#I must....get better at drawing horses again....

[bonesjaunst]

Yippiieee it's Banou! And Sakina!! Nothing else is going on here it's just horsies and pretty ladies don't worry. trust me haha

@longlostlorian your guys as promised >:3

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: Oh. My. God. I am so sorry this got delayed so many times. This is such an important chapter to me, it plays such a pivotal role in "Y/N's" development that I kept scrapping it and starting over. I didn't want to give this to you guys until it was perfect, and I think I've gotten about as close as I can. I'm predicting one more story chapter and then possibly one short epilogue.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Arthur's gone and you're own once more. The familiar ache of grief lingers as it always does. But the clouds must always part for light. Through death and grief, you still manage to find yourself.

It always seems to be cold at night, now that Arthur’s no longer there to keep you warm. You curl into yourself, knees tucked to your chest as you smother your face in the thin pillow on your cot. You press the fabric tightly to your mouth, trying to keep the sounds of your crying out of the other’s dreams. 

There should be no surprise that you’re on your own again. Beating a dead horse doesn’t make it move, but somehow, you keep finding yourself tangled in the reins, dragged along by the memory of men who’ve long since let go. You wonder, sometimes, if your life is one bet of many between god and the devil, seeing which one of them can get you to break first.  What you could have done to draw their ire, you don’t know, but you’re not sure how much more pain and loss you can handle. Your lifetime is filled with the empty graves of those you’ll never see again. Now, Arthur’s is just another headstone to add to your endless cemetery.

You worry that you’re too loud on the harder nights. But no one’s ever complained that they hear you crying and you figure they’re all probably too busy mourning in their own way to notice the way you do. 

Abigail is practically an empty shell of herself without John. As much as they fought she doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Especially knowing he’s in jail, destined for the noose, and there is nothing she can do about it. 

Karen’s not doing much better. With Sean in jail alongside John, she’s fallen to the drink. She’s adopted a fatalist view that, without Dutch, you are all doomed to die at the hands of the Pinkertons. Sometimes, looking at the depressing faces of those around you, you think she might be right.

Stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with only two rotting cabins between what was left of the gang, you are a far cry from the fearsome outlaws you once were. This is no longer the Van der Linde gang. Now, you’re barely any better than a group of desperate wanderers. 

You know sleep won’t come to you tonight, you’ve been tossing and turning for hours. Any longer and you’ll wake everyone else up. Wiping roughly at your eyes, you slip a blanket around your shoulders and head toward the creaking door of the cabin. You try to keep in mind that one wrong step and the groaning wood below you will alert everyone. 

Barefoot, you walk along the muddied planks of the porch and head towards what’s left of tonight’s fire. It’s not ever-burning as it once was. The gang takes care to ensure if anyone were to come looking for you all, you wouldn’t be such easy targets. 

You sink onto the log before the dying fire, with embers glowing faintly in the darkness. Sparks flicker and leap from the blackened wood, a futile effort to reignite the flame. Their struggle is in vain, though, there is no life left to kindle, no warmth to revive. The fire is gone. 

Light footsteps make their way towards you, but you keep your gaze steady on the flickering struggle before you. “I’m gettin’ real tired of this,” Sadie’s disappointed sigh is a familiar one as she comes to stand behind you. 

“Were you in town again?” You ask, ignoring the glare you feel boring into your back. She stares at you for a while longer before letting out a rough sigh and throwing herself down beside you. The log shifts slightly under her weight and you dip towards her. 

“I was,” she grumbles, something white balled up tightly in her fist. You turn towards her finally, eyes narrowed on the paper in her grasp. Her face is drawn tight, jaw set angrily as something vengeful burns within her gaze. 

“What is that?” You ask, tone inquisitive but not truly interested. Her eyes dart towards you before she shakes her head and tosses the paper to the dying fire. What’s left of it, licks eagerly at the paper, trying its damndest to burn brighter.

“Nothin’, don’t worry about it. Why can’t you sleep?” Her switch in conversation is quick and far from subtle. Your head tilts slightly in curiosity, gaze switching between her and the paper that’s slowly curling up at the edges. She’s hiding something, it’s easy enough to tell from the way she refuses to meet your eyes. Besides, she’s snuck into town plenty of times, you’ve never seen her come back this riled up before. 

You jump to your feet and she startles at the quick move. “Don’t,” she snaps, snatching at your wrist as you rush by her and swipe the paper from the fire pit. Sadie gets to her feet, hand held out with an expectant look as she waits for you to give her back to paper. When you don’t comply immediately, she says your name, voice low and tense, a warning. 

Lips curling up slightly in challenge, you leap back as she lunges for you, holding the paper away from her. “What is it?” You tease, curiosity curling over the lingering ache from earlier. 

She snaps your name again and you flinch back in surprise, “I mean it, don’t look at the goddamn paper.” You’d only been joking with her, trying to focus on anything other than Arthur. Now, there’s a familiar churning feeling of dread as you look at your friend. She’s not angry at you, she’s angry at the thin sheet you’re holding. There’s something on here she doesn’t want you to see, not for her own sake, but for yours. 

Your breath quickens, heart dancing dangerously fast against your ribs as you finally look at what’s in your hand. She hisses your name but you stubbornly ignore her, frowning when you realize it’s a torn-out piece of a newspaper. It’s a smaller article from the local St. Denis paper stand, talking about a ferry being lost at sea. 

“Oh, god,” you whisper, hand coming up to cover your mouth as bile rushes up your throat. You bite down on your tongue until the taste of iron fills your mouth, holding back the nausea. “This is him, isn’t it?”

Sadie lets out a rough sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“You were just gonna hide this from me?” You nearly shout, taking one angry step towards her. Her brows turn down in guilt, mouth settling into a thin line as she shakes her head. “No? You weren’t?” You demand, tone rough with grief. “You were just going to wait until I put the pieces together myself?”

“Dammit, woman, you’re barely holding it together,” she barks out, snatching the paper from you once more. She turns her back on you, shredding it into pieces so small you’ll never be able to finish reading it. “I was going to wait until I didn’t think you were on the brink of completely fallin’ apart. Besides, it doesn’t say anything about the people on the ship, we don’t know what happened.”

“We never will!” The words tear out of you, a sharp, bitter exhale. A panicked smile twists your lips as you struggle to keep yourself upright. “Sadie, your husband is dead, you know that. You have your answer. I never will. I will never know what happened to him. And it doesn’t even matter because he left me!” Your voice cracks, a sob slipping free despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “I shouldn’t care about that goddamn bastard, but I do.” You turn away from her, shoulders caving in as you wipe roughly at the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

There’s a beat of silence behind you. You miss the way her face falls, her hardened exterior falling away just for a moment. She looks at you with something like understanding, pity more likely. She steps forward, her arms winding around your shoulders, trying to hold you steady through the pain. You struggle against her hold for a moment but she keeps her grip firm, forcing you to succumb to the small comfort. 

You sink into her embrace, breath hitching as the grief claws its way up your chest, relentless and unyielding. You can’t keep doing this. You aren’t made to endlessly love and lose, to watch pieces of yourself crumble with every goodbye. It feels as though there should be nothing left of you- no bleeding heart, no raw edges. And yet, every time you think you’ve reached your limit, life finds a way to push you further. 

But life, pain, and the ugly company of grief never stops or goes away, despite how much you wish they would. 

A few weeks later

Physical pains and ailments heal. There may be scars left behind, but for the most part, you can be wholly healed. Anguish of the mind and heart is a different beast to conquer altogether. That sort of pain ebbs and flows. It doesn’t slip away neatly. It comes and goes, sneaking upon you when you least wish for it. 

Distractions can dull the edge. The looming danger of death and the law from any of your multitude of enemies helps. But more often than not, the weight remains a leaden burden on your shoulders and a gnawing ache deep in your chest.

For now, the pain has numbed into something dull that makes you clench your teeth and hiss. But if you force yourself, you can find steady ground to stand on. You can keep yourself calm and sated, if you focus yourself on the anger rather than the grief. 

Anger comes easier than healing. It lashes out at the world and balms over the constant pain, if only for a little while. You find yourself getting into more and more fights around camp. The forgiveness of shared grief has its limits and you’ve been testing them for a while. You’re curious how far you can push before you’re forced out by the rest of them. 

Sadie’s efforts of finding a new place for you all to hide don’t go unappreciated. But this cabin feels like a cage, no matter how far you’ve come from the mud and chaos of the old abandoned camp.  The tight space presses against you, the silence weighs heavy against your chest and constricts around you tightly. You hear the faint rustle of the trees in the wind, but it’s a vacuous cavern inside. 

The memories of Shady Belle plague you like a ghost. The brief moments when you could almost forget everything pressing down, but now, that place, too, is just another reminder of what’s been lost. Memories of nights spent with Arthur or sitting outside and listening to Javier play his guitar are tainted with loss and rage. 

Sadie and Charles provide you brief comfort, but it will never be enough to make this place feel like home. You try to shake thoughts of Arthur, what the gang once was, and everything that came before. You’ve been running for so long, from your past and who you once were, but it feels like you’re being dragged right back. 

Unable to handle the suffocating silence any longer, you take Arthur’s bow out from the chest under your cot. You grab a handful of arrows and jump to your feet. Throwing the door of the cabin open, you stride past everyone lingering outside. A few people give you odd looks, but they don’t stop you from leaving. You’ve become a dark cloud around camp, your presence heavy and actions unpredictable. It’s almost a relief for them when you’re gone. 

Lady’s just as restless as you are, except the dumb beast doesn’t understand that neither of them are coming back. Charles doesn’t know what happened to Diablo or the other horses when he fled St. Denis and you’re not interested in looking for them. She’ll just have to live with the pain, same as you. 

“Let’s go,” you mutter, swinging onto her saddle and leading her out of camp. It’s as if a weight slips from your shoulder the further you get from camp. The tight grip constricting around your chest loosens and for the first time in days, you can draw a full breath as the world opens before you. 

The thick groves of trees thin and give way to sprawling plains of grass and wildflowers that stretch endlessly. Steering Lady off the trail, you ride her hard and fast, determined to put as much distance between yourself and those suffocating cabins. Dirt kicks up under her hooves, flying up behind you as she pushes herself to the limit. 

The world around you blurs into streaks of green and gold as memories and grief slip away from you. You lean forward over Lady’s neck, urging her to go faster even as she huffs beneath you. You’re racing the wind, chasing after a dream that’s been lost to you. The air lashes at your face, the sting sharp and cold. Your eyes burn and you tell yourself it’s the wind, even as wet streaks drip down your cheeks.

Bright beams of sunlight streak across the ground, illuminating the path forward. Morning dew glistening under the light, transforms the earth into a field of stars beneath your boots. You draw in a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill your lungs, and tighten your legs around Lady’s sides, signaling her to slow. Her chest heaves beneath you, each breath a puff of steam in the cold air. You can feel her desire to keep running, that shared, desperate need to escape clawing at both of you. 

But she’s exhausted, and no matter how much you’d like to keep going, you can’t push her until she collapses. You’re tethered, whether you like it or not, you’re always going to be pulled back to camp. It’s a cage and a haven. Though you hate the confinement, deep down you know survival outside of it might be beyond you. You don’t trust yourself not to wither in the wilderness alone. 

The sound of water rushing draws your attention and you turn towards a green hill rousing in the distance. Guiding Lady toward it, you crest the incline and slip off her saddle, letting her graze.

Below, a river carves through the land. Its rushing currents are strong enough to carry something away with no hope of return. You step closer to the edge, peering down as the sunlight dances on the water’s surface. It runs like liquid gold, unnaturally beautiful, almost hypnotic, like the siren call of a sailor’s doom. 

A herd of deer drift alongside the river, their presence serene and almost make the idea of simply drifting away, peaceful. Your foot inches closer to the edge, slipping on the wet grass, and for a split second, the earth feels like it’s tilting forward.  

“You don’t usually ride out this far.” 

