#this arthur is simply not pathetic enough

[cranchymanchy]

*clenching my fists so hard i’m breaking the skin of my palm* i am so normal about this podcast

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[saintsenara]

Thoughts on remadora?

thank you very much for the asks, anons!

while they are by no means my otp, i really enjoy remadora as pairing - and i think they’re fully up there among the canon couples in terms of being an amazing vehicle through which to explore all sorts of questions about life and love - which i am aware is a sufficiently controversial statement that it involves an immediate engagement with some discourse…

because remadora girlies [gender neutral] get an enormous amount of shit within the fandom, particularly from fans who consider wolfstar to be a more plausible pairing for lupin than tonks. i have seen remadora shippers called homophobes for simply enjoying the couple, justified with the bizarre idea that it disrespects remus' relationship with sirius [so... the non-canon one?] to put them together. i have seen tonks turned into a pathetic shrew who is trying to keep remus from the real love of his life by trapping him with an unwanted baby. i have seen remadora shippers get a lot of the usual stuff that people who prefer the canon-endgame couples do [that to ship a canon pair is boring, that it is indicative of a lack of talent, that it indicates an uncritical support for jkr] magnified to eleven because tonks has the temerity to be a barrier to remus’ relationship with the fandom’s favourite hot and brooding man.

obviously, this is bullshit - primarily because its unreasonable and cruel to invest so much time and energy being mean to people because of their harry potter shipping preferences [fandom should never be that deep].

but it’s also a disappointment to me personally because it means that it can be very hard to find the sort of remadora i like without looking like i’m coming to contribute to the pile-on. because where many remadora fans and i don’t see eye-to-eye is that i have absolutely no interest in thinking about them as a relationship which is actually functional. and, all too often, i find myself sifting through fics which do prefer to interpret them like this - as romantic and passionate and stable - largely, i think it’s fair to say, as a defensive move against the tide of “urgh, imagine shipping that” nonsense - even though all the evidence of canon is that they are… very much not.

i am aware of the pottermore article which smoothes the edges of lupin’s canonical reaction to tonks’ feelings for him in half-blood prince - but, while i read this as something of a retcon to make the relationship more palatable, i also don’t think that assuming that both tonks and lupin’s attraction to each other was sincere precludes them being as dysfunctional as they canonically are. i don’t go in for the common anti-remadora argument that tonks “forces” him into a relationship with her - it’s clear in half-blood prince that it’s not only her who has discussed her feelings with molly and arthur weasley, lupin is definitely flirting with her when they pick harry up in order of the phoenix, lupin is an adult man [no matter other power imbalances between him and tonks - such as the fact that she is an agent of the state which oppresses him] who possesses the capacity to refuse her advances, and - since teddy’s conception is not immaculate - he has no issue with enjoying a sexual relationship with her even if he then wants to run away from the product of that.

instead, what i like with remadora is that they reveal something which goes against the grain of the rest of the series: that love is not always enough. throughout the seven-book canon, we see time and time again the idea that love - and, crucially, love-as-noble-suffering and love-as-sacrifice - is enough to overcome any problem. entire civil service collaborating with a terrorist regime? don’t trouble yourself, love has won. your mother dying in childbirth leaving you to be neglected in a state institution? your own fault you’re not interested in love.

i understand the genre reasons for this, but i also love the way in which lupin especially exists on the margins of these genre conventions [just as he exists on the margins of wizarding society!]. i’m always struck in deathly hallows that he’s the only person who’s actually realistic about the demands of war - particularly when he tells harry that it is breathtakingly naive for him to think he can get through the fighting without having to shoot to kill - and that part of him having to be shuffled out of the way when harry tells him to return to the pregnant tonks is because, were the story focused on realism, the idea that a wanted man who is considered an unhuman by the state fleeing in order to guarantee the safety of his wife and unborn child becomes eminently reasonable and harry's defense of the nuclear family embarrassingly unradical.

and so i like the idea of lupin seeing tonks - and tonks seeing lupin - initially as just a bit of fun, as the two of them being just two chill single people who think the other is hot and interesting and want to bang because of it.

[which is something fandoms in general really struggle with as a concept. we like epic love stories - and you won't find me objecting to that! - but we're less good at thinking about casual sexual attraction or transient friendships, and how these can be transformative and meaningful without having to end up going any sort of distance.]

and i then like the idea of the relationship being forced into a profundity it doesn’t really have the juice to sustain by the sheer avalanche of grief which besets the two of them - sirius, dumbledore, mad-eye, ted - and by the pressure of the war and the fact that the order is scrambling and the hangover of remus' self-destruction in half-blood prince which makes each cling to the other as a life-raft. i like remadora as something codependent and messy and strange and sad, and i don’t think this prevents it being sincere and fun and based in mutual attraction, but instead that these positive qualities can exist in conjunction with the fact that, without the war, it would have been a summer of fucking and that was probably it.

on tonks herself, i don’t think i can say it better than @evesaintyves in this meta on her character. i’ve been really uncomfortable with quite a lot of stuff i’ve seen recently which has taken against the idea that tonks can be meaningfully read as queer on the basis of what we find in the text, above all because it so often comes with the implication that one cannot imagine her in her canon endgame pairing and presume that she’s something other than straight or cisgender. eve sets out an excellent case for tonks as bolshy and liberated and in tune with herself and fun and confused and in flux and still figuring stuff out about who she is and where she’s going - and this translates, may i say, to an astonishingly beautiful way of writing her, lupin, and the dysfunction inherent between them which i highly recommend you read.

[mockerycrow]

So uh rdr2 reader x gunslinger ghost as a concept ? (I haven’t finished the game I’m so slack) but reader is part of Dutch’s crew and Ghost is kind of a lone merc and they meet several times over the years and when Dutch starts going off the rails ghost offers to take them with him or something.

Idk just cowboy au I guess 🤠🤠.

stop, STOP!!! YOU ARE MAKING ME WANNA WRITE AN ENTIRE SERIES RN!!!!! OFNMAKSKDKSS this isn’t exactly ghost offering you to join him, but it’s more of a beginning of the realization.

You’re sitting in the Valentine saloon, some cheap whiskey in a glass in front of you. Your chest is heavy and you’re aching to relieve the pressure—aching to get yourself to stop thinking about the gang for five minutes. Your mind is reeling, thinking about Arthur; little Jack and his pathetic father—you love John, but dear God, is he a terrible dad—and poor sweet ol’ Abigail. You think of Charles as you take a harsh sip of the piss poor whiskey, the substance burning your throat. You think of the women, Hosea and Lenny, for Christ’s sake.

When you feel yourself about to spiral once more, you hear the bar chair next to you squeak and shift under a heavy weight, causing you to look over and lock eyes with The Ghost. He’s a tall intimidating man with a half red an half black skull mask, his brown eyes trying to stare deep into your soul. He wears the typical black hat of the time, as well as a worn out trench coat, the rest of his clothing black as well, even his bullet casing belts. The saloon fell silent at his presence; usually him appearing meant someone was going to die one way or another so when he sat down next to you, folks half expected another shootout between Ghost and you, a well known member of the Van der Linde Gang.

What many of these people didn’t know, is that you and Ghost have met many times over the years. A time or two it was you standing across each other on opposite sides, revolvers pointing at each others heads—other times, simply by chance. You’ve developed a strange camaraderie with the lone gunslinger, one that didn’t require too many words to be shared. Without words you offer your glass of whiskey which you watch him lift his mask up just enough to take a sip, a heavy sigh leaving you—but your chest feels a bit better now that he’s with you.

[landhoehoehoe]

love sounds - Charles Leclerc 

Soooo I told you I was writing a Dennis fic but last night the inspiration struck for a Charles story, I'm so sorry lmao but the Dennis fic is in the works I promise!

This was supposed to be full on smut but it turned out kind of fluffy? (Don’t worry there’s still smut)

Also I'm still new to this so idk what warnings I'm supposed to put... please don't have unprotected sex in real life!

Charles Leclerc x reader; In which he realizes she‘s the one for him ;)

He let his gaze wander along your curves, taking in the way your blue dress perfectly hugged your body, exposing enough skin for his imagination to go wild. 

How could you stand there, talking so innocently all while looking so devilishly tempting? 

Charles didn’t want to admit it but in that very moment he hated not being the man at your side right now. Instead, some random mechanic’s arm was snaked around your waist.

“Still drooling over y/n?”, someone commented besides Charles, finally making him rip his hungry eyes off of you. 

“Shut up, Arthur. You don’t know anything about love.” 

Arthur laughed as Charles took a sip of his whiskey. 

“Oh so it’s love now? I thought you and y/n were just a casual thing?”

Charles gave his brother the death stare which made Arthur lift his hands defensively. 

“Your words, not mine, brother.”

Charles scoffed. He knew his brother was right. 

You and Charles had never been “in love” per se. No question there was a certain tension between you two, but Charles had always been too afraid of fully committing to you. 

And now he payed the price for it: Getting to watch you attend the prize-giving gala in Paris with another man. 

“You know, if you still want her, you should honestly just go talk to her.”, Arthur chimed in again, making Charles roll his eyes. 

Arthur always thought everything in the world could be resolved by simply having an honest conversation. But Arthur had never fallen for you. 

He didn’t know how complicated yours and Charles’ situation was. 

So instead of answering his brother, Charles downed his drink, eyes searching for you once again.

“I’m getting another drink.”, he let his brother know and quickly disappeared into the crowd before Arthur could say anything else. 

As Charles pushed his way through all the FIA officials and drivers making small talk, his mind suddenly went foggy. 

A smell of sweet lilies surrounded him, trapping him in his thoughts. 

There was only one person on earth he knew who used this perfume. 

He jerked around, trying to make you out in the people surrounding him. 

However, you were nowhere to be seen. 

Charles even stood on his tiptoes to get a better view of the crowd, but he couldn’t spot your bright blue dress in-between all the black suits. 

Was this the alcohol playing tricks on him already? 

Charles shook his head to get his thoughts in order again. What was his mission again? 

Ah yes: getting another drink. 

If Charles had to endure watching you flirt with your date all evening, he could at least numb the piercing pain in his chest. 

So he made his way to the bar, ordering another whiskey. 

While he waited, he leaned against the bar, scanning the room once again for a certain blue dress. God, he was pathetic. Not enough courage to tell you how much he wanted you to be his but not enough strength to finally let you go either. 

“Charles?”

Charles’ head flew around. 

His eyes were met with shiny blue fabric stopping right beneath your ass. 

He breathed in the enticing scent of lilies, let his gaze roam your body before he stopped at your shy smile. It was breathtaking. 

You were breathtaking. 

“Here you go, sir.”, the bartender placed down a fresh glass of whiskey before Charles, who was still too stunned to speak. 

“Um.. hi.”, he finally managed to snap back to reality. 

“Having a good time?”, he asked after another awkward pause, suddenly noticing that you were alone. 

Where had your escort gone? Charles took his eyes off of you again to look for your date amongst the attending people. 

“Yeah, everyone’s really nice. What about you?”

Charles looked back at you and he couldn’t believe you were talking to him so casually, since the last time you “talked”, you were shouting at him to get out of your apartment. 

And maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but he just couldn’t help but make a salty comment. Because arguing with you came more naturally than having a civil conversation. 

“Where did you leave your manwhore?”, he saw your eyes grow wide, then narrowing at him as he took another sip of whiskey. 

“Don’t give me that, Leclerc. You know damn well it’s your own fault we’re not here together.”

Charles shrugged, now definitely feeling the alcohol.

“It always takes two to fight, ma chérie.”

You scoffed. 

“And it only takes one to ruin a relationship.”, you bit back, making Charles alert immediately. Relationship? None of you had ever classified whatever thing you had had as a relationship. 

“Relationship?”, Charles could only ask dumbfounded. 

“I was serious about you, Charles.”, you replied in a much softer, quieter voice, letting your head sink. 

You were too ashamed to look him in the eyes, now that you’d pretty much confessed your deep and buried feelings. 

“You were?”, he checked to make sure he hadn’t just hallucinated. Now he needed another sip of whiskey.

But before he could drink, your hand came up to take the glass away from him. He watched as you downed the drink, wanting nothing more than to finally kiss you again. 

You contorted your face as the liquid stung in your throat, making Charles laugh. 

“For what it’s worth: I was serious about you, too.”, he confessed, blaming his sudden honesty on the alcohol. 

After all this was his third drink of the night. 

Now it was your turn to be surprised. 

“But…you never wanted anything serious?”, you replied, then turned to order a gin and tonic. Charles ordered another whiskey before looking at you again. 

“Chérie, any man who’d ever say no to you is a fucking idiot. I know that now.”

You gulped, not expecting any of his words. 

It had been weeks since you’d last seen Charles and you’d thought you’d gotten over the way his gaze made you shiver. 

But right now his eyes were burning into your skin, showing you exactly what he wanted. 

Before you could reply, your drinks arrived. 

Charles handed you your gin before downing his own drink. You weren’t planning on finishing your drink right then and there but Charles got up, brushing past you while letting his hands squeeze your waist for a quick second. 

You gasped, looking after him as he turned around once again, winking at you. 

You knew what he meant, having done this a thousand times before. You searched the room for your date. 

Were you really going to do this again? Start everything over? 

Give Charles another chance to break your heart? 

Fuck it. 

You downed your drink before discreetly following him to the restrooms. 

Charles smirked to himself as he saw a flash of blue following him, but he walked past the restrooms, making you frown. 

No, he didn’t want this to be like every other time you had hooked up. This time was going to be special. 

A night you’d never forget. 

So he turned around to grab your hand and pull you with him towards the hotel reception. 

“Excuse me, I would like to book your room with the nicest view, please.”, he smiled at the nice lady behind the desk while your eyes went wide. 

“Charles!”, you whisper-shouted, slapping his arm, but Charles had already gotten handed the keycard. He turned around, smiling at you with a hint of mischief in his eyes. 

Instead of saying anything though, he just grabbed your hand again, leading you to the elevators. 

“What are you doing?!”, you giggled, suddenly excited about not knowing what was about to happen.

“I’m doing what I was supposed to do a long time ago.”, he answered honestly, letting his gaze fall to your lips. 

