, mostly keeps Arthur some company), and...They get too tipsy and adventurous with each other. Arthur gets ashamed immediately. Not out of doing things with another man, because it was clear he was using Isaac to get over some trauma. So he avoids, hides, and their friendship crumbles.

And after that is when Amélie stumbles into the mansion.

Her friendship with Isaac is the most prevelant. And after getting on a better start with Arthur, they end up slowly getting entangled with each other. Isaac, unfortunately, deals with the brunt of her panic attacks. Finds scars, attempts to heal them.

It's through healing that they all twine together. Helping each other face their traumas, face what happened between them all.

Ironically, her love for singing was bounced in and out of the story. I wanted a few scenes where she tries to play in one of the many secluded rooms in the mansion- finds an old piano while cleaning, places a few notes. But I don't think she'd be able to any time soon. I think she would need a break for a year or two, before she started exploring music again. Or anything super creative.

I like to imagine that she is friends with a majority of the residents. When she is faring better, she paints with Leonardo and Vincent. She listens to Mozart play, reads what Dazai and Arthur write, so on so forth. I want her to live in a house with Arthur and Isaac, later on, visiting the mansion weekly or every two weeks, happy with her new life.

Sometimes I pair her with Theo, because I think they could help each other, but I think she is fated to be with Isaac and Arthur.

In AUs, I like to imagine Anju as her older friend. Anju does not tolerate a lot of bullshit with Amélie, and would be a bit like a guard dog. But. an unassuming one. She would treat Arthur very harshly until he proves himself. (I am unsure if I ever posted it, but I wrote a few chapters to go with This Au Fic for Isaac week. The second chapter, Anju was supposed to be a witch to help Amélie out after some events [was gonna have Isaac die and then it turn into a reincarnation au thing where they meet again in modern day, and in modern day Anju was gonna be around], and Anju has to help her move forward.)

I've been typing this on and off for a few hours and I am struggling with some details HAHA for now, I will stop here. She's the one OC that has a lot out there for her.

Oh. Amélie is not her 'real' name, but it is now. I am unsure if it is in poor taste or not, but in an attempt to heal she abandoned a lot of her old life. Not Herself, but trying to let go of the past until she could confront it more. She goes by Amélie until the end of her days, and only Sebas and likely Comte know her old name.

╰❧ Anju

-> Fanfics she's been 'in': Training Theo (Theo/Reader)

─❧ Summary: (Vague mentions of parental issues)

OoooOOoooOh Anju....anju....wails.

She is such a complicated Oc for me. She was originally for Shingen in ikes*n (i dont want this on the tags on accident). I still debate if the character she is now still stems from that relationship or not. Because if so, that means she left the past and came back to the present because her and Shingen didn't work out. Not in a TERRIBLE way but probably a sad mutual understanding.

It's either that, or she's just pretty sour from general past relationships not working out.

I like to imagine that she is in her thirties, and that she lives in a neighborhood where everyone knows each other in friendly ways. She is a 'seamstress' just due to how Sengoku has that set up for the Mc. I decied that her grandmother taught her how to sew, and her grandmother owned a small shop to repair peoples clothes and sew clothes for commission as well (i know nothing about how this works so). She would help her grandmother at her shop, and later on when her grandmother passed, she would take over the shop.

As for her parents, I never fully fleshed them out. I just know her mother was constantly comparing herself to other children/people around her, and that their relationship dissolved to the point of Anju refusing to aknowledge her as a mother any longer. The crux of this would cause Anju to move the shop to a different location completely to sever ties. (not move physically, but open another shop elsewhere after funds were saved with the same name).

For Vamp, she relocates her ass to France for Reasons. And here is where it is... well. I don't think a shop like this could exist, but i wish it would. pls spare me from laughs HAHA

The shop I always imagined is the type where the ground floor is the shop, and upstairs is where Anju lives. So upstairs would house her kitchen, living room, and Bedroom and bathroom, a balcony connected to the kitchen would be. great. Lower floor would have the shop, her sewing area, a room to hang up comms and etc, and the 'front' of the shop. Front of the shop is the porch and the actual like...foyer area....of the shop.

She spends a lot of her time sitting in the foyer area at a desk, if she is not actively working on sewing. .....I like to imagine she has a small sitting area set up there for people (children, family, friends, partners, etc) waiting while whoever she is working on measurements and etc with is getting their stuff. With....a lil coffee/tea area....very very small like a coffee maker and some stuff....but cozy vibes... (and she wanted a coffee machine near her while working).

She'll sit on the porch often in the mornings while waiting for customers or going through shop bills and whatever, and that is how she meets Arthur in a modern day setting. By him taking 'Vic' (or whatever pet he is on now) on a walk, Vic escaping, and running up to Anju because he wants pets HAHA.

For first meeting, Anju thinks Arthur is cute, but recognizes the fuckboy tendances. However, i feel like at this point of living as a vampire for so long, Arthur wouldn't be how he is in the game currently. As in, not entirely as self destructive and a smidgen more at peace with himself, but still has the tendencies. She doesn't think too much on the meeting, loves Vic though, and goes from there...

But Arthur doesn't. He gets hung up on her a little, and finds excuses to run into her a bit more. Nothing crazy, but primarily just walking Vic by there and seeing if he can catch her on the porch again, waving, exchanging greetings and pets for Vic. It would turn into him eventually finding an excuse to get some clothing mended, which she can very easily tell is bullshit, but she entertains it because... he's respectful the whole time. She enjoys the company and the innocent flirting.

It comes to a clusterfuck when they spot each other at a bar though. Where he sees how differently she's dressed, where it's clear she's looking for one night stands and nothing else. (He is also alarmed at her smoking HAHA). Arthur doesn't do much with this information, but she immediately tries shutting him out because. Well, she isn't ashamed to have casual sex with others, but she doesn't want the fuckboy tendancies to come back for him. She doesn't want this fake relationship to delve into sex and nothing more. So she puts up walls, and Arthur has to slowly take them down. And it is a rocky thing, because Anju is so independant and refuses to rely on anyone else, so it's a LOT of trouble HAHA a lot of dramatics.

They do fuck, because well they both enjoy sex so why not!!!!! but ah. it's complicated. I think I have a scene of that somewhere. I cannot remember if I have that happen before or after him visiting her home/shop at night when he's drunk. I think it was before.

But Arthur was supposed to go to her place, drunk, because she has such a schedule with her shop/hobbies that it's easy to piece together that she's home, and she essentially lets him stay over in pity because he's wailing about messing up his friendship with Theo.

From there it turns into awkward, more up in the air things. I played with her getting with Arthur only, Theo only, Arthur and Theo, or even Vincent! But the Arthur/Theo subplot would have been too similar to the Isaac/Arthur one in Amélie's story. (Sorry for causing you so much distress, Arthur).

I like to imagine her in her shop. Arthur flirting with her while the neighborhood granny laughs at her attempts to ignore the flirting.

╰❧ Constance

-> Fanfics she's been 'in': Sinking (Gilbert/Reader) [Descriptions of Self Harm], First Time (Gilbert/Reader), Chev comforts Mc

─❧ Summary: (Mentions of self harm, abuse)

Constance....! Is still a running name. I may change it, I may not. I'm unsure about her appearance, I know I want her to have the split hair and to dress in similar colors though, but her eyecolor I am so conflicted on...

But...! Her story is still being fleshed out, and she has changed a lot. She is now strictly for Gilbert, whereas she was supposed to be a flexible oc for either Clavis or Gilbert. (Maybe she still could be?)

So far, her story is still like Emma's so far. her and Rio friends for years, Akatsuki taking her in, etc. In my mind, she doesn't know who her parents are and is somewhat in peace of that.

I've bounced around a lot with her though, to where the Rio and Akatsuki being in her BG makes little sense. i've wanted her to be someone who writes and sings, but does not preform and instead has a friend that preforms for her. Where they have private sessions of Constance singing and exampling some of the dancing to her friend, and later on watching her friend preform the songs and bringing her visions to life. (i like this a lot but it feels...odd.)

I want her carrying a notebook around the palace, filled with her drawings and songwriting. Far in the journal, there is drawings of Gilbert- not because she knows him, but because long before she saw him slinking around Rhodolite and drew him out of facination of how he looked (did not piece together he was a Scary Dude). (would add a lot of fuel to fire if anyone saw those drawings COUGHS)

In another bouncing, I have her as a secret wrtier/artist that writes songs that are never preformed. I thought it would be funny if she wrote the erotica that Jin apparently reads??? I can never fgure out if thats canon or not because i never see it Mentioend in the game.

In both possible backgrounds for her, she is still a quiet and reserved person who suffers from a lot of depression, and struggles with herself a lot. The two toned hair was for fun at first, but now I'm realizing it would probably be a good symbol for her inner issues. How she has a lot of 'darkness' inside of her, that she feels disgusted by and upset with, while there is a purity she wishes she had (but fails to come to terms with how that is unreasonable).

To be paired with Clavis, she was supposed to be much more shy, and his antics were supposed to draw her out of her shell more.

But now it's more solidifies that she will be primarily paired with Gilbert due to the purity/darkness thing. She is a little dramatic in her thoughts with that, and is now a bit more serious toned rather than her shyness being played for antics.

She believes Gilbert over his refusal to 'lie', and that draws her in a lot.

Discussion of self harming/SA, when text is blue I am finished.

Something I am struggling with is that with many Ocs, i often have them go through some sexual trauma just due to it being an outlet for myself (i have also had sexual trauma). This may be why you see some themes of this in some fanfics I write, where there is something the reader is struggling with sexually and the suitor is extremely patient with them- it's usually tied to stuff like this (unsure of how obvious that is since no one ever says anything! which feels like an act of kindness, if it is obvious).

For her, I am struggling with adding that into her background as something that is fairly recent with her. Rio doesn't know, she refuses to tell him, and his fondness of her and constantly...hm...i don't mean this poorly, but building her up to be so 'perfect' sometimes causes a lot of issues when she reflects on herself, and she uses those words against herself often.

I don't know if the self harm would be. Due to that SA event or not. I don't know if this is soemthing that has plagued her for years, or if it spiked as her emotions got out of control.

Gilbert would not know. I don't really care if JP spoilers suggest otherwise, as there are already hints that make it clear he doesn't know Everything (he just knows a Lot). A lot of their relationship would be them struggling with self harm and the SA. A lot of her trust gets put into him (even if she dislikes it), because he doesn't lie to her like others do, and it is a comfort. (blah blah gilbert does lie blah blah)

It's hard to explain their relationship. I assume i'll have more figured out as his route comes out. Right now, she's who I imagine when I write some stuff with him, but not all of it.

With Clavis, the relationship would have been more healthy, and so would she. I think she would still struggle with both things, as it could be used as a mutual understanding when they discuss needing to be loved fully and not half-heartedly.

That is a rough gist of what I have for her? I have been typing this for hours and I am running out of steam.

Annnd....That is that! At least for now. Another detail I will share for all of them is that they are all bi :) All my ocs are always bi.

Again, you guys are free to ask questions. I may update this over time as well. I don't really want criticisms for my ocs though since you guys don't actually deal with them past them popping up as the voice for some reader insert fics. they just sorta rot in my brain and I get comms of them at times.

[sineala]

Tony Stark and Arthuriana

Coming to you by special request, a very long post about 616 Tony's interest in Arthuriana, with a focus on all of Tony's run-ins with Morgan le Fay!

I feel like I should disclaim the extent of my knowledge here, which is that I still haven't managed to read anywhere near every issue of Iron Man -- at least, not yet, anyway -- so I'm just going by the things I know I've read, and Morgan le Fay's Marvel wiki entry is frustratingly under-cited, so it's very possible I've missed something relevant, but I'm pretty sure I've got the big stuff down. My other disclaimer here is that I'm not as big an Arthurian nerd as Tony is, which is to say that most of my familiarity comes from modern retellings -- T. H. White's The Once and Future King, Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon, Mary Stewart's The Crystal Cave, Rosemary Sutcliff's Sword at Sunset -- and not so much the usual classic sources on the Matter of Britain, though I've read bits and pieces of them.

(This is because I wanted to read versions of them that were as close to the original as possible but so far have not ended up finishing any of them because, well, that's hard. So I've never read the Mabinogion because I do not know Welsh. I've got the Norton Critical Edition of Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, which is probably the best student edition if you're looking for something without modernized spellings, as I was. I've also got -- well, okay, it's my wife's but I'm borrowing it -- a relatively recent Boydell & Brewer edition (ed. Reeve, tr. Wright) of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain), which is, you guessed it, in Latin with a facing English translation. I haven't gotten very far in it because, in case you didn't know this about Latin texts, the beginning is pretty much always the hardest, so I gave up and read some Plautus adaptations instead. Anyway, if for some reason you too want to read Geoffrey of Monmouth in the original Latin I'd recommend that one, but I can't recommend any particular English translations because I've never read one by itself. I bet you didn't think you'd be getting Latin prose recommendations in this post. I mean, maybe you did; it is me, after all.)

Okay. Right. King Arthur. Here we go.

We've got:

Flashbacks to Tony's childhood in late Iron Man volume 1

A brief discussion of Morgan's origin story and Avengers #187

Iron Man vol 1 #149-150: Doomquest

What If vol 1 #33: What if Iron Man was trapped in the time of King Arthur?

Iron Man vol 1 #249-250: Recurring Knightmare

Iron Man: Legacy of Doom #1-4

Avengers vol 3 #1-4: The Morgan Conquest

Civil War: The Confession

Mighty Avengers vol 1 #9-11: Time Is On No One's Side

In terms of universe-internal chronology, we know from Iron Man #287, from 1992, that Tony has been a fan of King Arthur since childhood. This is an issue of a fandom-favorite arc which features Tony having a lot of childhood flashbacks, including the famous "Stark men are made of iron" line (in #286) that for some reason MCU fandom decided it loved; I mean, seriously, I've seen that quoted in way more MCU fic than 616 fic. But slightly later, in #287, we get an entire page devoted to Tony's love of King Arthur.

The narration reads: "Over the next few years, I learned as my father intended. Discipline of body. Strength of character. But in what free time I was allowed, I worked my way through the school's library. At thirteen, I discovered Mallory [sic], who showed me a whole new world. A world of dedication to a cause greater than oneself. Of chivalry and honor. And the fantastic deeds -- of armored heroes."

The art shows Tony as a child sitting under a tree, reading a book labeled Mort D'Arthur by Mallory [sic] -- no, don't ask me why nobody at Marvel checked how to spell either the name of the book or its author -- and daydreaming of King Arthur, the Sword in the Stone, knights, et cetera. Just in case you somehow missed the extremely blatant hint that we are meant to understand that Tony's knight obsession heavily influenced him becoming Iron Man as an adult, we see one of his armors mixed in with all the drawings of knights. So, yes, canonically Tony is Iron Man at least partly because he's a giant King Arthur nerd, which I think is so very sweet. I love him. He's such a dork!

(This issue is currently in print in the Iron Man Epic Collection War Machine, should you need your own copy.)

This isn't actually the only reference to Tony as a King Arthur fanboy in this era of canon, either; a little later, in IM #298, we see that one of Tony's passwords is actually "Mallory." (Yeah, no, they still couldn't spell. But it's cute.)

But in terms of actual publication order, this is definitely not the first time we have seen in canon that Tony is into Arthuriana, as I'm sure you all know. I would assume, in fact, that giving Tony a childhood interest in Arthuriana is because Doomquest is one of the most beloved Iron Man story arcs of all time, and that all started at least a decade before IM #287 here was published.

The villain of Doomquest -- the one who isn't Doctor Doom, at least -- is Morgan le Fay. Yes, that Morgan le Fay. Yes, Arthur's evil half-sister Morgan le Fay. Yes, all of this King Arthur stuff is canonically real history on Earth-616. Morgan's first appearance in Marvel, per the wiki, was in Black Knight #1 (1955), which I have not read, and judging by the summary I feel like this is probably just supposed to be a straight-up comic retelling of Arthurian legends for kids; I don't think Marvel really had the whole Marvel Universe in mind as a concept in 1955, so I'm not sure this was meant to connect to anything else. I feel like this is another one of those instances of Marvel discovering that they can write comics about characters in the public domain for free -- like, I'm pretty sure that's how we also ended up with, like, Norse, Greek, and Roman mythology wedged into 616.

As far as I can tell from the wiki, the first time Morgan tangled with the Avengers (or indeed the larger 616 universe) in any way actually predated Doomquest -- it was in an early arc in Spider-Woman (#2-6) and then Avengers #187, which came out in 1979, actually right when Demon in a Bottle was happening over in Iron Man comics. If you read #187, Iron Man is not in it because he's off the team due to his drinking problem and also his accidentally murdering the Carnelian ambassador problem. So Wonder Man's filling in instead. This issue is part of Michelinie's rather sporadic Avengers run, which makes sense, I guess, considering where we see Morgan next.

Anyway, Avengers #187 is the classic issue where Wanda is possessed by Chthon, but what you may not remember from Chthon's backstory (I sure didn't!) is that he was summoned by Morgan le Fay because she was the first person who tried to wield the Darkhold to summon him. As you can imagine, this did not work out especially well for her and her followers and they had to seal Chthon away in Wundagore Mountain, which was where Wanda found him. (The Spider-Woman stuff is only slightly earlier and also appears to be about Morgan and the Darkhold; the Darkhold is not one of the areas of 616 canon I am especially conversant with, alas. It's on my to-read list.)

Doomquest, as you probably know, was a classic Iron Man two-parter in Layton & Michelinie's first Iron Man run that set up Tony and Doom as rivals; Doomquest itself was IM #149-150, in 1981, and then in their second IM run they came back and did a sequel in 1989, Recurring Knightmare (IM #249-250), and then the much later four-part sequel to that was the 2008 miniseries Iron Man: Legacy of Doom, which was also by Layton & Michelinie but generally does not seem to be as popular as the first two parts. They've all been reprinted, if you're looking for copies; I have a Doomquest hardcover that collects the first four issues and then a separate Legacy of Doom hardcover. Currently in the Iron Man Epic Collection line there's a volume called Doom, which confusingly only collects the 249-250 part of the storyline (as well as surrounding issues), because for some reason the first Layton & Michelinie run isn't in Epics yet but the second one is. So the beginning of Doomquest isn't currently in print, as far as I can tell. I'm sure you can find it anyway.

So what's Doomquest about? Okay, so you remember how Doctor Doom's mother's soul is stuck in hell for all eternity? Well, Doom's obviously interested in getting her back, and the strategy he has embarked on is to try to team up with other powerful magicians who can help him out, and he thinks Morgan le Fay would be a good choice, for, uh, his quest. Doom's quest. A Doomquest, if you will. (If you've ever read Doctor Strange & Doctor Doom: Triumph & Torment, you're familiar with the part where he later ends up waylaying Strange for this and they go to hell together. And if you haven't read Triumph & Torment, you really should, because it's amazing.)

So Doom is off to his time machine to go team up with Morgan le Fay and Tony thinks Doom is up to something -- Doom has been stealing components for his time machine from a lot of people, including Tony -- and he follows him and it turns out one of Doom's lackeys has a grudge and wants to trap Doom in the past forever, and Tony gets caught up in it. Now they're both in Camelot. Surprise! #149 is actually all setup; they don't get to Camelot until #150.

IM #150 begins with Doom and Tony thrown back into the past; there's a fandom-famous splash page of them locked in combat, only to realize that they have found themselves in Camelot.

They are then discovered by knights; Doom would very much like to attack them, but Tony, who naturally would be happy to LARP Camelot forever, persuades him to play nice. Also Doom thinks Iron Man is only Tony's bodyguard so he keeps referring to him as "lackey," much to Tony's annoyance. Somehow everyone thinks they're sorcerers. Can't imagine why. The knights take them to meet King Arthur himself, and Tony has clearly had his introduction all ready to go, as he introduces himself in a timeline-appropriate manner, says he's here to apprehend Doom, and demonstrates his "magic" by levitating Arthur's throne. Doom's response is essentially "I'm the king of Latveria," which is, y'know, also valid. So they're guests at Camelot for the night while Arthur figures out what to do with them.

We then have a page devoted to Tony alone in his room, musing sadly about how alien he feels, how he doesn't know if he'll ever get home, how he could never fit in here without his beloved technology. Then a Sexy Lady shows up to keep him company for the night, and he decides maybe it's not all bad. Thanks, Marvel. I guess they can't all be winners.

Doom is using his evening much more productively; he compels one of the servants to tell him where Morgan's castle is, because he's still interested in having that team-up. Then he jets off. Literally. He has a jetpack.

The next morning Arthur's like "one of you is still here and one of you has punched a hole through the castle wall and flown off to join Morgan so I guess I know which of you is more trustworthy." He then explains to Tony who Morgan is, because Tony professes ignorance, because clearly we had not yet retconned in Tony's love of Arthuriana. Tony offers to go fight Doom and Morgan with Arthur; meanwhile, Morgan and Doom have teamed up and Morgan has offered to help get Doom's mother out of hell if he commands her undead armies against Arthur because for Reasons she can't command them herself anymore. So that's a thing that happens.

So, yes, it's Tony and Arthur versus Doom and Morgan. Fight fight fight!

Tony tries Doom first but then decides to hunt Morgan down, and in the ensuing fight we get what I think is Tony's first ever "I hate magic," a complaint that we all know he still makes even to this day.

Anyway, Tony freezes a dragon with Freon (mmm, technology) and Morgan gets upset and disappears, so the battle comes to an end, and of course Doom is extremely mad at Tony because he blames Tony for Morgan not sticking around to save Doom's mom, because I guess Doom trusted her to keep her word? Weird. (Like I said, for the next chapter of Doom saving his mother, go read Triumph & Torment.)

Doom says if he and Tony work together, the components in both of their armors can send them both home. So Tony has to trust Doom. Which he does, because he really has no other choice. They build a time machine and Tony makes Doom agree to a 24-hour truce when they get back, so they can both get home. So it all works out okay, and they end up in the present, and Doom tells him, ominously, that they will meet again. Okay, then. That concludes the original Doomquest. It's fun! You can see why fandom likes it.

So that's all well and good, but you might have noticed that Tony's ability to get home hinged on Doom actually being trustworthy. And Doom was. But what if Doom hadn't been? What if he'd just stranded Tony in Camelot forever As you may have surmised from the form of that question, that is in fact a question Marvel asked themselves, because, yes, there's a What If about this! What If v1 #33 is "What if Iron Man was trapped in the time of King Arthur?"

The divergence point from canon, as you can probably guess, is the very end of Doomquest. Instead of Doom bringing Tony home, he deceives him and leaves him in Camelot. And since Tony cannibalized a lot of the tech from his armor to make the time machine, he doesn't have a way to go home.

