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sl-newsie · 7 months ago

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American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 52: You Can't Buy Integrity

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/739551758747090944/american-woman-thomas-shelby-x-american-oc?source=share

When I drive back to Watery Lane I find Finn waving at me from the window. He opens the door just as fat raindrops start splattering the windshield. So much for a pretty winter snowfall.

I sprint through the doorway and shake off the cold water. “Everything alright, Finn?”

“Yeah. Everything’s been quiet. The little tyke’s been asleep for an hour. How was the meeting?” I give him a frustrated, helpless glare and he gets the message. “Well, duty calls. ‘M supposed to keep watch tonight.”

I gawk at Finn as he prepares to depart. “In the rain?”

“Even in the rain,” he jokes lightly and shuts the door.

Same cold, quiet house. Same gripping uncertainty. And then my overthinking mind asks the question: am I really going to stay here once all of this is over? Yes, this is still my house. But is this emptiness what I’m going to be coming back to every day?

I shake the thought away and creep down the hall to Thomas’ room. Finn’s right. Charlie's asleep.

The thread of light escaping from the cracked door causes Charlie to stir. “Veena?”

“It’s me, Charlie,” I call gently. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay.”

I close the door and retreat to the kitchen. This is what I need. Something to occupy myself with. Maybe I’ll make soup… The kind John liked. Jesus, I know death is supposed to happen to everyone but does it have to change everything? I can’t even tell if Thomas is grieving. Life feels so different than a whole year ago-

Thud.

My head perks up to see Thomas come through the back door, soaking wet from the rain. He’s calmed down in the past hour but still can’t shake that look of constant worry.

“Just stopping to check on Charlie,” he says, looking between me and the carrots I’m prepping.

“He’s sleeping,” I reply simply and continue chopping as he goes to check on his son. “Where was Arthur?”

“The factory. Two Italians tried to kill him… So he killed them. Now there’s 13 left.”

How unlucky.

“Arthur’s alright?”

Thomas nods. “They didn’t hurt him.”

I let out a sigh. “That doesn’t mean he has nothing to say. He- Where are you going now?”

He’s already leaving? Is there something so important that Thomas can’t spend a night in? Or was it something I said?

Thomas’ crystal eyes find mine with a look that tells me he’s holding something back. “Union business.”

With that he heads for the front door and I hear it slam. So here I am again. Alone. Expected to wait and believe that everything is under control. Well… I’m getting tired of this.

Bam!

What in Heaven? Can I have one peaceful morning in Birmingham?! That noise is all too familiar. It’s a gunshot. I look out the window and see Finn and Thomas at Arthur’s door down the street. He must have fired the bullet. The bullet for Changretta. Either Linda was very convincing or God Himself spoke up.

And it woke up Charlie too.

“What happened?” The small boy cries and runs over to wrap his arms around my legs, hiding his face in my skirt.

“Shh. ‘S okay, Charlie,” I murmur and rub his back, looking out the window to see Thomas and Finn walking over. “It’s just Uncle Arthur having a hard time. Here comes your vader.”

“Vader?” Charlie asks, now much calmer.

“It’s Dutch. It means daddy.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The door opens and the two brothers walk in. Thomas sees us waiting and makes a beeline to pick up his son.

“Did you hear the loud bang, Charlie? Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay, vader.”

Oh no.

Thomas immediately whips his head to look at me in disbelief. “What did he just say?”

My jaw drops and I freeze. “I- Um, he just asked about-”

“So you’re picking up Dutch now, eh?” Thomas turns back to Charlie. “Did Verena tell you about her family?”

The innocent boy shakes his head. “No. She said a funny word.”

“Ah.”

Thomas nods in understanding and sets him down, allowing Charlie to scamper off to play with a toy ball. Finn and I exchange uneasy looks. How does Thomas feel about his son calling him by a term in my dialect?

“I’m sorry, it slipped out and he started asking. I’ll try to remember-”

“What’s the problem?” Thomas asks, confused. “We speak Rukka. Why should you be required to keep your own heritage silenced?”

I- I can’t speak. My, that’s… Actually very sweet. Definitely not the strict rules of speaking English back home. He doesn’t mind that his son is catching on to my culture.

“As I was saying, Finn, you’re in charge today. Arthur’s taking a day off.”

Finn looks as if Thomas just asked him to jump off a cliff. “Y-You’re sure?”

Thomas merely nods and goes off to his room. This is happening? Wow. Finn’s really rising up through the ranks.

“It is close to your birthday, after all. You’re growing up,” I remark warmly as we start heading to the office.

Finn chuckles and nervously rubs his neck. “I guess so… Oh! By the way, that new guy Bonnie wanted me to tell you there’s no word of your family being harmed.”

So Bonnie kept his word. He’s keeping a watch over my family too.

I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. “Good. Good, good… At least he has the kindness to do that.”

Next to me I hear Finn snicker. “You like him?”

“What are you talking about?”

Suddenly Finn halts and puts an arm across me to keep me from walking further. “Verena, you can’t keep putting yourself off just ‘cause Tommy’s too daft to say he loves you. You are more than capable of finding a man who will treat you right.” He gets a nervous look as if I’m about to punch him. “Maybe get married? I know you don’t want to hear this from your parents but maybe listen to a friend, eh?”

I roll my eyes and stubbornly shove past him. “Thomas does not love me and I am not in the market to get married right now.”

Finn groans. “I don’t mean you marry a bloke after one week! What I mean is that there are other men out there besides my stubborn brother.”

“Yes. And right now there is also a group of men trying to kill me and your family. So let’s focus on the task at hand, hm?”

The young Shelby doesn’t argue. He wants to say more but knows better than to keep poking me. We walk the rest of the way in silence, but my mind is far from quiet. Is he right? How much longer am I supposed to keep up with this? I haven’t even been on a solo assignment for my position as head of foreign relations. Part of me thinks this is all a cruel trick of Thomas’ to see how long I’ll stick around before I realize I’ve wasted my life.

“Here we are. Think I’m ready?” Finn asks nervously as we approach the office.

“Just remember what I’ve taught you and you’ll do fine,” I say encouragingly and pat him on the back.

Finn opens the door for me and we walk in to see that the other women have already begun. Linda’s here too?

“That door’s supposed to be locked until 9 am,” Finn instructs as he inspects the room.

The group of women exchange confused looks. “What are you doing here?”

Finn holds his head proudly. “Thomas says I’m in charge.”

Linda’s eyebrows raise. “You what?”

I smirk. “You heard him.”

“Arthur’s taking the day off, so… Thomas says I’m the boss.”

Um, why are they looking at him like that? Polly looks like a cougar about to pounce on a deer.

“Ladies, let’s give our boss a first day he’ll never forget.”

Finn takes it in stride and rolls his eyes, clearly misjudging her tone. He starts to walk off to the vault but Linda blocks him.

“You’re still a virgin, Finn?” Polly calls nonchalantly. “Don’t be shy about it.”

Finn’s eyes turn wide as moons and I have to keep myself from walking into the wall. Did she just ask-?

“Yes,” Finn mutters, face flushed beet-red.

Linda grins devilishly. “We’ll fix that. Know any good ones, Lizzie?”

Surprisingly, Lizzie is just as against this as I am. “You’re serious? I’m going to see Tommy.”

She grabs her clutch and storms out, leaving me with these scheming women. I really hope she tells Thomas what’s going on!

“There’s one in Aston that’s up for grabs.”

My jaw drops. “Are you hearing yourselves talk? How can you think such things?”

Finn sees Polly reach for the phone, clearly still in the dark. “What’s going on?”

Linda gasps. “Here’s a thought! Why not Verena?”

All the blood drains from my face. “What?!”

She scoffs. “Oh, come on. You’re just as virgin as he is.”

I hold up a warning finger when she tries approaching and try to push Finn away from her. “No. My time will come once I’m married. Finn, please don’t-”

“No no, it’s alright Verena,” he sighs, defeated. “I understand. Guess- Guess this is what a man has to do eventually.”

“But like this? With a woman who is paid to love you? No. I want no part in this. Leave me out of it. Good day.”

I push past Polly and back out into the drenched streets. What kind of demonic pressure is that? Since when is it such a crime to remain a virgin? That certainly is one thing that Thomas will never coax me to believe in. I may stay naïve and alone, but my own statute shall persevere. My soul shall remain untouched.

Later that night my point is proven. Finn stops by to pick up some files and there’s no hiding the distinct look of regret on his face.

“Finn? Do you want to talk about it?” I ask gently and slide him a biscuit.

Finn swallows heavily. “I never want love like that again. It- It was shallow, and meaningless… Why do people do it?”

“Because they think that it might let them find an empty part of themselves,” I sigh and banish my own selfish thoughts. “Making love is God’s gift for marriage, Finn.”

He holds his head in his hands. “She said ‘be a man.’ I am a man.”

“Yes. But you do not need to be hot as a bull to prove it.”

“I’m going to tell Tommy,” Finn decides as he starts walking back to the door.

I can’t stop the pitiful light shining from my eyes. “I’m really sorry, Finn.”

He takes a breath and squinches his eyes shut. “Never change, Verena. Stay exactly as you are.”

One last thought pops up just as he’s about to leave. “Um, has Lizzie- Did she come back to the office?”

Finn thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “Um… No.”

“Oh.”

Don’t overthink, Verena. Don’t worry so much. Thomas knows how much you care through all the work you do. Well, yes, but with him it’s hard to get a read on if any of this will pay off with something other than money. He said to trust him, right? Okay. I can keep trying.

Thankfully Linda is not in attendance today and I’m taking the time to tidy up the office despite some of the secretaries giving me odd glances. I hear the door open and turn around to see a slim, anxious-looking woman wander inside.

I put on a warm smile and walk closer. “Who are you?”

The woman does not smile back. “Mrs. Ross. I’m here to speak to Mr. Shelby.”

There’s something in her eyes. And her hands are shaking. Is that out of sadness, anger, or fear? I’m not sending her in without a subtle warning.

I motion for one of the Blinders standing guard. “Harry, please show her to his office.”

Hopefully by having a guard escort Mrs. Ross in it will tell Thomas to be cautious. In fact… I know I’ve seen her before. Isn’t that the mother of the son Arthur killed? Why is she here?

Whatever it is, it does not take long. The skittish woman struts back to the door in a matter of minutes. The moment the door closes I head straight for Thomas’ office and find him staring at his desk.

“What’d she want?” I ask bluntly.

“Requested that Arthur shows up to a luncheon to honor her son’s 21st birthday, tomorrow at midday.”

I nod in consideration. “You already know, don’t you?”

Thomas looks up with a look that states bold cleverness. “It’s a trap.”

“It’s a trap,” I repeat with a laid-back tone. “Whatever you’re planning, please tell Arthur to be careful.”

“Finn’s going too.”

Oh. He’s being brought into that part of the gang too? He’s still so young.

“Okay,” I finally answer.

“He’s a man, Verena. ‘S time he got in on the fight too.” Thomas stands up and puts a firm hand over mine. “Whatever you do, stay away from Artillery Square tomorrow. Got that?”

Ask him. Ask him! Ask him how long I’m supposed to wait this out!

“Okay,” I repeat. Damn it!

“Maybe go visit Michael,” he suggests, knowing full well I wouldn’t hesitate to disobey him and run into the fight.

“Yes.” Always another gunfight.

I pull away and walk back into the hallway just as Ada stops over. She drops off the mail and I’m about to follow her to the vault-

“That’s her.”

“Quiet, Cynthia! It’s her.”

The hushed perky voices catch my attention and I discreetly look over to see two of the secretaries whispering, with both of them stopping every few seconds to look up at me.

“Ada, what are they talking about?” I ask openly once we’re out of their sight. Ada starts to say something but then shuts her mouth, rethinking her answer. Her hesitant behavior turns me suspicious and my eyes narrow. “Tell me.”

Ada fidgets with her purse. “There have been rumors.”

I put my hands on my hips. “And?”

“They think you’re with Tommy,” Ada confesses. “Like Lizzie.”

My pulse flares. “I’m…?! Why the Hell would they think that?”

Ada holds up her hands in an attempt to hush me. “He gives you special treatment. Time off, family visits. They’re jealous ‘cause he’s soft on you.”

“And that means I'm a harlot, hm? I do not need to sleep with someone, let alone my boss, to earn something!”

Ada shakes her head. “That’s not good enough for them. They like to gossip.”

I clench my hands and march back the way we just came. “Their tongues will dig their graves. Those who know me best know that I will not stoop so low.”

When I walk back into the lobby the same two secretaries have added a third member to their gossip party, still trying to hide their glances at me.

“That’s her. The American.”

“Is she with Tommy?”

“Who knows? He doesn’t mind foreign aid. Maybe American sex is what he’s looking for.”

I swear to God I’m about to hurl this typewriter across the floor! All my work, all my integrity, is wasted all because of Lizzie Stark’s incapability to hold any amount of self control!

I stop in front of the group and pound the desk, making them jump in surprise. “If you are going to gossip, it’s usually more effective if the victim is out of earshot. I am not sleeping with Mr. Shelby. Not that I care what you believe. You’re too preoccupied with mind-numbing chatter to actually think. Good day.”

They make no move to contradict me. The three girls are too shocked and embarrassed to speak. I hold my head high as I fetch my tattered coat and stride out with dignity that no one can ever take away from me.

@meadows5

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say-hwaet · 7 months ago

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That's The Way it Is

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three: Secrets Kept Summary: Arthur takes you to Horseshoe Overlook, where your supposed family for the last fifteen years has been. Who are these people? And what will you learn about yourself along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, mild language, interrupted cursing Word Count: ~8,400 words Author's note: This is an Arthur Morgan x You story, but I do have some character design/creative license. I wanted to experiment with the element of pretending to be someone else, so the MC does have a given name and character descriptions. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case it doesn't fit your vibe. I hope you'll decide to give it a chance anyway!

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Jenny. Mac. Davey. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they've treated you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!”

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

“Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you.

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back.

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language.

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it.

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface.

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it.

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge.

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened.

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be.

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp.

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready.

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about.

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass.

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train.

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv.

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach.

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear.

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory.

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird.

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare.

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle.

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly.

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts.

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved.

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering.

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat.

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp.

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday.

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

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morri-draws · 9 months ago

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Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 14

Story Summary:

You, a humble dressmaker from Camelot’s lower town, are commissioned to make a new gown for Queen Guinevere. Impressed by your skills, she offers you the position of Royal Clothier. During your time in the castle, you catch the eye of one of the knights of King Arthur’s inner circle, Sir Gwaine. What starts as a sweet courtship is turned upside down when misfortune strikes and you must deal with the aftermath, as well as an unwelcome visit from Gwaine’s unpleasant sister.

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 5,847

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Read on Ao3

The day before the feast, you add the finishing touches to your gown and remove any stray threads you missed, until at last you can call it finished. You pack away your sewing things, regularly glancing at the gown to admire your hard work. Once all your tools are neatly tucked inside, you snap shut the lid of your sewing box when there’s a knock at your door.

“Just a moment!” You call out, bundling up the dress and taking it to your room, throwing it onto the bed before rushing to open the door to Gwaine.

“Harvest feast tomorrow,” He grins, clapping his hands together.

“And I have finished my gown,” You reply excitedly.

“I suppose I’m still not allowed to see it?” Gwaine quirks a brow.

“You need only wait one more day,”

“Then I await eagerly. But I have news of something before the feast. It has come to my attention that there will be food stalls and games in the tournament grounds during the day. I wondered if you might like to go together and see what it’s all about?”

“That does sound interesting… and I have no other plans,”

“Shall I come get you after breakfast then?”

“Sounds perfect,” You smile.

“Oh, and wear something you don’t mind getting dirty. The tournament grounds are muddy this time of year,”

“I’ll wear something that’s already brown,”

Gwaine chuckles. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, I’m meeting Percival at the tavern. See you tomorrow,”

Having requested water be brought up to your chambers that evening for bathing, and having paid the servants handsomely for their trouble in this busy time of year, you submerge yourself in the bathtub. You wash your entire body thoroughly as well as your hair, determined for everything to be perfect for tomorrow.

Once the water becomes tepid, you step out of the bath, dry yourself and get dressed, before tidying up for the night. Once your hair has dried some, but is still slightly damp, you apply the rags to your hair as Gwen showed you, and head to bed.

You rise the next morning, washing your face before getting dressed and covering your rag-wrapped hair with your regular cap, not wishing to reveal the new hairstyle until the feast tonight. You have breakfast and wash up, putting the last of the dishes away as there’s a knock at your door.

“Good morning,” Gwaine greets you, wearing his casual clothes. “Shall we?” He offers his arm to you with a grin.

You take your cloak from the hook beside the door, put it on, slip your arm through his and head out.

The tournament grounds have been transformed, the muddy ground hardly visible between the food stalls, tents, and other attendees. The grounds are already bustling with adults and children alike, with various mouth-watering aromas wafting through the air.

“Ah, here’s a good game,” Gwaine steers you toward a small tent with a bearded man, of about middle-age, standing by it. Under the shelter of the tent, you spot variously sized pails, each marked with a number, and by the tent’s opening, another pail is filled with apples.

“Welcome gentleman and gentlelady,” The man says cheerfully. “One silver for a turn, what do you say?”

Gwaine looks to you, brows raised in question.

“I’ll try it, if you support me from the sidelines,” You say.

Gwaine unfastens a pouch on his belt and removes the required coin, handing it to the gamemaster, who pockets it and nods his thanks.

“Has the lady ever played before?” He asks.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” You reply.

“That is all well and good, for I shall explain the rules. To play this game, you shall take an apple,” He picks one from the nearby pail. “And toss it to the buckets yonder. As you can see, the smaller buckets toward the back are worth higher points, and the closer, larger buckets are worth less. Throw the apples until there are none left, trying to score the highest number of points you can. The more points you earn, the better the prize. Is the lady ready to begin?”

You look to Gwaine, who gives you an encouraging smile.

“I’m ready,” You reply to the gamemaster, fishing an apple from the pail.

It’s bruised and marked, clearly having been used for the game several times already. You toss the fruit with an underarm throw, and it bounces off the rim of the nearest bucket, into the mud. You grimace and grab another apple, using a little more force this time. It lands in the nearest bucket, worth ten points. On your third throw, you earn another ten points.

“You should try for the ones at the back,” Gwaine encourages.

You attempt it, your fourth toss overly forceful, the apple flying over all the pails and landing somewhere behind them, out of sight. You try again, but the apple bounces off the rim of one of the pails.

You look to Gwaine with a grimace. “Perhaps I should settle for a smaller prize,”

You throw the sixth and final apple, which lands in the pail worth twenty points.

“Forty points in total,” The gamemaster announces. “A good effort for the lady’s first time. Wait here a moment, I’ll get your prize,”

He turns and steps toward a wooden crate a few feet to the right of the pail of apples. Reaching into the crate, he removes a small item which he passes to you.