Your eyes wandered in-between his lips and eyes, the urge to kiss him too big to resist. 

As your bodies automatically moved closer to each other you could already feel his whiskey- coated breath on your skin, his hands sheepishly finding their way to your waist.  

However just as you were about to kiss, Charles sighed, pulling away from you but still holding you close to him with his arms around your waist. 

“Not yet, chérie.”, he whispered, making you groan. 

You were slowly but surely growing impatient. 

When the elevator finally arrived, you took its privacy as a chance to kiss Charles, but he just held you close to him the entire ride up, never giving in to your tempting lips. 

Instead, he studied your face closely, remembering every single feature. 

Normally you’d hate when people stared at you because you got insecure very easily, but with Charles you felt more comfortable than ever. 

Maybe because you were too busy with your own staring that you didn’t notice him doing the same. 

“We’re here.”, he motioned towards the door with the number 314, already swiping the keycard. His other arm was still wrapped around your waist tightly, guiding you inside the room. 

You held your breath as Charles lead you to the huge glass windows at the other end of the room. It really was the most beautiful view of Paris you had ever seen. 

The city beneath you was a sea of lights, shining brightly in the night sky. 

You were so in awe over the view that you almost forgot Charles was in the room with you until he chuckled next to you. You looked at him. 

He was already looking at you. 

You didn’t understand how he could possibly look at you when this breathtaking view was right in front of him. 

“Charles…the lights..”, you whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

Charles smiled, squeezing your waist. 

“Chérie, you shine even brighter than all these city lights..”

You blushed, thankful about the darkness hiding it from Charles. 

“Don’t say that, Charles..”, you replied, a trace of sadness in your voice. 

Because all these things he said could easily turn out to be sweet nothings. 

“But it’s true. And I mean it, I truly do, y/n.”, he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear while looking at you with so much love and affection in his eyes that you thought your heart might melt. 

He leaned his forehead against yours, holding you tightly. 

“I don’t want you to break my heart again. I’m scared, Charles.”, your voice cracked, closing your eyes to avoid tears from falling. 

It was true: You were terrified of the idea of losing Charles so you’d always thought you’d be better off with never having him in the first place. 

“I’m scared, too, y/n. But I am willing to try. To take that leap of faith with you, to give you my heart so that you may shatter it to pieces if you wanted to.”, he sounded soft, but determined. Because he was. 

He’d known it for the longest of times but only today had he realized that you would always be the one his heart wanted. 

So he’d rather die trying to make things work with you than getting drunk every other night because he couldn’t have you. 

“Charles…I…”

“You don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted to let you know how I felt, let you know that I am completely serious about you.” 

Then Charles removed his forehead from yours, only to finally kiss you. 

And it was the most magical kiss you had ever shared. You were so full of love as your hands wandered into his hair, leaning even further into him as his hands rested on the small of your back. The sparkling city lights behind you only made everything even more perfect.

Your kiss didn’t stay innocent for long though. 

Too long had you been deprived of his touch, his scent, his hands roaming your body. 

Without stopping your kiss, Charles lead you to the huge double bed in the room. 

Carefully, he laid you down on the mattress as you let him guide your movements. He sighed into the kiss, laying on top of you while resting his weight on his forearms beside your head. 

“I’ve missed this.”, he whispered breathlessly. You could only hum in response. 

Eventually he broke up the kiss, but only to kiss his way down to your jaw, sucking on your neck. Your body welcomed him, arching your back to get even closer to him. 

His kisses trailed further down until he reached your clothed cleavage. 

Quickly he sat up, riding your dress up to your waist to then pull it over your head as you sat up as well. 

After sharing another hungry kiss he gently but firmly pushed you back down into the mattress. He took a second to take you in: lying beneath him in nothing but your underwear, the beautiful black lace set he still loved so much. 

“Charles..”, you warned, not wanting to spend the night begging for him to touch you. 

However, that was not Charles’ plan tonight. Tonight was all about you. 

About bringing you the most amount of pleasure. To quite literally show you how much you meant to him. 

So he connected his lips with your skin again, kissing down your stomach to your hips. 

As he slowly worked his way down your thigh, he felt your hips jerking up suddenly, desperate for his touch. 

“Shhhhhh, chérie..”, his voice was soft as he watched you screw your eyes shut in anticipation when he hooked his thumbs in your slip to pull it down your legs. 

He wanted to take a picture of you looking this angelic only for him. 

When he finally licked the first stripe through your folds, your hands gripped onto the bed sheets tightly. 

“Charles, please..”, you moaned, arching your back. 

Charles wasted no time in pleasuring you, flicking his tongue inside you quickly. The small screams that left your mouth sounded like heaven to him, spurring him on even further. 

“That’s it, mon amour.”, he panted, watching your face contort in pleasure as he inserted a finger. 

You gripped the sheets even tighter, not caring about being quiet. 

A number of curse words fell from your mouth as he added a second finger, moving them even faster than before now. 

“Ch-arles.”, you moaned again, mind going foggy. 

Your mouth hang open wide as you were no longer able to form a sentence, all of your senses were completely focused on Charles. 

His hand that wasn’t inside of you came up to cup your breast, squeezing it lightly, pulling another moan from your lips. 

He smiled against your core, proud of himself for having you a moaning mess under him within seconds. 

As he sped up even further you could feel your high approaching rather rapidly. It had been too long since he last touched you, no wonder you were desperately chasing your high. 

Your hips bucked up into him once more as his tongue flicked at your clit. 

Charles could feel by the way you were clenching around his fingers that you were close. You just needed a few more words to push you over the edge. 

“Let go, chérie. I’ve got you.”

You moaned, gripping on to his hand on your breast, brain not functioning properly anymore. 

“Make a mess all over my fingers, come on darling… I know you’ve got it in you…. So good for me.”, he groaned, having to pause in-between his sentences. 

And it finally sent you over the edge, your high washing over you, making you scream in pleasure. Charles watched in awe as your face contorted and you were in your own post-orgasmic bubble. He loved seeing you like this: so natural, so incredibly attractive. 

You caught your breath, pulling him back up to you by his hair. 

Giving him a hazy smile, you kissed him again: a silent thank you for the pleasure. Your lips connected, his tongue swirling inside your mouth. 

You weren’t sure why, but this time everything felt different. 

So much more personal and intimate than the times before. 

Like Charles actually meant his drunken words from before. Like this was a fresh start for the both of you. 

The start of something serious. 

As the kiss got more heated again, you rolled on top of him, Charles letting you take over control. You sat up, straddling him while letting your fingers wander under his shirt. 

You knew where to touch him to make his mind go crazy so you innocently brushed past his sensitive spot on his right side, feeling his abs tense up.

 He took a sharp breath as you unbuttoned his shirt, watching you intently. 

Once you had freed him of his shirt, you began kissing down his body until you reached his belt. His hand came down to push a loose strand of hair out of your face, making you smile as you looked up at him, biting down on your lip.

 It was a sight Charles didn’t ever want to forget. 

When you went to push down his pants he held up his hips to help you, but as soon as you leaned back over him, he grabbed your hips, rolling you back over. Your arms naturally found their way around his neck. 

“Tonight is all about you, baby.”, he whispered in your ear, giving you goosebumps. 

After kissing you once more he aligned himself with your entrance before pushing into you slowly. You both moaned at feeling each other again, feeling so incredibly good. “Oh my god.”, you exclaimed, having to get used to his size again. 

Before he started moving he looked back up at you again, searching for permission which you happily granted him with a nod. 

Slowly he pushed further into you until he was filling you up completely, your hips touching. 

Your breath hitched at the sensation of the stretch. 

Unlike all the other times you had slept together, Charles didn’t pick up the pace this time.

 Instead he continued his slow but oh so deep thrusts into you, keeping eye contact with you the whole time. 

“You’re so beautiful, chérie. So tight.”, he whispered before hitting your G-spot again. You whined, pulling slightly at his roots to which he groaned into your ear. 

“Gonna make me go insane, darling.”

Was this what making love felt like? Actual love? Not just a casual hookup? 

Because this was definitely more than that. 

This was a feeling of safety, comfort and absolute trust. Trust in the man above you who was currently making you see stars. 

His steady thrusts continued, hitting all the right spots inside of you. 

“Charles.. I’m.. I’m gonna..”, you stuttered, feeling that familiar knot tighten in your stomach again. 

Even though you didn’t finish your sentence Charles still understood, picking up the pace to go a little bit faster. 

“So good for me.”, he kept looking directly at you, watching as you tried to keep your eyes open as well. 

However the feeling of him inside you made it hard not to screw your eyes shut. 

“Please, Charles..”, you moaned, not sure what you were begging for. 

Charles understood regardless. 

He filled you up completely, resting his hips against yours for a second, then pushing even further into you. 

Your mouth hang agape from the sensation, your whole body craving the release. 

After a few more deep deep thrusts, it didn’t take much longer until you came undone all over his dick, his name falling from your mouth yet again. 

You clenching around him was all Charles needed to send him over the edge as well, as he came only moments after you, releasing inside you. 

Then he let himself collapse onto you, still resting most of his bodyweight on his arms. 

His head sunk to your chest, using you as a pillow. Your hands automatically ran through his hair, the both of you staying silent while coming down from your highs. 

“That was…”, you began, but Charles interrupted you: “Amazing.”

He lifted his head off your chest to look you in the eyes, studying your face again. 

“Why do you keep staring so much tonight?”, you laughed, making him smile. 

“I just can’t help myself, chérie. You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen..”, he answered honestly, leaving you speechless. 

When you didn’t reply Charles only leaned forward, connecting your lips to a kiss that was the complete opposite of the rough, sloppy kisses you had exchanged just moments before. 

This one was filled with all kinds of emotions: adoration, fear, desire and confusion…but most importantly, it was filled with love. 

So much love that you thought your heart might burst. 

Which is why you decided to finally take that leap of faith with him, too. 

Just like he’d done before. You would give him your heart. 

Trust that he wouldn’t break it this time. 

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 13: Life Is Full of ”What If’s”

Summary:  Arthur struggles with whether or not he should tell you how he feels about you.

Warnings:  Swearing and angst

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

*I found this image on Pintrest, posted by ‘rafa’. I’m obsessed with their pins, btw. You totally need to check them out. 

The next morning after your day of drinking with Karen at the saloon, you feel dreadful. The only thing worse than your queasy stomach is the pounding in your head. You manage to get yourself together enough to drag your ragged self to the coffee pot for some much-needed "black gold". You have spent the morning with the girls, and in the process of discussing your current physical state, it has eventually come out within your small circle that you are majorly sweet on Arthur. Not that it was a surprise to any of them, but now that your not-so-secret is out, the young women quickly pounce on the idea. And the girls are all aflutter with coming up with a plan to get you and Arthur together.

But sadly, your heart isn't as excited as they are. While the romantic idea of calling Arthur yours is beautiful, you still carry strong doubts about it ever becoming a reality. And last night only fueled that notion even further. You had made a move of your own on Arthur last night, making it pretty clear to him (or so you thought) how you feel. But rather than returning your affection, he simply got up and walked out of your tent.

"Wait...he did what, now?" asks Abigail, a look of confusion coming across her face as she holds her hand up to interrupt you so that she can grasp what you've just told her.

You sigh, embarrassed to admit that you practically threw yourself at a man and got rejected. "I smiled, told him he was sweet. I kissed his cheek and leaned in for a kiss...and nothing." You wave your hand before letting it fall helplessly into your lap with a shrug. "He just got up and left." The memory of your pathetic amorous attempt at flirting snaps back to your mind and it makes you cringe inside all over again. You never really were good at that sort of thing.

"Well, that's your problem right there, (Y/N). You kissed the wrong part of the man," snickers Karen, swatting your arm.

"Oh, (Y/N), maybe he was just tired, you know? Maybe he wasn't feeling too well?" offers Mary-Beth, trying to make you feel better.

But you just shake your head, not buying her explanation. "Its always been my experience that if a man wants you, he'll take you up on your offer, regardless of how 'tired' he is."

But Abigail simply sits, still pondering, the gears turning in her head. She knows Arthur well, too well, in fact. Almost as well as Hosea. "Hmmm...no, somethin' ain't right, here. I can't believe that Arthur ain't interested. Gotta be more to the story than that, (Y/N)."

"What if you-" starts Tilly, but you quickly cut her off, causing her face to startle with astonishment. "You know what?", you say sharply, "I really don't want to talk about this right now. Arthur is making my head pound more than it already is. Can we please just talk about something else, girls? Please? At least until I got my head on straight?" you plead to your friends. The rest of the girls fall silent, looking from you to each other with awkward glances. The girls finally have some juicy tid-bits to gossip over and yet they have just been hushed to silence. But you have no doubt that as soon as you leave their company, the full discussions will begin. And in a small camp like this, you wince a bit at the idea of how fast this news will spread. You really need to pull Arthur aside at some point and discuss this, to do some damage control and try to head it off before the gossip gets out of control. But what is it that you want to tell Arthur? That you're sorry for embarrassing yourself last night, or that you actually have feelings for him?

After you finish your coffee, you slowly meander back to your tent to pull out anything in need of washing for the laundry today. The fatigue from your hangover is heavy in your joints, but there is still work to be done, as always. As you gather up a few articles of clothing, the girls' conversations are lingering in your mind and it dawns on you that you haven't even seen Arthur yet this morning. Taking a moment to look around the camp, you notice that everyone else seems to be as lethargic as you after last night's drinking festivities. But eventually, you find Arthur over by one of the tables with Hosea. You can't hear what they are talking about, but by the expressions on each of their faces, it looks like a pretty serious discussion. The mere sight of Arthur makes you blush in embarrassment and quickly look away, hoping to avoid any eye-contact. God, what were you thinking last night?! "Fucking idiot..." you mumble to yourself as you throw a few things into a basket and walk behind your tent towards the washing area, hoping not to draw any attention to yourself.

Over at the tables, Arthur and Hosea are still deep in a serious conversation, alright. And what you do not know is that the topic is about you.

"You need to do something about it soon, son. Because if you don’t, there’s surely others who will," Hosea warns in earnest, yet soft-spoken and serene. "And with a girl like that," as he motions towards your tent with his tea cup in-hand, "it won’t take long to happen."

