#Arthur is alive and thriving

[dreamofcamelot]

Someone contact the bbc I have Merlin season 6 right here

[karistiltskin]

sometimes i like to fall asleep to the idea of every kingdom being scared of camelot because king arthur decided to lift the ban on magic and it’s revealed that emrys is his right hand man. like yes, wreak havoc and scare your enemies.

on the other side of this, the castle staff and knights have to bear witness to arthur and merlin’s shenanigans everyday. because tell me why arthur is chasing merlin around the castle with porridge stuck in his hair and a spoon raised in his hand while merlin is cackling, bumping into every surface ever.

[blerghie]

joongdok kingsman au where yjh is arthur. and kdj is technically merlin (their handler and technical expert + arthur’s adviser) but everyone secretly calls him guinevere

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

I was going to post a different au idea tonight, but this idea caught me in a death-grip and would not let me go, so enjoy!

Note: You can find the translations for the old English at the end!

EDIT: You can find part two of this au here, and part three here!

In this au, Merlin dies at Camlann instead of Arthur, and his magic was diffused into the king and kingdom he so loved upon his death, making everyone in Camelot immortal. After a few centuries of thriving though, Merlin's magic starts to fade, and everyone falls into an almost comatose state. It keeps them all alive and protected the kingdom from intruders, but it could not keep them awake. However, the people of Camelot did not worry about this. Both the druids and the dragon had proclaimed that Merlin would return to the world of the living again one day. So, they were content to sleep peacefully and await the day of their friend's return. Slowly, the earth rose up to swallow Camelot, and the sleeping kingdom was buried underneath the earth.

Fast forward to modern day, and Merlin's been reincarnated without any of his memories or his magic. He winds up as an archeologist, and eventually is sent out to a promising dig site on the border between England and Wales. There, his team unearths a window into an old fortress. Their sonar equipment has revealed a full castle underneath their feet, and they have everything prepped for a preliminary excavation! They've already found coins and a few blades on the site, dating back to the 6th century!

Now, stories of the "immortal kingdom of Camelot" and its undying and legendary king Arthur were commonplace, and Merlin quite enjoyed those stories as a child. However, historians doubted if Camelot was ever a real kingdom at all, and no one past the age of six believed in an immortal kingdom! Merlin, deep down, was hoping that the dig site was indeed the historical kingdom Camelot itself, as much of the kingdom's history had been lost and buried under ridiculous myths about magic and dragons.

However, the issue is that the window that they discovered is pretty small. Merlin, as the skinniest out of all of them, would probably be the only one who could fit through it. Excitedly, Merlin puts on his safety harness and hard hat and descends through the window and into the castle.

Merlin explores for a bit, constantly telling the team on the surface all about the amazingly preserved artifacts in the castle. There's tapestries, suits of armor, furniture, even clothing still in wardrobes all in perfect condition! The entire team is besides themselves with excitement! They've just made the most important discovery of their careers!

Merlin spends a few more days exploring the castle by himself. Eventually, he comes to a rather impressive and ornately decorated door and decides to find out what's behind it. It must be something pretty important to warrant such an impressive door! Perhaps the throne room?

As he opens the door though, he lets out a loud gasp, shocked by two things in the room. First, the large round table in the middle of the room. He knew that he was near the supposed site of the lost kingdom of Camelot, but this confirmed it! All of the legends spoke about king Arthur's round table, and here it was before him, confirming the legends!

However, Merlin's elation was dashed by the second thing he noticed: bodies. There were bodies occupying the seats around the table, all of them slumped over or slouching in their seats with their eyes closed, but they were not skeletal remains that should have been there, seeing as how no one had set foot in those room for hundreds of years. No, these people looked like they had only been there for a day, with no signs of decay on them.

As Merlin's fear began to rise, he tried to reason with himself. Maybe this kingdom had surprisingly advanced embalming techniques and had unusual burial rituals? What other explanation could there possibly be?

As Merlin reported the bodies to his colleagues on the surface, they warned him to be careful is something didn't feel right, which it certainly didn't. Something about these bodies creeped Merlin out in a way that no other human remains had ever done. However, Merlin's unease lessened somewhat as he described the bodies to his colleagues, his excitement at such a well-preserved find started eclipsing his fear.

There were in total five male bodies and one female body, with four of the male bodies being clad in chainmail, surcoats, trousers, and long bright red capes with an insignia of a golden dragon sown into it. The other male body was similarly clad in chainmail and a cape, but wore a golden crown on his head. Lastly, the lone female body, who was sitting to the left of the crowned male body, was a dark-skinned woman wearing an ornate and richly decorated dress along with a small silver crown on her head.

Merlin's heart stuttered in his chest as he came to the natural conclusion of these observations: he had just found the perfectly-preserved bodies of a king, queen, and four knights. Forget making his career, Merlin was going to be put in the history books for this discovery! Quickly, he called his colleagues (who had finally found a way to safely widen the entrance at the window) to follow the line of his harness and join him in the room he had just found. They needed to see this!

Finally turning away from the bodies, Merlin let his gaze wander around the room. He takes note of the impressively high ceilings for the time period, the repetition of the dragon crest on decorations around the room, and the designs carved into the wood of the round table. However, one of the most intriguing elements of the room, was the lone empty chair sitting next to the king.

The fact that there was only one empty chair was strange enough, but there were a few even stranger elements to the chair. The chair was directly to the right of the king, presumably reserved for the king's right hand, his chief advisor. Why would such an important figure be missing here? Another puzzling feature of the chair was the scrap of red cloth that was tied around one of the arms of the chair.

Stepping closer to examine the little piece of cloth, he could see at first glance that the cloth was old, battered, and made with cheap material, unlike the richer cloth that made up the knights' and kings' capes. What was this random piece of cloth doing tied around the arm of this chair, which presumedly belonged to a powerful figure in the kingdom?

A sudden piercing shriek caused Merlin to jump into the air. He looked up and across the table, relieved to see that it was just four of his colleagues who had just entered the room. They must've been freaked out by the well-preserved bodies too! Merlin certainly couldn't blame them for such a reaction.

Merlin chuckled a bit and spoke to his frightened coworkers. "Well, what did I tell you? This is going to shock the world! We've just made the discovery of a lifetime!"

However, his colleagues were only getting paler by the second, not even looking at him, instead looking... past him? Merlin frowned a bit and turned to look over his left shoulder, at the body of the king, which was where his coworkers were staring. What could possibly...

His eyes were open. His eyes were definitely not open before.

As soon as his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, Merlin let out a panicked shriek and flung himself backwards, away from the king who he swore was dead just a second ago what the fuck was happening?!

Unfortunately, Merlin desperate attempt to get away from the maybe-undead king sent him sprawling to the ground, having tripped over the empty chair, and his shriek had jolted his colleagues into action. The four of them ran forwards and grabbed ahold of Merlin, dragging him back towards the entrance to the room while never taking their eyes off of the maybe-undead king.

As they made their way back to the entrance though, something truly horrifying happened. The king moved. He blinked and moved his neck to track their movements.

Oh god, that thing was awake and aware that they were here! They needed to get out of there!

Together, the group turned and ran as quickly as they could back towards the entrance. Horrifyingly, as soon as they were out of sight of the king, they could hear the screeching sound of a chair sliding against the stone floor. Each one of them could feel their hearts pounding with fear as they all realized at once: the king, whatever he was, was going to chase after them.

They nearly all have heart attacks when they hear a voice roaring after them, "Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin!"

After a tense few minutes of running with the terrifying echo of boots chasing after them ringing in their ears, they finally reached the hallway connecting to their window entrance. They could see the light outside! They were almost free!

Fear gripped all of their chests, however, when a group of what should have been corpses blocked their path, cutting them off from the sight of the daylight. For a second, Merlin thought about making a break for it and attempts to run through them, but then the probably-undead knights unsheathed their swords (which were still somehow sharp and pristine after 1500 years, this was getting ridiculous!)

The group quickly turned around, hoping to run back and perhaps find another path towards their freedom, only to have their hopes dashed by the sight of the undead king storming towards them with his sword (why was it golden?) unsheathed and rage in his eyes.

Looking between them, the closest thing that they had to a weapon were a couple hard hats. They were doomed, and they could see their death marching towards them.

Getting closer, the king furiously shouted at them again with unfamiliar words. "Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis!"

The group of five archeologists are shaking in their boots at this point, fearing for their lives. Each of them had reached the only logical conclusion about their ludicrous and possibly deadly situation: they must have woken the king and his knights from their eternal rest, and they were now angry at the archeologists for disturbing their final resting place.

As the knights close in on them and grab ahold of each of them, they're all prepared for the worst. As the king barks commands at the knights, all of the archeologists are prepared to be meet with some horrible death.

"Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð."

At the king's commands, the knights nodded, and while Merlin was led down the hallway to the right, the others were led back down the dark hallway from which they had fled. Merlin tried to call out to his colleagues and to shove his way out of the knight's grip, but the knight responded by picking Merlin up and slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, eliminating Merlin's ability to fight back.

Merlin tried to calm his mind and to avoid thoughts of what horrible fate would be in store for him at his destination. His treacherous mind spun up terrible theories as to why he had been separated from his group, each one more horrifying than the last.

Finally, the knight seemed to have arrived at his destination. As the knight pushed the door open, Merlin tried to brace himself for what horrible instruments of torture were surely inside.

However, there were no torture instruments at all. There were only sheets of paper strewn about, some herb bundles here and there, lots of little vials and pots scattered around, and an old man slowly walking towards them.

The old man blinked in what looked like surprise, followed by tears seeming to brim in his eyes. What the hell was going on?! The man spoke softly, "Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr."

The knight deposited Merlin gently on a nearby small bed and gave him some sort of smirk before speaking to him in a surprisingly gentle, almost teasing, voice, "Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele."

When Merlin could do nothing but stare at the knight, more bewildered than he's ever been in his life, the knight seemed to take offense to his inaction and began tugging at the bottom of Merlin's shirt, trying to pull it over his head. After a brief struggle, the knight emerged victorious, holding Merlin's shirt in his hands and grinning like a loon. Why on earth had the knight wanted his shirt of all things? What was he about to be subjected to?!

After a tense few minutes, the old man pottered over to where Merlin was sitting, bringing a small bag along with him. The man then began looking over Merlin's torso, paying particular attention to a certain to a spot underneath Merlin's ribs, prodding it repeatedly.

Merlin was quite uncomfortable being examined like this, but with an undead knight in the room still armed with a sword, there wasn't much Merlin could do to without risking getting stabbed. Well, at least the old man wasn't hurting him, so he supposed that he could look on the bright side and be grateful for that.

Eventually, the old man seemed satisfied with his examination of Merlin and addressed the knight again. "Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge."

The knight nodded at the old man, looking pleased at whatever he had just been told. Then, the old man turned to him and handed him the small bag. "Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian."

Merlin gently took the bag from the old man and tentatively opened it and pulled out its contents. Inside the bag were a scratchy red tunic, a pair of old trousers, a brown jacket, a thin leather belt, and a scrap of blue cloth. Merlin looked up at the knight and the old man, unsure of what to make of these clothes.

The knight just rolled his eyes, snatched the tunic out of Merlin's hands, and started pulling the tunic over Merlin's head. Did they... did they want Merlin to put on the clothes? That seemed like the correct answer, as they looked happy when Merlin complied and put on the tunic, and they pushed Merlin towards a small room in the back of the chambers with the clothing still in his hands.

Alright, Merlin thought to himself, he would change clothes in this odd little broom closet if that kept him from being stabbed.

(And he did not acknowledge the part of his mind that swore that he knew this room, that this room was his. That was ridiculous, he had never seen this place before in his life!)

After putting on the trousers, belt, and jacket, all Merlin was left with was the scrap of blue cloth. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? Should he keep it in his pocket or something?

However, it seemed like his hands moved before his mind had a chance to catch up, as his hands, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped the blue cloth around his neck a couple time before typing it in the front. Huh, that was strange. Merlin normally didn't wear scarves, why did he know that this piece of cloth was a scarf?