“Made by my wife,” He says. “To keep ladies’ clothes smelling nice while they are stored,”

You inspect the small prize in your hands. It’s a drawstring bag, made from a sheer fabric, with flower petals within it. Raising the bag to your nose, you inhale the floral aroma of roses.

“Please pass my compliments on to your wife,” You say. “This is a lovely prize,”

The gamemaster smiles widely. “She will be very pleased to hear it,”

After wandering through the grounds a while, taking in what the fair has to offer, Gwaine stops by another game tent.

“How about this?” He asks.

“I believe it’s your turn for a game,” You grin. “I shall cheer you on,”

Gwaine agrees and approaches the gamemaster, handing him a coin. Peering into the tent, you see a table at the far end, with ten cups stacked upon it in a triangular formation.

“What’s the aim of this game?” You ask.

“You take these,” Gwaine leans down to a hay bale beside the tent’s entrance, on which is a small pile of little sacks. He picks one up and bounces it in his hand. Judging by the sound of it, it’s filled with grain. “And toss them at the cups, trying to knock as many over as you can,”

He pulls his arm back and throws the sack. It hits the cup on the bottom right, but the cup only shifts slightly.

“I did wonder,” He murmurs.

“About what?” You ask.

“The cups are filled with water to make them harder to shift,”

“Ah, sneaky,” You smirk.

“Luckily, I’m the strongest knight,” He grins and grabs the next sack, throwing it with much more force this time.

Three cups tumble off the table. He throws the remaining sacks, knocking over eight cups in total. The gamemaster congratulates him and leads him to a small handcart nearby to choose a prize. Gwaine returns to you a few moments later, placing something into your hand.

“For you, my dear,”

Your heart flutters at the term of endearment and you look into your open palm to see a small whittled horse.

“Oh, that’s so sweet! I love it,” You smile.

You continue through the grounds and find another game to play, which consists of a tub filled with water, containing small wooden fish, each with a metal ring attached to it. With a miniature fishing rod (a hook attached to the end of a string, tied onto a stick), you’re given three chances to hook a fish, each marked with a number on the bottom which cannot be seen until it is caught. From this game, you win a handkerchief, embroidered with a simplified version of the golden dragon from Camelot’s crest.

After Gwaine purchases lunch for the both of you from one of the food stalls, you head back to the castle.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” You say once you reach your chamber door. “That was fun,”

“There’s more to be had tonight,” He smiles.

Slamming footsteps echo through the corridor, the sound causing you and Gwaine to turn your heads in unison to see Merlin rushing toward you. He skids to a halt a few feet away and pants.

“I saw you both coming this way,” He says breathily. “Just wanted to let you know that Erika won’t be coming tonight,”

Gwaine quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“She’s come up with a terrible rash, all over her face and everything,”

Gwaine presses his lips together into a line, but his eyes hold a twinkle of mirth.

“I see,” You say steadily, attempting to hide your relief and triumph from your face.

“Have a great time tonight!” Merlin beams, before turning on his heel and rushing back the way he came.

You and Gwaine catch each other’s gaze and chuckle.

“Well, I hope that eases any worries you might have had,” He says.

“As uncharitable as it may sound to admit, it really has,”

“It’s not uncharitable at all, considering who we’re speaking of,” Gwaine says. “Besides, her affliction won’t be anything that Gaius can’t clear up in a few days,”

“I suppose you’re right,” You nod thoughtfully. “Have you much to do before tonight?”

“Just polish my armour until it gleams,” He grimaces. “I already had my cloak laundered earlier this week, and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s still in top condition,”

“I am pleased to hear that,” You agree. “Well, I will let you attend to your armour and I shall see you tonight,”

“I’ll come and get you at six?”

“I will be ready,”

Gwaine reaches out a hand, cupping your face. Your heart quickens as you think he might kiss you, but he strokes his thumb gently across your cheek before pulling away, giving you a warm look and departing.

Once checking over your gown again, you idle away the next few hours, the sensation of Gwaine’s hand on your cheek still present. You have been yearning for his touch since his sensual hand kiss outside your chamber a few days before, finding yourself hoping for more every time you see him.

At last, the evening approaches. You go to your room, remove your clothes and swap your stockings, since the current pair is flecked with mud. In just your shift and clean stockings, you pull up a chair to the basin mirror and take off your cap to begin removing the rags from your hair. Once they are all removed, you begin the lengthy process of brushing through the fresh curls to tame them. Once you are happy with it, you slip into your new gown, using the mirror to aid you with fastening the side lacings.

The basin mirror too small to offer a full view, you move to the tall mirror in your main chamber by the work tables. As you gaze at your reflection, your chest swells with pride for your creation. The silver gown hugs your form to your waist, where it flares into a full skirt. The narrow sleeves on your forearms peek out from the wide scarlet sleeves of the over-robe, which forms into a cape at the back, and is secured at your throat with a gold clasp.

You finger the ends of your hair, anxiety about your appearance returning as the hour draws closer. You start to wish you had made some kind of head covering after all as a backup, but it’s too late now, you have no choice but to be seen like this.

You return to your bedchamber to brush through your hair again, manipulating it with your hands to form it how you want. Once that’s done, you apply some perfume to your neck and wrists before sitting on the edge of your bed, your stomach squirming with anticipation.

There’s a knock at your door and your mouth turns bone dry. Is it six o’clock already? You stand and lift your skirts to walk swiftly to the door. You open the door a crack, Gwaine looking back at you through the small gap.

“Are you ready to go?” He asks with a smile.

“I… suppose so,”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been stupid,”

“Stupid? How do you mean?” His brow creases with concern.

Seeing nothing else to do but show him, you swing the door wide open. He looks you up and down, lips parted, and you have the overwhelming urge to shrink away and hide, but before you can make any move, Gwaine rushes toward you, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips crash into yours. Your body goes rigid with shock and he pulls away, wide eyes searching yours.

“I’m sorry, I –”

Flinging your arms around his neck, you pull his face toward you, your lips enveloping his, tasting him as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your body firmly against his. His hair brushes against your face as he deepens the kiss and your body goes slack in his embrace. You realise how much you’ve wanted this, needed this, to be so close to him, his arms around you, his actions, not just his words, showing how much he desires you.

You slowly pull away, eyes searching his to gauge his own feelings.

“(Y/N),” Gwaine says breathily. “I –”

“Took your time?” You suggest with a sly smile.

He laughs. “I suppose I did. I just,” He takes your hands into his. “Didn’t want to rush into anything. “Especially with everything that’s happened,”

“Let’s not dwell on falsehoods that were spoken about us. We know the truth,”

“You’re right,” He smiles, and takes a step back, looking you up and down. “You look magnificent. Your gown – knight’s colours?”

You nod.

“Give me a twirl, then,”

You chuckle, recalling your command to him to do the same when you made his new cloak, and spin around on the spot, your skirts flaring around you with the movement. Gwaine applauds and steps toward you, extending a hand to stroke your hair.

“I love it,” He says in a low tone.

“Really?” You look up at him. “You don’t think the other ladies will laugh at me?”

“I don’t think so. But if there’s anyone who does, they will suffer my wrath,”

“Your wrath? Goodness, will you strike them down where they stand?”

“I might, if pressed,”

“Well then, let’s hope you remain thoroughly un-pressed throughout the evening,”

Gwaine grins, before exclaiming. “Oh, I almost forgot,” He fishes in his pocket and procures a small item which he places in your hand. “I got you a little something,”

You look at the item in your open palm. It’s a small and ornate metal box. It’s oval shaped and engraved with a pattern of swirling leaves and flowers, a deep blue gemstone set in its centre.

“I thought maybe you could store your sewing needles in it,” Gwaine says. “Or whatever you prefer,”

You look up at him with a smile. “Thank you, Gwaine. It’s beautiful, and is the perfect size for my sewing needles. But I didn’t get you anything,”

“Don’t worry about that. You’ve done more than enough for me,”

You step forward and embrace him, the box still clasped in one hand.

“Shall we head to the feast?” He asks, his thumb rubbing small strokes on your back. “Or is the plan to be fashionably late?”

You pull away to see his smile, before you take the trinket box up to your room and place it on the bedside table. You return to Gwaine, who offers you his arm. You slip your arm through his and you both leave your chambers for the great hall.

The heavy double doors of the hall are propped open, allowing the golden candlelight to spill out to the corridor. Gwaine leads you within, where long tables line either side of the hall, the benches behind them already mostly filled with guests. At the far end of the room is another table, shorter than the rest, facing out, where the king and queen are seated, overlooking their guests.

Elyan spots you and Gwaine as you enter and approaches.

“Gwaine,” He says, giving his friend a playful smack on the arm. “Late, as always,” He turns to you and bows. “Good to see you, (Y/N),”

“Good evening, Sir Elyan,” You reply with a smile. “I’m afraid the blame for our lateness lies with me tonight,”

“Well, any extra time spent in preparation has paid off, (Y/N). You look stunning,”

“Thank you,” You smile. “You’re very kind,”

“Just stating facts,” Elyan winks.

“Go and woo someone else’s lady,” Gwaine shakes his head with a smile.

“Perhaps I will,” Elyan says with a grin, and returns the way he came.

“I didn’t realise Elyan was a flirt,” You remark.

“He’s not really, he just likes to rile me,”

“And are you riled?”

He chuckles. “No, it just makes me feel even luckier to have you on my arm,”

“Sweet-talker,” You nudge him playfully. Glancing to the front of the hall, you see that Gwen has spotted you. “You can greet your friends if you wish,” You say to Gwaine. “I would like to speak with the Queen,”

“Alright, I’ll save you a seat,” He unthreads your arm from his and kisses your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You approach the royal table and Gwen stands, walking around to meet you, pulling you into an embrace as you approach.

“You look gorgeous, (Y/N),” She says. “Your gown is breathtaking; you are a true artist. And your hair looks beautiful,”

“Thanks to you,” You reply. “I wouldn’t have known what to do without your help,”

Gwen smiles and hooks her arm around yours, leading you around the hall.

“Sir Gwaine looks very dashing tonight,” She says, giving you a sly look.

“He looks just as dashing as he always does, only his armour is shinier than usual,”

Gwen chuckles. “It is a bit monotonous having the knights just wear their uniforms for special events. Perhaps I could submit a petition to change it? But then I foresee I’d receive some resistance from those who prefer not to have to think how to dress themselves,”

“Perhaps we should leave it then,” You reply. “So we need not witness any crimes of fashion. Monotony is more bearable than that,”

Gwen laughs as you turn at the front corner of the hall, approaching the knights’ table.

“I shall leave you with your dashing knight,” She stops behind an empty space between Gwaine and Sir Leon.

“Dashing knight?” Percival turns his head from beside Gwaine. “You must mean me,”

Gwaine elbows him before scooting over slightly, allowing you room to step over the bench and sit down, smoothing your skirts.

“Have fun,” Gwen smiles, before heading back to her place.

Shortly after, the hall goes quiet as the king stands, goblet raised in one hand. He expresses his gratitude and thanks to the kingdom’s farmers for a bountiful harvest, and urges everyone to enjoy the feast. Once he’s seated again, the chatter resumes and servants flood into the hall, bearing platters of food. The royal table is served first, then both the guest tables simultaneously.

“Can I get you something?” Gwaine asks, once another round of servants place down plates and cutlery in front of every guest.

You glance over the abundance of food laid out before you. “A bit of everything within reach,”

Gwaine grins and begins to load up your plate. A minute or so later, he places your plate, now covered with a mountain of food, back down in front of you, before attending to his own.

“Would you like something to drink, (Y/N)?” Leon asks from your other side. “There’s ale, wine and mead,”

“Oh,” You purse your lips thoughtfully, as you remember the delicious and warming drink you shared with Gwen during the intermission at the jousting tournament. “I’ll have some mead, thank you Sir Leon,”

“Just Leon will do, we’re all friends here,” He smiles and reaches for a flagon, bringing it forth to pour some of the golden liquid into your goblet.

You thank him and take a sip of the rich drink, before starting on the pile of food in front of you, sighing at the wondrous flavours that bless your tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” Gwaine leans in to your ear to be heard, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“You must invite me to every feast from now on,” You reply.

“I was planning to,” His eyes twinkle in the candlelight.

You finish your plate, declining Gwaine’s offer of seconds only for fear that your stomach might burst. When the feasting is finished, conversation flows more steadily throughout the hall, guests’ mouths no longer occupied with chewing.

While you have some conversation with Gwaine and Sir Leon since they are beside you, you can’t manage much more above the noise. Your mind wanders to what occurred only hours ago. You glance beside you, watching his mouth as he brings his goblet to his lips, and you wish you could retire early and head back to your chambers, just the two of you. Gwaine catches your eye and you give him a quick smile, attempting to disguise the nature of your thoughts, before reaching for your own drink and draining the rest. You ask Sir Leon to pass you the mead flagon and refill your goblet before the king stands, the hall going quiet again.

“I have called in the minstrels, so the dancing may begin!” He offers his hand to Gwen, and she takes it and stands, the king and queen making their way around their table and to the middle of the hall.

Noticing movement in the corner of your eye, behind the royal table, you spot a small group of minstrels seated together. The king and queen get into position, the king turns his head to the minstrels and nods, and they begin to play. The king and queen dance as the guests, including yourself, look on, however your focus is not so much on their dancing, but their faces. Their love and adoration for each other is clear to see, and it brings a smile to your face.

A few minutes later, the music ends and the king and queen return to their seats, as members of the nobility gather in the centre, and the minstrels play another tune. The music is pleasing and you find yourself lightly swaying with the rhythm.

“Would you care for a dance?” Gwaine asks from beside you.

You chuckle. “Oh no, you’d better not ask me; I don’t know how,”

“There’s no one else I’d want to ask,” He replies and glances to the dancers ahead. “I haven’t danced like this for a long time, not since before my father passed. But I’m sure it’s all still in here somewhere,” He taps against his temple with the tip of his index finger. “I can teach you,”

He offers his hand to you. You glance between his open palm and eager eyes with a grimace.

“Not in front of everyone,” He clarifies. “There’s a quiet looking spot over there,” He inclines his head to the front left corner of the hall. “We can dance our own little jig with our own rules. What do you say?”

You look to the aforementioned corner, seeing that it is unoccupied, and out of the way. Surely no one would look there, when all the goings-on are happening in the centre of the hall.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I accept your proposal,” You slip your hand into Gwaine’s.

He grins, and you take two large gulps from your goblet before you allow Gwaine to guide you from the table. When you reach the chosen dancing spot, Gwaine lets go of your hand.

“Right, let’s see… first, we must stand apart,” He takes you by the shoulders and gently guides you a few steps back.

You stay in position as he retreats a few steps away and turns to face you.

“I bow, and you curtsy,” He continues, and you both do so. “Now we close the gap and take each other’s hand,”

You follow his lead as he approaches and extends his right arm, and you take his hand in your left. He turns his body and encourages you to do the same, so you are both facing the same way now, standing side-by-side and hand-in-hand.

“We take some steps forward,” Gwaine says, and you follow his lead as he talks through the steps. “And some steps back. Then, hang on, I’ll show you,”

He lets go of your hand and hops forward, then alternates between hopping on one foot while the other is extended slightly in front, leg bent, then does a larger hop with a flourish, before doing the same movements again, but moving backwards this time.

“I don’t know how I’m going to remember that,” You frown.

“It’s not so bad,” Gwaine replies. “Let’s go through it together slowly,”

You stand beside him and watch as he goes through the movements slowed down, before attempting to copy him. The two of you go through the slowed down version a total of three times, before Gwaine suggests to try it at full speed. You feel slightly foolish but laugh your way through the steps.

“You’ve got it!” Gwaine exclaims with delight. “Now do it while holding hands,”

You go through the steps again, your fingers enclosed in his.

“And now,” Gwaine says. “We do the same steps while moving in a circle,”

Gwaine guides you, doing the same leg movements as before but gradually turning as you do, until making a full rotation.

“And now, the really fun part,” Gwaine says. “We face each other,” He turns to you and you do the same. He puts his hands on your waist, your heart fluttering at the contact. “Now put your right hand on my shoulder,” He instructs, and you do as he says. “We do the same movements while turning, but on the fourth count, I lift you into the air,”

“You what?”

“Lift you,” Gwaine grins as his hands grip your waist tightly and the next moment, you’re about a foot off the ground.

You squeal with a mix of terror and delight, blushing on your return to solid ground when you notice some of the other guests are looking your way.

“And we do that four times,” Gwaine says. “The part after that is a bit complicated, so we can leave it out. Shall we do it all together now?”

“In a moment, I need some refreshment after all that!”

You return to your place at the table and drain your goblet, finding the flagon and refilling, taking a few sips from that, before returning to Gwaine.

“Nothing like a bit of liquid courage,” You remark.

Eying the dancefloor, you see the noble couples dancing, their movements fluid and graceful.

“Don’t worry about them,” Gwaine says, following your gaze. “They’ve had years of instruction from dancing masters.”

“Did you have a dancing master?” You ask.

“I did back in the day, if you can believe it,” He chuckles. “It’s all part of being from a noble family. You’re lucky you didn’t have to waste so much time attending lessons,”

“Lucky until today, where I have no idea what I’m doing,”

“But tonight, I am your dancing master,” Gwaine gives an exaggerated bow.

“I don’t think you’d be a good dancing master for me,”

Gwaine clutches his chest in mock offence. “Why would you say such a thing, dear lady?”

“Because… I wouldn’t be able to focus on the dancing,”

He smirks. “You’ve managed well enough tonight. Shall we put my instruction to the test?”

The minstrel’s tune finishes with his sentence, and you nod before taking position. The minstrels begin a new tune and you watch for Gwaine’s signal and begin the dance. You move in time with the music, though you stumble through the hopping steps, laughing as you do so. After the section where the steps are performed in a rotation, you face Gwaine and he grips your waist, lifting you into the air. In the next moment, you’re on solid ground again, doing the leg movements, then you’re in the air again, down, up, down and up, you feel giddy and light as air, looking into the face of the man who has become so dear to you as he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way you love.

After the fourth and final turn, you and Gwaine laugh, breath laboured from the exercise. Though you’ve reached the end of the steps you’ve been taught, the minstrel’s tune continues. Not wanting the dance to end, you move your hand from Gwaine’s shoulder around to his back, pulling yourself closer to him, so your body is against his. His hands shift from the sides of your waist to the small of your back and you both sway with the music, slowly turning on the spot with small steps. You relish the feeling of his body against yours, wishing you could stay like this forever, when the tune comes to an end. You pull apart slowly, as if waking from a dream.

“You danced well,” Gwaine says softly.

“My gown hid my terrible footwork,”

He smiles. “My favourite part was the bit you improvised at the end,”

His gaze is so tender, his words so sincere, you feel a blush creep onto your cheeks. You take his hand and return to your seats, Sir Leon giving a knowing smile as you sit down. You take another sip of mead as the minstrels begin their next tune. You watch the dancers, chin resting on your palm. If you could dance like them, you think you should want to do it every day. You conjure an image of minstrels set up in the corner of your chambers, playing a tune while you and Gwaine dance.