Arthur lifts his eyes to meet Hosea's, a shadow of pain held behind those blue orbs. "That's just it, Hosea. I think it already has," says Arthur in disappointment.

"What are you goin' on about now?" asks Hosea.

Arthur lets out a long sigh before he continues, as he's a bit uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing. "Apparently, (Y/N) met someone in town yesterday when she was with Karen. And by the sounds of it, he's quite the catch," says Arthur sarcastically with an eye roll to accompany it.

Hosea narrows his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always does this. He's got more excuses as to why he either can't, or won't, allow himself some sort of happiness for himself. And, a few weeks ago, when Arthur was seriously hurt after that payroll robbery (the one that was meant for Rosewood, the town where you came from when Arthur first found you), Hosea watched as you carefully tended to Arthur's wounds, desperate to keep him alive. He had asked you then if you had feelings for Arthur, and you all but admitted that you did. But, you insisted that Hosea not say anything. At the time, you had no idea how you wanted to handle the notion of being with Arthur. So in order to avoid creating a possible divide between the two of you, you convinced Hosea to remain silent, forcing him to give you his word. And despite being a seasoned outlaw, Hosea's word is his bond.

"How do you know this?" asks Hosea suspiciously, coming back to the current conversation.

"I heard 'em talkin' this mornin' about it, the whole group of 'em over there," he motions towards the wagon where you and the girls were a bit ago.

Hosea mulls over this new information for a moment, tapping his finger on the side of his tea cup. "Well, it ain't like they're married yet. Don't mean nothin' til a ring is on her finger," he advises. But Arthur just rolls his eyes, yet again. "Might as well be," he sulks.

As for you on the other side of camp, you try your best to attempt the washing, but the rocking motion of leaning over the washboard and tub and scrubbing the clothing makes you even more sick to your stomach. Thankfully, Ms. Grimshaw shows you some mercy and allows you to go over to your med tent and work there. You are not the only one feeling the after-effects of alcohol this morning, so you set yourself to the task of prepping fresh ginger-root for the nausea and fever-few tea for the headaches for those who need it. And, there are quite a few who do. Even Dutch eventually makes his way over to you, almost begging for you to put him out of his misery.

After you look after everyone else, you spend the rest of the late morning and afternoon taking it easy and lazing about, managing your hangover. Lucky for you, Ms. GrimsHaw takes pity on you and pretty much leaves you alone. 'Maybe she's starting to hate me less,' you joke to yourself as you lay curled up on your side on your cot, your arm folded under your head like a pillow.

By dinnertime, you slowly make your way to the tables to eat. You have little appetite, but fortunately, Mr. Pearson has had the foresight to make a simple soup and fresh bread for dinner. You grab yourself a bowl and small hunk of bread and turn to find yourself a seat. You look to your usual spot, but find that Arthur is not there. He usually sits next to, or at least near you during the meals when he is in camp. In fact, now that you think about it, you haven't seen him all day. You've been too caught up in your lingering discomfort all day to notice until now. Looking around, you see that he has already grabbed himself a bowl and is tucked away inside his tent, keeping to himself and writing in his journal. You'd go over there to join him, but whenever Arthur stows away inside his tent with his journal like this, he does not like to be disturbed. It seems that he is clearly keeping to himself for a reason. You cast your eyes down to your bowl, nibbling on your lip a bit before reluctantly moving to sit in your spot at the table across from Abigail and Jack. Abigail looks up from her own bowl of food and watches you absentmindedly stir your spoon in your bowl, indifferent and playing with the contents, clearly distracted. "Everything alright, (Y/N)?" she asks you, a small questioning smile crossing her lips. "Oh yeah, fine", you reassure her. "Just not too hungry yet after last night," giving her a weak smile in return. Occasionally, you look up and over at Arthur's tent, stealing a few glances here and there as you try to eat, but he seems to be unaffected by the new distance between you two as he never once looks up to meet your gaze. Odd, seeing as you often catch him looking at you, even off at a distance.

After the meal and the dishes are washed, everyone gathers about the main fire again for another evening, but this time everyone is more relaxed than drunk. You eagerly scuttle closer to the flames, desperate for the comfort of their warmth. The heat of the fire seeps into your tired muscles and a wave of relief rushes over you. You look about at the attendants of tonight's fire, and yet again, you notice that Arthur is not in the group's attendance. Glancing about, you see him standing over by the horses with Charles. They are brushing down their respective mounts, occasionally exchanging a few words, but doesn't look like anything too important is happening over there.

And suddenly, you get a sinking feeling in your stomach that Arthur is strategically avoiding you now. This is what you were afraid of. This is exactly what you had told Karen yesterday at the saloon. 'I'd rather know him and be friends, than try to be together and have him hate or resent me', you had told her. What if he really is mad at you now? But you quickly admonish yourself for such self pity. 'We're friends, damn it. Surely, we can talk about it and he can let me at least apologize for acting so stupidly? I'll blame it on the booze.' You take a deep breath as you have this internal conversation with yourself and decide that you'll talk to him first thing in the morning. You'll just leave him be for now, let yourself fully recover from your hangover, and you'll handle it in the morning and get everything straightened out. You're fine. He'll be fine. It'll all be fine. You'll fix it tomorrow...or so you hope.

But the next morning, you wake up to discover that Arthur isn't around. Apparently he left to do some "collecting" for Strauss, and a few other errands that need attention. "He left early this morning," Charles tells you when you ask of Arthur's whereabouts. (You figure if Arthur is talking to anyone right now, its Charles.) "He left just before dawn, before anyone was even awake. I was on watch into the morning and saw him head out." You slowly close your eyes, letting your head hang back in frustration, as your hands land on your hips. You suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise that Arthur is gone already. Every few days he's sent out for one damn thing or another. The poor man can't get a moment's peace around here. "You OK, (Y/N)? asks Charles, his brows knit in concern.

"Perfect...just perfect," you mutter.

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

After shaking down some unpaid debts, then checking out the local butcher who Hosea suspects is stealing cattle and reselling it to the ranchers, plus collecting a quick and easy bounty, Arthur is in town picking up some personal items for a few of the gang members by request. He was happy to have the distraction, and now with his obligations met, he figures his horse, Buck, could use some love as well. So he decides to take him over to the local farrier to get his hooves looked after. They've been all over this God forsaken country lately, trudging over rocky terrain and sandy soil. Buck has tripped up on his own feet more than a few times, so Arthur decides to treat him to some fine attention.

"This one's a real stud, ain't he?" the local farrier asks, running his hands down Buck's coat in admiration. "He's a fine specimen, mister."

Arthur beams proudly as he looks over his most prized possession. "Yeah, he is. I don't know what I'd without 'em,"  he agrees, rubbing his hands along the sides of Buck's face. The animal nickers softly, nosing into Arthur's pockets to possibly find a treat of some kind.

Arthur then steps back and out of the way to let the farrier do his job. While he’s waiting outside the farrier's barn, he leans his shoulder into the door casing, crossing his arms over his chest lazily, and casually glances around the open space of the town, absentmindedly watching the people going about their business in the streets. Its a sunny day today, the air picking up hints of the leaves in the trees starting to turn for the onset of autumn. The town is filled with residents out and about, taking advantage of the good weather. 

Arthur eventually takes notice of a young family coming out of the general store across the way. The brood consists of a man and his wife with their two young children, maybe seven and five years old, pretty much around Jack's age. Upon closer examination, the husband isn’t much younger than Arthur. Arthur watches with curiosity as the man helps his wife with her packages, while also trying to reel-in their two children who are running circles around them. Both parents laugh at the playfulness of their young ones, watching them chase each other around. It’s a happy sight, rare for these parts it seems. The man lifts his children into the back of their wagon, then finally helps his wife onto the driving bench, kissing her hand as he does so.

Watching this scene, Arthur’s mind involuntarily drifts to thoughts of you. He imagines the two of you together, a family like this one. He envisions you smiling at him as he places the young child you'd have together on your lap while he loads the last of the goods to head back to your quiet cabin home that the two of you would build, nestled safely away from the harsh life that you live now. He can clearly see your beautiful face in his mind's eye, looking up at him so adoringly. He imagines you leaning into his side as he grabs the reins of the horse-drawn wagon. He reaches down to place a gentle kiss atop his child's head before placing one along your temple. He snaps the reins to start the wagon lurching into a slow, languid, and unrushed movement; all cares and worries left behind in the collecting dust of the wagon-wheels.

A sharp clanking sound of the anvil behind him within the barn from the farrier snaps Arthur out of his foolish daydream, and he slightly shakes his head to restore himself back to his reality. He clears his throat and quickly scolds himself, looking down at his feet. It’s been a long time since he’s had such thoughts of domestic bliss. The last time he let his mind wander like this was when he was with Mary. And admittedly, it wasn’t pictured nearly as wonderful as this. And he had loved her. But look how that turned out. Its too risky to think such things. Even if the two of you could ever leave this outlaw life together, you surely wouldn’t have him. Arthur's convinced of it. Not when you could have any man you wanted. Would you?

Arthur gives pause to this for a moment. He keeps hearing Hosea's voice in his head. Two days ago, you and Karen had gone into this very town for a drink, or many drinks as it turned out, and in the process, you had met someone. Apparently, from what Arthur gathers, this other man had made quite the impression on you. But, later that same night, you and Arthur had a 'moment', as it were, in your tent. Arthur believed at the time that whatever it was that transpired between the two of you was merely a result of a combination of your inebriation and affections for this new man. But Hosea wasn't so sure and was quite insistent that Arthur talk to you about it.

The gruff outlaw has to admit, the two of you do share a connection. You are both quite comfortable in each other’s company. And for the first time in a very, very long time Arthur could actually envision himself being with someone again and possibly being happy. For you do make him happy. You aren't even together as a proper couple as it is now, and yet, he is happiest when he's with you. Maybe? Just maybe? What if Hosea is right?

With his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, Arthur decides that when he returns to camp, this may be the time to finally tell you how he feels about you. Its been getting harder and harder to deny it. He flat-out admitted it to Hosea the other day, so its only a matter of time before everyone in camp knows anyway. Things like this tend to spread like poison ivy through a thicket. Arthur's mind races and his heart beats faster at the idea of it. He rolls his fingers into the palms of his hands, as they begin to sweat just a bit now. Its a gamble, that's for sure. A cocky grin begins to take hold of his weathered face as his hand comes up to rub his chin in thought, his thick forefinger dragging slowly across his lips. Then, he suddenly takes notice of himself and realizes that he is looking pretty ragged these days. His beard is getting scratchy and his hair needs a trim and a good washing. He looks over at the barber shop and decides that if he's going to do this, he needs to do it right. Best foot forward and such. You deserve that much, at least.

He turns his attention back inside the barn to the smith. "Hey, Mister, keep an eye on my boy, here, would ya?," he says with a quick nod towards Buck. "I got some things I gotta take care of real quick."

"Sure thing, friend," says the farrier with a grin and a little wave. Arthur pats Buck's hind quarters before walking out of the barn and makes his way over to the barber's place to get cleaned up with a shave and a haircut.

"Shit, maybe I'll even fit in a bath," he muses to himself with a swagger.

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

The whole ride home, Arthur is a nervous wreck. He runs over and over again in his mind what he so desperately wants to say to you. Should he take you somewhere to talk about this in private? Or should he catch you in your tent and just come right out with it? Oddly, the closer he gets to camp, he is more excited than nervous. 'That's gotta be a good sign, right?' he asks himself. This is something that Arthur has been thinking over for awhile now and the idea of confessing his adoration for you just seems like the absolute right thing to do.

Arthur heads in to camp and quickly gets Buck squared away. Turning about to face the main camp, his eyes instantly search for you. Soon, his ears pick up on a melody floating through the stillness from somewhere in camp. He wanders through the tents and tables, gravitating towards the heavenly sound, and he realizes as he gets closer to it that its you. A huge smile dances across the outlaw's lips as he picks up his pace to find the source.

As he comes around the corner, unbeknownst to you, Arthur sees you sitting with Javier. You were feeling a bit down after Arthur left camp a few days ago, not knowing what you were going to do. You really weren't sure how you were going to handle this "thing" with Arthur. Javier had found you earlier in the day throwing the knife he had given you into a stump in frustration, hacking into the pulp of the wood with your blade. Sensing you needed some cheering up, Javier offered to distract you with trying to teach you to truly throw knives. "Give it here," he said, reaching over to take the knife from you. "If you're going to do it, let me show you how to do it properly." He figured throwing sharp objects at something would be a good stress relief for you, given your current countenance. You and Javier are good friends and you were grateful for his company. He quickly had you on your feet and was guiding your hands and arms, teaching you the proper stance, grip, and timing to hurl a knife like a weapon at a target. That was earlier today, and now, you and Javier are sitting by the fire, singing and playing music together.

From where he stands, Arthur listens, stunned and paralyzed by the sweet sound of your voice carrying through the air. He was looking forward to speaking with you, so to hear your voice shouldn't be such a shock to him. Plus, he's heard you sing before. It was quite the lovely surprise when he discovered yet another talent of yours; another touch of beauty that sits upon him like warm blanket enveloping around him. But somehow, the melody of your song wrapped around Javier's musical notes just does something to him this time. It is a sound so beautiful and fragile. He quietly walks over to Mr. Pearson's wagon, attempting to be inconspicuous to avoid drawing your attention and disrupting the eloquent sound. Arthur's walking pace eventually slows to a halt as he listens to you along with the others.

Your voice carries through the air, light and airy and beautifully hypnotic. The lyrics to your song tell of encouragement to one so downtrodden, and filled with love and empathy for someone struggling to find hope in the world.

When you've finished your song, you are not met with cheers or applause, but more of soft grins of approval from those who have been moved by your performance. Javier gives you a big smile as he wraps his arm around your shoulders, planting a friendly kiss upon your cheek. It is a gesture that certainly does not go unnoticed by Arthur, either. 

"Ah, mi Amor! We sound good together, no?" Javier says to you with a wink. "Yes, Javi, that we do," you agree with a grin, snuggling up under his arm a bit. Watching you and Javier together suddenly makes Arthur question his plan. How does he follow this with his own awkward expression of affection for you? What if you say 'no' after sitting with Javier?