The voice snaps you back, and you gasp, spinning around. Charles stands behind you, one hand on Taima’s saddle, watching you with a calm but expectant expression. 

“I can’t stand being there,” you say, moving toward Lady. Your hands fumble with her saddlebag, needing something to occupy them. His eyes flick briefly to the river, then back to you, his gaze sharp and knowing. 

“You’re not the only one.” He strolls to the edge and whistles softly.  “Far drop.” 

You keep your hands busy, pretending to rummage through your belongings. “I’m a good swimmer,” you tell him, voice flat. 

“Not that good.” His tone is clipped, a warning wove into his words.  

You let out a sharp breath and finally turn to face him. “What do you want, Charles?”

He shrugs, resting one hand on his belt as his dark eyes assess you. “Thought you might want some company.” He pauses, his voice lowering. “Or, at least someone to keep you from doing something stupid.”

You wince, knowing how it must have looked. You’re hurt and desperate, but you’re no fool. The river might be pretty, but you’re not looking to drown yourself in it. “It wasn’t anything like that,” you insist, and Charles gives you a sharp, assessing look. “Charles,” you snap, exhaling in frustration.  “Honestly. I just,” you take in a slow breath, shaking your head, eyes downcast. “I need a break.”

“Alright,” he says simply. “We’ll take one together.” He walks back to the cliff’s edge, dropping down to sit with his legs dangling over the side. He glances over his shoulder and motions you to join him. 

Your fists clench at your sides as you take slow, reluctant steps toward him. The dew on the grass seeps into your pants as you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap. Out of the corner of his eyes, you catch his profile, calm, steady, and scarred. 

The aftermath of St. Denis lingers on his face. A fresh scar cuts along his jawline, a reminder of how close he came to joining the others who didn’t make it. Yet, with some of them gone, he seems more at ease. Charles never agreed with Dutch’s grandiose visions, and though he and Arthur had a bond, it’s clear the gang’s collapse has freed him from some invisible yoke. He wears his hair in a braid lately, speaking with nearby tribes and helping them when he’s not in camp. 

If it wasn’t for some odd honor-bound obligation he’s got to you and a few others in camp, you don’t doubt that he’d be riding free by now. Still, he stays with you, and selfishly, you’re glad for it. 

A gunshot cracks through the quiet, echoing among the hills. Birds take flight from the treetops as a hunting group crashes through the grove below. They circle around the herd of deer and let their bullets fly wild. Their hounds snap at the flanks of the animals, jaws clamping around the soft throats of the doe. 

Charles scoffs, shaking his head in disgust. “You don’t kill the does,” he mutters angrily. “Just the bucks. These men... they have no respect for the laws of nature.”

You let out a sardonic huff of laughter, gesturing toward the chaos below.  “Welcome to the future of our country,” Your gaze drifts toward the horizon, where smoke from St. Denis factories smudges the sky. Even this far out, civilization stretches its claws, unstoppable. “The west is dying, Charles. The time of outlaws, of freedom, is being shackled and destroyed.”

You turn to face him, meeting the same burning anger in his eyes that’s been smoldering in your own for weeks. It’s the first time you’ve seen that fire in him so clearly- the shared, silent rage, you’ve both been trying to suppress. “Our time is over,” you tell him, voice low with finality. 

His eyes narrow, jaw tight with defiance. For a moment, he says nothing, but then he rises to his feet, his movements purposeful. “Maybe,” he says, his voice steady, “but not today.”

Without another word, he strides toward Taima, tightening the saddle and checking the reins with precision. “What’re you doin?” You call after him, brows knitting together in confusion. 

He gestures toward the hunters below, his tone sharp. “You want to do something stupid. Fine. But take it out on someone who deserves it, not yourself.” 

His words hit like a slap, and before you know it, he’s leading Taima down the hill. 

You linger in the sharp sting of what he said only for a moment. Jumping to your feet, you rush to Lady, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you mount her. With a kick of your heels, you follow Charles down the path toward the hunters, your rage finally finding a target. 

For the first time in a long while, the weight around your chest lightens. You might not be able to fix the world, but you can make sure someone pays for tearing it apart. And as you ride beside Charles, you remember why he’s still here. He’s not just keeping you alive, he’s giving you something to live for.

Sitting inside the cabin, the smell of venison drifts toward you. After the incident with the hunting party, you and Charles salvaged what you could of the herd. Neither of you liked the idea of anything going to waste. Some materials were given to the local tribe, and the rest have been feeding the camp for days now. 

Last night, you’d scoured the woods for herbs and other ingredients and discreetly left them on Pearson’s cooking table. You were growing desperate for a flavor other than plain meat. Judging by the faint smell of mint wafting through the air, it seems he finally took the hint. 

Propped against your flimsy pillow, you run your fingers along the worn leather of the journal in your lap. For weeks, you’ve toyed with the idea of opening it, of seeing the world through Arthur’s eyes. 

Here, in the rare serenity of a quiet camp, you finally give in. The journal is as you would expect, sketches, details of some of the more pivotal moments for the gang. Every once in a while you’ll find a sketch of someone and a brutally honest recollection of how Arthur thought of them. Some of them are less flattering than you would have thought, you’re almost worried for how he might have seen you. 

You make it through his entries about Blackwater, the sun setting lower in the horizon as the light from the window gets dimmer. Outside, voices grow louder as people gather around the fire for dinner. You force your eyes to stay on the page, blocking out their drifting voices. 

His entries after the mountains are almost amusing. He’s clearly frustrated about something, though, he skirts around directly addressing what it is. Only a few times are you directly mentioned, for the most part, he avoids writing about you. But you catch glimpses of yourself hiding in the pages. A half-finished sketch of your hand holding his, the beginnings of your face abandoned before he can finish. 

There’s an entry a few weeks after you acquired Lady. A sketch of her and Diablo grazing together, their noses nearly touching as they crane their necks towards the grass. Surrounding the drawings are small notes about herbs and foliage he’d collected on his hunting trips. Among those sketches, there’s a small blurb about the horses.  

Diablo seems to be taking a liking to Lady, odd pair, I think. 

An odd pair, you suppose there’s not a better way to put it. Something that never should have worked, a devil and a lady, yet it still clawed and fought to find its way. In the end, though, one of them was always going to be left behind. You can’t help but wish it hadn’t been you.

A rough sigh escapes you, and you flip past the next few pages. Then, you stop. A familiar pair of eyes stare back at you. 

You’ve changed so much since this journey began. Your skin is weathered, your once-pristine hair is now more often than not dirtied and knotted from the wind. Your body has grown leaner, stronger, shaped by the relentless movement and harsh diet. The woman in the red dress from St Denis was already a stranger, someone you couldn’t recognize. 

Even from Arthur’s view, you still don’t know her. The general shape of your face remains. You have the same slope to your nose, your jaw still tilts the same way. But your eyes are so different. He drew them with fire, with life, with a fight you had once thought yourself incapable of. 

You feel invulnerable as you stare down at her, as though her fire can be passed so easily to you. The feeling flickers and fades, replaced with the same familiar ache you’ve grown used to. 

You can’t make sense of it, how he could have seen you so kindly, and yet still walked away. 

“Got that look in your eye again,” Sadie’s voice cuts through the stillness, startling you. She leans against the doorway, one hand lingering on the revolver strapped to her hip. 

“What look?” You mutter, glaring down at the journal. It feels too raw, too personal to keep reading. Torturing yourself with thoughts of him isn’t getting you anywhere. He’s gone. You’ve faced death all your life- mourn, move on. That’s how it’s meant to go.  

“Angry,” Sadie tells you, voice soft and knowing. “Like how I looked after I lost Jake. You ain’t look like that when you lost your husband.”

You shrug, fingers tracing the lines of your face through Arthur’s eyes. “Arthur was nothing like my husband. He leaves something to be mourned,” you tell her simply. She watches you a moment longer, but when you get to your feet, her expression sharpens. 

“Going somewhere?”

“Out,” you reply curly, the cabin walls closing in around you. You’re growing tired of the suffocating way Charles and Sadie hover as if they’re both waiting for you to break again. That moment on the cliff, your grief by the fire, it was all a lapse of judgment, nothing more. You’ve fought too damn hard for your freedom just to throw it away because the men you love always leave you behind. 

“Need some compan-”

“No,” you snap, cutting her off. Your tone leaves no room for argument. 

You step outside, the balmy evening air clinging to your skin as you head toward Lady. You don’t know where you’re going, but that’s fine. You just know you need to figure out how to live for yourself. And you can start by riding. 

The moon hangs heavy in the sky, its light threading through the plains like silver threads. Clouds roll overhead, slowly swallowing the stars. You smell rain in the air, a promise of a storm tomorrow. You’re sure you’ll be holed up in the cabins tomorrow while it pours. 

For now, you have the trail and the night for yourself. You let Lady take the lead, her slow gait a soothing rhythm as you settle into the ride. Normally, you don’t risk staying away from camp overnight. There are too many lawmen and bounty hunters looking to make a name for themselves. Tonight, though, you make an exception. 

A loud whoop cuts through the stillness, yanking you from your thoughts. You pull Lady to a halt, eyes roaming the dark horizon. A lone rider crests the hill, silhouetted against the moonlight, his path set toward something hidden around the bend.

“Must be my lucky day!” He hollers, voice manic. There’s a flash, the sharp crack of a gunshot splitting the quiet, and a scream follows. 

You curse under your breath, driving your heels into Lady’s sides. The two of you round the bend in time to see the rider poking his head into a finely adorned carriage. The driver slumps lifelessly over the reins, blood pooling beneath him.

Grimacing, you draw back into the shadows of the hill. “Alright, ladies first,” the bandit taunts. He reaches into the carriage, his groping hand causing a shrill shriek before he’s grabbing a woman and tossing her into the dirt. You grit your teeth, tucking yourself further out of sight, hoping to go unnoticed.

The glint of his revolver catches the moonlight as he climbs into the carriage. From inside, the muffled sounds of arguing give way to fists striking flesh. The woman lies with her face obscured by her hands. She flinches and sobs with each punch landed and the noises make Lady shift uneasily. Her hooves snap against the dried brambles of a dying bush. 

“Damn horse,” you mutter, eyes clenched shut as the noises momentarily pause. 

“Who’s there?” He calls out. It’s barely a moment before his patience snaps and he fires a warning shot into the air. “You don’t want me to come find you,” he warns, voice low and tight. 

Knocking the brim of your hat down, you let out a resigned sigh and turn the corner, forcing yourself into the open. “Howdy,” you call out, trying to mimic the casual confidence Arthur used to have in moments like these. Bandits, outlaws- they all recognize each other through the ease with which they face situations like this. You only hope you’re a good enough liar. “Just passin’ through, friend, no need for problems.” 

For a moment, his gun dips to his side. Then, his face is twisting into a wide, erratic grin. “Nice trail isn’t it? Perfect for catching big fish,” he says, swinging the revolver toward the woman’s husband. She whimpers loudly and grasps at the slumped-over man. You can hear his shallow, wet breaths from where you sit. 

“There ain’t no need to shoot ‘em,” you tell him, voice steady despite the tension coiling around you. “There’s a fence not far from here, you’ll get more money selling that carriage than you will killin’ them.”

He crackles and it makes your skin crawl. “Where’s the fun in that?” He sneers, cocking the hammer back as he points the gun at the woman. 

This man laughs, taking far more pleasure in tormenting others than in the act of robbery itself. He’s malicious, sadistic—the very picture of a perfect outlaw. For a fleeting moment, he sees something in you, thinks you might be cut from the same ruthless cloth. But he’s wrong, and there’s something exhilarating about stepping beyond the mold your family and husband once shaped for you, discovering who you can be on your own terms.

Your hand drifts to the revolver on your side, slowly easing it out of your holster. His head snaps toward the sound of you pulling the hammer back, but it’s too late. From your spot atop Lady, all you see is blood splatter as his body drops to the floor. The woman screaming lets you know you hit your mark near perfect. 