“You alright there?” Gwaine’s amused voice pulls you back to reality.

“Just daydreaming,”

“What about?”

“Silly things,”

The music stops and the minstrels stand and bow, marking the end of their performance. You join the other guests in applause as the minstrels gather their instruments and quit the hall.

“They were wonderful,” You comment. “There should be music every night,”

“I’ll bring it up to Arthur at the next council meeting,” Gwaine smirks.

“Then we shall have daily music and crimes of fashion,”

“What?” Gwaine chuckles.

“Oh, nothing. Just something Gwen and I spoke of,”

Laughter erupts from the opposite table, in response to some unheard jest. Glancing down your own table, you see Sirs Percival and Elyan arm wrestling. The murmur of chatter fills the hall again now that the dancing and music has come to an end, and your head buzzes from the hours of noise and recent physical activity. You sigh as fatigue hits you.

“It’ll probably be mostly drunken antics from now on, if you wish to retire,” Gwaine murmurs in your ear.

“Perhaps I should, if you don’t mind,” You drain the remaining contents of your goblet. “We wouldn’t want to add my own drunken antics to the display,”

Gwaine stands and offers his hand, aiding you up from your seat. You express your desire to say goodbye to Gwen before you leave, so Gwaine escorts you to the royal table.

“We’re leaving now,” You lean down to speak in Gwen’s ear. “I had a lovely time,”

“It looked like it. I enjoyed your dance,” She smiles between you and Gwaine.

The king leans out to speak from beside the queen. “I hope you enjoyed your first feast in the palace?”

“Very much, sire. I’d never tasted such delights before tonight,”

“I’m glad to hear it,” He smiles.

“We shall bid you goodnight now, sire,” Gwaine says to the king. “My lady,” He bows to the queen.

You and Gwaine walk arm-in-arm down the length of the hall and through the double doors into the corridor. The sound of the festivities fade as you turn into a passage and climb the first flight of stairs.

Once reaching your chambers, you head inside, leaving the door ajar behind you. Feeling no presence at your side, you look back and find Gwaine still standing just outside the entrance.

“Come inside,” You beckon him, extending a hand, which he takes and closes the gap between you.

You cup your hand on his cheek, brushing against his short beard, lightly pulling him closer to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“My dancing master,” You sigh with a serene smile.

“As a general rule, I don’t think you’re supposed to kiss your dancing master,”

“I suppose not. But I am supposed to kiss my…”

Love. You shift your gaze from his as you think the unsaid word. You feel it with all your heart. You love him. But if he is not there yet, not ready to return the words… you do not want to force him into an awkward situation, or worse, have him say the words when he might not mean them.

“My sweetheart,” You settle for the lesser word, returning your gaze to his.

He smiles. “That, of course, is allowed,” He leans in and kisses you.

The sensation of his lips on yours sends a warmth through you, and once he pulls away, you wrap your arms around him. He does the same, cradling the back of your head in one hand.

“It feels so good being in your arms,” You sigh. “Though your armour is a bit hard and cold,”

“I don’t think they had embracing in mind when they designed it,”

You simply hum in response, feeling as if you might drift off in his arms.

“You need to get some rest,” Gwaine rubs your back.

“I’m not tired yet,” You lie.

“Yes, you are,” He laughs “You should get yourself off to bed,”

“But I want to stay with you,”

“You’ll see me again soon enough. We do live in the same castle,” He grins. “I’m going to go, then you can change in to your night things and go to bed,”

You sigh. “Alright,”

Gwaine pulls back to look at you. “Thank you for a wonderful time this evening,” You smile up at him as he plants a tender kiss on your forehead. “Goodnight,”

He lets go of you and heads for the door, stopping to look back from the doorway.

“Goodnight, Sir Gwaine,” You blink sleepily as he closes the door behind him.

#gwaine x reader #sir gwaine #gwaine #merlin fic #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #bbc merlin fic #reader insert #reader x gwaine #my writing

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i-siriusblk-padfoot-blog · 2 years ago

Text

Humid Nights

The night was humid and balmy. Well into the middle of summer in the Lemoyne swamp, this came as no surprise to you. There was no reprieve from the heat, even at night. The hairs on the nape of your neck clung to your damp skin, hands constantly battling against blood thirsty mosquitoes. You think it’s fair enough to say that you’re miserable. of course, no one would argue. The camp seemed to be in a stand still, the heat sucking any remaining energy out of its members. These past few days mostly consisted of lounging around under tents, wagons ,trees. Not even Mrs Grimshaw had the energy to reprimand the girls from lazying around and neglecting their chores.

Letting out a huff, you used the back of your wrist to brush away strands of hair sticking to your forehead. Hands submerging back into the bucket of lukewarm sudsy water that you were using to scrub the stubborn left over bits of food stuck on the pans from one of Pearsons stews.

Rinsing off the last dish, you dried off your pruney hands on your skirts. Standing, you stretched out your back and rolled your shoulders, grimacing as you felt the fabric of your dress stick to your damp skin. Letting out a sigh you look around the now quiet camp, well past midnight. All inhabitants in the camp have retired to their tents for the night. You offering to stay up and clean the dishes.

You made your way to your tent, smiling softly as you saw the dim glow of a lantern through the material. Ducking through the tents opening, your smile grew bigger at the sight that greeted you. Arthur lied propped up in your shared cot, linen sheets pooled around his bare waist. Head stuck in his journal, scribbling away. At the sound of your entrance, he looked up, bluey green eyes glittering against the light the dimly lit lantern allowed. “Finally” he murmured. Sticking his pencil in the bind of his journal, he flicked it shut and placed it on the crate off to the side.

Scoffing playfully, you move towards the makeshift vanity placed in the corner of your shared lean to. Hands starting to pull out the pins holding your long tresses up. “Not my fault that Pearsons stew is impossible to scrub off our cookware”. You say, fingers combing through your hair, untangling all the knots and tangles from the day. Arthur just comfortably watching you. “I swear the man puts cement in there or somthin” you joke. Arthur stretches his arms up behind his head, watching as you unbutton your dress until you’re in nothing but your thin lacy chemise.

“Don’t like you doin all that extra work” he replies. “specially in your condition”. You laugh, rolling your eyes good naturedly “in my condition?” you question. All you get is a grunt in return. After folding away your dress you turn your attention to the man in your bed, finally taking in the sight. He’s without his union suit, weather to hot for all those uneeded layers. His bare chest is on display, the hair there slightly matted from humidity. The muscles in his tanned arms more prominent from the way he has them crossed behind his head. He has his head tilted to the side, eyes half lided with sleep and……something else. You feel heat pool between your thighs. You move across the floor towards the cot just big enough for two people. Crawling up the bed, you move to straddle his lap. His hands instantly go to your thighs. Big, rough hands smoothing the soft skin there. “Need you to take it more easy, Don’t want anything to happen to the two of you” he murmurs. Hands smoothing up towards your stomach, where theres a small swell of life growing. “ok?” he demands softly but firmly. You smile softly, your chest tightening with love and affection for this beautiful man you get to call your husband. You slide your hands over his chest, up his neck, until your fingers are threading through his soft tawny locks. Thumbs gently sweeping over the stubble on his cheeks. “ok” you whisper. He gives a small nod, “good, now c’mere” he gives your waist a gentle tug, chin lifting in search of your lips. You giggle quietly, pressing your soft lips to his slightly chapped ones. Exchanging a series of short but sweet kisses that soon turn to heated when teeth gently nip at skin. Quickly followed by hot swipes of tongues to soothe the ache.

Arthurs lips leave yours to trail hot, wet, nipping kisses over your chin and down your neck. “Arthur” you moan quietly, huffing out quick puffs of breath as your fingers tighten in his hair. Holding him to your neck. Arthur grunts, sucking a bruising kiss into the hollow of your neck. He wraps his arms around your waist and gently guides you so that your back is lying comfortably on the mattress. He unbuttons the front of your chemise, sliding the delicate material down your shoulders and over your chest. You give a slight shiver, full breasts on display, Rosy pink nipples pebbling. Arthur gives an appreciative hum, hungry eyes racking over the display. He smooths both hands down until he’s got a handful in each hand, gently massaging the flesh. He continues kissing his way down your neck until he’s lathing his hot, wet tongue over a dusky pink nipple. You softly cry out, back arching and fingernails gently scratching his head. Arthur grunts around your nipple, only releasing it to do the same to the other one.

Arthur peels the rest of your chemise off your body until you’re completely bare to him. He grabs the backs of your thighs, bending them until your knees are touching your breasts. “Been wantin to taste this pretty lil pussy all week now” he practically growls out before sucking your clit into his hot mouth. Your back bows up at the suddenness of it “oh, fuck Arthur” you cry out quietly, still vaguely aware of your neighbours. He lathes his tongue over your bud, repeatedly flicking his tongue around your clit until he brings it back into his mouth and suckles, hard. “oh my god, yes yes. I’m gonna cum!” you pant. Hands fisting his hair. “c’mon sweetheart, want you to cum all over my face. C’mon girl” Arthur moans, lathering his tongue through your folds until your weeping. Slick dripping through your folds and down your cheeks and drenching the sheets underneath. “fuck, look at you. So wet for me.” He moans before moving his attention back to your clit and furiously working his tongue over it. “ I’m cumin, Arthur im cumin!” you moan out as wave of pleasure surge through you. Hips withering in his grasp until he finally lets up.

Arthur leans back on his heels, wiping his hand furtively over his mouse. His beard is covered in your release, its practically glistening in the lamp light. His hands go towards his pants where he shucks them down his hips. Your mouth nearly waters at the sight of his thick cock, the tip flushed red and dripping with pre cum. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, eager to be filled. Arthur laughs cockily “Easy sweetheart, so eager for a nutha one huh?”. His hand grabs his member, teasing his tip between your dripping folds. He places the tip against your entrance and slowly slides in. “god dammit!” he snarls when he's fully seated inside you “Been way too long since I’ve been without this pussy”. You whine at the feeling of being filled and stretched out, your muscles clenching and unclenching around his cock happily. He starts up a quick pace, the sound of wet slapping skin filling the small tent along with rough grunt and soft throaty moans. “you nearly there, sweetheart?” Arthur questions without stopping his pace, jaw clenching and skin shining with perspiration…. He was beautiful. “my god yes, please” you moan out “please, I want you to cum in me”.

Arthur groans, pace quickening. “c’mon baby, want you to cum with me. Want you to cum with me so I can fill you up”. His thrusts start becoming more erratic now as his release approaches. “want me to fill you up huh?, have you dripping with my cum”. You nod your head, not able to form words as pleasure wracks your body in waves. Arthur soon follows after. You moan at the feeling of thick ropes of come spurting inside you. His softening cock slips out of you, cum dripping out of you. “fuck, I love you” Arthur pants, face flush and exhausted. You giggle and pull him down to you by his neck smothering his lips with yours. “I love you too”. You whisper in between kisses.

#rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption fanfiction #smut

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shootybangbang · 4 years ago

Text

In which you sulk in bed

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Prompt]: Arthur is horny, but doesn't want to bother Reader, so he faps secretly elsewhere, but Reader catches him (from @verai-marcel)

did a role reversal of the original prompt, sorry!

———

You’d walked back from the tailor’s clutching the flat, nondescript box against your chest, blushing as though its brown paper packaging were glass and its contents visible to all. Stupid, you’d chided yourself, hurrying with a rapid, tripping step down the cobblestone road. Absolutely ridiculous to be embarrassed about something like this when the man’s more than familiar with your naked body.

Not until you’ve drawn the curtains shut and deadbolted the door do you finally let yourself unfasten the twine holding the whole thing together. With a careful hand, you spool the roughspun thread around your fingers for later use, then unfold the wrapping paper. Nestled like an iridescent bird, the silk negligee flows like warm water when you sift your fingers through it, shimmering soft and pearlescent in your hands.

It’s by far your most indulgent purchase in years. Just thinking about the money spent makes you wince. But worth every penny, you conclude, once you slip it over your head and stand in front of your mirror.

It’s low-cut, but elegant enough to skirt just along the edge of risqué. The delicate lace patterning along its edge provides a suggestive translucency that frames your skin like sun glimpsed through summer clouds. You half-consider meeting him at the door with it — so it’s with a certain reluctance that you finally decide to err on the side of decency, and pull your plain grey housedress over top.

———

It’s well into evening when Arthur arrives. Weary and dusty from the road, he greets you in the doorway with a customary kiss but collapses into the kitchen chair almost immediately afterwards.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his eyes. “Been up for days chasin’ some fool lead of Dutch’s.”

You touch his face, resting your palm against his stubbled cheek, and he turns his head to press his mouth to your fingers.

“Just need a minute,” he says.

His voice is hoarse with exhaustion, his eyes half-lidded, bleary. There are smears of dried blood along his sleeve — likely his own, judging by his split lip.

“No,” you reply, jabbing your thumb in the direction of the bed. “What you need is sleep. C’mon, up.”

“Only got a day before I have to go, and I ain’t ‘bout t’spend half of it asleep —”

You don’t respond to this verbally, choosing instead to wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull him to his feet. Arthur makes an indecipherable noise of complaint, but doesn’t protest as you undress him, your fingers quick and unlingering as they work through the buttons of his shirt and pants, then the loops of his suspenders.

When you’ve finally stripped him down to his union suit, you guide him to your bed in the manner of a shepherd to an errant flock: forceful, but gentle. Within seconds of lying down, he’s so thoroughly asleep that it’d take an earthquake to rouse him.

You sigh, then sit beside him and runs your fingers through his dark blond hair, watching as the rhythm of his breathing deepens to a slow, even pace. And in your heart, the long-simmering resentment for Dutch and his merry band of fools comes bubbling up again, the old condemnations rising bitter and familiar to the surface as you speak them into the dark.

“Van der Linde, you piece of shit,” you say, your voice quiet but full of venom. “If you really care for him you’d let him go.”

Undoing the clasps on the back of your dress, you shed it like snakeskin to reveal the lingerie hidden beneath. You run a hand along the silk finery and curl your mouth in a tight lipped, rueful little smile.

It’s a stupid thing to be upset about. Absurd even, considering everything else you’ve both been through. Just save it for next time, you tell yourself, but even as you think it you’re forced to acknowledge the unspoken reality of their situation.

Because there never is a guarantee of a next time, is there? Not with the nature of his chosen occupation or the lingering uncertainties of your own. Each encounter exists in a vacuum, with the possibility of continuation held dear but ultimately hung on a thin thread hinging upon his survival.

You lay yourself beside him, wedging yourself between the edge of the narrow mattress and his sleeping body, and try to will yourself to sleep. But it’s of little use. Even if your mind’s given up on it, the expectation of sex still runs hot and eager in your blood. It guides your hand between your thighs as your eyes slip shut, nudging your thoughts towards the recalled sensation of him slid deep inside, the ache of penetration and the satisfaction of having him fit so close that it nearly hurts to have him withdraw.

Arthur rolls onto his side and drowsily drapes his arm over your waist. Still dreaming, he tucks his chin against the top of your head and mumbles a few incoherent syllables. For a few breathless moments you lie there still and silent, unwilling to wake him but hoping beyond hope that he’ll rouse of his own accord and make an advance.

He doesn’t. You tug the negligee further up your hips and slick your fingertips with your own arousal as you ease yourself back into memory.

His hand over your mouth at Clemens Point as he’d pinned you down with the weight of his body, the flicker of the campfire pulsing in amber arabesques from between the thin gap between his tent flaps. Quiet down, girl, he’d murmured, his thrusts quickening as you’d neared your peak. Sean'll bring this up til my dying day if he hears us.

Or that initial, frantic coupling up in Ambarino. The roughness of his stubble against your skin, the desperate little moan he’d let out when he’d felt you for the very first time. All of it clumsy but earnest —

“Kept you wanting, did I?”

You stiffen. “Oh my god. You’re awake?”

“I am now,” he says. The bunched up silk at your hips catches on his calloused palm as he runs his hand through it. “Oh, darlin’… you shoulda said somethin’ about this.”

“Go back to sleep,” you tell him. “You need the rest.”

“Hell no.” Arthur fumbles with the buttons of his union suit until he’s able to take his cock in hand. He fits himself inside you with a single smooth thrust and nips at your shoulder as he sinks in to the hilt. “Can’t think of a nicer thing to wake up to than my girl wet and ready for me.”

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

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marvelbbyx · 4 years ago

Text

Can I Be Him? (Carol Danvers x Fem! Reader)

Summary: You and Carol have been the bestest of friends for years and years, to you it’s simply platonic. Whereas for Carol, she tortures herself constantly pining after you. The situation only gets worse when you get engaged to your boyfriend of three years and Carol has to leave for a mission (that could more or less take her six years to get back from).

The day before Carol has to leave, she admits her feelings for you, giving you two choices: to leave him and go with her or stay with him and get married.

Who will you choose and what will be your outcome?

Author’s Note: Yeah, I’m gonna make this a two parter lol since I wanna be dramatic. But stay tuned for tomorrow’s add on! 😁

Fic inspired by James Arthur’s song Can I Be Him? Which was 1000% the reason I wrote this.

Warnings! ANGST

Part Two Here!

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

You walked into the room and now my heart has been stolen.

You took me back in time to when I was unbroken.

Now you're all I want.

And I knew it from the very first moment,

'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again.

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

“Carol, stop! You’re cheating!” You shriek as her Mortal Kombat character starts to pummel yours into a bloody pulp.

“How is it that you’re the one that taught me this game, yet—I’m kicking your ass.” The blonde says with a cocky smirk. “Guess you just suck.”

“Or my controller’s stuck.” You shot back.

“Yeah, okay,” She rolled her eyes playfully.

You two were at your apartment, it was your day off and you wanted nothing more than to relax at home, Carol just happened to sweeten the deal with a case of beer and some pizza.

The Captain and the Avenger, or as the others like to call you—Bert and Ernie. You and Carol were about as thick as thieves and you were never really seen without each other hardly ANYWHERE around the compound. It all started when Carol had been assigned a partner to accompany her on a mission to The Garden back in 2018. Everyone swore that you two wouldn’t get along, with your ability to plan ahead and Carol’s ability to...not plan ahead it was bound to be a recipe for disaster. But after a few jokes here and there and a battle later on you two became inseparable.

Nothing could shake or disrupt the bond that you two had, all except for one thing...him.

Carol had beaten you three times in the past five minutes, she offered a final round after noticing your frustration only to win again within seconds.

“Well, well, well,” Carol throws her arms behind her head. “What’s my score again, four? And what’s yours, zip?”

The playful challenge in her gaze stirred your competitive edge, the one that hated to lose and absolutely hated being out of control. Especially in the game of your choosing.

You cross your arms over your chest and pouted like a child, “It’s only because you cheated.” You huffed.

“Yeah, keep on telling yourself that, babe. Don’t be mad because you’re a sore loser.” She teased.

“Re-Match then.” You challenged with a grin. “If I win, you’ll do whatever I say. Same thing goes if you win.”