"That was beautiful, (Y/N)," says Abigail, sitting off to the side of you, relaxing to the music.

"Thank you. Just something I’ve had rolling around in my head," you reply sheepishly, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. "Don't really know where it came from."  But Abigail knows exactly where it came from and who it’s about, too. Realizing this, she looks around for your muse and sees Arthur off in the distance, leaning against Pearson’s wagon with his arms crossed and head down with his hat pulled over his eyes. She gets up and walks over to the wagon to get herself a cup of coffee.

Abigail casually walks to the wagon and grabs the coffee pot to pour herself a fresh cup. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?” Abigail innocently asks Arthur, as she stands next to him, sipping the hot liquid.

"Mmhmm" is all that Arthur can reply with, not lifting his face at all to give Abigail any more of a response than that.  

“You know who she wrote that about don't you?”, Abigail lifts an eyebrow at Arthur.

“Abigail…just…don’t”, Arthur's voice low and gravely.

"What?" she feigns innocence, observing his demeanor. "Oh Arthur, why not?" she pushes after a moment of silence.

“You know damn well why”, he snaps quietly. Arthur is riddled with such self-loathing and doubt, something that Abigail is all too aware of.

"You’re being silly. Love doesn't have to be perfect, Arthur," she whispers, leaning in to him so that no one can overhear their conversation. "It just needs to be true," hints Abigail with a smirk and a twinkle in her eye, trying to goad him into action. "Trust me, I know what I'm talkin' about," as she gives a subtle nod in John's direction.

"It ain't that simple, Abigail", he pouts, as he turns and walks away before anyone else can approach him. Arthur doesn't know why he's suddenly so resentful of Javier. You and Javi are friends, fairly close in fact, and he knows this. But he has to get his head around this thing about you and fast. He can't go around avoiding you forever.

From where you are sitting, you look up from Javier just in time to see Arthur walking away from the circle of people and towards his tent. You hadn't noticed his return, and part of you wants to instantly jump up and run after him, as you've been desperately waiting to talk to him. But something about how his large footsteps hit heavily into the dirt under him, his shoulders squared harshly, told you that for whatever reason, he was in a mood and it is probably best to leave him alone at the moment.

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

The next morning, Arthur drags himself out of bed. He had a restless night, hardly sleeping at all. His inner struggle with whether or not to tell you how he feels is driving him insane. He cares for you, he knows that now. But is it selfish to tell you? What if he's not good enough, just like he wasn't good enough for Mary? What if he is not what you really want? He saw how you were with Javier. You've never been like that with Arthur. But then again, your relationship with Arthur is completely different. In fact, Arthur has always thought that what was between you two was better than that with anyone else. Is he wrong? As the camp sweetheart, you are kind and bubbly with everyone, even Uncle. But there is just something almost electric between you and Arthur. He can't be making this up in his own mind, can he?

As the camp comes to life this morning, Arthur notices that you are not at breakfast. Trying not to look too interested, he doesn’t ask about your whereabouts, but keeps a watchful eye out for you. He tries to keep himself busy with odds and ends around the camp, trying not to think of you. Its a sunny day, not too chilly, so its a good day to get alot of work and chores done. By the afternoon when you're still not around, he asks Lenny, “Where is everyone?”

Lenny tells him that Mr. Pearson took Tilly and Mary-Beth into town, Bill and Micah are chasing down a lead with Rev. Swanson, and you are out with Charles hunting. Arthur only huffs in response and wanders back to his tent to take a rest break in an attempt to avoid anyone else. It seems that you and Arthur are like passing ships these days, never in the same place at the same time. Some of that is his own doing, though, he realizes.

It isn't long before he hears the hoofbeats of horses and looks up from his cot to see you and Charles riding in together. He looks up from his journal and watches as you pull Blue to a halt. Being ever the gentleman, Charles is quick to hold your reins with one hand while assisting you down from the saddle with the other. Your face is alight with excitement and all smiles. Charles was teaching you to use a bow and how to track today. Apparently it paid off, as you brought down a large doe on your own. Arthur observes you trailing behind Charles like a puppy as he carries the large deer carcass over his strong shoulders and over to the food wagon to skin. His eyes keenly pickup how you lay your delicate hand over top of Charles' thick forearm and giggle and flutter your eyes at him as you watch him prep the animal for skinning, the pride beaming off of your features. It starts to make Arthur jealous again, not even realizing it. He can feel his stomach starting to turn in knots.

Dejected, Arthur decides to keep his distance from everyone for the rest of the day. He needs to reassess his plan to talk to you, and more importantly, really take a hard look at his feelings for you and the options that are available. Arthur mulls over how you interact with everyone else. Maybe he isn't that special after all? What if it is just wishful thinking on his part that you could want him? He's not as young and intelligent as Lenny. Or as suave and debonair as Javier. And he ain't even half the man that Charles Smith is. What could he possibly offer you? What, his smart-ass attitude, dirty fingernails and a life of always looking over your shoulder? Arthur was literally just spending his time out of the camp intimidating people for money and plotting to steal from others, all while trying to keep his head low enough to avoid the lawman's noose. That's a real nice proposition for a lady, isn't it? What if his affection for you leads to your destruction?

God damn it, why did he have to find you in the woods that day?, Arthur curses himself. Sure, he helped you out, but why couldn't it have been someone else from some other camp? Things have been so much more complicated since you got here. Your presence is like fingers in his brain, digging deep. Things were so much simpler for him before you came. How the hell is he going to get you out of his mind, now?

For your part, when you woke up a few days ago and Arthur wasn't in camp, you were more than a little frustrated. You wanted to talk to him so badly, if nothing else than to just apologize for how you had acted that drunken night. It obviously made him uncomfortable; you see that now, as Arthur had left camp for several days after that and looks to be avoiding you now that he's back. But you just can't let it go. Whatever your feelings for him may be, Arthur is your best friend. You usually pal around with him all of the time when he's available. You don't want things to continue awkwardly like this. You'll just have to push your love for him way down deep into your chest and try to ignore it as best you can. Because, as you have come to fully realize now, you do love him.

As the sun starts to set for day, draping the camp in its gold and orange hues, you bite your lip nervously, your fingers knotting around themselves as you tentatively approach Arthur. You've had enough of this nonsense and you're going to pin him down and talk to him, whether he likes it or not. You finally find him alone on the edge of camp feeding the horses and securing his tack for his own horse, as usual.

“Hey you," you say with a guarded lightness in your voice as you get closer to him. Arthur has his back to you as he rolls up a bit of rope in his gloved hands. He turns his head upon hearing you, but just slightly; just enough to see who is approaching, but not enough to make direct eye contact. He only responds with a gruff "Hey" of his own before turning back around to continue what he's doing.

"Missed you at dinner. Are you hungry?” you ask.

“No”, his answer short and definitive, his large hands continuing to move about their task.

"You sure?" you press, trying to coax him into engaging with you somewhat as you crane your neck a bit to see if you can look into his face at all.

“I ate while I was out earlier," he answers simply.

“Oh," you reply, disappointed, but still not willing to give up just yet. "Did you get what you needed in town yesterday?”

"Yep." He finishes bundling the rope in his hands at this point and hangs it upon a nail sticking out of the nearby tree. He then moves to sit on a stump he'd pulled over earlier and begins to retie and tighten the straps on Buck's saddle.

"I see you got cleaned up while you were out," you observe with approval, a smile upon your face. His hair is cropped shorter and out of his eyes, now. He still has his beard, but it is trimmed much shorter, accenting his chiseled jawline and exposing his strong neck a bit more.

"That a problem?" Arthur cuts back with a bit of snarkiness to it.

"No. I kinda like seeing your face, actually." you reply smartly. This causes Arthur to just huff and shake his head at your comment. (Jesus, this is killing him.)

There is nothing but an awkward silence, as you are just praying for more from him right now. Your heart is starting to break as you stare at him sitting there. There is so much that you want to say to him, but you can't. At least not until you can get him to really talk to you. God, he can be such a stubborn ass sometimes!

"How did the scout go today?" you ask, one last attempt at small talk to try to break the ice. No, its not even ice at this point, but a glacier! Slow-moving, frigid and unforgiving.  

“Just fine," is all that you can get from him, not even looking up from what he is doing, not even an inch.

“Hosea seems to think that man skimming the ranchers has a lot of cash stashed somewhere," you suggest.

”I guess," Arthur shrugs indifferent, eyes still focused on the work in front of him.

You stand there looking at him, still wringing your hands. You are wracked with frustration as well as sadness at how this is going right now. “Are you even going to look at me?” you chuckle nervously, the presence of a plea in your voice. Finally, throwing his hands down in a huff, Arthur turns to you, eyebrows raised and definitely looking annoyed, as if pushed to his limits now.

“Yep” you smile tentatively. “That’s you alright." You purse your lips as you exhale deeply before you finally ask the question plaguing your mind. "Are you mad at me, Arthur? Is this about the other night?” you ask hesitantly. You weren't sure just how to approach the subject of what happened in your tent the other night with him, with the kiss and the "sweet" talk and all, but now seemed as good as a time as any to get it out in the open.  

“No, I just don’t need you mothering me all the damn time is all,” he says harshly to you.

You stand quietly, still hoping he’ll say something else, but more nothing comes. "Would you even tell me if you were?" you ask softly.  

"I already said I wasn’t!" he snaps louder this time. His tone startles you a bit and you blink uncomfortably, shifting your weight where you stand. Arthur immediately regrets the way he's just spoken to you and looks down in shame at his hands at what he's doing again to avoid your gaze on him.

“OK..well," you mumble awkwardly, "I just wanted to make sure you were alright, since I haven't talked to you much lately. I’ll leave you be, then. See ya,” you say gently, as to not offend or push him any further with your presence, and you slowly turn and walk away. It's no use in talking to him when he gets like this and you know it. While Arthur is not one to get angry with you specifically that often, he is known for his temper. So its best not to push the issue at this time, and you decide to cut your losses while you can.

Arthur finally turns completely around to face you and opens his mouth to apologize, lifting his hand to catch your elbow, but finds that you're already hurrying off and that you don't notice his gesture. He is met with nothing but dead space where you were just standing and he finds it so disheartening. He can still smell the scent of lavender lingering in the air from your presence there. He hangs his head low, lacing his hands behind his neck in frustration with himself before looking up again after you. He sighs deeply. “Stupid ass…” he mutters. He’s self sabotaging again. There is so much that he wants to say to you as well, but like you, he can't, as he can't find the words in his tortured mind. And he realizes that he's at a turning point: does he give up on a chance at happiness once again? Or does he fight for it? Are you worth the risk of the heartache that will inevitably come to an outlaw on the run?

From across camp, Hosea watches as you walk away from Arthur, your arms wrapped around yourself to ward off the chill that is not only coming from the night air, but from the man you were just speaking to. His face screws up in thought, letting out a long frustrated sigh. "Leave it be, old man," mutters Ms. Grimshaw, who is sitting next to Hosea, not even looking up from the newspaper she's reading, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"They're both acting foolish," Hosea huffs, scowling in your direction.

"They're acting young," Ms. Grimshaw corrects him, still not looking up from her paper.

"They ain't that young! And neither am I, for that matter. Jackie needs someone to play with, and I'd like to see another grandchild before I die," he says sternly.

"Hell, that could be as early as tomorrow," scoffs Grimshaw, finally looking at him.

"All the more reason to get on with it," insists Hosea, waiving his hand in emphasis.

She just shakes her head at him with a chuckle. "Kinda presumptuous of you at this early point, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding? I've never seen a more sure bet in my life," he says, reaching over and tapping his finger on her newspaper in emphasis.

Ms Grimshaw looks at him and sighs again, her demeanor more serious now. "Hosea, you gave them each your word not to get involved," she reminds him, flicking her cigarette ash to the grass.

"Yeah, I did...but you didn't," he grins mischievously, a plan slowly forming in his devious mind.

"You are correct, I did not. And I don't want to get involved, either," she says, giving him the raised eyebrow look, instilling her position on the subject.

Hosea knows full well that he's not going to be able to manipulate Susan into doing his bidding. So he simply turns back to watch over the camp again and pouts.

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

The next morning, you're unloading one of the wagons, cleaning it out and taking inventory of supplies. The camp will need to start stocking up soon for the colder months to come. You repack the crates and make a note of what is low and what needs replenished. You crawl around on your hands and knees, pulling boxes and shuffling them around inside the wagon. You've decided to take everything out, sweep out the wagon interior and repack as you go. Some of the wooden crates are heavier than others and you softly grunt as you haul them about. You are so caught-up in your work that you do not hear the footsteps crunching the fallen leaves in the grass behind you.

Seeing you working by yourself, Arthur slowly approaches you, hoping that you'll still be willing to talk to him after last night. "Need a hand with that?" he asks, pointing towards the object of your burden as you bend over to try to lift a crate full of potatoes. His presence startles you a bit, as you were not expecting him. You look over your shoulder, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face and give him a small smile, "Sure". As you straighten up and step aside, laying a hand on your already-aching lower back, Arthur moves around you to effortlessly pick up the box and sets it on the edge of the wagon bed. He pauses for a second, his hand still resting on the crate, trying to think of what to say as he turns to face you now.

"'m sorry about yesterday, (Y/N). I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I was bein' a crab-ass, as you call it, and just in a mood," his hand waves in the air slightly in emphasis, before it lands on his gun belt.

The sound of Arthur's gravely, but soft voice addressing you makes your heart melt, a surge of relief washing over you. You hate it when you and Arthur are at odds with one another. “It’s OK. Everyone gets that way," giving him a reassuring smile as you cross your arms across your abdomen. "I just wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me.”

“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, (Y/N)," Arthur says. "And if I was, trust me, you’d know it," his head tilts to the side slightly to emphasize his point.

“Well, you’ve always been kind to me," your smile widening now as you look up into his blue eyes. "And that's our deal, remember? You look after me and I'll look after you.”

Your statement makes Arthur smile widely at you in return. "That's right. That is our deal, isn't it?" He gives you a wink.