This is not a story where Tony comes up with a way to go home after all. He really doesn't get to go home. But instead of drowning his sorrows in mead -- because, remember, Demon in a Bottle has already happened and Tony is sober now -- he decides he might as well just play the hand he's dealt. So with what's left of his armor, he defeats some enemies that Morgan rounds up to send against Camelot. And for his services, he's knighted. He is now Sir Anthony.

Tony acknowledges that he is both living the dream and would also like very, very much to go home.

He does end up having some fun in Camelot; it's not all miserable. But he obviously doesn't want to be there.

So if you're at all familiar with King Arthur, you know how this goes, right? Arthur fights Mordred and Mordred kills him. And that does happen in this version. Except Tony is right there, and with his dying words, Arthur asks Tony to rule Camelot... and Tony agrees.

So, yes, Tony Stark becomes king of the Britons after Arthur's death and he never goes home again. The end. Man, I love What Ifs.

Heading back to main 616 continuity, there is still more of this arc to go. The original Doomquest was only two issues, yes, but it was popular enough that Layton & Michelinie did a sequel a hundred issues later, in their second run of Iron Man, and that's Iron Man #249-250, Recurring Knightmare. (In the intervening issues were Denny O'Neil's IM run, specifically the second drinking arc (#160-200), and then Layton & Michelinie came back and most famously gave us Armor Wars (#225-232). I would have to say that Armor Wars is definitely the standout fandom-favorite arc of their second IM run; for their first one, I think a lot of people would have a hard time choosing between Doomquest and Demon.) But anyway, yes. Recurring Knightmare.

Recurring Knightmare is... well, the best way I can describe it is "a trip." It is definitely a sequel to Doomquest, and it is also definitely not a sequel you  would ever have expected to see for Doomquest.

Much like #149, #249 is pretty much just setup. Fun setup, but the big action is in the next issue. We open with Doom in Latveria, on his throne, pondering which of his servants he should have disintegrated. Anyway, he's just hanging out there when a mysterious object appears. In California, Tony is suited up and entertaining the crowd at a mall opening when the same object also appears! He takes it to his lab. Please note that this is after the Kathy Dare incident, so Tony is still recovering and is walking with a cane. Doom sees on the news that Iron Man has found the same object, which cannot be carbon-dated, and he shows up at Tony's house. He criticizes Tony's taste in art.

Anyway, Doom basically orders Tony to work with him. Tony refuses, and then Doom sends some robots to attempt to steal Tony's version of the object because he thinks if he has them both he will be powerful. Doom manages to steal it, and when he puts the pieces together, both he and Tony disappear.

So where do they go, you might ask? Camelot?

Not exactly. The future! There is a great callback to the Doomquest splash page.

It turns out they are in London in 2093. Merlin brought them there. Tony still hates magic. And in the future, King Arthur is still there, except he is now a child, because he has been reborn. But he does remember Tony from Doomquest, at which point Tony kneels. Doom, of course, is not impressed. He asks why they have been brought to the future.

The answer is that things are going wrong in the future. If you do not personally remember United States politics in the 1980s, I need you to google the words "Strategic Defense Initiative" right now. I'll wait.

Back with me? Okay, so this is a future where Reagan's Star Wars program actually happened the way he wanted it to, and the satellites are still hanging around the Earth in the future and messing everything up, and Arthur and Merlin need Tony and Doom's help to stop them. Doom once again flies away with his jetpack, of course.

Tony is game to help, but he's not in an armor that can stay in space for long. This is when Merlin takes him and Arthur to the mall and Tony manages to get everything to upgrade his armor at Radio Shack. You see what I meant about this issue being weird.

Tony is out in space trying to disarm the SDI platform, which is where he runs into his future descendant, Andros Stark, who is in armor you will probably recognize from Iron Man 2020. He is referred to as "the resurrected spawn of Iron Man 2020" so I assume he's actually directly related to Arno rather than a direct descendant of Tony; Wiki confirms that Arno is his grandfather. This is all from way before Arno was contemporaneous with Tony in canon. Anyway, he's fighting Tony.

Oh, by the way, Future Doom exists. Future Doom would like to rule this future Earth and for some reason Andros would like to help him. Meanwhile, Present Doom finds out from Merlin that he can't leave except by magic and he can't leave without Tony, so he is reluctantly on Tony's side.

They need help from the Lady of the Lake, except the lake has been paved over and is now a parking lot. Merlin makes the lake come back and then of course they get Excalibur. Arthur is a kid, so he can't wield a longsword; Doom assumes he's going to take it because he is basically a king, and he's pretty grumpy when the sword picks Tony. Tony then uses Excalibur to destroy the space lasers, and I bet that is a sentence you never thought you would read. It's pretty cool. Tony concludes that magic has its good points. Tony stops Andros and Doom stops, uh, himself, and the world is saved and they get to go home. Also, Doom finds out Tony is Iron Man, but when Merlin sends them back he conveniently erases their memories, so neither of them remember anything about this and Tony's secret is still safe. And that's the sequel to Doomquest.

And if you think that's weird, wait until you see Legacy of Doom.

Iron Man: Legacy of Doom is a four-issue miniseries from 2008, also by Layton and Michelinie. Even though it's from 2008, it's set during a much more classic time in Iron Man, continuing on from where we left off in this Doomquest saga. We start with a framing story in 2008. Tony, who has Extremis now, is busy scrapping some of his older armors and reviewing his logs when he suddenly remembers that there was a whole thing with Doom that happened that he seems to have forgotten about until right now. So the whole thing is narrated by Tony in flashback.

Tony's in space fixing a satellite when a hologram of Doom shows up and summons him to Latveria. It's not really clear why Doom needs Tony's help in particular here, but Doom tells Tony that he's discovered that Mephisto would like to bring about the end of the world, which Doom finds, and I quote, "presumptive." So Doom has his Time Cube, and with it he takes Tony to hell.

(Yes, I promise this is relevant to Doomquest. There will be some Arthuriana shortly.)

Doom brings Tony to Mephisto, and it turns out it's a setup! Doom trades Tony for an item he wants from Mephisto, leaves, and Tony's going to be trapped in hell forever! Oh no! (I mean, he's not. But it's quite a cliffhanger.)

At the beginning of issue #2, we find out what the Arthurian connection is, which is that we learned that after the events of Doomquest, Morgan had been granted sanctuary by Mephisto in exchange for a shard of Excalibur that she had somehow stolen. Doom still wants Morgan's help with some magic -- he doesn't mention what it is here, but he says he needs someone of Pendragon blood, and that'd be her -- so he traded Tony to Mephisto in exchange for, I'm guessing, Morgan and the Excalibur shard.

I have probably mentioned this elsewhere, but Legacy of Doom #2 is one of my favorite issues of Iron Man ever, solely because of the next scene. We return to Tony in hell. Howard Stark is also in hell, and he is now a demon, and Tony has to fight him. Mephisto brings popcorn and watches. This is the one time in canon when Tony actually confronts his father, and okay, yes, it's a fistfight in hell and Howard is a demon, but that's comics for you. Howard spends several pages insulting Tony -- specifically insulting his masculinity, but that's a whole other essay -- until he finally insults Maria too, and that's when Tony fights back, because his mother taught him to be good. Honestly if you're a Tony fan I'd recommend this issue just for that scene.

Anyway, we go back to the Doom and Morgan plot, and Morgan casts the spell Doom wanted, which was fusing the Excalibur shard with Doom's armor. Then Doom sends her back to Camelot rather than hell, because he's still mad that she never helped him get his mom out of hell like she said she would.

Tony freezes Howard with Freon -- yes, the same trick he pulled on the dragon back in Doomquest -- and tells him, "You're no father of mine." It is immensely satisfying.

(I had been going to mention that I thought it was a shame that neither canon nor fandom seems to have really engaged with this confrontation, and I know canon never believes in narrative closure but fandom sure does -- and then, anyway, it occurred to me that since the framing story of Tony remembering this is set when Tony has Extremis, there's a very good chance that he no longer remembers remembering it. Goddammit, Marvel.)

(If I got to retcon one canon thing about Tony, I think "the entirety of World's Most Wanted" is up there. I mean, okay, a lot of things are up there, but WMW is definitely on the shortlist.)

Okay. Tony has now engineered his way out of hell, and he's back with Doom in Latveria. Doom has Excalibur. Doom would very much like to fight him. While wielding Excalibur. You get the sense that this is going to be bad. Another cliffhanger!

Legacy of Doom #3 opens with Tony destroying Doom's lab to buy time and running away from Doom and Excalibur. I should probably mention that Doom still doesn't know Tony is Iron Man (anymore), so he thinks he is dealing only with Iron Man, Tony Stark's lackey. Meanwhile, some scientists at SI think there's something weird going on with space. Meanwhile meanwhile, Tony is in a forest taking a breather when a mysterious old man walks up to him.

It's Merlin! Surprise! Merlin wants Tony's help to stop Doom from doing whatever he's doing with Excalibur. The sword makes you invincible and the scabbard makes you invulnerable, so Merlin sends Tony to Scotland on a fetch quest for the scabbard. Doom has now magically sent the sword in search of the scabbard, so the sword flies away to meet it and Doom follows. Turns out the thing that's wrong with space is a thing that's going to hit Earth at the exact place Tony and Doom are. What a coincidence! So Tony and Doom get trapped in a stone circle and fight some stone warriors and then Tony ends up with the scabbard. And by "ends up with," I mean it fuses to his armor. Next issue!

Legacy of Doom #4 is when things really, really get weird. A giant demon made of eyes (???) appears, and this demon is apparently what Doom had been preparing to fight (because it's mad that Doom stole one of its spellbooks), and now he can't, because the sword and the scabbard aren't together. Thanks, Shellhead.

That's when Merlin shows up and says all is not lost. They can defeat the demon... if they put the sword into the scabbard.

"But I'm the scabbard now!" Tony says, uncomprehending.

"Yes," Merlin says. "You are."

Then Tony gets it.

So, yes, Doom has to, um, penetrate Tony. With Excalibur. I love comics. I love comics so much.

So that's a thing that happens.

And then Tony flies off and, I guess, resolves to never, ever think about any of this again.

We head back to the framing story, in which Tony, now having remembered all of this, flies to Britain, buys the land the lake is on, and paves it over, presumably so it will be there for Merlin to bring back in Iron Man #250. The end.

Whew.

Okay, yeah, I know I didn't have to summarize the whole thing, but Legacy of Doom here really is one of my favorite Iron Man miniseries. And I just want to share the love. Please read it. It's great.

But the Arthuriana fun doesn't end there! In fact, now we get an Arthurian-themed arc that actually isn't in Iron Man comics. It's in Avengers! Iron Man is involved, though.

(There is also apparently a Morgan arc in Avengers #240. I actually haven't read it. It seems to be yet another Spider-Woman arc. I get the impression that this isn't really Arthuriana other than having Morgan in it fighting Jess, though, so it doesn't seem quite as relevant. Morgan also apparently has some appearances in FF, Journey into Mystery, and Marvel Team-Up, but those seem like more of just basic villainy. Also, probably not involving Tony.)

Kurt Busiek's 1998 Avengers run, volume 3, is in large part the kind of Avengers run that is a nostalgic love letter to older comics. Heroes are heroes and villains are villains and good triumphs over evil. The Avengers all live in the mansion and are BFFs. I love it. It does assume that you are already a fan of the Avengers, because it starts out by summoning pretty much everyone who has ever been an Avenger and is available to the mansion, and that is... a lot of people. Thirty-nine, by my count. Also, when the entire team is magically whisked away, we are treated to the following narration, as Steve disappears: "And Captain America's last thought, as the world goes white around him, and he with it -- is that Iron Man would hate this."

The narration doesn't tell you why Iron Man would hate this, or how Captain America would know that Iron Man hates this. This is not explained later on. But if you have read comics -- or if you have read the above summary of Doomquest -- you know that Tony is absolutely, one hundred percent, thinking, "I hate magic." And Steve knows it.

The reference is not relevant to the plot; if you don't get it, you'll be fine. But that's what I mean when I say this is a nostalgia run. There are definitely Easter eggs for people who have read a bunch of comics. Busiek does this a whole lot in his work -- there's a reason you can buy an annotated edition of Marvels -- and, yeah, it happens here too. Just know that there will be references you're not getting, if you're new to comics.

Anyway. So Busiek's run actually starts out with an Arthurian arc, #1-4, "The Morgan Conquest." The name is a dead giveaway. Yes, Morgan le Fay is back. Again. For once, Doom is not involved.

The Avengers are all back from their sojourn on Counter-Earth after fighting Onslaught -- don't worry about it -- and mysterious things are happening. There are a lot of monster attacks. So pretty much everyone who has ever been an Avenger is summoned to the mansion, at which point we learn from Thor about some mystical artifacts that are being stolen. (They are the Norn Stones and also the Twilight Sword. That sounds like something from a Zelda game, doesn't it?) The Avengers go to try to stop this, end up in Tintagel, and then they run into Mordred. He wants to capture Wanda, presumably for Magic Reasons. Morgan le Fay casts a spell on all of them, reshaping reality. Yes, all of them. Surprise!

So now all the Avengers are living in a medieval castle and/or town; Morgan is their queen, and thanks to the power of mind-control they are all basically living in Ye Olden Times. The Avengers are all some variety of knight, except for Wanda, who is chained up in the dungeon so Morgan can steal her magic and use it to fuel all this reality-warping.

Wanda calls for help, and that snaps Steve (Yeoman America!) out of the mind control (or altered reality or whatever you want to call it) pretty fast, because Steve's always been very good at resisting mind control, and then Steve promptly goes and snaps Clint out of it, because I guess Steve is also good at inspiring people to snap out of mind control. "Oh, man!" Clint says. "Not another alternate reality! Not again!" (I assume he's referring to Counter-Earth? Maybe?)

So Steve and Clint go around reassembling the Avengers and orienting them as to reality. They get Jan and Monica easily, but then Steve insists on trying to get Tony because, I guess, he likes Tony and would really like to hang around Tony, who is half-naked and asleep in his bedroom, and certainly I am reading nothing whatsoever into this. Clint tells Steve it's not going to work. Tony has historically been fairly susceptible to mind control; it was only pretty recently at this point that he'd been doing Kang's bidding in The Crossing. But the more serious impediment is that this is Tony Stark and he would obviously like to LARP being a knight forever and ever. Tony, therefore, does not believe Steve, and throws him and Clint out of his bedroom and into the barracks.

"Iron Man's a good guy, normally," Clint says. "But he's waaay too into his whole nobleman/lord of the manor trip. That spell musta hit him right where he lives!"

Clint speaks the truth, clearly.

Anyway, they go around and manage to make pretty much every Avenger in the room other than Tony snap out, and attempt to rebel against Morgan while Tony is stil fighting them because he is Still A Knight. There's a lot of punching, because some of the Avengers still aren't free; they weren't ones Steve found.

The day is saved when Wanda manages to channel Wonder Man and break free. This gives the Avengers a fighting chance against Morgan and the Avengers are all lending Wanda their power when Tony finally snaps out of it and is on the side of good. 

Then they take Morgan down, go home, and attempt to figure out which of these thirty-nine people should be on the active Avengers team. Hooray.

But that's not the end of Morgan le Fay showing up to screw around with Tony's life! There's more to come! Not much, but there is one that I know of, and at least one more memorable reference. 

(I haven't read all her appearances or anything, but one of them definitely involves Tony; I can't swear that he doesn't appear in any of the other books Morgan shows up in, but it'd be a cameo for him, because I only know of one more arc that she's in in a book that Tony stars in.)

In a few more years, we have now entered the part of Marvel Comics history where Brian Michael Bendis writes all the Avengers books at the same time for, like, seven years running. It was sure A Time. There were a lot of word bubbles.

And the thing about Bendis is, Bendis looooooves Doomquest. If you're familiar with the very end of his tenure at Marvel where he made Doom be Iron Man after Tony got knocked into a coma in Civil War II, you have probably figured out already that he likes Doom. But he also likes Doomquest, specifically.

I mean, if nothing else, the giant splash page in The Confession where Maleev redrew the climactic Doomquest fight while Bendis had Tony talk about how deeply meaningful to his understanding of the world this all was -- and how it allowed him to predict Civil War -- was probably a big clue, right?

As far as I am aware, Morgan le Fay makes exactly one more appearance in Tony's life. And that's in Mighty Avengers vol 1 #9-11. Only one of those issues is named, so I'm going to assume the arc is named after it: Time Is On No One's Side.

You remember Mighty Avengers, right? The deal with the Avengers books at the time was that after Bendis exploded the mansion and made the team disband in Avengers Disassembled, the main Avengers book was no longer called just Avengers. Instead, the main Avengers book was New Avengers, and that was the only Avengers book. Then Civil War happened, Steve got killed, and New Avengers became the book about what was left of the SHRA resistance (i.e., Steve's side) after the war. So about halfway through New Avengers, Mighty Avengers starts up, and Mighty Avengers is about an extremely fucked-up and grief-stricken Tony Stark trying to run the official government-sanctioned Avengers team, with Carol's help. This is the comic with the arc where Tony turned into naked girl Ultron. You remember.

So, anyway, there's this Mighty Avengers arc where Doom is Up To Something (there are symbiotes and a satellite involved) and somehow Tony and the Avengers end up in Latveria, punching Doom. Also, by the way, Doom is visiting Morgan in the past because he likes her. The Avengers attacking his castle made him have to come back to the present, so he's kind of cranky. And he fights Tony, and in the course of the fight, his time platform explodes and sends Doom and Tony and also the Sentry to... the past.

This is one of those times where you should definitely look up the comics if possible because the way the past is visually indicated here is that it's colored with halftone dots the way you would expect old comics to be colored, although they have modern shading and color palettes. It's very charmingly retro.

So the three of them are stuck in New York in the past, and naturally they would like to leave. There's one person in this time who has a time machine and it is, of course, Reed Richards. Doom and Tony have a lot of banter in this arc; I think it's entertaining.

Sentry has to be the one to break them all into the Baxter Building because of that power he has where no one will remember him. So they do that, travel forward in time, and end up in Latveria in the present again except Doom is gone and also things are currently exploding where they are.

Doom, of course, has made a side trip to visit Morgan again and he asks her to help him build an army, because I guess this is what their relationship is like. So the rest of the Avengers are captured by what look to me like Mindless Ones and are in a cave in magic bondage, because comics. Jess comments that at least they aren't naked, because she too is remembering that memorable New Avengers trip to the Savage Land. Doom threatens Carol in some creepy sexist ways and eventually it turns out that Tony and the Sentry are fine and everyone kicks Doom's ass. Business as usual.

And the last page of the arc is Morgan alone, wondering where Doom is. So technically Morgan and Tony don't come face to face here, but I think she counts as being at least partially responsible for ruining Tony's day here. And then Secret Invasion happens and Tony has a very, very bad day.

There are a few more Morgan appearances after this, but, as I said, I don't think any of them involve Tony. She shows up in Dark Avengers, apparently, which was one of the post-Civil War Avengers titles I didn't read, and I know that recently, on the X-Men side of things, she's been in Tini Howard's Excalibur one, which I have only read a little of. No Tony there. Just a lot of Morgan and Betsy Braddock and Brian Braddock and the Otherworld.

If you are interested in Morgan's other appearances, you might like this Marvel listicle that is Morgan le Fay's six most malicious acts. I pulled some of the Darkhold backstory from their discussion, but it's not really focused on Morgan and Tony.

So there you have it! That's everything I know about Tony's love for King Arthur and every run-in I know about that he's had with Morgan le Fay! One of two terrible people in Tony's life named Morgan! Actually, I don't think we've seen Morgan Stark in a while. I wonder if he's alive. There should be a Morgan & Morgan team-up. I should probably stop typing and post this.

The tl;dr point is that you should all read Doomquest and its sequels, especially Legacy of Doom. They're great!

[sentientdroids]

Fic Author Self Rec

When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love.

i was tagged by my darling @pchberrytea ❤️ throwing tags at some of the most talented people i know @jld-az @shallow-gravy @lilin-writes @ejunkiet @tiesthatbind1899

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1. Comply [Marvel Cinematic Universe]

In her, some part of him recognizes itself.

Or, in which SHIELD is reformed and not dissolved, and Bucky feels the weight of his wounds. A story told in vignettes.

MYY FKN BABY my current hyperfixation the air that i breathe. like all my most precious ideas, this one came to me in a dream and shortly after, wrecked my life and stole my sanity. literally don’t care if this is only ever for me bc i adore the story and the characters and their relationships to each other. the chapters are short and i’ll probably always worry that it’s a bad thing but i also feel that the medium suits the particular story i’m trying to tell and anyway i have Bucky Barnes brain rot and it’s terminal

2. Visage [The Mandalorian]

The way Mandalorians appreciate beauty is...subtle. Quiet and reverent.

This is the way.

eyyyy i just wanted Din Djarin to be soft and yearning and it’s completely self-indulgent

3. Cruel World [Fallout 4]

Danse and Nora's relationship fell apart years ago, but when they both end up in the Commonwealth waging war against the Institute, their paths cross again.

Time can't heal everything but they'll always have a soft spot for each other.

listen…..reading it now it’s kinda hot garbage LMAO i’m really tempted to rewrite it but it’s never gonna not be one of my faves because it was my first fic and the thing about me is i’m a sentimental ass bitch and also i’m in love with Nora <3 it made me so many friends and i grew tremendously while writing it and i think about it all the time. the story that got me through college has a special place in my heart.

4. Whiplash [Red Dead Redemption II]

Arthur Morgan meets a lone outlaw, a wanted woman, and his pursuit of her isn’t purely a matter of money.

i proved a lot to myself with this one. i made a character much different than what came naturally to me and it’s finished (!!) and damn. got a lot of seratonin from Maggie thank uuuu outlaws for life

5. Gaps in the Armor [Fallout 4]

She strikes when he isn’t ready, like any worthy adversary. She’s formidable, beautiful, and she knows how to shoot through the gaps in his armor.

this one is also impressive simply by virtue of it actually having been completed. i did wanna take it another direction at one point and draw it out more but i wanna do that with everything so what’s new y’know. i do actually like this one still mostly and it’s some of the only smut i’ve shared and even if it ain’t much it was a big step!today i can proudly say i’m unapologetically horny on main, even if i still keep my smut locked away where it can’t see the light of day.

[sometimesitrytowritethings]

Home

A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings:  Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

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Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee. 

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell. 

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”. 

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something. 

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room. 

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room. 

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed. 

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother. 

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod. 

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him. 

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day. 

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily. 

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you. 

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own.  You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed. 

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side. 

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

--

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories -  tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea. 

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack. 

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists. 

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days. 

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew. 

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,��� you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier. 

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour. 

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive. 

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack. 

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

--

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. 

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards. 

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close. 

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.” 

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.” 

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you. 

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling. 

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could. 

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

--

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness. 