It was... strange. However, there were more pressing matters at hand, namely not getting killed by undead medieval knights. After taking a deep, calming breath, Merlin opened the door and stepped back out into the main room, where the old man and the knight were waiting for him.

They both smiled at the sight of him, and the knight quickly slung an arm over Merlin's shoulders, said what was presumably a goodbye to the old man, and started leading Merlin back out they way they came.

At this point, Merlin started struggling again. If he could just escape from this knight, he could get back to the surface and gather a rescue team to save the others! But the knight's grip of him was tight, and after a certain amount of Merlin's struggling, the knight just sighed and threw Merlin over his shoulder again. Damn it!

Merlin tried to reference places that he had already seen as the knight dragged him deeper into the castle. An escape route would be essential if he was going to make it out of here alive. However, Merlin's hope was quickly running dry as he was carried further and further away from the only exit to this godforsaken castle and further away from any area that he had explored so far.

What's worse was that, as they went, Merlin could see more and more undead (maybe undead? what else could they be?) people throughout the castle. And it wasn't just knights either: there were guards, servants, and even what looked like noblemen and noblewomen running around the castle. What made all of this truly eerie for Merlin though, is that all of them would stop and stare as soon as they saw him. Even though he was dressed like one of them, they could still somehow tell that he was an outsider, not one of their number.

After what felt like an eternity, the knight finally stopped in front of a large door and put Merlin down. Merlin's dread skyrocketed as the guards opened the doors and the knight dragged him inside.

The room itself was richly decorated, with a dining table, a study, and a plush canopy bed. If looked like a room fit for... a king.

Oh no.

As if summoned by Merlin's thoughts, the king rounded a corner and appeared before them, thankfully looking less angry than before, but still sending Merlin's fear into overdrive. Merlin jumped at the sound of doors slamming shut behind him, leaving him trapped with the king.

Merlin was sure that he was shaking terribly, but he managed force his joint to work and took a step backwards as the king began to approach him. Merlin continued to back away from the king until his back met the cold, unyielding wood of the door. Slowly, the king stepped towards Merlin, his eyes never leaving Merlin's form.

In what was entirely too short of a time period in Merlin's opinion, the king had closed the distance between them and was within an arm's reach of Merlin. Merlin's eyes desperately darted around for a weapon, anything he could possibly use the defend himself with, but there was nothing that he could reach.

As the king took one last step closer to Merlin, Merlin closed his eyes and braced himself for pain, even death. However, to his shock, no pain came. Instead, the felt the king's warm hands on his shoulders, and without warning, he was roughly pulled into a hug. What the actual fuck?!

Through the king's ragged breathing, he could hear more of those unfamiliar words, this time spoken tenderly.

"Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon?"

TRANSLATIONS:

Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin! = Catch them! They're trying to take Merlin!

Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis! = How dare you try to take him from me! I have waited over a thousand years for this moment, and you've attempted to steal him from me! You must pay for this!

Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð. = Take the intruders to the dungeon cells, we can deal with them later. Gwaine, take Merlin to his chambers and have Gaius look over him. And be gentle, he must have just come back from Avalon and could still be in pain from his wounds! Report back to me with Gaius's findings when he's done.

Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr. = Is it really him? Oh, my boy, you've returned to us! Here, Sir Gwaine, set him down on the cot and have him take his shirt off so I can see if his wound is still there.

Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele. = You heard the man, Merlin! Off with your shirt now. I know you can be shy about it, but this time it's pretty important.

Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge. = Well, he seems to be in perfect health! You can tell Arthur that I am pleased to report that I could find no sign of his previous injury.

Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian. = My boy, I am so deeply glad to see you again. You have been dearly missed! Here, we've saved some of your clothes for you! I'm sure that you'll feel better wearing something familiar again.

Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon = Oh Merlin, where have you been?

Well, I hope you guys liked this au! What I originally planned to be a short little prompt turned into this beast of a post! I probably won't be able to post on Friday (since I'm planning on adding a new chapter to my fic on ao3 on Friday or Saturday), so hopefully this will tide you all over until the weekend!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

(And please let me know if you'd like a continuation of this au!)

EDIT: You can find a continuation of this au here!

[johnpriceslamb]

if u have time u shud totally do a hyperfem reader n arthur thing where reader asks to dance wit him !! (pretty please ฅ^·ﻌ·^ฅ!!)

“Arthur?”

“Mhm?” Night time. The stars blanket the sky like an earthy wave of light. The stars light up the atmosphere of the camp, but the bustling thrive of the people among the gang lighten it up more. A party has been held for the arrival of Sean. You seek out the man you fawned over who sits upon a crate far from the celebration.

You’re shy. Of course you are. A brooding man, the biggest of them all who tears his enemies alive with his bare hands. You’ve heard of the recent saloon fight he’d gotten into, leaving the man who towered over him with brain damage.

Yet here he was, talking to you as if you were his baby.

You shyly fidget with your hands, the sleeves of your simple frilled dress covering your knuckles. You feel yourself swoon when he stares down at you. Despite being situated on a crate, he still towered over you like it was nothing.

You take a soft breath, long lashes tinkering at the sight of him before exhaling a deep breath.

“Will.. Will you dance with me..?” You ask, tone tainted with the sweetest taste of sugar and the most softest of them all.

His eyes almost droop at the sound of your voice, softening his gaze at your appearance. The bottle in his hand is placed down onto the grass below, as he puts a hand on his knee and pushes himself up with a low grunt, before taking one step forward to you.

“Ain’t the most.. graceful, darlin’.” He takes your hand in his. He seems quite pleased at how soft your skin was compared to his, and he squeezes it lightly.

You almost burst when he pulls you closer, “‘S okay, I’m still learning too.”

“Mhm?” He curls his lips slightly, before placing a hand on the side of your waist and taking a few step to the side with you.

“Lookit chu.” He softly mumbles, admiring your appearance from above as he raises his hand and watches you twirl so prettily. Like a ballerina in the ‘Denis theatres.

“How pretty m’ girl is,” He compliments so smoothly, you croon at his touch. You giggle loudly when he accidentally steps on your pink leather soles. He coughs out an awkward laugh before pulling you even more closer than before.

Love is seen in the air, and among the two who dance under the moonlit sky.

[ilovekittycats2]

New Years Eve

Fred Weasley x reader

(use of y/n)

In which,

Fred and Y/N share a moment, almost, as the clock strikes midnight.

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The Burrow was almost always bustling with the sounds of laughter and love. It practically spilled out of every window, drenching anyone who visited in its warmth. The crooked house stood tall and proud, an unmistakable testament to the life and joy that thrived within its walls. In other words, it was evident that the Burrow, and the red-headed family who lived there, were brimming with love from top to bottom.

Every year, Y/N spent her winter break with the Weasleys. Her own parents and siblings were always traveling—caught up in their own busy lives—and somehow, they always forgot to include her in their plans. Y/N didn’t mind much, though. Christmas and New Year’s at the Weasleys’ was always more fun than being in her empty house. Molly Weasley had practically adopted her, insisting on knitting her a jumper every year and fretting over her like she was one of her own.

Tonight was no exception. The living room was alive with laughter and shouts as the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Y/N gathered around the fireplace, playing a Muggle board game she’d gifted them for Christmas. The twins had been suspicious of the game at first, convinced it would explode or do something wild—because what fun was a board game if it didn’t?—but eventually, they were all engrossed in the competitive chaos.

“HA! Take that, Ronniekins!” Fred crowed as he claimed yet another victory.

“It’s not fair, you’re cheating somehow!” Ron huffed, glaring at his brother, who was grinning smugly. “Don’t be a sore loser Ronniekins,” Y/N teased, nudging Ron with her shoulder.

As the clock in the corner ticked closer to midnight, the game slowed. Molly and Arthur had retired to bed, and Ginny was half-asleep with her head on Hermione’s shoulder. One by one, the others began to drift off, until only Y/N and Fred remained, still sitting cross-legged in front of the fire.

“You’re not tired?” Fred asked, leaning back on his hands and watching her closely. “Not yet,” she replied, her voice soft. “It feels too perfect to end the night just yet.” Fred tilted his head, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Perfect, huh? Well, I know how to make it even better.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he stood and extended a hand toward her. “Come on.”

She hesitated for a moment but eventually placed her hand in his. Fred’s grip was warm and steady as he led her through the house, careful not to make a sound as they crept past creaky floorboards and closed doors. “Where are we going?” Y/N whispered, though she couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto her face.

“You’ll see,” Fred whispered back, his grin widening.

They climbed a rickety staircase that led to the attic. Fred pushed open a small window, gesturing for her to climb through. “Are you serious?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Deadly,” he replied, the sparkle in his eyes daring her to say no.

With a laugh, she hoisted herself through the window, and Fred followed close behind. They found themselves on the roof of the Burrow, the cold winter air crisp against their faces. Above them, the stars stretched endlessly, their light reflected in the snow-covered fields below.

“Wow,” Y/N breathed, hugging herself against the chill. Fred shrugged off his jumper and handed it to her without a word. “Fred, you’ll freeze,” she protested. “Nonsense,” he said with a wink. “I'm a Weasley. Built to withstand anything.”

They sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge of the roof. Midnight crept closer, and the air between them felt heavier, charged with something unspoken. “Thanks for staying up with me,” Y/N said quietly, glancing at him. Fred looked at her, his usual playful demeanor softened. “Anytime,” he said, his voice unusually gentle.

As the clock struck midnight, the sound of distant fireworks filled the air, their colorful explosions lighting up the sky. Fred turned to her, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against the cold night.

“I think this is the perfect moment,” he murmured, his eyes flicking down to her lips.

Y/N’s heart raced as she leaned in slightly, the world around them disappearing into the sparkling night. But just as their lips were about to meet, the window below them creaked open, and George’s voice rang out.

“Oi, you two! Thought you’d sneak off without me, did you?”

Fred groaned, pulling back and shaking his head. “George, you absolute git!” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, the spell broken but the warmth in her chest still lingering. Fred joined in, his grin as bright as the fireworks above.

Maybe next year.

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happy new year guys!!! part three to the high maintenance series is coming soon but i'd thought i'd give my fred weasley girls a lil blurb while i work on the other piece. love you all so much have a great new years.

[httpvomitello]

That's My Girl *⁠.⁠✧

george weasley x f!reader

The Burrow was even cozier than George had described. It was alive with magic, warmth, and a kind of chaotic charm that you couldn’t help but find endearing—at least in theory. In practice, it was overwhelming. You weren’t used to so many people all talking, laughing, and bustling around at once. The whole Weasley family seemed to radiate energy, and being the shy, quiet person you were, it made you feel a bit out of place.

George must have noticed the way you lingered in the doorway, biting your lip and fiddling nervously with the hem of your sweater. He came back to you, his bright grin softening into something more tender as he took your hand.

“Alright, love?” he asked quietly, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding. “I’m just… nervous. They’re all so…” You trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Loud?” George teased gently, leaning in so only you could hear. “Mad? A little too much?”

You couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh at that, and he kissed your forehead, his lips lingering just long enough to make your chest flutter. “They’ll love you, you know. But more importantly, I love you.”

Before you could answer, Fred’s unmistakable voice rang out from the kitchen. “Oi! Don’t hog her, George. Let the rest of us meet her properly!”

George groaned theatrically, but his arm stayed firmly around your waist as he guided you into the bustling kitchen. Molly Weasley was at the stove, her wand directing several pots and pans, while Arthur and Ron debated something enthusiastically at the table. Ginny was perched on a chair, laughing at something Hermione had said.

“Everyone,” George announced, his voice loud enough to carry but not so loud it made you flinch, “this is Y/N. Be nice. She’s already met Fred, so she knows just how insufferable we can be.”

Fred shot him a grin. “You’re the insufferable one, brother dear. Y/N and I got on splendidly.”

You smiled politely, but the sheer number of eyes on you made your palms sweat. Molly was the first to approach, pulling you into a motherly hug that smelled of cinnamon and something floral. “It’s so lovely to meet you, dear,” she said warmly, stepping back to look at you. “George hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“Mum,” George groaned, though his cheeks were tinged pink.

