#this pattern continues and arthur is Frustrated

[justaz]

post magic reveal merlin who is so used to working in the shadows and continuing on as if he wasn’t dying the night before disappearing for a day and showing up like nothing happened until someone points out blood seeping through his clothes and merlin going “oh! whoops! lol” and arthur has a heart attack

[fllnrdr]

So… I have a lot to say about this post I saw on my feed today. I took screenshots and blocked out the username for the sake of the OP. I didn’t want this to be a callout post for one specific user, and do not wish them any hate or harm. I DO have a whole heap to say about this and the treatment Charles gets from the rdr fandom as a whole, not only the OP in the screenshot.

I have a lot of problems with this post, and I have been wanting to talk about this issue and pattern I’ve noticed in the rdr community. Again, I do not mean to send any hate in OP’s direction or suggest that OP is racist in any sense. With that being said…

It’s an inherently racial stereotype to assume that Charles, a black and native man, is illiterate with such a lack of evidence or real reasoning behind it. He was isolated for most of his life after the age of thirteen, and he’s been with a gang for only six months. He is very private, and he is shy. He doesn’t talk much at all, much less about reading. I have never seen this sort of assumption made about any other character, claiming they’re illiterate, because they’re never seen reading at camp.

This is the most ridiculous take I have ever seen. Charles is the one who buried Arthur with his own two hands and created his gravestone. He was the only person who knew where Arthur was buried, hence being the sole creator of Arthur’s final resting place. Charles’ handwriting is the one we see on the gravestone. Charles is the one who wrote the inscription on the cross. He is not illiterate.

I think a problem I have with a lot of Charles fans is that they see him as a blank slate. They see Charles, a physically attractive man, who is quiet and take him for that alone. He is often seen as a blank canvas to project their own ideas onto and sort of mold to their own use and convince. And often times, whether knowingly or not, Charles is consistently watered down to racial stereotypes. Race is obviously a part of who he is, and it affects a lot of his actions, as it does with everyone, but that is not all who he is.

Charles is clinging to the fringes of what little of his culture that he does have. His mother was taken from him as a boy, and he holds onto what little he does have and that absence of his mother, and both of his cultures (because people also tend to ignore the fact that he is also black) is a huge part of who he is. But a lot of folks would rather see his shyness as blankness. He is not levelheaded, but he is moral. He is not always morally correct though. It’s frustrating to constantly see who he is being ignored for the sake of the false persona that’s been created for him.

I think a lot of folks need to listen to the one dialogue of Charles opening up at the campfire. Yes it is a relatable speech for a lot of reasons, but it is also about his race, how he experiences the world, and how he feels as though he has no place because of the loss of his mother, the lack of knowing who he is, his culture, and a whole host of other things. He is one of the best written characters in the game, and to brush that aside to make him into this ‘softhearted super caring ideal s/o’ is so frustrating. This is the same man who was ready to kill Uncle if the need arose. He is moral, but they are morals of his own, and he is not always correct. He is also flawed, just like everyone else. He is not a saint. He is a flawed and conflicted man.

To disregard Charles for who he is, is such a great disservice to the character and to all the work put into him, his story, and other people who have and continue to share the same experiences as he does.

[wonderlanddreamer]

Queen Of Kings - Chapter Two.

Ao3

Chapter 2: Nellie opens up to the Shelby family, finding solace and support from old friends. However, one of the Shelby's seems to harbour secrets.

Subsequently, a mysterious visitor arrives, leaving Nellie rattled and filled with even more questions than before. The encounter shakes her to the core, hinting at a deeper, more tangled web of intrigue and danger that lies ahead.

Masterlist here.

The air in the dimly lit room was heavy with the lingering scent of tobacco, spiralling smoke dancing lazily towards the ceiling. Each breath seemed to carry the weight of countless unspoken words. The soft clinking of china against china echoed gently as Polly, with a steady hand and delicate precision, poured tea from a well-loved teapot into fragile, floral-patterned cups.

Nellie sat stiffly on the well-worn sofa, her back ramrod straight. Her face was a mask of stoic resolve, but her eyes betrayed a tempest of emotions she fought desperately to contain. Beside her, Ada nestled close, her presence a silent yet unyielding pillar of support. She placed a gentle hand on Nellie’s knee, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. John, a casual observer, perched on the armrest of the sofa. His hand rested lightly on the back of the couch, his touch a continuous, subtle reassurance for his childhood friend.

Across from them, Arthur occupied the large, well-worn armchair. His broad frame seemed to sink deeply into the cushions as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, his eyes never leaving Nellie. There was a restless energy to him, a barely contained storm of concern and frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the armrest.

Tommy stood apart, by the old mantelpiece, a cigarette perched between his lips. The smoke curled around him like a shroud, adding to his enigmatic presence. His eyes were sharp, calculating, constantly assessing the room and the people within it. Yet, beneath that steely exterior, there was a flicker of something softer, a vulnerability buried deep beneath layers of control and authority. His gaze occasionally softened as it landed on Nellie.

Nellie inhaled deeply, the breath shaky as it filled her lungs, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they closed around the warm, delicate porcelain cup that Polly had placed in front of her. The heat of the tea seeped through the cup, a small comfort in the otherwise frigid atmosphere. She glanced down at the dark liquid, her reflection rippling slightly with each quiver of her hands.

"It would have been late," she began, her voice steady but thick with the raw edges of grief, every word weighted with the pain she carried. She paused, gathering her thoughts, each memory a jagged shard cutting into her as she spoke. "He was closing up business, just like any other night."

Her eyes glazed over slightly as she was drawn back into a memory, the room around her fading away. "They ambushed him," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, the horror of the moment seeping into her words. "It wasn't just a robbery. It was... something worse. They didn't want money. They wanted him to suffer. Thirteen times they stabbed him. Thirteen."

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to continue. The room was silent, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. "They left him there," she said, her voice cracking. "Bleeding out. Alone." Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back, her grip tightening on the cup as if it were a lifeline.

Nellie’s gaze remained fixed on the steaming tea, her mind replaying what must have been a horrific scene over and over. "He was a good man," she added, her voice barely audible, more to herself than anyone else. "He didn't deserve to die like that."

The room seemed to tighten like a noose around Nellie, the atmosphere growing denser with each passing second. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a force pressing down on everyone present. The Shelbys, although already familiar with the brutal details of the story, sat in solemn silence. Their faces were masks of carefully composed expressions, each one a portrait of controlled emotion and solidarity. The flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows on the walls.

John, perched on the armrest of the sofa next to Nellie, felt a surge of empathy and protective instinct. His hand moved almost reflexively, brushing gently against Nellie’s back in a small, but meaningful gesture of reassurance. The simple touch was a lifeline, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in her suffering. John and Nellie’s bond went back to their school days, a time when they had shared laughter, secrets, and the innocent troubles of youth. Their camaraderie had always been easy and natural, built on a foundation of mutual understanding and respect.

In the corner of the room, Polly’s sharp eyes softened as she observed the scene. She knew that Nellie’s pain was raw and deep, a wound that words could scarcely begin to heal. Ada, sitting quietly beside Nellie, shifted closer, her presence a silent but steadfast support. She reached out, her fingers lightly covering Nellie’s hand, adding another layer of comfort.

Polly moved with a grace that belied her strength, her footsteps almost silent on the worn wooden floor. With a gentleness that seemed incongruous to the tension in the room, she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a finely embroidered handkerchief. The delicate fabric bore the marks of meticulous craftsmanship, tiny flowers stitched with care in soft pastels.

As she approached Nellie, her presence was like a balm, soothing and maternal. Polly extended the handkerchief, her hand steady and reassuring. "I'm so sorry, love," she said, her voice a soft murmur that carried a world of empathy. The words were simple, but weighted with genuine sorrow and shared grief. Her gaze held Nellie's, a silent connection forming between them.

Polly's eyes, dark and expressive, conveyed more than her words ever could. They spoke of understanding, of having seen and endured too much, yet still finding the strength to offer comfort. "Your father was a good man," she added, her voice barely above a whisper, yet resonating with sincerity. She knew the man Nellie mourned; she had seen his kindness, his integrity, and his unwavering dedication to his family. Her words were not just empty platitudes but heartfelt truths.

Nellie accepted the handkerchief, her fingers brushing against Polly's in a brief, warm exchange. She clutched the delicate fabric as though it were a lifeline, pressing it to her lips to stifle a sob. The room seemed to quiet even further, the only sounds the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

Nellie nodded slowly, the motion almost imperceptible as she fought to maintain her composure. A single tear carved a path down her cheek, glistening in the dim light before it fell, absorbed by the finely embroidered handkerchief she clutched so desperately. Her grip on the delicate fabric tightened, her knuckles turning white as she held onto it.

"He was all I had left," she whispered, her voice barely audible, each word trembling with the weight of her sorrow. The room seemed to lean in, the silence deepening as if to better hear her heartache. "After Mum died, it was just the two of us. And now…" Her voice broke, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

Polly, her eyes soft with empathy, squeezed Nellie’s shoulder gently, her touch a silent assurance of support. The warmth of her hand contrasted with the cold, empty feeling that had settled in Nellie's chest.

John’s jaw clenched tightly, the tension manifesting as a muscle began to twitch visibly in his cheek. His usually easy going demeanour was replaced by a hard, resolute expression, his eyes darkening with a storm of barely contained emotions. He took a deep breath, the air hissing through his teeth as he fought to keep his simmering anger and sorrow in check. The pain etched on Nellie's face was almost too much to bear, and it fueled a fierce determination within him.

His hands, resting on his thighs, curled into fists, the knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He could feel the rough texture of his calloused palms digging into his skin, a physical outlet for the tumult of emotions roiling inside him.

"We’ll find out who did this, Nell," he said, his voice low and rough, each word imbued with a steely determination. The roughness of his voice mirrored the rawness of his emotions, a blend of anger, sorrow, and an unwavering commitment to set things right. "I promise you that." His eyes, usually warm with mischief and camaraderie, were now cold and hard, reflecting the fierce resolve that had taken hold of him.

John's words cut through the silence of the room, a declaration that seemed to resonate with everyone present. His gaze never wavered from Nellie's face, the intensity of his promise burning in his eyes. He wanted her to know, to truly understand, that he would stop at nothing to find those responsible and bring them to justice.

Nellie looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears, and she saw the unwavering determination in his expression. It was a small comfort in the midst of her overwhelming grief. She knew John well enough to understand that when he made a promise, he would move heaven and earth to keep it.

Tommy’s gaze flickered momentarily, a brief flash of something unreadable passing through his sharp blue eyes. It was a fleeting expression, one that only those who knew him well might have caught. In the next instant, his features settled back into their familiar mask of detached composure. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, taking a long, deliberate drag. The ember flared brightly, casting a warm glow on his face and highlighting the hard lines etched by years of harsh realities and relentless ambition.

As he exhaled, the smoke curled upwards, dissipating slowly into the dimly lit room. "You don’t have to worry about anything," Tommy said, his tone carefully measured and devoid of any unnecessary emotion. Each word was delivered with a precision that left no room for doubt. "If you need help of any kind, or anything else, just say the word."

The offer hung in the air. Tommy’s posture remained relaxed, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, but his eyes never left Nellie’s face. He watched her intently, gauging her reaction, the wheels of his mind already turning as he considered the steps he might need to take.

Nellie looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and confusion. The gratitude was easy to understand; in her darkest hour, the promise of support was a beacon of hope. The confusion, however, stemmed from the complex web of relationships and reputations that surrounded the Peaky Blinders. She had always been aware of their notorious reputation—a mix of fear and respect whispered in the streets of Small Heath—but to her, they were also family friends, familiar faces from a time when life was simpler and less fraught with sorrow.

"Thank you, Tommy," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper yet filled with earnest sincerity. Her gaze shifted briefly, taking in the faces of those gathered around her—Polly with her wise, knowing eyes; John with his fierce determination; Ada’s compassionate warmth; and Arthur’s barely contained fury. "Thank you all," she added, her voice growing a touch stronger as she addressed the room.

Polly nodded, her expression softening as she reached out to gently squeeze Nellie’s hand. "We’re here for you," she said simply.

The conversation gradually shifted, the Shelby family skillfully steering it towards more mundane topics in an effort to ease the weight of grief that hung over the room. Polly began to speak of simple, everyday matters—an upcoming market day, the latest gossip from the neighbourhood, the arrangements for the family’s next gathering. Her voice was soothing, a steady current that sought to carry Nellie away from the jagged rocks of her sorrow, if only for a moment.

Ada joined in, her tone light and encouraging as she recounted a humorous story about her youngest child’s recent misadventures. The tale elicited a faint smile from Nellie, a small but significant victory in the face of her overwhelming grief. Ada’s warmth and genuine affection acted as a balm to Nellie's frayed nerves, offering a brief respite from the relentless ache of loss.

Arthur spoke of practical matters. He offered to help with any repairs that might be needed around Nellie’s home, his voice gruff but filled with a sincerity that belied his rough exterior. He promised to send over some of the lads to ensure that everything was in order, that she would have no need to worry about the smaller details of daily life. His words were a promise of action, a tangible way to channel his own restless energy and fierce loyalty.

John, seated close by, added his own offers of assistance. He spoke of arranging deliveries of groceries and other essentials, ensuring that Nellie would want for nothing in the coming weeks. His voice, though still tinged with the earlier promise of justice, was softer now, filled with a brotherly concern that sought to provide comfort in practical ways.

Tommy remained a steady presence, his gaze occasionally drifting to the flickering flames of the fireplace as he listened. His contributions were fewer, but each one carried weight. He spoke of financial support, of ensuring that Nellie had access to whatever resources she might need. His tone was calm and measured, a stark contrast to the turmoil that simmered just beneath the surface. He assured her that the Peaky Blinders' network of influence would be at her disposal, should she need anything beyond the reach of ordinary means.

Despite the shift in conversation, an undercurrent of tension remained palpable, a silent reminder that not everything was being said. The Shelbys were masters of subtext, of the unspoken agreements and silent vows that bound them together, and in this moment, that skill was on full display. Each offer of support, each comforting word, carried with it an implicit promise: they would find those responsible for Nellie’s pain, and they would make them pay.

After a time, Nellie rose to leave, her movements slow. Her heart was heavy, yet it was also buoyed by the Shelbys' steadfast kindness and unwavering support. The room seemed to hold its breath as she gathered herself.

"I should go," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, each word tinged with exhaustion. "Thank you for this evening. I appreciate it more than I can say."

Polly was the first to move. She stepped forward, her eyes soft with empathy and understanding. She wrapped Nellie in a warm, enveloping embrace, her arms offering a sanctuary of comfort. "You're not alone, love," Polly whispered, her breath warm against Nellie's ear. "We'll get you through this."

Nellie nodded, her throat tight with emotion as she replied with a soft "Thank you". She turned towards the door, her steps slow and reluctant, as if leaving the warmth and security of the Shelby home was an almost insurmountable task. John was already waiting by the door, his posture tense and his eyes filled with a fierce determination.

He opened the door for her, the cold morning air rushing in and mingling with the warmth of the room. As she stepped over the threshold, he walked beside her, his presence a comforting shield against the encroaching darkness.

"I'm glad you're home, Nell," John said again, his voice low and resolute. His eyes, dark with conviction, bore into hers, leaving no room for doubt. "Don’t be a stranger."

Nellie paused at the doorstep, turning to face him fully. She searched his eyes, seeking the strength and assurance she so desperately needed. And she found it. "Thank you, John," she said. “I won't be, I promise.”

John gave her a nod and watched as she descended the steps.

As Nellie walked away, her figure gradually swallowed by the fog, John remained at the doorway, his eyes never leaving her retreating form. He felt the presence of his family behind him as the door finally closed with a soft click, sealing the warmth of the Shelby home against the cold outside air.

As the heavy oak door closed with a resonant thud, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The flickering light from the fireplace cast long shadows on the walls, dancing ominously as if reacting to the tension that suddenly thickened the air. Polly turned to Tommy, her eyes narrowing to sharp slits. "Alright, Tommy," she said, her voice slicing through the silence like a knife through butter. "What are you hiding?"

Arthur and John's gazes snapped to Tommy, their expressions hardening into masks of concern and expectation. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his response. But Tommy, ever the master of composure, merely took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brighter as he inhaled. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face like a spectral veil. "Nothing you need to worry about," he replied, his tone cold and measured. "Not yet, anyway."

Polly's eyes flashed with a mix of frustration and acceptance. She knew better than to push Tommy when he was in this mood. His silence was as much a shield as his words, and pressing him now would only force him deeper into his shell. She clenched her jaw, the muscles in her face tightening as she fought to maintain her composure. The revelation stirred a sense of concern that something big was on the horizon, something they weren't yet privy to. They trusted Tommy, knowing that when the time came, he would share what was necessary.

For now, though, he kept his silence, the weight of his knowledge a burden he would bear alone.

As the Shelbys dispersed, John’s steps echoed through the narrow, labyrinthine hallways of their home, each stride fueled by a growing determination. He followed Tommy with unwavering intent, his mind set on confronting his brother. Tommy led the way to the betting shop, a familiar sanctuary filled with the mingling scents of tobacco and ink.

Tommy settled behind his mahogany desk, the surface cluttered with ledgers, inkpots, and scattered papers. His fingers traced the edge of a ledger with ease, a subconscious motion born of years spent in this very spot. John closed the door behind him, the soft click resonating in the stillness like a gunshot. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes drilling into Tommy with a mixture of frustration and concern.

"You know something about George Ensor’s death," John said, his voice low but charged with intensity. "And you’re not telling us everything."

Tommy looked up, his gaze sharp and calculating, the weight of his responsibilities etched into the lines of his face. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing fiercely in the dim light. Exhaling slowly, he allowed the smoke to dissipate into the thick air. "There’s more to this than a simple murder, John. George’s distillery was on someone’s radar. Someone powerful."

John’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he absorbed Tommy’s words. "Who? Who are we dealing with?" His voice was a barely contained growl, each word tinged with the urgency of a man ready to go to war.

Tommy shook his head, a flicker of frustration crossing his features, momentarily breaking his composed facade. "I don’t have all the answers yet. But I will. We need to be careful, John. This isn’t just about revenge."

John took a step closer, his eyes blazing with determination and an undercurrent of desperation. "And what about Nellie? She deserves to know the truth."

Tommy’s gaze softened slightly, though his resolve remained firm, the weight of leadership pressing down on him. "She could be in danger, John. The people who killed her father... they might come after her next. We need to keep her safe, and the less she knows right now, the better."

John’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of Tommy’s words sinking in like lead. "We need to protect her," he said quietly, the fierce protectiveness in his voice unmistakable. "She’s family."

Tommy nodded, a rare moment of vulnerability flashing in his eyes, quickly replaced by steely determination. "And we will. But we need to be smart about this. No rash decisions or actions."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of their situation settling over them like a thick fog. The flicker of the lamp cast restless shadows, reflecting the tumultuous path ahead. John finally nodded, the unspoken bond between them reaffirmed in that moment. They would face this threat together, as they always had.

Meanwhile, Nellie found herself unable to return home, the thought of the empty house an unbearable weight on her chest. Instead, she made her way to the distillery, the family business that had been her father’s pride and joy. The mid-morning sun cast its bright light over the building, its once welcoming facade now marred by the violence that had transpired. The sign, proudly bearing the name "Small Heath Spirits," hung askew, a silent testament to what had been lost.

As she approached the entrance, her eyes were drawn to the door. It looked beaten, the sturdy wood now splintered and scarred, telltale signs of a brutal forced entry. Yet, despite its battered appearance, the door was still locked, a feeble barrier against the horrors that had invaded their sanctuary. With trembling hands, Nellie fumbled for the key, her fingers cold and unsteady despite the warmth of the sun. She finally managed to unlock it, the click of the tumblers echoing in the quiet morning.