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face. 

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you. 

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace. 

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow.  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable. 

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven. 

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work. 

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway. 

Good. 

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket. 

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life. 

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss. 

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core. 

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

 With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss. 

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth. 

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes.  Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move. 

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity. 

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core. 

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance. 

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

--

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were. 

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever. 

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open. 

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you. 

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.” 

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time. 

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them? 

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped. 

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared. 

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.” 

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that? 

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets. 

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties. 

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

--

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home. 

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition. 

Arthur’s room. 

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.” 

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long. 

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen. 

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!” 

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

[us-ugay]

UsUk concept: they were friends/colleagues-with-benefits during the early and most intense stages of the Cold War but it was their combined jealousy that made them realise they had feelings for one another and they started dating once Alfred wasn't running on the egotistical 'global superpower' high and Arthur was generally more stable.

Add on:

Alfred definitely used and continues to use the term 'special relationship' when someone asks about the closeness of America and UK [England specifically] in geopolitics AND when someone asks how close he and and Arthur are. -☀️

is this the same anon that sent the last two AU ideas in because i love u and thank u for all this good good anonymous content to get me through my boring work days 💕💕💕

ok so 🛑 long ass post alert 🛑 i got rambly and jumped all over the place from point to point so my bad 😬

i always really liked how different ideas even in just the us-uk shipping circles are about when/how those two got together. ive read fics where theyve been fuck buddies since the late 1800s and only got exclusive recently and ive also read fics where they hook up on alfreds bi-centennial, and then even ones where its only recently (like post 00s) where theyve even admited to having feelings for each other and just now exploring that, and its so cool to see everyones personal spin on it.

i also really like when people write about alfreds (while not literally canonical but in reality canonical) fucking ego trip and domineering moves he pulls and how that would play out in his relationships 👁👁 since i have the grace and literacy poise of sack of potatoes, i dont draw or write about darker themes like that because i wouldnt be able to give it the gravity and sensitivity such scenarios deserve but i sure love reading what other, competent people write 😂 and im sure while it wasnt a /healthy/ or /good/ dynamic to be in, arthur still at least got some good d*ck out if it since he seems like he’d get off on hate/angry f*cking

also, even outside of fandom i always thought that the “special relationship” was quite a sweet phrase 🥺 i do my best not to mix actual politics w this stuff but it still warms my cold lil heart to see it encorporated into fics n stuff. just like how in a lot of fan canons have alfred always calling arthur sweetheart, alfred in canonverse would bring up the special relationship w arthur 😭 aint nothing like two relatively immortal beings in a league of their own that historically have had to be selfish and dominating to survive, denying their nature to come together and share such a delicate, loving bond 😭😭😭

started typing out my own headcanon (thats much more flexible now since i dont really GAF about canonverse stuff) but shit got long because the I.R. degree jumped out lol my bad. but tl:dr my old headcanon does align w this one in a few ways and i love that for us anon

also idk how to do readmores on mobile so just scroll ahead if ur on ur phone and dont wanna read this shit whoops

—————

havent been focused much on like canon-verse stuff recently but for the longest time my go-to headcanon was them having that 👀 tension 👀 in the mid-war period as alfred rapidly grew to becoming one of the most powerful players on the world stage and arthur was still in the midst of pretending like he was still in control of the world.

so there was those feelings of jealousy and bitterness from arthur towards alfreds success (meanwhile being hot under the collar because theres no way dude doesnt have some power/control/domination k*nks) and meanwhile alfreds finally coming into his own and sees himself as an equal player to all the former european super powers and gets upset when arthur wont treat him as an equal like the others are

of course then the 2nd bitch hits and knocks arthur flat on his ass and alfred comes in to help and while they navigate through that and the war, the politicians around them are egging “the special relationship” on and after a big ass jumble of emotions n stuff they finally hit their stride of working together as a team and get really close during it. at the end in the midsts of celebration the tension snaps and they finally hook up

then in the after war period, i imagine that theyre not 100% love birds or anything like that, its more of a slightly awkward and private relationship/borderline friends w benefits while theyre still publicly close allies. the relationship begins to really strain during the worst parts of the cold war w arthur finally relinquishing the last of his global power and alfreds increasing paranoia. i feel like there were a few times where they definitely had some falling outs and spats but they always came back because of political means and their shared history

then through the 80s, as the cold war begins to thaw both of them start getting more comfortable and their relationship gets better. then once the iron curtain falls and alfreds the only super power around, their relationship hits the best stride it ever does. they practically fly to each other’s place at least once a month and theyre a full blown romantic pair

then the stress of the 00’s casts a dark mood real quick. i dont feel too comfortable bringing up recent world politics when we’re talking about the fictional country sterotype animes so we’ll leave it at that, but personal issues wise for these two is that alfred is angry and lashing out and arthur is torn between wanting to sooth and be there for him and not like.... enabling and getting too wrapped up in stuff thats not his issues

in the last decade i think things, while not as clingy as they were in the 90s are relatively ok. current global political trends aside and think they were riding a similar wave so there wasnt too much rockiness between them but they were both fairly busy w their own shit so theyll be cutesy when together but they couldnt take much time to have little couples retreats.

nowadays? obviously distance and space apart isnt good for any relationship so i think that while they still love eachother, theyve been much more quippy and snappy w eachother over texts n stuff, but i think once they can meet up again theyll definitely release some of that tension 👀👀👀

but as i said before, this was probably the main headcanon from when i first got into the fandom stupid long ago to like...... idk maybe mid 10s when other fandoms were consuming more of my brain power? and when i “got back into” this fandom (not that i ever left but you know what i mean) ive been more focused on AUs n stuff because then i can get my sweet sweet fix of fully indulgent romance and fuckery without the weird nagging guilt of ignoring the real politics that theyre tied to on the back of my mind lol

however, i still let myself hold room for multiple iterations of headcanons when it comes to the canonverse simply because theres so many ways to interpret their characters/history/interactions/etc and obviously the full scope of the actual events that make this characters to chose from as well and it feels almost shallow to have only one view.

[mrmissmrsrandom]

Fic writer interview meme

tagged by @demoiselledefortune, thank you for including me!

My answers are below

How many works do you have on AO3?

69 (nice).

What’s your total AO3 word count?

553,656 words, but I do have several longish collaborations that inflate the wordcount. 

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Currently looks to be at 12, not including other tags for the same series (FE and MDZS have different general tags for some things). Majority of my works have been across the Fire Emblem series at this point. 

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A. Serrated, an MDZS Canon Divergence AU written in part with @mwritesink. It is also the longest fic I have on Ao3 thus far!

B. Return to Childhood Redux, an alternative sequel/spin on one of the Scum Villain Self-Saving System extras that was written for a Bingqiu holiday art and fic exchange. (Note: the rest of the translation at that time was unfinished, so not fully happy with certain characterizations in it, but... popular is popular lolol).

C. The Lion in Winter, a “30 years later” FE15 fic that I still need to finish (and I will!! I will!!! I’m super grateful to everyone who has stuck with it/returned to it thus far!!). It features slowburn Alm/Lukas as sad middle age men. 

D. Tassels and Bells, a Serrated sequel/”extras” chapter fic in part with @mwritesink. No set update schedule like the first fic, just more if we’re in the mood to write. 

E. Unlike the stream, you are not in view. A (currently) pre-slash Liujiu fic co-written with @dornishsphinx for Liujiu Week 2020, where Liu Qingge is a sharkboy and they meet as kids. My love of monster designs and sharks shines here.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try my best to respond! Thankfully a majority of the comments I’ve gotten are positive, and its always satisfying to get ones where “I never thought of this idea/ship/etc. but I love it now bc of you.” 

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Garotte, an FE4 bad end fic. But the angst is also mixed in with horror. 

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Hoooooo. Well, Love Like Ghosts is shaping up to be the craziest based on what me and @dornishsphinx planned for it, since it uses all three of MXTX’s current novels in one form or another. Some fun ideas: Meng Shi becomes an aspect of Guanyin in the heavenly realm, Qin Wanyue from Scum Villain and Xue Yang from MDZS end up together-- and those are the least crazy things about it. 

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep! And it was so weird, because... they commented on it after reading nearly 200k worth of content? If you didn’t like it buddy, I think you should have quit while you were ahead.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I don’t know how to respond to the “different kind” question of this lolol... but yep! I’ve written smut. I think my main issue is trying to draw out sex scenes/foreplay when I write it on my own. 

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep! I had at least one that I know of, but that was waaaayyy back on ff.net days. I found it, told my friends about it, then they dogpiled the fic with comments about it being stolen, and then it was deleted soon after. It... looking back on it, it was probably too intense, especially for the fic in question.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, but it is more “had a request, but haven’t seen the result/the one who asked decided not to continue beyond the first chapter.”

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Several times now at this point, and it has been a lovely experience each time. :D

What’s your all time favorite ship?

To write, it looks like right now its setting up to be Arthur/Hawk from FE4... which honestly shows how much of a crackship/rarepair/multiship writer I am haha. I love so, soooooo many ships and love to write for so many ships as well though. 

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I would like to say never say never, but I’m not sure how to proceed at parts on my Wen Ning/Lan Xichen “everyone else is dead but we’re still here” postcanon fic. 

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Lengthy descriptions of space/character features unless I’m super invested with in the phrase of “I have to make this character the most sexually desirable person in the grocery store.” You feel?

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I am not comfortable enough in the other languages I know to do that. :D

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Pokemon Special. It was that manga that drove me to write fanfic in the first place.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

On my own, despite some pacing issues and it not being one of my most popular, its Sunbeams Shade Black Wings for the MXTX Big Bang. It just feels... really close to my heart, and one of the fics I wrote through tears at points because I was so invested in writing the story. 

I’m not going to tag anyone, but feel free to do it if you like!

[mister-fleck]

full of surprises: arthur fleck x reader

Prompt: Could you perhaps write a fic where Arthur has a praise kink?

“So, will you come?”

Shifting uncomfortably on the locker room bench, Arthur’s face scrunched into a hesitant wince. “I don’t know, Randall. Clubs like that aren’t really my scene.” 

“C’mon, buddy,” Randall took a seat next to him and placed one of his meaty paws on Arthur’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Don’t be a wuss. Birthdays don’t happen all that often, pal.”

Tilting his head, Arthur eyed him wearily. He had personally worked twelve birthday parties this week. “They kind of do.”

Randall tightened his grip and Arthur bit back the urge to shy away at the muted pain. He knew that he’d never hear the end of it if he acted like a frail little girl.

“It’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t,” Randall told him plainly, leaning in closer and raising his eyebrows expectantly. His bulky figure blocked out the sunlight from the window behind him and it casted a nasty shadow. “I thought you were my boy, Artie.”

My boy.

A wave of nausea washed over Arthur and he had to look away. There was something about that nickname, about the way Randall towered over him, about how he constantly reeked of gin and motor oil — it always smacked him in the face with unpleasant deja vu.

“I don’t want you to be upset with me,” Arthur eventually found himself mumbling, feeling helpless. He fiddled with the leather tongue of his clown shoe, green eyes focused on his own bitten-down nails and calloused hands. “I’d hate it if you were mad.” 

“Then show up.” After firmly clapping Arthur twice on the back — almost hard enough to make him fall off the bench — Randall pushed himself onto his feet with an ugly grunt, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way toward the stairs. “Oh, don’t forget to bring some cash. You’ll be useless there without any.” 

As Randall stomped off, Arthur tried desperately to figure out what it was about him that made him want to puke and hide. Every interaction with him left him with a headache and there was only so much of it that Arthur could take. He rubbed at his eyes after a few minutes of not blinking and forced himself to get ready for the long walk home. 

Saturday night came quickly. With his mother tucked away safely in bed, Arthur paced around his living room, hair mussed and brow knitted. It had been an entire week since the forced invitation and he still wasn’t even remotely prepared.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Arthur scolded himself, echoing Randall’s distaste. He pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt past his hands, finding comfort in the habit. “It’s just a party. They’re just dancers.” 

Still muttering to himself, Arthur made his way over to the china cabinet against the wall and lifted the lid off of one of the delicate teapots. Inside was a meager amount of crumpled bills, his secret savings account that he had set aside for emergencies. It pained him to have to dip into what little he had, but with a grimace Arthur blindly grabbed at a handful and shoved the cash into the front pocket of his pants.

He’d be the butt of a joke if he showed up penniless to a strip club. 

The subway ride there was bumpy and crowded and it didn’t help ease the queasiness developing in Arthur’s gut. His brain had kicked into overdrive, imagining every bad scenario and uncomfortable situation. What if he arrived first? What if the strippers didn’t want to go anywhere near him? What if he drank too much, made a fool of himself?

Arthur had never been taught how to properly act around a woman, let alone one scantily clad and asking for money. He knew that he’d have to be a little forward to fit in with the others, but he’d hate himself if he overstepped and made one of the dancers uncomfortable. A little lightheaded, Arthur lifted the fabric of his sweatshirt to his nose and took a sniff, making sure he didn’t reek. 

Fifteen minutes later, he stood alone outside of The Centerfold. It was tucked away in the corner, the sidewalk illuminated only by the buzzing neon sign perched crookedly above the entrance. Arthur’s stomach twisted and he puffed out a sigh, scratching at his neck. He felt like a nervous schoolboy, but instead of teachers lurking the halls there were half-naked women.

“Hey there, Arthur,” came a soft voice beside him. Arthur looked around — and then down, to where Gary was smiling up at him kindly. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Yeah,” Arthur chuckled, pushing back his hair. He felt a little relieved now that there was a familiar face. “Neither did I.”

Gary shoved one of his hands in his pockets, the other holding onto a white envelope. He looked calm, almost bored. “It’s not too bad in there. Smells a little like piss and sweat, but aside from that — nothing awful.” 

Arthur was too focused on the card in Gary’s hand to digest any of what he was saying. It had dawned on him that he hadn’t gotten any kind of present for Randall. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, leaning in to speak privately through his teeth. “I forgot to get him a gift.”

“I can add your name to the card, if you want,” Gary offered with a shrug. Arthur couldn’t help but smile a little — Gary was genuinely the only person aside from his mother that didn’t resent his existence. 

“Are you sure?” He dug his shoe timidly into the gravel beneath his feet. “That would be great —”

But before Gary could open the envelope, Randall was pushing open the doors and grinning broadly at the two of them. 

“Took you two clowns long enough. That for me?” He didn’t give Gary the chance to respond as he snatched the card out of his hand. “Better be somethin’ good. C’mon, we got a great table near the stage.” 

Arthur felt his stomach drop and he exchanged a wary glance with Gary before letting Randall lead the way. 

It didn’t come as a surprise to Arthur that he ended up having to frequently rush to the bathroom to hide his laughing fits. The club was a brand new social experience for him, one that he had never imagined having to tackle, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. The place was packed with guys that would happily taunt him if given the chance to. After decades of bullying, Arthur could spot them from a mile away.

Of course, the party of men he sat with all assumed that Arthur was escaping to the restroom to whack off, overwhelmed with all of the breasts and ass on display. The women working at The Centerfold were all beautiful, Arthur couldn’t deny it, but he was wound so tight with anxiety that he couldn’t even consider being turned on by any of them. 

Upon returning to the table for the fifth time, Randall yanked him back into his chair by the fabric of his hoodie. “Just realized you didn’t get me anything, you son of a bitch,” he jabbed, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was playing around or actually offended.

“I’m sorry, Randall,” Arthur spoke up quietly, rubbing at his arm. He tried to conjure up an explanation. “I think I left it on the counter at home.”

“Did Mommy help you wrap it?” One of his other coworkers cut in, leaning in with a sloppy grin. With the exception of Arthur, the birthday group hadn’t wasted any time on getting plastered. “Or did you do it by yourself like a big boy?”

Embarrassed, Arthur felt himself shrink in his chair, not knowing what words he could string together to defend himself. He settled instead for laughing a little, hoping to hide his discomfort and feign amusement.

“Don’t sweat it, pal,” Randall scooted his chair forward and slung a heavy arm over Arthur’s shoulder, making him nauseous all over again. “I know exactly what you could do to make up for it.”

Instantly sick, Arthur visibly shuddered and tried to push away that terrible deja vu. When he spoke, it was barely audible over the pulsing club music. “What is it?”

Randall leaned back — arm still very much around Arthur — and put two fingers into his mouth to produce a piercing whistle. A dancer from three tables over turned around on her heel, scanned the room and made her way over.

“You see, Artie, this isn’t just any strip club,” he informed him smugly through a sleazy chuckle. “They have… an array of special services available.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Arthur told him meekly, wishing he hadn’t left his cigarettes at home. 

“I took the liberty of asking this young lady here to tell you all about it.” Randall finally retracted his arm, but only to smack the woman on the ass. She didn’t seem phased, but didn’t look particularly happy about it either. 

“Hey there, boys,” she drawled in a low, silky voice, slender hands resting on her hips. She was wearing a black brassiere and a matching thong, red high heels giving her a couple of extra inches. Her eyes met Arthur’s and he twitched under her stare. “Is this Artie?”

Randall downed the rest of his whiskey and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a belch. “Yup. Take him away, hot stuff.” 

Arthur stiffened, gripped at his throat in anticipation. This was all too much at once. “What’s going on? What do you mean?”

The woman sauntered around Randall and reached down to tuck a lock of hair behind Arthur’s ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.” 

—

You were able to spot him right away. He matched the brief description that had been given to you earlier — skinny, unkempt, timid. Kind of a loser. You fought back the urge to yawn. This wouldn’t be the first time you fucked a virgin. He’d be your fourth this month.

This really wasn’t how you had envisioned your twenties playing out. You were supposed to go to a respectable university, study psychology or ethics, maybe find some sort of garden apartment and adopt a couple of dogs — but all of that had gone to shit after getting knocked up at nineteen. You of course loved your son, he was your entire life, but being a single mother at twenty-five in downtown Gotham had unfortunately forced you into a dirty profession that guaranteed decent pay.

But you’d do anything to offer your son a good, clean life. And if that meant blowing strangers Friday and Saturday nights — well, that’s life. 

Taking the man’s hand in yours, you gently led him through the bodies and crowded tables. His palm was sweaty as he stumbled behind you, almost tripping a few times over misplaced bar stools. The birthday boy Randall hadn’t been discreet about the purpose of all of this — he was nearly crying with laughter as he informed you that ‘his pal Artie’ would probably have an anxiety attack or cum in his pants thirty seconds into being alone with you.

You didn’t find the former funny at all — the latter was something you had experienced a dozen times, nothing special — and you ran your thumb over the back of the man’s hand as the both of you pushed through thick red drapes. 

“How are you doing tonight, Artie?” You asked him smoothly, attempting to loosen him up a bit. He seemed like a good enough guy. “Having a nice time?”

“It’s Arthur, actually,” the man stammered, the lighter pitch of his voice endearing. “And I’m doing okay.” 

“Just okay?” You teased, guiding him further into the dark hallway. You nodded at one of the security guards who stood rigidly against the wall. It always gave you great comfort, knowing that there were a handful of bulky men ready to defend you if something were to go sour during a session. All you had to do was call out.

“I’ve never been to a club like this before,” Arthur explained after a long pause, mousy and apologetic as the both of you passed several rooms. A loud groan erupted out of one of them, making him tense up. “I guess I’m a little nervous.” 

Stopping in front of one of the empty rooms, you took a moment to briefly look over Arthur. The poor thing looked like a stray dog with its tail between its legs. Giving Arthur a patient, sultry grin, you motioned for him to enter. “That’s perfectly normal, honey.”

Once the pair of you were inside and the door was closed, you watched as Arthur took in the space like a frightened child.

The room was something similar to a motel bedroom: a queen-sized bed, a small couch, a night stand. You had chosen one of the nicer rooms that had a small bathroom connected to it, figuring that Arthur might be more at ease if the space wasn’t too closed-in. Especially with the unnerving way he rubbed at his neck. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was claustrophobic.

Rolling your shoulders back, you approached the nearby table to fiddle with the CD player that had been placed there. No time like the present to kick things off. “Okay, Arthur. Take a seat on the bed and we’ll go over the rules.” 

—

Arthur didn’t know how to process any of this. He had just gotten used to the whole table situation, finding that he could calm down and block out the pressure if he hummed a gentle tune under his breath, but now he was alone in a secret room with a stranger and his inner monologue had blurred into static. 

He wanted to speak up, tell you that he wasn’t interested in this, that you didn’t have to do... whatever it was that you did. But once you began to rattle off your terms and conditions, Arthur closed his mouth. He didn’t want to be impolite.

“I’ll keep it simple. No choking, no leaving marks, no kissing on the mouth. We provide condoms and you must wear them. If at any moment I feel threatened, or if you break any of these rules, I will not hesitate to call for one of those big guys out there. Your friend prepaid for thirty minutes. If at the end of our session you’d like to buy more time, it’ll be an extra hundred bucks, okay?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, Arthur remained frozen, lips pressed together and fingers bunched up in his sleeves. You had said it all so quickly and he felt like he could pass out from the implications alone. He had heard the word condoms  — were the two of you going to make love?

When Arthur finally mustered up the courage to respond, it came out jumbled and uncertain. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but — I, um — “ He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flitting all over the room, not knowing quite where to land. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You — I mean, you’re really beautiful, but I’ve never…” 

He watched you walk over to him slowly, lips parting as you reached out to gently unfurl one of his fists.

“Arthur.” He had a hard time getting over the lovely, feminine lilt in your voice. “It’s okay if this is your first time.” 

It happened before he could even attempt to stop it. 

A jarring, strangled laugh surged out of him, loud and abrupt, and he felt you jump away from him in alarm, rightfully startled. Not wanting to frighten you, Arthur hid his face in his sleeve and closed his eyes tight, each spasming attack making him lurch forward. It almost felt like vomiting, the way his body contracted, but the source of it lived deep in his chest like a demon.

“What’s going on?” He heard you say after a few moments. You sounded guarded now, cautious. 

Terrified that you might call one of the hulking security guards into the room, Arthur lifted his head and tried his hardest to speak through the laughter. “I have a — a condition — that makes me — “ Trying his best to muffle another series of hard laughs, he covered his mouth with both hands and ducked his head, buried deep in shame.

He hated the way he sounded during attacks. It wasn’t anything like his actual laugh. 

There was a long beat. With his eyes cast downwards, Arthur couldn’t gauge your reaction, but the last thing he had expected after such a heavy pause was a pair of soft arms wrapping around him.

—

You switched modes before you even realized it. You had never seen anything like this before — this ambush of tormented laughter, but the panic attacks your son struggled with made it easy for you to recognize that this wasn’t intentional.

“Let’s take some deep breaths, honey,” you instructed calmly, rubbing careful circles on his back. Your fingertips wandered over the prominent dips of his shoulder blades and you wondered if this man ever even ate. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. We’ll do it together, okay?” 