From there, you were swept into introductions, handshakes, and quick, cheerful chatter. Everyone was kind, but it was still a lot—too many voices, too many questions, and too much noise for someone who thrived in quieter spaces. George must have noticed, because he stayed by your side the entire time, a steady, grounding presence.

At one point, during a particularly loud bout of laughter from Fred and Ron, you felt George’s arm tighten around your waist. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re doing amazing, love. Want to step outside for a bit? Get some air?”

You nodded, relief washing over you. George led you out into the garden, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the heat and noise of the kitchen. Fireflies flickered in the twilight, and the sounds of the Burrow faded into the background.

George turned to you, his hands gentle on your arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a deep breath. “It’s just… a lot. I didn’t want to seem rude.”

“You’re not rude,” he said firmly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re perfect. They love you already—I can tell. But if it’s too much, you don’t have to push yourself. I’ll stay out here with you as long as you want.”

His words made your chest ache in the best way. You looked up at him, his warm brown eyes filled with nothing but love and understanding, and you knew he meant every word.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Anytime, love. Now, what do you say we stay out here for a bit longer? I’ll even let you laugh at Fred’s bad jokes from a safe distance.”

You laughed, and George’s grin widened.

The garden was a peaceful haven compared to the lively chaos inside. You could still hear snippets of conversation and laughter floating through the open kitchen window, but out here, the only things surrounding you were the gentle hum of crickets and the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. George guided you to a wooden bench tucked under a trellis of climbing roses, and you sank into it gratefully.

He sat beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders as naturally as if it had always been there. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne, and the quiet hum of his voice as he started talking were all grounding.

“You know,” he began, his tone playful but soft, “when Fred and I first started our shop, we had to pitch the idea to Mum and Dad. Well, Fred did most of the talking because I froze up halfway through. I’m pretty sure I just stood there like a right idiot while he convinced them we weren’t about to blow up Diagon Alley.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “You got nervous? You?”

George chuckled, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Course I did. Just because I’m loud doesn’t mean I don’t get overwhelmed sometimes, too. Especially when something’s important.”

That admission made your heart squeeze. You tilted your head to rest against his shoulder, drawing comfort from the steady rhythm of his breathing. “It’s hard not to feel like I stick out,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Your family is so… close and outgoing. And I’m—”

“Perfect,” George interrupted, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re exactly who I want to bring around them. Doesn’t matter if you’re quiet, loud, or anything in between. I’d drag you to a family dinner every night if I could.”

You let out a small laugh, and he grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re good with words,” you teased lightly.

“Good thing, too,” he quipped, “otherwise, how else would I convince you to stick with me?”

The two of you stayed in the garden for a while longer. George plucked a rose from the trellis and tucked it behind your ear with a flourish, murmuring, “Beautiful,” before pulling you close again. The sound of distant laughter mingled with the chirping crickets, and for the first time that evening, you felt like you could breathe.

After a while, George leaned down so you could see the mischievous glint in his eye. “Think you’re ready to head back in? Or shall I tell them we’ve eloped and left for the continent?”

You laughed, the sound bright and light in the evening air. “I think we can handle a little more time inside.”

He smiled, kissed your knuckles, and stood, offering you his hand. “That’s my girl.”

Inside, the atmosphere was still loud and bustling, but somehow, it didn’t seem so overwhelming anymore. George kept you close, his hand entwined with yours as he steered you toward Ginny and Hermione, who were chatting in the corner. The two girls welcomed you warmly, and before you knew it, Ginny was sharing a funny story about the twins’ antics as children, Hermione chiming in occasionally to add her own observations. George stayed by your side, his arm brushing yours, but gave you enough space to engage in the conversation at your own pace.

At one point, Fred caught George’s eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow, clearly teasing. George grinned, a look of pure affection on his face as he glanced down at you. When Fred mouthed something that suspiciously looked like smitten, George didn’t even bother denying it. He just nodded, his thumb stroking your hand.

As the evening went on, the Weasleys began to settle into their usual routines. Molly started cleaning up the kitchen with Arthur’s help, Ginny and Hermione got into a lively debate about Quidditch teams, and Fred and Ron began a spirited chess match. You stayed close to George, and he stayed close to you, always making sure you were comfortable and never once leaving you to fend for yourself.

By the time the night wound down and George escorted you to the small guest room they’d prepared for you, you felt a surprising sense of belonging. He closed the door behind you and turned to you with a smile, his hands finding your waist.

“See? Survived the first Weasley gauntlet,” he teased, his voice low and playful.

You smiled, your nerves from earlier a distant memory. “Only because I had you.”

He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll always have me, love. Always.”

With a gentle kiss goodnight, George left you to rest while he went to take a shower and then come back to, according to him, go to sleep cuddling. As you lay in bed, the sound of the Burrow settling for the night in the background, you couldn’t help but feel like this place—and these people—might just feel like home someday.

[julietsf1]

Home Again - Charles Leclerc x Reader

summary: eight years, one city, and a thousand unspoken words—will a chance encounter in London bring closure, or is there more in store for Monaco's golden boy and the one who got away? (4.5k words)

content: reunion, slight angst, unresolved feelings, childhood friends

AN: another Charles one! I felt like these tropes really suited his vibe, I hope you enjoy!! :)

____________________________________

London always felt like a city of paradoxes - chaotic yet calming, detached yet full of life. As I sipped my cappuccino at a small café tucked away in Soho, I let my mind wander. The same questions had lingered in my mind over the years, growing louder the longer I avoided them. Was it a mistake to leave? Should I have fought harder to keep in touch with him? With Charles?

I shook my head. No, leaving Monaco had been necessary. It was beautiful, yes, but it was like living inside a postcard, picture-perfect on the outside but so painfully hollow within. Everyone was constantly posturing, trying to outdo the next person in opulence, charm, or connections. It was exhausting.

And Charles… he was Monte Carlo personified in so many ways. Stunning, magnetic, the kind of person who made you feel alive just by being in his orbit. But there was something raw and real beneath that glossy exterior, something I’d always seen, even when no one else seemed to. I loved him for it. And maybe, in a way, I hated him too - for thriving in a place that felt like it would suffocate me.

The faint chime of the café door opening pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced up, expecting some trendy Londoner or a tourist fumbling with their map. But instead, my eyes landed on a familiar face, one I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. Arthur Leclerc.

“Y/N?” His voice was incredulous, his eyebrows shooting up as he stopped mid-step. He looked exactly the same, just a bit taller, a bit sharper around the edges. Still the same boy I remembered from childhood, though, with that mischievous glint in his eye.

I blinked, unsure if I was hallucinating. “Arthur?”

He grinned, practically bounding over to my table. “Mon dieu, it is you! I wasn’t sure at first, but… wow, what are you doing in London?”

I gestured to my half-empty coffee cup. “Living here. What about you? I thought you’d be… I don’t know, in Monaco or racing somewhere glamorous.”

Arthur slid into the seat across from me without waiting for an invitation, his grin widening. “I was here for a sim session, actually. But you, London? I thought you’d be in Paris or some other philosophy capital, writing about Socrates or something.”

I laughed softly. “Close enough. I came here for university, and I never left.”

“Eight years.” His tone was lighter, but his words carried weight. “It’s been eight years, Y/N. Do you ever go back?”

The question hit me harder than I expected. I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself time. “No,” I admitted. “Not since… well, not since I left.”

Arthur’s expression softened, though confusion lingered in his eyes. “You just… left,” he said gently. “No one really understood why. Charles especially.”

I looked down at my coffee, the words caught in my throat. How could I explain the weight of feeling like an outsider in a world I was supposed to call home?

“I just needed to go,” I murmured. “It wasn’t about anyone else.”

Arthur studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I guess I never really got it, but… if it’s what you needed, then fine.” He paused before leaning forward with a small smile. “Come back. Just for the weekend, for the Grand Prix. I think it’d mean a lot to everyone. To Charles.”

I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. The truth was, I’d thought about going back a hundred times. But every time, I chickened out. Monaco felt like a ghost town to me now, haunted by memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Arthur said simply. He pulled out his phone and started typing something before I could protest. “There. I signed you up as my guest. No backing out now.”

I stared at him, equal parts annoyed and touched by his insistence. “What if I had plans already?”

“Cancel them,” he shot back with a wink. “But seriously, Y/N, it’s time. Come back. Just for a weekend. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I sighed, knowing I’d already lost this battle. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was time.

…

Monaco hadn’t changed. Not really.

The same sunlit streets curved around the cliffs, the same pastel buildings clung to the coastline, their colors soft and warm under the Mediterranean sun. The harbor was still crowded with yachts that gleamed like polished jewels, reflecting the light off the water’s surface. It was all exactly as I remembered—beautiful in the kind of way that made you feel small and insignificant.

I wasn’t sure what I expected. Maybe cracks in the pristine perfection, signs that time had weathered the place the same way it had weathered me. But Monaco, ever the picture perfect place, refused to bend to time.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t resent it for that. The beauty I had once thought insincere now felt strangely comforting, like being greeted by an old friend who hadn’t forgotten you, even if you had drifted apart.

“Here we are, mademoiselle,” the taxi driver said, pulling up to the paddock entrance.

I took a deep breath and stepped out. The familiar hum of Grand Prix weekend surrounded me immediately - the roar of engines revving in the distance, the buzz of chatter from fans and team members, the faint tang of fuel in the air. It was overwhelming, yes, but also exhilarating. Nostalgia wrapped around me, equal parts warm and suffocating.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rang out, pulling me back to the present. He was waiting just inside the paddock entrance, a wide grin spreading across his face as he waved me over.

I smiled despite myself and walked toward him. “Arthur,” I said, my tone teasing. “You’re not old enough to be drinking espresso yet.”

He laughed, pulling me into a hug that was warmer than I expected. “Eight years and you still won’t give me a break. Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?” I asked as he led me into the paddock, his enthusiasm practically radiating off him.

“Everywhere,” he said simply. “It’s been years. You’ve missed so much.”

Arthur guided me through the maze of the paddock, pointing out everything with a mix of pride and excitement, as though I hadn’t grown up watching all of this unfold. But I let him have his moment, nodding along and laughing at his commentary.

“You look different,” he said suddenly, catching me off guard. “In a good way, I mean. More… I don’t know, serious. Like you’ve seen things. Learned things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very poetic way of saying I look old, Arthur.”

“No, really,” he insisted, his expression earnest. “It’s like you’ve grown into yourself.”

The comment was unexpected, but it warmed me. “Thanks,” I said softly. “You’ve grown up too. A little.”

He grinned. “Don’t let Charles hear you say that. He still treats me like a kid.”

At the mention of Charles, my stomach twisted, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. Arthur must have noticed something, because his tone shifted, gentler now. “I know it’s probably weird, being back here,” he said. “But I think it’s good you came. I think… I think Charles will be happy to see you.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him how wrong I thought he was. Instead, I nodded and let him lead me deeper into the paddock.

…

The paddock was chaos, as always. Media rushing everywhere, team members darting back and forth. But Charles couldn’t focus on any of it.

Because she was here.

He had only seen her for a brief moment, just a glimpse of her stepping out of a taxi and into the paddock. But it was enough to bring back everything; every memory, every laugh, every ache of missing her. She looked exactly like she did before, only prettier. 

It had been eight years. Eight years since she left without a goodbye, leaving him to wonder if he had done something wrong, if he had somehow driven her away. And now she was back, as though she had never been gone.

“Arthur,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. His hand shook slightly as he dialed.

His brother answered on the first ring. “Charles? What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Charles hissed, keeping his voice low as he stepped out of the chaos and into a quiet corner. “Arthur, why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

There was a pause, then a sheepish laugh. “Ah. You’ve seen her already.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her!” Charles snapped, though the anger in his voice was undercut by the nervous energy bubbling beneath. “You should’ve warned me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Arthur said, his tone annoyingly casual. “I thought you’d be happy. It’s been years, Charles. Don’t you want to see her?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “Of course I want to see her. I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur’s voice softened. “You’ll figure it out. You always did with her.”