Stepping inside, she was immediately hit by the thick, cloying scent of alcohol mingling with something more sinister—an undercurrent of fear and pain that seemed to permeate the very walls. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, wrapping around her like a shroud as she ventured further into the dimly lit interior.

The scene that greeted her was raw and chaotic, a stark contrast to the meticulously organised space she had known. Broken glass littered the floor, tiny shards catching the sunlight streaming through the windows and casting eerie reflections. Shelves that once stood proudly against the walls had been overturned, their contents spilling out in a disarray of bottles and papers. The rich, amber liquid of the spirits mixed with dark, sticky patches on the floor, creating a macabre mosaic that spoke of violence and desperation.

Nellie's heart ached as she took it all in, her mind unwillingly conjuring images of her father's final moments. She could almost hear the sounds of the struggle—the shattering glass, the thud of heavy objects hitting the floor, and the muffled cries of pain. The terror and agony he must have felt in those last, awful moments gripped her heart in a vise, each beat a painful reminder of his absence.

Her gaze swept the room, landing on a photograph that had somehow survived the chaos. It was a picture of her father, standing proudly in front of the distillery, his eyes twinkling with the joy of a man who had built something with his own hands. The frame was cracked, the glass splintered, but the image remained intact—a fragile remnant of happier times.

Nellie sank to her knees, the weight of her grief pulling her down. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the photograph, the cool glass a stark contrast to the warmth she remembered from her father's embrace. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she whispered a silent vow to herself. She would find out who had done this, who had ripped her father away from her and left their once vibrant business in ruins.

Determined to bring some semblance of order to the chaos, Nellie took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. The mid-morning sun filtered through the dusty windows, casting long, slanted beams of light that illuminated the devastation around her. She rolled up her sleeves, her hands trembling slightly as she surveyed the wreckage that had once been her father’s proud domain.

First, she turned her attention to the broken glass that littered the floor like a sea of jagged crystals. Each step was taken with caution, her shoes crunching on the shards as she moved to retrieve a bucket from a nearby corner. The metal handle was cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the warmth of the sunlight streaming in. With meticulous care, she began to pick up the pieces, her fingers trembling as she handled each fragment. The glass was sharp, and more than once, a sliver pierced her skin, drawing tiny beads of blood. Yet, she pressed on, each piece she placed in the bucket a small act of defiance against the darkness that had invaded her life.

As the bucket slowly filled with glass, Nellie turned her attention to the shelves. They lay toppled like fallen soldiers, their contents strewn across the floor in a chaotic mess. She approached the first one, a heavy wooden structure that had once stood proudly against the wall. With a grunt of effort, she heaved it back into place, the wood scraping against the floor as she righted it. Her muscles strained, but the sense of accomplishment was immediate, a small victory in the face of overwhelming loss.

Carefully, she gathered the unbroken bottles, their amber contents gleaming in the sunlight. She wiped each one clean, the cool glass smooth under her fingers, before placing them back on the shelves. The labels, meticulously designed by her father, bore names that spoke of tradition and craftsmanship: "Small Heath Reserve," "Ensor’s Heritage," and "Birmingham Gold." Each bottle she returned to its rightful place felt like a way of preserving her father's legacy, a beacon of hope amidst the shattered remnants.

Papers were scattered everywhere, some soaked in spilled spirits, their ink smudged and unreadable. Nellie knelt down, gathering the documents, invoices, and ledgers that had been the lifeblood of the business. She stacked them neatly on the desk, smoothing out the creases with gentle hands. One by one, she placed them in their proper drawers, the familiar routine bringing a semblance of normalcy to the otherwise tumultuous day.

As she worked, memories flooded back, each corner of the distillery holding a moment in time. The laughter shared during busy evenings, the pride in her father’s eyes as he unveiled a new blend, the sense of community that had thrived within these walls. Each memory was a reminder of what had been lost, but also a source of strength that fueled her determination.

Hours passed as Nellie toiled, the sun climbing higher in the sky. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her muscles ached from the effort, but she refused to stop. Every movement was purposeful, a deliberate act of reclaiming what had been torn from her. By the time she finished, the distillery looked far from perfect, but there was a noticeable change. The broken glass was gone, the shelves stood upright, and the bottles gleamed in the sunlight, a testament to her resilience.

As Nellie worked, the silence was suddenly shattered by the ominous sound of footsteps echoing through the distillery. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat resounding like a drum of impending doom. She turned abruptly, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes fell upon a figure standing in the doorway. The man was tall and lean, his silhouette framed by the harsh midday light that streamed in behind him, casting an eerie glow around his form.

He stepped forward, his movements smooth and deliberate, revealing his sharp, angular features. His eyes were cold and calculating, like shards of ice piercing through her. A wry, almost mocking smile played on his thin lips, sending a shiver down her spine. His presence exuded a sinister energy that made Nellie’s skin crawl.

"Miss Ensor," he said, his voice dripping with a false sense of sympathy, smooth and unctuous like oil. "My condolences on your loss. Your father was a good man."

Nellie swallowed hard, her throat dry as sandpaper, and narrowed her eyes, scrutinising him. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice taut with suspicion.

The man took another step closer, his gaze never wavering from hers. "A friend of your father's," he replied smoothly. "My name is Victor Crowley."

Nellie's instincts screamed at her to be cautious, every fibre of her being alert to the danger this man represented. "What do you want, Mr. Crowley?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides.

Victor's lips curved into a thin, predatory smile, his eyes glittering with a dangerous gleam. "Just to offer my condolences," he said, his tone laced with insincerity, "and to let you know that if you need anything, you can count on me."

Nellie's grip tightened on the broom handle she had been using, her knuckles turning white with the intensity of her hold. "Thank you," she replied curtly, her voice firm, "but I think I’ll manage."

Victor's eyes flicked around the room, coldly appraising the chaos before settling back on Nellie with a chilling intensity. "It's a shame what happened here," he mused, his tone almost casual. "Such a fine establishment. Your father had big plans for this place."

Nellie nodded, her throat constricting with a mix of grief and determination. "He did. And I intend to see those plans through," she declared, her voice resolute.

Victor's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it, only a cold, calculating menace. "Ambitious," he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Just like your father. But you should be careful, Miss Ensor. This city can be... unforgiving to those who step out of line."

A surge of anger flared up inside Nellie, burning away her fear. "Are you threatening me?" she demanded, her eyes blazing.

Victor raised his hands in a mock gesture of peace, though the malevolence in his eyes belied the sincerity of the gesture. "Not at all," he replied, his voice honeyed yet hollow. "Just a friendly piece of advice. There are forces in Birmingham that you might not fully understand. It would be wise to remember that."

Nellie took a step back, her eyes locked onto Victor's, unwavering. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, her voice steady but filled with steely resolve.

Victor nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response, though the sinister glint in his eyes remained. "Good," he said, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "If you ever need anything, Miss Ensor, don't hesitate to reach out. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing ominously through the distillery. Nellie watched him go, the tension in her body slowly easing but the fear and anger still simmering beneath the surface. She knew that Victor Crowley was not a man to be trusted, and his visit was a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of her city. But she was determined to stand her ground, no matter what threats or challenges lay ahead.

As she resumed her work, her resolve hardened. She would rebuild her father's legacy, and she would do it on her own terms. Victor Crowley and his veiled threats would not deter her. She was stronger than that, and she would prove it.

[etruatcaelum]

Even if they do try for the sword, Salem has no intention of letting the coalition learn the futility of using it against her; after the Great War, after what Summer’s told her of the rules Ozpin described to his inner circle… even yesterday, she might have gritted her teeth and endured what would no doubt be a rather painful death, accepted the collateral damage as a bleak but necessary price for getting her hands on the final relic, but now…

No. She’ll keep an eye on that eventuality through Summer’s friend, and if either the coalition or the dissidents open the vault, her first priority will be to steal the sword before anyone else can use it.

But Arthur speaks again before she can voice that answer, so Salem lets it pass. The faint pulse of worry in his tone brings a glint of amusement to her eyes—as if she would allow anyone in her circle to be possessed—and his implicit offer elicits a fond smile.

“The soul,” Salem says, feeling out the words with meticulous care, “is… fractal. Like fern frost on a glass pane. It is–” her eyes close; she lets a low, frustrated noise scratch the back of her throat. “—impossible to accurately describe in any spoken language because none of you can even—perceive it–”

Not important. Flicking her fingers as though to shred that tangent, she exhales and says again: “Fractal. Ozma’s intrusions can only occur at one point in this pattern; in accordance with the same rules that govern the maidens. When their host dies, they separate and seek out a new like-minded soul. Because the maidens have no minds of their own, the passage of a maiden from one host to the next is influenced quite strongly by the wills of both hosts, old and new, but I do believe that the same essential criteria must be met.”

It undoubtedly goes without saying that even in the worst extremity, none of her associates are in danger of becoming the next of Ozma’s like-minded victims.

Mouth crooking into a wry smile, Salem continues, “That is, in part, why I believe it can be done; the fall maiden had not yet… taken root, and so we could pry it back. But doing so did cause an alteration of the maiden itself. I am—” a pause, a wince. “–unsure what will happen to it when Cinder dies.”

Nor is she impatient to find out.

“…That is to say,” she murmurs, “I anticipate that disrupting the pattern like this will break it, permanently. In… unpredictable ways.”

Salem exhales, turning her head for a moment to gaze down the black well of the stairs; they’ve descended halfway. The deep pit of atrum at the bottom glistens with an oily sheen.

“Of course, separating them from the boy is the challenge; after that is done… the—simplest method—if I extract them from Oscar’s mind into mine, then… Well,” she snorts, “the way I reconstitute isn’t substantively different from anyone else using aura to heal, save in scale. Given enough aura to draw upon, anyone living could manifest a new form ex anima.”

"...If the sword won't work on you, I suppose that will be a final nail in the coffin of their hope, won't it?"

(And until that day comes: wear them down via a war of attrition. Well, he supposes there are more paths to peace than just one, and if forcing them to surrender lest they lose even more of the world is what gets Salem the peace she desires, then peace she shall have.

Besides. She's right. If Vacuo is the only place left untouched by her influence, then all they have to do is wait for resources to run scarce, and suddenly the "united world" James had called for will face division and discord yet again.

Of course, Watts had been told to try to prevent an all-out civil war from happening in Vacuo, which he supposes aligns with Salem's newfound desire for peace...

But she hadn't told him how to do it. Preventing the war in its entirety would be impossible - but getting people to think Ironwood was the one dooming them to ruin? Uniting humanity in the opposite direction, thereby making it all-the-more difficult for the so-called "heroes" to fight against Salem? That would be easy, especially if three of the four kingdoms had fallen, starvation was on the rise, and chances of victory were fading fast from their hands.

Certainly, manipulating the odds in Salem's favor would be easier than actually choosing to stay for long enough to do that, here where the hand of his worth in this pecking order had been shown, his value to her be damned. And making that decision for himself would be far easier than convincing Tyrian that they had done their share of the work, and that they could leave, and that Salem would not see them as traitorous for doing so.

But whether the easiest path was what he wanted to follow, well- the stings of anger and rejection and the desire for self-preservation need to be squashed down, yet again. There is still too much, far too much, to consider.

For one thing-)

"Assuming removing Ozma from their current host is even possible, then- where will they go when the process is complete?" he asks. "If Ozma has been parasitizing and hijacking the minds of men and - well, a boy, now - for this long, is pulling them out going to just magically give them a body? Or are they just going to hop into somebody else's head if they can't claw their way back into Oscar's mind?"

Because if Ozma chose their own hosts, and Oscar was off the table, then there was every chance that Ozma might- make one of Salem's very henchmen their next target.

What a sobering thought. Really, how could anyone run from an immortal mind-hopper who never failed to find a way to reappear?

"I assume you- have a contingency plan for that, as well? I imagine the point is to make it so they don't do this- possession, thing, anymore. So it shouldn't be difficult to build them a permanent shell. I mean, if Polendina could do it, then it will be no problem for me."

Nearly dying hadn't changed Watts all that much, clearly.

[billythecryptid]

Braiding Kieran’s Hair (Smut) Female

Literally just gonna start posting these half written shit shows because they are just crowding up my documents. Some of these I might go back to but like this one I am so sick of Re-reading and editing and fixing, like I just don’t care, have it! 

Kieran requests something from you, but don’t worry he has a little something to give back. 

OR

I saw a porno where a girl braided her boyfriends hair while he ate her out and this was all I could think about the entire time....

--------

Kieran watched as your fingers moved deftly through your horse's mane making thin neat braids, hands moving impossibly fast, but most delicately. As you finished up the last one your horse turned nuzzling you fondly then snorting in your face causing you to laugh as you leaned in to kiss her nose.  Kieran loved that laugh, loved the way you treated your horse so kindly, loved you. When you looked over, catching him staring he blushed but held your gaze strolling over. You smiled as you wiped at your face with your sleeve. 

“Why Mr. Duffy I didn’t see you over there, how are you this fine morning?” you reach your hand out towards him and he takes it in his bringing it to his lips kissing your knuckles.

“Much better now that I’ve found you,” he smiles, enjoying the blush that comes over your cheeks. “Not that it’s hard,” he teases, reaching over to pat your horse in greeting before going over to say good morning to his own. “This is your first stop every morn-” he stops mid-sentence as he takes in the intricate pattern you’ve braided into Branwen’s mane. He gently runs his shaky fingers over it. “I swear you spoil my horse just as much as you spoil me, if not more.” You laugh then smile bashfully as a thought comes to you, you look down at your feet as you take a step closer. 

“Well I certainly do not give him quite the same kind of attention,” you place your hand on his chest  and peer up into his eyes. His face goes crimson as you lick your lips before leaning up to kiss him. You let your hands trail down his sides, gripping at his hips as he cups your face and deepens the kiss. “And besides…” you moan as he moves to kiss the side of your neck. “They don’t thank me the way you do.” Kieran laughs a hot breath into your neck and goosebumps spread down your arms.

“Ay! Ay! Ay!” Javier shouts as he strolls into the corral area. “Not by the horses! Sal de aquí!” 

“What?” Kieran jumps pulling back as you let out a laugh. 

“He said get out of here, and you know I think he has the right idea.” You smirk giving Javier a wink before taking Kieran’s hand and leading him towards your tent. 

“You want me to braid your hair?” you ask confused. He nods but bites his lip nervously shifting from foot to foot. “Well of course I will I just thought you wanted to-”

“There’s more,” he mumbled to his feet. 

“More?”

“To it, more to it… I want…” his face gets hot and his ears grow bright red. You furrow your eyebrows but give him a gentle smile. 

“You don’t have to be shy with me,” you reach for his hand but he shakes his head.

“I’ll just show you.” He slowly drops to his knees before you and you furrow your eyebrows breath hitching when he shuffles forward placing his hands on your thighs, firmly guiding them apart. You try to help him pull your skirts up, but grow frustrated standing to pull the fabric out from underneath you and wrestle it off over your head. Kieran’s hands slide up your legs until they reach the waistband of your bloomers. He pulls them down, waiting for you to sit so he can get them off from around your ankles.  Next he reaches over to the upturned crate by your bed to retrieve your comb and a leather hair tie, handing them to you, eyes lustily looking up into yours. He shuffles closer pushing your legs just far enough for him to be able to bury his face between them. You let out a startled gasp jerking back a little at the feel of his tongue brushing your clit so firm and direct. You realize he wants you to braid his hair and immediately feel your wetness and arousal grow. You let him continue for a moment, stroking your fingers through his hair, enjoying the tease of pleasure he was giving you.  Then you squeezed your legs and urged him to sit back up. He looked up confused, his large eyes peering up into yours like a hungry little puppy dog. You can't help but laugh fondly, leaning down to kiss the look off his face. 

“Don’t worry, I just need to get in a better position,” you coo, urging him back a little so you can lean back against the crate. He begins again, slow and teasing, and you hum in pleasure. It’s just enough to satisfy you but not too much that you are unable to focus. “Just like that,” you groan before you reach for the comb and tie. His hands tighten where they grip at your ass and hip his voice causing pleasant sensations as he lets out a pleased hum when the comb slips through his hair. 

“O-one braid or t-two, oh God baby,” you pause hand burying deeply in his hair as he does something particularly wicked with his tongue. He does it two more times before he goes back to his lazy lapping. “I can’t focus when you do that.”

“Two,” he hums against you, eyes peering up at you. You bite your lip, thighs clenching around his shoulders, his sideburns brushing and tickling, teasing your most intimate places. You smooth his hair back down, combing and parting it, your hands trembling slightly. You begin to braid the first side. He makes an obscene slurping sound that sets your face aflame, the low smoldering pleasure in your gut grows, your legs trembling as you try to keep them open. His tongue swipes down at your entrance, teasing as he moans once more into your sex. You can only let out small gasping moans hands stilling for a moment as you near the end of his braid and you have to tilt his head down, burying his face into you more. 

As you start the second one you falter, the hair slipping from your shaking hands, fingers numb from the pleasure. He peers up at you and you groan tightening your hold in his hair before you are cursing him as he pulls off, just enough to gasp out with a small cocky smirk,

“Is this too much?” he licks another teasing stripe. “You don’t have to finish-'' you push his face back down and feel him smile against you. As you near the end of his last braid you feel his fingers slide in and almost drop it. He buries two of his long digits right up to his palm. You squirm slicking his hand with your juices. 

“Almost there, almost there,” you gasp. “All done.” 

At your words he pulls up so he can kiss you, fingers working you towards a quick approaching climax.You fist your hands in his shirt, keeping him in place as you cry into your heated kiss, walls clenching around his fingers, he whines back like he’s the one receiving all the pleasure and you bite his lip in appreciation. 

The two of you were eating together at the edge of camp at a small table when Arthur strolled over slapping Kieran on the back, “Those are some mighty fine braids you have got going on over there Mr. Duffy.”

“Uh Th-Thanks Mister,” Kieran squeaked turning beet red, darker than you had ever seen him blush before, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat and ducking his head lower. “It was the Missus.”

“Oh I know,” Arthur winked with a smirk looking between the two of you, his voice dropping low and sultry. “Next time my hair is long enough, I’ll be sure to seek out your services.” 

“Sure but I will have you know I don’t do nothing without a little compensation Mister Morgan,” you tease, locking eyes with the outlaw standing above you, however some of your false bravado wavers as he leans down resting his elbows on the table  so his face is level with both you and Kieran’s. His voice comes out in a rumbling murmur, gritty with intent,

“Why I am sure you will find I have it in my abilities to compensate the both of you very well for your time and efforts.” Then in a blink he gives your chin a gentle cuff and one of Kieran’s braids an equally as gentle tug before turning and striding off. You both watch him go before turning back to each other red faced, simultaneously bursting into a kind of uncertain but tension relieving laughter.

[juminly]

As The Rush Comes (Ikémen Vampire Theodorus Van Gogh x Reader)

Summary: You are at a nightclub with your friend Theodorus Van Gogh. The problem is, you want to be more than friends. Does he feel the same? Hell yes. Change is bound to happen. And it does. This one-shot was inspired by the song As the Rush Comes.   Read all 3 parts on AO3. Rating: Mature (explicit/coarse language, detailed mention of sexual acts) 

Tags: Modern AU, mutual pining, sexual tension/frustration, jealousy, dirty dancing. 

Warning: mention of the reader not remembering the events of a past night of heavy drinking and partying.  Word Count: 3500 approx. 