Arthur stiffened initially at the physical contact but it didn’t take long for him to warm up to the attention, nodding shakily through bursts of laughter. It was admittedly hard to watch — all of the choking and gasping, the pain in his eyes. Pursing your lips, you reached out for his hand and placed it flat against your bare abdomen. 

“Here we go. Breathe in.” You took in an exaggerated breath, hoping that he would feel the deliberate rise and fall of your stomach to help him focus. “And out.” 

It took him a few tries to properly inhale, his lungs hindering the process as they stuttered, but Arthur eventually found a stable rhythm. Not quite hunched over anymore, he kept his hand pressed against your stomach, the other now all balled up between his knees. 

Lost in the transformation in front of you and more than pleased with how he had listened — men never listened anymore — you pushed his hair out of his eyes and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.  “Good job, honey. That was very brave.”

With a bashful smile, Arthur shook his head and shyly retracted his hand from your stomach. “No, not really.”

Something had shifted in him. You narrowed your eyes a little, studying him. There had been a definite change in his demeanor upon your gentle approval. Some of the tension had faded. Running your teeth along your bottom lip, you hesitated a moment before testing it out. You had already gotten paid, there was really nothing to lose here.

“Yes, really.” Leaning closer, you brushed your lips against the shell of his ear and scratched at the middle of his back with manicured nails. “You were a very good boy.”

He whimpered a bit and you smiled. There it was. Priding yourself on your intuition, you let your free hand rest against his thigh and dipped your chin to kiss at the underside of his jaw. He smelled like an ashtray but you didn’t mind it. Anything was better than the terrible cologne most of your customers drenched themselves in. “Do you want to know what I think?”

You took a moment to look up at him and watched as he took a deep breath, seemingly steadying himself. His lashes were wet, the poor thing. When Arthur answered you, it was lost in the back of his throat like a secret. “What?”

“I think that this good little boy…” You tiptoed your fingertips up his chest before toying with the zipper of his sweatshirt. “Deserves to be rewarded."

—

Good little boy.

The phrase should have made him angry. If he was like any other man, he would have scoffed and retreated, asked for a refund — but the genuine approval in your voice filled Arthur with a belonging so poignant that it knocked the wind out of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been called good. If ever. 

Hot all over, Arthur watched you begin to unzip his jacket, his neck still tingling from that feather-light kiss. Although a part of him wanted to carefully take your hand and halt your intentions like a gentleman, he knew that this may be his only shot at being intimate with a woman. And if you were willing, if you didn’t feel disgusted, Arthur figured that he had to at least try. 

“You have such pretty hands,” he murmured awkwardly, heat rising up his neck. “Do you play piano?”

You giggled next to him — giggled — and Arthur felt pride swell in his chest. “I used to.” 

There was a playful tug to his sleeve and Arthur shrugged out of his jacket obediently, leaving him in his brown slacks and white button-up. His shirt hadn’t been pressed in ages and he frowned, reaching up in attempts to smooth away some of the wrinkles, but you playfully batted away his hands and popped open the top button.

“Why did you stop?” He heard himself ask, not knowing if it was proper etiquette to make small talk. 

“Life got in the way, I guess.” Three more buttons undone. 

Arthur watched as you moved closer and couldn’t hold back a groan upon feeling warm lips against his pulse point. Eyes fluttering shut, he felt his cock twitch hard in his pants, completely at your mercy. He had never been touched like this before and he was still fully dressed. 

With the front of his shirt now open, Arthur shivered a little, his fingers bunching up the fabric of the comforter beneath him. When you nipped at the corner of his jaw, he gasped. “That — That feels nice.” 

This earned him a warm chuckle, but then you were gone, the warmth of your body no longer pressed against his side. Worried that he had done something wrong, Arthur’s eyes flew open—

To see you ever so slowly sinking down to your knees. 

—

You had to admit that there was something charming about Arthur. He hadn’t groped at you with greedy, dirty fingers, he hadn’t tried to smack your ass or tug your bra off. He was willing and kind, and more handsome than he allowed himself to be. You had to hold back your laughter — your faintest touch drove him wild and you wondered absently just how long he would be able to last.

Kneeling now, you smirked up at him from beneath long lashes and watched him squirm in anticipation. You weren’t ashamed to admit that you were great at giving head. You had recently developed a bit of an oral fixation, soothed by lollipops and toothpicks. But if the bulge in Arthur’s pants signified anything, there was an alluring alternative being offered to you. 

“I can make you feel really nice.” You slid your palms up and down along his thighs, rolling back your shoulders again to accentuate your cleavage. “Would you like that, baby?”

Arthur heaved in a breath and nodded eagerly. “Yes ma’am.” 

“So polite,” you tutted, fingers now dancing around the buckle of his belt. Once it was undone, you spread his legs and pressed a lingering kiss to the crotch of his slacks. “Such a sweet boy.” 

As you expected, Arthur was a complete mess, trembling and speechless as you pulled down his zipper. You had neglected to press play earlier on the CD player across the room, but you didn’t mind it. The little noises coming out of him were… 

Pressing your thighs together, you forced yourself to focus on the task at hand, thrown off by your body’s reaction. You never got aroused at work, but you had to pause after pulling his erection out of his pants, the dull throb between your legs unwarranted and distracting.

You must have been standing still longer than intended because Arthur eventually spoke up, voice tight with worry. “You don’t — You don’t have to, I know that I’m not handsome, I don’t want you to feel pressured —”

With pink cheeks you snapped out of it and kissed the head of his cock, effectively shutting him up. “You’re very handsome,” you assured him, trying your best to keep your confidence through the storm building inside you. You had half a mind to actually stop, not knowing whether it would be wise to continue with a foggy mind, but your mouth had a mind of its own: You flattened your tongue against the base of his length and dragged up, up, up before taking the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Arthur groaned again right away, low and desperate this time, and you found yourself grabbing onto the front of his pants to steady yourself, your other hand holding his cock in place as he trembled next to you. 

“That feels so…” Swallowing hard, Arthur reached toward you for a moment before hastily retreating his hand, clearly very shy.

“You can touch me,” you told him in a breath, pressing lazy kisses to the side of his now very hard cock. You closed your eyes, thinking that maybe if you didn’t look at him, you could pretend that this was some other client and not Arthur. Not Arthur and his sweet little whimpers and — his now gentle fingers sweeping your hair behind your ear.

“Is this okay?” Arthur husked quietly, the pad of his thumb tracing along sensitive skin. 

You shivered instantly and had to stop yourself from leaning into his palm, instead smiling demurely and nodding. “Very okay.”

With other clients, you had a bit of a routine. Some heavy petting, a little generic dirty talk, followed by a long, drawn-out blow job, hoping that you could take up most of the allotted time on your knees. Nine times out of ten, it would be more than enough for the men who frequented the club. They just wanted to get off, it didn’t matter how. 

But with Arthur… you couldn’t stop yourself from taking the whole of him into your mouth, wanting to hear him moan again, wanting to please him. 

Obviously not accustomed to this level of pleasure, Arthur yelped a little and sucked in a ragged breath. “I think — I might, I’m sorry I might —”

Knowing that he was looking for permission, you opened your eyes and finally looked up at him again. The sight of Arthur panting, his bare chest flushed, his eyes so dark — you realized that you were now very, very wet. You locked eyes with him and swirled your tongue just so, silently communicating that he could let go.

And he did with a ragged, handsome cry, cumming hard with quivering hips and the slightest tug to your hair. 

You knew then and there that you were screwed. You never, ever, ever let any of your clients cum in your mouth. 

But Arthur didn’t need to know that. 

Swallowing slowly, you didn’t pull back right away. Partially because you didn’t want to, but also because a part of you knew that there was still at least twenty minutes left. You hadn’t been prepared for this. So you remained kneeling, in a daze as you dragged your bottom lip along his now very sensitive cock.

Arthur was out of breath and sounded a little hoarse when he spoke, clearly out of his element and overstimulated. “Thank — Thank you.” 

This made you smile despite yourself and you dropped a kiss to his thigh. He was full of surprises. Still trying to pull yourself together, you squeezed affectionately at his knee. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“What about you?”

The question came so soft and you blinked a few times before glancing up at him, not understanding. “Me?”

Arthur’s brows were furrowed as he nodded, regarding you sincerely. “Yeah. I don’t — I don’t want this to be all about me.” 

Heat rushed through your body like wildfire and you gaped at him, now completely caught off guard. Was he implying that he wanted to — 

“I might not be very good at it, but I’d like to try,” Arthur continued, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes then grew wide. “Unless that’s against the rules. Or you don’t want me to. I just figured that I —”

“No, it’s — it’s allowed,” you cut him off, pulse quickening at the idea. You ran a hand through your hair and tried to seem nonchalant, knowing you looked anything but. “You can, if you want to.”

In a clumsy blur Arthur was helping you to your feet and watching as you climbed up onto the bed. You squeezed your thighs together again, realizing now that he’d be able to see just how wet you were. The two of you locked eyes, both a little uncertain, but Arthur surprised you by taking the initiative, shyly reaching over to pull out one of the pillows from underneath the comforter and setting it against the headboard of the bed.

Silently inviting you to lay back. 

You blew out a shaky breath and smiled at him, charmed despite suddenly feeling like a teenager on prom night. Not wanting to make him feel unsure of himself, you slid to the middle of the mattress and stretched out onto your back as gracefully as you could manage, your chest heaving now that the tables were turned.

Arthur’s eyes trailed over your body for the first time all night and you found yourself melting beneath his stare. He wasn’t ogling you like the men outside did — he looked like he was appreciating every dip and curve and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Take my panties off,” you prompted, shame flying out the window. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been this turned on and you’d surely combust if he didn’t touch you in some way. 

Nodding quickly, Arthur bashfully tucked himself back into his pants and knelt beside you to do as he was told, warm fingers hooking beneath the hem of your thong and dragging the ruined garment down the long expanse of your legs. It got caught momentarily on your heels, making the two of you chuckle a little, but the nervous smile on Arthur’s face faded into pure lust upon gazing at your pussy for the first time.

You had expected him to pause, ask permission again, maybe procrastinate and stall a little — but Arthur was between your legs in a flash, settled on his stomach now, his tongue already lapping eagerly at you.

“Oh m-my god,” you spluttered, both hands flying up to sink into his hair, seeing stars as you tried to register how somebody so inexperienced could instantly figure out how to do that — 

Arthur took your reaction incorrectly, however, his head shooting up, green eyes wildly apologetic. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! No, no, no —” You shook your head, your mouth dry now as your hips bucked up. You were planning on saying something reassuring, something coherent, but all that came out was a slutty little whine that made something shift in Arthur.

With a renewed sense of determination, Arthur surged forward once more and went right back into eating your pussy like it was his job, his hands curling around your waist as you all but writhed beneath him. 

“Fuck! That’s —” You moaned girlishly, arching your back. His blunt fingernails dug deliciously into your hips as he held you down. You laughed breathlessly, delirious in your pleasure. “Are you sure you haven’t d-done this before?”

Arthur chuckled low against you, a rumbling sensation that sent a shiver rolling up your spine. It was beyond you how the fumbling, timid man from before had the potential to turn into this. 

He didn’t let up, learning as he went along, playing close attention to what really made you quiver — and yet somehow, holding back a bit, as if he didn’t want it to end just yet. 

Almost on the verge of tears, you lifted your head up from the pillow to catch a glance at what he looked like and noticed that he was absently jutting his hips into the mattress, seemingly turned on all over again. 

The words came tumbling out before you could stop them, high-pitched and wanton. “Come up here. Fuck me.” 

This was enough to make Arthur pause, lift his chin, lock eyes with you as if making sure he had heard you correctly. 

“You did so good, baby,” you told him in a rush, pushing back his hair to really look at him. With your entire body quaking with need, all you could do was whimper out a small, “Please.” 

Arthur sprang into action, tugging off his pants — well, stopping a moment to kick off his shoes and then taking off his pants, which made you giggle behind your hand — and climbed back up onto the bed in just his open shirt. 

He hesitated above you and you wondered for a moment if he had spotted some sort of flaw, if maybe up close you weren’t as attractive to him as he had thought, but then he nervously murmured, “You said you had condoms?”

Blushing furiously, you broke into a breathless smile and reached over to the bedside table, catching a glimpse of his cock in the process. The sight alone made your pussy throb hard and your hand trembled as it rifled through the top drawer. You felt around, knowing that there was normally at least a dozen condoms kept there. But, nothing.

Cursing under your breath, you sat up a little more and Arthur did the same, the both of you trembling with want and realizing at the same time that the drawer was completely empty. 

Rolling back onto the mattress, you caught those green eyes again and worried your bottom lip between your teeth. In any other circumstance, this would have been the end of it, but there had already been so many exceptions tonight, and you were most definitely on birth control — 

“Fuck it, just —” You reached out, grabbed ahold of his collar and tugged him forward to break another rule, kissing him hard. 

Arthur didn’t respond right away, shocked and well aware of the terms you had set out, but soon kissed you back in earnest, his hands immediately cupping your face with a tenderness that made you sink into the mattress. 

Smoothing your hands beneath his shirt, you scratched down along his back and he purred in response, grinding his cock against your inner thigh. Completely out of self-control now, you bit down on his lip and reached down to help guide his length towards your pussy, crying out as it brushed against your clit. He took this as the last bit of permission needed and broke the kiss to look down, and —

“Fuck!” 

Arthur didn’t fuck slowly. Once he was inside of you, his pace was rapid right away, hips snapping forward with each unforgiving, bruising thrust. 

You buried your face in his neck, bit down at the skin there and sobbed a little, overwhelmed with pleasure. “Arthur, fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

This time, Arthur didn’t tiptoe around it. “I’m gonna cum,” he grunted, a throaty kind of whine that made you instantly clench around him. 

“You’re — I’m —” You couldn’t fucking speak anymore, because he had tilted his hips up in such a way that made your vision crackle — and then you were cumming, hard, shrieking into his neck.

With your pussy clamped down hard on his cock, Arthur couldn’t have pulled out if he tried. He came inside you with a long, sensual groan that made you wrap your arms around his neck, just wanting to feel him. 

The both of you sort of collapsed into each other simultaneously, all heavy breathing and rapid heartbeats and shaky limbs. 

“Baby boy,” you eventually breathed out, a sort of sigh of disbelief, your hand returning to his hair.

Clearly exhausted, Arthur pressed a kiss to your temple and you felt his lips turn up into a sleepy smile. “Mm?”

“Your friend can go fuck himself,” you murmured, scratching lazily at his scalp and smiling right back, “Cause you’re coming home with me.” 

--

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​ @shikoshikomanzuri​ @myfaceisaturnoffsorry​ @foofee0924​ @tearfuljokers​

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

[wordsofwhisper]

fic: doom days (2)

A ‘ALL THIS BAD BLOOD’ SEQUAL! (You can read that one here)

It’s been eight years since the house burned down. Adrian, Arthur, Zane, and Isobel have packed up the pieces of their lives again. Adrian and Arthur continue to struggle and thrive as a couple, figuring out how to make each other happy while their past is still haunting them. Zane is in office after the fall of the government, but it’s not as easy to change age-old rules that some aren’t ready to let go of yet, as for some there is a lot more at stake than others. And Isobel is turning sixteen, which means her soulmate connection could finally happen…

This is Izzy’s three-chapter story!

Previously: chapter 1

2.

Do you remember what you said to me?

'Cause we lost track of time

~

Izzy felt tired when she woke up, only to realise that she had fallen asleep in her day clothes. She had hoped last night was just a bad dream, but it wasn’t. Her best friend Jack, who was also her secret boyfriend, was not her soulmate. She didn’t feel like celebrating her birthday now.

After a long shower, until she stopped crying again, she got dressed and headed downstairs. No doubt would her father and uncle be waiting for her to wish her a happy birthday. Sixteen was a big deal, which was why she had wanted to celebrate it with a big party, but now she didn’t want to party at all.

She followed the scent of waffles, her favourite kind of breakfast, which came from the kitchen. She tried to smile as she walked in to see her uncle, but smiling was hard at the moment.

Adrian turned around to face her. Seeing him smile so happily upon seeing her made her smile a little brighter. “Happy birthday, Izzy!” He came over and gave her a hug before he quickly moved back to check on the waffles. “I’m making your favourite breakfast.”

“Blueberry waffles?”

Adrian hummed. “It’s a special day today. Your father has left early to go to the office. Something about an emergency meeting, but he promised to be back in time for your party. You just missed him.” 

Izzy didn’t answer as she sat down at the table. This immediately seemed to draw Adrian’s attention as he dished the blueberry waffles onto a plate and placed it in front of Izzy, but a worried look was masking his face.

“What’s wrong, Izzy?”

She looked up. “Will you tell me how it felt for you when you first met uncle Arthur? When you realised he was your soulmate. Please, Adrian?” Her voice was soft.

“Again?” But there was a smile on Adrian’s face as he sat down with her after grabbing his mug of tea from the counter. “I wasn’t aware of it at first. Not because I didn’t feel it, but because I didn’t know what it meant. It was like this sudden warmth fell over me, like someone had wrapped me in a blanket. It felt safe and comfortable, but also frightening. 

“Do you remember me asking you about soulmates?” Adrian asked, and Izzy nodded. “You helped me a lot to understand what it meant that day. But how it feels like for me, it can feel different for you.”

Izzy remained quiet.

“Did something happen?”

Izzy hadn’t touched her waffles at all yet, but she looked up, a slight blush on her cheeks as she quickly shook her head. “No! Nothing happened. Why would something happen?” Nobody knew yet she even had a boyfriend and now they wouldn’t find out either as she and Jack were definitely going to break up. He would find his soulmate and Izzy would just be another girl in his past. 

A past time.

Before Adrian could ask more, the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell. He stood up and left the kitchen to open the door. Izzy was just staring down at her waffles, her fork trying to squeeze one of the blueberries that kept popping away. Only when her stomach started to growl, she finally picked up the knife and cut into the waffles to eat.

It was only when the voices came closer that she realised who was at the door.

“Happy birthday, Isobel.”

Madeleine, her father’s fiancée, came walking into the kitchen, followed by Adrian who was filling a mug with the freshly made tea from the pot before putting it down in front of the woman. She was still beautiful with her long golden blonde hair, which was neatly wrapped at the back of her head.

“Thank you.” Izzy was done with the waffles as she put the cutlery down on the empty place. She had devoured those waffles.

She liked her a lot. Madeleine was nice and beautiful, and she made her father really happy. He deserved that after being hurt for so long.

“Are you ready for our fun girls’ day?” There was a friendly smile on her face. It was clear that she had been looking forward to spending time alone with Izzy, as much as Izzy had been looking forward to it as well. Even if she had forgotten it for a little bit at that moment.

They were going shopping for a dress before they were going to get their hair and nails done for her party later. Maybe she would even get some new shoes. All she knew was that her father wanted her to look the prettiest and get whatever she wanted. A week ago, it was the best gift ever.

Today?

She wished Jack was her soulmate instead.

Izzy really tried to have fun and enjoy herself with Madeleine, but it was difficult. After leaving the house and they drove into town, she did get distracted for a little bit when they walked into the boutique and Madeleine made her try on all the prettiest─and probably most expensive─dresses they had, before she fell in love with an off-the-shoulders lilac coloured, knee height dress with a tulle bottom. They found a pair of beautiful similar coloured block heels for underneath her dress and the outfit was completed with a flower tiara. 

Once they were inside the salon after lunch, getting their nails done, was when Izzy’s mind started to drift off again. It was because she didn’t have the beautiful dresses to distract her again. Because she was sitting in the chair, relaxed, while someone else was taking care of her. Her mind easily slipped back to last night and a somber look fell over her once more.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been looking so sad all day long or am I supposed to start guessing?”

Izzy didn’t know where to even begin. Even if Madeleine had been there since she was eight years old, she wasn’t too close with her. As much as she liked her, she didn’t know how to connect with her. But she didn’t want to talk to her father about what was happening now either, or Adrian or Uncle Arthur for that matter. They might understand it the most, but they were boys. 

Thinking about it, Madeleine had done a lot for her in the past as well. When her breasts started to grow and her body started to change, she explained it to her and even went to get her first bra. When she got her first period, she had been really nice and explained everything before they had curled up together, eating all the chocolate until they were nauseous.

“Is it a boy?” Madeleine started guessing when Izzy took too long.

Her eyes dropped down to her lap. “Maybe…”

“You can talk to me, Isobel. I won’t tell your father. It will be our secret.”

It took her only half a minute before the tears came rolling down her cheeks and she told Madeleine what happened. She told her about Jack and how much she loved him, how she had snuck out last night to meet him before midnight, how she had wanted him to be her soulmate and ran away when she didn’t feel that connection with him. She told her about how they were planning to tell her father tonight at the party that they were together and that he couldn’t tell them no when he learned that they were soulmates, but that it wasn’t going to happen now. Izzy was pouring her heart out until she had no words left to say.

Madeleine reached her hand out to Izzy’s and held it. Nothing else. She just held it and let her know that she was there.

That’s all that Izzy needed, because she wasn’t looking for advice.

They ended up having a really good time for the rest of the afternoon, finishing up their nails on both their hands and feet before moving to the mirror to get their hair done. By the time that they were done and drove back home, they were smiling and laughing together. Madeleine didn’t bring up Jack or ask Izzy more about that and Izzy actually felt like celebrating her birthday again at the party later tonight.

They were bringing in the bags with their outfits for the evenings, which immediately was taken by Adrian after he had opened the door for them.

“You have a guest, Izzy,” he said with a smile. “He’s in the library.”

There was only one person that she hadn't seen in a couple of days: her uncle Arthur. He’d been gone for a couple of days now, but she knew he would be back in time for her party. Uncle had promised.

Izzy almost ran to the library and opened the door, expecting to see her uncle. Well, she did, but he definitely wasn’t by himself.

“Jack,” Izzy gasped.

It was Arthur who stood up from the couch he was sitting on across Jack, heading towards her. 

“No ‘Uncle Arthur’?” he asked her in a seriousness, until a grin appeared. His arms open up to take her into a hug. “Happy birthday, little one.” His hair was longer, half of it hiding the burn scar on the half of his face and neck.

It felt good to be in her uncle’s arms again. She’d missed him and was happy he was back just in time for her birthday party, although she had no reason to believe that he would purposely miss it.

“Thank you, Uncle Arthur. When did you come back?”

“Late last night, but you were all asleep. When I woke up, you were already gone for your girls day with Madeleine.”

They had missed each other by mere minutes. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk.” With that, he left the library and it was just her and Jack.

And the silence.

“What are you doing here?”

Jack, who had gotten up from the couch when she had hugged her uncle, walked towards her but stopped when Izzy stretched out her arm to him.

“Did I do something at the clearing?”