Opposed to the man now bleeding out in the dirt beneath you, there’s no thrill in the kill, no satisfaction. Just the cold thrum of your nerves, the slight tremor in your hands as you slide off Lady and stride toward the couple. 

With the bandit dead, the woman’s husband seems to make a miraculous recovery. He springs up, blood still streaming along his chin. “Thank God for you, sir-”

He stops short when you tip your hat back. Perhaps his ears were still ringing from one too many blows, dulling his senses, or maybe he was simply too pigheaded to grasp the fact that he’d just been rescued by a woman. You level him with an unimpressed glare. “Not a problem,” you say flatly

“Oh, good heavens,” the woman gasps, whispering your name with a startling familiarity. You freeze, eyes wide, as your blood runs cold. 

Elsbeth Morton. 

You’d know the voice anywhere. Of all the people you could have run into, she’s the last you’d ever want to see. Your tormenter through finishing school. She used to cut your hair in your sleep, stain your dress, and make your life a misery for sport. 

Her sneer hasn’t changed, though the lines around her mouth suggest her spite has only deepened. “Well,” she drawls, voice laced with faux pity, “I see nothing much has changed for you. Still scrounging out an existence in the dirt, are we?”

Your jaw tightens. “Elsbeth,” you grit out. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs, short and derisive in a way that makes you bristle. “For what? Subjecting me to this humiliating spectacle? Honestly, I think I preferred the company of the bandit. At least he had the decency to get on with it instead of pretending to play the hero.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay calm, but she doesn’t stop. “It’s almost tragic,” she continues, brushing the dirt from her skirts as if trying to erase the sight of you. “You’re still so desperate for approval, aren’t you? Trying to prove you’re something you’re not. What’s next? A big speech about how strong and independent you are?” She snickers, tugging her husband to his feet. “We both know better.”

Your voice comes out low and steady. “You’ve always been good at pretending you’re better than everyone else, Elsbeth.” God hates you, you’re sure of it. If he doesn't, why is she here? Dragging you back to everything you loathed about your former self—the vapid, dependent, hollow shell of a woman who had once believed her worth was defined by the man standing beside her.

“Pretending?” she snaps, narrowing her eyes. “Darling, I don’t need to pretend. You can wear all the trousers you want, but we both know you’re still the same timid little girl, hiding behind a man and hoping no one notices she doesn’t belong.”

Her words cut, but they don’t sting the way they once would have. Instead, they ignite something, a fire born not of anger, but clarity. 

You’re not the man bleeding out in the dirt, killing for the joy of it. But you aren’t the polished girl she remembers, desperate for a man’s approval. You’re something else entirely. Unbound by society, free to choose your own path, you’re a beast of your own creation. And if there is one thing you’ve learned about yourself- you love putting your past in the grave. 

You let out a slow breath, your hand drifting toward your revolver. “Elsbeth,” you call, voice sharp enough to cut through her self-satisfied grin.

She stops, turning back with an arched brow. “What now?” she huffs. “Come to beg for my acceptance? Or just another pathetic attempt to-”

“That husband of mine,” you interrupt, voice cool as steel, “was good for one thing.” You draw your revolver, the barrel leveling with her chest. “Teaching me to shoot.”

Her eyes widen, her sneer faltering as her hand instinctively flies to her necklace.

Your lips curl into a wicked smile. “Now, how about you hand over those pretty jewels?”

She scoffs, but you see the way her grin falters, the slight fear in her eyes. You shoot her a wink and take a step closer, reveling in how she stumbles back. 

“And while we’re at it,” you continue, voice tightening into a sharp, mocking edge, “why don’t you hand over those earrings too?” You laugh, waving your gun recklessly as you shrug with a faux playfulness. “Actually, what the hell, I think I’ll take that dress—seeing as you’ve gone and gotten it all muddy anyway.” You take a step forward, your gaze narrowing on her trembling hands. “Hell, even that hair ribbon. You always did like rubbing your finery in everyone’s face, Elsbeth. Let’s see how you like losing it.”

She stares at you, disbelief flickering in her wide eyes, her hands frozen in hesitation. “You can’t be serious,” she whispers.

“Oh, I’m dead,” you pull back the hammer of your gun with a slow, menacing click. The sound hangs in the air like a threat. Your eyes narrow, and a dangerous smile tugs at your lips. “Serious.”

She moves hesitantly, every motion weighted with reluctance, disbelief etched across her face. You, the woman she used to torment and cow with a simple look, now dismantling her composure piece by piece. The power shift is palpable, and for the first time in your life, you watch Elsbeth Morton falter.

“Go’n now,” you say, your voice cutting through her trembling silence. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Her husband flinches as she begins to remove her jewelry, her fingers trembling as she unfastens each piece. You hold out your hand, and she hesitates, her face flushed with humiliation as she steps forward to place them carefully in your palm, one by one, like a chastened child.

He glances at you, then at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disgust as if the sight of her submitting is too much for him to stomach.

Your eyes narrow on him, your hand tightening slightly around the revolver. The smug smile creeping onto your lips says it all—you’ll deal with him next.

You understand, finally, that you’re no longer the woman shaped by the men in your life. The husband who failed you, the outlaw who abandoned you, the society that tried to break you. People will learn that you aren’t afraid to take what’s yours anymore, because for the first time, you’re carving your own path, and God help anyone who tries to stand in your way.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy

[levis-poison-is-my-medicine]

Imprinted

(The Tea Lovers Pt. 2)

A Levi x reader fanfic (Flufftober 2024)

Crossposted from AO3

How you got to know his face better than your own. Or: Levi catches you with a drawing of him.

tags: fluff and humor, silly and sweet, tea-obsessed fem!reader with their head in the clouds (word count: 1.5k)

(Part one) / (Levi x reader Masterlist)

"Do you have the goods?" the woman in front of you asked conspiratorially in a low, hushed voice.

You glanced around the mess hall filled with soldiers eating and chattering away, making sure that the coast was clear.

"Of course. Have I ever disappointed you?"

You took out a piece of paper from a folder inside your bag and discreetly slipped it across the table towards your fellow scout.

"You’ve got the cash?" you asked, keeping a hand securely on the merchandise.

"Naturally," the woman said, taking out her purse and putting the agreed amount on the table.

You pulled your hand away from the drawing, revealing a detailed portrait of Levi Ackerman.

But before any of you could collect the sweet fruits of your deal, a hand snatched the picture off the table.

You twisted your head around to get a look at the person behind you, ready to tell them off if necessary, only to see the real Levi Ackerman glowering at you, alive and in the flesh.

"Surprise! Do you like it?" you tried salvaging the situation, putting on a cheerful smile.

"My office. Now."

It could have been worse, you thought to yourself as you got up and trudged after him.

He could have caught you with one of those seductive shirtless drawings you did for Petra. Or the romantic ones where he was holding the requester's favorite flowers, wearing a face you had never seen on him in real life.

(Though you were actually quite proud of those. It had taken you a lot of imaginative brainpower to come up with the sensual, sultry expressions he had in them. It had paid off, too. They had been a big hit.)

He closed the door of the office behind you.

"What is this?" he demanded, slapping the piece of paper on the desk.

"It’s a drawing. Of you."

"I know that," he huffed. "Why do you have it?"

"Because I drew it?" you asked cautiously, trying to see if that was what he wanted to hear. It wasn’t.

His eyes couldn’t roll further back into his skull even if he wanted them to. It was physically impossible.

You figured there was only one way out of this: the truth. You weren’t a good liar anyway.

"I draw you all the time," you said, which made his eyes snap to yours.

"Then I sell the drawings. I make good money off them, too," you continued, not noticing how his eyes briefly closed at that, or how when he opened them again, they were trained firmly on the surface of the table in front of him.

"A lot of people want to get their hands on a picture of humanity’s strongest. It makes them very happy. So I figured, why not give the people what they want? I’m simply filling a market niche, so to speak. I take requests, too. For specific poses, themes, stuff like that."

"Poses?" Levi repeated, perplexed.

"A lot of people like to see you on a horse in full gear, you know? Ready to take on the Titans. The Captain Levi the people know and love. That’s my top seller outside of the scouts, anyway."

Levi looked up at you with a scowl when he realized the full scope of your operations.

"And inside the scouts?" he asked, frowning, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Oh you know, this and that. Everyone wants different things. You’ve got people who simply want a portrait, others want action pieces with you in full fighting mode, slashing Titans, blood splattering everywhere…" You smiled gleefully.

"Some want pictures where you lose a fight against them. You laying on the floor, their feet on your chest type of stuff. That’s mostly from guys. Always the ones who would never stand a chance against you in real life." You chuckled.

"And then we have the romantic ones, of course. They are very popular. But I must say I quite like the variety, it never gets boring. One time someone even requested you in your cleaning get-up, with that white—"

"...What exactly do you mean with romantic??" he interrupted you, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Maybe you should have left out that part. But there was no turning back now.

"Oh, I mean like you holding a rose and smiling, stuff like that."

You tried to re-enact the pose, but you didn’t do a very good job at it, only causing the scowl on his face to deepen further.

"Actually, it would be easier to just show you what I mean," you admitted at last, letting the arm holding out imaginary flowers fall down to your side a bit sheepishly.

You grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper off his desk, some kind of document that already had writing on it and was probably very important, and flipped it to its back. Then you began to sketch furiously, sticking out your tongue in concentration.

"Oh right, you being here actually makes this a lot faster," you said, glancing up at him from your work.

"It’s much easier to draw you this way. Usually I have to close my eyes and conjure up this really detailed mental image of you."

Levi stared at you, speechless.

"You drew this by heart?" he asked finally, his eyes shifting to the portrait in front of him that he had confiscated earlier. It looked just like him.

"Well, obviously. Do you know how many hours I had to secretly stare at you to get an accurate mental image?" you retorted, not looking up from the drawing, completely unaware of what your words were doing to him.

He didn’t say anything, words eluding him once again. There was nothing he could do but to stare at you in silence. You had made him that way.

As always, you continued rambling on, completely unfazed by his lack of response.

"There was a day were I drew like, three of these. And when I tried to sleep that night, I couldn’t, because every time I closed my eyes, you were there. It’s like you were imprinted onto the inside of my eyelids." You shook your head at the memory.

"That was a scary experience. I thought my brain was broken," you concluded with a smile, and there was something that flashed across his eyes then, but it was gone before you could see it, replaced by his usual cool expression.

"Aaand done," you said finally, pushing the paper over to him. "This is just a rough sketch, obviously, but you get the idea."

When his eyes fell upon the drawing, the little composure he had still left inside him slipped away.

"What the actual fuck? What is this?" he snapped.

"It’s you. Obviously."

The Levi in your picture was smiling back at him alluringly, the first three buttons of his shirt undone, holding out a single rose.

"No it isn’t," the real Levi said, scowling right back at himself, then at you, eyes narrowed in a steely glare that never worked on you but would’ve scared anyone else shitless.

"Never draw shit like this ever again."

"But the romantic ones sell the best," you whined.

"Who the hell even wants to buy shit like that?"

Over half the stuff you did went to Petra, but he didn’t need to know that.

"A true professional never tells," you said.

He shook his head.

"Don’t draw me like that ever again. And more importantly, don’t sell any pictures of me. That’s an order."

"Come on, don’t be like that! Not even for the people of this town? They adore you, you know?" you pouted, trying out your trademark puppy dog eyes on him. He didn't even bat an eye.

"No exceptions," he said sternly.

"And what about the kids who idolize you? It would make their day."

"You make money off kids?"

"No… But they make for good free publicity," you admitted.

"How much would you even charge for something like this?" he asked, his eyes still on you, and pointed at the lurid drawing, refusing to look at it again.

"That one’s just a sketch so like 15 bucks?" you pondered. "But for that portrait you seized? At least 40 bucks. I spent hours on that."

Levi scoffed. "You’re ripping them off."

"I do not force anyone to buy it," you protested.