You offer a bit of a giggle, and return to your task at hand, with Arthur working beside you. With his help, you quickly finish organizing the supply wagon and then walk over to give Mr. Pearson the supply list of inventory. With that finally done and out of the way, you and Arthur sit down at one of tables and start talking as you usually do, and things seem to be back to normal once again. Unknown to either of you, you both silently, and independently, decide in your own minds to put the topic of revealing feelings for each other aside for now. You just started speaking to one another again and neither of you wants to rock the boat right now. There will be time enough to discuss such things later.

“So," starts Arthur casually as he lights himself a cigarette, "you were singing with Javier the other day, and out hunting with Charles yesterday." He shakes out the flame on the match between his large fingertips before tossing it into the grass at this feet. "All that on top of what you already do around here. Is there anything you can’t do?” he asks with friendly sarcasm.

“Well, I don’t know," you reply grinning at him. "I am pretty great.”

“And humble. Don’t forget about humble," he snorts back dryly, cigarette smoke puffing out of his nose.

“Let’s see..." you tap your forefinger to your lips in deep thought. "I don't know how to cut hair," you offer.

“Dually noted for future reference," says Arthur with a nod. "What else?”

You squint your eyes as you think some more. "I don't handle snakes very well," you point your finger at him, confessing your greatest personal weakness.

"Yeah, I know. I was with you last time you came across one," he rolls his eye at you. "Still can't hear out of that ear too well," he grumbles in that heavenly southern drawl of his. "I think the whole damn county heard you screamin'." You chuckle at his response, as you remember that incident vividly and it certainly was not one of your more refined moments.

"I'm not good at juggling," you say matter-of-factly, continuing your list.

"Yeah, well, don't feel too bad about that one. Juggling is stupid," replies Arthur as he shifts his weight where he sits, folding his arms and leaning out on the table and in closer to you now. "What else you got?"

“And I’m not good at fishing, either,” you declare, slowly nodding your head as if you've just admitted to a cardinal sin.

“What?" he sits up straighter as if in shock. "How do you exist in the world?” he scolds.

“Arthur, in all the months that we've known each other, haven't you noticed that I never volunteer to go fishing with you?", you ask admonishingly. "Fish are disgusting," you wrinkle your nose at the thought of it. "They're tasty, but disgusting.”

“Well, I just can't have that," Arthur shakes his head at you, pretending as if ashamed. "Looks like I'm gonna have to take you out and teach you, then.” His blue eyes crinkle into as subtle smile again.

You giggle at the banter between you and Arthur, as this makes you the happiest. Arthur doesn’t have this kind of rapport with anyone else in camp and you relish the idea that you're somewhat special because of it.

You and Arthur are so caught-up in your conversation that you do not notice Hosea as he walks over to the two of you. “Well, don’t you two look pleased with yourselves”, he greets you both warmly and sits down next to Arthur at the table.

“Good morning, Hosea," you say sweetly. "Oh! I’m glad you’re here," you perk up a bit more, suddenly distracted with a new thought. "I wanted to know if I could pick your brain a bit."

The man's curiosity is peaked at your request. “Oh?” he asks as he fidgets in the chair, trying to get comfortable.

"Yes," you exclaim excitedly. "With the autumn almost on us, the local plants are dwindling fast. I need to stock up on whatever I can find for medical supplies going into the winter. Arthur is always telling me that you're quite the herbalist. I was hoping to discuss plants and herbs with you and maybe even have you take me out and show me what you’ve found in the area? If we work together I'm sure we can amass quite a stash."

“Really?" Hosea's eyes widen with surprise. He is not used to someone needing him for his other talents, outside of for robbing and stealing. And certainly not one of the women.

"Sure," you smile at him. "Besides, Arthur has made it very clear I am not to leave the camp on my own," you say with an eye roll in Arthur's direction. "So who better to take me out than the one who taught him, right?" You look to Hosea like an excited child, your eyes bright and wide, your face leaning in towards him as your shoulders hunched a bit in expectation of his answer. Hosea is an important man in this group, so you are not sure if he has the time to run around with you looking for plants of all things.  

But to your surprise, rather than declining your request for his precious time, Hosea’s chest swells with pride, a grin dancing across his weathered face, one that almost reaches up to touch the silver hair at his temples. “Why, I’d be honored Miss (Y/L/N). We can even go later today if you wish. I’m more than happy to share what I know," he says, appreciative of your respect of his knowledge. "Lord knows I’ve tried to show this one time and again," he points at Arthur. "Oh, I could tell you quite a few stories about this one,” he chuckles with a wave.

"Don’t start,” warns Arthur, his eyebrows pulled in annoyance.

"You see, (Y/N), we had a hell of a time getting Arthur, here, to do anything in the beginning. He was a wild child when Dutch and I found him. Teaching this boy anything was a real struggle at first." He shakes his head at the memory of it all. It seems like a lifetime ago now, like it happened to someone else entirely. "Hell, Bessie couldn't even get him to clean himself up. Seems she was always after him, chasing him around with a bar of soap in her hand. He used to share a bath with his dog!”

"No!" you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle your laugh at Arthur's expense. Arthur just sighs and rolls his eyes before staring down Hosea. "Shows what you know. I loved that dog," he sulks in his defense.  

"Ahem!" Suddenly, you all hear Dutch clearing his throat to announce his presence as he walks over. “I'd hate to break up your little tea party over here," the dark-haired man says, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest as he now has your group's attention, "but, Arthur I need you to come with me. Looks like we got a pressing opportunity to discuss. Something about a supply train coming through."

Arthur's face drops a little in disappointment, not wanting to get up and change company at the moment. Sensing Arthur's discouragement, "Don’t worry, Arthur," Hosea speaks up and pats the younger man on the back reassuringly. "I’ll keep Miss (Y/N) entertained. I got alot more stories than that one ”, and Hosea gives you a wink from across the table.

“'Little Arthur' stories, oh I am so happy right now”, you tease, clasping your hands together in excitement.

“I swear, Hosea, just because you’re old doesn’t mean I won’t beat your ass,” Arthur throws a half-hearted threat at the man with a glare to match, causing both you and Dutch to chuckle a bit again at the two of them bickering.

"Dutch, you remember all the trouble Arthur used to get into?" asks Hosea, turning his attention to his long-time friend, with a twinkle in his eye as he lights himself a cigarette.

"Do I?" scoffs Dutch. "Jesus, I was just waiting for Bessie to toss a rope around his ankles and drag 'em behind one of the horses," he chuckles. "But she never did, though, bless her heart. She had endless patience." Dutch's eyes go soft at the memory of his dear friend, now long gone these many years.

"That's 'cause she liked me better than either of you two," declares Arthur proudly.

"Oh, I don't doubt that for even a second." Dutch confirms with a warm smile. And, after a brief moment, he shakes the memory from his mind like cleaning a cobweb caught in a window. "Anyway," waiving his arm dismissively, "Come walk with me, Arthur. We have much to discuss and plan for." And Dutch gets that devilish grin that you all know too well.

“Don’t worry, Arthur" Hosea insists again. "I will only speak the truth to (Y/N) while you're otherwise occupied," says the older gentleman, holding up his hand as if swearing to it.

Now that Hosea knows how he really feels about you, Arthur is a little nervous as to what the old man could say to you while he's off with Dutch. Hosea did promise that he wouldn't say anything about the matter, though; that he'd let Arthur handle it on his own. But, then again, Hosea is a professional con-artist.

Arthur falls silent, contemplating the options, and looks between you and Hosea, as you are now clearly two peas in a pod, as they say. Both you and Hosea sit smiling innocently back at Arthur. But he knows that you two are far from innocent. “I hate you both,” he pouts as he pushes himself up from his chair to follow Dutch, who only shakes his head and gives a slight chuckle, leaving you and Hosea snickering amongst yourselves as you watch Arthur walk away.

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

A few hours later, when he comes back to camp with Dutch and John from meeting their source of the train tip, Arthur is delighted to see that you and Hosea are still sitting together, but now over by the main fire, smiling and talking over a cup of coffee. The sight makes Arthur feel content to see his two favorite people in the world getting on so well together. He takes a moment to watch the two of you chatting cheerfully about something or other.  After the anxiety of the last few days, Arthur is beyond happy that all of that business seems to be behind him now. He still needs to deal with his feelings for you. But for now, that can wait. As for now, all seems right with his world again once more.

”Oh, great. You two are still hanging around each other.” Arthur feigns annoyance, playing it cool as he saunters over to the fire to join you.

“Ah, Arthur, there you are! Come, come...join us!" says Hosea, waving at Arthur to sit, which he does, taking the spot on the other side of you. "(Y/N) and I had the most splendid day today!" Hosea exclaims as he affectionately pats your arm next to him.

“Hosea just may be the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” you interject with a chirp, smiling brightly at Hosea before turning to Arthur with an even bigger one.

"Is that right?" deadpans Arthur, attempting to suppress the grin forming in the corners of his mouth.

“Miss Y/N thinks I’m charming,” gloats Hosea, pointing at Arthur to make sure he hears his point.  

“Yeah, well, you gotta remember, she drinks a lot," Arthur teases as he gives you a smirk, causing your mouth to drop open in offense before you back-hand his bicep, trying not to laugh.

“Hey! Watch it, Morgan!”

 *Hope you guys liked this one!  @CHILDOFSUMMERSGONE 

@sophiaj650 @uniqueclodzinevoid @lookingformaurice @ao3sub​

[loudblonde]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male!Reader Mafia AU (Chapter seven) "A smile that never goes away"

Summary: Simon is once again reminded of just how terrifying the Prices are. (Y/N) and his father are too similar for comfort.

This is 18+ only because of the subjects I write about. minors do not interact I will block you, I have other things you can read

Warnings: mentions of torture of a teenager under 18, mafia stuff that is generally pretty violent. Mentions of decapitation and mutilating corpses. Angst but not really, it's more Simon almost having a panic attack.

Word count: 1,6 K

Day 5/30

The morning was colder than it had been in the previous weeks, the window in the bedroom was fogged up and dew was gathering on the cobwebs hanging outside the window in the corner.

Though (Y/N) didn’t feel the cold seep into his bones nor the ache from a night spent in a room where the heating was barely working. He found himself contently warm, boarding on comfortable enough to sleep again.

He moved slightly and felt arms wrap around him, pulling him back against the bare chest of Simon. (Y/N) smiled and turned around in his arms, he watched the still sleeping Simon and carefully memorised him.

Simon had a little scar running from his left upper lip all the way to his nose, it was mostly faded but up close one could faintly make it out.

A tiny sliver of his eyebrow was missing as well, (Y/N) gently reached up and traced the scar. He felt eyes on him and looked down at Simon having woken up. “I am sorry if I woke you.” (Y/N) whispered.

Simon, who was definitely still almost entirely asleep, shrugged and buried his face in (Y/N)’s neck before falling back asleep again. Now, (Y/N) wasn’t sure what to do, one, he couldn’t go back to sleep and two, he was very confused at the interaction. This shouldn’t have happened, yet it did and (Y/N) didn’t feel negative about it. He simply couldn’t. He looked to the man who he called friend, who he had met just 4 days prior, and now they were sharing a bed, quite comfortably so. If (Y/N) wasn’t aware of how logical this was and how much it would protect himself and Simon, he would be starting to think they were going to fall in love.

(Y/N) internally scoffed at the idea of falling in love. Love wasn’t real, it was a bedside story told to children so they would grow up with hope, expecting to one day find it, only for love to abandon you when you least expect it, leaving you empty and feeling unclean, disgusting and pathetic, so no, ‘love’ wasn’t real.

Yet… Simon and hi- No. He couldn’t think that way, couldn’t ever assume anything of that calibre. It was beyond just inappropriate, especially for a man in (Y/N)’s position. He was going to be Simon’s boss, he couldn’t be with him, it wasn’t right, the power dynamic would be screwed in his favour. (Y/N) couldn’t do that to Simon, it wasn’t logical and it most certainly wasn’t love. No, because love wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real.

(Y/N) decided to just run his hands through Simon’s hair, shutting down all thoughts and focusing on the semi-long locks that had a slight wave to them, no-curl would ever hold in Simon’s hair but the slight beach wave of his hair as it parted for (Y/N)’s fingers made him calm down, the sensory input was more than enough.

Simon woke up after half an hour and hovered slightly above (Y/N) for a solid few seconds before getting off him and walking out of the room. (Y/N) sat up and looked at the door left open. (Y/N) didn’t know why he felt a sense of disappointment wash over him. He shook his head, getting rid of the thoughts until his mind wandered to König or rather Arthur.

A man who still occasionally sends an email, reminding him of his existence as though (Y/N) could ever forget that man. (Y/N) stood up and got dressed. The floor was cold, signalling the early fall and harsh winter to come. He sighed and got dressed in black tracksuit bottoms and a wool ruby red sweater.

He glanced in the mirror and sighed again. “I guess today is another day. Just 25 days left.” (Y/N) picked up his journal and headed out to the living room, Simon was in the kitchen, making coffee for them both. This was domestic, normal, too normal.

(Y/N) hadn’t been writing in his book since the first day they were here, he detailed about them getting drunk together, the morning after, sharing a bed and about all the things he found in his dad's storage. He smelled coffee and held his hand out, Simon placed a mug in his hand and sat down on the couch next to him.

(Y/N) sipped his coffee before placing it down. He felt Simon’s eyes on him and looked up, meeting those beautiful pools of amber. (Y/N) smiled softly, Simon’s eyes widened as he looked away, (Y/N) didn’t miss the small tint of pink decorating Simon’s cheeks but chopped it off to him just having a morning flush, after all, entertaining the idea of Simon, his bodyguard, liking him was far too inappropriate and wrong.

“We should go swimming, it’s just us here and the water won’t be warm enough in a few days. If you want to, of course.” (Y/N) said, returning to his sketchbook and subtly turning a page before drawing Simon without a mask on, making sure to get the little scar he saw earlier.

“Swimming? You are absolutely insane.” Simon said. “I will watch ya swim around like a duck but me, down there?” Simon looked at him. “I don’t even have swimming trunks.” He said.

(Y/N) shrugged. “Suit yourself, I will enjoy a nice day in the lake without you.” He said before standing. He glanced outside and it was still colder than a witch's tit, so he just placed his notebook down and drowned his coffee.