Club Music Playlist *Kiss you by Nadia Ali **Down to Love (Kyau & Albert Remix) by Armin Van Buuren feat. Ana Criado

***Still I Wait (Richard Durand’s In Search of Sunrise Remix) by Jonas Steur feat. Jennifer Rene. 

Song lyrics are in bold; look at this asterisks to know which song is playing in the background and play the song as you read -------------------------- *I'd wake up, and make love to you if I had you, I would touch you so much, but I'm not allowed to… Nadia Ali, bless her heart, was only adding salt to your wounds. You were already feeling salty enough for feeling the way you did and she didn’t make it any better. Why were you salty? While the song went on and on about how the vocalist just needed to wait for the perfect moment to kiss the one she wanted to show love to, you were here lamenting pathetically over Theodorus Van Gogh, the man that occupied your every waking thought and dream… and most recent fantasies.

The music was thrumming loudly in your ears, the discographies selected by this particular local DJ was always to your liking. The rhythmic beat of trance sending the club-goers into an ephemeral state of rapture as the dancefloor flocked with writhing bodies, the scent of alcohol, sweat and sex heady in the air. Were people living in some sort of state of drought? The thirst was real… and so palpable. You were not one to judge, you felt it too.

Thud… Thud… Thud… Was that the music or your pulse? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Would you pretend, we're only friends, if I kissed you, At least I can dream of you in a scene, when I'd kiss you.

You’ve dreamed of so many scenes, in so many different locations and in all of them, you were in the most compromising situations and positions. Holy fuck, just thinking about how those icy blue eyes staring into you while he lazily ran his tongue over his swollen lips, the ones you wanted to kiss and bite so damn much, that chiseled body of his positioned between your… No.. No… You told yourself you wouldn’t go there but your mind couldn’t help but wander.  The song had just been coaxing you to act on your impulses and you covered your ears, just to keep Nadia from tempting you more than you already were.

How many months has it been since the incident?

The office hottie, Arthur Conan Doyle, had thrown an extravagant birthday bash in his so-called crib, and to your own surprise, the man had exquisite taste and the entire thing was planned immaculately. Who had been his wingman during the entire process? The hot mister that was your companion at the club for the night. That was how, when and where you met him, much to your dismay.

You heard that things had gotten hot and heavy between you during that birthday party and you were literally flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried into Arthur’s bedroom. Things had gotten that heated… However, big emphasis on the word “heard” cause you unfortunately don’t remember jackshit from that fateful night and cursed yourself all the time for this.

His hands roughly groping you and his lips fiercely crashing down on yours… The things that could’ve happened… The things you could’ve done… You could ONLY imagine. Imagine, yes. Remember, no. The heavens indisputably had some mocking plot to make you miserable. Miserable? You definitely were. After that night, you were thrown into the friendzone. With a capital F.

Pining after a man that wouldn’t lay a finger on you unless it was to ruffle your hair like some puppy. You almost got your chance at some type of romance in your uneventful life… Still, things only got interesting when that asshole suddenly showed up, but it wasn’t like you were actually willing to admit that to him. You’d rather swallow his… Brain and heart, focus. Libido and hormones, get the fuck away. He wants me… He wants me not… I want everything he’s got.

Shut it, Nadia. You were already drowning in heaps of doubt and you’ve clearly… clearly had enough of her feeding you more fantasies and unlawful and excessively unadulterated thoughts and you were doubting yourself already. And what you decided to do? Drink yourself into oblivion, accompanied by the vexing perpetrator who had just gotten back from the men’s room. It was admiration and pining time for you. As he slowly approached you with long and sure strides, Theodorus was, is and will always be probably the most gorgeous, handsome piece of eye-candy that you’ve ever laid your eyes on and you were 99.99% sure that this statement was your true and unbiased opinion.

Beige dress pants hugged the length of those legs that carried him, giving you the chance to drool over the definition of his stature that you could see thanks to the tightness of the fabric, emphasizing a bit too much for your liking on his… No, don’t go there. Heat flooded your reddened cheeks as your thoughts scrambled wildly in your mind as he found his seat next to you. That’s always where you found yourselves. Together. Always. You get along so well. It’s bound to be this way, right? The string of fate and the butterflies of time managed to find a way to bring you together. While your internal ruminations besieged your mind, a rich baritone touched your ears, unmistakably his. “We probably should leave soon. I don’t want to suffocate in this clothed orgy.” You shot him an inquisitive look, silently asking him to elaborate on his point. “You look like you’re about to melt in that pretty little dress of yours, Hondje. I’d rather hop to any pub or have a drink at that klootzak’s place and deal with his moaning than this. At least his place isn’t as filthy as this hellish kennel.”

“You talk like an old man, Theo. Why don’t we just try to live a little?” He simply gave you a glare, a response that you knew very well. He wasn’t going to waste his breath on such mundane frivolities. It seemed that you would have to take the drinking party elsewhere. Clubs were clearly not Theo’s favourite destination.

You couldn’t help but giggle at this man’s dog analogies. As much as they pissed the shit out of you… Wait. Rewind. Did he just compliment what you were wearing...? He noticed?

For the first time in a while, you decided to try “letting loose” and go for something different. You would usually go for something, more like, anything black but today was different. In celebration of whatever weird feeling and eccentricity that came over you, you decided to go for a skimpy off-the-shoulder purple dress that kissed every curve of your luscious form, barely reaching the top of your mid-thigh and pushed your bosom in a way that accentuated your cleavage. You felt hot and you wanted to feel hot too.

**It's down to love tonight, This is where we are, As we turn into the light, Let’s make it last...

On any other day, Down to Love would’ve been one of your favourite songs to listen to but definitely not today. You were clearly not down to any kind of love. This is not where you wanted to be and you didn’t want this to last. You growled under your breath, enough to have Theodorus, the man of the hour… no, he was the man of your every-fucking-day and your every-goddamn-dream and fantasy, tilt his head to the side to cast a judging gaze at you, raising an arched eyebrow with a silent what-the-fuck is wrong with you.

There was so much that was wrong with you and he was the cause of it all. The prime suspect. The only one, this maddeningly handsome asshole.

Lips slick with moisture, your eyes lingered a little too long on the inviting gleam before you attempted to relax in your seat, while Theo remained hunched apathetically over the bar counter, nursing his drink thoughtlessly. Both of you were so accustomed to whatever it was that you were doing, you fell into a pattern that soon began to feel more like a ritual. You couldn’t even remember how you became his drinking buddy but there was something that Arthur said once… Both of you were not the type to party hard so it made it hard for him to have fun with the both of you, even though Theo and him spent an obscene amount of time together. You were kindred spirits. That was a fact.

Being around him made it hard to breathe. You noticed that not only the first button of his shirt was open, but now, the second one was too, giving you a good look of impeccably sculpted pectorals, his skin shining under the epilepsy-inducing lights of the nightclub while drops of sweats meandered down to places unknown, unexplored… and desired. With one arm propped on the counter and leaning his full weight to one side, his form was completely angled towards you and his eyes roamed appraisingly over your provocative dress and your overall physique. You knew that look, you’ve seen it before. It was the same way he scrutinized and examined art.

His gaze was now posed on your thighs, your dress hiked up even more on your silky skin as you crossed and uncrossed your legs restlessly. “Looking at something, big guy? My eyes are up here. You’ve been checking me out since we got here.” you quipped with a smirk. “Hm?” he hummed, as if you had ripped him away from the depth of his thoughts. You could see a faint blush on the top of his cheekbones… It was clearly only a sign of inebriation. Right? “Oh, I was just wondering who you’re trying to seduce.” he replied blankly before continuing. “You wouldn’t need to dress up like this to impress me.” His tongue swiped over his lower lip, wettening it before throwing his head back, draining his glass of whiskey and turning his body away, leaving you perplexed by his words.  What… What exactly did he mean by that? Shaking your thoughts away, you had enough wine in your system to finally get the words spilling from your lips. “Theo… Wanna dance?” Those three words prickled his ear drums and he turned to look at you with a judging smirk. “Is it playtime, Hondje?” You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms at his expected remark, climbing off your bar stool and tapping your heeled foot on the black tile beneath you. Looking at him expectantly, your heart clenched, momentarily regretting your decision to build up the courage to take the first step. He was bound to embarass you somehow.

“I’m sure you can find lots of other pups and mutts to play with in that disgusting pile of bodies.” An affronted expression washed over his handsome face and you resisted the need to slap his smugness away. You began to tremble slightly and snapped at him “You suck, Theo!”. His reaction made you freeze for a second. His eyes were taking you in, gliding over your body from head to toe before locking with yours. “Would you like to take me for a test drive? Are you in heat, Hondje?” he practically purred.

“Fuck you, Theo.” Was he capable of doing anything but frustrate (and arouse) you? You could feel an intense heat building inside of you, your heart beating angrily in your chest as you seethed from his response. You blinked, completely outraged and offended as he dared to freaking chuckle at your contained outburst.

“You wish. Now, can you go bark at someone else and let me enjoy my bloody drink?” Not wanting to give him more of your precious time, you actually flipped him the bird this time, scowling at him in disbelief, all that wine in your blood giving way for your tongue to sharpen as the night went on. “Do you always have to be such an ass?”

The ear-splitting grin on Theo’s face suddenly transformed into a smirk… and a scowl? when a young man behind you asked you to dance. You couldn’t really register what the guy was saying. Something along the lines of “ I don’t know if he’s just stupid or blind” and honestly, you kind of agreed with him. As much as Theodorus Van Gogh was a genius at what he did, he was stupid for not giving in to you. You were ready to give him… your everything. You were in deep shit, being so in love with a man who would possibly not return your affections? He looked like the incarnation of heartbreak and didn’t that just make you giddy? Being around him almost made you… sarchotic.

Sarchotic or not. Now you had his full attention.

Those ocean blue eyes were trained on you, an unfamiliar predatorial aura reverberating from him, still seeping through Theodorus’ attempt to enshroud it with the negligible quirk of those lips, that half-smile that you knew too well. If he wanted a show, he’s gonna be getting one. Not that you really cared whether he enjoyed it or not, but the least you could do is actually enjoy the company of the… You looked at your newly appointed dance partner, who had just lead you to the dancefloor, to evaluate him.

Okay, he wasn’t too bad: a bit shorter and less muscular than Theo but his hair were waves of chocolate brown that were simply asking to be threaded through and pulled. You beamed at your partner, feeling a rush of adrenaline course through your blood, knowing that the handsome Dutch man had his eyes on you and you were going to put a damn show. Wait, it wasn’t a show. You were doing this for you. You didn’t give a fuck and just wanted to have some fun. Looking at the cutie in front of you, you raised your arms in the air and jumped to the beat of the music, body-rolling as you let the sinful rhythm of your racing thoughts lead your every movement. ***I wanted it, I needed it, I love the way your skin felt upon my skin, And I thought you felt the same but you threw me away, Threw me away and still

The man in front of you was definitely getting into the groove, slowly inching close to you and you were more than ready to welcome him. Your hands that were in the air were now resting on his shoulders, your fingers finding the inviting chocolate strands of his hair. His hands were on both sides of your hips, claiming control over the frantic sway of your hips, matching the booming tempo that filled the room. You licked your lips and bit them, feeling your heart race as you snuck a quick look at the bar counter, the expression on Theodorus’ face was absolutely feral… and bloodthirsty.

Good thing you had bitten your lips because you were about to let out an obscene moan as he looked like he was ready to slam you into a wall and fuck you senseless, growling in your ear: You’re already so wet for me, Hondje, so ready for me to slide inside you…. You’ve been teasing me all damn night and when I stuff you with my cock, make you mine… You’ll be screaming my name. A looming presence was suddenly behind you, a hand gripping your hip and forcefully pulling you away from the “cutie”. You had absolutely no idea what happened, when it happened and how it happened. You could’ve sworn that you heard something along the lines of “She’s mine” but it was most probably your brain playing tricks on you. Or not.

“Are you trying to play games with me, Knabbeltje?” His heavy hand on your hip clenched tightly, his fingertips digging in your soft flesh while you drank in the rumble of his voice in your ear, velvety smooth yet deep enough to shake you to the bone, capable of making your knees buckle in weakness. You fought the temptation to rub your legs together and continued the lascivious sway of your hips from side to side in a rhythm that was your own and one that Theodorus would come to learn. Cutie, who? Theodorus was the only person you knew. All your senses acutely aware of him and he made sure of that. Only a breath of air seperated your bodies yet, he was so close but still felt so far before he yanked your back brusquely, your back hitting the vast plain of his chest and the softness of your derriere grazing his crotch. You closed your eyes and hummed with a nonchalant tone, your back arching as you reached your arms behind you, gripping Theo by his nape and threading your digits leisurely through his chestnut locks.

“You really want to know, hm?” You crooned and he tensed briefly but soon relaxed behind you, one hand caressing the curve of your hips, his hold on you was firm and steady, making you feel the heat radiating from his body and enveloping you with the scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey, intoxicating you even more than the wine you drank.

One of his large hands snakes up the curve of your waist, lightly grazing the side of your soft mound and trailing up your neck and resting there. He rolled his hips against yours, your body following his every moment as he dictated your every single motion. The warmth of his breath tickled your ear as he crooned sultrily in your ear. “I could eat you all up, Knabbeltje… right fucking now.” I don't wanna feel rejection, don't wanna have no regrets… Is this a good decision or will you look for someone else? Leave me all by myself...

“Is that so?” you could hear your own smile in your voice and could hear an inherent raspiness in it too. Your thoughts swiveled with yearning and your judgement was clouded by your love for this man… and your inebriation. Your mutual ministrations continued as he grinded his hips at an excruciating pace, drawing out the torture that you were both suffering from. His long fingers were now teasing the column of your neck, careening over your sensitive skin and sending shivers up and down your spine. Slowly, he wrapped his hand on your neck, pressing only lightly and bit the tip of your earlobe before sucking on it, letting his tongue glide over its seams. “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. You want me to repeat myself?”

“I didn’t say any such thing, Theodorus.” You dared to use his full name, intentionally triggering him. His grip tightened on your neck and warm breath caressing your ear. “I’m not all bark like you.” He truly thought that you were all bark but you were prepared and intended to do lots of biting, now that he was so near. You tightened your grip on his strands, making him groan in response. “I hate that you make me feel this way.” you breathed out slowly, trying to ignore the tightening of anticipation rousing in your chest. “Enlighten me… What kind of way do I make you feel, hm?” It was now his turn to tease you. “You know how I feel about you…” you pouted, grudgingly taking a sharp inhale before you carried on with this morphed, semblance of a confession. “You keep… you keep messing with my head, Theo.”

“You’re doing much worse to me, mijn liefste.” Oh God, you didn’t know what he said but you were positive that it was not some dog related insult and your heart drummed even harder in your chest. Why did this man have so much control over you? His voice was like whiskey and chocolate, dark, decadent and  heavy with yearning, a blazing fire in your core, an excited tremor coursed through your veins like lightning, but not once did you rush the wicked to and fro of your hips, brushing your softness against the harsh ropes of sinew that made him the Adonis that he was.

Your cheeks were rosy as the pink dusk that painted clear skies and he saw that as you twisted your chest to look back and up at him. His fierce stare reflected in your glimmering eyes, your pupils dilating clearly, making them appear almost darkened in their shade. It would be blasphemous to say that Theodorus was anything but completely mesmerizing. “Don’t give me those eyes, Knabbeltje... or I promise I’ll take you here and now.”

I love to see you smile, I love, my love… As much as the thought had you reeling, you wanted the awaited spectacle to be a private one. Gazing straight in his almost glowing orbs of sapphire, he had the look of a man who was born ready to ravage you and rearrange your insides. Leaning down, he drawled against your lips with a huskiness that sent you into a frazzled state of need.

“When I fuck you, I’m going to make sure you always remember it. The only thing that’s gonna spill from those pretty lips is my name.”

------------ Read Part II  HERE.  Tagging le Theo simp squad + those who have been so kind to send me their ideas on what the “dirty dancing scenario” should be like: @delicateikemenmemes @sweetlittlemouse @nad-zeta @nafeary @raymiazaki @munarisblog @karmaaf​ (sorry if I forgot anyone else)  Hope you enjoyed this 💜 Please feel free to leave comments/feedback! Masterlist

[bonjour-rainycity]

The Long Way Around ~ Chapter 9

Link to previous part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/623575983503638528/the-long-way-around-chapter-8-link-to-previous

Pairing: Jasper x Reader 

Word count: 2990

Warnings: None

Y/n’s POV

On the way to the waterfall, I’d done some thinking and come to the unfortunate conclusion that my feelings for Jasper are much more than I originally realized. Previously, any and all feelings I had towards him I interpreted as those I would feel towards a best friend. But I’ve never felt like this towards my best friends before.

Once I’d come to this conclusion, my outing with Jasper became a struggle. I’d had crushes before as a human, but nothing as intense as this and nothing even close to the risk involved when your crush can literally feel your feelings. I had to work so hard to keep myself in check. Jasper didn’t do much to help. He couldn’t have picked a more romantic location, for one. Seeing him doused in water, sparkling in the moonlight and the rising sun didn’t do anything to make me reconsider his beauty. I’d taken special care not to look at his body, knowing the attraction I, and then he, would feel. I’d slipped up once or twice, and I desperately hope he didn’t notice.

And the necklace. Gosh, if he even knew how perfect it is….I’ve never owned anything like it, and the fact that he remembered all those little things from so long ago…well, it makes me feel things.

But I need to keep those feelings under control.

Yes, he’s my best friend and yes, he’s incredibly good to me, but Jasper is way out of my league. Any interest he has in me will be fleeting, especially given how he must view me. I’m wild, barely controlled, a danger to society and monsters alike. Just the differences in our eye color show how incompatible we are. Mine are red, vicious, deadly. His are golden, like melting honey or a dazzling sunset. He doesn’t suddenly become deranged at the thought of human blood. He doesn’t try to hurt the people he owes everything to the minute he smells a human. He’s not weak.

From my side, Jasper eyes me but doesn’t say anything. I swallow the venom in my mouth and try to force my bitterness down with it. As if I needed such a tangible reminder of our incongruity.

Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes before we smell the herd of deer. From the corner of my eye, I watch as he swiftly takes down a doe. He’s so graceful. My own kills are sloppy, desperate. I could never measure up.

Jasper approaches, careful not to startle me in my hunting state. “Are you okay?”

I nod, quickly trying to think of something to say that could explain my sudden moroseness. “I’m just frustrated that my eyes are still so red. I want them to be like yours—the whole family’s,” I correct quickly.

Jasper smiles knowingly. “It takes about a year for all the human blood to leave your system. Only six months to go. But I think,” he takes a step closer to me and peers into my eyes with exaggerated movements, “that I see a tiny bit of gold in them.”

My heart warms, and I do feel better, even if he’s obviously lying for my benefit. “I’m sure you do.”

He gives me a lopsided grin, and I find myself hoping to see more of those in the future.

Quickly, we wrap up our hunting and continue the journey home. About half a mile away from the house, Jasper skids to a stop, his arms flying out to grip me around the waist to cause me to stop, too.

“Something’s wrong.” His voice is calm, totally in contrast to the rod of fear that shoots through me. “It’s okay,” he assures, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Just stay by me.”

Not that I would need any encouragement. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might be able to enjoy the feeling of his hands on my waist, holding me close. But now is not the time, so I push those thoughts away. Instead, I focus on what I can hear, see, and sense around me. Nothing out of the ordinary. But I trust Jasper and his ability, so I stick close to him.

We approach the house slowly for vampires, carefully taking note of our surroundings. When we get to the back deck, Bella meets us outside, looking somber. Before we can ask, she waves us in, and we see Esme sitting in a kitchen chair, eyes screwed shut. She lets out a soft cry, signaling her pain.

“Esme,” I gasp, running to her.

She smiles stiffly, obviously not wanting anyone to worry about her. “It’s alight, it’s just a few little bites. The pain will go away soon.”