Carol’s brows lift up in intrigue, “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“That’s something we’ll have to figure out on our own time.” You say. You extend your hand out for Carol to shake. “So, do we have a deal, Danvers?”

She takes your hand, shaking it firmly. “We do.”

Her grip on your hand lingers longer than she meant to, yours were baby soft compared to hers, each callus and dry patch were a layout of her life, each held a story and meaning.

You slid your hand out from her grasp when you heard the door open and shut. You turned your head in the direction of the approaching footsteps, a smile forms on your lips when you hear, “Sweetheart? I’m home!”

“Hi, honey!” You call out.

Kevin Davis, your boyfriend of three years. A man as sweet as they came, someone that would move Heaven and Earth for you. He was a doctor helping out at the compound and you just so happened to come back from a mission with some severe battle damage. Long story short, you two fell in love and moved in together.

Carol forces her best smile before her eyes met with your boyfriend’s. “Hey, Kevin.”

“Hey, Car.” He greets with a small smile.

Carol hated that nickname. Much more than she hated him.

Not that he was a bad guy. Kevin was actually a great guy, always able to help out and very friendly. She didn’t hate him for that though, she hated how you would look at him when he told a joke or how your eyes would light up when you talked about him. But what Carol had hated most of all...was that it wasn’t her.

A portion of her heart dies as she sees you stand up to kiss him, you two talked and acted as if she wasn’t there, which made her want to scream and cry until her throat went raw. These feelings began the first time she met you. After the Snap, everyone was expected to mourn and remember the loved ones who vanished. Carol was dealing with losing a loved one as well. Her best friend, her rock, and the only family she had, Maria Rambeau, who had passed away from cancer.

You were there when she went and comforted her immediately after. Your bond strengthened since that day, as well as Carol’s feelings for you.

“I should be heading out,” Carol drew herself to her feet. “I gotta get up early for a meeting.”

“No, Carol you don’t have to leave, we can continue our game.” You tried to convince her.

‘I’d rather chew on barbed wire than to be in the same room with him.’

But instead of saying that, she bites her tongue and simply shakes her head. “It’s okay, Y/N, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

You gave a soft smile. “Okay.”

“Bye, Kevin.” The words produced the taste of bile to spread on her tongue.

“Bye, Carol.” Kevin says with his unrelenting smile.

Carol manages to make it to the car before she bursts into violent tears.

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

I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me.

Like it was a private show, I know you never saw me.

When the lights come on and I'm on my own,

Will you be there to sing it again?

Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?

Can I be him?

I heard there was someone but I know he don't deserve you.

If you were mine I'd never let anyone hurt you, no, no.

I wanna dry those tears, kiss those lips.

It's all that I've been thinking about.

'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again.

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

Six years.

Six years on recon for a planet held hostage by some alien heretics, a distress call was sent and Carol was the only one who had answered. Six years and a million light years away from Earth, and a million light years away from you.

Carol had to leave early the next morning and wouldn’t have the chance to say goodbye to you before she left. So she decided to head over to your apartment for the re-match, once there; she found saying goodbye to be much more difficult than anticipated. Especially when you would greet her with such a smile that was now burned into her memory.

She tried not to think about it at all while you were playing the game, she tried not think of anything while playing.

“How are you beating me again?” You cried in disbelief watching Carol’s character slice yours in three parts.

“I told you I was good, you just didn’t believe me.” She smiles smugly. “Looks like I’m gonna win the bet.”

“You can try,” You challenged as you poked your tongue out at her.

Carol regained her focus back to the video game, having you on the ropes and your character’s life bar hanging on by a thread. It wasn’t until you lifted your left hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear that she caught glimpse of the gold engagement ring practically beaming up at her.

That was when she paused the game.

You gave a puzzled look. “What’d you do that for?”

Instead of answering you she stood up quickly, turning her back to you as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to slip down her cheeks. Engaged, how could you be engaged? And why with him?

“Carol?” You called softly.

“You weren’t gonna tell me...about the ring?” She asks, doing her best to hold off on crying.

Your eyes dart down to the gold band on your finger, fiddling with it gently. You yourself were quite shocked about it, the second that Carol left was when Kevin had proposed to you.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” You murmur. “I wanted to tell you first before I told everyone else.”

“So you decided to wear it and hope that I’d notice?” She chuckles.

“I was gonna talk to you after the game, ya know...if you hadn’t paused it.” You say as you awaited some form of a retort from your best friend, only to get no response. “Are you okay?”

Carol remained quiet for a few minutes, allowing the warm streams of water to fall down her cheeks. Burning as they did. Before you had the chance to ask again, Carol’s lips part to speak, the tears evident in her voice, “Why’d you say yes?”

“What?” You blinked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’m asking why him?” Her lip trembles.

“And I’m asking what brought this up?” You retort. “Because you’ve never said anything about this before and...and I don’t understand why now?”

She sighs before turning to you, her eyes pink and swollen. “Why now?”

You nod.

“Because I loved you since the beginning but I didn’t know it yet, and I especially didn’t know that it would hurt to love you this much.” Carol tells you, crying harder. “Especially when you talk about him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Your throat constricted as unshed tears stung your eyes. “Waiting until now to say something doesn’t change anything, Carol. You can’t just—“

“I’m leaving for a mission tomorrow,” She says abruptly. “...for six years.”

The words that formed on your tongue evaporated instantly, gazing up at her with quiet intensity. “When we’re you going to tell me?”

“Today.” She replies.

“And that was supposed to soften the blow?”

“I thought—“

“No,” It was your turn to cut her off. “You can’t just drop a bomb on me like this.”

“You’re one to talk, when were you going to tell me that you were engaged?” She shot back, your silence being the response that she needed. “I thought so.”

You fiddled with your ring again, the band was heavy now feeling as if it would constrict your finger. “I loved you too...from the start, and I still do. I waited for you—to step in at any moment. I pushed Kevin away multiple times because you’re the one that I wanted. And...I still want you. Only you, Carol. If you would’ve said something then I wouldn’t be engaged. But now it’s too late.”

“Come with me,” She cried. “Please...”

You shake your head slowly, your tears flowing down your cheeks with haste. “I can’t—“

“Yes, you can. Leave him. Leave him and...and come with me. Please, Y/N.” Carol begged. “You say it’s too late but you still have time. We still have time. Come with me...please.”

“Carol, I—“

And before you were able to finish your answer, the door opened and Kevin walked in, “Hi, baby! I’m home!”

“Hi, honey.” You reply quietly.

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

To be continued....👀

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

Tag list: @captains-simp

If anyone else would like to be tagged just let me know! ☺️

#brie larson #captain marvel #carol danvers #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers imagine #carol danvers angst

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mothernerd · 4 years ago

Text

blood 12 - Strange/Stark!Reader

Relationship: Dr. Strange/Princess!Stark!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Adult Themes, smut, adult language, implied sexual violence, general violence

Synopsis: Reader is the daughter of the legendary King Anthony Stark, Uniter of Lands, The Iron Defender, and leader of the realm. When the king disappears during battle, hope is lost and he is presumed dead.

When the late king’s uncle, Obadiah, takes the throne until your brother Peter is of age, he quickly arranges a marriage for you with a wicked king in a neighboring kingdom.

With the realms politics in question, and rumors of an upcoming siege to overthrow Peter’s rule before it starts, you quickly learn who is loyal to the crown and who is not.

part 11 - part 13

Masterlist

Chapter Playlist (GUESS WHO FINALLY FIGURED OUT THE PLAYLIST ISSUE)

12 - a memory

You’d been in the tunnels hundreds, if not, thousands of times in your life. There were very few places you were positive you could navigate blindly, but these caves and tunnels? Someone could take away every sense you had and you’d still be able to find your way home.

It was a little unsettling bringing Loki into your secret place. Very few people knew of the natural caves that fed into manmade tunnels (carved by your ancestor, Richard Stark, when he settled the land).

In fact, you could only think of four people, including yourself, who could navigate the paths without becoming lost.

There was you, Natalia (who’d originally shown you), James, and Stephen.

Not even Peter was privy to the knowledge of these cavernous paths, covered in old magic and fake tunnels.

The cave system was incredible. It was naturally occurring and if the history you’d dug up with Stephen was accurate, your ancestor had purposely selected the land for that reason. They were enhanced with this very action in mind.

To reclaim the castle by surprise if an antagonistic force overtook it.

Stephen once mentioned that history often repeated itself, but you liked to think it was more of a mimicry of the past. Similar, but never the same.

King Richard Stark the First never dealt with any serious threats to his reign. He lived a long life, had many children with his beloved wife, and died a very old man with his family at his bedside.

His son, however, King Emil Stark, faced many problems in his short reign. He was nearly murdered by his own brother, but escaped the plot using these very tunnels.

Later, he took back the castle with regional support and a surprise caravan of soldiers marched through one of the larger sections of the cave system.

You’d assumed and so had Stephen, when you’d read about the tale, that Richard had only told his eldest son. Why else had he been able to catch the younger brother by surprise?

But why had Richard only told one son?

Emil took the knowledge to his grave, but one of the soldiers had a son, who went with his father long after the battle to explore. That son had another son, and so on until one day, a red haired daughter was born.

That daughter was caught sneaking bread from the kitchens and when you protected her and gave her extra food, she taught you.

It was a funny thing, time. Cyclical, ever changing, but in the end, the fates would do as they pleased. How these tunnels led Nat into your life. How these tunnels have you freedom to explore and learn the land around you. How these tunnels brought the most important person into your life.

(—)

The first time you met Stephen Strange, you were sixteen years old.

By that point, you’d scared off almost every Master who’d passed the threshold of your castle. Some complained you asked too many questions, others tried to restrict knowledge of the dark and dastardly from you, one insisted a princess was to be simple minded and obedient.

That was the last one you’d chased off after casually bringing the fact up during dinner and letting Pepper deal with the rest.

This was long before Morgan. This was when Peter was still a little boy and you were a girl still trying to figure out your place in a world that didn’t value or respect you.

The first time you met Stephen Strange was ten days before he was due to arrive, officially.

You hadn’t known it was him at first. He’d been sitting in the woods on a stump, reading a book on local geography when you passed him on your way back to the tunnels that threaded their way through the forest to the castle. You and Natalia had spent the last few years wreaking havoc on the guard, slipping away without a word, only to reappear in a pub later that night.

You noted the odd fellow, out of place in the massive woods but not entirely unexpected and paused to do a double take.

“What are you reading?”

He peered up from his book, a brow quirked in her direction.

“What?”

You took a few steps closer. He didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons. Though Natalia would later reprimand you for being too trusting of strangers.

“What are you reading?” you repeated, having read the title and still wondering why someone would spend a beautiful afternoon such as that one, in the forest, alone, reading a book on geography.

“A book on geography,” he answered, folding the tome half shut and pointing a finger to the cover. “Geo-graph-y.”

He recited the word slowly, as if you couldn’t understand reading or letters.

“I know what it says,” you huffed, a little indignant at his tone. Did you look like some lowly peasant who couldn’t read? Glancing at your clothes you frowned. A simple frock.

Oh. Maybe you did.

“Why are you all the way out here?” you asked again, a little irritated when he went back to the book and ignored her.

“It’s quiet,” he lowered the book again, staring at you over the edge of the pages. “Or rather it was.”

“No one passes through here, usually,” you hummed, glancing around. “It’s a bit depressing though, isn’t it? The trees are blocking all of the sun.”

“I don’t need sunlight,” he stated cryptically and you noted his distinct robes of blue.

Kamar-Taj.

“Are you a sorcerer?” you asked, settling across from him on a mossy rock and leaning forward. “You’re a little young aren’t you?”

“I’m eighteen,” he shot back sharply. “I’ve been training my whole life. That’s considered more than experienced at this point.”

“So you are a sorcerer,” you confirmed with a sly smirk. “They’re getting a new Master Sorcerer up at the castle soon. Maybe you know him? Master Strange?”

If he knew the name, he made no indication and instead let out a long sigh, standing and closing his book.

“Never heard of him,” he replied curtly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He started to move toward one of the paths in the forest, but you caught up to him and followed closely behind.

“Why were you out here?” you asked curiously, trodding behind in the footprints he left behind.

“I told you, for peace,” he stated, a little exasperation to his tone.

Maybe that’s why you couldn’t hold a Master at the castle for very long, they frowned on questions and maybe Kamar-Taj taught them all to be sticks in the mud.

“You’re reading a book on geography,” you repeated. “Local geography if I recall?”

Your eyes fell on the book in his hand and he immediately shoved it to his chest, blocking it from view and continuing his path.

“You’re certainly not from around here,” you continued musing, plucking a flower from a nearby plant and twirling it between your fingers. He stopped and looked over at her.

“How can you tell?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Your accent is a little off,” you noted with a little chuckle. “It sounds like it’s from the border, where Kamar-Taj is located.”

“I was in Asgard,” he countered and you shrugged.

“Just to visit I’m sure,” you insisted and he didn’t reply. You twirled the flower again, giving it a small sniff. “I’m betting you were looking for the caves, weren’t you?”

His irritated expression fell and you walked up, tucking the flower behind his ear and grabbing his wrist.

“Here’s the thing, I’ve read that book and it’s ridiculously outdated and inaccurate,” you continued, pulling him back the direction you just came. “You see, Richard Stark, the son of Arthur Stark the Conqueror, had this whole region charted when he sought to build his fortress.”

“Yes, and this book is that report,” the boy insisted quickly and you laughed, much to his annoyance. “Why would he have built the castle if the report was inaccurate?”

“There was an accurate report at some point,” you explained, reaching and snatching the book up. You flipped through the pages until you found the section on the cave systems. “There’s a little truth to this, some of the tunnels are accurate but the entrances are all wrong.”

“But given the layout of the land-,” he protested and you shook your head.

“Just follow me,” you led the way past the stump he’d been sitting on toward the mouth of one of the well memorized tunnels into the castle. “They can go on for miles, so you have to be careful.”

“How do you know?” he challenged, sizing you over.

You paused. The tunnels were a closely guarded secret between you and Natalia, whose late father had passed the knowledge down to her. Aside from the serious security risk, you knew nothing of this boy or his past. So you stayed vague.

“I’ve explored them a few times,” you answered casually, hopping down into one of the smaller openings and calling for him to follow behind.

The two of you spent a few hours exploring areas even you hadn’t been familiar with. He pointed out a few magic runes, explaining their meaning as best he could (some were completely foreign to both of you) and not looking too annoyed when you peppered him with questions.

“Are you noble?” he finally asked when you walked him from the structure back toward the forest. “You’re very well read.”

“I like books,” you answered with a smile. “My father taught me to read at a young age and I never stopped.”

It was a half answer and a full truth, satisfying enough for him because he nodded.

“I’m in town for a few more nights,” he looked hesitant, clearing his throat nervously. “If you’d like to stop by the inn?”

Excitement sparked in your chest.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you promised, a big grin on your face that was decidedly not very ladylike. “Who should I ask for?”

“Stephen,” he replied. “Ask for Stephen.”

(—)

“I can feel Amora’s magic,” Loki stated, pausing in the tunnel and looking around. “How certain are you of those wards?”

Stephen’s hand reached and lightly touched one of the intricately carved runes in the tunnel wall. He paused, his expression moving from its usual frustration in failing to recognize the pattern to surprise.

“They never faltered when I tried experimenting,” he assured the prince.

“And many Master Sorcerer’s before you have tried completely sealing the castle,” you added, finally lowering your hood to look between the men. “It’s impossible. The runes are very old magic.”

Loki said something, but you didn’t hear him, instead you were taken by surprise when Stephen turned and flipped the amulet around your neck around to study the runes carved into the back.

“By the Gods,” he murmured, holding it up to the wall. “It’s seidr.”

You looked between the two symbols. Nearly identical with a few alterations, likely given a difference between the spells, but the base characters were perfect copies.

“Impossible, seidr was eliminated before this castle was built,” Loki insisted. “My grandfather completed the task and died before Arthur Stark even dreamed of this land.”

“It’d explain why traditional magic can’t touch it,” you pointed out.

“And why you can navigate the cave system so flawlessly,” Stephen reminded you. “We’ve found wings and sub-tunnels that defy geological principals…”

“Then it’s a promising omen,” Loki stated firmly. “We continue on with our task, remove Amora and reclaim the kingdom.”

(—)

“I can’t stay for long,” you explained a few days after your initial meeting. The ball to celebrate the new sorcerer was that evening and your maid had been nagging you all morning about getting a proper bath and dressing done for the event.

She’d heard the sorcerer was quite the looker.

Gods if you cared.

“I’m due to leave tonight as well,” he replied quietly. “I wanted to give you something to remember me.”

He handed you a book, “The Complete History of the Vanir Valley”.

“I might have uh, borrowed it from Kamar-Taj before I left,” he explained sheepishly. “It’s a very good book and it mentions this region and some of the more ancient history involved with it. Given your knowledge of the geography and geology…”

You clutched the book to your chest, absolutely moved by the young man’s kind gesture. Despite only knowing him a little over a week, you’d come to respect and enjoy his company on your adventures. He’d even met Nat, who admitted she enjoyed his sharp wit and jokes- a rare acknowledgment by the hardened thief.

“Do you have to go?” you asked quietly. “There’s so much more to explore…”

“I’m due to report to my next assignment,” he kicked at a nearby stick. “I’ll write. You live near the village? I’ll send a raven when I arrive.”

“I’ll miss you, Stephen,” you mumbled, trying to blink back a few tears. This stupid boy was the first person who hadn’t looked at you and completely rejected your intelligence. He listened and discussed philosophy and magic and history and science and…

He was leaving.

“Our paths will cross again, I’m sure,” he stated with a curt nod, pausing, unsure what to do with himself. He settled on leaning in and pressing a quick peck to your cheek, his face burning bright red when he pulled away. “Goodbye.”

He murmured your name like a soft prayer before starting back down the pathway toward the village.

The entire time you knew him, Stephen never admitted if he knew you were the princess the whole time or if it had taken him by surprise as well.

But the moment you saw him enter the ball room, you had to hold onto a nearby table to stop yourself from tumbling forward in shock.

Master Stephen Strange.

“You didn’t tell me you were the new Master,” you challenged, catching him by the elbow once introductions had been made and he was mingling between rounds of dancing. You guided him toward the edge of the room, ignoring the incredulous looks and whispers being shot in your direction.

“You didn’t tell me you were the princess,” he countered, a smirk on his lips, eyes wandering toward the dancers moving across the floor.

“You already knew, you must have,” you narrowed your gaze suspiciously at him. “‘Our paths will cross again’, that was nonsense then?”

“Would you like to dance?” he offered an arm, already pulling you toward the dance floor. You relented, continuing to badger him while he hummed and didn’t directly acknowledge your accusations.

“Admit it, you knew!”

“The roasted duck is incredibly tender, is that a regional recipe or how the ducks are bred?”

“The cook marinates it for two days,” you answered briefly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Your father mentioned your last Master called you simple?”

“In so many words.”