“You do that, Roach asked me to ask you what your favourite myth is, I don’t know why but he wants to know,” Simon said.

(Y/N) smiled at that, Simon spoke about Roach as though he was his younger brother. It was cute, in a way. “Roach is interested in mythology? Well, the story of Icarus.” (Y/N) said and looked out the window.

Simon sent the text off and immediately got an answer. “He is asking why.”

“Well, there is a certain beauty in pursuing something so hard and so passionately that even though you fail, even though you fall down into certain death, you smile and laugh because you got close enough for just a moment to enjoy what you have always dreamed of.” (Y/N) said, closing his eyes. “When I imagine Icarus falling, it isn’t horror-filled screams that come to mind, it’s laughter and joy mixed with pain, he flew so far up the wax melted and as he fell he looked up into the sun smiling at what was for just a moment and despite the wax burning him, despite falling to death, he isn’t afraid… So, that’s my favourite myth.” (Y/N) looked at Simon. “Either that or the story of Baldur's death.”

Simon cocked his head to the side. “Why his death?”

(Y/N) smirked, a glint in his eyes sent chills down Simon’s spine. He was frozen in place as memories of Price with a knife flashed before his eyes. Their eyes, even if they were different, had the same look of pure delight at the possibility of others' pain, it was a sick kind of pleasure. “Because everyone didn’t think mistletoe could hurt anyone, it was underestimated and overlooked. It just took the right hands and suddenly it was the right weapon to kill what couldn’t be killed.” (Y/N) said with something dark lying just beneath his voice, it threatened to spill over and overtake (Y/N), Simon could see it in his eyes, the darkness pooled and swirled just behind the iris, like a predator who was about to pounce.

Simon let go of a shaky breath. “You are just as terrifying as your father,” Simon said.

“Hm, usually I get my mother, how terrifying is my father?” He asked as he sat down, leaving almost no space between Simon and (Y/N).

Despite a whole other seat beside Simon, he felt trapped, still frozen in place as (Y/N)’s arms lay behind him. Simon was once again that kid who had lost too much cargo and to make a point out of him, John Price himself had cut that smile into his face, permanently marking him as a failure and disappointment. “More than you could ever realise.” His voice had been monotone yet shaking all over the place. The thought of that night and those subsequent weeks of healing had been hell, torture. Everyone knew what it meant, what it stood for. Simon was worthless, no one, just a painful reminder of lost money, a waste of good air.

It was why he had even become Ghost in the first place, so he was no longer worthless. His life only had value if he could protect the Price family, his only family who cared.

Simon looked into (Y/N)’s eyes. “Your father is a man so feared and respected he doesn’t have anyone try to uproot him, not without being taken out and made a point off. If you lose cargo, no matter how young, people will know because he brands you with a smile that will never leave.”

(Y/N)’s eyes glided down to Simon's lips for a second before he looked into his eyes again. “I am not my father. I won’t carve your cheeks open or torture you to send a message. My mother made it very clear that such… barbaric natures were unbecoming. When I take over, once my father gives up control or dies, to make a point out of someone I will take a note out of our ancestor's book.” (Y/N) smiled.

Simon tilted his head a bit, in question but he didn’t say anything, it wasn’t his place too.

“I will put their head on a stick in front of their home, it will send a message to everyone, much clearer than anything else. Cross me, hurt what is mine or who I care about and your head will be sat out for all to see.”

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I do currently take requests for call of duty, I don't really have rules besides be a decent person when you request,

[webbywatcheshorror]

Thirteen Ghosts (2001)

Thir13en (or Thirteen/13) Ghosts is a story about a family that inherits a bizarre and beautiful house from a late relative that contains many secrets- and a basement full of murderous ghosts.

This is one of my personal favorites and has been since I was a kid. It came out in 2001 so the earliest I could have seen it would be when I was around 12 or so, and that’s assuming I saw it the year it came out, which I literally have no way of knowing. I’m going to operate under the assumption I saw it at 13 because it’s likely, and it’s thematically hilarious to me.

Also it definitely is one of about three ghost related movies that really solidified ghosts as being my ‘thing’.

Enough about that, let’s talk about the movie! Review under the cut, and as always, SPOILERS ahead!

I literally cannot overstate how much I love this movie. It’s one of the first real horror movies I ever saw as a child, and it’s definitely one of the ones that altered my brain chemistry to a degree that could never be undone. SO much of what I love in a horror movie comes from this one. 

Weird house? Check. Loads of ghosts? Check, obviously. Pathetic but attractive guy covered in blood? Check. Jokes that make me cackle but don’t interrupt the flow of the movie? Check. Body horror that makes my skin crawl? Check, check, check. A twist that’s set up previously in the movie if you’re REALLY sharp eyed? Check. Environmental storytelling, a weird morbid kid, two worlds in one space, and a WHOLE LOT of lore. It’s got it all!

The cold open is so good. It establishes the level of violence the dead are capable of (The Breaker having more than tripled his kill count after his death, for example), and gives us some major players and their clashing personalities. It also kind of reminds me of the opening scene in Jurassic park where they’re moving a raptor into the enclosure and it all goes to hell in a similar way.

Every new thing that gets mentioned just draws me further in, and I, a known sucker for lore, want to know everything. If I lived in that world, Cyrus would have had me hook, line, and SINKER, as long as he promised me ghost knowledge lmao. I’d be dead as hell so fast.

The inciting tragedy for the main characters plays over the opening credits and this, too, is something I adore. The environment changes along with the audio- a cheerful house with a loving family fades into a crummy, box-filled apartment while the anguished cries of Arthur and his children mourn the loss of their mother Jean as the camera pans to the left. We don’t have to see it to know what happened, or how much pain its caused.

One thing I love, love, love about this movie is how much story is told through the environment and small details alone, rather than just explained by the characters. Arthur doesn’t say he’s struggling to keep his shit together, but his instant mood swing at a small inconvenience sure does. The past due bills pinned to the corkboard in the background do, too. The set designers did an amazing job- I could probably find hidden important details in every scene if I had the time to comb through them.

Some other things I want to mention in this first part of the movie- the pictures of the house that the lawyer shows the family are all taken in a way that obscures the fact that every wall is glass; when we’re shown Kalina’s place, there’s a newspaper clipping about Cyrus’s death that names Ben Moss, the lawyer, as the spokesperson of Cyrus’s company, hinting at him having more of an involvement than simply the lawyer; and how nobody in the family really tries to deter Bobby from his obsession with death even if it makes them a little uncomfortable. 

The glass house is so iconic. It’s so fucking weird and impractical and sinister and beautiful all at once. And that’s BEFORE it goes full Rube Goldberg. There is nothing at all about this house that gives the vibe that you should move in here and raise your children. Hell there’s nothing at all that gives the vibe that it’s even a house. It’d be a museum, if anything, especially with how much stuff Cyrus has crammed in there.

Except the library. Almost all the books are on the floor in there. Cyrus I’m going to throttle you, you could have had the coolest occult library but instead you just stacked that shit on the ground. I’m so disappointed in you. It’s such a weird choice, given how much else he clearly planned out: every room has the ghost glasses in it somewhere, and there are multiple rooms that might tempt each new resident (living or dead perhaps). He wanted them to see their oncoming doom, wanted them to feel terror and heartbreak and despair. He planned for so many possibilities it’s actually pretty impressive- he knew the lawyer would kick off the process by going right for the money, for example, and it’s clear that he wasn’t told just how fast shit would pop off, since he just sort of saunters back down the corridor instead of getting the hell out as fast as possible. Nobody else was meant to leave that house alive, except Cyrus.

Cyrus himself is so easily hateable right from the get-go. He’s an asshole, he’s pushy and considers everyone else beneath him, and every new sentence out of his mouth makes me hate him more. There’s no attempt made to get the audience to sympathize with him, with the possible exception of the video they play as part of his will and testament, not that it works very well. What a great villain, and a fascinating character as well. I hate him so much. I’m delighted I got to see him die twice. (Ok so the first one was a fake out but it was still satisfying.)

And then there’s Dennis. Just as I hated Cyrus immediately, so did I love Dennis immediately. He’s a tormented little weirdo with psychic abilities, hunting ghosts and hating every minute of it just so he can have some kind of human interaction that doesn’t center on him being the target of whatever cruelty’s going on. He’s kind of an asshole, but he’s still compassionate (to the living at least), and funny to boot. Also, he’s played by Matthew Lillard, so of course I was going to love him. (However, at this point in my life, the only other thing I’d seen with him in it was Scooby-Doo, so the whiplash was real lmao.)

Honestly the man is prime blorbo real estate, as the kids might say. I’m surprised at how few fics there are on Ao3 for this movie/man.

My god, the lore in this movie is incredible. Each and every ghost has a name and a story, despite never getting addressed in the movie itself, and they all look phenomenally unique. They all have clearly distinct personalities, too, despite all (well almost all) of them being murderous freaks. I’d love to watch a miniseries or something about each spirit, I’d eat that up.

I loved the twist reveals, both Kalina’s and Cyrus’s. I really would like to know how he got her to fall for him, and whether she’d always been on his side or if she’d started out genuinely opposing him. One thing’s obvious though, and it’s that she is terrified of the man. Her personality does almost a complete 180 in his presence, she’s overexplaining, she’s desperate for his approval. It’s funny that, just a few minutes earlier, she’d taunted Dennis about how Cyrus was just using him and didn’t actually care about him, yet apparently never suspected the same about herself.

One more thing I’d like to mention is that I love how the family, and only the family, survives. Cyrus gets what he deserves, Kalina is betrayed, and Dennis sacrifices himself, but the entire family makes it out alive- including Maggie, the nanny. Where other movies might not have considered her family enough, and killed her off, this one says no, she’s part of the family. She gets to live. Which is great, since she was so right about pretty much everything, as well as probably the funniest character. (I will never not laugh at ‘did the lawyer split?’)

I do want to know what happens to all the ghosts, as after the destruction of the house they can all be seen presumably going off to commit murder elsewhere. And of course I also want to know where Ghost-Dennis went off to. Did he cross over? Did he decide to tag along with the family? Did he go off on his own? Whatever he chose, he finally looked somewhat at peace for the first time in the entire movie.

Maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s because of how it shaped my interest in ghosts and horror, maybe it’s because I can’t resist a good pun, but I give this one 13 outta ten ghosts. I’ve seen this movie probably about 167 times and still haven’t gotten tired of it and I hope I never will.

[messandahalf10]

Finally FINALLY writing again!! And when I tell you it feels damn good… 🧡 so here’s a smell excerpt from my next work (Merthur — canon, different first meeting)

It took a while to find her, long enough for some of his frustration to cool. Still, as soon as he was sure they were alone in a secluded hallway he had never seen anyone else ever use, he launched into his rant. He waved his arms to accentuate his point, being sure to precisely point out every flaw that the golden prince of Camelot had. It wasn’t until he saw Gwen’s aghast face that he knew something was wrong.

He tensed up, ready for the worst, and turned around. And oh it was so much worse than he had been prepared for. Prince Arthur himself was standing behind him, one eyebrow raised as he stared at Merlin, clearly unimpressed. He didn’t look enraged, or a second away from throwing Merlin in the dungeons, or worse, just simply running him through on the spot. But the lack of such extreme emotion almost made Merlin more terrified. He could do nothing but stare back, mouth open slightly, awaiting judgement.

Except it never came. Prince Arthur merely nodded silently then brushed past them. Merlin had shared a stricken look with Gwen.

“I’m dead.” He had moaned pathetically. Though Gwen had tried to tell him otherwise, she had never quite sounded convinced of her own words.

[kaiwrites-if]

How would the lovely cast + Gaius react to Merlin declaring themselves the embodiment of grace, only to trip over a tree root and fall flat on their face after saying that boast?

This sounds like such a canon!Merlin thing to do. I love it!

It depends with Arthur, if you weren’t doing anything important, he would almost instantly double over in laughter, like can-barely-catch-his-breath-tears-in-his-eyes laughter and then he’d probably fall over himself because he shifted his weight wrong and his armour unbalanced him. If you were doing something important, he would probably be picking Merlin up off the floor and shooting you a look that said ‘I’ll deal with you later’.

Morgana would honestly expect nothing different from Merlin at this point. She would simply watch you as you laid on the forest floor. You got yourself into this mess by making such bold claims about your…grace.

“You’re a curious specimen, my darling.”

And then she’d show you true grace by practically floating across the forest floor.

Lance would almost break something in his haste to grab you before you face-planted. He would give you an exasperated look and sigh at you. It would be a weary and rather pathetic sound (which would amuse Morgana greatly), and would no doubt make you (and Arthur) wince because it definitely signals that you’re in for a lecture later.

Poor Gwen. She would probably have a heart attack watching you fall on your face. But hey, it’s not all bad Merlin. Sure you might have embarrassed yourself in front of everyone, but now you have the lovely Guinevere to fret over you. She would clean any cuts or scapes that you have, and if you’re really lucky, she might press gentle kisses to them/near them.

Gaius is judging you hard. Does this child truly carry his genes? Perhaps you were swapped with a changeling at birth? He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this…wait he’s not getting paid at all.

“Ah my age appears to be getting to me. I don’t think I quite heard you right…the embodiment of grace was it, my child?”

[senditothemoonn]

I know you love scotfra a lot, but your fruk/ukfr looks so good😭 I hope we get to see more of it in the future mby?👀 also imagine both of them having a crush on francis at the same time...Imagine the drama that comes with it😩

I think there will probably be more fruk (it might be a bit sparse because, like you say, I do love scotfra ajhsjshjs) like I love myself a big, burly Scotsman but also sometimes you’re in the mood for some little, twinkish Colin Firth ass men, you know?