Hating seeing this kind, wonderful woman in pain but at a loss for what to do, I go to stand behind her and hug around her neck, letting my head rest on top of hers.

“What happened?” Jasper’s voice is tight, dangerous. I’ve never heard him sound like that before, and, if I didn’t know him so well, I would be scared of him.

Bella’s voice is quiet when she responds, so much so that I almost have to strain to hear her. “Esme went about thirty miles south for a quick hunt. She says another vampire, a female, came out of nowhere and attacked her.”

Just then, the front door bursts open. I jump, spooked.

But it’s just Carlisle, looking like he’s been torn apart. “My love, what happened?” He kneels in front of Esme, taking her hands in his. I pull back just a little to give them their space, though I don’t release my hands from Esme’s shoulders.

In a strained voice, Esme recounts what Bella had told us so far, and then continues. “The vampire came out of nowhere, Carlisle. I don’t know what I did to provoke her, but she seemed intent on finishing the fight. She only stopped when she heard Alice and Arthur coming to help me.” The pain in Esme’s voice is palpable. I can practically feel it in my own bones. I squirm, uncomfortable.

Carlisle doesn’t look any better off. He touches his forehead to Esme’s hands, breathing deeply. “I should’ve been there. You never should have had to go by yourself, I’m so sorry-”

“Carlisle, don’t be ridiculous. I should have known better than to hunt alone, really I-”

Jasper interrupts their pointless efforts to take blame. “Are Alice and Arthur still in pursuit?”

Bella nods. “And Edward, Emmett, and Rosalie. Hopefully they’ll pick up a trail.”

Jasper shakes his head, his mind quickly working through the situation. “It doesn’t make sense for someone to attack out of the blue. Do we have any clue as to her motivation?”

Now Esme shakes her head, looking dismayed. “Maybe I unknowingly entered someone else’s territory? Honestly, I thought we were the only coven for miles.”

Carlisle hushes her and strokes her hair gently. “It’s alright, darling, you just rest.”

But Esme smiles, placing a kiss on Carlisle’s head. “The pain is fading, my love. Don’t fret.”

Carlisle isn’t satisfied. “Would you like to go lie down? I can try to suck the venom out, maybe it hasn’t begun circulating yet.”

“I promise, the pain is barely there now. The vampire must not have bitten me very deeply.” Esme’s gaze softens and she takes Carlisle’s head in her hands. “But I would like to go lie down with you.”

Still seeming very concerned, Carlisle helps Esme up and begins to lead her out of the room.

It jolts us all when Esme lets out a yelp of pain and stumbles. Carlisle immediately swoops her up into his arms, looking absolutely gutted. “I would prefer to try and get the venom out.”

Teeth gritted, Esme nods. “Yes, I agree.” Quickly, Carlisle ascends the stairs, leaving just Jasper, Bella, and I in the kitchen.

Once Esme is out of the room, my discomfort fades, much to my guilt.

Bella’s phone rings, and she quickly takes the call, speaking lowly. When she’s done, she speaks loud enough so Carlisle and Esme can hear her from upstairs.

“That was Edward. They lost the trail of the vampire about a hundred miles south of where Esme was attacked. They’ll be back soon.”

I nod, still feeling terribly down. Poor Esme. Seeing the pain so plainly expressed by her made me feel terrible for the similar bites I’d inflicted on Edward and Jasper. Almost instantly, my guilt disappears, and I turn my head to Jasper, who’s looking at me with concern and curiosity. I don’t offer an explanation though, not quite ready to be so vulnerable in front of Bella, especially as it had been her husband who was one of my victims.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice my mood. Instead, she leans over, getting a better look at the necklace peeking out over my shirt.

“That’s gorgeous. When did you get it?”

Unable to stop the smile or the feeling of warmth that arises, I let it flow freely. He has a right to know how happy his gift made me. “Jasper gave it to me, actually. Isn’t it just perfect?” I carefully pull the necklace forward, allowing her to see it more fully.

Jasper looks uncomfortable with the attention, but pleased overall.

The three of us spend the next forty minutes idly chatting and doing our best to give Esme privacy to recuperate. Not too much later, the five other members of the family get back to the house. Carlisle and Esme come down then. Thankfully, Carlisle had been able to get some of the venom out, so she seems much more comfortable now. At Carlisle’s direction, we file into the dining room and take our places at the large, imposing table.

Alice begins, recounting how she had a vision of an unknown vampire choosing to attack Esme, reason also unknown, and she and Arthur rushed to help. Edward takes over, explaining that, once he and Emmett and Rosalie had gotten home from the library and Bella told them what had happened, they joined the pursuit. Only six out of the ten of us know the vampire’s scent, leaving Carlisle, Bella, Jasper, and I at a disadvantage.

“I say we continue our usual patterns but increase our precautions. The four of us who don’t know the scent shouldn’t be without someone who does. Also, stay in groups of at least three. We don’t want to risk being outnumbered.”

We all nod solemnly.

“Y/n, Jasper,” Carlisle continues, startling me with singling us out. “You were hunting north, how far did you go? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

I shift in my seat, knowing we’re about to be exposed for our lie. Thankfully, Jasper does the talking.

“We went about a hundred miles north, and we didn’t notice anything unusual. Although, we didn’t spend a lot of time covering ground hunting, so we really wouldn’t know much.” Is it my imagination, or does he look embarrassed? Ouch.

Emmett immediately expresses his intrigue. “Really? What could’ve been occupying your time then? A hundred miles north…alone?” There’s a teasing glint in his eye, but what’s even scarier is the real curiosity behind it.

Edward rolls his eyes. “Now is not the time, Emmett.”

“No, he’s got a point.” Rosalie holds up a hand, staring us down. “What were you two doing?”

I decide to give Jasper a break from always having to explain. “There’s a waterfall we wanted to see.”

Esme smiles, a strange look in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Just a waterfall?” Rosalie doesn’t seem convinced.

“And a pool,” I supply, defensive now.

Bella chimes in, seeming shy. “She got a very pretty necklace, too.”

Emmett claps his hands down on the table, staring at us like we’ve just given him a gift. “Now that’s interesting.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Carlisle comes to our aid, but even he wears a soft smile. “Remember the new rules and exercise good judgement. We need to be on our guard until we know more.”

With that dismissal, the family begins to leave the room. Emmett makes a beeline for me, likely to engage in more investigation and teasing, but I hurry to flag down Carlisle. There’s something I want to discuss with him.

“Do you have a minute,” I ask, feeling ridiculously nervous and insecure. I can feel Jasper’s gaze pricking at my back, but I don’t turn. I’m not sure if I could go through with my request if Jasper was sitting next to me, refined as he is. What I am about to ask is going to make me feel very, very, inferior.

“Of course,” Carlisle smiles, gesturing a hand forward. “Let’s go to my study.”

I follow him down the hall and take a seat across from his desk. Carlisle sits, folds his hands, then gazes at me kindly. “What can I do for you?”

I fidget. Carlisle gives me the time I need to breathe and work up the courage. Bless him.

Finally, I just spit the words out. “I was wondering if you would help me get better with my self-control.”

His politeness never falters. “I think you are doing very well already, Y/n, rest assured.”

I sigh. “Thank you, but I want to do better. I want to be able to leave the house and-and go to the library or at the very least, think about human blood without-” Like clockwork, the venom pools in my mouth. I wave a hand, knowing Carlisle is aware of it.

He nods slowly, contemplating. “You have a point, we can’t keep you locked up here forever.” He throws me a kind smile. “I could bring some blood home from the hospital. It has been frozen and stored, so it won’t be anywhere near as potent as it would be inside a living being. That might be a good place to start. Once you get used to that, perhaps we can go near popular hiking areas or the edge of town so you can slowly ease yourself into interacting with humans.”

I smile, endlessly grateful to Carlisle for taking my request seriously and being willing to help me. “Thank you.” I hesitate, not sure if it’s rude to ask what I want to know. Then again, Carlisle probably wouldn’t deny me any information. So I ask. “How long did it take everyone else to be okay around humans?”

Carlisle smiles, thankfully not offended by my question. “It varies greatly from person to person. Everyone is ‘born’, if you’ll excuse my terminology, with varying dispositions to certain aspects of this new life, just as humans are born and grow to find certain areas of life easier for them than others. For me, self-control was never a question of if, but when. It took me nearly two centuries, but now I can be around human blood flowing freely and barely feel a thing. Edward was fairly quick to gain control, and I suspect hearing the thoughts of those he wished to kill aided in his success. I wager it’s hard to kill someone if you’re so starkly aware of their humanity. Esme and Emmett both struggled, and will be the first to admit they slipped up many times. But they put in the work and have gotten much better in the last forty years. The true stars of us all are Rosalie and Bella. Only mere weeks after her transformation, Rose was able to be around bleeding humans and resist the temptation. Bella once began chasing after a human, and then stopped. Both of them are remarkable.” I can hear the respect in his voice, and wonder just how hard it was for him in his early years. He continues. “Alice, Arthur, and Jasper came to us later in their lives, so we weren’t with them to experience the newborn stage. Both Alice and Arthur were vegetarians from the start, with moderate success, and they’ve gotten much better since. Of all of us, Jasper struggles the most.” This surprises me. I never would’ve guessed. To me, Jasper seems so controlled, so refined, so advanced.

I’m unable to curb my curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Am I correct in assuming you know about Jasper’s past?” I nod, remembering easily the horror stories from Jasper’s younger years. Carlisle continues. “Then you will know that, for over seventy years, Jasper survived solely on human blood, the longest of any of us.” I nod again. I’d known this, too. “When Jasper found us and learned of our lifestyle, he was very curious and committed to changing. But, seventy years of living one way is impactful. It’s nearly a human’s entire lifetime. Jasper became very accustomed to the taste, temptation, and satisfaction of human blood. For the longest time, the memory and temptation of it tortured him. He slipped up a few times, but at each and every point made a choice to come back to our lifestyle. Much like Edward, it’s hard for him to know the feelings of the people he kills. It was destroying him. The animals, while less instinctively satisfying, provide a much more peaceful life for him.”

I let that information settle. Poor Jasper…My heart aches for him. The pain of experiencing death after death through the feelings of your victim…the torture of being surrounded by humans after a lifetime of feeding on them….I don’t know how he bears it.

Carlisle’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts. “All this to say, I honestly have no idea how long it will take you to be confident around humans. But please know that as long as you desire our help, we offer it freely.”

I smile, endlessly grateful for the benevolent vampire sitting across from me. “Thank you, Carlisle.” But my mind creeps back to Jasper, and I know that my next conversation must be with him.

A/n Hi again! I hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself. Let me know what you thought of this chapter and if you would like to be added to the tag list!

xx, 

Bjr

Link to next part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/624011835356626944/the-long-way-around-chapter-10

Tag list: @puer-de-infinitate @charliestuff @hindustani-diaspora @one-thread-can-save-a-life @salsameter @enchantedcruelsummer @meashy-moo @sana-li @femflorals @80strashbag

[crimson-snowfall]

Jealous hc for Comte, Leo and Theo please! Really appreciate your writing!

Sorry for the wait, and thanks for your kind message! Here ya go~

Ikevamp HC request: Jealous Theo, Comte, and Leo

Theo

Theo is particularly vocal when it comes to Arthur playing around with you. Even though he knows Arthur does it on purpose just to piss him off, he just can’t let the flirt do as he pleases with you, so he makes sure to give Arthur a piece of his mind every now and then.

Theo doesn’t really get jealous nor wary about you interacting with the rest of the mansion’s residents, because he’s plenty confident about his ability to keep his hondje satisfied.

The only time he ever feels jealous is during those occasional instances when you would end up spending a lot of time with Vincent for days at a time, and Theo hates himself for it.

He has always admired his brother, and Theo has spent all of his life believing that Vincent is better than him, and in a good way. He thinks of his dear brother as the best person in the world, so it made him sick inside as soon as he realized that emotions of jealousy have ‘tainted’ his love for his brother.

He is deeply confused as well, because sometimes he’s not sure whom is he truly jealous about. Perhaps he’s jealous both ways?

As soon as Vincent realized how Theo feels, he promptly apologized to him. Theo visibly paled upon hearing Vincent apologize to him, panic quickly taking over him.

“What are you taking about, b-broer? You did nothing wrong, you know you can never do wro–”

“Calm down, Theo. Look… I’m just really happy that you finally found yourself a woman to love in this life. That’s why I wanted to get to know her better, and love her the same way as I do love you, Theo. Because soon enough, she’s going to be my sister-in-law, right?”

Vincent had that kind smile on his face as he said all those things to Theo, and it’s enough to make the strength in Theo’s knees leave. He pulled his brother in a tight embrace, insisting that he should be the one apologizing for even feeling that way.

It’s not often that Theo shows his weak side towards him, so Vincent had been more than willing to comfort him and dispel his worries.

After that, Theo’s subtle jealous episodes became far less often. However, when you finally realized it and confronted him about it, you could’ve sworn he got incredibly flustered for a moment.

“Huh? What are you talking about hondje? Why would I be jealous? This is my brother we’re talking about here, do you really want to get punished?”

Unfortunately, he didn’t sound nearly as convincing as he had hoped to be, and while you would’ve taken this golden opportunity to tease him, you decided against it. Theo can play really dirty if you tease him so much, and you’re not yet really ready for another night of him just teasing you until you’re nearly in tears. Instead, you spent the next few days spoiling him with sweets and fluffier servings of pancakes.

Comte

At first, you thought that Comte just really loved to spoil you. But after a while and as you get to know him better, you eventually noticed a pattern to these shopping sprees and fancy restaurant dates he often takes you to.

While the fact that he indulges spoiling you remains true, you realized that he does this mainly so he can have a valid reason to keep you all to himself, at least for the day.

Lately, he’s been starting to spoil you way too often, almost every other day. While you do enjoy the time you spend with him, your closet is starting to get crammed with all the clothes and accessories he gets for you. You’re also conscious that you may be starting to put on some weight as well.

Unsure of what to do, you approach Leonardo. Comte is good friends with him, so you thought that Leo of all people would know how to deal with your lover’s behavior.

You came to him in the library and much to your surprise, the pureblood is actually awake and not passed out on the floor like always. You told him about your troubles.

“Have you talked to him about it, cara mia?” A soft smile graced his features as he regarded you with concern.

“No. The thing is… I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, this is actually the first time I’ve–” Leo stopped mid-sentence, his expression as though he had sensed something coming. His soft smile turned into a mischievous one as he stood from where he was seated and approached you.

“No, I think I have an idea.” With those words, he closed the distance between the two of you, pinning you against the nearest bookshelf. He tilted your head up, your eyes meeting his that were dancing with mild mischief. Leo leaned dangerously close, and it really looked like he was going to kiss you when—

“Leonardo Da Vinci.” A heavy voice came from the entrance, and there stood Comte, golden eyes on fire. Leo was shaking– surely not out of fear, instead he looked like he’s trying to hold back his laughter.

In mere seconds, Comte has you in a protective embrace whilst his vicious glare remained on his friend. The other pureblood shrugged it off.

“There you have it, cara mia. Now’s your chance. Go and tell him. There’s no way he could deny it anymore.” Leo walked out of the library as if he had done nothing wrong, and the sigh that escaped Comte’s lips nearly echoed in the room.

“What was that all about, ma chérie?” He turned you around so that you’re facing him, the rage in his eyes replaced with mild sadness.

You ended up telling him everything, how you loved spending time with him, but how deep down you wished he didn’t have to resort to spoiling you that much all the time.

“I appreciate everything, Comte. But, you don’t really have to go that far every time, I… I already have so much of everything. If you’re jealous, we could just always spend more time together– just simply the two of us, together. It doesn’t have to be always extravagant.”

“I’m sorry ma chérie. I just couldn’t help myself whenever I’m with you. I want to give you everything.” Comte placed a tender kiss on your forehead.

He continues about taking up on your offer about spending time together without being too extravagant. He suggests taking you off from your household duties for the next few days, and the tender look in his eyes made it impossible for you to refuse.

“I can’t guarantee that I won’t end up spoiling you… in my own other ways though, ma chérie. I hope you’re prepared for that.”

Leonardo

Leo’s room has always been messy, but lately it’s just a disaster. For the past two days, Sebastian has been taking care of most of the other household duties while he left you in charge of your lover’s room.

On that particular day, the butler told you that your sole task is to attend to Leo’s room, and after that you can take the rest of the day off as some sort of compensation.

You came to his room, already dreading the mess that’s about to unfold before your eyes as soon as you open the door.

“Leo, how do you even manage to get your room this dirty? I just cleaned up yesterday!” You made no effort to hide your frustration as you began cleaning his room. Surprisingly enough though, this time, he helped you out.

Soon enough with his help, the room looked far more decent and actually habitable. “See? It’s much better now. You’re actually good at this, Leo. If only you would do it more often, then–”

You were cut off when strong arms pulled you into a tight embrace. “It’s been three days and you still don’t get it, do you, cara mia?” Leo planted a soft kiss on your neck before falling back into his bed and turning you around so that you’re on top of him.

He wore a somewhat lonely expression as he played with your hair. He took a deep sigh, the signature scent of cigarillos wafting on the air. “Lately… I found myself feeling rather jealous.”

“Jealous of what? And what does that have to do with any of this?”

“You’ve been doing nothing but housework lately, cara mia. You attend to everyone, and sometimes I just want to keep you to myself. That’s when I thought, what if I made it so that all the housework you’ll ever do is in my room? Then maybe I’ll get to spend more time with you.”

You looked at him in absolute disbelief. “Leo, I can’t believe you…”

“You don’t have to, cara mia. But today I helped you because… I want you to do something other than housework.”

Hope you liked it and sorry for any ooc-ness and grammatical error, my mind’s really a mess right now with all the university work piled up on me ;w; I haven’t read Leo’s route yet either so sorry if his is a little bit shorter compared to the others. I need to read more canon facts and be able to read more interactions between these characters so I can write them better in the future, but on the meantime thanks for your understanding! As for the other request (and future reqests that may be made), I’ll get to you on the 1st week of February~

[holy-honeybees]

Snowdrift

AO3

Rating: T+ (for swearing)

Summary: Three friends and  their dog get lost in a snowstorm while investigating the paranormal. Amidst swirling flurries of white, some lose their way and get lost in their memories, others lose sight of their friends and loved ones, and an unforgiving winter quickly fills in the footprints one would follow to get back home.

A/N: I started this back in November 2019 but sadly never finished the work. I was thinking of holding off till it started to snow again, but figured now was as good a time as any to try and finish this.The title is taken from Snail's House song "[snowdrift]" which you can check out here!

My hopes of having a regular posting schedule were completely dashed by the disaster that is the year 2020. But I’m still here, I’m still writing, and though I don’t know when the next chapter will be, I know there will be another. Beware that from here on, there may be some slight SPOILERS for the latest MSA video, “The Future!” If you haven’t already watched it though, you absolutely should, it was amazing, and the whole team who worked on it are all so talented!!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter One

Chapter Seven

Lewis glanced behind him to watch as Vivi and Mystery disappeared into the woods, the flashlight beam wavering as his friends passed behind trees and headed deeper into the forest. His own fluorescence gave the surrounding snowdrifts a soft, pink glow, illuminating his path as he headed along where he guessed the road to be under the thick blanket of snow. The ghost fought the urge to turn around and check on Vivi and Mystery again, knowing if he gave in now he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from watching until the last glimmer of their flashlight faded from view. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them to take care of themselves. He knew how fearsome Mystery could be, even after his injury, and though Vivi was frustrated by her lack of mastery over magic, she’d taken to it readily. If her friends were in danger, Lewis knew nothing would stop her, magic or no. It was just hard for him to give up old habits. He couldn’t help but think of being the protector as his role in the group, especially after so many years of Arthur hiding behind him. Despite his size, Lewis had never been much of a fighter when he was alive. He’d always relied on his height and broad shoulders to intimidate, whether it was Arthur’s high school bullies or whatever monster of the week had decided to pick a fight with them. His death had surprisingly come with a few benefits, the supernatural speed at which he now travelled being just one of them. Already he had come to the bend in the road where their near miss had occurred just days ago, the guardrail and sign warped out of place from the impact with the van. Lewis ran his hand along the arrow on the sign, brushing loose snow to the ground.  