“Their loss is my gain, I have a phenomenal collection of books you can read if you’d like.”

“I’m not letting this go,” you started back, asking him about the collection in detail, and eventually, letting it go.

Your new friend was now your tutor and companion within the walls of the castle, as well as outside of it.

You weren’t one to tempt the fates too much.

(—)

The path into the castle from where you had entered had three break off points. One lead to the hall by your quarters, the second led to the throne room and the third led down to the kitchens.

For obvious reasons, the three of you decided on the kitchens, hoping to slip in unnoticed with the general chaos outside the castle.

Before exiting the security of the tunnel, you paused, fingers drifting over the stone walls, praying their security and strength would somehow leech into you.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Stephen murmured, leaning into your shoulder while Loki scouted ahead.

“What?” you blinked up at him.

“The ball,” he explained quietly. “When I first arrived, you asked if I knew and I didn’t. I was just as surprised as you were.”

Dumbfounded you turned to face him, chests nearly pressed together from the small space.

“You acted like you had,” you scowled at him. “I was furious for months.”

“I know,” he frowned sympathetically. “But you were so impressed, because truly, you hid it well.”

“Aside from being well read,” you challenged and he shook his head.

“There are plenty of non-royal nobles who can read a good book,” he countered softly, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “I was transfixed by such a stunning creature with an equally stunning mind. Would you believe me if I said it was love at first sight? I almost turned down the post.”

“Will you two quit it and get a move on?” Loki hissed back into the tunnel. “It’s clear.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Gods, I’m glad I didn’t either.”

(—)

13 - a surprise

(--)

TAG LIST (LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED)

@ayamenimthiriel @ladynothing

@im-a-bi-disaster-help @idkwhatthisislol

@bluefaeriefury @calsjack

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nikibogwater · 5 years ago

Text

A Moment to Breathe

“You....left because of me?” Douxie felt his breath hitch as a warm, happy feeling shot down his chest. He had never counted on even being remembered, much less the reason behind Nari’s change of heart.

Short Missing Scene for Episode 8 of Wizards. Douxie takes a moment to prepare for the battle ahead, and makes an unexpected connection with a demi-goddess.

Thank you @poetryinmotion-author for once again being my beta-reader! ❤

Read on AO3 (author’s notes are there as well, in case you’re interested)

Or below the cut:

Hisirdoux Casperan was exhausted.

His arms were sore from swinging his staff around, he was fairly certain Morgana had cracked a few of his ribs, the cut under his right eye was stinging like hellfire, his magic reserves were down to the last feeble dredges, and he was so damn tired.

His brain was too foggy to keep up with the various conversations all floating around him, so he left the others in the main lab of Hex Tech and slipped quietly into a small storage room, letting the door slide shut behind him with a groan. There were only a few dim floor lights shining around him, and the darkness pressed on his eyelids like a cool rag against a fevered brow, coaxing them closed. But there was no time for sleep or recuperation. He had to find a way to rescue Jim without endangering Nari. He had to fix this. He had promised. He just needed a minute’s silence to think.

Ideas were not forthcoming. Instead, he found himself fixated on how unbelievably uncomfortable he was. On top of his various physical and magical injuries, his Camelot-era clothes were scratchy and tight-fitting, the cloak weighing heavily on his slumped shoulders. Well, he couldn’t do anything about his cracked ribs (he’d never been able to master healing magic), but he could slip into something a little more comfortable. Taking a deep breath, he reached out with his magic, weaving threads of sorcery into the outdated garments, pulling and reshaping them into something more appropriate for the era. He breathed a sigh of relief as the cloak melted into a familiar lightweight hoodie, his boots shrank into flexible high-tops, and his itchy shirt re-formed into an airy tank top that settled like silk against his skin.

He scarcely had a moment to relish before the door was sliding open again with a mechanical hiss, and he let out another groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know, I know, just give me a minute, Master, I’ll figure something--” He cut himself off as he turned to see, not the Master Wizard he was expecting, but the tiny forest goddess he was supposed to be protecting. She was looking up at him with an odd expression--part curiosity, part sympathy, part apology, but the automatic door slid shut a moment later, plunging them back into darkness. “I--sorry,” Douxie fumbled, feeling incredibly awkward. Nari did not acknowledge his greeting, but instead approached him cautiously, her ancient, luminous eyes wandering up and down his figure in a way that left him feeling uncomfortably exposed.

“You are in pain,” she murmured, reaching out to him, searching for his aura. “More than the others. And your spirit is stretched terribly thin.”

“That’s....one way to put it, I suppose.” Douxie found himself chuckling. He knelt down to her level. “We were never properly introduced. I’m Hisirdoux Casperan. Or just Douxie. Whichever you prefer.”

“Merlin has spoken of you,” Nari replied, her hand coming to rest on top of his head. Her eyes squinted, and her brow furrowed. “And I recognize you. You were at Killahead, leading the charge alongside Arthur and Merlin.” Her hand moved inquisitively from his hair down to his shoulder. “I remember feeling your soul. It was kinder than any of the others, even as you ran into battle. That is why I left the Order that day. Because I knew I could not kill someone like you.”

“You, and others like you,” Nari said softly. “I could feel the pain we caused that day, the suffering of countless souls. For so long, I had endured it, because I wanted to believe that all humans deserved the punishment we inflicted. But seeing you and your friends...I could no longer blind myself to the truth. I had to make reparation for my sins.” Her hand drifted from his shoulder down to his chest, where it hovered above his heart. Her eyes closed, and Douxie felt her aura reaching out to him. It was gentle, cool like a shady nook beneath a tree, yet brimming with vitality. “Please open your heart for just a moment,” she whispered. “And I will do what I can to heal you.”

At any other time, Douxie would have questioned her intent. He was alone in a dark room, half-dead from fatigue, and hunted by the most powerful wizards in the world. If ever there was a time he shouldn’t open his heart and willingly allow another’s magic to flow through him, it would be now. Yet there was something about the sincerity in her voice, the warmth of her magic as he felt it touching his spirit, that made mistrusting her seem ridiculous, even downright foolish. Immediately, and without hesitation, Douxie opened his aura, and let it merge with hers, feeling her magic pour into him gently, like a slow-moving stream. Warmth crept up his neck and pooled in his cheeks, mending the cut beneath his eye. It swirled around his battered ribs, closing fractures and repairing damaged muscle. It slid down his arms and into his fingertips, easing weariness, lifting the feeling of weight that had been dragging at his limbs ever since he returned to the twenty-first century. He could feel his own magic regaining its strength, feel the pull of sleep fading from his eyes. He sighed in relief, relishing in the feeling of his lungs expanding without pain. Nari’s hand left his chest, but her warmth and vigor remained.

“I do not know what the future will bring,” she murmured, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze. “But I do not wish for the humans to suffer any longer. Especially you. Whatever battles you may face, you will always have my blessing.”

“...Thank you,” Douxie breathed, feeling both humbled and encouraged. Nari smiled and gave a short nod.

“I am afraid the spell does not last forever. The weariness will return eventually, and your ribs may ache again, but I hope that this will see you through the fight ahead of us.”

“I’m sure it will,” he replied, giving her his most reassuring smile. “Thank you, Nari.”

“I sense conflict arising in the others,” Nari said, glancing at the closed door. “Perhaps we should return to them.”

“That’ll be Merlin and Claire,” Douxie groaned, getting to his feet. “I don’t think they’ve gotten along since he turned her boyfriend into a troll.” Nari looked up at him with an expression of confused curiosity. “Long story, and even I’m not clear on all the details.” He held out a hand to her, and she took it, her small fingers closing tightly around his. “Whatever comes our way,” he added as the door slid open and the light from the lab assaulted his eyes once more. “I’m glad you’re with us now, Nari.” She beamed up at him and squeezed his hand.

“As am I, Douxie.”

#tales of arcadia #toa #wizards: tales of arcadia #wizards: toa #douxie #nari #the beginning of the Magical Siblings #missing scene #fanfiction

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ballerinaroy · 5 years ago

Note

omg you should continue your thread with something from molly's POV about the next time she sees ron and hermione and/or how they announce the baby, the idea of hermione keeping it quiet this long from everyone is really interesting and i'm curious how the weasleys/harry would react on top of all their relief at ron being back!!!!!

Pt. I // Pt. II // On Ao3

For a whole weekend, and a long one at that, she got him all to herself. Seventy-eight-point-five glorious hours spent with just the two of them (three of them her mind whispered). But he’d never just been hers. Harry, who of course knew of his return, arrived for breakfast that Monday morning, and by noon they’d been summoned to the Burrow at their earliest convince. Not that Hermione minded. She’d taken to avoiding large gatherings as she swelled and stretched with their little secret.

“No one,” Ron said in disbelief at least a dozen times. “You didn’t tell anyone? Not even Ginny?”

“Ginny has enough on her mind,” Hermione told him. “She’s due any day now.”

“Right, but, what if something had happened?” he asked, putting his hand over her belly protectively. “And no one had known?”

The thought had occurred to her, of course. Ron had been always better at looking after her than she ever was on her own. What if she’d collapsed, or been exposed to something at work and no one would have known to even protect the life growing inside her.

“Well,” she said, trying to push the horrible scenario from her mind. “No one did.”

And then, she told him something she’d been keeping from herself. “It’s strange, I’ve known all this time but until you got back until you knew, it didn’t really feel real.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” she sighed, looking into his eyes. “I knew I was growing a life but until I told you it felt like this passive thing. Not our child, not a life.”

“You’re barmy,” Ron said fondly, kissing her forehead and then bending down to kiss her belly.

“Any thoughts on when or how we should tell people?” she asked him.

“We should do it soon,” Ron said logically. “Ginny really could burst any day and we don’t want to steal their thunder.”

“We should tell them first, right?” she asked of him and he nodded in agreement. “And then our parents.”

“I doubt it’ll be just us at the Burrow this weekend, maybe go over for tea next week?” Ron said, “Take your parents out to dinner.”

“To that little Italian place?” she asked knowingly and Ron groaned appreciatively.

“Oh, Hermione,” He said, “Have I told you you’re brilliant lately?”

She giggled, kissing him again. Glad for every second they had alone, every excuse to put her lips on his.

~~~

“He’s down,” Ginny announced, coming back into the room having gone to lay James down for his afternoon nap. “I thought he’d never go to sleep.”

“You can never leave again, mate,” Harry told Ron, “James asked about you four times a day.”

“What can I say, being the favorite Uncle has its perks,” Ron said, winking at Hermione as they all shared a laugh.

“How are you, Ginny?” Hermione asked.

“Miserable,” she said honestly, pulling a face. Hermione watched as Harry drew her feet into his lap and began massaging them. “This last month is the worst of it. I’m huge, can’t sleep, can’t even get comfortable.”

Ron and Hermione shared a sympathetic look.

“Don’t let me put you off though,” Ginny said hurriedly. “It’ll all be worth it when I get to hold our little one. So whenever you want to give our kids another nephew-“

“I don’t know,” Ron said mischievously. “How are you two going to handle Godparent responsibilities on top of all this?”

“Oh, we’ll have a year on you,” Ginny said.

“Unless,” Harry interrupted, staring at them intensely. “You’re not-“

Hermione looked over at Ron who smiled at her proudly, taking her hand and together they nodded at their best friends.

“Ron, you just got back!” Ginny cried out as Harry bound to his feet, launching himself at them.

His arms still around them he pulled back and stared, “Wait, Ginny’s right, how do you-?”

“I’d just found out before Ron left,” Hermione explained with a chuckle. Harry embraced them again, tightly.

“I don’t know how you managed to keep that from us,” Ginny said, sounding disappointed. “I was shouting it from the rooftops as soon as I found out.”

“Oh, we remember,” Ron said.

“Shut it,” Ginny said, “And get over here, I’m not as nimble as my husband.”

Hermione laughed, sitting down next to Ginny so they could embrace.

“Ooh,” Ginny cooed, waiting for a nod from Hermione before placing her hand on her belly, the other on her own. “They’ll start Hogwarts together.” They looked over at Harry, his arm still around Ron and he had tears in his eyes.

“They’ll start Hogwarts together,” Harry echoed.

“Oh, don’t the two of you start,” Hermione said, batting at her own eyes. “When I start crying I can’t stop.”

“Sorry,” Harry said affectionally. “Our kids are going to grow up together.”

Hermione looked over at Ron but he wasn’t immune to the emotional realization. “Yeah,” he echoed. “They are.”

~~~

“You know, once you two start a family you’re not going to be able to go on those missions.”

They’d only just taken off their cloaks as they arrived for afternoon tea, Molly commenting immediately about Ron’s weight and the danger of his career.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Hermione reminded him in a low voice. “She’s doubled down on Harry ever since James was born.”

Ron sighed, “You’d think mum was proud of me or something.”

“You know that I’m proud of you!” she said loudly, coming back into the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea. “Don’t you say that, I just don’t want you to miss your kids growing up! We don’t get very long with them. Before I knew it you were eleven and-“

She broke off, tears in her eyes.

“I know mum,” Ron said, conjuring a handkerchief for her, a trick he’d gotten rather good at as of late. “I was only joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said, waving his offering away. “You think the years go quickly now, just you wait. Watching your kids grow up, goodness, you blink and they’ve gone from nappies to walking down the aisle.”

Before they could think of a reply they were thankfully interrupted with the arrival of Arthur.

“Sorry I’m late!” he called, walking in hurriedly. “Perkins stopped by and I lost track of time. Oh no, is everything alright dear?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Molly said, waving him away. “Have a seat and I’ll fix you something.”

“I’m alright,” he told her, embracing his son and then Hermione. “And how are you two? You’re looking better Ron, you gave us quite a fright on Sunday.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve already finished most of what mum sent home,” Ron assured them, though Hermione knew he didn’t mind being fussed over so long as his brothers weren’t around to tease him. “And we’re going to bed. It was just a stressful time.”

“Well, I’ve made you another basket to take, and I don’t want to hear about it being trouble because it wasn’t.”

“Thanks, mum,” Ron said.

“I’m glad the two of you could stop by,” Molly went on. “It feels like we haven’t seen much of you at all Hermione.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been rather busy with work…” she said and trailed off, looking at Ron for approval. He shrugged and then nodded. “And I’ve, uh, been waiting for Ron to get back to share something with you.”

“Are you?” Molly asked, knowing at once. She gripped her husband’s arm. “Arthur are they?”

“We’re going to have a baby,” Ron confirmed and true to her nature, his mother burst into tears.

“Oh, Arthur,” she cried, “Oh-“

She stood, teary-eyed and beckoned them over, giving Hermione a tight hug and then embracing Ron as she sobbed.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Molly demanded, going back in to hug Hermione again. “You know if there’s anything you need.”

“I know,” Hermione assured her, unable to keep herself from tearing up at the joy on her in-law’s faces. Arthur, whom she’d never seen get emotional until after Fred’s death, was gripping Ron tightly and whispering something in his ear. “I just needed Ron back.”

“Ohh,” she cooed knowingly, patting the side of Hermione’s face in a maternal way. “All healthy then?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, smoothing her shirt. “Fourteen weeks along, progressing normally.”

“That far?” Molly asked. “You’re almost halfway done.” She turned again to her husband. “Oh, Arthur.”

“I know dear,” he said, taking his turn with Hermione and whispering a “Congratulations,” in her ear.

Another round of hugs ensued before they all sat back down, grinning at one another.

“So,” Molly said, “What are you going to do about a nursery?”

My ask box is open!

#roywrites #ROMIONE #romione fanfic

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morri-draws · 1 year ago

Text

Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 11

Story Summary:

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 2,963

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Read on Ao3

You’ve done as Gaius instructed, and returned to your regular duties, sewing the harvest outfits for the king and queen. You spent the remainder of yesterday working once you got back from your visit to Gwaine’s bedside. Now you’ve spent the entire day doing so, sighing and rubbing your strained eyes when you put your needle down at last.

You prepare a simple dinner and begin to eat at the table, your now otherwise unoccupied thoughts wholly on Sir Gwaine. You shove another spoonful into your mouth, almost choking when there’s a rapid knock at your door. You quickly swallow your food as you rush to the door and open it.

“He’s awake!” Merlin beams.

You gasp and, wasting no time, leave your chambers, your remaining dinner abandoned.

Merlin opens the door when you arrive at your destination, allowing you to enter first. You look to the bed, spotting Gwaine’s face gazing back at you from his reclined position. You make your way over to him, anxiety flaring as you realise that, as excited as you have been for Gwaine to recover, you are nervous to see him now, since the last time you spoke, it was not on pleasant terms.

You pull up a chair at his bedside and sit down.

“It’s good to see you awake at last,” You say, finding it difficult to hold his gaze for long.

“I needed my beauty sleep,” Gwaine smirks.

You smile, relieved that he is feeling well enough to jest.

“I was just telling Gwaine, before I fetched you, how you visited him while he was unconscious,” Merlin says from across the room with a mischievous smile.

Your cheeks warm. “Yes, well… I wanted to make sure you were getting better,”

“I’m feeling much better, now that you’re here,” Gwaine says softly.

You look away from his tender gaze. “Where’s Gaius?”

“He’s gone to inform Arthur,”

“I was informed before the king?” You ask in disbelief.

“Well, your chambers are closer, and besides,” Merlin says. “Arthur could stand to learn a little patience,”

The three of you chuckle, but Gwaine’s laugh turns into a groan as he clutches his side. Your hand automatically moves to touch Gwaine’s arm in concern. His eyes dart from your hand to your face and you blush, pulling the hand away. Gwaine opens his mouth to speak when the door suddenly swings open and the king enters, followed by Gaius.

“Gwaine,” He grins, crossing the room and extending a hand. Gwaine extends his own and they grasp arms as male friends often do. “I knew you were too tough to be bested by mere raiders,”

“We all know I’m the strongest knight, despite what Percival might think,” Gwaine grins.

The king laughs and claps his hands together. “Well, I just wanted to see for myself that you’re on the mend. I expect to see you back at training very soon,”

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, sire,” Gaius interjects. “Sir Gwaine will need time to recover from his wound. Vigorous exercise is sure to reverse any healing that has occurred,”

“Very well,” The king starts for the door, but turns to point a finger at Gwaine. “But don’t even think about laying it on thick to avoid coming back training. I know what you’re like,”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gwaine replies playfully.

Arthur smirks, before leaving, the door snapping shut behind him.

“That man has an unnatural obsession with physical punishment,” Gwaine says as soon as the king is out of sight.

You look to Merlin and you both grin, relieved and glad to have the jesting knight back with you.

“Can I return to my own chambers, Gaius?” Gwaine asks.

The physician looks up from his workbench where he’s tidying up. “I would prefer if you were to stay here a bit longer, Gwaine. You have only just become conscious again,”

Gwaine groans. “I long for the comfort of my own bed. Don’t you, Gaius?” He looks down meaningfully at the bed he’s lying in.

“My patients’ well-being comes first,” Gaius replies. “Besides, how do you suppose you will get from here to your chambers? You haven’t even managed to sit up yet,”

“These two will help me,” Gwaine gestures to you and Merlin.