Oh the drama…but more importantly the angst 😩 I do think fruk is a good ship for making Alasdair sad, like he’s too shy/stubborn to ever ask Francis out so he just sits on the sidelines and watches pathetically as Francis and Arthur date (maybe they’re in love or maybe Francis is evil and he’s just using Arthur to make Alasdair jealous - very sexy set of circumstances in my opinion as it leads to more angst ajhsjshjs)

My favourite fruk dynamic however is like “we used to date but now we’re frenemies (read: would die for each other)”

I did read a fic once where Francis was dating Alasdair, and Arthur was just the little brother with a puppy dog crush on Francis and Francis was kinda like aww ur cute 🥰 Alasdair and Francis fought a lot though and I think Arthur ended up sneakily breaking them up somehow by causing a really bad argument and them sneaking in to comfort Francis. I can’t remember how it ended 🤔 but I think Francis might have gone back to Alasdair and Arthur was sad lol i think that’s a cool au to play with tho. I suppose it depends on how old you see them, personally I like to think of Arthur and Francis around the same age and Alasdair is a few years older (maybe like 4 or 5)

But both of them having a crush on Francis at the same time…clearly I’d make Francis choose Alasdair XD but I mean if Alasdair didn’t exist…or like omg if Alasdair died…and Francis started dating Arthur and they both kinda knew he was just a replacement but like Arthur’s been in love with Francis since forever…lol idk where that angst came from ajhsjshjs

Anyway I do like fruk and will probably draw more but scotfra is my favourite simply because Alasdair is sexy and I love bears…altho can u even count my Alasdair as a bear…is he meaty enough? Maybe I need to make him cuddlier, more Jack black esque u kno…okay I’m getting off topic and this was probably very incoherent so I should go to sleep ajhsjshjs

[batri-jopa]

10 Characters and 10 Fandoms

Rules: name 10 of your favourite characters from 10 different fandoms, then tag 10 people to do the same.

Thank you @figuringthengsout for tagging me! Since it's not my first "favorite characters" tag game I'm going to play with it a little:

So there's that ONE character who's usually in the background, because he's way too smart to throw himself directly into the main plot. He already knows it all. Seen it all, lived it all, he suffered enough to have his skin thick as an armour. And he is terminally ill or already nearly died few times (or actually died multiple times if he's immortal) so he simply can't care anymore. He's too tired to laugh at the danger, he's more like: come on danger, I don't have whole day. He's wise and smart, he's rude and grumpy, all his advices are cynical and sarcastic, but you'd rather hear from him that you're a pathetic shithead than never meet him again. Apart from losing faith in humanity and despite his efforts to fuck it all already - deep inside he's still the most rightous and skilled person around. And if he have no other option but do things by himself as a main character - he makes the best of it just running on pure insolence and morbid humour, knowing right from the start there's no happy ending for him...

So here's just few examples of this guy:

Doktor Szlangbaum from The Doll / Lalka (book by Bolesław Prus first published in 1889, also 1978 TV series) - old grumpy jewish doctor full of life wisdom and sarcastic comments. When still young and stupid he once tried to kill himself out of love but been rescued and since then he used to say suicidal people should not be disturbed.

Gaius Petronius from Quo Vadis. He's too cool to act. But if he have to - he kicks ass. He kicks all the asses. With Neron the caesar being the biggest ass of them all.

Mendoza from The Mysterious Cities Of Gold (TV series, 1982-1983). They'd love to kill him in second episode already - if not for the fact it is XVI century and on the ocean, and he is the Navigator, and they would literally die without him... So he's aware of it, he can play with his privileges and their expectations. Always being himself. You never know if he's good or evil, he's always working on his own terms and for his own good, he seems to change sides of the conflict quite fluently... In one episode one of his stupid sidekicks asks him who they are working for right now because he got really confused... That's the character trait, ladies and gents🤣

Hobson from Arthur (1981). What a vicious, grumpy, cynical old man! Terminally ill, of course. You got to love him, no other option.

Dirty Harry (nuff said). Saving the suicide jumper is my most favorite scene. Yes, it's wrong, yes, it's against all the rules, but OMG how authentical it was... And Man with No Name from Dollars Trilogy is actually the same guy so yeah, count him too.

Duńczyk from Vabank (1981) - "Z wiekiem spada zapotrzebowanie na zysk, a rośnie popyt na święty spokój" (With age, the demand for profit is falling and there's a growing demand for peace of mind)

Bob Cody from Interstate 60 - "Say what you mean, mean what you say". And he MEANS IT. For real... Terminally ill has no scruples

Rita Vrataski (Emily Blunt) from Live, Die, Repeat: Edge of Tomorrow. I am a little sorry that she's the only female on this list but how can I help that kind of woman characters are so rare? It's like every Ghibli Studio girl with her "fuck off I have the world to save" attitude but Rita is not a minor. And everytime Tom Cruise's character comes to her presence to lose his head and get hard (he's basicly a stupid dick with legs) she's like: "We're trying to avoid apocalypse here, can you focus?" And kills him. Again and again. She literally kills the handsome prick every damn time unless he comes back good enough to save the world with her. So yeah, she have that ultimate AroAce energy that I adore 🧡💛🤍🩵💙

So now for two characters of different trait - villains:

Shere Khan from Jungle Book (1967) - he's a villain but he's so awesome. Like: everybody around knows he's the most dangerous killer around so he simply doesn't need any show off or flexing muscles. Whenever he appears each and every animal already shits their pants (regardless of no pants) and he is sooo aware of that effect that he plays with it. Being just so casual and courteous. And when anyone still needs more persuasion he's like: oh, we're both gentlemen here and I surely don't need to remind you of my CLAWS for that would be improper... He's such a killer🤣

Frank Burns from M.A.S.H. TV series. He's a villain too. And he's sooo evil. But sooo stupid. He's a human louse. He's so pathetic it's almost cute. And whenever he does something really wrong you know he's going to be punished and humiliated - and it's such a relaxing ritual of restoring your faith in humanity...🥲

Okey, that'll be it. Tagging @notasapleasure and @morulezopelforever and... if you're reading this and would like to dust off your drafts and notes you can feel tagged too👍

[shootybangbang]

61 or 62 for talking bird please! my comfort fic 🥰

61. In Talking Bird, what's your favorite scene that you wrote?

A scene that has yet to be published, and is also extremely self-indulgent. It is, unfortunately, MY brand of self-indulgent, which means that nobody is happy except for me, the author. 😊😊😊

In terms of things that have actually been published though, probably the raider scene. There's just something about a guy committing extreme violence on your behalf that I find immensely satisfying.

62. In Talking Bird, is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included?  Why did it get cut?

There was one scene I took out simply bc I could not get it to sound right. Basically, right after Arthur tells Lee to get off her ass and start carving the firewood dry, you were supposed to see his rationale for making her do this-- there would have been a flashback sequence where he'd remember how shaken and inconsolable jenny had been the first and only time she'd had to shoot a man, then recall how it had been abigail who'd finally calmed the girl down by simply having her do laundry. The repetition of menial labor distracted/calmed Jenny down enough for Abigail to comfort her, and it would have been with this in mind that he'd be like "ok if i give her something to do maybe she'll stop being extremely pathetic bc this is actually making me kind of uncomfortable".

[ofglories]

   “gods, it’s bloody freezing out here.”

   muttering under his breath, medraut scoped out the view only to find the piercing white of the snow in every direction. as a mercenary called to all types of locations, if mainly focused to the far east simply due to convenience, he’d be prepared for this. still, he’d bitch and moan because he could, huffing to create white puffs in the air. not that he could very well see that due to the snowstorm that had suddenly appeared. the group had finally made a decision to move forward in progressing in whatever scheme they had, and medraut had instantly joined in to witness the chaotic energy that melian had described in real time while on the field.

   instead, the weather wanted to freeze said progress, instantly pausing them on the plot of land that they were in, hiding out in one of the caves nearby, as well as freezing all their arses. hence medraut’s current hunt: for any wood and kindling that may possibly be used for warmth as they waited out this weather.

   “what i don’t understand,” medraut started, tearing at the dead branches of the pathetic tree they managed to find, the rest of the tree giving away during that administration and frankly, sure, why not, take the whole damn tree or at least most of it, “is how between five men, none of you were prepared for a snowstorm. when you have been based in ishgard for how long?” it’s amazing that they’ve managed to last this long, medraut noted, cracking branches and twigs into something manageable to take back, forcing bedivere to take them all into his arms. it’d absolutely suck with how wet they were— until an idea hit him. “now prove that you’re good enough to dry them out with your magic when we get back, bedivere, then you can be somewhat useful.”

"That it is."

The diplomatic answer was the best choice, Bedivere knew. His smile was private, hidden beneath the scarf Arthur had frantically wrapped around him before he'd left the impromptu camp. A neutral response to show that he was listening instead of the urge to tease with a light comment that in fact it was below freezing. After all, there was no telling how far he and Medraut would need to go for proper firewood and Bedivere doubted it would be helpful for the Miqo'te to burn all his energy with anger. So the Elezen marched ahead, keeping an eye out for any trees that weren't encased in ice.

The only good thing about this sudden storm was how it forced even the most ornery predators into hiding for survival.

And it truly was a sudden storm. Nothing in the skies had hinted towards the change from mostly clear skies. Coerthas may not have proper summers anymore but usually the weather could be somewhat predictable in what had once been the hottest time of year. Thank the Twelve they had been close to some caves that weren't unstable cracks in the endless ice that encased the highlands now. If there was some mercy, they were close to their destination as well. Though personally Bedivere had doubts. Taliesin had looked...concerned at their progress as he, Bors, and Melian had poured over the maps.

Ah well.

They were the ones who could read the land, not him.

"Usually there's advanced warnings we would have seen back at Falcon's Nest," he responded, voiced raised just enough to be heard over the howl of the wind. And the cracks of dead wood as Medraut hacked at what looked to have been in the past a fine spruce. Such a shame. "And Bors judged we shouldn't dive into the firewood supplies we did bring too soon since there's no telling what we'll need when we find the ruins." Arguing with Bors never ended well for anyone, from Bedivere's past observations. The Viera was sharp-tongued and cold but he usually had a good handle on his intuition. And Taliesin had agreed, the strange bard's admission that he had not entered those ruins since long before they were even ruins left the red mage feeling unsettled.

Shaking his head, Bedivere smiled as he took a bundle of wood to haul back without complaint. "As you wish, Medraut." It likely wouldn't impress the man, but his heart couldn't help but hope. One day, maybe, he could let his feelings be known. And when that day came it would be the greatest relief.

[knight-serpentine]

❝ where you off to? a knightly quest? ❞

he stops still in his tracks with the abrupt halt of a kid caught pilfering candy in the wee hours of the day.

he did not expect arthur to be awake so early. in fact, he did not expect anyone to be awake and outside the confines of their bed chambers. it is the whole reason why he decided to depart without even bothering to get a few hours of his usual restless sleep, before even the moon abdicated its empyrian throne for the day.

he does not know if the king is trying to look after him or keeping an eye on him for potential calamity. he doesn't want to think which possibility makes him squirm more.

turning back on his heels, the metallic sound of his fully-fastened armor a small clamor in the silent hallway, mordred greets his king not as king but kin, ❝ uncle, i did not think you would be up so early. i wish it were a knightly quest. then, i'd gladly have waited until sunrise to inform you. ❞

there is no lie. if he were going questing, he'd make sure to at least get some sleep. and if he is being frank with himself his days of questing unless he has to feel centuries behind him, although he'd been excited about the prospect of going questing with some other knight of valor he admired a mere couple of years ago.

how does arthur still see him that he'd think he is both valiant and humble enough to depart in the middle of the night? if he did not know he was a frank man who spoke his mind, mordred would take the question as a barbed jest.

❝ urgent dispatch from agravaine. he is asking me to meet him in the clearing just outside of the gates of camelot . ❞

again, no lie here.

if he is omitting his agreement with his other brothers on when to send a message with no other information, believe it or not, it is coming from a place of wanting to spare arthur more grief. because how do you tell the man who is your uncle that you are departing in the middle of the night to hunt down your own brother, the son of his sister dear, to avenge her?

this time, their inability to communicate as a family, as brothers, as grievers, is not due to a defect they all inherently must possess. one simply cannot sit down and plan brother-killing to avenge mother-killing and address what is happening, what is this mess they all are feeling. to bring an uncle into this, an uncle whose word is decree, and force him to make a call: to avenge the sister or to sentence the nephew, is a cruelty mordred wants no hand in. not when he feels that pathetic tug of connection for all who reminds him of morgause.

[stuckwith-harry]

cried out to you alone

“It becomes a part of who you are”, Harry says, some sort of clarity coming to him. “Death, I mean. Grief. It doesn’t have to swallow you whole, but there is a little bit of it in every part of you.”

Impossible, is the only thing Harry can stand to think. That there is still sunlight in the world after everything.

Still, it pours out over the Burrow’s kitchen table in bright, luminous yellow, warming the veined wood. Harry and the Weasleys watch it creep over the tabletop, sitting elbow-to-elbow. Molly and Arthur are touching shoulders and brushing through hair as they pass around steaming mugs of tea, as they pour milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar, the bags under their eyes swollen and purple like figs.

When Harry tries to open his mouth, to offer help, Molly quickly shakes her head at him; pleading. Like she wouldn’t know what else to do with herself.

So Harry stays, cramped between George and Ginny, and lets her place her palm on his back as she places his tea in front of him. Through the open window, a sweet-smelling breeze comes pouring in, the smell of warm soil and flowers and summer rapidly approaching, which seems impossible, too.

Tomorrow morning, they’re going to get out of bed and make breakfast. They’re going to feed the chicken in the yard, do the dishes and read the newspaper. Still, the sun is going to come up.

For a moment, he catches Ron’s gaze; Ron, whose face is oddly contorted and whose eyes are glassy and bright red. Harry can’t bear the sight of it: he stares at the old mug in his hands, examining the faded red dots, hand-painted. Anything that soothes.

Poppies, he realises. On the inside, near a chip at the rim, he can make out the small letters spelling out Ottery St. Catchpole, and below that, half-drowning in sweet tea: Flea Market, 1988.

A memory, then. One he wasn’t a part of, but one he can envision, anyway, the bright red summer day, the bustling and shuffling of the little village, the shrieking of children, strawberry ice cream rapidly melting and dripping on bare knees; a younger, happier Ron –

The scraping of a chair yanks him back, as Ginny abruptly gets to her feet and walks out without a word. No one tries to stop her, and the small, pathetic sound of her bedroom door closing from atop the stairs sounds down to them as though she slammed it.