"Tch. Whatever. You are dismissed. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been stealing paper from my office."

"I didn’t even steal that much from yours," you grumbled as you got up. "I took much more from Erwin’s."

You shook your head at the devastating turn of events.

"I hope you know that you’re ruining me," you muttered under your breath.

At least you could still sell drawings of the Titans you had encountered on the expeditions to Hange. They even used official funds to buy them, saying that it was for science, but you saw the way their eyes sparkled when they looked at them.

"One last thing," Levi said when you were already halfway out the door. "What do you even need all that money for?"

You thought about the crazy expensive teaset you were planning on getting him for his birthday.

"Oh you know. Tea stuff," you said off-handedly, turning away quickly before he could see the wide grin spreading over your face.

The door fell shut behind you with a thud.

"Of course this was about tea," Levi grumbled. "It always is with her."

Soo this was the second part of The Tea Lovers series, I hope you liked it! There is gonna be more to follow, so keep an eye out if you're interested :)

Click here for Part 3

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist, @mmm-alhaitham, @nironasaran

[tarithenurse]

Don't hide it

Fandom: MCU Pairing/starring: Loki Odinson x/& fem!reader Word count: 1071 Content: Pining, shyness, too much empathy, fluff. A/N: Waiting for a better idea so here’s this in the meantime. Feel free to reblog if you liked it – it’s always nice with new readers. Comments are fuel for more!

Don’t hide it

Following in your friend’s footsteps, you’re grateful that Loki knows you well enough to draw you away from the feast and all the people there. Few will miss him even though he’s a prince and you...well, you’re no one important save for a rich man’s daughter who is too timid to mingle with the upper echelon of Asgard.

After a quick detour past a storage room and the kitchens, Loki and you have gathered ample supplies to last you the night and have gone where no one will look for you: the hayloft above the stables.

Sitting on the soft blankets and furs, you can look down at the stalls with horses who are half asleep or chewing lazily on their fodder.

“Here,” Loki grins as he hands you a bottle of honeyed mead, “there’s lots.”

You’ve managed to snag fruits and cheeses and meats aside from quite a few bottles of the sweet drink.

Allowing the contents of the bottle to soothe your throat, you sneak a glance at your friend who’s doing the same. You notice how his throat bobs with each pull, how his jaw bone could cut glass...and then you have to look away before your thoughts get carried to unwanted territory.

You’ve known Loki since you were five and you’ve been close friends since then. You’ve also, regrettably, developed a deeper attraction to the prince over the last few years – one that you know will never be a possibility. That’s what makes it so painful to be with him: he is the only one who knows you truly...and still you can’t tell him this one thing for fear of ruining a friendship.

“Mother is starting to host more of these balls, it seems,” Loki muses.

I’ve noticed it too. And you know why.

“Of course...both you and your brother are still not betrothed or even in relations with anyone,” you shrug before you can stop yourself.

Loki falls onto his back with a groan. “I shall let Thor have this without competition.” Another groan. “Betrothed. Relations. No thank you.” Then he props himself up by the elbow. “What about you? Are your parents not inviting suitors over for you?”

You grimace at the thought. “I’m sure it will come soon enough.”

“I can imagine it...you being the hostess and the centre of attention.”

Looking about for strands of hay to braid, you don’t notice the darkness in his eyes and he schools his facial expression before you look up at him again.

“I’d rather die,” you sigh.

It’d be torture having to greet one suitor after the other. You don’t feel comfortable around stranger or in the company of many people. That’s why you’d agreed to sneak out of this night’s feast when Loki suggested it.

Keen to change the subject too, Loki studies your features for a moment. He quite likes how you always keep your hands occupied and he’s said so in the past. He’s the only one who seems to like your odd habits.

“Not that I do not cherish our little escapades away from the crowds...but we must see to cure you of your shyness,” he suddenly announces.

“And how do you suppose we do that?” you shoot back.

He shrugs. “Depends what you fear by being near them.”

“It is not fear it is...” You have to search for the right term but come up with nothing. “It’s as though I sense all they feel, all their sentiments. Anger, joy, sadness.”

“Love?”

“Sometimes, yes...but not always.”

Loki takes a swig from the bottle, clearly considering your words. “Then you must learn to shift your attention to their physical presence instead.”

You can’t hold back the hopeless laugh. “How?”

“Imagine them naked.”

You almost choke on the mead, having all too clearly imagined him naked before you – not for the first time but more clearly now.

“Then I think I would be equally shy albeit for different reasons,” you argue once you can speak again, avoiding to meet his gaze.

Falling back on the furs and blankets, none of you say anything for a while. The only sounds are from the large creatures below and a mouse tip-tapping along a secret path on the other side of the hay.

You know Loki is thinking. He always thinks.

“Perhaps...you must simply trust that you are better than them,” he offers softly.

A scoff escapes your lips. There’s no reason to state the obvious and Loki should know as much.

Hearing the rustle of the hay beneath the furs, you sense more than see Loki scoot closer until you are lying next to each other. Then he reaches to cup your cheek, turning your face to meet his.

“I mean it. Why can’t you see it?” he admonishes softly. There’s something you can’t figure out in his voice and his gaze. Something almost painful. “You read people better than anyone I know...and you know me better than anyone...why won’t you trust me?”

His hand is cool on your skin. For a brief second your eyes stray to his lips and a sudden urge to kiss him fill you...yet you do nothing. You just close your eyes and relish the nearness.

“It’s not that I do not trust you, Loki,” you begin to explain, “but you’re my friend a-”

“Don’t take my word for it as a friend. Hear me as...as a man,” he growls, causing shivers to run down your spine and something to bloom in the pit of your stomach. “I see all the other ladies at the feasts yet none of them are as wonderful as you.”

Opening your eyes, you’re met with blazing sincerity. “What do you mean?”

“For someone as emotionally gifted, you truly are dense right now.”

You would have recoiled at his harsh words. Would have served a rebuttal or asked for a clarification once more, maybe. But all of that is lost to you the moment his dips his head down and kisses you.

Fierce. Lips pressing hard together and noses squishing together slightly. You’re too surprised to do anything but grasp of the collar of his tunic, holding you steady in a world that suddenly seems to dip and rotate around the two of you.

You’re both out of breath by the time he pulls back, watching you intently.

“Do you understand now?” he asks quietly.

You nod. Then pull him down for a kiss more.

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the gem)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the princess

- Next part: the meddling

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The decision weighed heavily on Otto Hightower as he sat at his desk in the Tower of the Hand. Before him lay a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside was a delicate hairpin, wrought of silver and adorned with a single amethyst that shimmered faintly in the firelight. It was understated yet elegant—an object that carried no overt meaning, but one he hoped would convey a sentiment he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he stared at the box. His better judgment screamed at him to abandon the idea. She is Daemon’s daughter, he reminded himself. A Targaryen princess. To involve yourself in any way is madness.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the gardens—the way your laughter had softened the sharp edges of his day, the warmth of your gaze, the ease with which you seemed to draw him out of himself. He told himself it was nothing more than an act of courtesy, a gesture of gratitude for saving him from the horse. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened as his son, Gwayne, entered, his expression curious.

“Father,” Gwayne said, glancing at the box on the desk. “Burning the midnight oil again?”

“There is always work to be done,” Otto replied tersely, his tone colder than intended.

Gwayne arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. “What’s this, then?” He gestured toward the box.

Otto’s jaw tightened. “It’s nothing that concerns you.”

Gwayne’s smirk was infuriatingly familiar. “Nothing, is it? It looks like a gift.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the contents. “A hairpin? And a fine one at that. Who’s the lucky recipient?”

“Gwayne,” Otto said warningly, his tone low. “Leave it.”

But Gwayne, ever his father’s son, pressed on. “Is this for the princess, by chance? The one who fell from the sky and saved you from a horse?”

Otto groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Must you always pry into matters that do not concern you?”

“Must you always be so predictable?” Gwayne countered, folding his arms. “It’s obvious, Father. You’ve been distracted ever since that day. And now this?” He gestured to the box again. “It’s not like you to be sentimental.”

“This is not sentiment,” Otto snapped. “It is courtesy. The princess saved me, and I am expressing my gratitude.”

Gwayne grinned knowingly. “If you say so. But let me give you some advice—if you’re going to send her a gift, you’d best do it quickly. Before your better judgment gets the better of you.”

Otto glared at his son but said nothing as Gwayne left the room, the door closing softly behind him. Alone once more, Otto exhaled deeply, his gaze returning to the box.

He’s right, Otto thought grudgingly. The longer I hesitate, the more likely I am to abandon this folly altogether.

Summoning a servant, he handed the box over with strict instructions. “Deliver this to Princess Y/N discreetly. Do not speak of it to anyone, and do not linger.”

The servant nodded, taking the box and hurrying off. Otto sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as he stared into the fire. The weight of what he had done settled over him, though whether it was guilt or anticipation, he couldn’t quite say.

You were seated in your chambers, the evening quiet save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. A book rested on your lap, though your thoughts wandered as you gazed out the window at the city lights below. The knock on your door drew your attention, and you called for the visitor to enter.

A servant stepped in, bowing deeply before placing a small wooden box on the table before you. “A gift, Princess,” he said simply before retreating as quickly as he had come.

Curious, you set your book aside and opened the box. The hairpin inside glimmered softly, its amethyst catching the firelight. You picked it up carefully, turning it over in your hands. It was beautiful, but it was the note tucked beneath it that truly caught your attention.

“To the Princess: A token of gratitude for your quick thinking and courage. —Lord Otto Hightower.”

You stared at the note for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Setting it aside, you held the hairpin up once more, its delicate craftsmanship evident.

“Gratitude,” you murmured to yourself, your tone laced with amusement. “How formal.”

Still, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at the gesture. You placed the hairpin on your dressing table, glancing at the note once more before returning to your chair by the fire. Your thoughts lingered on the Hand of the King—his wit, his steady demeanor, and the faint glimmers of something softer beneath the surface.

Perhaps there was more to Otto Hightower than you had first thought.

The throne room loud with activity as the court gathered for the day’s petitions and announcements. Lords and ladies moved about, their voices blending into a low hum as they jockeyed for position or exchanged whispered gossip. Otto Hightower stood at his customary place near the Iron Throne, his keen eyes scanning the crowd as he reviewed the matters at hand.

But his attention wavered when he saw you.

You entered the room with an air of quiet confidence, your silver hair gleaming in the light that streamed through the windows. You were dressed in a gown of deep indigo, its rich fabric complimenting the violet of your eyes and the amethyst hairpin nestled in your braid. His hairpin.

Otto’s breath hitched, though he quickly masked it, his expression remaining impassive. From where he stood, he couldn’t tell if your choice to wear the gift was deliberate or incidental, but the sight of it stirred something deep within him.

For a brief moment, the bustling court seemed to fade, the voices and movement around him reduced to a distant murmur. His thoughts raced, unbidden. Why did she wear it? Was it an acknowledgment of the gesture? Or mere coincidence?

Before he could ponder further, you were intercepted by Princess Rhaenyra and a group of noble ladies. Rhaenyra, ever animated and lively, looped her arm through yours and began leading you toward a quieter corner of the hall, the other ladies trailing behind.

Otto’s gaze lingered on you as you walked away, your laughter floating back across the room like a faint melody. He forced himself to look away, schooling his features into their usual mask of composure.

“I see she appreciated your gift,” a familiar voice said softly beside him.

Otto turned to find Alicent, his daughter, standing at his side. She looked every bit the queen consort, her auburn hair intricately braided, her gown adorned with subtle yet regal embellishments. Her eyes, however, were bright with curiosity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Otto replied smoothly, though his gaze flickered back to you for the briefest of moments.

Alicent raised an eyebrow, her expression knowing. “You don’t? Because I find it curious that Princess Y/N is wearing an amethyst hairpin today. A very fine one, at that.”

Otto sighed, his hands clasping behind his back. “It was a token of gratitude. Nothing more.”

Alicent tilted her head, studying him. “Gratitude? Or something else?”