Izzy shook her head. She couldn’t find the right words to speak right now. Still distraught from realising that Jack wasn’t her soulmate, what was she going to do if he did find his? 

“It’s me, Jack. I’m not your soulmate and I never will be. I can’t do this with you only to have my heart broken all over again when you do meet your soulmate. I’m sorry.”  There were tears in her eyes as she stepped back when his hand reached out. “I think you should go.”

“Izzy.” It broke her heart the way he spoke her name.

“Please, Jack.”

One last look at him before she turned away, leaving the room. Leaving Jack. 

Letting him go.

Izzy was crying her eyes out the moment she was out the door, which made it harder for her to see ahead of her as she was running towards the staircase to hide out in her bedroom. Her path was crossed by a sandy-haired boy, his hair longer than regularly,refusing to get a haircut. Before Izzy noticed, she had bumped into the boy.

Her gaze met his before she felt that pull.

Oh, no!

Izzy stopped, her eyes growing bigger, realising who she had bumped into. 

Oscar Cook.

Then everything went black.

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Requests and Thank yous!

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23

Spurred on by reviewers wondering what someone like Sophie would be doing with Arthur Fleck, and Todd Phillips asking what difference a hand on Arthur's shoulder may have made in his life, I set out to write "Watch What Happens." I wanted to show Arthur could be a good partner to a put-together woman, and that supporting and loving someone through their difficulties, while not healing them, can make an impact. And I think I actually did it! 

"Watch What Happens" has been a huge part of my life for the past five months - it's hard to believe there are only two chapters left! If I can be honest, I'm mourning. I love Arthur and his paralegal. I do not want to stop writing them; I'd love to receive requests! Just send me an ask or DM and I'll do my best. For those of you who are currently in the taglist: if you do not wish to be tagged for one-shots, just let me know!

There are people I have to thank; this is where we get soft:

@harmonioussolve - Thank you for encouraging me to post my story when I was busy being an insecure coward (which I still am, BTW). Thank you, too, for reading chapters seven and eight before I even had a final draft of the first chapter. (And for letting me know my smut is a-ok!) You're a sweet girl and I've enjoyed getting to know you! Guys, you should read her fic - you can find it here: Proper Nice

@clowndaddyfleck - Karen, there is so much for me to say. Your initial guidance on chapter warnings and help with Tumblr has blossomed into an awesome friendship - I am so grateful for that. Thank you for the hours you spent beta-ing my work, talking me through plot points to make sure they make sense, and just general fun Fleck and non-Fleck related fuckery. It's been a blast and I hope we can collaborate one day. Her writings can be found here: ithinkimawriter's masterlist

@rommies - You are wonderful and talented and great in so many ways. Thank you for being supportive and always leaving such thoughtful comments. Thanks, also, for beta-ing chapters eleven and twelve! And, of course, for drawing Arthur and Y/N/Sarah - that continues to touch my heart. 

@sweet-nothings04 - Your support and feedback have meant a lot to me and been motivating when I've had my doubts. Thank you for taking the time to leave comments and message me with your reactions. I always look forward to them. You're a sweetheart! Her work can be found here: sweet-nothings04 masterlist 

And thank you all for reading and enjoying this story. I notice every like, reblog, and comment, and keep them sealed in my heart. 

Now for "IRL:" special thanks to my friend Joe the Lawyer for seeing Joker with me, offering to be my lawyer if I ever werewolf and go wild, and meeting with me to help with the legal subplot of "Watch What Happens." I owe you more beer!

And, finally, thanks to my husband Andre, the Arthur Fleck in my life, for being understanding, supportive, and proud of me for writing this behemoth of a fanfic. You've taught me a lot - the importance of patience, how to get through difficult situations together, the vitality of giving and getting support, and that sometimes recognizing a person simply doing their best to get through the day is what matters. I love you.

Send me your requests!

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @clowndaddyfleck​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​

[the-darklings]

you breath in when i exhale;

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

summary: A hushed breath, a rumble of thunder, and suddenly you wanted to give him your whole heart.

word count: 4.1k+ (chill? never heard of her)

warnings: undertones of angst but FLUFF...can you believe?

notes: joke’s on me because clearly more than 5 people cared about my first Arthur fic, and I’m already in too deep so lets indulge folks. also, this man deserves happiness~

tagging: the demons who got me into this mess in the first place: @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast & @deviantramblings. and the beautiful @sunstrain who has that good taste.

. . .

There was nothing to fear.

Not really.

It was childish and silly to fear something like this, considering the company you kept. The people you surrounded yourself with, shared food and space with, weren’t exactly the nicest around. But perhaps there was something a little rotten in you too if you had managed to fall in with them as smoothly as you did.

It was stupid to fear something as simple as a thunderstorm though.

Especially considering you were in the storm season and rain came often and heavily, accompanied by gusts of strong wind that made your rickety tent appear even more pathetic with every blow. You couldn't help but think your makeshift home was about to be ripped out of the ground and flown off to the next state at any second. Lenny might have helped you to build it and secure it to the ground—and you certainly trusted him enough to know he did a well-done job of it—but the ridiculous fear still remained.

Lightning flashed outside, the boom of thunder crashing through the sky before you managed to get to the count of two.

Your eyes squeezed, your heart hammering loudly in your ears as you pressed your forehead harsher against your knees. The storm was close—too close—and you felt a shiver crawl up your spine as yet another gust of wind slammed against the side of your tent, making the material blow inwards.

You raised your head, your breaths shallow and strained while you looked towards the outside. The flaps of your tent refused to shut properly and you watched dully as rain pelted down, soaking everything in its path. The camp was quiet, everyone huddled in their tents and wagons, seeking shelter from the freezing rain. Only Javier and Arthur were away from the camp as far as you knew, busy running their own errands.

Selfishly, you wished Arthur was here. Something about his presence always made you feel braver, sharper, like you could step outside of yourself and accomplish anything you put your mind to. Even when storms hit, if he was in the camp, you at least managed to last through the worst of it without feeling like your guts were going to crawl up your throat.

But you also refused to rely on him, especially for something as foolish as this. He was a hardened outlaw. You had half a thought that even if you told him he would laugh at you. From all the things to fear in this world, thunder seemed like the last thing one would put on the list.

Another flash lit up the sky and the crack of thunder was so deafening, you had to muffle a strangled whimper in the space between your knees. Your hands trembled when you pressed them over your ears, trying to smother the sound of the raging storm outside. The dull roar of it was still audible, but with your eyes closed, you could almost pretend you were somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

But then—

A blur of sounds that got drowned by the echo of wind and rain. Despite your desire to stay in your makeshift darkness, your hands lowered, allowing the full blast of the storm to flood your ears again.

“—ya in ‘ere?”

“Arthur?” was your faint, confused whisper.

Your misty eyes slowly moved to the entrance of the tent where you could just make out a tall shape standing. The only thing you could recognise was the tip of Arthur’s boots; the same ones he always liked wearing best. You could still recall going with him and Charles when they went shopping and originally bought the pair. There were only a few occasions you could recall laughing as much as you did that afternoon. It held a special place in your heart ever since.

“I’m—I’m in here!” you quickly called when you saw Arthur turn away.

Practically flying out of your cot, you hurriedly wiped at your damp eyes, pulling the tent flap back to reveal a soaking Arthur.

Droplets of water fell from his hat, and even his heavy coat looked in a particularly sorry state. The rain had only intensified since the storm started, now falling so intensely, it was hard to see the rest of the camp.  

“Sorry, I ain’t botherin’ ya, right?” Arthur questioned, taking a few steps closer when you stepped back, quickly ushering him inside. “I normally won’t impose on you like ‘his but your tent was the nearest to ‘his side of the camp. I’ll be out of ya way as soon as this damn rain lets up.”

“It alright, Mr Morgan,” you muttered, flinching as another rumble of thunder echoed through the camp and surrounding forest. “You never impose. You’re always welcome. Please, sit.”

With a grateful nod, Arthur sat down on a spare chair you kept in your tent, water trailing after him. You hurried towards your clothing chest, rummaging till you found a dry fabric he could use to dry himself off. He took it with another grateful dip of his chin, pulling off his heavy coat and draping it over your chair. Underneath his coat, he appeared to be mercifully dry at least.

“Well the weather is shit,” Arthur spoke bluntly, rubbing his neck with the cloth. Despite your nerves and the queasy roll of your stomach, you couldn't help the startled laugh that slipped past your lips as you sat down in front of him. You laced your fingers nervously in your lap, your knee jerking up with every louder noise outside. “Can’t do nothin’ when it’s like this.”

“Didn’t finish?” you asked softly, noting his irritated glance outside, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Arthur nodded absentmindedly, “Yeah, guess Mr Downes will have to wait his turn, won’t he? Poor bastard,” he joked with a slight quirk of his lips that made your breath hitch for a brief second.

Arthur Morgan was easily the most confusing man you had ever met.

And the most wonderful.  

And the most dangerous.

He was a collection of contradictions you could not unravel no matter how hard you tried.

There was the merciless—the downright ruthless—side of him. The side that found a home in chaos, and moved through rivers of blood like it was holy ground. That managed to be subtly terrifying, and even more brutally efficient with his fists and revolver. A face you knew people had nightmares over, who had blood on his hands because survival required it.

But there was also a side of him you only ever saw around his friends—family, Dutch would say you were a family—that stole your breath away. The low, patient tone he always used with little Jack. The way he always cared and helped those who asked his help, no matter how much he might grumble about it first. How fiercely loyal he was to Dutch, and how unflinchingly he was always prepared to do whatever it took to protect everyone in the camp.

You saw how much he cared about his horse, how he scribbled away for hours on end in his journal. You had even caught glimpses of his drawings before. Subtle and simple, yet so beautifully elegant in portraying the raw beauty of whatever he was trying to capture.

You couldn't understand him.

And you didn’t realise till too late just how dangerous your fascination with him was.

You didn't, in fact, realise your feelings of respect and friendship had morphed into affection till you heard Mary-Beth talking about him in hushed whispers to Gilly.

Jealousy bloomed in the pit of your stomach then, and you had been horrified to realise that somewhere along the way the enigma that was Arthur Morgan, had become...important.

No matter how hard you tried to hold yourself back, your eyes always sought out his regnant frame and intent blue eyes first. You didn’t want to be Mary-Beth though. Didn’t want to love him because tying your heart to a dream could never end well. Not to mention the fact that no matter how much you had seen others try in the past, Arthur never allowed anyone close.    

He had never taken a lover in the time you had known him. Or at least none that he shared with others. Though you had heard on several occasions how much others—namely Micah and Sean—mocked him for it.

Arthur was handsome, incredibly so, so it wasn’t for the lack of willing participants, you knew. He simply didn’t allow anyone near that heart of his. And he did have one—you knew he did.

No one could care so much and be heartless.

Maybe one day someone was going to find a way to see into him, to get past his walls and love him for him; contradictions and all.

But—

A loud boom erupted from outside and you jerked up, your eyes flying towards the entrance of the tent, your heart in your throat as your fingers clenched into tight fists.

“You alright there?” Arthur’s curious question almost made you jump again, and your eyes skipped towards his slouched figure. Confusion and something else—something you couldn't put your finger on—lingered in his expression as he regarded you earnestly. “No offence, but ya look ready to keel over.”

“I’m fine,” you hastily shot back, your words unconvincing and tone weak. “It’s—it’s all fine, Mr Morgan.”

Arthur regarded you critically for a second before he leaned back, still staring at you. For a long, tense moment he was silent before something like understanding flickered over his features and you noticed the slow, tight curling of his fingers before they relaxed.

“Is Micah botherin’ you again?” he asked seriously. His words were soft but there was something chilling about the stilted calmness of his tone. “He do somethin’? Miss (Name), I told ya before, if he ever—”

“He didn’t do nothin’, promise,” you quickly interrupted, breaking his fierce stare. “It’s just...hey, I thought I asked you to call me (Name)?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched briefly before he nodded his head, finally looking away, “Ya sure did. But I also recall askin’ you to call me Arthur, no? Now stop changin’ the subject.”

A part of you urged to tell him while another whispered that it was silly and not worth his time. Sure, you were friends but most days he felt just as unreachable to you as you saw him be to others.

“I didn’t sleep last night, that’s all,” you told him with a strained smile. “So I’m a bit tense today.”

Arthur’s eyes were hard and searching while he regarded you grimly, almost like he was trying to judge the honesty of your words. “That so? Why was you not sleepin’ then?”

Because another storm hit a few hours after midnight and prevented you from sleeping. Instead, you had curled in your quilt and shivered the rest of your night away. You wanted to say it but the moment you tried to voice your feelings, they died on your tongue.

The chair creaked slightly and you lifted your head only to see Arthur standing to his full height. Wind and rain still raged outside, only adding to the already tense atmosphere. You knew your tent was small but Arthur always seemed larger than life, effortlessly filling the empty crevices with his presence.

He took a step towards you, and you didn’t realise the distance between you was so small until he dropped the fabric you gave him on your cot and crouched before you. The previous quiet amusement was gone from his face, leaving something more serious in its place. It was hard to meet his gaze when he was looking at you like this, when he was so close you could almost feel his body heat. His skin was still damp, one side of his face illuminated by the dim lamplight as he stared up at you.

“Whatever it is (Name), ya can—”

Arthur’s next words were interrupted by the most vicious crack of thunder yet, the brief flash of lightning blinding you for a second. A gasp of fear escaped you, your shoulders dipping and heart galloping madly in your chest. It beat so fast you were worried it was going to burst right out of you. But the dryness of your throat made it impossible to do anything other than to let out a weak croak of terror.

“Woah, hey,” Arthur’s deep voice sliced through the sickening fear, and you felt his larger hands settle over yours, stilling your shaking fingers. “You’re fine. It’s just a bit of silly—oh.”

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed over the expression of awkward understanding dawning on his face. Arthur exhaled slowly before glancing away, and you felt mortification fill you. Of course, someone like him would find this sort of thing completely idiotic.

“It’s f-fine,” you forced out with a wobbly grin, “I know it’s stupid. You can laugh it up now.”

Arthur grunted under his breath, the noise soft and contemplative before he looked up at you again, the intensity of those blue eyes making the forced smile on your lips die.

“Fear is fear,” he pointed out simply, voice almost cautious and you wondered where his hesitation was coming from. “It don’t matter what ya fear, it’s still awful. Everyone is afraid of somethin’.”

You couldn't help the disbelieving scoff that escaped you, “You don’t fear anythin’.”

His lips quirked slightly to one side, accenting the smooth curve of his mouth, “Sure I do,” he disagreed easily, his hands on yours tightening briefly when another crash of thunder echoed. “I fear lots of things. Ya just learn how to control that fear, use it as fuel, let it forge somethin’ better.”

“Yeah? What if there’s nothin’ better there?” you whispered, your eyes almost fluttering shut when you felt the warmth of his fingers starting to seep into your own. “I ain’t brave like you.”

He shook his head a little, the slight curve of his lips remaining, “Well that, I oughta disagree with. You’re plenty brave. Hell, I’ve seen it. Bravery ain’t as simple as shootin’ a gun (Name). Ya fear storms...so? Big deal.”

“It’s silly,” you pointed out feebly, cringing at another distant rumble. “I feel like an idiot if I tell anyone.”

“If it matters to ya, it ain’t silly,” he said, this time with a certain firmness in his voice that made you look down towards your lap. You knew he meant what he said but instead of relief, you felt a different kind of longing. Not for bravery but for him instead. “You remember that, hm?”

“Yeah,” you whispered softly and closed your eyes when Arthur removed his hands from yours.

Your digits trembled and you missed his soothing warmth instantly, trying not to look at him while you contemplated the possibility that this might have been a huge mistake. It would have been better to suffer in silence the way you always did, and not create another situation in which Arthur proved that his heart was bigger than he would ever care to admit. It just made it that much harder not to love him.

Arthur himself was quiet for a minute, and you silently wondered why he was still here. Why he hadn’t moved away or left. The rain was coming down deafeningly loud, washing out any other noise except the thud of your heart.

“Tell ya what,” Arthur began, and you glanced up at his voice, “It’s gettin’ pretty late so you get some rest and I’ll watch over ya, make sure nothin’ happens, yeah? Because frankly, ya look terrible.”

Your lips parting in shock, you immediately whacked his arm in outrage, “Arthur! You don’t just say somethin’ like that to someone!”

The man in front of you laughed, the deep rumble of his baritone washing over you and making you grin despite yourself. He had a nice laugh and you wished desperately he had more occasions to smile and laugh over. It suited him, made him look even more handsome than he already was, and it was hard not to wish that crooked grin never left his face.

“Ah, ‘here we go,” he murmured faintly, eyebrows rising while he leaned one arm on his knee, “That’s much better.”

Your smile faltered slightly as you stared at him, but the barely-there curl of your lips remained. Warmth bubbled in your chest, spreading all across your limbs and you wondered, then, if the day would ever come when you didn’t adore him. If maybe one day you'll be able to look at him and not feel like a complete fool.

A hushed breath, a rumble of thunder, and suddenly you wanted to give him your whole heart.

But you didn't want to lose him. Didn’t want to burden him with feelings you knew he was never going to return. And if by some miracle he did return them, you sincerely doubted you were a risk he would be willing to take.

He believed himself to be too far gone, too broken and ruined by life.

He believed himself so ugly that he didn’t see how much beauty remained.

His hands were far from clean, but they were his hands. And perhaps there really was a rotten thing inside you too if you didn’t mind them holding yours.

“C’mon then, ‘et some rest,” he said after a lull of quiet between you as he stood up and motioned towards the cot. “It sounds like the storm is headin’ east. Should pass within an hour at ‘his rate.”

Arthur walked towards the chair and sat down stiffly, grabbing his hat and giving it a stern shake. Droplets of water hit the ground and you continued peering at him dumbly.

“You’re not leavin’?” you asked weakly, a part of you still in disbelief he didn’t throw your childish fear back in your face. “You—you don’t have to stay. I’m sure you ‘ave better things you oughta be doin’.”

Arthur adjusted himself on the chair, plopping the hat back on his head while his hand settled on his belt. He glanced at you from under the brim, lips quirking upwards. “It can wait,” he answered shortly, “Now sleep.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him, dipping his head downwards and you gaped at him mutely. From the relaxed sag of his shoulders, you couldn't help but conclude that he was certainly planning on staying and watching over you till the storm passed.

The thought made something in your heart bleed with happiness and you looked away, biting your lip to control the happy smile that was threatening to split across your face.

Pulling back your scratchy quilt, you laid down—clothes and all because the damp made it too chilly to change into undergarments most nights—and dragged the scratchy material around your shoulders. The storm was still going strong outside, though just like Arthur had said earlier, it appeared to be heading away from the camp now.

Your eyes flickered towards the man himself who looked to be asleep, although you had no real way of knowing without checking. Your chair was small though—small and uncomfortable, and you were surprised he managed to find any comfort on it at all. The powerful set of his shoulders filled the space, making everything else appear even smaller. And while it wasn’t the first time Arthur had been inside your little home, it was certainly the first time he stayed while you rested.

A gust of violent wind battered the side of the tent, making you grit your teeth and shiver under your thin quilt. You curled tighter, burying your nose in the fuzzy material while your eyes remained focused on Arthur’s still figure.

There was something intimate about seeing him in your space like this; unguarded and exposed, yet so perfectly at ease. You knew he was a light sleeper despite what he had others believing. One had to be in a world you lived in.

“I can hear ya shiverin’ from over ‘ere,” Arthur spoke suddenly and you jumped, immediately dropping your eyes to the floor. You felt the weight of his gaze on you but kept your own on the ground. “Why do ya only have one quilt?”

“B-Because...Jack gets real cold durin’ the nights so I gave him my spare one,” you confessed, briefly letting your eyes meet his. Something like disbelief reflected back at you before Arthur cleared his throat, briefly scrubbing at the stubble on his face. “I know it ain’t the wisest thing to do.”

“Yer damn right it ain’t,” Arthur groused, standing up and approaching your cot. His jaw clicked and he sighed again, expression oddly troubled. “You do realise that kid has parents, right? Scoot.”

You stared at him blankly. “What?”

“If ya get sick ‘cause you gave your quilt away, you’re never gonna hear the end of it,” he pointed out, motioning with his hand for you to move. “Now I much rather that don’t happen. Ya have my word I’m not tryin’ to do anythin’—”

“I know,” you interrupted him gently, scooting back as far as you could to make him space. “Your honour is the last thing I would question around ‘ere, trust me.”

Arthur sat down with a grunt, and the cot creaked for a second, both of you holding your breaths to see if you were about to end up on the ground. He shifted carefully around before lying down on his side, facing you.

It was hard to keep your expression neutral when his face was so close to yours. Your cot had always been small but with Arthur’s broad frame occupying the space as well, it was even smaller. Unnervingly so. Small to the point it was hard not to feel your breaths mingling, hard not to stare at his bare collarbone which was visible due to his slightly unbuttoned shirt.

It was even harder to ignore the heat of his body and the earthy, heady scent of him.

“Ya alright? If you’re uncomfortable—”

“I’m fine.”

Arthur stared down at you gravely while you tried to steady your breathing, “I don’t wanna ya to think that I’m using your vulnerability for some ulterior motive.”

“You won’t,” you told him softly, focusing on a button of his shirt even though you could feel his eyes fixed on you. “I know ya think you’re this awful man doomed for damnation but you ain’t. God knows you ain’t innocent but that don’t mean you’re evil either. I’ve met evil men before Arthur Morgan and you ain’t one of ‘em. I see it every day, ya know, the good in you? Hosea always says that actions say more than words anyway,” you finished, taking a tentative peek at his expression.

Arthur’s features hardened, and you could feel the strain in his body, in the way the silence that followed your words felt more potent than your fear.

“(Name)—”

A bright flash, and another clap of thunder hit, causing you to practically jump out of your skin. Your wide eyes flew around the tent, checking if you hadn't been hit no matter how foolish it was. If the lightning had hit, you doubted you would be alive right now.

A warm weight settled on your shoulder firmly, tugging you closer and you willingly sagged against the encompassing warmth.

“Hey, shh. You’re safe.”

He was warm.

You hadn’t realised just how cold you were under the quilt, till the simmering warmth of his body soaked through it, warming you from inside.

“Arthur—”

“Get ‘ome sleep (Name),” his voice was a quiet rumble, and you felt his hot breath brush against the top of your head, causing a tingle to race down your spine. “I’ll—just rest.”

Your mind was too fuzzy from fatigue and you were so warm, soaking in the comfort you hadn’t expected to receive. Arthur’s hand settled between your shoulder blades and you smiled sleepily into his chest. Always the gentleman.

“Arthur?”

He hesitated in answering, and you almost lost yourself to sleep before you heard a faint, “Yeah?”