It was hard to believe that they had been having snowball fights and drinking hot cocoa just the other day. The snow which had once been so entrancing to him now seemed ominous and deadly, the winter wonderland having transformed into a frozen wasteland. Lewis suppressed a shiver. He shouldn’t have been able to feel the freezing temperatures, but the cold gnawed at his bones nonetheless. He was reminded of the walk-in freezer at the Pepper Paradiso. Once, while he’d still been in high school, Lewis had accidentally locked himself in the walk-in at the restaurant. He’d only been stuck for about fifteen minutes, but the cold had seemed unbearable for even that short amount of time. He’d been lucky that Ma and Pa Pepper were so quick to get him out. He couldn’t get his teeth to stop chattering until his mom had fixed him up a special batch of her hot chocolate flavored with cinnamon and cayenne pepper. Lewis remembered sitting in the dining area, cradling his mug of hot chocolate as his dad rubbed a hand up and down his arm to help warm him up. His mother had been livid and had immediately called the fridge manufacturer to demand they send someone to replace the faulty door release on the inside of the walk-in. Despite his parents’ best efforts, the chill hadn’t left him until late that night when he was curled up in bed, bundled in extra blankets.

Lewis wondered just how long Arthur had been gone before the others had discovered him missing. He feared that the mechanic had been gone too long already. He knew now just how fragile people were, and given Arthur’s tendency to stress himself out and forgo basic needs, he worried for the mechanic more than most. Shifting his focus from his worries to the task at hand, Lewis turned to search the expanse of snow surrounding him, trying to find a sign that the mechanic had been this way at all. Each direction looked the same as the others though. It was impossible to tell if it was because Lewis had picked the wrong way to go or if the belligerent snowfall had simply covered Arthur’s tracks. Without any kind of path to follow, Lewis picked a direction at random. Phasing through the twisted metal of the guardrail, he sped away from the road into the snowy fields beyond to continue his search. The plains the ghost now flew over were as flat and empty as the rest of the landscape had been. Lewis hoped it would make the mechanic easy to spot, even with the moon covered by clouds and the thick snowfall still coming down. The snow in the distance went almost blue with shadows, but if he passed close enough to the mechanic, the ghost was sure he would recognize the bright orange color his friend so frequently wore.

“Arthur!” Lewis called. The snow on the ground muffled his shout, and the lowly moaning winds quickly drowned out the remaining sound. Still, Lewis couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he received no response. The spirit pushed onwards, constantly scanning his surroundings for a glimpse of familiar orange amidst all the white. As he rushed further away from the road to continue his search for Arthur, Lewis was struck with a sense of déjà vu. For a moment, he could have sworn that the snowy landscape had shifted, changing from a seemingly barren tundra to a familiar hallway, lined with portraits and doors that looped back in on each other in impossible patterns. The stripes in the wallpaper blurred together as he flew by, hunting down the scrawny mechanic that had betrayed him.

“Arthur!” the ghost bellowed.

Lewis skidded to an abrupt halt, shocked by the wrathful tone of his own voice. As he looked around again, he was back in the snowy field that lay beyond the bend in the road, no haunted mansion in sight. Just an endless, featureless white landscape. It had all been so real, the desire to find Arthur and punish him so strong, that for a moment Lewis had forgotten where he was. He’d forgotten himself and had lost the careful control he had on his anger. Even now that the specter had forgiven Arthur and come to peace with his own demise, the rage never seemed to go away. It was always simmering just below the surface, waiting for him to slip up and boil over. Afterall, it wasn’t just his attachment to Vivi that had brought him back, but his desire for vengeance as well. This anger was a part of him now, as much as he hated it, as much as he was afraid of it. Normally he kept it buried deep, able to force it back down whenever it reared its ugly head. He hadn’t felt such an intense flare of rage in months, and his fury had never boiled over without any provocation before. The imagined cold that had seeped into his bones was now completely burned out, the golden locket that served as his anchor thrumming with anger.

Did he really still hate his friend so much?

Lewis shook his skull back and forth, his hair flickering wildly at the movement. He had to keep it together. He thought back to all the late night conversations with Arthur that had helped to keep his loneliness at bay over the last few months. How before the cave, they would camp out on top of the van and look at the stars, guessing at the names of constellations, the mechanic at ease enough to fill the silence with idle chatter about science fiction and space travel. He remembered how his friend had helped him study for the law school he’d hoped to get into, shuffling through stacks of flash cards filled with legal jargon over milkshakes at the restaurant. Teenage years spent at each other’s houses, sleepovers filled with binge watching Sailor Moon andsuffering through Surf’s Up Pizza because he knew how much Arthur liked it. The only kid in middle school who had readily accepted that Lewis hadn’t been a part of the Pepper household up until the day he was.  

The ghost put a hand to his anchor, willing himself to calm down as he wrapped his fingers around the heart-shaped locket. He didn’t hate Arthur. At least, not anymore. Facing down a murderous, possessed kitsune together hadn’t magically spirited away the hurt Lewis had felt. His behavior towards Arthur had ranged from cold to cruel in the first couple of months following their reunion. During one disastrous case, it had gotten bad enough that the mechanic had almost walked away from the Mystery Skulls for good. While on an investigation out of town, Lewis had lost his tenuous grip on his temper and had blown up at the mechanic to a nuclear degree. Arthur had fled, even leaving his precious van behind, determined to hitchhike his way back home to Tempo. Mystery had tried to talk the mechanic out of it, but Vivi had ended up having to drag Arthur away from the roadside herself. With the mechanic refusing to talk, the blue-haired girl had resorted to taking him to a bar and had plied him with alcohol to get him to open up. Arthur had finally broken down into a blubbering mess after several drinks. Once their tab had been paid and the mechanic tucked away safely in the back of the van to sleep it off, Vivi had tracked down Lewis to give the ghost a piece of her mind with a stern lecture that Ma Pepper would have been proud of. While she was sympathetic to the ghost’s position, she reminded him that it wasn’t really Arthur who had pushed him off the cliff, and that the mechanic had been devastated and desperate to find Lewis after he’d gone missing. Vivi also pointed out it wasn’t fair to force her to choose between the faithful friend she’d had by her side over the past year and someone she had only just started to remember having loved. Faced with the prospect of tearing the Mystery Skulls apart and driving away the people he cared about, the ghost had begrudgingly agreed to try and put the past behind him.

With the winter winds swirling around him, Lewis could feel the beating of the heart in his hand slow to a steady thump, thump, thump as he reminisced. Things had been hard at first. The smallest of slights irked the ghost, and it took tremendous concentration to think before he snapped. He had still failed on occasion, with his only choice then being to leave his friends behind while he cooled off. Little by little though, he was able to box up his resentment and pack it away, having a much easier time dealing with it in smaller pieces. He then found he could control his anger, and even if it had become a part of him, it didn’t have to control him. Talking with Mystery had helped. The kitsune had centuries of life experience to draw from, and was more than happy to offer advice or just sit back and listen when Lewis needed him to. Vivi was just as willing to help, but couldn’t always stop herself from offering up ideas and solutions when Lewis talked about his problems. Sometimes it was nice to have someone to just listen without interruption. With time, practice, and help from his friends, the ghost was finally able to be around Arthur again, and being around his former friend reminded Lewis of why they had been friends in the first place. After a while, he found he actually liked being around Arthur, even in their new circumstances. He wanted to try and be friends again, but there had been so much to remedy between them. It had taken a long time for the mechanic to let his guard down around the ghost, not that Lewis could blame him. When he finally did, they had slowly begun to mend their friendship, but something was still missing. Lewis struggled at times to keep his distance, not wanting the mechanic to feel uncomfortable or threatened by his presence after so much bad blood between them. He waited respectfully for Arthur to bridge the gap, but, even now, the mechanic still seemed wary of him. Lewis had to wonder if his friend just needed more time or if he’d irreparably broken something between them. The ghost would never forgive himself if he’d missed his chance to fix things. Lewis looked at the locket in his hand and flipped it open. Eyes unclouded by anger, he could clearly see the picture of the four of them it contained. Together, just the way they should be.

All he wanted now was his best friend back.

Lewis heaved a sigh, closing the locket again as he prepared to continue his search. The sight of the golden heart had given him an idea. Concentrating, the spirit summoned his coffin, the dark lacquered wood standing out against the snow. The casket lid sprung open to reveal six purple-colored spirits, each adorned with a small golden heart of their own. The Dead Beats immediately poured out of the coffin, winding around Lewis’s shoulders and bumping up against his shins. Vivi had been enthralled to be able to study the small ghosts up close once they’d been formally introduced. According to Mystery, they were weaker spirits drawn to Lewis’s power, feeding on his cast-off energy. The kitsune had assured the Mystery Skulls that they weren’t some kind of paranormal parasite though, and no harm would come to Lewis from their presence. It was a symbiotic relationship, and while there was no direct benefit to him, Lewis did find he enjoyed their company. They reminded him of affectionate cats sometimes. Especially with the way they rubbed against his legs, humming instead of purring, as they did now.

“I’m happy to see you too,” Lewis said earnestly, patting at one of the little specters’ heads, “But right now I need your help. Can you do something for me?”

The Dead Beats harmonized in a way he knew meant ‘yes’.

��Good,” he replied, “Arthur is missing. I need you to split up and help me look for him. If you find him, come tell me where he is right away. Can you do that?”

Another affirmative humming sound.

“Thank you! Please, go as quick as you can!” Lewis set about pointing each of the Dead Beats in a different direction, one of them doubling back to see if Arthur had travelled further along the road Lewis had left behind. The others fanned out through the field to cover more ground and expand their search radius. Lewis watched as they took off in every direction, zipping over the snowbanks as they began to search for the mechanic. Satisfied, he continued forwards on the path he’d chosen for himself. There were now six extra sets of eyes looking for the lost mechanic. Lewis only hoped that if one of them did find Arthur, they wouldn’t try to play any tricks on him. The Dead Beats had quite a mischievous streak, with Arthur being the favorite target of their practical jokes and pranks. Having the extra help in his search was a huge relief, but Lewis knew he wouldn’t truly feel at ease until his friend had been safely recovered.

Please don’t let me be too late…to find him…to fix things.

There was still so much Lewis wanted to say. They never talked about that night in the cave, and though sometimes Lewis felt that they didn’t have to, he did wonder if it would help. He hoped he would get the chance to find out. While Lewis had calmed himself considerably, his worried thoughts still tumbled about like a brewing storm as he continued the search for his missing friend. He ignored that, deep beneath the hopes and fears he felt, a spark of anger was still burning in his chest, refusing to go out.

[the-awkward-outlaw]

"I won’t stop until I hear you scream.” give me more smut with low honor Arthur? Angst maybe?

Sorry this took so long! I promise, I am getting to all my requests but this has been a psychotic week. Also note I’ve never written for low honor Arthur, so this might be off personality as I’ve never played low honor either.

Warnings: do I need to add this? SMUT AHEAD

You ride along in the train next to Arthur, feeling stiff and slightly awkward. You had an argument with the outlaw recently. It was about Mary. Although you’ve been running with the gang about five years, you only hooked up with Arthur right before the Blackwater mess. You knew about Mary of course, but Arthur made no notion at all in the past five years that he was still interested in her. That was until a few days ago in Horseshoe Overlook when he got that damned letter from her. 

You read the letter of course. Arthur made no attempts in hiding it and he’d run off so quickly shortly after receiving it that you had no doubt he was going off to see her. When he got back, you immediately pounced on him, angry, bitter and stung that he was still chasing after her when he had you. As could have been predicted, he’d gotten nasty right back, telling you to stay out of his past business and reassuring you that nothing happened between them. Although Arthur was very rough on the edges and often rash, you knew deep down he’d never do anything to prove he was disloyal to the gang or to you either. It was extremely obvious to everyone that he prided himself on being your man, in owning you.

Arthur sits beside you on the train, swaying back and forth with you. “So you still ain’t talkin’, hmm?” he said sharply. He’d taken you out to Big Valley to try and sooth your nerves, and while the thick forests and swift streams had done you good, you’re still stung about that whole Mary business. 

“You didn’t even tell her you were seeing someone else,” you say. 

You can practically hear him roll his eyes. “It never came up, darlin’. Trust me, the moment she would have mentioned us being together, either in the past or the future, I would have told her exactly how things are. That I’m involved with you and will be for a long time. If you allow me to, that is.” 

You know his patience with you is running short. He always did have a small fuse. You sigh, knowing your frustration needs to end with him. Still, you’re wound up so tight from that Blackwater business and then fleeing into Colter and nearly freezing to death. You and Arthur have been so busy, there has been little opportunity for any intimacy between you. Then Arthur got that letter from Mary and your chances of being open to him became even smaller. You and Arthur have made love only once and that was just before the Blackwater massacre. 

To say having sex with Arthur has been the best sex of your life is an understatement. He’d been forceful and rough, but you liked it. He’d dominated you in a way no man in your past ever has and you loved every second of it. He’d tried being physical with you out in Big Valley, but you’d rejected him. Now you’re starting to wonder if your frayed nerves can be soothed by him helping you relax. 

When you get back to Horseshoe Overlook, it’s nearly dusk. You and Arthur grab some stew and join the others around the fire for a bit. When you think it’s late enough that people won’t find it suspicious why you’re going to bed so early, you tell Arthur you’re heading off to your shared tent. You lean in and whisper in his ear to come join you in a few moments. When you’re seated on the cot, you strip off your boots and then Arthur comes into the tent quickly, closing the tent flaps. He turns to you, a hungry look in his eye. 

You stand up, your face telling him to hold off for one second longer. “Arthur, we’ve hit our first rough patch. I don’t want this to become a pattern between us, but I was thinking maybe a little bit of… intimacy could do us some good.” 

He licks his lips and his eyes grow hungrier. “I agree, darlin’.” 

You smile and reach up to start unbuttoning your blouse when he rushes over and throws you down onto the cot. As soon as you’re down, his hands quickly undo your shirt, a few buttons ripping in your haste. You don’t mind, you can fix them tomorrow. As soon as he’s got your shirt open, he untucks your chemise from your jeans. Then his eyes grow even hungrier and he reaches into his satchel, pulling out some rope. 

“I’m gonna own you, darlin’,” he growls. He doesn’t move until you nod, your breath quickening. He ties your wrists together and then pins your hands above your head, tying them to a hook in one of the crates acting as the headrest to your cot. He didn’t do this your first time, but you kind of like it. Being completely vulnerable to him, giving him all control. 

He stands up just long enough to remove his boots, his satchel, hat and then finally his shirt. He doesn’t remove his pants, though you can see him pushing through his pants. He leans back onto the bed, hovering over you and then he grabs the hem of your chemise and slides it up, rumpling it under your chin. He studies your naked breasts for a moment, sending shivers through your spine. Finally, gratefully, he caresses them with his fingers. He’s gentle, delicate. He traces them so softly, you can barely feel him. God, he knows how to tease you. He rubs your nipples with his thumbs, flicking them and making them stand out even more. 

One of his hands strokes slowly down your stomach and undoes your jeans. When they’re open, he slides a hand in and finds your slit. You’re soaked already by this point and he grins, drawing a quick line up your slit, just fast and hard enough to make your hips lift just so. 

“You want this?” he asks, suddenly grabbing his bulging package. You’re gasping under him and nod.

“Please, Arthur,” you say breathily.

He grins and then stands up, ripping your pants off all the way. Then he removes his own. Your knees have gone up, you haven’t really been paying attention. He puts his hands on your knees and spreads them, making it so you’re completely exposed to him. He stares unashamedly at your wet opening. 

“I’m gonna have fun with you,” he says as you tremble, your hands still tied up. His hands go to his erection and he pumps a few times, making it even harder, the head darker. Then he reaches over and slips a finger into your dripping folds, making you gasp. Finally, oh finally, he’s touching you where you need it, but it’s not enough.

“Oh Arthur,” you say, your eyes closing as he tickles your nub and clit. Your hips begin to pump up and down in sync with the movement of his hand. His fingers drift down to caress your opening where you want him most. “Please,” you groan. 

He chuckles darkly and his hand moves back up to your clit, stroking it more. Then he slides his whole body over you and without warning pushes his cock into your core. You gasp again and wince. You hadn’t been quite prepared for him, but he feels so good you don’t care. You were built for one another. His length fits you perfectly, and it’s curved in such a way that he can brush your spot with ease. He begins pounding into you, pushing against it now. You move your hips with his, the friction mounting between you.

His hands plant onto your knees and then he pushes them up and farther apart, allowing him to sink even further into you. He kisses you as you gasp and moan.

“You close?” he asks huskily. 

“Mm, you’re close, big guy.” 

He smiles against your lips and he continues to pound himself into you, his thrusts becoming less rhythmic. Your walls clench around him hard and that ends him. He pumps a few hard times into you, and then one last hard time, his cock spurting into you. 

As he grows soft, he pulls himself out of you, making you twitch and whine. He’s not going to leave you like this, is he? You’d come close, but now your own release is ebbing away. 

“Arthur,” you pout and open your eyes. 

“Oh don’t worry, darlin’. I’m gonna take care of you.” 

Your knees are still spread apart and he stares down at your opening, the leaking juices. He reaches both hands into your slit, one spreading your folds apart to expose your clit to the cool air. With the other, he rubs and pushes it. His hand glides up and down your soaked slit and you begin to pant and groan. Your hips sway up and down in time with his hand. God, he feels incredible. 

His hand begins to push harder and he glides faster until he stops on your clit. He begins circling it, hard and fast. It’s too much! The sensations rip through you, fogging your brain. “Ar… Arthur, I’m gonna… I’m gonna… I’m gonna…!”

His hand holding you open lets you go and squeezes your nub while he continues circling and pressing your clit. That’s it, you’re tipping over the edge. He doesn’t stop as you tip your head back and grab onto the rope holding your hands, your toes curling and your hips digging into the bed. It’s too much and you start trying to pull away, but he just moves with you and you’re hindered by the rope. 

“Arthur! Please, I can’t… I can’t anymore!” you whimper as another orgasm rips through you. If you keep going like this, you’re going to explode. 

“I won’t stop until I hear you scream,” he says darkly and his hands continue to work. His fingers squeeze your nub as his other tickles your mound. Then, he removes one hand, opening you again and his hand on your clit begins sliding up and down extremely fast, pushing and rubbing your nub and your clit at the same time. You didn’t know you could orgasm a third time so soon, but you are and it overwhelms you. You’ve been trying to keep quiet during the fucking since you’re in camp, but Arthur clearly wants them all to know exactly what he’s doing to you. 

“Please, Arthur,” you cry, “I… I’m gonna… I can’t…” 

“Just let it go, love. The sooner you do, the sooner this will all be over.” He continues running his hand up and down your slit with speed, but he pushes even harder. Your hips suddenly, involuntarily jerk up and you’re completely overtaken by your orgasm. It forces your head back and your mouth to open, your voice coming out in a sharp, hard release. Your entire body shakes and he stimulates you again and again. Without warning, you feel moisture squeeze out of you and onto his hands. You’ve never done that before. Satisfied, Arthur’s hand slows down and then stops. 

“Yeah, you’re alright girl,” he says deeply, grinning mischievously at you as you pant on the cot. 