“Must you pry into matters that do not concern you?” Otto asked.

Alicent’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained serious. “Father, I know you better than most. You wouldn’t send a gift like that without reason.”

Otto exhaled deeply, glancing down at the floor for a moment before meeting his daughter’s gaze. “You presume too much, Alicent.”

“Do I?” she said softly, stepping closer. “She’s Daemon’s daughter, Father. If this… interest of yours goes beyond propriety, it will not end well.”

Otto stiffened at her words, his jaw tightening. “There is no interest,” he said firmly. “You misunderstand the situation.”

Alicent’s gaze softened, her tone quiet but earnest. “I only wish to spare you unnecessary pain, Father. The court will seize upon any sign of weakness, and she—” Alicent hesitated, glancing toward where you stood with Rhaenyra. “She is not an easy path.”

“I am well aware of that,” Otto replied, his voice measured but cold. “And I will thank you to trust my judgment in this matter.”

Alicent sighed, her expression resigned. “As you wish. But be careful, Father. The gods play cruel games, especially when the heart is involved.”

With that, she stepped away, leaving him to his thoughts. Otto’s gaze drifted back to you once more, though he quickly chastised himself for the lapse. Alicent’s words rang in his ears, and he knew she was right. This path, whatever it was, would lead nowhere good.

And yet, as he watched you laugh with Rhaenyra, the hairpin catching the light like a beacon, he couldn’t help but wonder if the gods had already set the game in motion—and if he had any choice but to play.

The small council chamber was unusually lively that morning, the air buzzing with conversation even before King Viserys arrived. Otto Hightower was seated at his usual spot near the head of the table, a neatly organized stack of documents before him. Lords Beesbury and Tyland Lannister murmured quietly to one another, while Jasper Wylde, as always, seemed to wear an air of barely concealed amusement. Grand Maester Mellos busied himself with arranging scrolls, his quill already scratching notes.

The heavy doors swung open, and King Viserys entered, his expression harried. He carried a stack of letters in his arms, the weight of them causing him to sigh as he set them down on the table. His tunic was slightly askew, a clear sign of his growing frustration.

“Another morning of petitions,” Viserys muttered, taking his seat at the head of the table. “As if the realm’s problems aren’t enough.

Otto inclined his head, his tone measured. “What sort of petitions, Your Grace?”

Viserys glanced at the pile of letters, rubbing his temples. “For marriage alliances. They flood in by the day—every lord with a son or nephew thinks himself worthy of the princess’s hand.”

Otto’s brow furrowed slightly. “Rhaenyra?”

Viserys sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “Rhaenyra, yes. But not only her.”

The king paused, his gaze sweeping the council. “It seems my niece has become a subject of equal fascination. There are as many petitions for her hand as there are for Rhaenyra’s.”

Otto’s hand stilled over his quill, his stomach tightening at the king’s words. He glanced at the pile of letters, noting how many bore seals from prominent houses. The sheer volume of interest in your hand was… alarming.

Jasper Wylde let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Well, well. Two Targaryen ladies of marriageable age, both unspoken for? It’s no wonder the lords are clamoring like starved dogs.”

Viserys shot Jasper a disapproving look before turning back to the pile. “I’ve sorted through most of the petitions for Rhaenyra. But for my niece, I thought it best to consult her father first.”

At this, the council grew quiet. Even Mellos stopped his scribbling to glance at Viserys.

“And?” Otto prompted, his voice carefully neutral.

Viserys sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I went to Daemon with the matter this morning. Gave him the names, the houses, the offers.”

“And what did Prince Daemon say?” Tyland asked, his curiosity evident.

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his frustration palpable. “He rejected all of them. Every last one. Didn’t even look at the offers before saying no.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Jasper chuckled softly. “Of course he did. Daemon has always been… particular.”

“Particular,” Viserys repeated bitterly, shaking his head. “He didn’t even let me finish reading the list before declaring that none of them were ‘worthy.’”

Otto’s frown deepened. “Did he offer any reasoning, Your Grace?”

“Reasoning?” Viserys laughed humorlessly. “Daemon and reasoning rarely share the same space. He said—and I quote—‘I will not let her be auctioned off to the highest bidder like a common broodmare.’”

Jasper snorted, clearly entertained, but Otto’s mind was elsewhere. The sheer volume of petitions for your hand wasn’t just unusual—it was unprecedented. And Daemon’s outright rejection of every proposal only complicated matters further.

“This is a delicate situation, Your Grace,” Otto said carefully. “With so much interest in the princess, rejecting every suitor outright could lead to resentment among the lords. Especially those from powerful houses.”

“I know that, Otto,” Viserys replied, his tone exasperated. “But how am I supposed to handle this when her own father won’t even consider the possibilities?”

“Perhaps Daemon intends to hold out for an even grander offer,” Tyland suggested, his voice pragmatic. “Or perhaps he means to marry her to someone of his own choosing.”

“Knowing Daemon, he likely has no plan at all,” Viserys muttered. “He’s never been one to think more than a step ahead.”

Otto’s mind raced as the conversation continued. The prospect of Daemon controlling your future—and by extension, your alliances—was a troubling thought. It gave the Rogue Prince leverage he didn’t need and influence that could tip the balance of power in ways Otto couldn’t predict.

“Your Grace,” Otto said after a moment, his tone measured, “if I may suggest—perhaps a more direct approach is needed. The princess herself may have thoughts on the matter. It might be worth consulting her directly.”

Viserys frowned, clearly uncertain. “I’d rather not drag her into this if I can avoid it. She’s young, and Daemon is her father. He should be the one to decide.”

“And yet,” Otto said gently, “it is the realm that will feel the consequences of that decision. A match for the princess could stabilize alliances—or unsettle them, depending on how it is handled.”

Viserys rubbed his temples again, clearly torn. “I’ll think on it. But for now, this pile of petitions is going nowhere. I’ll leave it to gather dust, along with all the others Daemon has refused to even glance at.”

The meeting moved on, but Otto’s thoughts lingered on the matter. The sheer number of offers for your hand was not something he could ignore, nor was Daemon’s stubborn refusal to consider any of them. It was a volatile situation, and one that could shift the balance of power in ways Otto wasn’t prepared for.

And then there was the other matter—the one he couldn’t voice aloud. The quiet, insistent thought that perhaps no one was worthy of you.

Not even him.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alight with golden chandeliers and filled with the hum of noble voices. It was a formal occasion—a feast to honor a visiting delegation from the Stormlands. Lords and ladies adorned in their finest silks mingled amidst the long tables laden with platters of roasted meats, fruits, and golden goblets of wine. Musicians played softly from the far end of the room, their melodies adding a veneer of calm to an evening thick with courtly intrigue.

Otto Hightower stood at his usual place near the dais, watching the proceedings with a practiced eye. His duties required him to observe everything—who spoke to whom, who avoided whom, and the subtle gestures that often spoke louder than words.

Tonight, however, his attention was drawn to an unexpected arrival.

Daemon Targaryen strode into the hall, his entrance as dramatic as ever. His silver hair caught the light as he made his way through the crowd, clad in a black tunic embroidered with the dragon of House Targaryen. Conversations faltered as heads turned to watch him, a ripple of tension spreading through the room.

Otto’s jaw tightened. Of course he would come. He never misses an opportunity to stir chaos.

The Rogue Prince moved with ease through the gathering, his smirk firmly in place as he nodded to some lords and ignored others entirely. But as soon as he paused near the central tables, the braver—or perhaps more foolish—lords began to swarm him like moths to a flame.

“My prince,” Lord Edric Caron began, bowing deeply. “A pleasure to see you here this evening. Might I have a word regarding… a matter of great importance?”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “A matter of great importance? How intriguing.”

Lord Caron straightened, his face flushed with excitement—or nerves. “It concerns your daughter, my prince. I—well, that is, my eldest son—”

Daemon’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a look of cool disinterest. “Your son?”

“Yes, my prince,” Lord Caron continued hastily. “He is a fine knight, well-mannered, and our house has long been loyal to the Crown. I believe a match with your daughter would—”

“Stop,” Daemon said, his tone icy.

Lord Caron blinked, confused. “My prince?”

“I said stop,” Daemon repeated, his voice louder now, cutting through the hum of the hall. Nearby conversations ceased as the crowd turned to watch. “Did you think you could approach me like a merchant hawking his wares at market?”

“I—of course not, my prince,” Caron stammered, his confidence visibly crumbling. “I only meant—”

“You meant to auction my daughter off like a trinket,” Daemon snapped, his dark violet eyes narrowing. “Understand this: my daughter is not for sale. If you value your tongue, you’ll keep her name out of your mouth.”

The room was deathly silent, the dread palpable. Lord Caron’s face had turned ashen, and he stumbled back with a muttered apology, retreating as quickly as his dignity would allow.

Undeterred—or perhaps emboldened by wine—another lord stepped forward. “Prince Daemon,” Lord Gawen Wythers began, bowing deeply. “I mean no disrespect, but surely you must see the value of forging strong alliances for your daughter. House Wythers—”

Daemon turned on him, his smirk returning, but this time it was menacing and dangerous. “House Wythers? Your lands barely scrape enough coin to keep your gates from falling apart. You think you’re worthy of her?”

Lord Wythers froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“You lot never learn, do you?” Daemon said, his voice carrying across the hall. He glanced around at the gathered lords, his expression one of utter disdain. “You come to me with your offers and your empty promises, thinking I’ll hand her over like a prize at a tourney. Let me make this clear—none of you are worthy of her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Otto watched from his place near the dais, his face carefully blank as he observed the scene unfold. Inside, his thoughts churned. Daemon is only making this worse. Every rejection creates more resentment, more fuel for the fires of discontent.

Viserys, seated on the dais, sighed deeply and muttered to Otto, “He never changes, does he?”

“No, Your Grace,” Otto replied, his voice calm despite the storm brewing in his chest. “He remains… consistent.”

“Consistently infuriating,” Viserys muttered.

Back on the floor, Daemon’s attention shifted as he spotted you entering the hall. Your arrival drew fresh attention, your silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers as you made your way through the crowd. You wore a gown of deep red, its simple elegance a testament to your Targaryen heritage. Lords bowed as you passed, but you barely acknowledged them, your focus instead on your father.

Daemon’s expression softened slightly as you approached, though his sharp edge remained. You stopped beside him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Father,” you said softly, your tone laced with a quiet reproach.

“Sweetling,” Daemon said, his voice gentler now. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to enjoy the evening,” you replied, glancing at the gathered lords. “Though it seems I’ve arrived in the middle of a… conversation.”

Daemon snorted. “If you can call it that.”

You sighed, giving him a look that was both affectionate and exasperated. “You’ve made your point, Father.”

“Have I?” Daemon said, his smirk returning. He glanced around the room once more. “Let me be clear, then. My daughter’s hand is not up for discussion. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.”

The murmurs resumed as the crowd began to disperse, the bolder lords retreating with their wounded pride. Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further. “Come, sweetling. Let’s leave these fools to their wine.”

Otto watched as you left the hall with your father, your head held high despite the stares that followed. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, his thoughts troubled.

The Hand of the King’s chamber was a sanctuary of order amid the chaos of the Red Keep. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting patterns on the polished wooden floor. Otto Hightower sat at his desk, quill in hand, reviewing correspondence from the Reach. The quiet crackle of the hearth was a welcome backdrop to his work, a rare moment of calm before the demands of the day fully took hold.

That calm was shattered when Lord Jasper Wylde barged in, his expression alight with mischief and what he clearly believed was brilliance.

“Otto!” Jasper called out, closing the door behind him with a flourish. “I’ve had the most extraordinary idea.”

Otto sighed deeply, setting down his quill and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lord Wylde, must you always burst in like a storm? What is it now?”

Jasper grinned, pulling up a chair without invitation and sitting across from Otto. “I’ve been thinking—about Princess Y/N, of course.”