This was the safest you had ever felt. The most respected and cared for too.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t answer but you didn’t expect him to. Arthur rarely responded to genuine gratitude the way others did. Nevertheless, you still wanted him to know how much his patience and comfort meant to you. You hadn’t expected it—not at all—so you were going to make sure he knew it.

Lost somewhere between awareness and sleep, you could have sworn you heard a soft whisper of his voice one last time.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Arthur Morgan. A goddamn fool.”

. . .

an: so i’m not totally happy with this but I still hope you guys liked it :’))

[myukulelegentlyweeps]

Nowhere Man

Pairing : George Harrison x female reader

Plot : Geo is sick of the Let It Be sessions so he takes the day off and meets you and has a flippin epiphany :)

Author’s note : Okay so I got sort of carried away, I admit it. But today June 13th is apparently George Harrison appreciation day here on tumblr, so if there is a day to post a 2000 word george fic, it’s today.

Warnings : (very little) cussing, I guess? Also if you don’t believe in the universe and all that metaphysical stuff and it bothers you to read about it, I don’t recommend you read this.

The Beatles were not working anymore. They weren’t functioning, everyone could see it, Let It Be would be one of the band’s last gasps for air. It was a shame, but it was the truth and George wished they, well, particularly Paul, would stop trying to force an album where there was only friction and anger. And a film? Really? No, it wasn’t right.

Harrison had come into the studio early that morning. Comfortably seated in one of the lounge’s sofas, he was trying to unwind before his bandmates arrived, for in the previous few days he had noticed he tensed up the instant he walked through the door of his workplace, automatically, unwillingly. He didn’t like the version of himself he was becoming, grumpy, always snapping at people - so he was trying to change it.

He took a deep breath in and closed his eyes, trying to find the peace within him. He focused on his neck and shoulders, letting them relax like they did when he roamed his garden. In his garden there were no bossy McCartneys, no big-headed Lennons, no Ringos trying to diffuse the tension in vain ; there were only flowers, trees, prosperity and growth. I’m not growing as a musician here anymore, he thought as he opened his eyes again to two voices breaking the silence.

“Wha’re we doin’ today Paul?”

“Dunno. Think John wants to show me a couple of new songs.”

Of course he did. And he probably wants Yoko to sing on the record too, how about that. When they don’t give one damned song to Ringo. George rose from his seat to face Paul, who was already starting his obsessive tuning of every single instrument :

“Say Paul, if John only wants to show you the songs, ye won’t need me, will you?”, he spoke calmly but firmly. The bassist looked up from the guitar he had seized with slight anguish painted on his features. “Of course we need you, Geo-”, he began, but he appeared to give it thought and the end of his sentence took a different tone : “but if you really need the day off, yeah, I...I guess you can go.” A nod was the only answer he received, short and straightforward. Exit George.

As soon as he was outside, he felt better. The morning air was soothingly fresh, and the blue sky still had a few yellowish tinges reminiscing from sunrise. He looked to his car and thought about driving home, but ultimately decided against it : he wanted to walk around, to wander in the city, he had not done so in such a long time... Luckily he had a hat with him that day, which would allow him to partially cover his face and avoid getting recognised by “overly enthusiastic” fans. Normally he would not mind signing autographs, but in that particular instance he was not in the mood.

His stroll started at a fast and steady pace, his first priority being to leave Abbey Road studios far behind ; he later allowed himself to slow down, thinking his irritation finally gone as he reached a different looking area of London. He did not wish to know where he was exactly, in fact, he made it his goal to get lost on purpose as he savoured each step he took, trying his best to not control the decisions his intuition and feet made for him at every turn. Left or right, right or left, or continuing straight, none of it mattered. He was going nowhere and it felt brilliant.

It was as though he was being guided by a light beyond him. The energy flowed effortlessly through the streets, unlike in the studio where it always seemed to be clogged. Here I am, thinking of the studio again. He sighed and brought his focus back to his walk with no destination. Slowly but surely, a small smile made its way to his lips as he noticed a child’s toy forgotten on a bench, a chalk drawing on the sidewalk, a cloud with a specific shape. Small pieces of a grand puzzle coming together. Eventually he stumbled upon Hyde Park. A garden or a forest? He didn’t know, then again the question was unimportant and required no definitive answer.

“He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody…” Bloody hell, the Beatles follow ye everywhere, don’t they. George thought he would become angry again, but before he could, he realised how fitting the song was to the situation. Wasn’t he the nowhere man, walking wherever his legs led him? He let out a soft chuckle and tried to find where the music was coming from. There was a young woman strumming an acoustic guitar, her case in front of her collecting a miserable amount of coins. There you are.

She was wearing a red flowery dress and he thought she, not unlike her voice, was quite beautiful, with her smiling (Y/E/C) eyes and (Y/H/C) hair moving slightly with the wind. Through the vocals he could hear she truly experienced the song, and sang from the depths of her guts. He quite enjoyed how it sounded. “Nowhere man don't worry, take your time, don't hurry, leave it all 'til somebody else lends you a hand…” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and extracted a twenty pound note which he placed in the guitar case, the woman’s eyes visibly widening at the generous contribution. He asked himself wether or not he should leave, but decided to stay a little longer, at least until the end of the song. She was...magnetic. He felt drawn to her, as though the universe had nudged him in her direction for a reason.

Your P.O.V

“Thank you very much”, you said after the last strum, glancing at the small group of people who had stopped to listen. You were rather proud of your performance, too, and you had made more money than expected that morning - especially since there was a twenty pound note in your earnings, which was a first. Very few people are willing to give that amount of money to a street musician ; and the mystery man who had was still standing there, merely three steps away, looking at you and probably thinking he was well hidden behind his Panama hat and dark wavy hair. From what you could make out of his features you deduced he was about your age, maybe a bit older, though that impression could have just been due to the moustache which he wore, you had to admit it, quite well.

When you realised he was none other than George Harrison, you wondered why it had taken you so long to figure it out. His face had been on every newspaper since 1964, and you were not going to pretend you did not love the Beatles to the point of obsessively playing their records and eventually wearing them out. Nevertheless, he did not look like he wanted to be recognised, and you decided to respect that. The best way to fight the urge to go talk to my favourite Beatle, you concluded, is to continue playing. And so you did. You started strumming the first chords to I Need You, in an intended wink to his person.  

I Need You ended, you moved on to another song, and another...Until your watch marked eleven a.m. and you started packing up, thinking about the rest of your day and unsure what to do with it. It was a Monday, which meant you didn’t have to go into work (the restaurant was closed on Mondays), but you didn’t want to go home just yet. 

“Can I buy you a drink, miss?”, a very familiar voice asked, catching you off guard. You let out a giggle and took the twenty pound note to show it to him, “I think you’ve already bought me at least fifteen, sir.” “Can I buy you a sixteenth drink then?”, he insisted with a grin. You laughed again ; how could you possibly say no? He was rich after all, you couldn’t feel guilty for making him spend fifty cents on a cup of tea. The next thing you knew, the both of you were sitting at the table of a coffee shop, sipping a warm drink and chatting casually.

He told you his name was Arthur and, though you knew it to be a lie, you preferred to let him think you believed him. He wanted to know everything about you, which was ironic to you considering how you knew his life to be much more exciting and interesting than yours. You answered his every question with lightheartedness, intrigued by his curiosity toward you, and it slowly became obvious that you two shared some sort of special connection you could not rationally explain : you were comfortable with each other suprisingly fast, your sense of humor matched his, and every time your eyes met they would linger, as though you were poking into each other’s souls, making shivers run down your spine.

After the coffee shop, you strolled around Hyde Park side by side for two hours, completely losing track of time in the process. You told him about your family, your studies, even some childhood memories, and he talked about the Beatles, using code names, of course. John’s made up name was Eric, Paul was Fred, Ringo was Michael and of course, he was George, hum, Arthur. You were amazed at how straight he kept his story, though sometimes he would stumble on his bandmate’s brand new names ; by that point you figured he knew you knew he was George Harrison, but he preferred sticking with the parallel universe he had created. He told you about all the stress he had been undergoing during the Let It Be sessions, and you listened closely, overtaken by the feeling of deep empathy. He striked you as a very gentle person, but when he talked about the album you noticed his eyebrows furrow and his tone harden.

Around what you think was midday, you started getting hungry. You sat in the grass and ate store bought sandwiches together, the both of you agreeing they were not the best you had ever tasted. After that, you simply lay in silence, enjoying each other’s company.

“I don’t think they realise how talented and important you are.”

“Who?”

“Joh- I mean, Eric and Fred. They were there first, became the leaders and now they’re blind to the possibility of deflating their massive ego to make room for Ring- Michael and you.”

“...Yer probably right. But there’s not much I can do about it, is there?”

You shook your head.

“Start a project of your own. Didn’t you say Eric recorded something with his girlfriend?”

“Yeah. It’s not bad, what he does, it’s just...He didn’t ask us for permission or anythin’. He just, well, did it.”

“Then do the same! I’m sure you’ve got enough songs of your own to record at the very least a neat EP.”

“Maybe.”, he said as he stood up, seemingly reflecting upon your advice while he tried to straighten the fabric of his wrinkled shirt, to no avail. “(Y/N)...if it were up to me I would stay here and talk to you until we ran out of things to say, but I think I might have to get going now.” You laughed through an undeniable disappointment you attempted to hide : “Oh, of course, please do”. The perspective of having to part ways with him was anything but pleasant. He gathered his belongings, the Panama, his sunglasses ; next, he held his arms out, inviting you into a hug. You happily obliged. You engaged into a long and warm embrace, followed by  prolonged eye contact, and for the hundredth time that day, you experienced the magical tingling sensation through your entire body.

“Thank you for today, (Y/N). I am so grateful to have met you, you really are something special. I...I would like to see you again, if-” He stopped mid-sentence as you handed him a piece of paper with your telephone number hastily scribbled on it. He gave you the most immense smile and proceeded to slowly walk away, looking back a couple of times to make sure you were indeed real.

I met an angel today.

[nxrdist]

Letters to the Front

Summary: Set during the Great War. The letter hadn’t been meant for Tommy, but it landed up in his lap anyway. He hadn’t meant to do anything but inform the sender, courteously, of the fate of their loved one (who knew how long it took for the Crown to send those messages out). Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be recieving another letter from the girl.

Rating: Teen for now

||Masterlist||

Words: 1568

A/N: Semi-inspired by a fic I read sometime ago. Canon and period typical triggers apply. If you watch the show you know what you’re getting into I hope! Any overly graphic decriptions will be added as specific triggers. I intend to do my best when it comes to historicla accuracy, but somethings will intentionally be bent for the purpose of the story. I hope you all enjoy :)

There hadn’t been gunfire for hours. A small burst had taken place that morning when a young kid had been brave enough to pop his head up, against strict orders not to do so, but since then there had been hardly a peep from either side. No man’s land laid out before them silent as ever. It wouldn’t be that way for long he was sure. The digging took time, but when the tunnels met it wouldn’t be silent anymore.

Digging the tunnels hadn’t been something Thomas was intending on volunteering for, but when no other had; how could he not? Their commanding officer sat silently for a long moment looking into the faces of all his men. Thomas’s eyes had also flicked over some of the younger faces surrounding him. He was young too, but some well they were even younger than he was. Arthur had stiffened next to him when Thomas silently raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Their CO nodded and shuffled off Thomas was ready for Arthur to rip into him, but he didn’t. Instead, Arthur was quiet. Though, he did watch Thomas with an uncannily close eye. Clearly, Arthur was wondering if Thomas had simply lost the will to go on. Thomas made eye contact with his brother and gave a sharp shake of his head.

No words were needed. Thomas knew the question. Arthur knew the answer in the sharpness of his middle brother’s eyes.

Someone has to aye?

It was late afternoon before John could make his way over to them again. Arthur didn’t say anything about the tunnels to John and neither did Thomas. John looked quite keen when he’d shuffled over to them and neither were willing to spoil the mood.

“What’s it then?” Arthur asked after a moment of looking at John’s grinning face.

“Mail’s come in.”

Thomas gave John a simple nod of understanding. Arthur clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder, squeezing it slightly, and grinned as well. John was the only one who really had anyone writing to him with regularity -his wife Martha. It had been heartbreaking to see John leave her and his children behind when they’d joined up. None of the children understood that their father wouldn’t be coming back for quite some time, but Martha had held on to John so tightly.

John was fidgeting nervously with his cuffs. Clearly excited, but also anxious that he wouldn’t be getting anything, John always worried in vain. If Martha hadn’t written him a several page long letter, then he would have drawings from his children. John always got mail. While Arthur and Thomas only occasionally got letters from their youngest brother Finn, their sister Ada, or from their Aunt Polly.

Just when Thomas was about to reach out and grab his brother’s hand to stop his fidgeting the mail carrier arrived. It was the same squat man as usual moving down along the row of men with a large sack of mail. John was nearly bouncing with anxiety by the time they were reached.

“Shelby, John,” said the man.

John greedily took two envelopes from the man. One of which was quite thick, likely the containing pictures from his children, and the other not quite so thick and with visibly clearer writing on the front. He was lucky this time. A letter from Martha and his children’s pictures on the same day.

Thomas sighed. He was thankful his brother would be able to relax for at least a few days while he read and reread Martha’s letter. A sigh escaped Thomas’s lips as he leaned his head back against the muddy side of the trench.

“Greene, Ernest?” said the mail carrier in a slightly unsure tone.

Usually Ernest was sitting near the brothers when the mail came. It had been over a month since mail had come though. So, of course the mail carrier wouldn’t know about Ernest. Thomas sighed. He glanced over at Arthur who shrugged.

“Here.” Thomas said, propping himself back up and sticking out his hand. “Ern’s dead.”

The mail carrier gave a short nod. He tossed the letter to Thomas before moving on down the line. It wasn’t the first or the last time a dead soldier’s mail would show up to the front. Thomas wasn’t sure what possessed him to take the letter meant for Ernest, but he had. Arthur arched an eyebrow at him briefly. Giving a shrug, Thomas tucked it into his pocket. John was busy with his mail, but Thomas didn’t want to read Ernest’s letter in front of Arthur and his prying eyes.

After a few moments of relaxing silence, Thomas moved from the trench toward the short walkway to a spot a bit further behind the line where soldiers could take breaks and play cards or dice. There was a badly battered table and chairs placed over some shabbily laid boards. Mud still squelched up between the boards, but it still served to allow one to wipe their boots somewhat which Thomas did before taking a seat. He took out the letter and laid it on the table in front of him.

Ernest Greene

It was scrawled in a neat feminine hand which made opening it more difficult for Thomas. He didn’t recall Ernest ever mentioning having a girl back at home. All Ernest ever mentioned about home was that he had a sister, a few years younger than himself, that worked the phone lines in Birmingham. Though, looking at the script Thomas worried that Ernest may indeed have had a girl back home. Some men were like that after all. They wanted to keep their lives at home to themselves somewhat. Something this damn war can’t take away, an older soldier had told Thomas not long after he’d first arrived.

Breathing a deep sigh, Thomas hooked his finger under the seal and popped the letter open. He pulled out a single sheet of paper on which was more of the same slightly slanted writing. Thomas looked at it without really reading it for a long moment. He took out a cigarette and lit it as he began to read.

Dearest brother,

Thomas exhaled a puff of smoke. Pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand holding his cigarette, he paused for a long moment. Finally he moved his hand away to puff again on his smoke. Was it worse or better that the letter was from Ern’s sister instead of a sweetheart? He wasn’t sure. The letter was open now though if there were some principal of invaded privacy he’d already broken it.

I’m afraid your letters may be getting lost. The last one I received from you was marked near four months past and I’ve written you twice since then. It’s no matter though. You know I will always keep writing.

You’re my big brother after all and I do miss you so terribly. The house still feels so very empty at times without you here. You tell me not to worry for you though I simply can’t help it can I? It is difficult not to, you know that don’t you. Ever since father passed, I have no one else to care for.

And don’t go telling me to get myself a sweetheart again, will you?

I could scarcely imagine such a thing until I know you are looked after. On the note of looking after oneself, I have been keeping well. Your kitten, well cat now, lays on the end of my bed when I sleep. I wake early every morning to go to work at the operator’s office. I am enjoying the work so much there. It is such a far cry from the factory you used to work at.

Perhaps when you return home, I will even be able to take you to a special lunch! Wouldn’t that be a treat Ern?

I’ve enclosed a picture. Many of the girls at the operator’s office send them to their sweethearts. I’ll send one to you just so you don’t forget what I look like yes? A strange concept, I know, however I find myself looking at our old family photos just to see your face some days. I don’t want to forget the face of my brother either.

All my love,

Helen

Thomas hadn’t even realized the cigarette he’d lit at the beginning of the letter had burned down to the butt while he read. His eyes were oddly glassy. It was difficult to read those last few sentences. He didn’t even realize why until a single tear drop fell with a plop onto the paper. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his dirty hand, Thomas

Inhaling deeply, Thomas pulled out another cigarette and inhaled deeply. The calming sensation of the smoke filling his lungs allowed Thomas to open the envelope again. Just as she’d said, enclosed was a photograph. The girl in the photograph looked hardly nineteen. Her hair was a dark shade which Thomas could imagine must have matched Ernest’s own chocolate brown. Though, her eyes looked less like the same dark brown of her brother’s it was difficult to tell from the photo; though, there was a distinct light in them. Her lips were turned up into a shy smile like she wasn’t sure whether she ought to be smiling for the camera or not. Helen Greene was a lovely young woman decided Thomas.

Sighing, Thomas looked around. Quickly he noted another soldier who was penning a letter of their own nearby. The soldier was kind enough to offer him a piece of paper and allow Thomas to borrow his pen as he’d just finished his own letter. He felt a certain sense of urgentness about finishing his response for several reasons one being the mail carrier would leave soon and the second being the tunnel. Thomas would be going down into the tunnels very soon.

---

end note: Tommy’s letter back will be in the next part ;D

Taglist: none (send me an ask if you’d like to be added)

[selfship-uncharted]

The Fugitive part VII - Cinderella man

part I - part II - part III - part IV - part V - part VI - 

part VII - part VIII - part IX - part X -  part XI - part XII  - part XIII  - part XIV

A/N: As promised, since I finished the game here you have the continuation of my fan fiction. Thank you so much for all your kindness! I hope you will enjoy the continuation as much of the previous parts! A/N2: From now on this fic will be xOC and it will contain spoilers from Chapter 4 to the end of the game A/N3: English is not my first language. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC (Claire Russell) Warnings: embarrassed grumpy cowboy and spoilers from Chapter 4 Shady Belle Words: 3,092 (so unusual of me)

Tags: @asiramhera @missdictatorme @zoilalove213 @avast-you-dirty-dog @lowkeyofsassguard Special thanks to @asiramhera for being so patient with me and being my beta reader. Tons of love for you! 