“Damn it, Arthur,” you say, completely exhausted. “Next time you’re trying to do something that requires you to be silent, I’m going to come and make it impossible for you to remain so.” 

“That better be a promise,” he says with a grin. He leans down and kisses you.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 93 - Campfire Stories Part 3

Okay, final chapter of Campfire stories, then we are back to our regularly scheduled shenanigans.

Chapter 93: Campfire Stories, Part 3

After Tyche’s story, we took a break to get stuff for s’mores - Charly, Conor, and Simon had teamed up on me, swearing a camping trip was incomplete without them. In lieu of the traditional fire, we were heating them with a short-term portable unit, only good for ten minutes, tops. While I wasn’t worried either way, not particularly liking marshmallows, Charly had taken it upon herself to do rather rigorous testing and assured everyone that the desserts would turn out right.

Once everyone who wanted it had sticky fingers, Conor politely swallowed his fourth sugary concoction. “These are too good, you know?”

“No such thing,” Simon argued. “Be as suspicious as you like, but I firmly believe in taking whatever joy we can get out of life and not pointing it out. Hoping God doesn’t notice, if you get my drift.”

I chuckled, while Arthur looked alarmed. “I did not expect that from you, lucky bastard.”

Simon shook his head furiously. “No. I know I wasn’t in the After, but life on its own was unfair and unjust enough before that. When you get those small moments of ecstatic delight - love, a good dinner, a happy dog, a chance to be kind - you just take it, and don’t let the universe know. Life never apologized for being harsh, I’m not going to apologize for any scrap of happiness I could find.”

“But some things can be far too good,” Conor insisted, picking his teeth thoughtfully. “My family always warned against things like that.  The things to be afraid of weren’t the… scarred or damaged ones, but the ones that are flawless. That’s how you spot them, right?”

“Spot whom?” Grey asked, trying to wipe chocolate from their fingers.

“Witches, at least the evil ones. Fae. That sort.” He scrunched his face thoughtfully and leaned back. Tyche arched a brow, and he lunged to point at her. “See? That. You and Sophie arch that brow so much that it’s permanently just a wee bit higher than the other. That makes your face your face. But a face that’s entirely symmetrical? It’s so wrong that even artificial intelligence makes a point to avoid it.”

“Uncanny valley,” I offered, nodding.

He nodded to me. “Exactly. It’s uncanny. Not just in people. I was warned away from perfect circles in nature as a boy. Stones, a patch of grass, any perfect circles.  Fairy circles, they called it.  My parents told me about a girl who lived near where they grew up, didn’t listen about the woods. Said there was a stand of trees in the woods with a clearing in the middle.”

“Conor -” Charly tried to interrupt.

He waved her off. “The clearing wasn’t a normal one, see? It was exactly perfect, ten feet across from tree to tree, even if they never got an accurate count of trees. Da said twelve, Ma said sixteen. Nan swore blue it was ten. But all agreed that clearing was ten feet across, tree to tree.”

“Con…” This time it was Maverick, glancing around furtively.

Still, he kept on. “What made this clearing so memorable, were the trees around it.  Like a snowflake, they were. Closer, but just as even between. Seven feet, precise, no matter who measured it.  Then five.”

“Conor, please,” Charly begged, scooting closer to her partner.  Even Coffee was giving the clearing a serious gaze at this point.

“The worst part, though,” he soldiered on, “was what told them it was clearly either a cursed place or a Mound: the trees themselves.  Any one of them gave a normal person shivers and turned them back if they looked.  The trees, you get, were just as bad as the woods themselves. Completely symmetrical, like a spoked wheel.  And each ring of trees was exactly the same height, taller ones around the clearing.” He huffed a bit before continuing. “And this girl… this girl, you see? She’d been warned out of those woods since she was knee high to her da. But she kept wandering off, after cats and butterflies and a pretty flower here and there…”

Simon and Maverick were scowling at the trees around us at this point, with Maverick scooting closer to me and periodically glancing at Tyche to make sure she’s still there.

“One day, when he was about sixteen, Da says he saw the girl - she was maybe ten - taking off down the path, pretty as you please. At this point, he knew about her: Doreen.  Dreamin’ Doreen. Ten years old, cute as a kitten, and prone to wanderin’ off. So he followed her, makin’ sure she didn’t get in trouble, right?  And at first, she’s just… toddling off, if that’s what you can call it for a ten-year old. Right down the trail, not a step off, dead center.  But then.  Then she just turns, takes a hard left off the trail, between the trees, like she’s following something.

Da was right behind her, only looking away for a second at a time to make sure nothing was coming up on them. After about a half hour of this, he barely registered that the trees were thinner and… odd. Something about the trees bothered him, but he swore he couldn’t figure it out at first. Then, he turned back, and Doreen was gone. No sound, nothing. Just… gone. He started looking for her, thinking she couldn’t have gotten far, but after about five more steps, he saw the clearing.

Even panicked, he knew not to set foot in that clearing.  He screamed and screamed for Doreen - they heard him all the way back in town, came running, and he was still hollering for her. When they started to drag him away, he fought ‘em off until Nan stopped him.

Nan grabbed his arm, pointed to a tree, right on the trunk. Those trees were so… perfect… that the damned bark looked like tile on a pillar, not like real bark. Every piece, just as pretty and even as you please.  The leaves were the same, could be folded in half and look like they were cut instead. Da swore blind that lookin’ up through those branches was like looking through a bike wheel, the branches were so even-spaced. ‘They din’t look like trees, son,’ he always told me. ‘They looked like trees were described to a sculptor who never seen one’.

To the day they died, they swore that place was a faerie ring, that Doreen got taken by the Sidhe. No one ever found any of her, not a hair, not a bone, not even a scrap of her clothes,” he ground out, frustration clear. “Worse, there was never any proof, ever, that a person had ever stepped foot in those woods. Not even DNA testing on something a person plucked and handed to a researcher, with video proving it happened. Never did figure out what happened in there, not to Doreen or anyone else.”

By this point, Tyche was looking suspiciously at the clearing, and that set of alarm bells in my head. “Conor,” she drawled slowly. “You do realize that the clearing we’re in is… really rather round, and ten, maybe eleven feet across?” He just grunted, staring into the light emitter like he had been since the end of his story. “Conor.” Her tone was firm and more emphatic. “You just told that story in a clearing of fourteen trees, ten feet across, with just enough space between the trees outside for tents. Maybe seven feet?”

When he didn’t respond, she scowled at him and stepped close to a tree.  Maverick tried to stop her, but she flung off the arm he reached out. “You shit, these trees… Grey. Can you and Charly come here?” Charly shook her head vigorously, while Grey cautiously stepped over. After a couple minutes, Tyche made a point to stare down Charly, firmly gesturing as politely as possible to stand right here please.

Eventually, all three were looking up at the branches over their heads. Far from her hesitation earlier, Charly marched over to Conor with what I could only describe as ‘intent to kill’.  While I looped an arm around her waist, she flailed with all four limbs at him. “You rat faced walnut! You did this on purpose! Lemme down! Let me at him!!!”

To his credit, he flinched away from the angry ball of woman I was keeping away from him. “Char! It was a joke, I swear!” Peeking around his hands, he still flinched a little. “It was just a prank.”

That last word seemed to deflate her entirely. Suddenly, instead of a brunette bundle of possessed weasel, I had a very calm woman gently patting my elbow. “You can let go now, I won’t hit him.”

Hesitantly, I set her back on her feet.  Glancing back at Coffee, he nodded, so I relinquished my grip on her entirely. She pushed her hair out of her face with both hands and spun to sit beside her partner. My face must have shown my confusion in brilliant technicolor. “It was just a prank,” she clarified. “I got fooled. I’ll figure out a way to get him back,” she waved nonchalantly.

“Without including me or Maverick?” I asked, arms crossed.

“Shoot.” She bit her thumb. “Yeah, I can do that. It’ll just be harder.”

“I doubt it would be harder than a prank three months in the making,” Arthur pointed out, still looking at the trees with suspicion. “Three, right?”

“Four,” Grey corrected, staring impassively at the bark on the tree. “How did you get the bark to grow in a tile pattern?”

Conor rubbed his neck and grinned abashedly. “A razor, when they were still young enough the bark hadn’t split naturally?  It was just a score, to make specific weak points where it would split better. And I stopped when I couldn’t reach anymore.”

With that comment, Coffee surged to his feet and stalked to the closest tree.  After a close inspection and a not-at-all-discrete rub of his hand over the tree bark, he nodded. “I can confirm the bark is much more random above seven feet. The detail is very well done, though.” He glanced back at Conor with an impressed expression. “Four months planning did not go to waste.”

“Thank fuck,” Conor chuckled. He looked over his shoulder at Simon, who was still running a careful hand over one of the trees.

“I didn’t know this was possible,” Simon admitted. “You did this with a razor?”

“Trees split into bark when the outer layer gets so dry and firm that it stops stretching,” Grey explained. Conor pointed at them, choosing to be silent. “Since any substance in nature splits along the weakest point, scoring the young bark with a razor, especially if done repeatedly, would cause the bark to split along the scores.”

A dawning look shot across Simon’s face, echoed by a matching expression on Charly’s. “Conor,” Simon ventured. “These trees were force-grown until they were planted. How often did you score them?”

“Two, three times a day?” he winced. “I didn’t want to damage them, so the cuts were really shallow until the bark started to establish. Just so I could tell where to keep scoring.”

“Do we have co - Oh! Thanks, Mr. Farro!” Charly grinned sunnily at Arthur.

“Just… just Arthur right now, okay?” He carefully capped the thermos of hot chocolate.

“Right, you bet, Mr. Farro.” He winced, but she continued blithely. “I have to admit, four months on a prank is a lot to invest, but it paid off.” A careful sip of her drink, followed by a marshmallow coming from nowhere and dropping in. “You literally cultivated a stand of trees to pull this off. Well done, sir. Very well done.”

<< Prev  Masterlist  Next >>

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 5

Merlin's word is law, but neither of them have ever cared much for obeying authority.

A/N: This was one of those fun chapters that fights you at every stage, whether that be in the planning, the writing, or the editing. I am semi-satisfied with the outcome for now, so we are still posting on schedule. Enjoy. :-)

Chapter 5

Truths the Shadows Hide

It was a truth she barely admitted to herself and would certainly never have uttered aloud, but when Merlin had first dragged a wide-eyed street urchin across Camelot’s threshold and proclaimed the boy his new apprentice, Morgana had found herself unexpectedly jealous of her successor. The unwelcome feeling had nothing to do with Hisirdoux himself; The boy was charming, in a bumbling, everything-is-probably-on-fire-but-don’t-look-until-I’ve-put-it-out sort of way. She would have needed to be the heartless witch her brother made her out to be not to find his vibrant energy at least a little endearing; The determined enthusiasm of a stubborn child who had refused to stay down no matter how many times the world knocked his feet out from beneath him.

She knew how difficult it was for magical creatures outside the castle walls to survive. She could easily imagine what little Douxie and his familiar must have been through before Merlin had one of his rare moments of self-serving charity, and it was to her shame that she had not done more to make him feel welcome within his new home.

If she had not been stewing in her own feelings of bitter resentment, she could have encouraged that rebellious streak she knew was hiding beneath the hero worship Douxie held for his mentor. She could have been a buffer between her old teacher’s ridiculous standards and the impressionable child he had taken under his wing. Instead, she had chosen to stand back, to distance herself from her mentor’s young ward, despite the fact it had always been Merlin she was angry at.

Merlin, and her brother

Her powers had never been treated as something to be celebrated. Arthur had been afraid of her from the moment that first, fierce argument between them brought the room alive to echo her fury. Sometimes, she thought Merlin had felt the same. He called her his finest student — behind her back where she wasn’t meant to hear — yet for the duration of her apprenticeship she had always been given the impression he did not trust her. He had treated her like a fire he was trying to contain, not a flame that needed to be nurtured, and the ire she had felt over being leashed and bound by her brother’s prejudices had only grown worse when Merlin replaced her with a student he had freely chosen. A student he was all too happy to teach new spells to. Hisirdoux was not permitted to use many of the incantations he was learning, but that had not stopped the envy that had overshadowed their interactions, a weakness she had allowed to go on for far too long.

It had been petty, unworthy of the person she was trying to be, and she regretted it now. Worse still, she feared there would be no opportunity to right that wrong; That Douxie would die still believing he would never measure up in Merlin’s eyes, his only friend in the world an eccentric little dragon. She couldn’t even find the right words to comfort his distraught familiar, devastated by the truth Merlin had forced her to confirm, and the feeling of helplessness growing in her chest was slowly turning into the irresistible impulse to do something, anything but sit still and await the inevitable.

They had both returned to the bedchamber in the wake of Merlin’s departure, Archie curled against the boy’s side, his head resting on his wizard’s ribs so he could both watch and feel each quiet breath. Morgana had taken one of Douxie’s cold hands in her own, a physical connection that allowed her to make sure Merlin’s stopgap solution was holding together, and perhaps offer some comfort in those moments when the reality of his condition seemed to break the peaceful respite of his slumber.

It didn’t feel like enough. All that training, all those spells, and she was still as useless as she had been years ago in the woods. Merlin would never admit as much, but she could tell he was no less frustrated. Clutching at straws and trying to will a solution into being, whilst ignoring that which she had offered like the old fool he was.

With a sigh, she reached out to gently run a hand through Douxie’s tangled locks, murmuring reproachfully to herself as she did so. “You deserve better. From both of us.”

“Do you really think it would help?” They were the first words Archie had spoken since Merlin left them both alone in the tower, and it took her a moment to follow the pattern of his thoughts.

“Yes,” she answered honestly. “The Shadow Realm is dangerous, and for every truth it might show you there are just as many falsehoods. But it is also a mirror, a reflection of our world, and what is destroyed here may still survive within its borders, particularly when dark magic is the cause.”

Archie lifted himself off his familiar’s chest, leaving just his paws resting there, to look her directly in the eye. “Is Merlin right? If you tried, could you bring back something that isn’t Douxie?”

“It is possible.” She wasn’t Merlin; She would not hide the dangers. “There are powers there that would be all too eager to escape into the mortal world. But there are ways to avoid them. The risk would be slim.”

“And if we do nothing?”

“No living creature can survive without a soul, Archie.” She made the words gentle, as if that could soften the blow. “Dark magic might keep him alive, if you could find someone willing to perform the ritual, but he would be bound to whoever’s power sustained him; A slave to their will.”

Archie fell silent, his eyes drifting back to his familiar’s pale face as he contemplated her words. “It seems we don’t really have a choice then, do we?”

“You want to try?” She was both surprised and impressed. “Even after Merlin expressly forbade it?”

“I am Douxie’s familiar, not Merlin. I looked after him for years before we came here, and that’s not going to change because some old wizard thinks he knows better.”

“Quite right.” Still, she hesitated, because Archie had been right in his earlier admonishment. “What about Douxie? You wanted the choice to be his, did you not?”

Archie was quiet for a somber moment. “Is he going to wake up again?”

“There is every chance that he will.” There was also an equal chance that he wouldn’t. She didn’t think Archie needed to hear that right now. “Merlin’s spell is holding. So long as it continues to do so he shouldn’t get any worse.”

“But he won’t get any better, either.”

“No.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving his wizard’s face. “We’ve been together for a long time now, Douxie and I. I trust him with my life, and I know he feels the same way.” He drew in a long, deep breath, turning to her with a gaze that seemed to look right through her. “If we do this, then I am extending that faith to you as well, Lady Morgana. I am entrusting you, as a dragon, with what is most precious to me. Do you understand what that means?”

“I do.” Merlin be damned. She hadn’t been able to save Guinevere. She couldn’t do anything for the countless other lives Arthur had already destroyed. But she could make a difference here. She could help someone. “I swear to you, Archie, that I would sooner hand myself over to Arthur’s brutes than bring Douxie to any harm.”

“Alright, then.” He seemed taken aback by the vehemence of her words. “When you put it that way, there’s really no reason to delay this, is there?”

She glanced at the door, trying to guess how much time they had before Merlin returned. It didn’t really matter; He would be too late to stop them as soon as they were on the other side of the portal. With that in mind, she drew her staff out of her cloak, extending it to its full length and letting darkness overtake the white wood.

“Stay close to me,” she directed, gathering the shadows in the room to form their gateway to the other side. “I don’t know what we’ll find in there.”

There was a flash of golden light, then Archie landed on her shoulder in his feline form, claws latching onto her cloak as his tail wrapped around her neck. She exchanged a glance with him as the portal took shape; A final question. When all he did was nod, she turned and plunged them both into the unknown.

It always took a moment to adjust after the disorientation of moving from a world that made sense into the bizarre otherness of the Shadow Realm. It was a reflection of the mortal plane, that much was true, but a jumbled, shattered reflection that made little sense to those not skilled in navigating it. She had had no teacher during her first forays into its mysteries — Merlin had always been adamant in his refusal to even so much as discuss dark magic — but she had learnt from what mistakes she made during those early ventures. She knew this place as well as it was possible to know a mystery, and she recognised almost at once that something was amiss.

Amidst the tumbling rocks and endless darkness were sharp streaks of colour; Red, blue, and purple cut jagged, intertwining lines across the shadows, like someone had taken a knife to a hanging sheet in a fit of fury. They sparked with unstable energy, tears in the veil between worlds that widened and narrowed in fluctuating waves.

“Well,” Archie spoke in her ear. “This is all deeply unnerving.”

“This isn’t right,” she agreed, using one of the drifting boulders to propel them closer to the strange fissures. She could see figures moving on the other side, like peering through a fogged window. Voices and sounds reached her, their subtleties muffled by the invisible barrier. “Something terrible happened here.”

“Do you think it was the Arcane Order?” Crouched low on her neck, Archie peered distrustfully at the strange manifestation of magic. “Is it because of what they did to Douxie?”

“I don’t know.” She had never seen anything like it before. For the first time in years, she found herself uneasy within the boundaries of her favoured domain. “Let’s just find Douxie. We can worry about all of this once he is safe.”

Archie murmured his agreement, and she closed her eyes in concentration, honing in on Hisirdoux’s unique magical signature. To her bewilderment, she found her attention drawn in a dozen different directions, none of them providing a strong enough resonance to give her a definitive path by which to travel. She felt as though she was shouting into the void, echoes warping the answer, so it seemed as though she were searching for many instead of one.

Drawing her attention back inward, she waited for that dizzying duality to fade, narrowing her search as she pictured the room she had left from; The bed and the boy within it. Without looking, she felt the world shift around her, and when she opened her eyes she was standing within those four walls again, albeit a version that was bare of colour and furnishings both. The only object in the chamber was a black staff, held aloft by a jagged piece of ice that carved its way upwards like a weathered mountain peak, tapering to razor-thin fingers that curled around the weapon’s handle. The staff’s focussing stone — a cyan jewel that had no doubt once been its crowning glory — was shattered down the middle, molten veins marking a spiralling pattern where it had fractured. The broken shards had not fallen, drifting around the largest fragment still inset in the staff, tethered to their origin by thin, intertwining threads of green and purple.

Crouched on her shoulder, Archie voiced his unease, “What is that?”

“It looks like a wizard’s staff....” she answered the familiar hesitantly, carefully crossing the space between them and the strange pedestal. Nothing happened as she drew near, or as she reached out to gently prod one of the shards with the tip of her finger.  It moved as if they were under water, drifting away from her slowly until it reached the end of its tether and was tugged in another direction.

Emboldened, she took one of the pieces in her hand and pressed it back into its rightful place. The world shuddered the moment the sliver clicked into position, the darkness rising, growing, and descending upon them like a wave. She raised her staff too late; It crashed over them, forces that she could not see tugging them in a multitude of directions at once.