Otto’s expression darkened immediately, his gaze fixing on Jasper. “The princess is not a subject for idle speculation.”

“This is hardly idle, my friend,” Jasper said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “In fact, I’d say it’s a stroke of genius.”

Otto’s headache began to form before Jasper had even explained. “Spare me the dramatics and get to the point.”

Jasper’s grin widened. “The solution to all this madness—the petitions, the lords swarming Daemon like crows around a carcass—is simple. You should take her.”

Otto blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “Take her?”

“Yes, take her!” Jasper said, as though the idea were perfectly reasonable. “Spirit her away to Oldtown. Lock her in the Hightower, safe and secure, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. No more lords pestering Daemon, no more whispers in the court, no more—”

“Enough,” Otto interrupted, his tone harsh. He stood abruptly, his hands braced on the desk as he glared down at Jasper. “Have you lost your mind?”

Jasper held up his hands defensively, though his grin remained. “It’s not as mad as it sounds.”

“It sounds like treason,” Otto snapped. “Kidnapping a Targaryen princess? Do you have any idea what Daemon would do? What Viserys would do?”

“Oh, come now,” Jasper said dismissively. “You wouldn’t be kidnapping her. You’d be… protecting her. Shielding her from the vultures circling the court.”

“And locking her in the Hightower is your idea of protection?” Otto’s voice dripped with incredulity. “Daemon would burn Oldtown to the ground.”

“Not if you framed it correctly,” Jasper argued, undeterred. “Think of it—a place of sanctuary, far from the petty politics of court. She’d be treated like a queen, given everything she could possibly want. And it would give you time.”

“Time for what?” Otto asked, his tone dangerously quiet.

“To win her over, of course,” Jasper said with a wink. “You’re clearly… interested in her. And this way, you could—”

“Enough!” Otto’s voice cut through the room like a blade once more. He straightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “This conversation ends now.”

Jasper blinked, clearly taken aback by the intensity of Otto’s reaction. “Otto, you’re overreacting.”

“I am not overreacting,” Otto said coldly. “I am saving you from your own idiocy. This idea of yours is not only reckless, it’s dangerous. The princess is not some pawn to be moved at your convenience.”

Jasper frowned, his earlier humor fading. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then you’ve chosen your words poorly,” Otto snapped. He turned away, pacing to the window as he forced himself to take a calming breath. “The princess’s future is not for us to dictate. And even if it were, such a scheme would destroy whatever fragile balance remains in the realm.”

Jasper leaned back in his chair, studying Otto with a more serious expression than usual. “You care for her, don’t you?”

Otto froze, his back to Jasper. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “The princess deserves to make her own choices. Whatever I may feel—or not feel—is irrelevant.”

Jasper sighed, shaking his head. “You always were the cautious one. But caution won’t stop the vultures, Otto. And it won’t stop Daemon from dragging her into whatever madness he conjures next.”

Otto turned, his gaze steely. “No, but schemes like yours will only make things worse. Leave Princess Y/N out of your ambitions, Jasper. I won’t tell you again.”

Jasper held his hands up in surrender, a faint smirk returning to his lips. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

With that, he rose from his chair and sauntered toward the door. “Enjoy your day, Otto. And your migraines.”

As the door closed behind him, Otto exhaled deeply, pressing his fingers to his temples. The headache Jasper had so gleefully predicted was already throbbing at the edges of his mind.

The gods must truly hate me, he thought grimly, his thoughts drifting once more to you. Or perhaps they enjoy watching me suffer.

[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 16

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,900 of 42,623

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AO3 Link

He must really hate my guts for suggesting that he would be able to kill me because he doesn't tell me where we're going, not even when we disembark at the station. Together, we walk the way I tried to escape, except we go straight to the bakery that I had passed up. It’s just as cramped as the bakery that Bruno had taken me to back in the Emerald City, even if it is better kept. This bakery also has those sweet saffron buns that suffocate every inch of the building, and I can feel my mouth water at the thought of biting into one, considering all I’d had today was hardtack, tea, and hot chocolate. Instead of throwing down cash on the counter for some treats, he slaps down a golden pin that he had kept in the pocket of his waistcoat. The emerald eye tie tack.

"You been to the desert?" the baker asks, shifting his eyes between him and the gleaming tie tack. He's a wide set man of fifty, a five o'clock shadow darkening his already exhausted face and his arms are coated in flour up to the elbow.

"And I've seen wondrous things," the Wizard replies, “and met wondrous men.” The conversation doesn’t make any sense, but I don't think it's supposed to.

"What can I do you for, my brother?" the baker asks.

"I need a ride to the Upland estate," the Wizard says. "I'm supposed to meet some fellow travelers there."

The baker presses his lips together, nodding as if mulling over the request. "Do you plan to be going in the front door, or the back?"

"The back," the Wizard says. "I wouldn't want to draw any attention to myself. It's a confidential meeting, you understand."

"I've got a shipment going up there just now; you're lucky about that. If you go out the back, just put yourself in between the bags of rolls and donuts, okay? And don't eat none. The Uplands butler likes to count them and I get dinged if there's some missing."

The Wizard gives a short nod and swipes his emerald tie tack off the counter. "Thank you. We won't be any trouble." He grabs me by the arm and we step behind the counter and weave our way back through the narrow kitchen.

"The Upland Estate?" I ask. "What's that, some sort of country club?" I don't actually know what a country club is, but I'd heard it in passing. A place where rich and fancy people mingled and laughed, and were rich and fancy together, surrounded by all the comforts of luxury... like rolls and donuts that could be counted.

"The Uplands, doll. You've never heard of them?" he asks.

"Should I have?"

We push out the battered wooden back door – the knob to it was completely missing, a crude wooden handle nailed in its place – and find a wooden cart and horse out back, piled high with burlap sacks filled with presumably donuts and rolls. The horse wickers as the Wizard pulls himself up into the cart and then me. We wedge ourselves out of sight as instructed, our drab and dirtied clothes blending into the wooden wagon and bags.

_________________________

It's a breeze getting past the guard and gates. When the wagon comes to a stop we wait and lie until there's a smack on the wagon. The Wizard peeks his head up first and I watch as the smile spreads on his face.

"Tomathy, good to see you again. What's it been? A century?"

I poke my head up to get a good look at this Tomathy. He seems to be the same age as the Wizard, a bit shorter, but well built to support the flashing eyes and aged wrinkles. Despite looking to be in his late sixties, he still has a full head of gold hair – truly golden, not blonde like one might try to romantically sway you into believing was gold. Tomathy's wrinkles press together like an accordion up his face as he smiles like a maniac. "Oscar, looking terrible as ever."

"Yeah, and you don't look so hot yourself. Mind giving me a hand here? I'm swimming in bagels," the Wizard says.

"It's donuts actually," I correct.

"Who's this?" Tomathy asks the Wizard, looking between the two of us. "You're still a big player aren't you? Where'd you find her? At the train station?" Tomathy has hopped up onto the cart and is pulling the Wizard from the sacks of baked goods.

"She's my assistant," he says, righting himself with a dust-off before clapping Tomathy on the back into a hug.

Oh, so that's how he plans to play it. In truth, I expected him to introduce me as his daughter, but this Tomathy must be enough in the know that it would be a laughable excuse. At least he had enough shame to not introduce me as some sort of sex pet. That would be wholly untrue considering I've only let him fuck me once back in the cabin. I try to keep my face unreadable as I push myself up out of the burlap sacks with the help of the side of the cart.

"Well, I can see why you picked her," Tomathy says, breaking from the embrace to ogle my full form now. "Sweet Oz, you're robbing the cradle before it's even been built."

"You know I can hear you, right?" I say crossing my arms. His eyes drop straight to my chest. I immediately uncross them.

At least to the Wizard's credit, his lip is curled in disgust. Whether it is about the remarks or the fact that his age-old friend was sizing me up, I don't know, but I'm grateful when he says, "Come on. Let's get inside. I haven't had anything to eat today."

"The Uplands keep us well fed," Tomathy says, hopping down from the wagon. "Pears and aged meat and the finest cheese and wine you've ever tasted."

"Well," the Wizard says with a laugh, "it almost sounds like you've appointed yourself as their personal food-taster." Tomathy offers a hand as the Wizard hops out of the wagon after him.

"Lady Upland has stuffed us until we can’t fit anything else down our gullets," Tomathy says. "Morrible looks like she's ready to snap if they try to offer her one more cream puff.

The Wizard waits for me as I walk to the edge of the cart, and then effortlessly seizes my waist and lowers me to the ground right in front of him. "Good?" he asks.

It's a double entendre of a question. We haven't talked about the fight we had before we left the wreck site, but he hasn't even made the effort to apologize or offer any sympathy for my plight so I'm not going to forgive him just yet. "Good," I mumble, breaking out of the embrace to walk in step with Tomathy. His first impression of being a raging womanizer hadn't worn off, but at least it was better than someone who hadn't denied that they would have you killed.

"It's a bit frosty for that kind of behavior, don't ya think?" Tomathy says as he walks towards the servants' door. "Cheer up! You're alive and well. Sweet Oz, that train wreck though... I hope we get some intel on it soon. We just received a report from the front lines and were waiting for you to arrive. I heard about it when I came in. They weren't going to let any trains through. Mail stopped going that way too."

We walk through the massive kitchen, a stark comparison to the bakery we snuck through. I feel a smirk tugging at my lips. Where the baker only had one aisle shotgunning from front to back, the Upland kitchen was only a tad shy of that of the Emerald Palace. You could throw one of the donuts from a burlap sack from one wall and – unless you were exceptionally strong – miss the wall opposite in width alone. Staff in clean white coats busied about the sanitary metal of their beehive, whisking creams and traying sandwiches and coffee for the lunch hour, none of them paying us any attention.

Continuing the tour up through the white and black chic of the foyer and staircases, I begin to wonder if the Uplands weren't perhaps behind Frottica looking as colorless as it did. It was more white than black, and even in a time of war, there was a grand vase of all white flowers that bloomed and cascaded from a glass vase big enough that a small child could fit into it if it were empty.

"Morrible is here, you said?" the Wizard asks.

"Here and agitated. Nobody's told her that they found you yet. I'm surprised she hasn't sicced a hurricane on that little base camp Fiyero's got outside the city. It would’ve be a nice surprise," Tomathy says.

"You didn't tell her?" the Wizard asks.

"Hell, I didn't even know you were alive until I saw that white mop of yours waving in the wind. I was looking out the window wishing I could get out of this nuthouse when I saw you coming up the road towards it.” Tomathy barks a laugh. “I said, 'He never did know how to not make an entrance.'" Tomathy is still laughing and the Wizard exchanges an uneasy smile. "What? Stuff still weird between the two of you? I thought you fixed it. Tell you what: you patch it up with her, and your assistant and I can get to know each other better." He wraps an arm around my shoulder pulling me into his side with a click of tongue and teeth. "Promise you won't have to do any work around me."

"Tom," the Wizard snaps.

Tomathy removes his arm from around me and I turn to see the same expression from when we had fought back on the train: angry and reckless. Tomathy is nothing more than a dog to him and it is time to come to heel at the command of his master, man's best friend to an extent. Tomathy holds his hands up in surrender, saying, "I didn't know it was like that."

"Well, now you know," the Wizard says, brushing past Tomathy and me, taking the steps two at a time.

"Has he always been like this?" I whisper to Tomathy.

"Like what?" Tomathy asks. "Possessive? Sweetheart, that is a you and him problem to work out. I'm already on thin ice. Come on." He heads up the white marble stairs after the Wizard and I follow behind him.

We don't have to go very far on the second floor. The doors to a massive personal library are propped open and I can hear the chatter that is coming through them. It comes to a hush and I know that he must've caught their attention. I'm sure he looks ghastly to them. They hadn't spent the past few days with him, watching as he metamorphized into dull browns, snow-covered, and, at last, completely unkempt through our trek through the wilderness and disaster. The shadows under his eyes had deepened and his hair was now fully back to just its regular waves rather than its carefully coiffed swoops.