…

Arthur had been called away to a meeting, leaving me to wander the place on my own. I found a quiet spot near the Ferrari hospitality area, nursing a coffee and trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions in my chest.

Being back here was surreal, like stepping into a memory I wasn’t sure I wanted to relive. But at the same time, I couldn’t deny the comfort of it - the familiar sounds, the smell of the sea air mixed with fuel, the vibrant energy of race weekend.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned instinctively, my breath catching as I locked eyes with him.

Charles.

He stopped in his tracks, his expression a mix of shock and something I couldn’t place, something that made my chest tighten. For a moment, neither of us moved. The weight of eight years of silence hung in the air between us, heavy and unyielding.

Before I could say anything, he turned abruptly and walked away.

…

The roar of the engines drowned out everything else. I stood on the hospitality terrace, surrounded by fans who were shouting encouragement in a chorus of excitement. The energy was contagious, a reminder of why I had always loved race weekends, even when the rest of Monaco felt stifling.

Arthur had left me to sit with some of his friends, but I didn’t mind being alone. It gave me a chance to take it all in—the track, the sea of red Ferrari merchandise, the sun reflecting off the sleek cars. My eyes kept drifting to one in particular, the red number 16 that seemed to glide through every corner as though the circuit were made for it.

Charles.

I hadn’t seen him since he walked away from me in the paddock earlier. It shouldn’t have surprised me; after all, what could we have possibly said to each other in that moment? But it still stung, the abruptness of it, the way he looked at me like I was a ghost he wasn’t ready to confront.

I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about him. It was about being here, about reconnecting with a part of my life I had left behind.

But as the race unfolded, I couldn’t stop my gaze from following him. Every lap, every overtaking move, every moment of brilliance - it was impossible not to be drawn in. Charles had always been talented, but seeing him now, so focused and in control, was something else entirely. It was breathtaking.

The crowd around me erupted as Charles crossed the finish line, taking the victory in a masterful final lap. People were cheering, waving flags, hugging strangers in celebration. I found myself smiling, caught up in the infectious energy of the moment.

But my smile faltered as I saw him step out of the car. The joy on his face was undeniable, but there was something else—something in the way his eyes scanned the crowd, as though he were looking for someone.

For a split second, I thought he might be looking for me. But then I shook my head, brushing the thought away. Charles had the whole world celebrating him right now. Why would he waste a second of it on someone who had been gone for so long?

Still, as he climbed onto the podium and lifted the trophy, I couldn’t help but feel that same strange pull I had always felt with him. It wasn’t just admiration or pride; it was I only felt with him.

As the celebrations spilled into the paddock, where the Ferrari garage was alive with champagne showers, laughter, I kept my distance, lingering near the back of the crowd as the team surrounded Charles, congratulating him.

Arthur spotted me and made his way over, a grin plastered across his face. “Pretty incredible, huh?” he said, motioning toward the scene.

I nodded. “He’s… he’s amazing,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

Arthur gave me a look, something between knowing and sympathetic. “You should come to the afterparty,” he said. “We’re all heading to Rimaldi later. It’ll be fun.”

I hesitated, the thought of being in a room full of people who knew Charles, who had been part of his world all these years, making my stomach twist. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t overthink it,” Arthur said, cutting me off. “It’s just a party. No pressure.”

I forced a smile, but the weight in my chest didn’t ease. “We’ll see,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t going to go.

***

The party at Rimaldi was everything Charles had come to expect from these celebrations—loud music, overflowing champagne, and a sea of people he barely recognized. The restaurant’s cozy atmosphere had been transformed into a chaotic celebration, with glasses clinking and laughter filling every corner. Fans and acquaintances congratulated him as though they were old friends, slapping him on the back and offering toasts in his honor.

Normally, this was his element. He was good at this—the smiling, the handshakes, the polite small talk that came with being the center of attention. On any other night, he would have been content to let the noise and the crowd carry him, to let it fill the empty spaces he so often ignored. But tonight was different.

Tonight, no matter how many times he raised his glass or laughed along with a joke, he couldn’t shake the gnawing restlessness that had been with him all day. His mind kept drifting, pulled away from the party and back to the one place he couldn’t seem to avoid—her.

She’d looked the same and yet completely different. The years had softened some edges and sharpened others, but it was still her. Y/N, the person who had once been his closest friend, his anchor in a world that often felt overwhelming. He thought he had moved on from wondering why she left, why she cut him off, but seeing her again brought it all back in a rush.

He barely touched his drink, the glass sweating in his hand as he leaned against the edge of the bar. Across the room, Arthur caught his eye, a knowing grin on his face as he raised his own drink in a silent toast. Charles frowned and turned away, pretending not to notice.

“Charles! Congratulations!” A voice pulled him back to the moment. A well-dressed man, someone he vaguely recognized as a sponsor, clapped him on the shoulder. Charles offered a tight smile, exchanging a few polite words before excusing himself.

The truth was, he wasn’t really here. Not mentally. The louder the party grew, the more it grated on him, every laugh and cheer feeling like static in his ears. His thoughts kept circling back to the paddock, to the way her eyes had met his for that brief, electric moment. She had looked surprised, hesitant, but not angry. That was something, at least.

But then she had disappeared, and he hadn’t been able to stop replaying it in his mind—the way she stood there, so poised and composed, and then was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

By midnight, he couldn’t take it anymore. The laughter and music blurred into background noise as he stood, shaking his head at someone offering him another drink. He muttered something about needing rest and slipped out through the side door, ignoring Arthur’s raised eyebrows as he left. His brother didn’t stop him, though, and Charles suspected Arthur knew exactly where he was going.

The streets of Monaco were quieter now, the city’s energy winding down after the race. Charles drove aimlessly at first, his hands tight around the steering wheel. The roads he knew so well blurred together as his thoughts raced faster than his car ever could.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t even know if she would want to see him. But none of that mattered, because the one thing he did know, the one thought that consumed him, was this:

He needed to see her.

***

The knock at the door startled me.

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table—12:27 a.m. I had been lying on the hotel bed for the past hour, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the day. Arthur’s invitation, the race, seeing Charles for the first time in years—all of it felt like too much, like I had stepped back into a world I didn’t belong to anymore.

Another knock, firmer this time.

I sat up, my heart racing. Maybe it was Arthur, coming to drag me to the afterparty. Or worse, maybe it was a staff member telling me something had gone wrong with my reservation. My stomach twisted as I padded across the room, hesitating before unlocking the door.

But when I opened it, it wasn’t Arthur or hotel staff standing there.

It was Charles.

He leaned against the doorframe, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his hair slightly tousled by the wind. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket that hinted at his frame—but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. They flickered between me and the floor, restless, as though he were trying to piece together why he was even here.

“Hi,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady.

I stared at him, too stunned to respond at first. “Charles,” I managed after a moment. “What are you doing here?”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Can we go for a drive?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone firmer this time, though not unkind. “I need to talk to you. And I can’t do it here.”

I hesitated, glancing back into the room like it held the answer. But there was no answer waiting for me, no excuse strong enough to keep me from following him. “Okay,” I said softly. “Let me grab my coat.”

The streets of Monaco were quieter now, the city winding down after the race. Charles drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearstick. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road, and the silence between us felt heavy, charged with everything unsaid.

I kept stealing glances at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but it was unreadable. It wasn’t anger exactly, but it wasn’t calm either. It was something in between—a tension I couldn’t quite place.

Finally, he turned onto a small road overlooking the harbor and parked. He shut off the engine but didn’t move, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he stared out at the lights reflecting on the water.

“Why did you leave?” he asked finally, his voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder.

I swallowed hard, my hands twisting in my lap. “I didn’t know how to stay,” I said quietly. “Monaco… it wasn’t the same for me as it was for you. It felt fake, like I was living in a place where everything was about appearances and nothing was real. I couldn’t breathe there.”

He turned then, his gaze sharp and searching. “So you left without a word? Without even telling me?”

I met his eyes, feeling the sting of his words. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“Understand?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly. “Y/N, you were my best friend. I would have done anything for you, but you didn’t even give me the chance.”

The anger in his tone cut deep, but beneath it, I could hear something else—hurt. And that was worse.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said softly. “But I had to go. For me.”

Charles shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Do you know how many times I thought about calling you? About flying to London to find you? But I didn’t, because I told myself that if you wanted to talk to me, you would.”

I clenched my hands together, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “I thought about telling you,” I said softly. “But I was scared. Scared that if I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to leave. And I had to leave, Charles. I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

“I would have let you go if that is what you wanted. I just wish I had known.” He said, looking deep into my eyes. 

I felt a lump rise in my throat. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“Even a text or a quick call would have made the difference, Y/N.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “You blame me for no contact, but you never reached out either.”

His jaw tightened, his hands gripping the steering wheel again. “Because I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “You didn’t leave a door open, Y/N. Not for me, not for anyone.”

The anger in his tone cut deep, but beneath it, I could hear something else—hurt. And that was worse.

We fell into silence, the weight of our words hanging heavy in the air. My chest felt tight, my emotions raw and unsteady. I looked out at the harbor, the city lights shimmering like distant stars, and took a deep breath.

“Explain it to me,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Because I don’t understand, Y/N. I’ve spent eight years not understanding.”

My chest felt tight, the weight of everything we had been avoiding pressing down on me.

“I was scared,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “Scared that if I stayed, I’d lose myself. Scared that if I saw you again, I’d lose the courage to leave. And then… after your dad…” I trailed off, the memory too painful to finish. “I didn’t know how to come back after that.”

Charles’s expression softened, the anger fading into something more vulnerable. “You could have come to me,” he said quietly. “You should have come to me.”

I shook my head, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “And what would I have said? ‘Sorry for leaving you when you needed me the most’? I couldn’t face that, Charles. I couldn’t face you.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.

My chest felt tight, my emotions raw and unsteady, as though years of bottled-up feelings had burst open all at once, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. I turned my gaze toward the harbor, the city lights shimmering like scattered stars on the water, their soft glow blurring slightly as tears pricked at my eyes. The stillness of the moment contrasted sharply with the storm raging inside me.

Charles broke the silence, his voice soft but resolute, as though he’d been holding these words back for far too long. “It shouldn’t have been Arthur who invited you back,” he said, his tone laced with frustration and regret. “It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to call you.”

The honesty in his voice hit me like a blow to the chest. I turned to him, my breath hitching as his words sank in. The years apart had been a chasm between us, filled with missed chances and unspoken words, and hearing him acknowledge it felt like a bittersweet relief. My throat tightened, and I struggled to find my voice.

“I know,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “But you didn’t call me. And… neither did I call you. We both let it happen.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly, his profile illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost fragile. “I didn’t know how to. After you left, I was confused. I didn’t want to admit how much it hurt. And then it just… felt easier to pretend I didn’t care.”

I let out a shaky breath, the tears I’d been holding back finally slipping free. “The second I got back to Monaco, all I did was look for you,” I admitted, my words coming out in a rush, like I had been holding them in for years. “Everywhere I went, I looked for you. You were everywhere - your face in the streets, your name in conversations, your memory in everything I saw. And yet… you were nowhere.”

I heard Charles inhale sharply, and when I turned back, his eyes were locked on mine, filled with an intensity that made my breath catch. Green and piercing, they were searching for something, some part of me I wasn’t sure I still had to give. Vulnerability. Hope. Regret. I saw all of it reflected in his gaze, and it was almost too much.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to see you again,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know if I could. But now that you’re here…” He shook his head, his expression softening into something raw and earnest. “Now that you’re here, I can’t imagine letting you go again.”

The space between us seemed to disappear in an instant. Charles reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek in a way that was both tender and desperate. His touch was hesitant at first, as though he was afraid I might pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Then, before I could say anything, his lips met mine.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like we were both testing the waters of something so fragile it might shatter under the weight of our emotions. But it deepened quickly, carrying years of longing, frustration, and unspoken love. It was messy and imperfect, tears mingling with laughter, but it felt like home in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

When we finally pulled apart, Charles didn’t move far. His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though grounding himself in the closeness between us, before murmuring, “I don’t want to lose you again. Not ever.”