She was whipped about like a dry leaf in a fearsome gale, her eyes alighting on a glimpse of their quarry for only a second before they were scattered once more. Snatches of conversation assailed her, no more than three or five words at a time, happiness mingled with anger and twisted with grief. Gritting her teeth, she locked her fingers about the staff in her hands, stoking her outrage, her fury at the ones responsible for this. The emotion grew from glowing embers into a blazing inferno; With the force of that anger, she imposed her will on the shadows around them, commanding the world to a halt with a mental shout.

It obeyed with a suddenness that had her staggering in place, Archie digging his claws in as he threw his weight against her own to stop her pitching down the dark abyss that opened up before her feet. She reeled backwards, sitting abruptly and taking a moment to regain her breath before glancing about their new surroundings.

They had emerged in a crumbling replica of the castle courtyard, the cobblestones beneath her feet cracked with age and neglect. Weeds nudged their way upwards through every crook and cranny they could find, stretching like ropes across the black void that had torn the ground asunder, forming a tangled web of floating islands. The towers that usually stood, proud and shining overhead, were broken and drifting in the emptiness of the Shadow Realm, the same ruptures she had seen upon their entry having wreaked their havoc here as well. There were whispers on the air, a slow chant that could only be magic, and a shiver ran down her spine.

The sensation of eyes upon her back prompted her to glance over her shoulder, finding nothing but the churning tempest from which they had emerged.

“What now?” Archie asked, readjusting his glasses as he peered at their surroundings with open distrust. Morgana rose, trying to appear more confident then she felt as she lifted her eyes to Merlin’s tower. It was still intact, unlike the rest of the keep, and there was a light shining forth from its windows.

Crouching, she shoved off the cracked cobblestones beneath her feet, bounding her way up and over the shattered battlements to land on the narrow walkway that led to the Master Wizard’s study. There was another of the rifts in the air beside her, slowly devouring crumbling stone, what was solid and immovable in the material world turning to dust as it was swept away. She turned her back on the disconcerting sight, treading carefully towards the workshop door. It resisted her first attempt to enter, refusing to budge as she threw her weight against it. She was forced to take a step back, raising her hand and letting her magic slam it open.

The room inside had been overtaken. Not by magic or the strange fissures outside, but a bright and verdant network of vines that bound the entire room together. They were everywhere; Climbing the walls, crisscrossing the floor, creeping across the ceiling. Even those she had snapped off to get inside were already reforming, stretching across the entrance to bar the way out.

Or the way in.

The central table was missing, she noted, as she stepped further inside, as were all the other doors and windows. A layer of frost dusted every surface, yet the stonework beneath the greenery was blackened. It looked as though a terrible fire had swept through the room, ashes still drifting lazily within the contained space. They settled on the floor, atop the the vines snaking their way across the stones, and the boy lying curled on his side in the centre of it all.

“Douxie?” Archie leapt from her shoulder, shifting into his winged form to glide to his familiar’s side. He tested the creepers wrapped about his wizard with his paw; They neither tightened nor loosened their grip, and Archie turned back to the boy they held. “Douxie, can you hear me?”

The young wizard didn’t stir. As she drew nearer, Morgana realised he was clutching something in his hands. A white box, gilded in gold, that she had seen countless times in Merlin’s hands, though she had never been permitted to know its mysteries herself.

“The time map...”

Carefully, she lowered herself beside the boy and his familiar. Something crunched beneath her boots as she did so; Shards of a dark green gemstone she did not recognise. The pieces neither exploded nor started to glow upon being crushed underfoot, so she dismissed them, reaching out to ease the enchanted box from Douxie’s limp fingers. It lit up as soon as she opened it, the soft glow bright amidst the room’s heavy darkness, flickering images dancing by too quickly for her to understand what she was seeing.

It froze locked on a likeness of her own face, twisted in rage. She glanced at Archie, the familiar looking as deeply unsettled as she felt. Before either of them could give voice to their thoughts, the image cupped in her hands expanded, and the room around them disappeared in the blink of an eye.

There was no furious maelstrom this time, nor even the darkness that one could reasonably expect within a place named for the shadows. Instead, she found herself floating within a pale dome of light, surrounded by a myriad of moving images. They drifted around her in a slow rotation, pausing just long enough to offer her a tantalising glimpse of their contents before moving on.

Most made little sense to her: A blurred, barely there impression of calloused but gentle hands, the touch familiar even if the heavy weight that settled about a too small wrist was not; A terrible noise, blind panic, flames, and a moonless night that turned every strange shape into a monster; A world that was too big for the child scampering through it, trying to avoid being trampled whilst diving for dropped crusts amidst the dirt; Pain, blood, and a deep, wrenching sense of loneliness; A dark corner, lit by the dimmest of glows, and a strange rumbling noise that sparked enough curiosity to crawl out of hiding.

It was not until the pictures became clearer, not until she started to see surroundings that she recognised and a little black cat darting hither and thither, that she realised what she was looking at. These, the more recent memories, were much less distorted, and yet at the same time there was a strange overlap of events, as though two different versions were unfolding at the same time. She watched, drawn in by the surreal experience of seeing herself through another’s eyes; Her many quarrels with her brother and her teacher alike revealed in vivid detail before her. There was some measure of guilt in the realisation of just how often Douxie had played a silent witness to such conflicts, standing forgotten in the background as his elders argued back and forth.

That thought was recognised and forgotten in almost the same heartbeat, because the images had not stopped. The present day had come and gone and she was looking now at things that had not happened. That could not have happened. Wariness growing in the back of her mind, she floated forward slowly, reaching out to touch one of the false recollections. The colours warped, forming a vice that locked around her wrist, and she and Archie were both wrenched right through the mirage.

She staggered, the ground beneath her feet uneven and covered with long grass that snared about her ankles. There was a thick, unnatural mist obscuring her vision — or was it smoke? — vague sounds of battle, voices she recognised and some she did not. She thought she saw Arthur, the light of Excalibur burning bright, and... and...

She froze, horror closing around her throat like a vice as she beheld herself, staff raised in fury as she cast magic at her own brother. She saw Douxie, running, hand outstretched to intervene though he must have known he was too far away. The spell in her palm and Excalibur’s edge collided in a surge of golden light that grew and grew until all of the world was washed away in a burst of energy that consumed them all.

[twosentencereviews]

Why “Joker” is not good

I’m going to break from my usual two-sentence schtick because I think people are misinterpreting the film “Joker” and someone needs to set the record straight.

First, Arthur Fleck is not The Joker. In all prior incarnations (most notably Mark Hamill and Heath Ledger), The Joker was defined by a handful of traits that Arthur Fleck completely lacks. The Joker was gleefully violent and disruptive; Arthur was pushed into violence against his will (or, so the film wants us to believe). The Joker was charismatic and persuasive; Arthur is isolated, lonely, and struggles with interpersonal relationships. The Joker was frighteningly competent; Arthur is a continual failure. The Joker had the Dark Triad of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy, but was notably clear-headed; Arthur is clearly capable of empathy, but is delusional, has laughing fits, and has BPD-like abandonment issues. 

Maybe the film isn’t trying to be true to canon. That by itself would be fine--not great, just fine--but the film bends over backwards to insert Thomas and Bruce Wayne into a plot that ultimately doesn’t have any room for them. It teases that Arthur might be Bruce’s half-brother, and then throws that out the window. It teases that Arthur might be the one to kill the Wayne parents, then he doesn’t. It sets up a social movement against Thomas Wayne using a clown motif, that Arthur disavows and distances himself from. There’s zero payoff for anything involving the Waynes, making it an utter waste of time.

Speaking of utter wastes of time, the entire “imaginary girlfriend” subplot goes nowhere and does nothing. I thought it might be leading to a Harley-Quinn type scenario, but no, the delusion cracks and is never brought up again. Likewise, the twist that he was adopted and abused as a child is completely baffling--wouldn’t he remember that? It’s a thin excuse for him to kill his mother so that he can complete his transformation (such as it is).

People also praise Joaquin Phoenix’s acting. He’s undeniably talented (”Her” was great) and is giving 100%, but his script gives him nothing to work with, because Arthur’s motivation is entirely unclear. What does he actually want? He latches on to Thomas Wayne and Murray as surrogate fathers, but then kills Murray. He seems to hate working as a clown, but getting fired is portrayed as some great betrayal by “the world”. He hated meeting his social worker, but then the program is shut down. He toggles from loving his mother to killing her with little justification. Because of this, you get lines in the script like “Arthur dances down the stairs” or “Arthur climbs into his fridge” that Phoenix does with gusto, but which fail to illuminate anything about the character.

The last point I’m going to make is that the film wants to try to frame Arthur’s flaws as “society’s” problem, but misses the point. Most of Arthur’s suffering is the result of capitalism. He’s forced to work a crappy job to support his ailing mother, while garbage piles up due to a protest against unfair labor practices, and the only social service trying to help him gets defunded. These are all very real reasons to get upset. But the film goes out of its way to construct an “eat the rich” boogeyman in the form of the clown rioters, that Arthur dismisses and ignores. In his overblown ending monologue, Arthur essentially lumps the anti-capitalists and the capitalists together as equally guilty. And when Arthur lashes out, who does he hurt? He hurts his mother, his former coworker, and a talk show host, people who may have been individually responsible for his suffering but don’t fit into any larger pattern.

The film’s greatest strengths are in its technical execution, in terms of set design, costuming, musical score, cinematography, and editing. It looks like a smart film. It has the pacing and the tone of a smart film. And it positioned itself in marketing as a cutting edge “real talk” movie that “they” don’t want you to see. As such, I think Joker is vague enough that people who are also feeling frustrated and alone can project onto the film and say “Finally, someone who understands” when in reality, the film is a mess that doesn’t understand itself, the world, or even its own source material.

I you’re thinking about seeing Joker, I would recommend instead watching The Machinist, Memento, Fight Club, Nightcrawler, Taxi Driver, or Leon: the Professional. There is a long film tradition of “isolated crazy white guy lashes out at the world around him” that Joker is imitating but not living up to.

[mimiswitchywrites]

Not A Burden: Chapter 4

TW: SH references, attempted s****de and references, child/s***al a**se references (not graphic but enough that could be triggering)

Masterlist or Read on AO3

2.3k words

---------

Gaius watched as the young girl shuffled in her sleep. She had tears trailing down her cheeks and was sweating profusely. He soaked the cloth again, pressing it against her head, cheeks and chest, and prayed to whatever was out there that the poor girl would be okay. He was well versed in the world of nightmares – his years caring for Morgana has assured that – but rarely had he seen someone with ones such as this.

The only time, he thought, was Charlie. He had returned from enemy territory a changed man. He could hardly keep his eyes closed longer than a minute before seeing the atrocities he had faces in their dungeons. The poor man ended up with a case of hysteria and walked off one day with only the clothes on his back, and never returned. Now, with more knowledge, Gaius hoped he could treat her before she ended that way.

Her right arm was healing nicely – scabbing over – but her left was in far from ideal condition. Arthur had reported that she had hit it on his chest plate at some point, and others had mentioned her picking at the wraps which seemed to amount to a slight infection. She had lost too much blood before being able to rest properly and the fact that she hadn’t collapsed into a sweating mess earlier truly impressed the aged physician. She was weak, both mentally and physically, and there was little he could do.

He dabbed her skin with the cloth again.

--

The candles in the tavern were burning low and with it came Gwaine’s high. He had drowned himself in ale, mead, cider and wine as soon as he had returned home (whether home was Camelot or The Rising Sun was still up for debate) and, even after two days, he showed no sign of stopping. At first, the other knights – both those of the Round Table and not – had joined him. Many a game of dice and cards were played, but eventually they left.

They always will. Another gulp of whatever was in his tankard, he’d lost track.

He traced the patterns on the table with his finger (fingers? He couldn’t tell how many were really there anymore) and felt his eyes growing heavy. He found a face in the wood, with thin lips and an angular jaw – it reminded him of his first infatuation. His first rejection. A final gulp.

His forehead found the table and snores soon followed.

--

Arthur sat at his desk, holding a blank piece of parchment and his favourite quill – the one Merlin had given him. He was trying to write a speech for an upcoming council meeting but all he could think about was his manservant. The, usually joyous, man had been distracted since they had arrived back, and he was unsure what to do about this. If Merlin were a knight, he would propose a fight or Torny or hunting trip (maybe not, that could be in bad taste even if he were a knight) but Merlin was not. Merlin was a country boy that practically cried at the thought of killing a fly, let alone fighting a full human with swords and armour. The king was stumped.

He wanted Merlin to smile again. They had barely performed their usual banter, all attempts by Arthur had fallen flat. He had even called Arthur ‘sire’ but it had none of it’s usual sarcasm, it seemed genuine which left an odd taste in Arthurs mouth. No, it would not do.

He slammed the parchment down, placing the quill next to it gently, and dropped his head in his hand. A frustrated groan escaped his lips.

A knock on the door interrupted his spiralling.

“Enter.”

Merlin stumbled in, basket in his arms. Merlin never knocks. The king squinted, discomfort over the situation growing. Giving up, he finally asked the question that had been plaguing him for days: “what’s wrong with you?”

Merlin’s head shot up from where it was rummaging through the pile of dirty clothes. He turned to face Arthur; confusion painted over his features. His eyebrows were pulled in, emphasising those lines in the middle of his forehead. His lips fell open and Arthur forced himself not to focus on them, and what they could do or where he wanted them to be.

“What?” As if Arthur ever had a reason to think Merlin was being formal with him.

“You’ve resembled the back end of a cat for days now. I don’t like it,” upon noticing Merlin smile as if about to make a remark about how the king cared or some other equally girly falsehood, he added, “it’s been affecting your work ethic. Be normal again.” He nodded, there, fixed it.

Merlin’s smile grew and Arthur’s heart began to swell. “If I didn’t know any better sire, I’d say you were worried about me.” Not quite fixed it would seem.

“Yes, well, good thing you’re an idiot then, eh?”

Merlin opened his mouth again and so Arthur gripped the cup next to him, prompting the boy to run out the room with his basket. A smile wormed its way onto Arthur’s face. He was glad to have his Merlin back, even if just for a moment.

--

Sir Leon prided himself on being King Arthurs longest standing and most loyal knight. He liked to think he knew the man like a true brother and so he also liked to think he knew when his brother was not acting normally. Hearing that he had shouted at a young, injured girl was a clear sign that he was not acting normally. He had wanted to talk to the girl first but, after bumping into Merlin (the poor boy and his basket almost went flying) and finding out that she wasn’t able to have visitors yet, he decided that he should get answers out of Arthur first.

Something Leon discovered early on about Arthur: he does not appreciate being told that he was wrong. While he has a huge heart and wishes the best for all in his kingdom, knowing he has done someone wrong leads him down a sad pit for days and so he tends to reject the notion. Being the one to tell him of his misdoings is not an enjoyable task.

Leon steeled himself as he stood outside the large oak doors. The guards – Thomas and Shaun – nodded at him respectfully before moving out the way for him. He knocked on the door: two quick raps, a single, and then another two. He heard the muffled “come in” from inside and obeyed, taking a final deep breath before doing so.

Arthur was sat, face in his hands with that smile that Leon had begun associating with a recent visit from a certain raven-haired servant. He had a light blush coating his cheeks and a star struck look in his eyes. Leon cleared his throat, bringing Arthur back to reality.

Reality didn’t have anywhere near enough Merlin in it.

“Sir Leon,” he coughed, voice dropping to his usual octave, “what can I do for you?” He gestured to a chair next to the fire and moved from the desk taking the other one for himself. Leon, after thinking about it for a second, sat. He tried to keep his feet still as he mulled over the best way to broach the subject of his visit.

“Well, and I mean no offence over this, I have no desire to attack you Sire—”

“You’re bumbling almost as much as Merlin, Leon. Come out with it, it’s alright.”

The knight cleared his throat, chuckling a little at Arthurs comment. “Right, well, I wanted to ask you about the girl.”

“Miriam.”

“Miriam, yes. I have heard confusing reports of something you said to her.” He watched Arthur’s face. His nostrils were flaring and there was a slight tic near his right eyebrow that Leon had learnt over the years meant frustration. “And” he continued, slightly quieter this time, “I was hoping you could shed some light on the situation?”

Arthur stood up, retrieving a goblet and the pitcher of wine that Merlin had left on his table that morning. He filled the cup, downed it, and filled it again, making his way back to his seat.

“What would you like to know?” He refused to make eye contact, staring into the dying flames instead. He must get Merlin to tend to the fire whenever he returns.

“What happened? I struggle to believe that you intended to hurt or scare her.”

Arthur let out a breathy laugh, smile not reaching his eyes. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Leon.” He finally looked up at him, noticing how anxious the man was to be asking such questions of his friend. “You are right, I meant no harm to her, but harm is what I brought regardless.” He frowned, taking a large swig of his wine. “She got up in the middle of the night and disappeared into the wood. I couldn’t hear or see her, and it concerned me. I couldn’t take the idea that we had found yet another person wanting to harm those I… care for.” He tipped back the last of his drink, Gwaine would be proud. “Turned out she had just gone to relieve herself and, as she turned back to camp, we bumped into each other. She hit her arm on my armour and I said somethings that maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“It was all an accident then?” Arthur nodded, eyes on the embers again. “So why has the story been twisted so?”

“I may have argued with Lancelot about the situation and made it worse for myself.”

Leon bit his tongue, wanting to suggest the King apologise but knowing it would be far from a wise idea. “I understand, Sire. Have you visited her since?” he asked, knowing the answer was no. As expected, the king shook his head, inhaling deeply. “Perhaps you could arrange a time to see her with Merlin?”

“Perhaps.”

The conversation clearly over, Leon left, leaving his friend to brood over the situation. He took no joy in questioning Arthur or pushing him so, but it was important to do every so often.

--

Gwen peeled the carrots as Elyan brought the water to a boil, adding twigs to the fire occasionally. They had spent the last year getting into a stable routine together having not lived in the same home since they were teens. It was often silent in the hut, both consumed by their thoughts of work and their friends, but when they talked, gods did they talk. It was as if Elyan never left, conversation flowing all night long. They would laugh, joke, hug, cry on occasion, and they would be siblings again.

Now though, with carrots being cut up small, Gwen was in her head.

She had been tending to Miri as she slept when she had no other duties to take care of. Since Morganas disappearance, she didn’t often have other duties. The woman, likely around Gwen’s age, fascinated her. She looked a lot like Morgana did, maybe that was what drew her in. The way her black hair framed her face and her eyebrows furrowed in her sleep. The light brown spots that marked her cheeks were like none she had ever seen before. She wanted nothing more than to talk with her and find out what led her to the forest all those days ago. Gwen found her heart aching thinking of how lonely one must feel to do something like that.

Elyan took the chopping board from in front of his sister and emptied the carrots into the pot above the flames. He watched her as she stared at nothing, face scrunched in worry. She had been like this since meeting the girl and it concerned him. He put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She placed her hand on his, smiled, and returned to preparing the dinner.

That night, as she lay in the rickety bed at the back of their house, she thought about Miri once more. She didn’t understand the feelings swelling in her chest – they were different from the ones she felt with Lancelot all those years ago, but she couldn’t figure out how. She turned onto her side, huffing out a frustrated breath. Morgana would understand, she always did, even when she didn’t.

The day Morgana ran away left a hole in Camelot’s heart. In Gwen’s heart. She had thought her Lady, her friend, could trust her but as she read the note that was left on the hut table, she realised just how wrong she was. She knew Morgana had been struggling with her dreams, with her magic (something that Gwen still hadn’t told anyone about) but she thought that, with Gwen by her side, she would be able to get through it. That they would get through it, together.

A lump grew in her throat and tears pricked at her eyes. She was so tired of crying over what could never be.