I follow into the library after Tomathy just in time to see Madame Morrible throw her arms around him in a manner so stoic it seemed rehearsed. The expansive windows that overlook the backyard gardens and hedge maze have flooded the room with light and I swear I can see tears in her eyes, and the way her nails are clawing into the back of his woolen coat.

"Madame Morrible," Tomathy says, "I was just coming up here to let you know that he-"

"You're alive," she says, voice choked.

"I am," the Wizard replies.

That niggling feeling I'd felt at the tea shop is back and I want to slink into the corner of the room, and maybe down into the kitchens where I might be more at home. I didn't need to know names and titles to know how to serve at a table. I didn’t need to have a history.

"As much as I'd love to savor this reunion," a broad man with a green Oz uniform and dark complexion says, "we are at war, and we've just received a briefing. Time is of the essence."

The crowd crumbles at his words, immediately shedding their attention from the Wizard and Madame Morrible and heading back to their seats at a makeshift open rectangle that had been built from four long tables. As much as the feeling is still gnawing at me to steal away to the servants' quarters here, I want to hear this briefing. We hadn't heard anything from Bruno in days and that news was even days old by then, taking much longer to be smuggled out rather than through the efficiency of military and spies. I wanted to know if Fileah was okay, but that would have to wait. Now would be if I found out if Bruno was okay, and if Bruno was okay then Fileah would be okay. Tomathy is following the Wizard and Madame Morrible to sit down, and I decide to stick by him. He seems to have changed his womanizing tune after the Wizard snapped at him, so I probably wouldn't have to endure any under-the-table fondling.

The kitchen staff come in with carts full of food and drink, but the man in the Oz uniform starts before the table has been set. "I want to start by thanking the Lord-Mayor of Shiz for committing another five thousand troops to the cause. They are sorely needed at this time, and with them, we have more than enough of a shot at winning."

A frail looking man next to Madame Morrible stands and offers a weak nod to an applause before taking his seat again. I think that I can see the crest of Shiz on his lavender jacket. He says, "It is an honor to serve our great land of Oz."

The Wizard whispers something to Madame Morrible, but I can't hear it with Tomathy sitting between us.

The military man continues, "As for the briefing that we have just received: it does not look good."

My hand finds Tomathy's under the table and I wish so badly that it wasn't his.

"Something wrong?" Tomathy whispers to me.

"A friend back home. He's one of the Royal Palace guards," I reply.

The military man is continuing to go on about the death toll and how the citizens of the Emerald City are reaching critically low food stores, but Tomathy pulls my attention back to him. "Does the Wizard know about the two of you? It's not wise to piss him off. You see what happened to me – and he likes me on a good day."

I try not to scoff at the idea. "No, no, it's not like that," I whisper. "Bruno is like a brother to me. He's been looking out for my sister back home and he's the one that got the Wizard and I out of the city."

"My condolences to you then," Tomathy says. "I hope the Unnamed God is merciful on your friend. He's doing a service to this country. I can't think of a more dangerous place to be, but someone's got to do it." He squeezes my hand to seal the blessing. It's meaningless if what the rest he said is true. The five thousand troops will be our lifeline, an emergency blood transfusion as we hemorrhage on the front line.

"Overall, the casualties have not been excessive," the military man continues, "but the breach of the city walls puts us in a terrible position. The Gale Force suspects that they targeted highborn hostages: innocent women and children. Probably to get us to cooperate better. A higher price tag is a better bargaining chip."

I feel a weight lifted off my chest and squeeze Tomathy's hand back. The Unnamed God was merciful, and unless Bruno was exceptionally unlucky, he was probably still alive.

"You say that they suspect a target of highborn hostages," a man says from the table across from our side of the rectangle. He's dressed from head to toe in green with thick spectacles that make it very obvious every time he blinks. "I have family in the Emerald City still. I need to know if they're okay."

The man next to him puts a hand on his shoulder. "George, you wouldn't be able to do anything about it anyway, the entire city is blockaded. There's no getting in or out."

"Gentleman, please," the military man interrupts. "I can answer questions as long as we keep order. The report said that there were obvious break-ins in the Garden District. If that's were your family lives, then feel free to worry, but like our friend said, the entire city has been blockaded. We'll need to do an extraction mission or wait for their demands." He goes back to reading the report. "They say they suspect it was a target of highborn hostages, innocent women and children. Of note were the obvious break-ins in the Garden District-” He nods to the quivering green man. “A break-in at a womens-only boarding house, and a break-in at an orphanage."

[kasagia]

Familiar flame

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/General Kirigan/The Darkling x fem!Grisha! reader Summary: Aleksander lost his Y/N the day he created the fold. The king's soldiers killed his one true love in front of his eyes. His despair and anger led to the creation of a dark fold. After centuries, Aleksander meets a girl identical to his beloved… her reincarnation. Will he be able to restore your memories? Could he get you back after centuries of mourning you? Or maybe Aleksander finally lost his mind... Nonsense from me: This is request from @morrigan-crowmwell I hope that you like it! ♡♡ And I'm veeeery excited to write your next request! (and to publish it soon ♡♡) P.S. I'm sorry it took me ages again, luckily I'll have a lot more free time now, so I promise it'll get better. 😅 Warning(s): references to reincarnation; Aleksander misses the reader and can't resist her (even if she doesn't remember him); the reader is a bit hysterical; the reader behaves like a little child spoiled by Aleksander; the reader has Aleksander wrapped around her little finger, but he doesn't care; the reader has a panic attack and hyperventilation; de@th mentions; NOT CHECKED grammatically and so on - I wanted to publish it as soon as possible Word count: 9,4k Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @morrigan-crowmwell

"So many centuries on this earth, and you're still a naive, hopeless romantic. Tell me how do you do it, boy?"

Baghra taunted him without even looking up from her dinner. Aleksander growled, irritated by her lack of interest. He slammed his fist on the table, drawing the unfazed woman's attention to him.

"It's true, I saw her! It was her!"

"Aleksander... you must move on." Darkling snorted, jumping up as if burned from his chair. Baghra followed her son as he ran out of her hut, not giving up. If they both had something in common, it was their great stubbornness. "How many times have you seen this girl? You have to realize that she's not coming back. Y/N is dead, Aleksander. For hundreds of years."

"She is here! I danced with her month ago at the ball, you can't tell me I didn't because I remember her face perfectly. It is etched in my mind more permanently than any other memory."

"You wanted an answer to your question. Here it is. There is no such thing as reincarnation, the reappearance of someone on this world. We die once, Aleksander. Once and successfully. So whoever you met yesterday, even with a face that looks like her, is not Y/N. So you'd better leave the innocent girl alone."

The Darkling laughed bitterly, shaking his head. His mother would never see him as more than a small, quick-tempered, silly boy. He should get used to it after all these years.

"You think I'd come to you with this if she was just one of the faces like her? Me and my people have been watching her for a month now, ever since some snobbish nobleman's daughter came back to the palace and turned out to be the only woman I ever cared about in this saint-damn world. It must be her. I don't know how, why, and honestly, I don't care as long as it's really her. Neither should you - as far as I remember you cared for her more than for me."

"Aleksander. I know you loved her, but you have to let her go. People just don't rise from the grave." she tried to reason with him. But he knew better.

It must be you. Somehow the Saints took pity on his tortured soul and returned you to him, and he wasn't going to stay further away from you than necessary.

He will have you again in his life, arms, and bed.

No matter what he has to sacrifice to restore your memories.

"Just as they don't live forever, and yet we do." he growled as he mounted his horse and galloped back towards the Little Palace. He was in for a long night spent in his library, poring over books. If Baghra didn't want to help him, he would find the answer himself.

"You stupid boy..." Baghra snorted, shaking her head in disappointment.

Your death was both the worst and best thing for her son. You would never live as long as they did - your death would have come anyway, just in a less bloody way. Ordinary people were fragile, and their lives were shorter—one breath of Baghra or Aleksander equaled thousands of them. She had no idea why her son was so stubborn about getting you back, even though you were truly reborn. Aleksander would lose you again. Even he couldn't fight death itself and go against nature in such a matter... or so Baghra hoped.

The boundaries that Aleksander wouldn't cross in your name were practically nonexistent.

And she would be afraid of him more with you by his side - the most powerful Etherealki woman this earth has ever seen… a tribrid with the powers of Squaller, Inferni and Tidemaker.

~•♤♤♤•~

It all started a month ago.

Aleksander was at another of the king's balls, circulating among the generals of the First Army, trying to win their favor and consent to a slight modification of their plans. For his and Grishas' benefit, of course.

He would never have guessed that a conversation with General Petrova, the king's irritating, faithful soldier, would bring him more than a headache. It was usually with him that the Darkling had his greatest disputes during war councils.

However, while the general caused him the most trouble of all in the king's court, he was one of the few who respected the Darkling not for his powers, which instilled fear among other soldiers, but for the sake of his tactical, sound thinking.

Never in his life would Aleksander have thought that General Petrova's daughter would be a faithful doppelgänger of his long-dead beloved.

He was stunned as soon as he saw you enter the room.

Anywhere, even on his deathbed, he would have recognised that mischievous twinkle in your eyes whenever you were given full attention. You were a vision. Apparition. A fairy tale that was etched forever in his memory.

And he may have lived many lives, met millions of ordinary people and thousands of Grishas, but this face, the face of his loved one, whom he only met in his sweet dreams and darkest nightmares, had never ever flashed a second of his hundreds-year life. There were no humans even close to your beauty...

And then, after hundreds of years of sorrow, pain, and grief, he saw you again. He was again enchanted by your mesmerising eyes, your sweet, mischievous smile, your tempting lips... He let himself be lost for a while in the view of his beloved before questions started to cross his mind.

How? When? Who is she? From where? Could it really be you? Hundreds of years in pain, only for you to walk casually one day to one of the balls of a king whose ancestor killed you?

Aleksander didn't even notice when you approached him and General Petrova. But YOUR voice, his Y/N's voice, definitely brought him back into the world. Like a strong, vicious slap.

"Father. It was definitely too long." Aleksander almost broke down there. Being so close to someone who looked like you, hearing your voice again in REALITY, smelling the perfume so damn well know to him - the same one which made him lose his mind ages ago for you...

"General Kirigan. My daughter, Y/N. Y/N. General Kirigan, commander of the Second Army." your careful gaze finally met his. And Aleksander was gone.

Saints save him… even those bloody, fucking eyes he would die for were the same….

"It's a pleasure to meet you, General Kirigan." Aleksander couldn't do anything else but reach for your hand and kiss it—something he'd also dreamed of a thousand times, but in his dreams you only used his true, real name. "Your fame extends to the farthest reaches of Ravka. I am glad to see the legendary Darkling with my own eyes." Aleksander shivered as his title spilled out of your mouth. Not with mockery or insult or fear, but flatteringly, strongly… He had to control himself. It wasn't his Y/N… unless…

"I think these aren't very… flattering stories."

"You'd be surprised, General…" Aleksander could feel himself melting under her attentive gaze. The number of long-buried emotions overwhelmed him. And he himself felt his long-forgotten, dead, cold heart come to life again under each of your charming smiles, warm tone of voice, and enticing looks.

Now that he had had the opportunity to look at her more closely, he noticed all the (perfectly familiar) small details.

The way your hair was styled—so that a few strands stand out from your perfectly styled hairstyle, no long earrings, only small pearls that your hair would be harder to get into, delicate jewellery, not flashy like most women's, jewellery that instead of testifying to your wealth emphasised your beauty.

You seemed so familiar to him…

"Do you dance, General?" your question snapped him out of his mind about HIS Y/N.

He didn't dance on such occasions. Never. But he would be damned if he didn't try to find out how far your resemblance to his Y/N goes.

"If you wish, Lady Petrova." he replied with a charming smile, reverting to his image of a confident general of the Second Army.