My heart pounded, each beat echoing the promise in his words. I closed my eyes, letting the moment wash over me, before whispering back, “You won’t.”

In that moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving something lighter in its place. We weren’t perfect, and neither was this, but it was enough. It was us.

[emeritusemeritus]

Can I sleep here tonight?

Title: Can I sleep here tonight?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x pregnant!wife!reader, Molly and Arthur Weasley (being absolute gems)

Timeline: Set post-war. George lost his ear a per canon but Fred is very much alive and thriving, married and expecting his first child. The burrow is mentioned for story purposes so it didn’t burn down and we’re ignoring canon once more.

Summary: George arrives at the burrow asking to spend the night, desperate to get away from Fred and his pregnant wife.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, pregnant character, brief mentions of war and previous injury, though no graphic description is included. Mentions of sex.

It's way past tea time, darkness settling all around as the last glimmer of winter sun fades into the hills when George Weasley apparates onto the familiar dirt road leading up to his childhood home. He's armed with only his wand and a small suitcase no bigger than a briefcase, only holding the basics.

Since the war, Molly and Arthur had kept up the old enchantments placed upon the Burrow as a precaution, the fears never truly leaving them. With a wave of his wand, George clears the enchantments and steps through the invisible barrier to get to the house. As he steps towards the little stone step that acts as the threshold to the house, the door is thrust open and a warm and solid body pulls him inside. He recognises the body as his mother the very second her height and smell come into focus.

"My boy! What are you doing here?  You look tired and peaky, is something wrong? I'll make you something to eat. Arthur!" Molly shouts loudly for her husband after fretting at seeing George on their doorstep without any prior warning, especially without his twin. Since opening the shop, them moving out together, the war, George's recovery, and Fred's wedding, the twins have been so busy it's been an endeavour to get them back home even for a simple visit. "Arthur!"

"Mollywobbles what is it?" Arthur shouts back, his voice getting louder as he moves towards the kitchen. "Oh hello son," he says as he walks into the kitchen, seeing George stood there clutching a small briefcase. Arthur instinctively frowns at the unexpected visit but welcomes his son with warmth, wrapping him in a hug, patting his back a few times before pulling away.

"Do you want a cup of tea dear?" Molly asks, already making her way over to the kettle and busying herself to make something to eat for George, regardless of his radio silence.

"Now Molly, it seems he might need something stronger than tea, right son?" Arthur asks, patting George's shoulder once. "Why don't be crack open some of my Knotgrass mead? I've been saving it for an occasion, no time better than the present." He ushers George to sit at the table and Molly rushes over with a large bottle of mead and two pint glasses, bringing over an elaborate sandwich on a plate for George.

"Thanks mum," George says as Molly places down the welcomed food, noticing that she'd used one of her nicer plates for him, not something that he was ever allowed when he was younger. 

"Cheers!" Arthur says, holding up his glass towards George's after he'd poured them, happy to have a drinking buddy at home.

"So what's wrong son? Not that you're not always welcome of course," Arthur says, eyeing his son with a hint of suspicion as Molly takes a seat opposite George, placing down a cup of tea made for herself.

"Can I stay here tonight?" George asks, cringing at the slight awkwardness of his request, feeling like a child again.

"Of course you can!" Arthur says as if he's offended by the notion of George even having to ask.

"Of course you can dear, how nice to have a fuller house again! I'll put some fresh linens on the bed for you," Molly rushes up towards Fred and George's old room and with a swish of her wand, changes the bedsheets in no time at all. She returns to see the men chatting at the table and takes her place once again, reaching for her tea.

"Do you want to tell us what's wrong?" Arthur says, taking the lead. George sighs heavily, not wanting to say outright what the problem is but unable to think of a plausible excuse.

He sighs once more before admitting to the issue under his parents concerned gazes, "it's Fred and y/n."

"Have you had a falling out?" Molly quickly says, interrupting George. Arthur gives her a quick look which tells her politely to be quiet until their son has finished to which she nods and waits.

"Not exactly, it's just... I can't bare to listen to them having sex anymore. Silencing spells don't work, I've even tried muggle earplugs, well one, but that didn't work either! I only have one ear and it's still bad! Since Y/n got pregnant it's none stop, I thought getting pregnant was bad enough but bloody hell," George barely conceals a shudder at the thought of his twin brother and his wife having near constant sex in the same flat as him.

He picks up the sandwich and begins tucking in, not having time to get any food in his haste to flee the flat about the shop that he shared with Fred and y/n.

He turns his gaze back to his parents and is immediately surprised at the look they are sharing between each other. Both of them are smiling lovingly, a blush spreading on both of their faces, both appear to be speaking with their eyes.

"What?" George says with a mouthful of food, frowning, not understanding their reaction.

"Why do you think we had so many children?" Arthur suddenly laughs, earning a little giggle from Molly, a sound that George had never heard fall from his mother's mouth.

"I couldn't resist your mother when she was pregnant, just something about it," Arthur trails off as if he's daydreaming, a nostalgic smile plastered on his face. "The second she popped one of you out I wanted to try again."

George wants the ground to swallow him up in his entirety as he sits disgusted and uncomfortable. Was nowhere safe anymore? He finds his appetite has significantly decreased and is thankful that he'd finished the sandwich quickly; only praying he could keep it down if his parents kept talking about that.

"It's entirely biological son, it's what the muggles call 'hormones', or so I'm told. There's just something about seeing your wife carrying your child..." Arthur shakes his head slightly as he daydreams, a goofy smile still hanging off his lips as Molly swats his arm playfully.

"I'm going to bed," George mumbles, wanting desperately to get away.

"We'll keep it down tonight!" Arthur jokes earning a cackle from Molly as they both laugh at Arthur's attempt at humour. George grumbles the entire way up to his old bedroom, holding back a shudder at the very thought of not only his brother and y/n but now also his parents.

I need to move away, he thought.

[nayziiz]

Witness | CL16

Summary: In the shadowy world of Monaco's elite, the Leclerc family reigns supreme. Charles Leclerc, the charming middle son, maintains their pristine public image—until one rainy night, during a fit of rage, Charles does the unthinkable. A young woman witnesses his actions, and her terrified eyes haunt him. Consumed by guilt and fear of exposure, Charles embarks on a desperate search to find her before she can destroy his family’s legacy. As he delves deeper into Monaco's underbelly, Charles must confront his own darkness and the lengths he will go to protect his family.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x OC (name to be revealed)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst

Masterlist

CHAPTER 3

The youngest Leclerc brother, Arthur, was the wildest one. Known for his insatiable appetite for adventure and thrill, he thrived in the vibrant nightlife of Monaco. He had a habit of dragging Charles to parties, clubs, and casinos when Charles would have preferred a peaceful night in with a glass of wine and a good book. Arthur’s energy was infectious, his charm undeniable, and he revelled in the attention their family name commanded.

Tonight was no exception. It was a Saturday, which meant the city was alive with the promise of excitement, and Arthur had already set his sights on the night’s itinerary. He burst into Charles’s apartment, grinning from ear to ear, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

“Come on, Charles! You can’t hide away tonight,” Arthur declared, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “I’ve got us on the guest list at the hottest club in town. Everyone’s going to be there!”

“Arthur, I really don’t feel like going out tonight. I had a long day, and I just want to relax,” Charles sighed, switching on his television and clicking on one of the motorsport channels.

“Relax? You can relax when you’re old and grey. We’re young, rich, and Leclercs! The world is our playground, brother,” Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically, grabbing the remote from Charles’s hands and tossing it onto the couch. 

Despite his reluctance, Charles couldn’t help but smile at Arthur’s infectious enthusiasm. It was a losing battle, as it always was when Arthur set his mind on something. Resigned, he stood up and grabbed his jacket, knowing there was no point in arguing.

“Alright, alright. But just for a few hours,” Charles conceded. “I have some business to take care of tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit! Trust me, you’ll thank me later. There’s nothing like a night out in Monaco,” Arthur clapped him on the back, his grin widening.

Arthur kicked the night off with a rented limo, already downing shots like nobody's business. The air inside the limo was filled with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses as Arthur entertained himself, his spirits high. Charles, ever the responsible one, watched his brother with a mix of amusement and mild concern, knowing how wild Arthur’s nights out could get.

The limo took them to a restaurant, an upscale place known for its gourmet cuisine and sophisticated ambiance. The plan was to have a meal before diving into the night's festivities. As they arrived, Arthur, already a bit tipsy, made a beeline for the bar. Charles sighed, resigning himself to a quiet meal alone.

Charles found a quiet table and ordered a hearty meal, intending to line his stomach properly for whatever the night would bring. The restaurant's dim lighting and soft music provided a stark contrast to the wild energy Arthur radiated at the bar. Charles watched his brother from across the room, seeing him animatedly talking to strangers, charming everyone in his vicinity.

Charles savoured his meal, enjoying the brief moment of solitude. The rich flavours of the food helped to ground him, a small comfort amidst the chaos Arthur had undoubtedly planned for the night. He glanced occasionally towards the bar, where Arthur continued to entertain, his laughter echoing through the restaurant.

As Charles finished his meal, he reflected on how different he and Arthur were. Arthur's zest for life and adventure often pulled Charles out of his comfort zone, dragging him into nights filled with unpredictability. Yet, despite the exhaustion these nights brought, Charles couldn't deny the bond he felt with his brother, a bond that often made him go along with Arthur’s wild plans.

Once Charles was done, he walked over to the bar, where Arthur was still in high spirits, flirting with the bartender and regaling a small group with some exaggerated story. Charles placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, giving him a look that conveyed both amusement and readiness for the next part of the night.

“Ready, big brother? The night’s just getting started!” Arthur grinned, downing another shot before clapping Charles on the back. 

“Lead the way, Arthur. Let’s see what you’ve got planned,” Charles nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. 

The night was still young, and Charles knew better than to underestimate Arthur’s knack for creating unforgettable experiences. From there, Arthur dragged Charles and his friends to his favourite casino, a lavish establishment with opulent décor and a vibrant atmosphere. As they entered, the group filtered through the other guests and diplomats to the bar, the clinking of glasses and low murmur of conversations adding to the casino’s lively ambiance. Some of Arthur's friends gravitated towards the slot machines, their excited chatter blending with the mechanical sounds of the games. Others headed for the roulette table, eager to test their luck.

Charles, however, remained withdrawn from the main group. He slowly made his way around the casino, observing the scene with a detached curiosity. He watched as some fools gambled away their trust funds, their faces a mix of hope and desperation with each spin of the wheel or roll of the dice. The flashing lights and the cacophony of sounds seemed to create a world of their own, one where fortunes could change in an instant.

Occasionally, Charles would take a seat at one of the tables, nursing a drink and simply watching the guests move about the dimly lit room. The casino was a microcosm of Monaco’s elite, a place where power and money intersected in a dance of chance and skill. Despite the bustling activity around him, Charles felt a sense of isolation, his thoughts drifting back to the incident and the woman he was desperate to find.

As he continued to observe, he felt a tug of responsibility and protectiveness towards Arthur. His younger brother thrived in this environment, effortlessly charming everyone around him, but Charles knew the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of their glamorous lifestyle. He needed to keep an eye on Arthur, ensuring that he didn’t get into too much trouble.

Arthur, meanwhile, was in his element, moving from group to group with an easy confidence. His laughter echoed across the room, drawing people to him like moths to a flame. Charles couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s antics, even as he felt a pang of worry. Arthur’s reckless nature was both his greatest asset and his biggest flaw.

She had perfected the art of the serene smile, a mask she wore to hide the turmoil churning inside her. Her hands moved deftly, expertly shuffling and dealing the cards with practised ease. The table was surrounded by a mix of regulars and tourists, their faces a blend of hopeful anticipation and steely determination.

“Place your bets, please,” she announced, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her stomach. She swept her gaze over the players, taking in their expressions, their tells. She had learned to read people well in this job, to see beyond the surface.

The cards were dealt, and she watched as the players assessed their hands. A middle-aged man in a tailored suit tapped his fingers on the table, a subtle signal for another card. Next to him, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses nervously bit her lip before deciding to stand. The tension was palpable, each decision a potential turning point in their fortunes.