Gaius sighs. “Very well. But,” His expression becomes stern. “Be very careful not to reopen your wound,”

“I will, Gaius,” Gwaine carefully props himself up, then looks between you and Merlin. “Let’s go,”

“Wait a moment,” Gaius retrieves a bundle of fabric from nearby and tosses it to Gwaine, who holds it up, revealing a shirt. “We can’t have you walking about the castle half-naked,”

Gwaine carefully slips the shirt over his head and eases his arms into the sleeves. “There we are,”

Merlin approaches the bed, putting an arm around Gwaine’s back and helping him to stand. You get up from your chair and put an arm around Gwaine from the other side, you and Merlin both taking some of the knight’s weight as he rests an arm on each of your shoulders.

“Take it slow,” Gaius instructs as the three of you head out the door.

You and Merlin guide Gwaine through the corridors of the castle, taking the stairs extra carefully. You try not to focus on the fact that this is the closest you’ve ever been to Gwaine, and the most physical contact you’ve ever had with each other. You notice out of the corner of your eye that the knight gives an occasional glance your way, but you stay focused on the path ahead to avoid the possibility of turning beet red from gazing at him from such a close proximity.

In over double the amount of time it would usually take to make the distance to Gwaine’s chambers, you finally arrive. Merlin opens the door and you both lead Gwaine to his bed and assist him to sit on the edge.

He sighs. “Much obliged to you both. Now, Merlin,” He gives his friend a meaningful look.

Merlin smiles and heads back to the door, gently closing it behind him as he leaves the room without a word. You’re struck with mild alarm from being thrust into this situation, just you and Gwaine alone.

Gwaine clears his throat. “So…”

Seeing no chair nearby, you take a deep breath and perch on the edge of the bed too, about three feet between you.

“I want to start by saying how sorry I am,” You begin. “My behaviour toward you was unforgivable. The thought that I hurt you makes my stomach turn,” You look down in shame.

“(Y/N), please don’t be so hard on yourself,” He replies. “I forgive you,”

You meet his gaze, which is absolutely sincere.

“You are not at fault here,” He continues “It was a misunderstanding, and you were led astray, which is why I want to talk things through now. I would like you to tell me what happened between when we spoke in your chambers about Sir Leon, and when we last spoke, at your chamber door,”

You wince at the memory of the terrible exchange of the latter.

“Are you sure we should do this now?” You ask. “It’s getting late, and surely you need rest,”

“I can rest later, once I’ve heard your account. Please…”

You sigh deeply, clasping your hands in your lap. “Alright, where to start? I suppose I should begin with when I returned to Camelot after my rescue from those bandits. I admit I… was afraid to see you. I felt so wretched and I was worried I would be terrible company. I thought I wouldn’t be able to laugh with you anymore and… that I was spoiled,”

You touch the side of your head where your hacked hair is hidden underneath the fabric cap. You glance up at Gwaine, sorrow and anger in his eyes.

“But you came by my chambers,” You continue. “And we had our talk about Sir Leon. I didn’t see you for three days after that, but I thought perhaps you were busy. On the fourth day, I went out to fetch some water, and I saw you walking with a woman, who was very elegant and pretty. I didn’t think much of it until later. On the way back to my chambers, I overheard your sister speaking to someone in the courtiers’ wing. They were gossiping about what happened to me. Erika said that you’d gone off me. She knew what had happened to my hair and said I was too ugly now for any man to want me. I rushed back to my chambers, upset, and thought of what she said, and how I hadn’t seen you in three days, but saw you with that woman, and I imagined that your sister was right. I couldn’t face seeing anyone, so I didn’t answer my door to any who came by. I only left my chambers to conduct fittings or go to the market, which is where I saw Erika again, I believe with the same friend as last time. She said that she’d seen you head to my chambers a few times, and she assumed that you… that you and I…”

“You don’t have to say it,” Gwaine says, clearly livid, but attempting to keep his voice steady.

You nod in thanks, before continuing. “She also said that back home, the townspeople hid their daughters from you. I ran into you in the courtyard, just after I’d heard all that, and I was so cold toward you, thinking of those terrible things Erika had said. I returned to my chambers and thought over everything, questioned everything. I thought of those bandits and the things they said, how they made me feel like I wasn’t a person, but just something to be used, and with all those things your sister said… I thought that you’d just wanted to use me too,”

Your voice wavers and tears well up in your eyes. Before you can say any more, Gwaine’s arms are around you and your face is buried in the crook of his neck. You stay like that for a few moments, taking comfort in his warm embrace as your tears soak through his shirt, before pulling away and wiping your eyes on the back of your hand.

“The next day we spoke at my chamber door,” You continue. “I need not repeat what was said, for I’m sure we both remember. I spent much time reflecting after you left, realising how foolish and cruel I had been. I was afraid you would never want to speak to me again. But Merlin visited me the next day, and with his encouragement, I planned to seek you out after your evening training. So, when the time came, I went to the knights’ quarters and no one was there, then I found out you’d all left on an urgent mission. Now… here we are,”

“Here we are,” Gwaine repeats with a sigh.

“Do you see how foolish I’ve been?”

“No,” Gwaine protests. “What I see, is that you’ve been in a delicate state since those terrible events with the bandits. I see that during your time of distress, my sister made things worse. You needed to be treated with gentleness, but she inflicted her venomous words upon you,”

“But she never spoke directly to me,” You interject. “I only ever overheard her talking to someone else,”

“Knowing Erika, I’d say she knew you were able to hear. At least in the second instance,” Gwaine shakes his head. “And with you already feeling low, you believed the things she said,”

“I should have known better,” You hang your head.

“You are not to blame,” Gwaine puts a hand on your shoulder, his gaze intense. “Not one bit, you hear?”

You hold his gaze, seeing nothing but earnestness, and you nod. Gwaine removes his hand and rests his elbows on his knees, fingers threaded together.

“I would like to tell my side of the story now,” He says. “Hopefully it’ll clear some things up,”

You shift your position on the bed, moving so your body is fully facing Gwaine.

“Those three days where I didn’t see you,” He begins. “The first, Arthur had us go on another patrol to check for bandits. He didn’t want to chance it that any more people would be taken and sold to slavers. By the time we returned we were all exhausted, so I didn’t come by to see you. The second day, since I had made up with Leon that night after we spoke, all us knights went to the tavern, glad the tension was behind us. We stayed there late, so by the time I got back to the castle, it was past any reasonable hour for a visit. The third day is where I made a mistake. I was planning to see you, and told the other knights such, but they wanted to go back to the tavern to try to make back the money they’d lost gambling the night before. I let them persuade me to go with them instead of seeing you. With things freshly mended between me and Leon, I didn’t want to chance causing any more friction, so I did as they wanted. I came by your chambers the next day, but received no answer. By the sounds of it, you’d already heard some of Erika’s foul words by then. I had supposed at the time that you must have been out, but perhaps not?”

You shake your head. “I heard the knock, but I didn’t want to see anyone,”

Gwaine nods in understanding. “In regards to that woman you saw me with. I’d hazard a guess and say she was a friend of Erika’s. I’d never met her before that day, and she was asking me odd questions, some about you. I only gave vague answers since the whole thing seemed suspicious,” He frowns. “Now, about the things my sister had to say about me: she has taken the smallest grain of truth and warped it into a terrible lie,” He sighs. “Remember when I told you how things changed after my father died?”

You nod.

“I didn’t go into everything,” He continues. “It was an unhappy time. My mother’s greatest wish was for me and Erika to marry well. Our reduced position upset my mother greatly, so she would constantly push us onto wealthy, unmarried sons and daughters of nobles, hoping a good match would come of it. I couldn’t stand it, to be permanently tied to someone just for the money… so I rebelled. I purposely botched any courtships my mother forced me into, and instead sought the company of the innkeep’s daughter,”

“Did you love her?” You ask.

“I thought I did at the time,” Gwaine grimaces. “But I think I realise now that what I actually loved was the sense of freedom I had when I was with her. Time with her was time away from nobles and my mother’s schemes. Anyway, Erika found out and told the innkeep, who was furious. He forbade me from so much as looking in his daughter’s direction. It was shortly after that I left town. I admit I was a terrible flirt during my time wandering, but… I was lonely. I was travelling alone, never staying in one place too long since I usually got into trouble wherever I went. I just wanted to feel some kind of connection… but it was only ever just dalliances or words thrown back and forth, with no sincerity or meaning behind them,”

Feeling reluctant to ask the question, you push yourself to do so anyway.

“Were you feeling lonely when you first spoke to me?”

Gwaine looks into your eyes. “No. Since being here, becoming a knight… I’m in a very different place now. I have a home, friends, duty. But that day we first spoke, I saw a damsel looking very lost, and felt it was my knightly duty to assist,” He grins.

You smile. “And taking me to the baker’s for fruit and custard buns – was that a knightly duty?”

Gwaine chuckles, wincing slightly and clutching his side. “No, that was me wanting to get to know you better. Just from speaking to you a little, I got some sort of sense about you,”

“Sense? Like a psychic sense?” You tease.

“No, nothing like that,” He scoffs. “I got a sense that you were very genuine… true to yourself. And you liked to jest and to laugh. What was it you said on our picnic?”

You shake your head, unsure as to what he is referring.

“That was it,” He smiles. “‘One should never underestimate laughter, and cherish those who make them smile,’”

A blush blooms in your cheeks as he gazes at you, his eyes brimming with warmth, and a sensation washes over you, of a massive weight being lifted from within.

“I’m so glad we’ve been able to talk things over at last,” You say.

Gwaine reaches out, taking your hand in his. “Me too,”

You look down at his hand enveloping yours, and stroke along his knuckles with your thumb.

“The hour is late,” You gently remove your hand from his and stand up.

“Don’t go yet,”

“Gaius will have my hide if he finds out I kept you from resting,”

Gwaine groans. “Will you visit again tomorrow?”

“I will,” You smile. “But I won’t come until around midday, so make sure you have a nice, long beauty sleep,”

“Why around midday?”

“I do have a job, you know,” You smirk.

“Of course. Well, I will be counting down to the hour,”

“The only thing you need to worry about counting is sheep,”

Gwaine chuckles. “Goodnight, (Y/N),”

“Goodnight, Gwaine,”

#gwaine x reader #reader x gwaine #gwaine #sir gwaine #merlin fic #bbc merlin fic #bbc merlin #reader insert #merlin bbc #my writing

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the-awkward-outlaw · 5 years ago

Note

Arthur stumbles into camp all bloody and beat up. Reader takes care of him and takes over his responsibilities for a while. She is bitter towards Dutch who sent him on the job in the first place. PS I love your writing 🥺

Oh my God I had not intended to take this big of a break from writing! I meant to take about a week, told myself I’d write on my vacation (which I did for about 10 minutes) and then some major family drama happened. Anyways, rant and excuses over. Here you go, Anon! Hope you enjoy!

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Arthur winces in pain as he rides his horse up to camp. He hasn’t been this sore in a long time, but at least this time he knows he has you for him to lean on (figuratively speaking). As his horse trots along, he bends down and pats her neck, feeling grateful for his loyal steed. She’s often been his sole companion as he’s been out wandering.

Soon Arthur looks up and he sees the trees that mark Horseshoe Overlook and he lets out a deep breath. His knee twinges painfully, a result of his bad step and then having to hold it against the saddle in an awkward angle. His ribs are tender as well, and he’s got a long gash that stretches down from his shoulder to nearly his elbow. However, it’s the deep knife wound in his lower abdomen that’s got him worried and in the most pain. He just hopes it doesn’t look as awful as it feels.

Just as he rides into camp, you look up from your chores and smile the moment your eyes meet him. He’s been gone a while, at least four days. You’ve been getting worried. Dutch sent him out north of Valentine to investigate leads on a bank stage being sent down to Valentine from Annesburg.

You begin walking over to him, wanting to greet him from his trip, but the moment he steps down from the saddle, you know something’s wrong. He’s holding himself differently, he limps when he puts weight on his left knee (though he tries to hide it). His hand is on his ribs as though they hurt and there’s a long, bloodied rip in his shirt sleeve. You gasp when you see the bloody spot on his torso though.

“Arthur!” you say, jogging over to him. “Honey, what happened?”

“Oh nothin’ I couldn’t handle, darlin’,” he says, putting an arm over your shoulders to bring you in for a hug.

“Arthur,” you say in an almost scolding manner, “I really wish you wouldn’t do this to me. I know you well enough to know when you’re injured. Come on.”

You start leading him over to your shared tent. To do so, you have to pass Dutch’s tent, and of course the man himself is standing outside of it, smoking a cigar. He sees you and Arthur limping past.

“Arthur. Arthur, what happened?” he says.

Arthur squeezes your shoulders with his arm, signaling you to stop. “Nothin’ too bad, Dutch.”

“What about the stage, son? Did you find out anything with it?”

“Damn your stage, Dutch!” you snarl, surprising yourself. It’s not often you get after Dutch. “Can’t you see Arthur’s injured? He needs attention and rest. Can’t you give him that much for five damn minutes?”

“I just thought-“

“You just thought that Arthur here, my Arthur, can take anything and he’s never at risk, is that right? You just think that Arthur here is an invincible being, that he can take on any kind of danger. Well he ain’t, Dutch, so lay off him for now. You can worry about your stupid stage when I’m done.”

Without waiting for him to reply, you walk Arthur the small distance over to your tent. Once there, you make him sit down on the cot and reach into the chest to find some bandages and something to wrap his knee in.

“You coulda done that smoother with Dutch, couldn’t you, darlin’?”

“I don’t care, Arthur,” you say, not looking up. “That man…. Cares more about making money than any of us here.”

“That ain’t true.”

“Yes it is, Arthur. He’s just good at pretending. But I see it, Arthur. Maybe it’s because I’ve only been running with you all for a year, or I’m just good at reading people. But trust me, Arthur. Dutch is a very greedy man.”

“Darlin’, that ain’t fair. He’s just tryin’ to look out for all of us, give us a good life. You can’t do that with no money.”

“No, but think about it, Arthur. Anyone who looks at you can tell you’re hurt. Yet the first thing he talks to you about is that stupid stagecoach. Not ‘Arthur, let’s get you patched up’ or anything like that.”

He goes on to try and argue more, but you put your hand on his lips. “I’m going to take care of you, Arthur. Now shut up and let me.”

“Fine,” he growls (though he secretly loves the attention). You smile, knowing exactly how he feels.

You remove his shirt first, to which he questions, but you tell him you’ve no intention of any funny business. You suck in your breath when you see the knife wound. It’s deep and bleeding profusely. Arthur lies down after you tell him to and you run off to get Strauss’s medical kit. When you get back, Grimshaw’s standing in your place, giving Arthur a stern talking to.

“Always comin’ back ripped to pieces,” she scolds. You stifle a giggle as you can see Arthur looking quite bashful. You put a hand on her shoulder.

“I got this, Susan.”

She huffs and walks out. When she’s gone, you turn to Arthur and let out a small laugh. “Grimshaw gave you an earful, huh?”

“Yeah, but it’s how she shows she cares, I guess. Well, at least you’re takin’ care of me, not her.”

“Oh no trust me, Arthur, I intend on giving you a talking to as well.”

Of course you don’t come anywhere near as nasty as Grimshaw can get, but you still tell Arthur that he needs to be more careful as you set up the kit and pull out a bottle of whiskey. You pour a little of it on the knife wound and he grunts sharply.

“I know, honey, I’m sorry. Tell me what happened while I get this stitched up.”

As you ready the sutures, Arthur talks about how he figured out the most likely route a stage would come down and he waited. It wasn’t hard and the stage itself was easy enough to stop. Arthur was quick enough to take down most of the men guarding it, but there was one that was just fast enough to charge him, slice his arm and then thrust the blade into his gut.

“So what happened with your knee and ribs? You got some good bruises here,” you say, running your fingers gingerly over the darkening spots on his ribs.

“Ah, the guy punched me before he sliced me up. My knee, well, when I was runnin’ around shootin’ the fellers, I stepped into a hole.”

You grin when you see goosebumps rising over his skin from where you touch him. Tempted to go further, you decide instead to go back to stitching him up. You soon tie off the thread and pour a bit more whiskey on the wound to give it an extra cleaning. Arthur winces again, to which you apologize again.

After bandaging up the knife wound, his arm (which isn’t very deep luckily), and wrapping his knee, you demand Arthur be on bedrest for a day or two. When he starts to argue, saying there’s work to be done, you override him.

“I don’t care, Mr. Morgan! You’ve got to take care of yourself! I don’t care how big and tough you think you are, you can’t run forever. Especially on this knee. Now please… just listen to me and get some rest. Then in a few days, maybe… maybe you and I can go off and have some fun.”

Arthur gives you a small smirk but he nods his head and lays down. You can tell he really does need to rest. There’s dark circles under his eyes from lack of good sleep and the knife wound does worry you.

With the promise of the two of you going off into the wild to hunt and enjoy one another’s company, Arthur soon falls asleep. You stay by his side, watching his chest rise and fall. Then you take his hat into your hands, studying the firm, aged leather. You love his hat. It’s undeniably him.

After setting it back on the table, you lean over and give Arthur a kiss, despite him still sleeping. Lord only knows how much you adore this man. You just hope he listens to what you said the other day about him not collecting anymore debts for Strauss. For some reason, you have a bad feeling when you think about it. Perhaps you’ll talk to him about it again when he’s awake. In the meantime, you lean back in your chair, your hand resting on his, your eyes gazing softly at the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr 2 #red dead fanfic #awkward asks

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 5 years ago

Text

Promises Not Kept Part 36

Summary: Tommy Shelby made a promise to Jonah Ward while in the war. A promise he didn't keep. But it comes to haunt him when he tries to drown out his sorrows with a young woman.

Part 36: Alfie and Tommy discuss life. Meanwhile Johanna and Charles are up to no good.

“Tommy, mate, you’ve got to get a fucking grip.” Alfie and Tommy took the walk down out to the pier. It was a bit away from where they’d shot each other on the beach.

Alfie let the man take a few deep breaths of the salt air before he began. With a grunt, he sat down on one of the low dock posts.

Tommy remained standing, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“I mean, honestly, when Leah called me I thought you’d been shot. Or someone had died. She were hysterical, mate. Said you’d lost your fucking mind because your family had come for Christmas. Now, what’s that about, aye?” Alfie clasped his hands together between his knees.

“There’s a black cat in my family.” Tommy replied, not addressing any of his actions that Christmas day. It was embarrassing enough to know that his wife was so distraught and in such a state that she phoned Alfie Solomons.

“Right, now I’ve no fucking clue what that means.” Not the man to speak in riddles like the Shelbys, he skirted around the ominous remark. “I’ve enough common sense to know you’re referring to a traitor. That right?” The slight nod was enough of an indicator that Alfie was on the right track. “So, you’ve got your knickers in a twist because of one traitor? ‘Tween you and me, we both fucking know how many men we’ve gutted for being traitors. Now either you really have lost your bloody mind or you’re using it as a fucking excuse.”