Months had passed since Claire's failed attempt to escape. She didn't see Arthur and she was losing hope to meet him again. During that time, Claire married Theodore Cornwall, the son of Leviticus Cornwall, the biggest magnate from the railway, sugar and oil. Claire's father was quite content with the union seeing his fortune increased. Claire was lucky Theodore was not a very smart man, she could easily trick him to not spend time together or to excuse herself and go see her dear friend Géraldine and stay at her house some days. Truth to be said, Claire missed Arthur so much, not only for the night she spent with him, compared to her husband was far the best night she ever had but for all that she lived with him, all those exciting experiences she knew she couldn't have them again if she stayed. Claire was getting ready for the ball tonight helped by her dear maid Marianne. "You look beautiful, Mrs Cornwall." Marianne admired her fixing her hair in a side braid with some ornaments. "Don't call me that...." Begged Claire, she then sighed, bored. "I'm so tired of all those stupid parties..." "I bet they are not boring." Marianne dared. "Believe me, they are..." The women were interrupted by the knock on her room door. "Darling, are you ready?" It was Theodore who was waiting for her for an hour ago. Claire rolled her eyes and got out of the room while Marianne wished her luck. The carriage stopped in front of Mayor Henri Lemieux's mansion. Theodore helped Claire to get out of the carriage and they went to the garden of the house where the party was held. As soon she was able to, Claire separated herself from her husband and went to find her dearest friend who was already flirting with some gentleman. But when Géraldine spotted Claire she abandoned her prey to come to her friend. "Look at you!" Exclaimed Géraldine getting near Claire. "You look stunning." "Thank you, Géraldine. You look so good too." Claire replied with a warm smile. "So, what's interesting of this party?" Géraldine drew a naughty and enigmatic smile on her beautiful face. "What? What is it?" Claire asked curiously. She knew Géraldine so well that that smile meant she knew something that Claire didn't. Géraldine took her friend by her arm and softly dragged her to a corner of the garden and made her look up right to the balcony. Claire fixed her eyes on Angelo Bronte, a dangerous man. He owned most part of Saint-Denis and Claire was sure that the rest of it too. He used to come to parties like that but always kept himself above everyone in his private space. "What do you want me to see?" Claire asked a little bothered, she didn't like that man. "Look closer." Her friend insisted. "There is someone else than the fellow dogs of that bastard." Claire tried to fix her eyes to see what her friend was talking about, she saw a black-haired man wearing a top hat, she didn't recognise him, behind that man there was a shadow. She tried to focus on that shadow but a drunken man pushed her. The man apologised but Géraldine made him go away. When Claire looked up again to the balcony those unknown men were not there anymore. "I couldn't see anything." Complained Claire. "What it was?" "Oh, you will see." Géraldine answered mysteriously squeezing her friend's chin. "Just, have fun tonight. And if you need a place to rest, you know you are welcome to my house." She winked at her and disappeared into the crowd leaving her friend Claire completely puzzled, sometimes, she didn't understand Géraldine. Claire looked around her and found herself surrounded by acquaintances she didn't want to greet. So she went to one of the tables to take some food, hoping her husband wouldn't take long to want to go home. Behind her a man started coughing, he looked like he was choking with something. She recognized him, it was Algernon Wasp and extravagant milliner. Before she could do anything to help a tall man dressed in a black suit came near Mr Wasp and helped him to remove what was blocking his lungs. Mr Wasp thank the newcomer who presented himself as Tacitus Kilgore. Claire giggled at the funny name but she recognised that deep rusty voice at the moment. Mr Wasp gave Mr Kilgore a card and went away while Tacitus Kilgore looked puzzled at the card on his hand. Claire then came close to Mr Kilgore to greet him. "So," Claire cleared her voice to draw his attention. "Tacitus Kilgore, isn't it?" Tacitus Kilgore turned around annoyed, he didn't expect anyone to talk to him but when he saw Claire his expression changed and a surprised gasp escaped him. "Claire?" "Hello, Arthur." She smiled at him. "It's nice to see you." Arthur looked at her from tip to toe not being able to recognize her in that fancy lavender dress. "Nice to see ya too." He babbled. Arthur seemed nervous, Claire checked on him and a chuckle escaped her lips. "You look horrible." She said hiding her smile with the back of her hand. "Well, thank ya..." He hesitated scratching the back of his neck. "I'd say the same but ya actually look pretty good in that dress." Claire smiled at him. She was so happy to see him, if it was for her she would hold him tight right now. "You cut your hair. And shaved." She noticed eyeing him intensely. "You look handsome." He looked away embarrassed. "But I prefer your usual style." "I had to... to melt with the crowd..." He brushed his hair away from his face, Claire could easily see he was not comfortable in those clothes and that ambient, she was amused at his sight. "Hum... How..." Arthur hesitated. "How have ya been?" Claire showed him his wedding ring. "As you see, I couldn't get away from my destiny." She sighed. "Is... Is he good to ya?" He sounded worried. Claire let a sad smile drew on her face. "Listen, Claire..." Continued Arthur. "I'm so sorry... I... I shouldn't... When I saw yar father hit ya I..." "It's okay, Arthur." Claire calmed him slightly touching his arm. She wanted so hard to hold him and being touched by those big rough hands once again. "It's not your war. At least I'm thankful that when I tried to run away my father sent you." Claire took a champagne glass from a waiter that came close to them and siped on it. "And I am quite lucky he is just stupid." She pointed out somewhere in the crowd, Arthur followed her gaze and saw a sad man all alone eating from the tables, nobody near him, actually, people seemed to whisper around him and avoid him. "And what about you?" Claire asked changing the subject, she was tired of thinking of her dumb husband. Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "Nothin' special, really..." He dismissed her. Claire felt he was hiding something but didn't dare to ask. "So, what are you doing here?" She tried again. Arthur hesitated, he wasn't sure if he should tell her or not. "We were invited by Angelo Bronte." He finally said. "Angelo Bronte?" She asked surprised. "What could you want with that man?" "Long story..." He sighed rolling his eyes. "Arthur," she took his arm once again to grab his full attention. "Angelo Bronte is a really dangerous man, don't play strange games with him." "I know, I know, don't like him neither... But Dutch seems interested in him. He invited us, so here we're, makin' some contacts and findin' some information about Lev..." He fell silent suddenly avoiding Claire's eyes. "About Cornwall?" She adventured. Arthur was troubled but he nodded. "I can help you with that." She rested the empty champagne glass on the table next to them. "I dunno... Don't want to mess ya with all that..." "It's not a problem, and I am the best positioned to help you." She insisted with a smile. "Maybe, you should know mayor Lemieux, he is doing some business with Cornwall." Claire linked her arm to his surprised and lead him to the party. She noticed an old classy man looking at Arthur surprised. "Do you know that gentleman?" Asked him, Claire. Arthur looked around him apparently nervous, looking for the man Claire was referring to. When their eyes meet, the old man nodded at Arthur approvingly making Arthur's colour grew to his ears. "Hum... That's Hosea." Arthur answered clearing his throat. "He is with me." "Oh." Simply said, Claire. "I guessed he is surprised to see you in the company of a lady." "Ya bet he is... I am surprised myself... Didn't think to find ya her'" he confessed scratching his now absent beard. "That's what I should say, to find me in a party like this, not strange at all. But to find you in that kind of party, dressed so fancy and clean, that is indeed a surprise." She giggled. "I think, miss, ya're enjoyin' yourself too much on my behalf." He complained faking offence. "It is Mrs." Claire corrected him ignoring his complaint. Claire dragged him in the middle of the garden where the mayor Henri Lemieux was chatting with other guests. "Ah, Mrs Cornwall," said the mayor. "It's always a pleasure to see you." Claire gave him her hand to let him kissed it. "It's nice to see you too, mayor." She greeted back. Mr Lemieux looked at Arthur wondering who he was. But before she could introduce her a man by her side started to talk nonsense to the mayor. "It ain't complex, Lemieux..." by the sound of his voice it was easy to notice he was drunk. "and only an idiot like you, buddy, would try to make it so." "I will not deny idiocy, sir, but perhaps now is not the time," answered Lemieux trying to be polite. The man laughed so hard. "Typical pansy!" he added. "You're drunk, Ferdinand." Stated the mayor. "I'm not drunk, you fool!" he protested. "But this man... this man love darkies." Claire rolled her eyes and nudged Arthur gently to make him understand he should take care of the situation. He didn't take long and took the annoying man by his shoulders. "You are pretty drunk. What's say you and me cool off?" Arthur pushed the man away from the garden while the mayor looked at Claire amazed. Claire gave him a smile and waited for Arthur to get back. "This is Tacitus Kilgore." Presented Claire. "Henri Lemieux." The mayor replied shaking his hand. "I hope you are enjoying my party." "That's quite a place ya got ther'" Arthur said looking around him. "It's not mine, and the city is horrible in debt but we can still put on a good show." The mayor explained. "Do you know Evelyn Miller?" "My Lord..." gasped Arthur. "The writer?" "Well, we seem to have another deranged drunkard on our hands." Mr Miller noted. The conversation reached an end when the fireworks started. "Shall we?" invited the mayor. Arthur looked at the sky amazed and without realizing it he advanced to see them better. Claire followed him. "They are beautiful, isn't it?" She said smiling to him. "Yeah..." he simply said being unable to look away from the lights in the sky. Claire stared at him, seeing how the fireworks reflected in his eyes. She slowly moved her hand to grab his startling him, he turned at her surprised. Claire didn't say anything she just smiled at him and turned to look to the fireworks. She felt Arthur's hand closing around hers caressing her softly with his thumb. She missed his touch so much, she got close to him and rested her head on his shoulder closing her eyes. The moment didn't last long that she heard a servant come near mayor Lemieux and told him that Leviticus Cornwall was waiting for him on the phone to sign some contract. She turned to Arthur who was also eavesdropping. "Follow me." She ordered. Arthur nodded and followed her. They kept the distance from the servant who was calmingly going inside the house checking on servants and that the house had its standing up. Seemed it was really important to him. They followed him trying to pass unnoticed. Suddenly, Arthur pushed Claire against the wall. Someone was coming. Arthur motioned her to keep quiet with his finger while he tried to cover her with his body. Her heart began to beat very hard remembering what she missed so much. She felt his scent invading her, that scent she grew to love. She stared at him, analyzing his features while he was looking at the corridor, he had some new wrinkles around his eyes and his eyes showed he was tired, slowly she raised her hand to touch his shaved cheek. Arthur turned to look at her surprised. Claire ignored his surprise and caressed his cheek following the shape of his face to his bottom lip. She rubbed it staring intensely at those dry lips. "Claire... I..." he started. Claire didn't let him continue, she stood on the tip of her toes and joined her lips to his. Arthur didn't take long to react although he was caught completely off guard. He kissed her back with the same eagerness as hers. Claire cupped the back of his neck to pull him close to her, Arthur pressed her against the wall with all his body while his hands roamed her waist fitted in that silk dress. Arthur bit her ear and went down to her neck, a soft moan escaped her lips. "You can't be here!" a voice startled them. It was one of the servants of the mayor. Arthur wanted to look at him but Claire kept his head hiding in her shoulder, she didn't want anyone to recognize him. "You better watch your tongue." Claire menaced the servant. "Yes, miss..." He was taken aback and answered nervously. "It's madame to you." Claire didn't give him a break. "Yes, ma'am..." The poor guy was shaking. "Now, you better leave us alone or I will have a chat with the mayor." The servant nodded anxiously and Claire motioned with her head him to go. The servant left as fast as he could and Claire relaxed releasing Arthur's head from her grip. Arthur looked at the woman in front of him astonished. "Not that I like it..." Claire excused herself fixing her hair. "But that's the only way to keep them quiet." Arthur cleared his throat. "Hm... we should go..." He pointed upstairs avoiding her eyes. He didn't like to lose control like that. "It looks clear." Claire nodded and followed him. "This is the mayor's office." She announced. "What are you looking for might be here. I'll wait for you outside in case someone is coming." Arthur glanced at her but didn't take long to enter the room. Claire stood in front of the door ready to alert Arthur if someone was coming. She only heard the laughs of the men on the balcony, the Bronte's men. Claire didn't like that man, he believed himself superior to everyone in Saint-Denis, and maybe from the world. He sure was rich but he was an evil man, a real demon. Some minutes later Arthur got out of the room. "Did you find anything?" Asked Claire noticing some of her lipstick on the collar of his shirt. "I think so." He replied watching the corridor in case someone was coming or because he was still unable to look at her. "Now let's go." Arthur took Claire by her arm and went downstairs. Outside in the garden, there was a man behind the railing looking at the party and drinking champagne. He was the dark haired man Claire saw on the balcony with Angelo Bronte. Arthur went to him without hesitation, he cleared his throat and leaned to the railing. "Find anything?" asked him the dark-haired man. "I think so..." Arthur poked his chest to show him he got something. The dark-haired man turned around feeling Claire's presence, he looked at her suspiciously. "Dutch... this is Mrs..." "Mrs Claire Russell." advanced Claire before Arthur couldn't continue. At her father's surname, Arthur glanced at her surprised but rapidly understood that Claire might want to keep her Cornwall relation from Dutch. "Dutch Van der Linde." answered Dutch kissing her hand, but still there was suspicion in his eyes. "Claire helped with the Cornwall information." Noted Arthur. "I didn't know you need help with that..." added Dutch with distrust, Dutch eyes narrowed at the lipstick that was in Arthur's collar. Arthur was going to answer when two other men joined them. "Nothing! This town is a waste of time!" announced the biggest one. "Maybe not." added the older one. Hosea, as Claire remembered, he was the man staring at Arthur and her earlier. Hosea noticed Claire and turned to look at her, then to Arthur and of course, he didn't miss the detail in Arthur's collar. A big smile grew on his face. "Hosea Mathews." presented himself with friendly cordiality. "Claire Russell," she replied with a smile. "Who is she?" asked the other man. "No time for this." said Dutch looking severely at Claire and Arthur. "Time to go." The fourth men went to the front door but Claire took Arthur's arm to stop him. He turned to look at her. "Will I see you again?" asked she. "I... I dunno..." Arthur hesitated not being able to look into her eyes. "If you want to see me..." Claire continued. "You will find me in Rue de l'homme armé. Ask for Marianne, she is my trusted maid." Arthur took her hand from his arm and squeezed, he didn't dare to promise anything in case he couldn't keep it. "I'll have that in mind..." he finally said. "Arthur! What are you doing?" the man that Claire didn't know his name came back to look for Arthur. Their eyes kept locked into each other but none of the two dared to move. Claire finally sighed with a sad smile. "See you." She said releasing his hand. But before letting him go she signalled his collar with a mischievous smile. Arthur looked at her puzzled but when he touched his collar he noticed the grease of the lipstick and blushing tried to clean it before getting back with his gang.

[sirius-archive]

Chaos Theory

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader, Reader x [redacted], Reader x [redacted] ;)

Warnings: Swearing

Word count: 3350

A/N: Finally, it’s here. After much planning and many, many drafts, it’s here. I want to state for the record that this is going to be full blown fic, I’ve already got a heap of chapters planned and three have already been written. Also, things are not what they seem. There will be twists and turns and love interests pouring out from the earth because I’m That Bitch. I’m also a sucker for drama. Anyway, enjoy chapter one!!

Chapter One                                                              

Like most complicated things in life, this story starts with a boy, a secret and a smile.

Even in retrospect, they seem like they’ve been scribbled on a scrap piece of paper and blindly plucked from a nice, big bowl of what-else-can-the-universe-thrust-at-me for the sake of twisted arbitrary, but not everything is as it seems, and everything seems ridiculous and inconvenient. But, at the same time, maybe you should have seen this coming. Maybe you should have predicted the shit storm that was going to spin your life into vertigo, like the earth has been tipped off its axis, latitude and longitude slipping and colliding while the corners of the map fade to ash.

It happens, as you would later realize with an impending sense of doom, like this:

In the summer of 1994, you and your friends stumble through the forest, looking for an old boot.

The forest breathes a cool sigh of air against your cheeks as you wander past the trees, eyes glued to the ground for the boot. Every time your mind drifts to the Quidditch World Cup, the excitement begins to bubble up inside your stomach and you can’t fight back the smile that spreads across your face whenever you reflect on the past few days. Staying at the Burrow was always like an improved version of home, but this time, it's different somehow.

Perhaps it’s the freedom of staying somewhere that isn’t your home. Not that your place isn’t comfortable; you don’t think anyone could deem a Victorian mansion with sprawling, manicured lawns ‘uncomfortable’. But it’s starting to feel more like a sad skeleton with marble walls for skin instead of a home, especially with your father always working and your brother, Luke, staying with his Slytherin friends for the summer.

There’s something about the company, too, that makes this moment so special. Being reunited with the Weasley family and being welcomed into their home is always like visiting relatives. And there’s always something to catch up on with Hermione. Then there’s Harry…

You glance at Harry, who is sifting through the leaves beside you. He’s talking about…something…one hand jammed into the pocket of his jeans, the other swinging by his side, and it’s somewhat refreshing to see Harry so relaxed, so undeniably Harry. Warmth thrums through your veins like honey and you can’t help but smile as you regard him fondly in the late morning sun.

It’s been a while since you’ve shared a moment alone with your best friend. Usually, you’re joined by Ron and Hermione, but they’re currently preoccupied with a debate over…whatever they debate over. You can actually hear them bickering; Hermione’s voice tight and shrill and Ron’s sarcastic remarks muffled by the distance between you and them.

With the sound of their bickering in the background, and the warmth of Harry’s presence forming a bubble around you, the urge to chisel ‘I love my friends’ onto every single rib in your ribcage floods you like a wave of sunlight. It’s essentially how you feel when you’re not saving Hogwarts from corrupt teachers and giant basilisk or helping innocent fugitives escape the kiss of a Dementor. And moments like these remind you just how fortunate you are to have found your friends.

Harry’s gentle chuckle brings your wandering thoughts back into the moment as it fades into a gleeful smile.

“You should have seen the look on his face…” Harry smirks, though the context of the conversation is lost to you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now Dudley second guesses himself whenever he tries to bully me. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder because he’s expecting Sirius to jump out and turn him into – I don’t know¬– a dung beetle,” he pauses and then barks a laugh like he’s just remembered something, “Or a pig! Did I tell you about the time Hagrid gave Dudley a pigs tail?”  

“He didn’t…” you gasp, and Harry gives you an exaggerated, shit-eating grin, “Merlin, he actually did!”

“When he first told me that I was a wizard and delivered my letter to me…he used his umbrella and…” Harry mimics pointing an umbrella at a stone and pretends to cast the spell. You playfully punch his shoulder and Harry recoils with a yelp.

“That was for not telling me,” you scold, fighting back the smile that’s tickling the corners of your lips, “I thought we agreed to tell each other stupid stuff that happens to our relatives.”

Harry pouts an apology, “Can I make it up to you?”

“You can,” you smirk, “but are you prepared to pay the price?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it,” Harry grins.

There is a fleeting moment where the two of you stare at each other in silence, but the moment is broken with a laugh as you both dissolve into hysterical laughter. A good five minutes pass before you cradle your stomach and heave out a sigh, attempting to regain your composure. Once the remainders of your chortles and giggles fade, you notice a strange look crossing Harry’s face as he stares at you.

“What is it?” you ask, breathlessly, wiping away tears.

“(Y/N) I–”

“(Y/N)?” a curious voice asks from somewhere behind you. You swivel around at the sound of your name, lips curling into a smile when you see Cedric Diggory standing behind you.

Your mouth goes a little bit dry.

“Hi Cedric,” you smile as Cedric approaches, and you suddenly feel self-conscious and bashful.

Your eyes travel over him as he draws closer. He’s tall and broad and athletic, bronzed skin and eyes so blue you could drown. His expression is one of pure delight, like stumbling upon you had been the best thing that’s happened since Christmas, and it’s so genuine it almost convinces you that it’s true. And his smile; gracious and gentle and golden–

That smile of his could cure every disease known to man.

“It’s good to see you,” He grins, boyishly, sounding genuinely pleased.

“You too,” you reply, your voice sounding distant like you’ve stepped outside of your own body and your mouth is moving on its own accord.

Cedric gazes at you with a gentle warmth, eyes as blue as a clear, summer sky, drawing you in. And there’s something inviting about his smile like his lips want to reach down and embrace yours in a tender kiss–

Harry clears his throat and it jolts through you like electricity, almost startling you “Oh, Cedric, this is Harry. Harry, this is Cedric–”

“It’s great to finally meet you now that we’re off the Quidditch field, Harry,” Cedric beams, extending his hand.

Harry takes it, “Yeah, you too…”

Cedric turns back to you, the blue in his eyes washing over you like a wave, “How was your summer?”

You put a little too much effort into a smile you hope looks graceful “Oh, um, it was…pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“Yeah. Harry and I have been staying with the Weasleys. How’s yours?”

“Pleasant,” He echoes, grinning, and you feel heat tickle apples of your cheeks, “I met this girl at the end of last year and she…she’s really something y’know? I can’t seem to get her off my mind…”

Cedric trails off into a sigh, gazing into your eyes. You’re reminded of a wilted fire lily pressed between the pages of a dozen letters, all of them signed off with a curling ‘C’; long strands of amber butterbeer melting over your tongue; a spring breeze fragranced with wildflowers and the promise of romance; and a smile, soft and reassuring and setting your entire world alight in a fiery blaze of heat and passion.

Harry clears his throat again and it whips both of you back into the present.

“Looking forward to the game?” Cedric asks.

“Definitely,” you grin, excitedly, “This is Harry’s first Quidditch World Cup,”.  

“It is?” Cedric peers around you and smiles at Harry, “You’re going to love it. Especially this game; two teams at the top of their game, competing for the trophy…”

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins,” You remark, pensively, “Penelope will probably want me to write an article about the game for The Howler, no doubt.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing it,” Cedric remarks, “I admire your articles anyway.”

Your heart staggers clumsily around in your chest like someone’s reached down and yanked it up into your throat. Your face is definitely changing colours now; you can feel the heat of a bright red blush burning your cheeks like sunburn.

“Y-You do?”

“Yeah! I genuinely look forward to reading everything you write. They’re interesting and well written. I especially liked the one about the Toad Choir...”  

Your mouth flaps open as you search for words, stumbling over letters and syllables like a bashful child, “Well–uh–I–”

“–Over here, Arthur! Over here, son! I’ve found the Portkey!”

Amos Diggory’s voice split through the still air, the echo rippling through the trees and startling some sparrows.

Relieved by the distraction, you spin on your heel and follow the sound of Mr Diggory’s guffaw’s and Mr Weasley’s voice. Cedric walks on your right side, Harry on your left. It is suddenly unbearably hot like the sun is boring its fiery gaze into your soul. An itch forms on the inside of your wrist as though there was an insect wiggling beneath the thin skin. You claw at it hastily, fingers fumbling with your bracelet in an effort to distract yourself. 

Hermione and Ron join you a few minutes later while Mr Weasley introduces his family to Mr Diggory. As they talk, you can feel Hermione’s eyes moving over you as though she were micro-managing every movement that you make, like you’re pinned beneath a microscope. You turn to her, unsurprised by her expression. She raises her brows expectantly, her eyes darting between you and Cedric.

“Oh,” you bleat, turning to Cedric, “Guys, this is Cedric. Cedric, this is Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.”

Cedric’s lips quirk into a genuine smile, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Hermione smiles gracefully.

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. Well, at least they can agree on something.

Mr Diggory makes his way over, clapping a hand on Cedric’s shoulder and regarding you curiously. Cedric introduces you to Mr Diggory and his lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“So you’re the writer my son can’t stop talking about,” Mr Diggory’s remark is followed by a firm handshake, “It’s good to finally meet you in the flesh, (Y/N).”

Cedric’s face flushes an intriguing shade of pink, “Dad…”

Mr Diggory barks a warm, boisterous laugh that rattles your chest, “Don’t worry, son, I don’t think she’s going anyway soon.”

He turns to face you, his benevolent, round face beaming at you, “Cedric showed me an article you wrote about last year’s Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Beautifully written. You’re a real talent, y’know. Though I shouldn’t expect any less, given that your old man is the editor-and-chief of the Daily Prophet.”

Warmth glows beneath your cheeks as you smile bashfully at Mr Diggory, “Well, thank you, sir.”

“Sir,” Mr Diggory echoes, followed by a single laugh that punches the air. He turns to Cedric, whose boyish features ripple between embarrassment and pride, and jabs him in the ribs, “She’s a keeper, Ced.”

Cedric winces, an adorable, pink flush blossoming across his cheeks as he fumbles to change the subject, “Er, Dad, we should probably get moving.”  

“Right you are,” Mr Diggory nods, his gaze searching for Mr Weasley amongst the throng of redheads.

As the conversation moves toward Mr Weasley and – predictably– steers toward Harry, you meet Cedric’s eyes and he offers you a bashful, apologetic smile.

You pray to God, Jesus and Merlin that he can’t hear the tha-thump of your racing heart.

***

Portkeys are, perhaps, the second worst way to travel. The first is through the Floo Network because it’s dusty and dirty but Portkeys are…sudden, and the uncomfortable tug in your stomach only makes you feel dizzy and slightly nauseous.  

Fortunately, you’re not the only one who fell face-first on the ground and consequently got a mouthful of dirt. When your vision finally stops spinning, you notice most of the Weasley family collapsed on the ground. Ron groans beside you as Hermione and Harry scramble to their feet. Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory and Cedric are the only ones standing, the latter of whom looks a little windswept. He bends down and offers you a hand.

“You alright?” he asks, concern pinching his perfectly chiselled face. You nod and bite your lip as he helps your sorry self to your feet.

You dust the dirt from your grass-stained knees and iron out your denim skirt with the palms of your hands, using it as an excuse to tame your pounding heart. Pushing your hair back, you flash Cedric a shy smile, “Thanks.”

“Happy to be of help,” Cedric grins.

“Of course you are…” George snickers from behind Cedric and Fred snorts.

Cedric swivels around and flashes a polite smile, “Pardon?”

The sun’s heat feels concentrated, baking you with the kind of heat that could shrivel a Sunday roast. The itch returns to the inside of your wrist and you nervously scratch at it with newfound intensity. 

“Oh, nothing, your Highness,” Fred mimes an exaggerated bow, “Er, I mean, Cedric.”

“Good ol’ Ced,” George winks, glancing between you and Cedric. 

Fred claps a hand on Cedric’s shoulder, “Ric…can I call you Ric?”

“Well–”

“Anyway,” you interject before this conversation can get any more embarrassing, “We should probably get moving.”

Without even thinking, you take Cedric’s hand and lead him away from the twins, hoping to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You finally come to a stop behind Ginny and Hermione.

“That was….”

“Awkward?” you suggest.