As she revealed the next card, a murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. The man in the suit smiled triumphantly, his pile of chips growing with his win. She congratulated him with a nod, keeping her expression neutral. The casino's glamour masked the desperation that often lurked beneath the surface, and she was all too aware of the fine line between triumph and ruin.

Her shift progressed in this rhythm of bets and deals, wins and losses. She maintained her composure, but the memory of that fateful night lingered at the edges of her mind. Every face in the crowd was a potential threat, every moment a chance for her past to catch up with her.

A sudden shout from across the room jolted her from her thoughts. A commotion at the roulette table drew the attention of the patrons, and for a brief moment, the blackjack table was deserted. She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of respite. The noise of the casino faded to a distant hum, and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

But it was a fleeting reprieve. As the players returned, she resumed her role, her eyes scanning the crowd with renewed vigilance. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, not when the threat of being discovered loomed so large.

A new player approached the table, a tall man with a confident stride and an easy smile. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. For a split second, she feared it was him, the man she had seen that night. But it wasn’t. Just another stranger in a city full of them.

“Good evening,” she greeted, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. “Care to try your luck?”

The man nodded, taking a seat and placing his bets. As she dealt the cards, she couldn't shake the feeling that her time in Monaco was running out. The sense of being hunted, of danger lurking just out of sight, was ever-present. But for now, she had a job to do, a role to play in the glittering spectacle of the casino.

She watched as the players made their decisions, her mind drifting slightly as she mechanically performed her duties. The table was busy tonight, a mix of regulars and tourists, their expressions ranging from confident to anxious.

As the night wore on, Charles’s attention was drawn to the excitement at the blackjack table in the corner of the room. The dealer, a young woman with an air of calm professionalism, skillfully handled the cards, her movements precise and practised. Something about her seemed familiar, but Charles couldn’t quite place her. He decided to approach, drawn by a sense of curiosity and an inexplicable pull. As he got closer, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting for a brief moment.

Her heart skipped a beat, a faint sense of unease creeping in, but she dismissed it as the usual paranoia that had plagued her recently. Charles took a seat at the table, his gaze fixed on the dealer. There was something about her, a nagging feeling that tugged at his memory. He watched as she dealt the cards, her hands moving with practised grace. The way she moved, the set of her shoulders, it all seemed so familiar.

“Place your bets,” she repeated, her voice steady but her pulse quickening.

She sensed his eyes on her, a penetrating gaze that made her skin prickle. She focused on the cards, trying to shake off the feeling. Recognition flickered in her gaze, and suddenly, it all clicked in her mind.

Charles studied her face, the way she focused intently on the game. And then, like a flash of lightning, it hit him. Her face. It was her. The woman from that night. The memory of her terrified expression, her wide eyes frozen in shock, came rushing back. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding as recognition settled in.

“Hit or stand?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly as she met his eyes again. The look in his eyes made her stomach drop. It was a mix of shock and realisation, a look she had seen before, in a dark alley under the rain. Charles swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure.

“Stand,” he said, his voice rough with the weight of his discovery. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, the woman he had been searching for, now standing right in front of him.

She dealt the next card with trembling fingers, her mind racing. He recognized her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension that now crackled between them. Her carefully constructed world began to crumble, the walls of safety she had built around herself now seeming paper-thin.

The game continued, but the atmosphere at the table had shifted. The other players sensed something was off, casting curious glances at Charles and the dealer. She forced herself to focus, to complete the hand, but her mind was spinning with fear and uncertainty.

While she was frightened, he was overwhelmed. He wasn't sure how to approach the subject with her without scaring her any further. He wasn't a horrible person and he hated the fact that she caught him at such a brutal moment in his life. He kept watching her, his mind racing with thoughts of how to handle the situation. He couldn't speak to her openly about it in front of so many people, so when the game ended and she quickly rushed towards the staff rooms, he caught up with her.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he called after her.

She stopped and hesitantly turned around. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she seemed ready to bolt at any second.

“I'm not quite sure how to go about this, but I would appreciate a moment to speak with you…privately,” he tried to keep his voice as gentle and non-threatening as possible, aware of the tension in the air.

She looked around, clearly nervous about being seen talking to him. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear, curiosity, and a sliver of defiance. She had seen him at his worst, and now here he was, confronting her in a way she hadn't anticipated.

“Why should I?” She asked, her voice shaky but with an edge of determination.

“Please,” Charles said, lowering his voice even further. “I just want to explain. I need you to understand that what you saw was not who I am.”

Before she could answer, her manager strolled by and spotted Charles and her.

“Mr. Leclerc!” Her manager bellowed, interrupting the two.

She had to stop her jaw from falling to the ground when she heard his last name. Leclerc? The realisation sent a shiver down her spine, and the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. This man, the one who had haunted her nightmares for days, was one of the notorious Leclerc brothers.

“Is there something Marie or I can assist you with?” the manager asked, his tone shifting to one of eager politeness.

“Marie?” Charles repeated, turning to look at her with a mixture of surprise and recognition.

“Yes, sir,” she nodded.

“No, thank you. I, uh, was just looking for the restroom,” he lied, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him.

“Right this way, sir. Marie, you can return to your station.” The manager smiled, oblivious to the undercurrents in the exchange.

Charles gave her a lingering look before following the manager down the hall. She watched them go, her heart pounding in her chest. The shock of his identity and the suddenness of the encounter left her reeling. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before heading back to the blackjack table.

As she resumed dealing cards, her mind raced with the implications of what had just transpired. Charles Leclerc now knew her name, and she knew his. The stakes had just gotten infinitely higher. She had seen a side of him that no one else had, and now he was aware of her existence in a way that made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

She had to figure out what to do next. Reporting the incident seemed even more complicated now, knowing the power and influence the Leclerc family wielded. But staying silent felt like a ticking time bomb. She was caught in a dangerous game, and she had no idea how to play it.

For Charles, the encounter left him equally unsettled. As he walked towards the restroom, guided by the manager, he couldn't shake the feeling of fate's cruel irony. The girl from that night was named Marie, and now she worked in a place he and his brothers frequented. He needed to speak to her, to explain himself properly, but the opportunity had slipped away.

Once he was alone, he splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He had to find a way to reach her again, to make her understand. The fear in her eyes haunted him, and he couldn't let things remain as they were. Not knowing how she might react, not knowing if she might go to the police, was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

He returned to the casino floor, his mind made up. He would find Marie again, and this time, he would make sure they had the conversation he so desperately needed. The game had begun, and he was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

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

Taglist: @headinthecloudssblog

[skayafair]

Relistening to The Order and I find a beautiful irony in the fact that Larson and Yellow were dying and fading, respectively, one being consumed by another's power

While Arthur and John may have a dozen divorces a day but are still thriving together. The theory that Arthur is still alive and heals inhumanly fast only because of John's powers is going strong 👌

Just. Aaawww.

I hope Yellow and Larson are separate now tho. Get this piece of scum away from my boy!

[summugus]

i’ve already posted about this but relistening to malevolent is so funny because arthur loses 5 years off his life every episode but that goddamned lighter is still thriving. 45 episodes of eternal suffering but arthur’s lighter is still alive and well. i need me a lighter like that mines always run out after a week:((

[lunarflux]

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

a/n: FUCK this one made me so emo. one chapter left

part 25: the final goodbye

word count: 2,791 tag: @bruhidkjustwannaread | @rubyxx16 | @bellabarnes1378 | @johnmurphys-sass | @strangeobsessed

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

You'd felt it before—the torrid pulse of power. It felt like molten gold dripping from your fingertips. The gentle thrum of your heart beating reminded you that Gods didn't burn. It was here that you thrived, perched before your tormenter with a pistol aimed at his crotch. John and Arthur dragged him down into the cellar, bound tightly to a chair with his hands tied behind his back.

With a cigarette in one hand and your finger flush against the trigger in the other, your narrowed eyes playfully stared at Bingham. He didn't look bothered, but that didn't remove any of the amusement that coursed through your mind. He knew he would be dead in an hour, and you were the only one keeping him alive.

"Should we—"

Tommy held up a hand, interrupting Arthur. "We are not here for a mercy killing. Let her work."

"Fuck," Arthur grunted, throwing back the full glass of whiskey.

"I thought he'd be dead by now," John muttered under his breath.

You took a long drag from your cigarette, feeling the smoke fill your lungs before blowing the pale cloud into Bingham's face.

"Look at you, y/n," Bingham chuckled as blood dripped down his cheek. "Powerful. Commanding."

You pushed the tip of your pistol further in between his legs, but still, he didn't flinch. "This isn't the time for flattery, Alfred."

"You're the one torturing me. My beautiful little bird, finally with her first kill of value." He smirked.

"I'm not a bird, let alone your bird." You sat back and crossed your legs. "I'm a fucking viper."

The shot rang loud, echoing throughout the cellar with a sharp crack. Bingham hung his head low, hissing in pain in between a bitter laugh. He looked down. Your gun was still positioned towards his kneecap—shattered and bloody.

"Yes, y/n!" Bingham cackled, his eyes wild and manic. "How did that feel? Tell me."

"You'll have none of my thoughts," you sighed, perching the cigarette in between your lips. You pushed the pistol into his stomach, twisting it until it was clean of his blood. "That bullet was for Ezra. Not that you would know anything about that."

"Of course, I—"

"—I know the truth, Alfred. I've been free of that guilt for some time now. You seem to have neglected that the toying of others does not remove their consciences."

Bingham's eyes darted back and forth between yours as if he was trying to detect the lies in your speech. After a moment, he sat up straight with a sigh, shaking his head. "It was fun while it lasted, y/n. You were so beautifully broken. Had I known it would shatter you, I might've adjusted my methods. But you have another now." His gaze shifted to Tommy. "You wouldn't have found him if it weren't for me. You should be thanking me."

"And what am I thanking you for?"

"You would not be this way without me. Admit it, y/n. You're addicted to the power. Addicted to the feeling of that pistol in your hand, the blood spilling on the floor. The bloodlust runs deep in us ghosts."

The second shot rang just as loud as the first.

"That bullet was for no one in particular." You stared at him, emotionless and still.

Bingham looked down at his left knee, just as mangled as the right. "And what now? Hm? My elbows? Or perhaps, one of your friends over there would like to use those razorblades on my eyes. Wouldn't that be fun."

You pushed the tip of your pistol against his cheek. "If I were to use every bit of my anger on you, I'd run out of bullets."

"And yet, you delay the inevitable."

The doors to the cellar parted with a loud creak. Michael walked in followed by two of the Blinders, carrying in a small table. They placed it down between you and Bingham while Michael opened his satchel. He set down a stack of documents, fanning them out before you with a content grin.

"You were right, Alfred. I was delaying, but not for the reason you think." You sat up straight and snuffed out your cigarette on the table. "Once you sign these papers, I will kill you. But not until you sign."

Bingham ignored Michael's presence, staring at you until you continued.

"This is Michael Gray, the Shelby Company, Limited, Chief Accountant. He will witness your signature on every single one of these documents, passing on all that you own into the hands of the Shelbys. The warehouses. The land. All of it. And then, our business is concluded."

"An intelligent woman until the end. I must say I am proud of you." He chuckled. "Though, I am... Surprised. Perhaps, impressed. How did you know about all of my properties?"

"Ms. y/n was kind enough to turn over your old ledger." Michael placed the red notebook, the one that lay tucked away in Tommy's desk for weeks, on the table. "Every transaction and acquisition you've made in the last five years, all here organized by value."

Bingham looked down at the notebook. "So, you were watching all these years... Clever little viper. Very well, y/n. I will sign. This is, after all, the board you designed. Who am I but a pawn?"

John hastily cut the rope from Bingham's wrists. He didn't resist, signing each document one after the other. When he was finished, Michael quietly gathered the papers and slid them back into his bag before standing beside Tommy.

At last, Bingham's expression softened into something more somber. He said his final words gently with the nod of his head. His eyes met yours for the last time as you positioned your pistol in the center of his face. You pulled the lever back, finger flush against the trigger once more.