After that, only silence. No pots stir in the kitchen sink, no footsteps thunder from several floors above, and no chatter, no yelling, no laughter holds the walls of the house together. No explosions sound from the twins’ room.

Death is an awfully quiet affair.

One by one, as the stripes on the tabletop grow long and orange, the Weasleys crawl into their hiding places. Harry knows he’s intruding, so he wanders outside, following the soft clucking of the chicken pecking away at the dirt behind their wooden fence, the only things alive and making a sound.

The solitude is a relief: he has never wished to flee the walls of the Burrow so desperately, only stayed long enough to change out of the black funeral robes and into an old Quidditch jumper. Then he pushed Ron’s bedroom door open far enough to slip out and disappear, and mercifully, Ron didn’t try to stop him, either.

The jumper is Ron’s, technically. It feels like being held, Gryffindor red and worn and entirely too large for Harry. Somehow that only makes him feel worse.

The Weasleys did not hesitate to take him home with them after the battle, because that was their way. They put up the old camp bed in Ron’s violently orange bedroom like they always had, and Ron silently handed him a pile of hand-me-downs so Harry would have something to wear other than the clothes that still reeked of the tent, of sweat and of blood.

Harry props his elbows up on the weathered fence and buries his face in the soft sleeves, breathing deeply. For a while, he simply listens as the hens, who do not know or care about anything, cluck away happily, as the urge to slip under the invisibility cloak, to disappear and never make a sound again, keeps on rushing over him.

“Hi.”

His heart jumps painfully into his throat at the quiet greeting and the sound of footsteps on dry grass that preceded it, and when he turns around to face it, he’s looking at Ginny. She’s changed out of her black dress robes, too, back into worn-out denim dungarees and a striped t-shirt. Scarlet and yellow. Her hair has come out of the braid from earlier and falls wildly to her collarbones again, no longer to her belly button, like it used to.

“I couldn’t stand the silence anymore”, she says, voice oddly throaty.

Harry wants to say, you don’t have to explain, but before he can, she pushes out: “And then I was in my room and it was just as fucking quiet, and I just – I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

She looks older, Harry thinks wildly. He hasn’t let himself look at her, not really, doesn’t even know why, just that he’s been avoiding her most of all. Ever since May 2nd, the quiet between them has stretched and stretched over miles and oceans and continents of wasteland. Harry knows it’s his fault, that he should say something, but he has no words, no words at all.

The first morning after the battle, when he came stumbling into the common room and found her there, they just held each other, and he had no words then, either. There was sunlight there, too, he remembers suddenly, poking through the shattered windows and lighting up every particle of dust floating around the empty room.

“Can we go somewhere else?”, she asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Anywhere else?”

Harry nods, mouth dry. For a moment, her eyes seem to linger on him, but then she turns away without another word, and he follows her lead without question or objection. They don’t speak again until they reach the old broomshed, and Ginny suddenly turns to look at him again, face unreadable.

“Any chance you wanna go for a fly?”

“Wh-What?”

She shrugs. “Do you?”

It’s a strange time capsule, the shed. Ginny pushes the wooden door open and sends flurries of dust into the air, catching sunlight; Harry, who is standing behind her, catches a glimpse of Arthur’s old Muggle trinkets and the old brooms lined up against the wall. Ron and Ginny’s are closest to the door; the twins’ brooms are up on a shelf opposite the square window.

For a moment, Ginny is perfectly still, and Harry knows she is looking at them, too. Then she reaches for her broom and silently pushes past him. Harry grabs Ron’s and closes the door of the shed behind him, and together they wander away from the Burrow, over the hills that surround it, where wild poppies are peeking through the unkempt grass and weeds.

Harry thinks he knows where she’s going: their makeshift Quidditch pitch hidden between gnarly old trees from summers long lost, where they used to chuck apples and tennis balls at each other, during all those afternoons spent playing Quidditch two against two.

Tall, sweet-smelling yarrow brushes along their bare shins as they walk, and pink clover, the soft heads bending back to the earth under the weight of bumblebees passing by, thick dandelion leaves spread all across the ground amidst the weeds; and everywhere poppies, peeking through the tall grass, the paper-thin petals fluttering in the breeze.

Tucked behind another hill, Harry remembers, a few minutes on foot further north, is the lake where they whiled away happier summer afternoons than this. The image comes to his mind in bright, sunny colours, Ginny’s wide, toothy grin as she sneaks up on Ron, the thundering splash and Hermione’s piercing shriek, and Ron, emerging, spluttering and yelling, his sopping hair plastered to his face.

But that was centuries ago, and their full-bellied laughter seems miles and countries away already. Here, only silence. Harry wants to ask, are you okay?, or say, it’s going to be alright, but what good would it do?

The poppies are early: they’re not supposed to bloom for another month. There’s no end to them, no matter how far they walk, a sea of red stretching out all over the soft hills. Harry can’t tear his eyes away until the first beech trees they used to climb, black pines and yews throw cool shadows over their heads.

Strange, that it looks the same. The leaves up above their heads rustle softly as they mount their brooms, and Ginny shoots into the air, a quiet cannon. For the better part of an hour, they zoom in circles through the rapidly cooling air, chucking an old Quaffle back and forth at each other. Ginny’s throws are hard and unrelenting: they’re not keeping score, but she’s playing like it’s the last game of the season, like the House Cup depends on it, so Harry lets her exhaust herself. By the time they sink back to the ground, the sky over the meadow is dotted in shades of pink and red.

Ginny hits the ground with such force her knees buckle under the impact and hit the dry grass. Harry gasps, but she is already getting up again, brushing off the dirt without comment.

They find a spot at the outer edge of the pitch and slump into the tall grass with their backs leaning against an oak tree, where they can see the sunset falling on the soft hills and the Burrow in the distance, bright red like poppies. Ginny’s hands are uselessly holding her ribs, her warm eyes staring off into nothing.

“Feel any better?”, Harry asks after a while.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She shifts next to him, tucking her scraped knees to her chest. They look like she’s spent all summer climbing trees and rolling down the grassy hills around the Burrow and crashing her broomstick into her brothers in a spectacular grab for the Quaffle.

“At least I feel a little less like I was buried with him”, she mutters.

I’m sorry, Harry wants to say, but that seems useless, too.

“I wanted to leave, too”, he says finally. “It was so quiet in there.”

“I hate it”, Ginny says softly. “It doesn’t feel anything like home when it’s like this.”

“I’m sorry”, he says despite himself, for what feels like the thousandth time since everything. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Ginny's brows furrow slightly, as if to say, yes, you should. “If you weren’t, I’d still be shut up in my room right now. Going mad, probably.”

After a short pause, she adds: “I wouldn’t know who to talk to.”

It strikes Harry like lightning: she was looking for him.

She looks over at him as though searching for something. Her brown eyes glow golden in the warm light, like honey, her whole face painted in reds and oranges and pinks.

“How do you do it?”, she asks finally, voice quiet, but steady, as the soft breeze continues to rush through the trees. “How do you lose everyone you’ve lost – and go on living? How do you live with the dead?”

Harry looks at her, the way she sits cross-legged and hunched over in the grass next to him, arms hugged to herself, and it sinks in, what she’s searching for, what she’s asking of him.

“It’s not the same”, he says softly.

She scoffs quietly. “How is that not the same?”

Harry looks around their hiding place. Maybe it’s the creaking of old branches around them, almost a murmur, the smell of the trees, that brings them back: his parents in the Forbidden Forest, walking towards him, Sirius’ bright grin, Dumbledore at King’s Cross Station.

The thought of them cuts through him, every beat of his heart sharp and stinging as they remain dead and he does not.

“Your speech”, he says finally, and watches her jaw clench. “I couldn’t have said anything like that about my parents – or Sirius …”

“I can’t believe I wrote him a fucking eulogy”, Ginny mutters, staring at the weeds to her feet, the patches of moss creeping across the earth under the wild, entangled grass. “It makes it feel so fucking final.”

“You did really well”, Harry says. “It was beautiful.”

She merely shrugs, and he doesn’t blame her.

“I’m glad I got to say something, I think”, she says after another stretch of silence. “But, Merlin, he was walking and talking and making jokes just a week ago, and now he’s six feet underground and I’ve written a double-sided page on how sorely he’ll be missed.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve.

“Up until today, I really thought he might jump up and laugh it off and make fun of us for falling for it.”

You made it feel like that today, he wants to say, but doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Ginny.”

She read it out with a completely steady voice, both fists clutching the slip of paper in her hand. She did not bother to find a silver lining this time, or to look for meaning at all; but every word seemed to bring Fred back to life a little, even earning a few teary chuckles from the other Weasleys. Every anecdote and every prank she recounted was a testament to the fact that Fred Weasley had been alive, that he had mattered, that he had left an impact on her, on all of them.

“You know my Mum had brothers”, Ginny says suddenly, looking over at Harry’s hands. “Fabian and Gideon Prewett.”

She points, and Harry realises what she’s really looking at: Fabian Prewett’s battered old watch on his arm.

“They died in the first war. Bill, Charlie and Percy say they remember them a little, but the rest of us just grew up hearing stories.”

She picks at the shallow wound on her knee, where droplets of bright red blood have pushed to the surface through the cracks in her freckled skin. “It’s why Fred and George are named after them. A little bit, anyway – you know, Fred and George … Fabian and Gideon … Mum was pregnant when they died.”

Harry swallows. “I didn’t know.”

Ginny smiles sadly. “I liked the idea that they got to live on in the twins a little. I never thought to ask Fred and George how they felt about it, actually. I can’t imagine … how Mum feels.”

Harry watches her wrap her arms around her legs, watches the strawberry blond hairs on her shins stand on end as the air cools around them. She looks tired, but her eyes are dry.

“I never made that connection”, he says softly.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you”, she says. “It seemed important.”

Even over the rustling of the trees, the chirping and creaking all around them, he can hear her clearly, her voice steady, unwavering.

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes.”

She looks around at him. “Do you not miss your parents?”

“I don’t know how”, Harry mutters. “Your speech … it was full of memories.”

She doesn’t respond, understanding silently. Then: “What about Sirius?”

Harry shrugs. “He never really got to be my godfather, did he? Not the way he was supposed to, anyway … there wasn’t time. And I don’t remember when my parents were alive – I’ve never known anything else.”

He looks at her, the way she’s quietly watching. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you were hoping to hear.”

Ginny dismisses it with a half-hearted gesture, lost in thoughts somewhere else.

“Do you think grieving someone is the same thing as missing them, then?”

“No … do you?”

She seems to consider it for a moment, then shakes her head.

“I just – I just want to talk to him and tell him what’s going on, and I think about how long it’s been since I’ve talked to him and how much I wish he were here and how I’m not gonna get to talk to him –”

She pauses mid-sentence, as though looking for words, and doesn’t find any.

“And then I think about the fact that he’s dead. That his life is over. And that I helped bury him today. And they’re both – awful, but it’s different, I guess.”

Harry nods, more to himself than to Ginny this time.

“And now, I just – I need to know what to do. So it doesn’t swallow me whole.”

Harry is still watching them walk towards him before his inner eye, his parents in the Forbidden Forest, his mother’s hungry face.

“I forget, sometimes”, he says. “For a moment, I think I forget they’re gone. Or I’m – I don’t know, distracted, and I’m not thinking about it – it slips away, and then it hits me again.”

Ginny’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “I … honestly can’t fathom it right now.”

Harry looks over at her, the way she sits next to him, curled into herself, her hands still uselessly holding her ribs. Like it is physically hurting her.

“I dunno. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. But when it happens, it always feels like it’s happening to someone else, like I am someone else.”

Ginny watches him intently as he stumbles to the end of his sentence: it feels pathetic already, having said it out loud like that.

“Like you are who you would’ve been if they hadn’t died?”, she asks, in that quietly remarkable way of hers, where she doesn’t treat him like something delicate, but she doesn’t ask for more than he can give, either.

“Yeah, I reckon. But I don’t recognise him at all.”

Ginny hums in understanding. She leans back against the bark of the tree and pulls her knees to herself again. “You would’ve been happier, anyway.”

Harry turns away at that, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.

“I know it doesn’t make sense or anything –”

“No, it does, Harry.”

“I mean, I know they couldn’t have lived. Everything would have to be different. We probably wouldn’t be here.”

Ginny sits in silence for a while.

“Do you ever wonder?”, she asks finally. “What you would’ve been like?”

“I guess … more like them. In ways I can recognise, anyway.”

He gestures helplessly at nothing, and Ginny takes that as a sign to push no further.

“I don’t recognise Ginny a week ago, either”, he hears her say, and the muffled sound of her voice tells him she’s wiping her nose on her sleeve again. “Every time something terrible happened, I guess I didn’t. It’s like remembering an old friend. One whose address you lost or something.”

“It becomes a part of who you are”, Harry says, some sort of clarity coming to him. “Death, I mean. Grief. It doesn’t have to swallow you whole, but there is a little bit of it in every part of you.”

“Cheery”, Ginny says in a hollow voice.

“It gets less all-consuming”, he says softly.

“Good”, she mutters. “Right now it’s pretty fucking all-consuming. It’s there when I wake up in the morning, and it’s – in my tea, and on all my clothes, and it’s in everyone I talk to and everything I say.”

Harry stares at the sky overhead, the red rapidly paling. Still, there is that whispering in the treetops, the feeling of being transported back into the Forbidden Forest. Still, his parents, reaching out for him.

“I’m sorry”, he says truthfully. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Ginny shakes her head. “It’s all I needed.”

He watches her tug at a poppy near her feet, struck by how long he’s managed to stay away from her, when her company is so comforting. The resolution comes to him all on its own, that he’s going to tell her everything. The Forbidden Forest. King’s Cross Station.

“Do you want to head back yet?”

Ginny looks at him, and she seems calmer somehow. For the first time since they got here, she doesn’t seem to be searching for anything – just looking.

“In a little while”, she says.

Harry looks back at her, really looks at her, and for a long time, neither of them speak, having arrived at some quiet understanding. Still, there’s a murmur in the trees around them, but they pay it no mind, and they don’t turn to look.