Tommy wasn’t sure what he was expecting from the chat with Alfie. What did anyone ever expect from the man? Even still, he was wise to use the tactic he’d used for years in regard to their interactions. He let the Camden Town gangster run his mouth until everything was said. He could handle the pokes and jabs Alfie made at him, that wasn’t an issue. If anything, he felt mildly comforted. As if things had gone back to a simpler time. Back to when they would meet in Alfie’s bakery. They would negotiate business, perhaps Alfie would pull a gun or dish out a few colorful threats. And yet both knew that they weren’t in any real danger. Because they had an understanding with each other. One that was unspoken. It’s why they weren’t enemies.

“Lookit you, Tom, have you even fucking realized that the world has kept on spinning? You’re out there doing the same shit you’ve always done, ‘cept now you’ve got a fancy new office at the Commons. What’s that brought you then? Just a nasty mess, innit? Now your family’s involved.”

“They were involved from the beginning.”

“No, no, not that family.” He waved a dismissive hand at the rest of the Shelby family. “Your family. Your wife and kids.”

There was a break in Alfie’s rambling. Enough for Tommy to listen to the waves crashing against the pier. Steady, rhythmic churning that felt a lot like the state of his brain at the current moment. Anxieties and anger kept sweeping in. Unrelenting waves of stress and the unbearable feeling of being caged in.

Alfie let out a low chuckle of pity and shook his head. “We’re men of habit, Tommy, ain’t we? Don’t fucking learn, right, from our mistakes ‘til it really does some fucking damage.” He subconsciously rubbed a hand over the mangled part of his face. “Think ‘bout it. All of us going off, yeah to that fucking War, seeing the shit we did, then they fucking expected us to just come back. Some men did, can’t fucking understand it. They must’ve been able to shut off that part of their brain or sumthin’.” He shrugged. “We saw blood over there, didn’t we? Then we came back and didn’t see none. And that didn’t feel right, did it? So, we made the streets into a warzone. That felt right.”

Tommy watched the crests of the waves as they glistened in the dim sunlight. The clouds had made it a gray afternoon and the sky seemed at odds with the dark angry sea.

“Does it feel right now, Tommy?”

Finally, he looked over at Alfie. In a moment of vulnerability, his defenses lowered. “I’ve dug in too deep.” He admitted in a low voice. “You, Leah, Polly, Arthur, whoever can blame me for what I’ve done. You can tell me I was wrong for getting involved with Mosley. I don’t even fucking care what me reason was in the first place. What matters now is I’ve done it. There’s no way to reverse it. I can only move forward. That’s all I’ve ever been able to do.” When his voice broke, he lifted a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Alfie peered up at him. “So, is this what happens when you’ve run out of answers? You lose your damn mind? Tryna hold everything together by a thread? May I remind you that you’ve got people ‘round you that are waiting patiently to fucking help you?”

Tommy lowered his hand and raised an eyebrow. “Including you?”

Alfie rolled his eyes and muttered a few incoherent words. “Didn’t fucking say that, but if it means helping out your saint of a wife, then yes.” He replied gruffly.

“The world really is upside down.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Although they hadn’t covered much ground, at least Alfie had managed to get Tommy grounded. The ocean and their usual banter had a strangely calming effect. For how long it would last, neither of them was sure as they walked back to the house.

Unfortunately, it would only last a few minutes past walking in the door.

Tommy, ever the perceptive one, almost instantly caught on that something wasn’t right. Both Charlie and Johanna’s coats, which he had hung up on the coat rack, were gone. Yet, Leah’s was still there, ruling out that she’d taken them out for a walk. Cyril was also sitting by the door as if he were waiting for someone to return.

Alarm bells going off, Tommy pushed past Alfie in the hallway and went into the sitting room. Molly was sleeping in her bassinette but the other two children weren’t there. “Leah?” He called down the hallway.

Still in the kitchen with Alfie’s maid, Leah poked her head out the door. “Yeah?” She was hopeful that the chat had gone well. But that hope was dashed when she saw the same panicked look that he had on Christmas Day.

“Where are the children?” He demanded.

Instantly, her heart dropped to her stomach. “What do you mean? They were in the sitting room?” She quickly dropped what she was doing and rushed out to find the room was empty aside from Molly. The sight made her chest seize, a hand going to her mouth.

Tommy ran outside. It felt like there was pure ice running through his veins. Dread made his head swim as he was desperate to keep afloat so he could find Charlie and Johanna. The yard was empty and there weren’t any nearby sounds of the two playing together. “Charles! Johanna!” He shouted. As he repeated their names, there was an overwhelming feeling that begun to mingle with the fears of the worst. His throat began to close up until he was gasping for breath. His vision started to cloud. It almost felt like he was drowning on dry land.

Alfie, Leah, and the maid came outside after calling through the house to see if maybe the children were just hiding. Leah, overrun by mother’s instincts, took off sprinting down the dirt path that led to the main road. Alfie’s maid headed down to the beach to see if they’d gone there.

But Tommy didn’t even notice, he’d dropped to his knees on the grass. He clutched his sides, continuing to hyperventilate.

Alfie recognized the symptoms. He’d seen many young men suffer a similar fate. Wide-eyed men, boys really, as they experienced the trenches first hand. Panic attacking them like a vicious monster, pressing down on their chests to make it difficult to breathe, overriding all thoughts.

“C’mon, c’mon.” Alfie grabbed Tommy by the shoulders and hoisted him up. “Let’s get you inside. We’ll find them, they couldn’t’ve gotten too far on them little legs of theirs.” He guided the hyperventilating man back inside and onto one of the couches. He picked up Molly to bring her somewhere quieter so she could sleep.

Tommy curled into himself, his forehead pressed to his knees, his arms thrown over his head. He trembled as he tried desperately to breathe. Darkness was starting to close in on him. Was this really how he was going to go out? Some attack? Hardly a fitting death for a Shelby man but he felt powerless to stop it.

Alfie returned to the sitting room and plopped down at his armchair. “Just try to breathe, mate. You’re alright.”

Alright?!

Tommy was sure he was dying and Alfie was just sitting there like it was nothing. He let out a broken sob, unable to really speak. His fingers knotted into his hair gripping so tightly he threatened to pull every strand out.

“Easy, Tom, just have to wait it out.” Unfortunately, as many times as he’d seen the abnormal condition, Alfie didn’t know how to snap a man out of it. He could distinctly remember smacking one private who had gone completely mad. But a slap hadn’t done much and Alfie didn’t want to beat up a man who was nearly catatonic. Wouldn’t be a fair fight.

It was just waiting game. Either until the person wore themselves out entirely or had a moment of clarity.

Alfie stood and looked out over the balcony. The beach was empty aside from his maid who was calling for the children. Of course, he was afraid for the wellbeing of Charlie and Johanna, but it didn’t help if everyone was running around like chickens without heads.

So, he stayed with Tommy as he endured the fit. Every so often, he’d offer a few words of comfort. Sometimes, he stood up to check on Molly before returning to sit with Tommy.

Gradually, the Blinder’s breathing slowed and the grip on his hair loosened. He lifted his head slowly and could actually see clearly for what felt like hours. It happened to be good timing too because the front door opened and Leah marched in two very sheepish looking children.

Charlie hung his head and Johanna was clutching a bag of chocolates.

“Now you go and apologize to Alfie and your father for worrying them.” Leah ordered firmly.

Charlie and Johanna stepped forward with pouts. “Sorry.” They mumbled in unison.

“Now where’d you go off to then?” Alfie asked with a tut. “Gave us all of fright, can’t go wandering off on your own like that.”

Neither of the kids answered until Leah prodded them. “Go on and tell them.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Charlie said a naughty word and I wanted to tell mummy but he said not to. So, then he said he’d get me chocolate if I didn’t tell mummy.” Johanna rattled off. She’d tattled on Charlie almost immediately upon seeing Leah running towards them on the road.

“That’s not what happened!” Charlie exclaimed defensively.

“Was too!”

“Alright, enough!” Leah interrupted the bickering and snatched the chocolates away from Johanna. “Go to your rooms. I don’t want to hear a peep from either of you.” She snapped.

Johanna whined and made grabby hands at her mother. She hated being in trouble and never liked it when Leah was the disciplinary.

“Go, Johanna.”

Reluctantly, the young girl followed her brother down the hall to the room they were staying in.

Leah sat down beside Tommy with a sigh. She put a hand over her pounding heart. “Spoilt, the both of them.” She mumbled. Although she was just grateful the two were alive and hadn’t been snatched up.

Her husband silently wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. The physical touch was enough to completely bring him back.

“Did you two talk?” Leah asked, her tone softening.

“We did yeah.” Alfie nodded. “’Course there’s always more to talk about, ain’t there? You’re all welcome to stay s’long as you need to.”

“Oh, Alfie, thank you but I don’t want to intrude on you with the kids.” Leah was slightly embarrassed by the fuss the children had already made.

“S’alright. Brings a bit of life to the house, don’t it?” Alfie chuckled. Cyril plopped down by his feet for a good tummy rub. “Doesn’t hurt to have this ol’ lug around again too.”

Leah smiled and Tommy there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “We appreciate it very much.” She said softly. “You’re giving us some time and a place to sort things out. I know we’ll be able to.” She said the last sentence to Tommy more than to Alfie.

~~~~~~~~~~

Charlie Shelby liked to believe that he was fearless. At least braver than most boys his age. He enjoyed riding horses, never shying away from a challenge in the saddle. He wanted to be as tough as his father and uncles. Wanted to carry a gun in a holster and walk around with razor blades sewn in his cap.

Although he would never say such a thing to his mother. Leah would probably faint from fear if he ever said such a thing. She could barely stand the way he rode horses sometimes.

Tommy hoped for a long time that by the time Charlie was old enough to understand, their business would be one-hundred percent legitimate. He didn’t expect the Depression and he certainly wasn’t expecting the fascist movement. So, it worried him that his son would pick up on things he wasn’t meant to know.

Certainly, spending time with another notorious gang boss wouldn’t be the answer. But it strangely was. It took the children out of the framework of the company. Even though they spent most of their time in Warwickshire, business was still conducted there.

Meetings, parties, deals. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was pulling them out of that environment. Much as Leah had done when she took them to America. Putting them in a sort of safe-house was enough to draw their attention away from things they weren’t meant to be involved in.

Still, Charlie had either learned enough or it was simply ingrained in him by blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re writing an awful lot.”

Winter turned into spring and Leah was worried they had long overstayed their welcome at Alfie’s. But the man didn’t seem to mind or give hints that they needed to leave. In fact, he waved off any of Leah’s concerns about how long they’d been there.

Not that Leah wanted to leave. None of them did. The children were so happy to be there with Uncle Alfie. But they were also getting much closer to their father. And Tommy had a feeling he had Alfie to thank for that.

Tommy glanced up from his notebook. He and Leah were sat on the beach, enjoying the first warm afternoon of the season. The children were indulging in the sunshine as well, romping about with Cyril and Alfie along the beach.

“Can I know what you’re writing?” She wondered cautiously.

He tapped the tip of his pen on the paper. He’d promised to be more open with his wife no matter how difficult it could be. “Alfie mentioned something about keeping logs in the War and it reminded me of-well of the journals I kept.” He admitted. “I used to write as much as I could so that if I died, maybe they’d have something to give Polly.”

“And now you’re writing again.” She noted the number of pages he’d gone through in the leather-covered notebook.

“Yeah.” Tommy nodded. “Not really to leave behind to anyone.” He idly flipped through the pages already filled with writing. “Just to, I guess get me thoughts out. Somewhere other than my brain.” He shrugged.

“I think that’s a good idea.” She nodded and smiled warmly.

Her husband smiled back and for the first time in a while, she could see the sun in his blue eyes.

By the shore, Charlie was hopping from one rock to the other waving a piece of driftwood around like a sword. He’d been particularly taken by the pirate story Alfie had told them the night before. After all, who was more fearless than a pirate?

“Argh!” Charlie stabbed his makeshift sword at the empty air in front of him.

Alfie chuckled. “Captain Charlie, where’s your ship, mate?”

“Erm…it’s been…it’s been stolen!”

“Stolen, aye? What sorta scoundrels took your ship?”

Charlie frowned and hopped down from the large rock he was standing on. “It was-um-it was Queen Jo! She was jealous of my ship and took it!” He pointed his sword at his sister.

Johanna frowned. “I don’t wanna be a queen, I wanna be a pirate too!” She put her hands on her hips. “That’s no fair!”

“Girls can’t be pirates, Joey.” Charlie rolled his eyes.

“Now, hang on, Charlie-boy. Plenty of women pirates of legend.” Alfie told them.

“Pfft, yeah right.”

“I’ll tell you the story of Anne Bonny tonight.” Alfie crouched down when Molly grabbed at his pant leg. “Legendary pirate of the Caribbean Sea.” He picked up the youngest Shelby. “And a woman.”

“Ha!” Johanna beamed triumphantly. “I can be a pirate!”

Charlie frowned. “Fine, but I’m captain.” He asserted.

“Very well then, Johanna can be the first mate and Molly can keep watch from the crow’s nest.” Alfie propped Molly up on his shoulders. “Now let’s set a course for mum and dad, I think it’s nearly time for lunch.”

~~~~~~~~~~`

Charlie finished lunch before the others and wandered off when he was excused from the table. However, he wasn’t allowed to go back down to the beach by himself. So, he took to wandering around the sitting room. There were a few toys left out but he felt bored of the usual imaginary games he and Johanna played. Instead, he wandered back down the hall until he came across the coat rack. There, his father’s flat cap had slipped from one of the hooks.

The young boy, rapt with curiosity, picked up the cap and turned it over in his hands a few times. He took a hold of the brim and pushed back the part of the fabric that hid the razorblade carefully sewn inside. Too young to think through the consequences, he lightly placed his finger on the edge of the blade.

“Charlie! Drop that, now!” Tommy’s frantic voice from down the hall made Charlie startle and pull his hand back quickly. The motion caused him to cut his finger on the blade.

The moment he saw blood, Charlie began to panic. Fearless. He liked to think he was fearless. But he’d never cut himself so badly before. Before he could really react, Tommy picked him up, making him drop the cap. He brought Charlie into the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel to wrap around his son’s finger.

Alfie and Leah looked over from their spot at the table. “What’s going on?” She turned in her chair. "Is everything okay?"

“He accidentally cut his finger,” Tommy replied.

Charlie started to hyperventilate, tears pricking his eyes. He wanted to move his hand but his father kept a firm grip.

“Is he bleeding?” Leah stood up, suddenly locked into mother mode.

“Yeah.”

“Well, what on Earth happened?” She gasped as she saw there was blood seeping into the white cloth around Charlie’s finger. The boy had only been away from the table for a few minutes.

“He…he found my hat and was playing with it,” Tommy admitted. There was no use in lying.

“Why did you leave it out?” She demanded.

“I didn’t just leave it out!” Tommy argued over Charlie’s crying.

“Well, he got his hands on it, Tom!”

Alfie got up to separate the two. “Things fall from that coat rack all the time.” He said gently. “Let’s have a look-see then. If he needs stitches, there’s a doctor just down the road.”

Tommy tensed up but let Alfie take a peek at Charlie’s finger.

“Hm, doesn’t look too bad. Let’s get a bandage on it, yeah? You’re lucky, aye, your pirate name would’ve been Nine-Fingered Charlie!” The joke made the young boy laugh tearfully.

Leah took a deep breath and stepped back. Her eyes met Tommy’s. They both realized how fragile their relationship still was.

“I’ll go get something to wrap it up with,” Alfie said and headed down the hall.

Charlie sniffled. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know, Charles, you just can’t play with sharp things,” Tommy replied quietly.

“But you wear it. Thought it would be okay.” He mumbled.

The hypocrisy was not lost on Tommy but he didn’t have an explanation suitable for the child. “I know. But you shouldn’t play with things that aren’t yours.”

Johanna peered over the top of her chair. “Is brother gonna be okay?” She asked.

“He’ll be fine, love,” Leah promised. “It was just an accident.”

“Just an accident.” Tommy echoed. He wiped Charlie’s tears. “Something we can all learn from.”

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @tarafaithgr @vampgirl1997 @evelynshelby

Tag list: @shelbyblinded

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#tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelbyxofc #tommy shelbyxoc #ofc #oc #fanfiction #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #ocs #cillianmurphy #cillian murphy character #cillian murphy #alfie solomons #charles shelby #season 5

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justacomedy-archived · 4 years ago

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11, 17, 25

Munday Meme

11. When you are writing a reply, how much ahead in the thread do you plan?

This depends on the length of the writing. For shorter threads, I typically just read the reply and I start planning my reply after I’m finished and periodically re-read the reply to make sure everything lines up. For longer threads, Ideas always come to mind throughout every paragraph though I don’t start typing up my reply until I’ve read my partner’s entire response. I base my paragraphs around the timeline of what’s going on per paragraph each paragraph multiple times as I work on my reply, so I guess my response typically unfold as I write them still but with more planning as there is more to write back to. As for planning events, this is usually done through plotting with my partner before I reply just to make sure we are both on board with everything, so that’s pretty on the spot! 17. What is your biggest obstacle to writing every day, if time doesn’t count?

Time is always a factor: some days, I just don’t have the time to dedicate towards writing as I have a family to care for and a home to maintain. Though my biggest obstacle is my physical health getting in the way. There are days when I’m in too much pain to sit long enough to write or I’m too fatigued to think straight. I always try my best to put out quality writing for my partners so if I’m mentally checked out or physically incapable of writing, I will hold off until a better day because my partners deserve quality!

25. How does your follower count affect your mood? I’d like to start this answer by saying that follower count shouldn’t matter because the amount of followers does not contribute to whether a blog is a quality blog or not. There are people with a bunch of followers that are quality but there are also blogs out there with hardly any followers who are quality. But it’s also natural to feel a certain way about it too. I run two blogs: this one and an OC blog (as you know). I get a hell of a lot more attention on this blog due to writing a canon character, and that’s great and I love it. Though I often find myself discouraged on my OC blog because despite having over 10 years of sheer love and character development backing up my own character, I can’t seem to find many people who are genuinely interested in writing with her because she isn’t a canon character and that’s pretty sad tbh. With that being said, it’s such an amazing feeling to have so many people who love writing with my canon character, but it feels kind of shitty that people turn a blind eye to my OC and every time I get onto her blog, it feels absolutely dead in comparison to this blog. It really gets me down and that really affects my mood to write on her blog unfortunately. I try not to feel this way, she’s a wonderful, well thought out character- I just wish people wouldn’t shut out female OC’s so quickly. OC’s deserve love too. I don’t understand it when people tell someone their writing is so great on one blog just because it’s canon but refuse to acknowledge the same writer on their OC blog- the writing skills from one blog to another by the same mun doesn’t change and I wish people would acknowledge that. I don’t feel discouraged about writing on here because there seems to be a constant flow of people wanting to write with my Arthur/Joker which leads me to spend most of my time here.