"This was fun—this game of ours."

You allowed yourself the faintest of smiles.

"Goodbye, Alfred."

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

The air in London was damp, carrying the faint tang of smoke and rain-soaked stone. The quiet cemetery, tucked away from the city's hum, was a place where time seemed to slow. You walked beside Tommy, steps purposeful but measured, as though each one required conscious effort.

He’d said little during the journey, sensing your need for space. As you approached Ezra's grave, he slowed to match your pace before letting you step between him and your destination.

The headstone was modest, carved from smooth gray stone, the letters etched cleanly into its surface:

Ezra Hargreaves 1896–1923 Beloved Son and Friend

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Tommy watched you, his hands in his coat pockets, letting the moment be yours as it should have been. From where he stood, he didn't feel like an outsider as he initially expected. It felt more like being a ghost on your shoulder, watching you deliver your gentle farewell to the man who'd loved you so dearly.

For a long time, you said nothing. You breathed in and out steadily, but your shoulders stayed tense, as if holding back a tide of emotion you weren't ready to face. Finally, you stepped closer, crouching to rest your fingers lightly on the edge of the stone.

“Looks like you got your wish to stay in London, darling,” you murmured. Your voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind, but Tommy caught every word. “Shame we never got to visit America like you wanted, but I suppose, now, you're free to go where you wish."

Your hand lingered, trembling slightly before you withdrew it. You straightened, brushing your palms against your skirt, and exhaled shakily. You removed Ezra's engagement ring from your pocket, turning it with your fingers until it was warm from your touch.

“I should’ve been here sooner. There were so many times when I tried. Every time I got to the platform, I felt the hand of guilt pull me back, and yet it always felt like you were waiting for me to say something, anything. You always said that being strong in the face of difficult times was something I was good at, but you were wrong. I thought… I thought if I came here, I’d have to admit it was real. That you were gone. And I wasn’t ready for that.”

Tommy lowered his eyes to the ground out of respect, feeling that any moment alone he could give to you would be best.

“I was so angry with myself, Ezra,” you continued, your voice gaining strength though teeming with the sadness that pushed gentle tears from your eyes. “And I've been angry for a long time. Longer than you would have wished. I was angry because I thought I’d failed you. Because I thought I didn’t deserve to miss you. To grieve for my own loss felt like a sin. But I see it now. I see it so clearly. Putting misplaced guilt above grief was selfish of me, and for that, I am sorry.

“I loved you,” you whispered softly, your gaze fixed on the name carved into the stone. You held the ring to your lips as if you were declaring every bit of your sentiment to seep into the metal. “With my entire fucking soul, God, I loved you. You will forever be the love I never thought I deserved. And I consider it the highest honor that I was the last woman to love you because I loved you fiercely. But it’s time… it’s time I let you go. I will let you go with the knowledge that, at last, I have found myself, and I have released the ghosts that have haunted me every night since you left.”

You closed your eyes with the slight shift of your head back until the sunlight warmed your cheeks. The weight you'd carried for years finally slipped from your shoulders.

"When we meet again, I will be a different woman. As I'm sure, if you were here now, you would have been a different man. It's time, Ezra. Time for the final goodbye."

You parted the soil with your fingers and gently placed the silver band down. You covered it softly, patting it down until it appeared undisturbed once more.

Tommy stepped forward, closing the small distance between you. He placed a hand gently on your back, a steadying presence without intruding.

When you turned to him, there was something different in your eyes—softer, less guarded. You looked at him for a long moment, as though trying to say something you couldn’t quite articulate. Then, with deliberate slowness, you reached out and slipped your hand into his.

Tommy’s gaze drifted down to your joined hands, the shift in your demeanor not lost on him. It wasn’t just the gesture; it was the way you leaned into his presence, the way your fingers curled around his as though anchoring yourself.

You didn’t need to say it—he understood. This wasn’t a goodbye just to Ezra; it was a quiet acceptance of what lay ahead, a tentative step toward a future you were finally willing to let yourself have.

Tommy gave your hand a small squeeze, his expression remaining composed, though a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low and steady. “We’ll come back if you want. But for now, let’s get you out of the cold.”

You nodded, allowing him to lead you away from the grave. You didn’t look back, but the remnants of Ezra's ghost whispered in your ear that he watched you walk away with Tommy, content and happy to see you depart with someone by your side.

As you left the cemetery, Tommy glanced down at your hand still in his, fingers intertwined, and he silently sent his own thanks to your ghost—an uncommon gratitude for accepting your farewell.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Tommy led you to a hotel in the middle of the city, a short drive away from the cemetery. He didn't speak much on the way there, but, then again, neither did you. It didn't feel like an uncomfortable silence—maybe, it was a somber one. Tommy gave you the opportunity to expel the remnants of bad memories from your lungs, and in that time, you found yourself smiling at the little moments from back then when Ezra was alive and well. It was a kind gesture, to join you for the dreadful goodbye, one that didn't go unnoticed.

When you stepped inside the room, Tommy helped you remove your coat. He gently draped it on the rack followed by his own while you sat by the fire, massaging the ache in your neck.

As you closed your eyes and the warmth of the fire trickled across the floor, you felt Tommy wrap his arms around your legs, resting his cheek against your thigh. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he sighed across your skin.

"Thank you for coming with me today," you whispered.

"Thank you for allowing me to." Tommy turned to face you, his blue eyes gleaming from the warm light.

"I can't imagine what this must be like for you," you chuckled, though it was humorless. "Accompanying me to the grave of my former love. You know, considering."

He raised an eyebrow. "Considering?"

Your eyes softened as you realized you didn't know what you wanted to allude to. Since the night you spent together weeks ago, there was never any discussion as to what this was—whether it was a budding relationship that would lead to forever or if it was a passing moment between two lonely souls, alike in their own way.

Tommy sat up, leaning against the sofa, as he waited for your answer.

"I don't know what you want me to say," you admitted.

"Would you rather I say it for you?"

You smirked. "Don't tell me Thomas Shelby is capable of romance."

Ignoring your remark, he rose and sat beside you. He reached forward and rested his fingers on your cheek, stroking softly. His eyes fluttered down while he searched for the right words, if there were any.

"I think we've been playing the game long enough, Tommy." You interrupted his silence. "If neither of us can say it aloud to each other now, we might never."

"Maybe it's time for a new game," he said softly. "You said it yourself so long ago. Your loyalty for mine. You have mine."

You expected him to ask if he had yours, but he didn't. He had no intention of asking. This was no longer a matter of an exchange of equal values—he was declaring it. You had his loyalty and all the broken pieces that came with it.

"You were wrong, what you said back then." Tommy's eyes were somber yet sincere as he spoke. "You said there was only one love that takes us as we are. One love that would accept every ache and flaw that would not so easily be cast aside. So, I have to ask you now—if Ezra was that one, would you allow yourself to have another?"

You searched for the answer in his face and were met with another mirror. He looked at you with a gentleness you'd seen before from another time long ago. This was a man who accepted everything he thought he earned and fought for. He fought for you, and now, he was letting you decide if he'd finally earned you.

You placed your hand on his cheek and felt him melt into your touch. Thomas Shelby, for all that he was and could have been, was laid bare for you. You swore, in that moment, he willed you to see all that lay hidden beneath his eyes—the pain and the torment. The lost loves and the cracks they left behind. The nightmares would never fade, but, in time, the dreams would fill the spaces in between. Wherever he found places for you to fill, he welcomed you.

He was asking in his silence to love him wholly and entirely. No longer was it loyalty for loyalty. It was dedication to the time it took to see the other change. A soul for a soul—buried beneath a mountain of heartache. He offered his to you, and all that was left was to place yours in his hands.

Tommy's lips hovered whispers before yours. It was a small temptation, to accept his touch and know there was no turning back.

The familiar hand of Ezra's memory faded into the background, and you felt the weight of the years spent hidden disappear with it.

"I love you," Tommy whispered against your lips.

It was a small gesture, to say it first, but was one he delivered gladly.

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel

Chapter 5: indulgent Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he's alive. He's been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, low honor Arthur, spanking, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader and an allusion to slut shaming. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage... if you want reader to be strong and a fighter... this is not for you sorry WC: 2972 Hey everyone ! Thank you so much for reading, as always and for all of your wonderful comments and reblogs! Im thriving !!!! Arthur is quite sweet here and thus a bit OOC but this is why i wrote medium honor bc then he still has his decent moments, lol Tags: no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur is sort of delusional omg,

Arthur fulfills his promise to you.

In the morning, he kisses you and you hardly find anything wrong with his hand on your neck, his beard tickling the sensitive skin on your neck and face. Except maybe for the fact that you must be so grimy and disgusting, two days with no bath, no cleaning and his spend dried all over your lower half. You whine and try to push him away from the sweat clinging to all of your creases. He sort of smells rank but he doesn’t seem to care, rubbing all over you. The strong and uneven line of his nose bumps your own.

“Arthur, quit it,” still sleepy and self conscious, you try to escape but you really should know better. He’s got you pinned and isn’t paying you much mind, reveling in your delicate huffs. He lets the weight of him hold you down, his scratchy beard rubbing on you, chest and belly hairs tickling you.

“Can’t a man appreciate his woman?” His voice is still low and husky, you shake your head. Waking with a bit of renewed defiance, you look at him.

“Who said I was your woman?” As soon as it leaves your lips, you know you’re in for it; the hard-as-stone look he gives you almost excites you.

“I did. Don’t you go actin’ stupid, girl,” the big hand on your neck squeezes but only slightly and his blue eyes narrow at you. “You wanna start that with me?” You shake your head and he has a messy kiss to lay on your mouth. Limp in his hold, you accept him, his fingers roughly dig into your thigh. A familiar slap you can now only associate with Arthur stings the skin between your ass and the back of your thigh. You flinch and look to him, exactly the way he wants you to.

“C’mon, darlin, get your clothes on, wanna take ya to see your folks,” he’s soothing, you’re ashamed of the feeling he gives you when he hits you like that. Doesn’t really hurt, not enough to leave a mark, never enough to last till the next day. But it makes you pay him all of your attention, makes your stomach flip like a flapjack. You think of the moments he’s done that before, when he has you split open on the rigid length of him, wetting him up, dripping all over him. It’s nothing like you imagined the gentle touch and love you’d share with a man one day, after a proprietary wedding of course. It’s dirty and messy and it feels like the ultimate pleasure, you’re not sure anything has felt as good as Arthur pinning you down and having his way with you.

A part of you thinks what Arthur did, what he is doing, is wrong. Whatever part that is has no agency amongst the rest of you. Another spouts all of the things you were told when you were a girl. You had enjoyed what Arthur did and in doing so, he’s taken what most ‘good’ men are looking for in a wife. If you weren't supposed to be with Arthur, why did you like when he touched you? Why did you let him do it again?

Arthur was… He had promised you things. Gave you food and shelter. Kissed you. You find yourself happy thinking of him, needing him, like he said you did. You find yourself uncaring of the fact that he’s much older, nowhere near the kind of man you had imagined marrying when you were a girl.

You find a disconcerting amount of comfort in imagining his fantasy as well, a couple of newly wed homesteaders. Surely this is better than being alone, in a nunnery, or in a brothel. No good man would take you from your father's home if they knew. Your father would be too proud to take you back into his home anyway, let alone let you stick around long enough to help you find someone. He’d most likely find anyone looking for a wife; give you away to the first man to ask for you.

Instead of refuting him, denying him, all you have for him is a “Yes, Arthur,”. The praise he gives you, his simple ‘good’ has you nodding and pushing into the kiss he gives you, hands squeezing his broad shoulders. A man such as he could have done any number of things to you by now. Most of them you have enjoyed, like this kiss he gives you, savoring its softness.