“I was going to say ‘Interesting’, but ‘awkward’ works, too.” Cedric offers you a lazy, boyish smile. 

You realize your fingers are still interlaced with his and you jerk away from him hastily, as though he’s infected with a contagious virus, and anyone else would be offended by it but not Cedric. Instead, he eyes you with an expression that resembles amusement or intrigue or both, but he doesn’t say anything. You kind of want to leap into a barren, boundless void and hibernate in there for a few thousand years.

“So, my dad is going to hang out with his Ministry friends tonight,” Cedric begins, glancing away shyly, “He…erm…says it’s his ‘Quidditch tradition.’”

“So you’re essentially being ditched by your own dad,” you snort, “Nice.”

“Well, here's the thing…if I say I have company then he won’t feel so bad.”

You blink at him, “What are you saying?”

Cedric smiles boyishly, “Well…I’m saying…asking, really….if you’d like to come over and we can sit around a fire and eat s’mores and just chat. I like talking to you instead of having to send an owl all the time.”

You bite your lip and nod, “Okay. So it’ll just be…us?”

“What will ‘just be us?’” Ron sidles up to the two of you, Harry following. Harry’s eyes move between you and Cedric. There is something unreadable in his gaze. 

“Oh, I was just….” Cedric flushes, as though he were internally battling something, before conceding with a somewhat forced smile “Would you guys like to meet up later tonight?”

“Sure,” Ron shrugs, “Anything to get away from them two.” He jabs a thumb at Fred and George.

“Oh we’re coming too!” George chimes, “We don’t know what it is but if it’s going to be fun, we’re there.”

“Otherwise we’ll make it fun.” Fred adds.

You turn to Cedric, who is graciously trying to stave a grimace, “Of course. You guys can come too.”

“Come along then, son.” Mr Diggory waves Cedric over, smiling at the two of you, “We’d better settle in before the game begins.”

The game isn’t for a few hours but Cedric doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he gives you a lingering look and grazes his hand against yours, “I’ll see you later on tonight.”

“See you tonight,” you call after him, grinning from ear to ear.

Later on tonight, you think with a smile. Your mind pulls apart the words and stitches them back together, your heart singing like a dove in your ribcage.

***

Out of the hundreds of wizards and witches gathered on the camping grounds, you just have to run into a familiar, blonde-haired prat, like he’s a rather annoying shadow.

Whether you like it or not, Draco Malfoy is always there, just waiting to claw his hands into whatever is left of your optimism for the day and tear it to shreds. You can’t even go on a walk with your friends without him popping out of a bush or crawling out of some den like a predator. Even if you’re soaring on a high from Cedric’s earlier invitation, Malfoy almost insists on wiggling his way under your skin. He’s an irritation you haven’t learned how to scratch yet.

You nudge Harry in the ribs when you spot the boy, nodding in Malfoy’s direction. Thankfully, it’s just the four of you, and you remember with a sense of relief that Mr Weasley isn’t here. You don’t want a repetition of what happened the last time he encountered a Malfoy, even if he is a miniature one.

But before either of you can react, Malfoy has already spotted you and he’s swaggering over to the four of you with a malicious glint dancing in his cold, blue eyes before you can formulate a plan of escape. 

“I knew I could smell something foul,” Malfoy scorns, crinkling his nose, “You can smell a Weasley from a mile away from the stench that reeks off them. I suppose you all can’t afford to take showers every day since there’s so many of you. Got to save water now, don’t we?”

Draco snickers gleefully as Ron’s fists curl at his sides. His face is flushed crimson with anger as Hermione grips his wrist warningly.

“Malfoy,” Harry spits, his tone cold and venomous, “The only putrid smell around here is you.”

“Please, Potter, don’t play pretend,” Draco sneers, “Just because no one knocked any sense into you doesn’t mean we have to put up with the peasant and the mudblood.”

“You watch your mouth, Malfoy!” Ron snarls, “Before I break it in with my fist.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Draco smirks, challengingly.

“We all know you’re a coward,” Harry snaps, “Your dad isn’t here so you don’t have to prove your worth anything.”

Draco’s expression darkens, “What would you know about fathers, your father is dead.”

Harry moves to lunge at Draco but Hermione pulls him back. You can almost feel the loathing rolling off Harry as his mouth twists into a frown and his eyes light up like emerald flames. You turn to Draco, imploring him with a pleading look.  

“Look, you’re wasting all of our time. We’ve got better things to do…”

Draco sniffs, fixing a glare on you, “You’re lucky you’ve got your pretty, little girlfriend here to protect you, Potter. Next time, I’ll make sure you’re not so fortunate.”

Draco whirls around and leaves before any of you can say another word.

“Good riddance,” Ron spits, his temper simmering, “He always has to ruin everything…”

Hermione rolls her eyes, “Don’t let stuck-up snobs like Malfoy put you down. It’s the World Cup. Forget about it.”

Hermione drags Ron away, charging through the crowd. You’re about to follow her, too, but notice that Harry is rooted to the ground where he stands. You put a hand on his shoulder and rub soothing circles, hoping to release some tension.

“Forget about Malfoy, Harry,” you smile, “Let’s enjoy the moment and look forward to the game…” and spending the night with Cedric your mind whispers as your heart leaps excitedly.

Harry offers you a weary half-smile as you take his hand, tracing comforting circles across the top of his thumb. He’s always been good at deflecting Malfoy’s attacks. But there’s something ominous in the way he stares at you that has you thinking that maybe this isn’t over. 

You don’t bother to bring it up, though, hoping Harry will release it with all his other worries.

Chapter Two will be coming soon! 

[thehyperkraken]

EDIT: yall idk why the actual fic isnt showing up in the tags but this shit is, bc thats literally the opposite of what i wanted, but for the love of god read the fic first and/or instead, that’s the thing i spent more than 20 minutes on: [link]

Hey random idea dump for that one fic i done did yeehaw... it’s almost longer than the fic itself but jesus christ i need to get these ideas out of my head and throw them into the internet ether, seriously don’t read this its a goddamn mess

So ghjkdf the actual plotty part of that fic came from that one b99 bit... the Bone one.....u kno

Arthur: Come on, Dutch. The O'Driscolls thing isn't the problem. You're in a bad mood because you've been so busy planning this heist that it's keeping you and Hosea apart. You two just need to bone. John: Oh no... Dutch: ...What did you say? John: Don't say it again! Arthur: I said you two need to bone. John: Oh my god... Dutch: (with barely contained fury) Hhhhhow Dare you Arthur Morgan, I am thIS GANG'S LEADER!!! You have NO RIGHT to comment on my sex life— (5 minutes later) Dutch, standing on top of a table screaming: BONE?!?!?! (10 minutes later) Dutch: What happens in my bedroom, son, is NONE of your business— (20 minutes later) Dutch, jumping up and down on the table: BOOOOOOONE!!!!!!!!! (40 minutes later) Dutch: And don't EVER speak to me like that AGAIN! (storms off) John, sunken down in his chair in horror: Why the hell did you do that? Arthur: (shrugs) They need to bone. John: Gross, Arthur! That's our dads!

And then like a day later gfdhkg

John: Oh hey Dutch! I know you don't want to talk about Hosea, BUT, I had an idea— Dutch: No need, John, it's all good. John: So... your fight with Hosea is over? Dutch: Yep. John: Because you finally figured out a plan for the heist...? Dutch: Nope! Arthur, excitedly: Because you guys—? Dutch: Yyyyep! Arthur, looking smug: Knew it. John: Ugh... Arthur: (leans down close to him) See, what happened is, our dads had sex— John: UGH, SHUT UP!

Another inspiration I had was John Mulaney’s bit about zoning out for John with adhd,,,,, the part where he’s like “the doctor was reading me the results of a blood test, it was IMPORTANT that I LISTENED, but NO, I zoned out, I was like, I’m just gonna stare at the wall and think m’thoughts” that’s why I wrote the part where John was like “ehhh attention deficient something something disease” bc it made me laugh gjhggdjh

Dutch: so the doctor says you have ADHD John: (thinking about minecraft) what?

Also unrelated but blease consider Arthur teaching John to drive like

Arthur: are you watching the road? John: ........I am looking through the windshield Arthur: John: .......and I’m not gonna hit anyone...... Arthur: John: ....but no. I’m thinkin’ about minecraft

(Also I don’t know anything about ssb I’ve played it once and hated it, minecraft is my og video game love, but Abigail beating John at ssb is funnier, I’m a fake gamer boy :^( rip)

ONE MORE INSPIRATION THAT ONE VINE ITS MY FAVORITE VINE

Arthur: are you drinking coke for breakfast? John: yeah, what did you have for breakfast? Arthur: ........nothing John: (sipping his drink) I’m doing better than you, then

Anyway onto ACTUAL IDEA STUFF HOORAY

So when Dutch and Hosea decided to adopt, they agreed they wanted to take in kids who needed good homes the most, so they were specifically looking for older kids who would probably age out of the system and wind up on the streets

They met Arthur who was a clearly depressed and gender non conforming thirteen year old who hated everyone and everything and wasn’t getting the Love he Deserved, and Dutch was like “I want THAT ONE, with the SAD EYES”

Arthur tried to push them away at first, cuz he absolutely didn’t trust anyone, and some part of him believed they’d just give him right back up for adoption if he disappointed them in any way. But he eventually learned that they were good guys who really just wanted to help him, and they weren’t gonna abandon him if he wasn’t the perfect kid they always wanted

(he probably told them about this fear eventually and Hosea just snorted and was like “if we wanted a perfect kid we woulda got a cabbage patch doll. something that wouldn’t scream or make a mess” and Dutch was like “yeah! or like a 27 year old with a job and their own house and kids of their own. pre-made grandkids” and Hosea was like “or a cat” and Arthur was like “...okay”)

Anyway it took a loooong time but Arthur eventually trusted them enough to come out to them as trans, without really knowing the proper words for everything, just knowing that He Is A Boy And That’s That. As much as Hosea is the one the lads go to to talk about stuff and get comfort and Wise Dad Advice, he probably told Dutch first bc he was more uncertain how he’d respond and he wanted to get it over with in the worst way possible.... like, if they were gonna react badly, heap all the bullshit on in one fell swoop

I imagine he did it off the cuff too, in response to something Dutch said, like Dutch was like “u get back here right now young lady” and Arthur was like “first of all I’m not a lady, I’m a BOY, and second of all FUCK you, I do what I WANT” and Dutch was like “groovy. you’re grounded.” Arthur was like (offended) “don’t say groovy... don’t try to be hip” and Dutch was like “no it’s totally tubular that ur a boy. It’s absolutely funky. You’re fucking grounded though”

Then he went and told Hosea like “congrats! it’s a boy” and they helped him transition and they didn’t tolerate a single person misgendering him the whole time. Like before he’s even begun transitioning, they’re literally at the doctors office to discuss it w/ their doc for the first time, and a nurse is like “ms. morgan?” And Dutch is like “INCORRECT” and the doctor is like “what seems to be the problem (deadname)?” and Dutch is like “FOOL! THIS CHILD WAS LABELED INACCURATELY, WE REQUIRE A GENDER RETRACTION” and Hosea’s like “please stop yelling”

Anyway probably about a year later they got John when he was ten and Arthur was fifteen. Arthur was a little bit jealous like, wow, am I not enough kid for u, but Dutch and Hosea always planned on getting at least two bc they wanted them to have siblings, and they know John came from a pretty abusive situation, so Arthur can’t be too mad at him. At least until he met John and realized what a fucking brat he is

Since John was younger and way more desperate for affection, he immediately loved Dutch and Hosea just bc they were nice to him, he was ready to call them his dads within the month but he was nervous that it was too soon and they’d be weirded out. But I imagine he got triggered by something and had a meltdown and they got to see just a glimpse of what he’d been through, and Dutch and Hosea were falling over themselves trying to comfort him and tell him they love him and now I’m making myself cry :’^(

Anyway... from that point on John was like “these are the only dads I’ve ever had and I would kill a man for them.” He gets in trouble quite a bit bc he’s Naughty, but Dutch and Hosea always make sure to punish him fairly and never yell or be physically intimidating with him or permanently take away his stuff, like they make him do chores to earn back the right to use the xbox or something. And they always explain to him exactly what he did wrong and why he’s being punished and talk to him about how he can make it better or what he can do next time, or if there’s a root problem, like he’s acting out bc he’s overwhelmed with school work or smthn, how they can help him. Especially after he gets diagnosed with ADHD

And of course they do all this with Arthur too, but they make a special concerted effort with John bc he’s The Baby :^) and Dutch somehow maintains an attitude of “idk what ur talking about, John has never done anything wrong ever in his life” every time he gets in trouble meanwhile Hosea is like “what do you MEAN, he’s a GREMLIN” fjfjfhhf

Arthur was probably diagnosed with depression and anxiety at some point... it was probably a long process to get him to even admit he had a problem bc he didnt wanna bother anyone... Arthur also probably came from an abusive situation from the way canon Arthur talks about his dad, but Arthur is much more the type to be like “i’m gonna keep all my feelings inside, and then one day, i’ll die” whereas John is like “i will SCREAM if i get a papercut”

[EDIT: i woke up in a cold sweat at 4 AM with this in my head so now i’m putting it here

Charles: So, Arthur... Do you wanna talk about your feelings? Arthur: No. John: I do! :) Charles: ...I know, John. John: I’m sad! :) Charles: I know, John.

i’m sure it’s been done before but it’s so good. ok now back to our regularly scheduled programming]

In regards to Arthur being trans, John doesn’t really Get It, Arthur tried to explain it to him once and John couldn’t care less, all he knows is Arthur used to be a girl or something, there’s tea involved probably, and John is thinking about minecraft again... he has 2 am thoughts about it sometimes and comes to Arthur like “what IS gender” and Arthur’s just like “hm. big mood”

Dutch is “Dad” and Hosea is “Papa” or “Pa” or “Pops” or “Dad, No Not You, The Other One” or “Other Dad.” Hosea really doesn’t mind at all, he wouldn’t care if the kids called him Hosea or mom or anything else, it truly isnt important to him. But Dutch Loves being Dad. Every time they call Dutch Dad he grows three times stronger and 10 years are added to his lifespan. Dutch is an Alpha Parent, he 100% goes to every parent teacher conference and bake sale, he’d go to every game and concert too if either of his kids had a single athletic or musical bone in their dumb little bodies. I guess the school probably hosts art galleries sometimes to display art the kids make, Arthur always has a drawing in one of those, and Dutch will absolutely go just to brag about his cool son.

Dutch is the Fun Energetic Dad who embarrasses the boys in front of their friends but can always be talked into taking them out to get ice cream. Hosea is the more quietly anxious dad, he makes sure they do their homework and keep their rooms clean and shit, and he's the one the kids always go to talk to when they’re having problems... like Arthur will rant for an hour and a half about high school drama and Hosea will patiently listen to all of it and when he's done he’ll offer to kick the other kids’ asses for him, and Arthur’s like lmao but Hosea Means It.

Hosea is also the one the kids go to for help on their homework because Hosea and Dutch have five brain cells between them, and four of them belong to Hosea. Dutch is like “suddenly I don’t remember basic math, time to make shit up” and Hosea is like “I must become an expert on 1820s Chinese history in two days for my beautiful sons”

I have NO idea what either of their jobs are, I wanna say Hosea is a lawyer or smthn but idk, Dutch is probably like......................a used car salesman LMAO...... they clearly make a lot of money (or maybe STOLE SOME) bc I gave them a huge house w/ a pool gjhkdhg

Anyway more about THE KIDS

They go to a school that is a combination middle school and high school, bc that’s what my school was like

Mrs. Grimshaw is the strict and irritable principal with a secret soft spot for kids, Mr. Pearson is the cafeteria cook, Strauss works in the office, I wanna say Rev. Swanson is a weird but friendly janitor or something lmao. Uncle is Dutch & Hosea’s annoying forever-drunk neighbor who everyone barely tolerates fjfjhfh

Micah is The School Bully but like bc this is a cutesy high school au and I can do what I want, he’s not actually like a violent racist or anything he’s just a bad mad sad kid who is a huge dick

Bill is Micah’s Bully Henchman, he’s generally not as much of a dick as Micah is, but he punches whoever Micah asks him to bc they are the closest thing to friends that either of them have

Trelawny is a new student who just moved from another school and he’s that fucking Weird Magician Kid who can’t hold a conversation longer than five seconds without saying “wanna see a magic trick,” tried to do some unimpressive card tricks for the school talent show, unironically wears a cape, etc.... Arthur stood up for him when he was getting pushed around by Micah and Bill so now Arthur has +1 more weird friend

Karen is the Popular Girl who somehow knows everyone, is probably a cheerleader, everyone is either extremely intimidated by her or thinks she’s gonna be a stuck up bitch, but she’s actually just super fucking chill and nice, WILL stab a man for her friends, she won’t hesitate bitch

Tilly is Karen’s bff who was getting bullied by *shakes fist* those dang foreman brothers.... Karen stood up for her and Tilly was like “no don’t u will get hurt!!” and Karen was like “ha... fool... cheerleaders cannot die” and whooped ass with her gymnastics skills and somehow got the foreman brothers expelled. So now Tilly is like “I owe u one (1) Life Debt” but Karen is like “nah it’s chill just come to target w/ me & we’ll call it even.” Tilly is just tryna get shit done and do her damn homework but everybody else is going on adventures and being nuisances so of course Tilly has to go too bc come on....... who do you take her for, some kinda two-bit GEEK? NO WAY

Mary Beth is a quiet nerdy girl who’s always reading or writing and never talks in class or anything. Karen and Tilly became her friends thru sheer brute force, Karen just sat by her one day n was like “sup” and Mary Beth was too shy to ask her to leave. They were surprised to discover Mary Beth is actually pretty nice and funny when you get to know her and also the Biggest Lesbian Alive

Sadie is a BAD BITCH... NOBODY fucks with Sadie, not even Micah, Sadie is the girl who when some dipshit boy spreads a rumor that he had sex with her, she agrees and tells everyone she pegged him and he cried after, she hasn’t given a fuck since 2007. she climbs on the roof to get lost frisbees. one time she got the gym coach to agree to give her an automatic A in the class if she did 100 push ups in 5 minutes. Then she Did That. She might have pulled several muscles in both of her arms but She Did That. Karen, Tilly, and Mary Beth (but mostly Karen) approached her like “damn that was sick” and Sadie was like “yea i know” and then they were friends

I literally don’t know anything about Sean I’m sorry...... maybe he’s a transfer student who becomes friends with John, they play Minecraft together and Sean boobytraps the houses John builds. Sean is the only living human being who understands how redstone works and he uses his powers for evil

Molly is going to a nearby community college and is working at the high school part time as a TA and she is like 19-20 or smthn so the kids all think she’s The Hottest Shit,,,, like they think she’s just the coolest hippest person alive, but also she is Very Attractive so fuckin everybody has a crush on her, most specifically Javier and Mary Beth. She ineptly tries to flirt with Dutch every time he comes to a parent teacher conference bc she’s dummy thicc and thinks it’s friendship goals that Dutch lives with and has adopted children with his Best Bud Hosea

The teacher Molly is TA for is Charles Chatenay, an all-grades art teacher who takes his job WAY too seriously, like dude chill they’re high schoolers. His class is where Arthur met Albert, bc Arthur loves drawing and obviously Albert loves photography. They were both like “wow he’s cute” but were too shy to talk to each other for more than basic pleasantries, until one day Albert’s Big Project was ruined a day or two before he was gonna turn it in, and Arthur helped him fix it.

They’re so sweet on each other it’s unbearable, they’re both Soft Boys so they fuckin blush if they make eye contact...... the most bold either of them get is when Arthur is feeling insecure about his body and Albert gladly tells him how perfect and handsome he is in every way, and he wishes he was half as gorgeous as Arthur is, and Arthur is like (offended) um, excuse me, how dare u insult my beautiful boyfriend in this way?? They both wanna grow beards so while they’re still going thru Changes they excitedly bond over their facial hair......... they run up to each other at school like LOOK AT MY NEW CHIN HAIR and the other one is like WOW!!! GOOD JOB

Javier has a big lovely family who spoil him rotten and tbh love to spoil his friends when they come over too, his parents are in a constant and devastating game of dish-gifting with Dutch & Hosea, Arthur and John have eaten more of Mr. & Mrs. Escuella’s tamales than any other food, neither Dutch nor Hosea are very good cooks but luckily Javier has plenty of aunts and uncles and cousins who are happy to occasionally take one of their unimpressive lasagnas or cakes from a box mix

Lenny’s cool dad in canon is the high school au dad of Charles and Lenny, he and Charles’s mom amicably divorced and he got remarried to Lenny’s mom, who is a Cool Stepmom to Charles. Charles and Lenny go stay with Charles’s mom all the time, in fact she was around so much when they were younger that she practically helped raise them both. maybe she gets a gf and Charles and Lenny have so many moms and are so loved & cherished like they fuCKIN DESERVE

Kieran is the weird horse girl at school, he’s Lenny’s age, they become friends when they’re forced to sit next to each other and they’re both too awkward and shy to say anything until they’re paired up on a project together bc everyone else in the class already paired up and they were the only ones left gjkhfd.... John wants to dislike Kieran bc Lenny is HIS friend now, but Kieran is a sweet lad with a mean dad.... His dad is Colm O’Driscoll, Dutch & Hosea’s other neighbor and Dutch’s sworn enemy

Dutch expects Kieran to be as shitty as his dad, but he is a SWEET BOY, and as soon as they realize his situation, they tell Kieran he can come over whenever he wants and spend the night any time, he doesn’t have to ask or anything, but Kieran is super respectful and always asks permission and always tries to come over when John or Arthur are there so he can go under the pretense of hanging out with them, bc he doesn’t wanna intrude...

Once he came over when Hosea was the only one home and he was like “hi Mr. Matthews are John and Arthur home” and Hosea was like “no sorry they’re out” and Kieran was like “oh... ok sorry I’ll just go then” and Hosea was like “absolutely not” and brought Kieran in and made him snacks and wrapped him in many blankets and watched a kids movie with him until he fell asleep on the couch... when Dutch came home he was like “??? new son ???” and Hosea was like “yea I guess. oops”

When Kieran gets older they help him become an emancipated minor and get a job and his own place (even tho he knows they’d let him stay with them if he wanted) and he changes his last name to his mom’s maiden name Duffy... Colm and Dutch glare at each other over their fences and Colm is like “enjoying stealing my son?” and Dutch is like “my son now” but Colm really doesn’t care bc he’s an asshole... and even tho they don’t legally adopt him, Kieran’s like “I’m more of a Van der Linde than an O’Driscoll” and oops i’m making myself cry again :’)

And yes Abigail does eventually teach John how to play stupid super smash bros. She’s Pro Gamer level of competent at nearly all video games and John has the biggest heart eyes for her, the end thank u for listening