#ooc || all i have are negative thoughts #thanks for sending this in!#pmlisly

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lesya-writes · 5 years ago

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untitled merthur fic excerpt

“Should I be insulted?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That was meant to be a compliment.”

“Well, it was a bad one.”

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there.”

Merlin gave pause and a small smirk made its way on to his face.

“There is one way to please me.”

Arthur swallowed.

“And how is that?” he heard himself ask. He cleared his throat.

“A day off?” Merlin said, but it came out as a question. He had a naïve look of pure hope on his face that Arthur would gladly be rid of. He snorted.

“Not in this lifetime,” he replied with a smirk of his own.

Merlin’s face crumpled and he grumbled something under his breath. He gave Arthur a most spectacular stink eye.

“You know, one of these days I’ll run away. Join a monastery.”

“And what’re you going to do there?”

“I dunno, be a monk?”

“You wouldn’t last a day.”

“It’s probably nice, in a monastery. Just. Writing, reading, farming…”

“All while surrounded by men. Once you’re a monk, girls aren’t allowed anymore.”

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, yes, I didn’t know. Besides, what does it matter? It’s not like I get around with girls here all that much, either. I might as well be a monk, I’m so busy doing your chores.”

“My chores?”

Merlin had the gall to smile.

“My chores are mine and yours are yours! And clearly you’re not busy enough if you have time to complain.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” he said, trying to be as solemn as possible. Arthur’s expression turned confused, clearly puzzled over the shift in mood. “I won’t actually run away. I know how much you’d miss me.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide as saucers.

“Miss you? Me?”

“And if I’m gone, who will be left to do your chores for you?”

“You do not-” Arthur paused a took a deep breath. Merlin wasn’t sure if he was trying to calm himself, or gather enough air to properly yell at him.

His face soured all of a sudden. “George.”

“George. And, no offense meant, but I don’t think he’s as lovely company as me.”

“I wouldn’t call your company ‘lovely’, either.”

“But you would. Miss me, that is. Come on, admit it.” As Merlin said that he hit Arthur’s chest with the back of his hand. It was light, but Arthur still looked indignant. Merlin took his hand away, holding it behind himself as if it would hide his offense.

Arthur heaved a deep sigh, gathered himself, then looked into Merlin’s eyes.

“I would miss you, if you ever left,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.

Merlin blinked a few times, his throat moved like he’d swallowed. When he started teasing, he hadn’t actually expected Arthur to go along and be so serious. He expected the usual jab and shoulder pat and then he’d be on his merry way.

Arthur’s mouth broke out into a smile.

“There, are you happy now? You should sleep well tonight knowing I fulfilled your deepest, darkest fantasy.”

Merlin coughed. That was certainly an interesting word choice.

“That is not my fantasy,” he replied flatly. He wouldn’t be outwardly irritated, he wouldn’t give in so easily. “Certainly not my deepest or darkest, either.”

“No? Then what is it? Do you want me to tell you you’re my bestest friend in the whole world?”

“‘Bestest’ isn’t a word.”

Arthur raised a brow, eerily reminiscent of Gaius.

“No. That’s not a part of my fantasy either.”

“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, already huffing in frustration, but still wanting to know.

“To ride a dragon.”

Silence.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You. Want to ride. A dragon.”

“Yep,” Merlin said, mouth quivering. Arthur observed him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Merlin could only take so much of that before he burst, his laughter filling Arthur’s chambers.

“That is such a lie!”

“No it isn’t, I promise!” Merlin somehow got out in between his laughter. It was infectious and Arthur was not immune, so he ended laughing with him, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what they were laughing about.

“Only you, Merlin,” Arthur said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Truly, wonders never cease when you’re around.”

“I’m glad I can provide some entertainment.”

“You know, perhaps you should get a change of occupation,” Arthur said, as if this was an entirely novel thread of conversation. Merlin knew exactly where this was going.

“I can’t be funny on demand! It just sort of comes to me. You know, naturally, like my m-” and there he stopped, mouth shutting up quicker than an arrow letting loose from a crossbow.

“Like what?” Arthur asked, eyebrow raised and a smirk in place.

“Oh! You know, um. Anyway, I think Gaius is calling for me. You know how he gets! Bye!”

He turned to leave, ducking from under Arthur’s arm, but the man simply grabbed him by the back of his jacket. Anticipating this, as he’s already experienced this maneuver, Merlin simply shrugged out of his jacket and ran.

#merthur #merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #fanfiction

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wistfulwisteriawitch · 4 years ago

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Arthur Morgan x Lilith Vallent OC: Vas Ura (My One)/ Vas Soluna (My Bonded) Part 01 Chapter 03: Colter

Part 01 Chapter 03: Colter

I managed to get myself set up, knowing we’d actually be going after John since he was still missing. Attaching the leather over bust corset riddled with knives as well as the leather leg guards I exhaled, it would be interesting to see what they thought of our way of doing things but they seemed rather accepting thus far.

And as we moved to go out, Abigale grabbed my sleeve. “Miss Vallent?”

“Yes Abigale?”

“John…”

“Oh the gentleman that you said was your sons father?”

“Yes…”

Arthur had walked into the room and was warming himself by the fire. “Where’s little John gotten off to?”

“Arthur he hasn’t been seen in a couple days, I fear the worst.”

“John is fine, he gets himself out of scrapes all the time.” Arthur huffed. "Granted he could throw himself on the ground and miss so that's a feat in and of itself."

I cocked a brow, “I’ll go find him.” I pat her arm, “I can track him.”

Arthur groaned, “I’ll go with ya.”

“How kind.” I grinned as I walked by, Hosea nudged me as I sidled by with a smirk and a whispered thank you.

“I’ll come too!” Javier noted. “John would do the same for me and Arthur.”

“Sure, might be good considering the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Javier asked as we mounted up.

I nodded, after ensuring I had everything needed including shotgun with slugs. “Yes, alright you two, flank me, head forward in a V position, and try to keep it unless we head up the mountain, in that case line up.” With that I spurred Luna into a gallop. “Let’s go! Belladonna shadow!”

“Aye Milady!” And with that her horse charged off into the wilderness.

“Shadow?” Arthur inquired as we moved at a quick pace.

“She’ll scout ahead, and send Aristotle if she finds something.”

“And that is—“ A screech above as a Ferrugius Hawk soared past.

“She is skilled in Falconry, her family learned for many years in her home country. Normally their line uses Peregrine, but him...he's been with Belladonna alone, and each member has their own Falcon breed. Birds like that are the largest of hawks to be used for Falconry. And he is quite protective. She found him in Mexico.”

“Ha!” Javier seemed a bit stunned, “you all keep surprising us.”

“We are a surprising people. Javi.” I managed to find John’s trail and exhaled, “fuck he went up the mountain.” Just like the game.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “just like him to have someone dig his ass out of snow.”

I sighed, “Arthur take the middle, Javier take the front, I’ll watch the back.” And with a chiding look as he glanced over his shoulder. “This is what family does.” I noted as we lined up and began to trek up the mountainside, myself taking the end. “Javier do you see where the trail picks up?”

“Yes, he headed up this way.”

“We’ll have to leave the horses.” Arthur noted and I agreed, we got off and began to make our way further along a cliffside. “John!” Javi shouted.

“HELP! DOWN HERE!”

With that I took off, making sure to keep my movements swinging forward to help me trudge through the snow faster. “Mister Marston?” I called finding him on the ledge. “Awe poor puppy.”

“Puppy?! Who in the fuck are you?”

“A friend. Hold the fuck still. We don’t need you bleeding and bringing a bear. Wolves are a pain in the ass enough.” I gathered what I needed from my satchel and made him down a few tonics and salved him up with an antiseptic solution of old mans beard and golden thread. “That will have to do for now, I’ll need to draw any infection out at the cabin. Alright, come on.” I gripped under his arm and hauled him up. “Arthur!”

They were there reaching for him, Arthur laughing, “well now Marston, looks like ya got yer head ate by wolves. How much’a yer brains did they get?”

“Shut up Morgan.”

“You gonna have to come up with a better story for those scars.”

“Getting half eaten by wolves ain’t enough?”

“We got company gentlemen!” I shouted, ”Javier, Arthur— get him to the horses!”

“I got you.” Arthur had one shot down in seconds as the others charged down the slope.”

“BELLA!” A shrill whistle as a large hawk circled over head and dove into the eyes of one of the wolves screeching.

A black streak of horse and woman charged forward from behind us as she leapt off it's back, her body clad in leather padding as she took the tackle of a she-wolf head on while I dodged and sliced a death blow to a jugular. “Come on ya wee bitch!” Bella roared plunging a blade into it’s throat.

Aristotle soared high, blood splattering from his talons and across his feathers as Bella let out a snarl of glee when the final wolf was downed by a blade thunked into it’s throat.

Arthur shot down the final one, sighing and glancing at the two of us. “Remind me never to make her angry.” He mused as Bella ruffled Aristotle’s feathers and set him loose again, “that is a big bird.”

“He’s a beauty inn’e?” Bella asked fluffing her hair out and wiping blood off her face. “We ready?”

“Yes, John how you holding up?” I asked.

“Feel drunk.”

“Good that means it’s working.”

“Oh joy.” Was the sarcastic reply.

We managed to make it down the mountain, Belladonna staying to get the meat and pelts from the wolves.

“She gonna be alright?” Javier asked.

“Worry about the woodland creatures who piss her off.” I laughed.

“Bella?” Belial asked as we rode in, “ah…hunting.” He chuckled and walked off back towards the kitchen area.

Arthur sighed and leaned over to speak to me, “watch the golden boy not get a scolding despite holding up a job.”

Dutch of course was ecstatic John was back and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Siblings?” I asked smiling.

“We both was raised by Dutch and Hosea. They taught us to read.”

“Awe, I can see that.” I smiled wide at him, and he returned with a shy smile back. He gets a bit of a playful look, “you know for someone so small you sure as hell take up a lot of space.” He sniffs and cocks a brow.

“You know for someone so big you can curl up on the edge of a bed real easy. Next time just huggle-up and I won’t have to latch on like a damn possum.”

It was the first time he genuinely laughed. “I’ll remember that little wolf.” He was glancing over my gear and had a look of confusion.

“Leather, protects quite well.”

“What ya goin to war?” He poked my arm guards and outer leg guards as well as the leather corset flicking a knife handle.

“Life is war.” I tilted my head.

“Hmph, ain’t that just bout right.”

As I was about to ask what he meant Belladonna zoomed into camp with furs and blood all over her. “I’m back!” She said prancing off her stallion Bairn.

I chuckled, “welcome back sister.”

“Didja see the pelt on that she-wolf?” She crowed tugging it off her horse, “it’s like ya hair milady, I should make a new cloak and we can trade.”

“I would like that thank you Bella.” She grinned and whistled for Aristotle who landed on her thickly gloved forearm. “There’s a good boy.”

Everyone in camp balked.

“Wah ya never seen’a damn bird afore?” She scoffed. “Come on pretty boy.” She was feeding him strips of wolf, “lessee what ya da is up ta.”

I rolled my eyes. “You get used to her.”

“Body can get used to anything…”

“Even hanging.” I finished and we laughed walking over to Hosea and Dutch.

“Got anymore maidens that need saving?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Hosea chuckled. “Thanks you three.”

“Javier tipped his hat and walked off as Arthur joined me in the cabin where Abigale tended to Marston.

“Alright, lemme work.” I shooed most people away, and grinned. “Marston this is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Ya aint gotta look like ya gonna enjoy it!”

Arthur chuckled, “I will.”

“Of course you would.” John muttered.

I forced willow bark tea down his throat, irrigated the wound with stinging solutions of horsetail and once it was cleaned I made a salve and packed it with bandages. “Don’t touch it. You’ll have a mark but congratulations you were chosen to bear them by a powerful creature. In our ways it means you are protected.”

“Sure felt like that when they bit me.”

“They could have killed you.” I said softly. “But they did not. They left. Think upon that. I do not play with coincidence or dice to tell me my fate rather that things happen for a reason.”

John pondered and cracked a slight grin. “Guess so.”

“Either way, get rest, I shall have Bel bring food, you need to gather your strength to heal.”

“Thank you.” Abigale clutched my hand tight and I nodded, “let Jack see his Pa.” I leveled a gaze at John, “I am sure he was quite worried for his father.”

John seemed to squirm under my direct gaze and I softened it before leaving.

“What was that?”

“It seemed there was some tension in regards to little Jack.” I said.

“That obvious?” Arthur huffed an annoyed sound.

“Yes, but Marston is young, he can learn.”

Arthur glanced me up and down, “hm.” Was all he said.

I really wished I could get into his head sometimes.

— - - - - - - - - - - -

Arthur grumbled, “some people learn too late.” And he walked away, his chest heavy with memories long past. “Other’s should be so lucky.”

She caught his hand, “Arthur, despite that lessons can be passed down to prevent more pain.” Her voice is soft, and that damned look she gives him— it’s not pity, he couldn’t stand it if it was but this is somehow worse— she has an air of understanding, an acceptance about her with him as if whatever he lays at her feet is perfectly fine.

“Maybe so.”

That hand retreats, she seems to be thinking as she chews her bottom lip looking at her feet for a moment.

“S-sorry I know I probably—“

“S’fine.” He assured her rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a hang up he and I have had.”

Lilith nodded, “my brother and I had something similar happen.”

“Oh?”

“Yes…but we managed to talk it out.” Arthur lets out a bark of harsh laughter.

“Me and him? Talk? Shoot, ya ain’t known us long but ya gonna see that’s a bit hard for us Van der Linde boys.”

“Oh that’s plain as day Mister Morgan. But as I said, everyone can learn.” A wink as she sauntered off.

“Damn woman.” He grumbles to himself striking a match on his boot to light up a smoke. He couldn’t make heads or tails of her as she checked in with Dutch and asked him several questions, Dutch did seem to be in a better mood, and she was always checking in with him— she said the word was deference. She acknowledged he was leader. But she herself led the two people she had.

Arthur had to admit the way she did things did scream leadership. It was rare to see such things. There wasn’t anything she herself wouldn’t do that she’d ask of others. Mucking a stall, hunting, ensuring people were clothed, mending, healing…Dutch hadn’t done that for a long time but he did get his hands dirty when needed.

It further solidified Arthur’s ideology that if women ran shit it might be a mite better, he glanced at Susan who was chatting with Hosea before she went off to screech at someone for not working hard enough.

Belladonna walked up to him and grinned, offering her hawk, “wanna pet’im, seems ta like ya.”

Arthur was never one to pass up petting an animal.

Shit he’d pet a bear if it wouldn’t rip his damn arm off.

“Sure, Aristotle was it?”

“Mmhm. He had many ideas of the stars that man. Mi’lady said it suited because this hawk could damn near fly to them with these wings.” She kissed the hawk who let out a little chirping sound as Arthur placed a warm finger against it’s chest feathers. The big raptor fluffed his feathers and crooned, leaning forward and nudging Arthur’s hand.

“Here, he likes meat.”

“Here boy.” Aristotle took the piece and gulped it down and flapped his wings before Bella let him go. “He just nests somewhere?”

“Oh aye, he has a mate somewhere, but I canna catch her, she is too fierce. But she hunts with him and has never left his side. They keep the same mates their whole life.” She smiled up at the sky and sure enough, a smaller hawk circled with him swooping and gliding. “Quite a sight.”

“Sure is.” Arthur grinned. “You all keep any other animals?”

“Oh aye, you should see the family wolves.”

Arthur paused as he walked by, “beg pardon?” He furrowed his brow.

“Milady found a pack of wolves who’s cubs were abandoned. She took them all in, they are the sweetest, deadly, but they are the comfiest things to snuggle with. Sometimes all four of them are with her.”

“And these are….ah…”

“No here. They in the wilds probably hunting, somewhere up north west in the Grizzlies. They look different, no from here. Timber wolves from the west. Darker coats. Then the wolf dogs…all except for Talla—they look like they wolf kin. She is almost a strawberry color but she’s half wolf and half some big dog from Alaska.”

“Been round a lot.”

“Aye, we been all over. The wolves are bout five or so now. Talla and her siblings are with her brothers, she breeds them.”

“Breeds wolves.”

“Just for the family.”

“Ah.” This family got weirder and weirder, “they guard? The wolves not the half breed ones.”

“No no, wolves are quite timid despite people thinking they fierce, unless the family is attacked, they no just go about attacking randomly, Talla and her siblings though, they were bred with a type’a dog that will protect their master anywhere, any time. Talla especially, her mate is a full wolf, but she is far fiercer than he.”

Arthur laughed, “you talk like they people.”

“You talk to yer horse like it’s people.”

She had him there. He kicked at the snow. “Never knew an animal to dislike it.”

Belladonna grinned, “you ken for a scary bastard, ye pretty nice.”

“Don’t know nuthin bout that.” Arthur snorted as he walked off.

Dinner was a lighter affair now that John was back, everyone celebrated with some whiskey and a meal of wolf steaks and deer meat. Arthur watched as everyone milled around, chatted, and tried to liven their spirits, the deaths of ones close still loomed— as did the damn frost.

Some spring this turned out to be.

He glanced at the three strangers who had dropped into their lives as he scribbled.

It is rather strange to be in the company of wolves.

I find that they are a gentle people unless provoked, despite their appearances, the females are far more aggressive then their male counterparts, as Belial seems to have a very playful nature, they all do in fact. Shoving at one another as they walk in the snow to push the other into a drift. Or leaping onto one another’s backs as they run off.

I have only seen wolves play once, when I came across a den by accident when the welping season came. Indulgent and confident in my spot I had used binoculars to watch a game of tag played by the pack. It is of similar air.

Hosea is doing alright, but I know the dark haired woman named Lilith is concerned, he is coughing a lot, and his breathing is labored, he stays indoors mostly under her direction, and she’s been shoving tonics into his mouth whenever he allows it. Seeming hell bent on keeping him alive.

John is alright, a pain in my backside still, but he’s lucky to be alive. … We all are.

Not sure what in hell happened on that boat, but whatever it was it weren’t good. Charles heard that a girl died. Dutch outright shot her…saying it needed to be done….

That ain’t like him…

The red head reminds me of Sean, I wonder where that Irish bastard got off to. Knowing him he’s probably found trouble. Davey…Jenny….Both gone in a matter of weeks….We lost folks before but not like this— so needlessly. They are calling it the Blackwater Massacre.

This family is strange, stranger still is the kindness they show everyone. It is gentle, despite their steel hard spines and unwavering eyes…unnerving eyes.

Eyes that gleam when they look at ya, like a beast’s catching firelight in the dark.

She looked at Micah as if he were nothing but an ant to be pitied for facing a mountain.

Wonder what that’s like….ain’t never said I was confident, I can fight with the best of em…

But I have a feeling this woman could give me a run for my money…

Half inclined to piss her off and find out…

#Arthur Morgan #My One/ My Bonded Part 01 Colter Ch 3 #My One/ My Bonded #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption

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