Arthur helps you put some water on the stove, something to help get cleaned up. Briefly scrubbing down has you feeling much better. You take your clothing in your hands, shoving your feet into your black boots. Arthur has tons of gear on in preparation of going out, half chaps and two holsters. You help him get his gun belt on, he might not show it but you think he likes having you help with his dressing. He wraps you up in his coat as you’re about to put yours on, another fur coat he retrieves is what he wears instead. His coat is so much warmer than yours. The soft fur of that ram skin. It smells like the natural oil of tanned pelt but also of Arthur and his cigarettes. Like the herbs he probably stuck in the pockets.

Arthur prepares for the departure, putting out all of the fires, bringing some food along. He loads his guns, very expensive looking, and holsters them on his hips. He’s meticulous and you love to watch his fingers move, so effortlessly practiced.

You feel strange leaving his cabin. As if you were going to stay there forever but you’re also anticipating this meeting with bated breath and shaky hands. What will your family think of all of this? You hope they can’t sniff out the odd and fragile relationship you and Arthur have; hope they can’t sniff out your missing maidenhead.

Ever the gentleman, Arthur helps you down his steps and opens the stable door. The snow had piled up since then but the sun seemed to be helping with that. The winds had blown the landscape into perfect smooth lines, the trees into frosted monuments, evergreen needles hanging on. You don’t miss the cold stinging your nose and making your toes numb in your boots.

“Lucky!” You rush to see your horse, he bobs his head excitedly, tucking his neck and sniffing at your hair. His soft lips with the little whiskers tickle your face as you smile at him, petting his curious snout. He turns his head to look at you for direction but can’t resist flaring his nostrils.

“You missed me, Lucky? I know you did, and I, you,” you put the voice that you know he likes on, bright praise. You’re patting his neck when you turn to see Arthur, none too pleased.

“What’s wrong?” You ask Arthur, smiling when Lucky snuffs at your ear some more, trying to get your attention. Arthur has a scornful look on, a glare at your horse. The dark brown Clydesdale with his pink nose and white blaze could do no harm in your eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling bitter about me and my horse,” you almost want to laugh. He narrows his eyes and looks away.

“I ain’t jealous of your goddamn horse,” he’s preparing his horse first but you know that he would do yours if he hadn't seen what he had seen. You usually have a stool to help you put your saddle on Lucky, he’s much bigger than you but the gentlest giant around. You need Arthur to help, seeing as he somehow managed to do it already, your saddle hanging between the stalls. You instead watch as he huffs through helping.

“Big son of a bitch, ain’t ya,” he snips at the horse who is none the wiser but still wary because of the stranger buckling his tack and giving him his bit. You hide a smile when he still pushes you up onto Lucky's back but he also squeezes your ass so hard you thought he might pull some of it off. You squeak and give him a look, which he just smirks off.

Lucky doesn’t struggle so much without the blizzard making him nervous, his big long legs stomping through the snow. You lead him out from the stable and you wait for Arthur to come out. His horse is a strong looking all black beast of an animal, you bet that thing can get to it when it needs to. It does however have a bit of a hard time trudging through the snow, but Arthur has plenty of praises and sugar cubes to help him feel better.

You follow him at his pace, enjoying the serene nature around you. A glad change from the howling winds and harsh frost. Instead something from a painting emerges, a little smile crosses your face. Arthur is a stark contrast, a dark figure to break up the monotonous white. An inky blot in his bear skin coat and dark stalker hat. He turns once in a while and slows down to ride right beside you. Lucky ambles along anyhow, you pat his big neck for reassurance.

“We’re goin' to town first, I’ll borrow a cart from the stable, maybe we’ll get something to eat,” he’s also just a tad nervous, his voice isn’t as confident and self assured. You nod, listening to the crunch of snow and the sound of your horses snorting and blowing out air. It really is beautiful with the sun out and rising higher. Wild animals respond to the heat and calmness, coming out to look for something to fill their bellies with too.

Arthur is right beside you, leading his horse down the road, looking so different in the day. You remember some familiar landmarks you had passed, this time not shrouded by snow.

“What’s your horse's name?” You question. You don’t think he ever said it.

“Currant,”

“Like the berry?” It is a rather nice name for a horse. He hums and follows the vague path hidden under the snow. Eventually the snow starts to thin, turning the ground soft and dark. It's pleasant being outside, enjoying the fresh air, despite its chill.

“Is he good luck at least?” He nods to Lucky, dutifully following your lead. You smile fondly and nod.

“I’ve known him since I was a little girl. Once, we were out riding and he stomped on a snake instead of spooking and bucking me right off. I thought he would kick or run but he acted like he had killed a million snakes before. Nothing bad has happened to me with Lucky around,” He perks up at his name. Arthur squeezes his reins.

You ride in silence while Arthur seems to almost brood, stuck in his head. Every time you look over, his jaw is tight and tense, his brows pulled together into an irritated expression. You can tell that he’s thinking hard about something. You gently ask him what he’s thinking about and he huffs. He hesitates but continues anyway.

“Had a girl once; long time ago now. Her folks hated me, hated everything I was. Things was different back then. Ran with a rough crowd but she…” you wait for him to continue. Some sort of anger breaks forth from him. “She left and came back when her new feller was dead and she needed me. Saved her brother from some lunatics,” You scrunch your nose. What a love story.

“I- I don't know what my folks will say. You said you'd tell them about what happened between me and you, my father would throw me from his door if he knew. My Ma would try and send me to some home for wayward women,” Your fears seem to tumble from your lips without your permission.

“I ain't just gonna- Well, I- It ain't like that,” He blusters, angrily stumbling through his words. His irritated expression only twists more.

“Then what is it like, Arthur?” He scowls and sighs, adjusting his hat.

“Hell...I ain’t tryna make you out to be a two bit whore. I just want to get your things and leave all of that behind. The less I have to worry about, the better. I’ve had enough grief n’ worry for a goddamn lifetime,”

You flinch at his use of that word. Whore. “But my family, that's all I know…”

A bitter and hardened glare sets his face but it’s not turned towards you.

“Your family just about let you die; don’t sound like no family to me. I’ve had my fair share of ‘family’, left me out to dry before,”

“Oh…” Your quiet response has that smug attitude return to him, his hand relaxing to his side while he maneuvers Currant down the road.

“‘Sides, after all this, you’ll have a new one. I’ll be your daddy if you want,” You blink, looking away from his lazy smile and easy slouch while he rides his horse. You wish he didn't look handsome right now, a rugged gunslinger atop his valiant steed. Why his words make you warmer, you don’t know.

The snow has almost completely melted away now in the lower parts of the region. The landscape is beaming and widening before you. The view is stunning, the trees outnumber the stars here. A gorgeous river, the Necanicum, cuts through the landscape. Descending into the valley, away from the old harshness of the heights in the mountains makes you feel so much better. The snowfall is dripping down, small streams collect to flow altogether. It will be spring time soon and most of the snow will fall away and flood this river. The trees are vibrant and the brush is lively with rabbits and squirrels. Both of you ford the river before taking a break on the other side to give the horses a chance to drink and graze perhaps. There are some nice rocks to sit on, cool to the touch and you can sit and watch the water rush by, the sun glittering over the surface.

Arthur sits beside you on the ground, his coat left abandoned on his horse. He has a dark red shirt stretched over the broad stretch of his upper body and a dark vest. His boots have half chaps fastened over the top with shiny brass buttons that glint in the sun. You feel rather under dressed in your plain preacher's pride boots and wide leg riding pants. He stares out at the land like you do, looking hard. He opens his satchel he brought along, cutting at some salted venison before offering you a piece.

“Where do you get all these fine things from?” He looks up at you. You motion to his decorated satchel and his boots, his guns and gun belt.

“Am I wearing somethin’ of which I am not aware? These ain’t fineries, girl,” He chuckles. You turn away; you truly were a homesteader's daughter. A simple girl.

“I don't think I own much but hand-me-downs really,” You feel embarrassed even if he hasn't seen the threadbare nightgowns you have and the permanently off white shirts. The faded dark skirts, stained aprons, the stockings darned five times over. You own one dress meant for special occasions and it's maybe the nicest thing you have to wear because you've worn it all of two times. It's been so long, you're not sure that it even fits you anymore. He gives a sage nod at your words, as if he already had seen them.

“Don’t have to take much with you then,” He takes another bit of salted meat, slivered off at the tip of another of his decorated items, a knife with gold inlay of nature scenes. “Can take you to some fancy town, have you fitted for all sorts of things. Show you some real ‘fineries’,”

“No, I couldn't- I don't think that’s necess-”

“You prefer to walk around naked? I think I’d like that just as much,” He says with no smile on his face but his eyes have a mischievous glint that betrays how much fun he's having imagining you walking about like that. You feel your face get hot, as if you were walking around in his home in the nude already. Do men really fantasize about such ridiculous things? You shake your head and stand, stretching.

He’s sure to feed you some more before petting your cheeks with his thumbs. He relishes in caring for you, kissing you under the brim of his hat. His kiss becomes sloppy and wet, licking and nipping at the fat of your bottom lip. It’s only when you lick him back does he stop, looking satisfied. You feel your body becoming accustomed to him being so near, so inviting. He’s so much bigger than you, blocking out your surroundings, his grip on your waist and the side of your neck don’t let you focus on anything else. Your hands are at his front, allowing him his sweet moments, looking at you with intent. His blue eyes are tinged in green, the creases at the side of them bunch up when he’s happy, when he’s smiling down at you. All of his features have a weathered look but still so strong.

The sound of the river rushing by fades as you ride up and out of the river valley. The heat of the sun here makes you shed your coat as well, rolling it up and placing it into the straps meant to hold other supplies on Lucky’s saddle. You pass through wooded areas, listening to birds communicate your arrival to each other. Arthur works his horse into a trot and you have Lucky follow his lead.

-

Series Masterlist

Hope you liked reading : ) I have some exciting things planned for the next few chapters so Im excited to write more!! feedback and rbs are appreciated 💕😵‍💫😍

[immediatebreakfast]

It exploded, everything, the house of glass went down with a single mistake, and the fury of a monster of a man who deems himself to be the all end of death for the young condemned he chooses.

Poor, poor Lucy, all alone in a house where no one can hear her cry. She was so happy to feel better again, so joyful to finally sleep without worries for the flapping against her window, so thankful for the flowers, and for the people surrounding her. Lucy may be alone at the moment, but she is so so loved, and what does this girl gets after so many suffering nights?

I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the doing. as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and called out: "Is there anybody there?" There was no answer.

A tragedy plucked straight out of Lucy's most heart locked nightmares.

She is alone, so utterly alone, with no doctors to call for, nor flowers to breathe, she unintentionally commited the worst thing that anyone can do against Dracula. Lucy defied him in that single moment, in that moment by the window when she stared at the bat without a shred of fear. For the Count who gleefully thrives; textually and thematically, when his victims are shaken with pure human fright, seeing Lucy alive and well to the point of looking at his form without terror was the last straw for him.

Let me reiterate that, this man who has become a monster untouched by time itself decided to stage the worst assault possible towards the girl he has been torturing for weeks, because she looked at him without fear in her eyes.

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing.

Lucy's mother is dead, her garlic flowers are torn, the house where she lies has no name, the maids are unconscious, the dogs are coming, the wolf is howling, the specks are mocking her, the nightingale calls her to the light.

My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!

Please Lucy don't climb the willow tree, don't fall into the brook! Lucy your life is up ahead just look up! DON'T GO.

Tell me all about it, dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests you which will not be dear to me.

Mina... who are you writing to?

[technocite]

I really like how a lot of the protoframes got the warframe type that doesn’t suit their personality well like Arthur keeps fucking off on his own and would be better equipped as a sniper where he doesn’t have to be around people and Quincy could definetely kick ass with a sword and would thrive with being in the thick of things and Aoi seems to have a high EIQ and is good at coordinating multiple people at once and Eleanor would rather be throwing trucks and cars around. I don’t know how well Amir would work as a healer tho but it would give him a concrete sense of purpose and help him feel less insecure about his position in the team and Lettie would definitely benefit from not being under the pressure of keeping everyone alive and suffering from severe compassion fatigue as a result. It’s funny how they all got the batch that works against their personality the most (at least at a surface level because they’ve definitely got their own strengths that work well with what they’ve got, they just need like. Character growth)