And seeing Merlin and Arthur as they were, knowing that, now Arthur was king, they could finally be something more than longing glances, it broke her.

She sat up, pulling her knees into her chest as the water trailed down her cheeks. She was so happy for her friends; for the love that was blooming, but sometimes she hated what they represented. They were everything she could never have. The way they would curl up close on cold nights away from home, the way Merlin would rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he read whatever he was working on, the way Arthur made sure Merlin had a seat right next to him in council meetings. Although she knew they hadn’t talked about it properly, she knew they would end up married in all but title one day and even that could happen if Arthur was brave enough to fight the lords on the matter.

Her chest tightened and she could swear she felt her heart breaking all over again.

[moody-cowdaddy]

A Proper Woman

Arthur Morgan x Reader | Imagine #3

Summary: After getting all dressed up for a day on the town, you need Arthur's help getting off a corset.

Category: Fluff, Sexual Tension.

A/N: This is just a little drabble. These imagines aren't based on a specific storyline. I'm also taking Arthur requests, so please feel free to message me, or send an ask with the details.

××××

It had been a long day. One of the longest days since you joined the gang. Most people would consider a whole day of shootouts, riding, and robbing as exhausting, but what did it for you was actually having to get gussied up like a proper woman.

You had spent most of the day in town with Karen and Mary-Beth, making contacts and getting info on places that could be broken into, or men that could be bamboozled into giving over valuables. You had spent the time in town inhabiting the saloon, making aquantinces with drunken business men and pickpocketing them when they had their heads turned.

You had borrowed one of Mrs. Grimshaw's dresses, with a corset that had been tightly cinched to your waist, complete with a pair of heels. "If you're gonna reel 'em in, you're gonna have to show yourself off." Mrs. Grimshaw had said.

It was safe to say when you got back to camp, you were exhausted, with a sore waist and toes, all you wanted to do was put on your regular clothes and lay down. You loved the way these clothes made you look, but nothing about them was comfortable. But it wasn't all for nothing, you had pocketed a handsome $85 from the whole ordeal.

So, here you stood inside of your tent, desperately fighting with your hands behind your back to try and loosen the tightly knotted laces of the corset. After more than a few failed attempted to untie it, you tried to unhook the front clasps, but it was no use. It was hugging your body so tightly that it was impossible to do without breaking it, and you knew Mrs. Grimshaw wouldn'ttake kindly to you ruining one of her garments. You huffed a sigh of frustration as you kicked off your heels.

As you stood there, a wicked idea quickly came into mind. You honestly did need help getting it off, and who better to ask than Arthur? You were told to show off what you had, and who better to show it off than to the man whose attention you actually wanted, and If anything was bound to get that man's attention, it had to be this. You smiled to yourself as you left your tent, sauntering next door to his You knocked on one of the wooden beams that held the canvas up.

"C'mon in." His deep tone sounded from inside.

You pulled back the heavy cloth of the enteance, poking your head through first to catch your first glimpse of him. He was lounging on his cot, writing in his journal as he usually did this time of the evening.

"May I trouble you for some help, Arthur?"

"Sure. What can I help ya with?" He spoke in his unique southern drawl. The one that never failed to make you melt whenever he spoke.

You chewed the side of your lip as you finally stepped through to the inside. When he finally looked up from his journal, you could see it as his eyes widened slightly. He could barely take his gaze off of you as he set his journal down and stood up, taking a step forward until he was in front of you. You could feel your heartbeat quicken as he stood directly in front of you now.

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "For the life of me, I can't get this corset off. Would you mind?" You swallowed.

Arthur looked down at you for a moment, drinking in every bit of you, seemingly without any shame. Of course you didn't mind, this is what you wanted, and he had never seen you looking as good as he had right at this very moment. You could feel yourself starting to turn red the longer he studied you.

"Arthur?" You finally asked again.

He chuckled, throwing his head to the ground, shaking it before he met your eyes again. "I'm sorry, (Y/N). Ya jus'- ya jus' look real nice. Never seen ya all fixed up like this before. I mean, I always think ya look nice, but this.. Jus' new to me."

It felt like a thousand stallions were stampeding through your chest when he said that. You felt like your heart might just burst through at any moment.

"Thank you, Arthur," you breathed, a geuine smile tugging at the corner's of your lips.

"'Course." He abruptly cleared his throat, nodding, "What do, uh, you want me to do?"

"Oh." You laughed, turning your back to him, "Loosen up these laces, please."

There were quite a few other answers you wanted to give him to that question, but just having him touching you in this way was gonna be damn near more than your body could handle.

Arthur gave you a nod as he took another step closer to you. He was standing directly behind you now, and you could have sworn you felt his breath on the back of your neck. You felt the first few lingering touches of his fingers as he grabbed for the laces, and even that small amount of contact set your body on fire. You felt him as he slowly worked at laces, pulling them apart faster than you would have been able to do. He curled his finger beneath the criss-cross pattern of the laces, pulling at them to loosen the corset. You could feel every single time that his large fingers brushed against your back.

You had to forcibly stop yourself from letting out a moan, between the feeling of his fingers making chills run down your spine, and the sheer relief from having the tightly binding garment loosened up. A small, whimpering sigh finally escaped your lips, and you closed your eyes tightly, praying that he hadn't heard it. But once the corset was loosened up enough, you could feel Arthur's hands lingering on your sides. You smirked to yourself as you turned back around to face him, his fingers were still lightly lingering on your sides.

"The clasps," you breathed. You looked up at him longingly, chewing the inside of you cheek.

You watched Arthur take in a steadying breath of his own as he brought his hands up to the busk, working his fingers between the thick material of the corset and your dress, his hands were resting right below the swell of your breasts now as he unhooked each one of the clasps more slowly than the last.

God, all you wanted him to do now was to take you, all of you. You just wanted so desperately to feel his touch, his skin against yours.

He undid the last of the clasps, and you were finally free from the confines of it. He pulled the corset away from your body, holding it in his hands as he continued to look down at you, only taking his eyes away every few moments to give a break to the intensity of the moment. The place was silent, neither of you knowing what to say next. The tension in the air was palpable, and you almost had the nerve to jerk him down towards you and kiss him hard.

Arthur let out a gruff sigh. He lifted his hand as if he wanted to reach our for you, but he dropped it just a quickly, the thought changing in his mind as he handed the corset over to you instead. You took it from his hands, giving his a grateful expression.

"I thank you for that, Mr. Morgan." You gazed back up at him, flashing him a coy grin.

"Ya know I don't mind, darlin'." There was an alluring expression on his face now.

You definitely wanted more, but just having him do this to you was heartstopping enough. It would probably take some time to get this cowboy completely out of his shell, but you had all the time in the world, and he was well worth it.

You laid your hand gently on his should as you stepped towards the entrance, feeling his muscles flex beaneath the surface at your touch. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," he answered.

He turned in your direction, watching you as you stepped out of the tent, following behind you to peer out of the opening, watching you as you made your way next door to your own tent. He admired the natural curvature of your body, and the way your hips swayed when you walked. His own breathing and heartrate had just now began to slow down since you first arrived inside of his tent. Seeing you the way you were tonight just about left him damn near breathless. He ran his hand over his beard as he sighed, stepping back over to his cot to plop down onto it.

"God Almighty," he said to himself. He shook his head again as he grabbed his journal off the thin mattress. "That girl is gonna be the death'a me."

He smiled to himself, content with the thought of that.

[ikevampeventarchive]

[ERS] Expose His Heart ～ Arthur

Route Preview:

Upon touching Arthur, you’ve somehow gained the ability to read his mind?! Normally frivolous and easygoing as the wind, what his heart conveys to you are earnest feelings of affection.... 

The moment you touch upon the emotions hidden in Arthur’s heart, is the moment you come to understand a deep, deep love. 

—

[This is an unofficial work based on fan-translation. Copyright belongs to Cybird.]

Warning: Spoilers Underneath.

Route Summary:

Common Route

As the weather grows colder as winter approaches, the story starts with MC heading home after finishing some shopping that Sebastian tasked her with. She thinks to herself that it really does get cold after the sun sets as she puts away the spices. While she does this, she spots Arthur’s usual mug, and decides to make some coffee for him since he was probably still working. 

She delivers the coffee, and Arthur thanks her and remarks that Sebastian works her quite hard. She’s surprised that Arthur managed to figure out what happened, and he explains that he noticed her fingers are cold when she handed over the coffee, as well as that the scent of spices still clung to her a bit, and went from there. MC thinks to herself that Arthur’s deduction skills are as impressive as ever, and Arthur pulls her onto his lap, hugging her. 

Arthur: If we sit like this, both of us can warm each other up, so it’s two birds with one stone, no? 

MC: But I’m still in the middle of work….

Arthur: Even Sebas will approve of taking a break once in a while. 

Arthur: Besides…. Though you’re complaining, you’re not leaving. 

They’re so close to each other that MC blushes at the proximity. MC looks over at Arthur’s desk, and notices a coin with a strange pattern on it. She asks Arthur what it is, and he replies that it’s a so-called “wish granting coin” that he won from another patron at the bar. He continues, saying that it doesn’t really seem to be real, since his wish didn’t come true. MC gets curious and asks what wish he made, but Arthur teases, avoiding the question and instead challenging her to a game. They’ll flip the coin and whichever side lands face up, wins. MC chooses first, going with heads, and Arthur then takes tails. Arthur flips the coin, and it lands on tails. 

The two of them go back and forth for a bit, MC saying that she wants a rematch, while Arthur jokes and says that he even planned on telling her so thoroughly too. Eventually MC leaves to get back to work, and Arthur tosses her the coin, saying that it’s her prize for participating in the game and that she could try and make a wish, though he’s doubtful that the rumors are real. 

In the hallway, MC thinks over their conversations, and feels frustrated at how Arthur always seems to read her so easily, while she doesn’t always know what he’s thinking, though she also knows that there are parts of Arthur’s heart that are still locked away. She then looks at the coin in her hand, and makes a wish to be able to know what Arthur’s thinking, though she quickly qualifies that wish with a humorous quip of doubt. 

The next morning, MC was walking down the hallway after finishing her work, when someone suddenly hugged her from behind. She turns around and finds Arthur, exclaiming that she didn’t expect him to be there. Arthur jokes, asking that she wouldn’t do this with anyone else, would she? And suddenly MC starts hearing Arthur’s voice remaking that his lover is truly adorable. MC demures, and now it’s Arthur’s turn to be shocked, wondering to himself whether or not he truly said that aloud. 

Arthur then pressed their foreheads together and checks MC’s temperature, musing to himself that she isn’t sick. At that moment, Dazai walks through the hallway and asks if the two of them are fighting. Arthur thinks to himself that Dazai ruined a good moment between him and MC, and leaves to take care of business in town after promising with MC to meet in his room later tonight. Throughout this conversation, MC figures out that she could read Arthur’s mind if they’re touching each other. After Arthur leaves, she decides to test out if this is really true, and awkwardly grabs Dazai’s hand. She can’t hear anything from him, and asks Dazai what he was thinking. He teases her a bit, saying that he was thinking about writing in his journal about how assertive she was, though he quickly moves the topic back to her, asking MC why she looks so disoriented, offering to listen to her worries. MC decides to confide in Dazai, and they move to the living room to talk. 

MC: — So as things stand, I’ve somehow became able to read Arthur’s thoughts.

Dazai: …. I see. A coin that grants wishes, huh….

Dazai: However, even if you wished to know what’s in Arthur’s heart, I’m not sure if that could truly come true. 

Dazai: Because he has many parts of his heart that cannot be seen, no matter how much you try. 

MC and Dazai both agree with this statement, and MC worries about what she should do from now on, as well as how she would go about telling Arthur. Dazai interjects, saying that while troubling, this is also an unprecedented chance to win in a game against Arthur.

Dazai: Unforeseen circumstances are to take advantage of, don’t you agree? 

Dazai: Don’t you want to see what face Arthur makes when he loses? 

The scene then cuts to later that night, where MC is standing in front of Arthur’s room holding a deck of cards. She wavers for a few moments, but then musters up the courage to knock on Arthur’s room and invite him for a game of cards. He readily agrees, saying that he was thinking of how he wanted to see right at that moment too. However, Arthur’s desk was covered with manuscripts at the moment, and the two of them relocated to the lounge. 

As they discuss the game, MC suggests playing old maid, thinking that it’s a simple enough game, and she’ll be able to win since she is also able to read is mind. The wager stands that if MC wins, Arthur will tell her the wish he made earlier, while if Arthur wins, he has something he wants to check with her. They agree to the terms, and Arthur begins shuffling and distributing the cards. 

Both of them pick up their allocated cards, and MC then asks Arthur if she could hold Arthur’s hand. He agrees, outwardly looking as unruffled as ever, but when MC touches him, once again she is able to hear his thoughts. 

Arthur: …. Is this some sort of psychological battle? 

Arthur: If she keeps being so cute, I might just end up losing. 

(.... Huh?) 

—

Sweet End:

When our feelings are conveyed, we once again come to know each other a little better....

“The one who falls in love first loses; I guess it was true after all.”

—

The game ends with MC winning, and she’s shocked at the turn of events. Arthur easily brushes off the loss, saying that he doesn’t mind losing if it’s to her. This proves to be another surprise, and Arthur asks her what’s wrong when he notices her expression. MC admits that she thought he would be more frazzled by the loss. 

Arthur: … In truth, I thought I’d be more frustrated, too. But when I saw how you smiled when you won, I didn’t care anymore.

Arthur: Though really, I never thought a day like this would come. The one who falls in love first loses; I guess that was true after all. 

Hearing Arthur’s earnest thoughts towards her, MC admits that she did something bad to him. With a complete poker face, he slowly leans over the table to look at her face, and just when MC thinks he’s angry, he kisses her. The moment they kiss, MC hears Arthur’s thoughts once more.

Arthur: Something bad, like reading someone else’s thoughts?

MC startles at this, and when Arthur pulls back, asks him how he knew. Arthur starts explaining that while he had come up with many hypotheses as to why she was acting strange, and being able to read thoughts was one of those possibilities. MC then asks him why he let her win, to which he says that if he revealed that he suspected such during the game, that would make his victory void, and instead of a game of cards, it was more of a game to confirm “whether the secret MC has is the fact that she can see through my thoughts.”

MC is disappointed at the turn of events, and wonders if how he thought about her being cute earlier was false, and that he was thinking of something else — or rather, the opposite. Arthur says that those thoughts were actually genuine, and pulls her into his arms. His thoughts pick up the explanation, saying that because even though he had such a hypothesis, he didn’t know the caveat of MC needing to be in contact with him to read his thoughts. MC reacts with surprise, and Arthur teases her, calling her a pervert for peeking. 

They eventually went on to talk about the reason why MC wanted to read Arthur’s thoughts in the first place, and Arthur says that she needn’t make such a wish, because his thoughts when he’s with her are simple. 

Arthur: I love you. So much so that I’d show all of myself to just you — that I wouldn’t ever mind losing to you.

Hearing this, MC realizes the depths of Arthur’s affection and how he’s always thinking about her, and her well-being. Touched by this confession, she thanks him. The conversation then turns to how to get rid of the mind-reading ability, to which Arthur admits that he thought she was acting strange this morning, and had gone to ask the original owner of the coin about it’s supposed magical properties, as well as how to undo any wishes that have been made. MC connects the dots, and realize that this was the “important business” that he had to take care in town earlier. She is once again warmed by how Arthur is always thinking of her well-being, and thanked him again. 

MC then makes a wish on the coin to reverse the wish, and they confirm that she can no longer hear Arthur’s thoughts. She says that she can’t peek into his heart, but she feels like she gained a better understanding of his mind. Arthur teases her, saying that her wish is granted, so now it’s her turn to grant his wish. MC thinks about how much she loves him, so much so that she’ll continue losing to him in the future as well. 

The game ends with a kiss to both winners. 

—

Premium End

His truest thoughts, delivered directly from his heart to yours....

“I love you so much, it drives me crazy wanting to get my hands on you.”

From where your skin overlaps, love continues to endlessly overflow —.

—

They begin playing, and Arthur begins to flirt with MC, asking if the card game was just an excuse, and that she was seducing him. When she denies this, he then wonders if holding his hand had any other reason, and places a kiss on the back of MC’s hand, saying that if she says it’s nothing, then he won’t question it further. 

The game continues on, and as MC picks her last card, she’s surprised that it wasn’t the same card as what Arthur’s thoughts told her — thus the game concludes in MC’s loss. 

Arthur notices her shock, and starts confronting her about the situation, first asking why it seems like her outburst sounded like she was confident he wouldn’t win. He corners her in her seat after getting up from his, and touches her arm, mentally questioning her if she had read his mind. MC doesn’t say anything, but her expression was confirmation enough. She ends up asking him how he knew, and Arthur walks her through his thought process.

When they ran into each other that morning, MC was incredibly flustered, which meant that the highest possibility would be related to the coin he gave her last night. If she was so surprised, then that only would have meant that she made a wish, but never thought it would come true until that moment. However, it was only a hypothesis, and he only knew for certain when she came knocking at his door that night. 

Arthur then hugs MC in his arms, and she confirms all his theories. When she asks how he had tricked her, he replies that since she’s reading his thoughts, he could also change what he was thinking about. However, there were also things he didn’t change. MC questions this, and Arthur sulks.

Arthur: For example, like when you suddenly held my hand out of nowhere. And besides, this morning at lunch. Back then, I just thought it was a coincidence; there was no way I could’ve diverted my thoughts then. 

MC flashes back to his past thoughts, and realizes that even though he appeared calm on the surface, Arthur was always thinking of her and being affected by her actions deep down. Arthur then asks if she really wanted to read his thoughts that much, and when MC confirms, seems to think about something for a moment before asking her to stand up.  

When she does, Arthur hugs her close and says that even though he won, he’ll tell her what he wished for with the coin. 

Arthur: The thing I wished for was… your happiness.

MC: … Huh?

Arthur: It’s foolish, isn’t it? A mystery author making a wish on such a dubious thing as a wish-granting coin.

Arthur: But… that too, is what I’d do for you. 

(Arthur….)

MC: That wish, the reason why nothing has happened… is probably because it had already been granted. 

Arthur: What ...?

MC: When I’m with you like this, Arthur, I’m already plenty happy. Your wish, it’s already a reality. 

Hearing this, Arthur blushed and pulls MC into a passionate kiss. 

Arthur: Seriously, you’re so cute and precious to me… I’m having a bit of a hard time with these feelings. You probably don’t know, but I'm someone who is always losing to you. 

Even through the heat building between them, Arthur’s sweet thoughts are conveyed to MC. When they break away, MC asks Arthur how to undo the wish, to which he says that he knows of a method, but won’t tell her just yet. After all, since her wish was granted, they should take advantage of this opportunity to let her thoroughly experience his thoughts. 

Things start to get heated as Arthur begins to kiss down MC’s neck and caress her through her clothes, when MC questions the choice in setting. Arthur reassures her that no one will come, and she quickly figures out that this was what he intended back when he locked the door! Once again hearing Arthur’s thoughts, MC hears his passionate thoughts. 

And thus, two hearts overlap, dyed in a sweet and lewd love — …. 

Note: This is where the paid Epilogue starts.

—

Epilogue Preview

Sweet intimacy deepens the love between your overlapping hearts... —

Arthur: How adorable. So much so that I could positively just eat you up. 

MC: Arthur, are you really okay with this? Having all your thoughts bared to me, that is. 

(Most people would dislike having their private thoughts revealed to others...) 

When I said that, Arthur leaned away slightly, planting a kiss on my lips. 

Arthur: ... Having my thoughts read by you probably wouldn’t be so bad. In fact, you being able to do so makes me a little more excited. 

—

Event Info Post | Isaac Route | Theodorus Route