"Please..." she grabbed his hand. The touch of her delicate skin against his rough made him shiver uncontrollably. He was putty in your hands... but he would be cursed if he let go, if he loses again the one thing that holds him firmly in this world. "Call me Y/N."

"Y/N." he mumbled, leading her to the dance floor. He gripped her securely around the waist, pulling her close enough to be considered appropriate. "I'm dying to see how this one's ends."

"Not only you… general." you peeked at him over those beautifully painted eyelids, biting your lips lightly. Reincarnation, doppelgänger, or real you, you always had to tease him, you always challenged him. And he was more than willing to play that game with you again… even if he wasn't holding his Y/N in his arms.

"Please..." he turned you around to pull you back to his chest. He smiled, remembering how those Y/E/C irises were the only thing that mattered to him hundreds of years ago… he marveled at how they still enchanted him. And having you in his arms again, so close he could smell your scent again… it made him dizzy. "Call me Aleksander." he whispered into your ear, getting close enough not to touch you but to feel the warmth of your cheek against his.

Was it wise to tell you his name? Absolutely not. Did he regret giving himself up to this moment? The answer came to him after a few seconds.

"Aleksander..." your soft whisper made him shiver. The old memories, the ones he tried to bury in his mind, the ones that were both sweetly blissful and devastating, came back to him. Foolish hope rose in him the moment your brow furrowed as if you, too, recognized the significance of what had just happened.

If he'd had any doubts before, he definitely knew now... he was cursed. And he didn't care enough to break this spell you put on him.

~•♤♤♤•~

"Y/N! Rise and shine, you lazy ass!" you groaned, covering your head with a pillow.

"Go away demon. It's too early for anything." you mumbled, snuggling into my comfy bed. You snorted in surprise when suddenly your friend threw herself on your bed and brutally tore the pillow off your head, laughing like a madwoman. "Y/F/N!"

"What have you been dreaming about?" she asked with a sly smile.

"About nothing." you muttered as you got out of bed and walked over to your closet to pick out your outfit for today.

"Yes? Is that why I found you grinning like a psychopath in love and mumbling someone's name? Is there some poor guy you finally like? Who could it be? A soldier? Maybe a nobleman?" you huffed in amusement as you walked out from the wardrobe.

"I haven't gone crazy yet. The world will burn before I voluntarily muzzle myself with marriage."

"Doesn't change the fact that someone caught your eye, does it?" she inquired with a curious smirk.

"Let's go, you hopeless romantic. I believe you dragged me out of bed over that very exciting tea time with the queen." you sighed, knowing full well that this meeting would give you a terrible headache.

"We're going to suffer together, sweetie. But cheer up. Genya will be there. You've liked her company lately, haven't you?"

"She's too good for these royal assholes." you replied, taking her arm and walking out of your room towards the palace gardens.

During that month, you quickly fit into the role you had to play at court. And thanks to your numerous travels, you managed to win enough favour with the queen to become a permanent member of her "group of snobbish noblewomen". You also met Genya, Grisha, an angel among the palace demons who was rather unpopular at court… well, at least not when the queen didn't need her Grisha's skills.

The meeting with the queen dragged on as usual, you couldn't help but wander your mind to your today's dream interrupted by Y/F/N.

"Aleksander!" you laughed, punching him lightly in the chest. "Stop teasing me."

"I don't do anything, milaya." he replied smiling innocently which made you snort. You crossed your arms and gave him a meaningful look.

You were in the little library at his house. (By the way, it's a miracle that he and Baghra found a place for their books in such a tiny hut.) You tried to get to one of the books on the upper shelves, but Aleks had other plans. He stood in front of you, and every time you stood on tiptoe to reach the book, he took the opportunity to grab your waist and pull you into a kiss.

"You do not?" you asked, trying to get to the book, but Aleksander caught your lips in a kiss again. "Aleksander!" you huffed, punching him in the chest with a laugh. "Your mother will kill me if I don't at least start reading this book." you complained, laughing at the smug man. He was so childish sometimes... You squealed as Aleksander suddenly grabbed your waist and pulled you close, burying his nose in your hair.

"I am more than strong enough to protect moya milaya from my bloodthirsty mother." he whispered, placing a tender kiss on your temple.

"Aleksander." you moaned as he moved his lips to your neck. You ran your hand through his hair, giving in to the feeling for a moment, until you remembered what you were supposed to do today. "How about a compromise?"you asked, taking his attention away from your neck for a moment.

"A compromise? And how do you want to negotiate your freedom, lapushka?"

"I'm not blind. I see you're clingier than usual today. Of course you won't let me out of your arms, which I can't really say I'm complaining about… But since I'm about to spend the rest of the day on your lap or in your arms, then you could at least read me the book Baghra told me to learn by heart." he was thinking, rubbing his nose against yours.

"I think I can accept it." you squealed in surprise as he picked you up bridal style, lifting you up so you could reach the book you needed. "But I reserve the right to give you some breaks. As your beloved I've got to make sure my little tribrid doesn't overwork herself." you giggled, making his smile of satisfaction only grow wider.

"What a good and caring lover you are, Aleksander." you teased, knowing full well what the study breaks were for… or rather, for whom.

"Have you ever doubted it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, the sparkle of amusement in his dark eyes only made your mood more up. You loved seeing him so happy, carefree.

"No. Never." you whispered, kissing him with all your love and tenderness…

Such nonsense dreams have plagued you almost every time since you met the general. Visions of his younger self and yours, as if the two of you lived together hundreds of years ago. It also didn't help your plan that, for some strange reason, you felt this... attraction, this desire to be close to him.

You didn't know where your sudden fondness for the Darkling came from, but one thing was certain. You had to get rid of it. And that's before your father presents the king with plans to permanently disband the Second Army and return all the Grishas to the slave system. You couldn't give in to some stupid feeling towards their general... not when everything you and your father had worked for was coming to an end.

"Lady Petrova. You're surprisingly quiet today." the queen has distracted you from the thoughts that have plagued you for weeks. You put on your learned, polite smile.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I'm not feeling well today. I think I have a slight migraine, but it should pass soon, Your Highness."

"You look paler than usual… Genya, lady Y/F/N. Take lady Y/N to the healers." you had to do your best to keep the frown from appearing on your face. This old witch…

"Your Grace." instead, you bowed to the queen and walked away with the two women at your side. You didn't speak to Genya until you were sure you were out of earshot of anyone other than the three of you. "I'm fine, Genya. I just had to get out of there."

"Then I should thank you for saving me from there too." she replied with a smile as tired as yours. "But the queen was right. You looked a little pale earlier. Are you sure everything's okay? I can improve your appearance and cover up those little dark circles under your eyes if you want."

"No need, sweetheart. But if you somehow have power over dreams, it would be really helpful." you joked, knowing full well that Grisha are incapable of entering other people's dreams… though you doubted it after the general's face haunted you at night in those strange dreams.

"It would be great to be able to do that."

"Anyway, thank you, Genya. You can hide somewhere in the palace. You deserve some time off." the woman nodded to you and headed towards the Grand Palace, leaving you and Y/F/N alone in the gardens.

"Okay, what's the matter? What are you dreaming about that you can't sleep? And why are you hanging around Grishas and Darkling lately? You want to settle him down or something?" your friend asked annoyed. You looked around, making sure you two were still alone.

"I'm not going to settle him down. My father wanted me to take care of our strong, dark general. After all, what's the best way to steer a man who doesn't care about anyone but his people, than an affair with a pretty, nobel woman?" you asked with a cunning smile.

You preferred to keep your strange dreams to yourself… at least until you were sure it was just a stupid figment of your imagination and growing teenage crush on a dark general.

"I don't quite understand… so what exactly are you doing with him?" she asked, growing suspicious as you headed towards the Little Palace.

"It's just a game. I charm him with my beauty, spend time with him, and so on, which makes him less interested in the war, and I don't have to put up with my father's complaining about me finally getting married. I serve both Ravka and my own interests. Isn't it wonderful?"

"You'll get burned. Be careful with him. He's a Darkling. If he finds out…" she warned you, slightly scared. You snorted, shaking your head. You looked around one more time before whispering conspiratorially to her.

"Then what will he do to me? It's in his interest to keep our little affair as a secret, the dignity of a man and all that crap won't let him seek revenge openly - he'll only embarrass himself even more. I'm perfectly safe." you replied confidently as you left the gardens. You smiled. According to your plan, the general should leave his palace right now to meet the council. It was your job to make sure he didn't get there… well, at least not for the most part.

"If you say so… But you have to admit, even you, that he's hot."

"That's true... which only makes it more interesting..." you saw Kirigan coming out of the Little Palace with one of his loyal dogs by his side... Ivan or the other, you couldn't remember. You smiled slyly, sensing a good opportunity. "Excuse me."

You didn't waste any time. You immediately approached the general, inwardly triumphant with the smile he sent you as soon as he saw you… the grimace on his companion's face was also the reason for your good mood.

"Lady Petrova."

"General Kirigan. So you do occasionally leave the Little Palace."

"Indeed it happens sometimes." he smiles back at your teasing, keeping his distracting dark eyes on you.

"Then I can't pass up this opportunity to take you anywhere other than the path leading to the Grand Palace or the gardens. It's a beautiful day for a ride, don't you think? Perhaps you could accompany me?"

"Actually…"

"It's a wonderful idea. Ivan, could you get our horses ready?" the general interrupted his Girsha. You lowered your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling victoriously. As Ivan passed you, you stepped closer to the general and turned your careful gaze back to him.

"He doesn't like me very much, does he?" you asked, catching the arm he offered you as you two walked to the stables together. "Your gruff companion." you added seeing his confused look.

The general snorted, placing his hand over yours, which made you shiver uncontrollably. You internally chastised yourself for such a… pathetic reaction to his little touch.

"Ivan is… specific." he finally replied making you chuckle.

"I saw the look he gave me when I took you away from him, like I was stealing his favorite cuddly toy." Kirigan snorted, which made you smile. You felt how your cheeks redden involuntarily at the sound of his laughter. "You don't have to always defend your people at all costs, General. Well, at least not in such a case." you replied with a smirk.

"Ivan is a good soldier and comrade… he can be funny once you get to know him."

"Then I guess you find volcra hilarious too."

"And maybe one or two of the queen's nobles." you gave him an offended look, placing your hand over your heart in a hurt gesture.

"Ouch. That's good that my company at least gives you some fun. It must be really hard to always be that grave, grumpy, dark general."

"Surely it can be lonely sometimes." his thoughtful, sombre statement ruined the fun atmosphere between you two.

For a brief moment, you could see the familiar twinkle of grief in his eyes before he hid it behind his mask of indifference. You knew that feeling. Especially after being transferred to different courts so many times. You had to master your emotions to perfection… especially the feeling of loneliness that was getting worse every day.

"Well, that's good that I have enough time to play a foolish, wayward, snobbish noble around you… maybe you won't feel so lonely, anymore." you joked, not knowing if you were saying it out of a duty to get close to him or from the depths of your completely lost and confused heart, which always acted like that near him.

"You're not the worst noblewoman I've ever met." the amused note returned to his voice, as did the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Maybe you just didn't know me good enough?" you asked, stopping by the stables and letting go of his arm.

"Maybe..." he replied thoughtfully, not letting go of your hand.

You turned back to him. Your gaze lingered on your joined hands for a moment, until you shifted your confused gaze to him.

The moment your eyes met his, any questions you wanted to ask him escaped your mind. You could only stare blankly into his eyes. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you flashed an image of the younger Aleksander you dreamed of... the exact same one who was giving you an affectionate look like the general was doing now.

"Aleksander." you whispered, not even realising when the idea of saying his name popped into your head.

You were besotted, too mesmerised by the dark irises that stared at you like some saint, like you were all he ever wanted to look at for the rest of his life, to think of anything other than getting closer to him.

And the worst of it all was that you had no idea how you knew the smell of his cologne and why it reminded you of home, of safety. Or why he seemed so familiar to you…

"Yes, milaya?" you trembled. You knew he felt it; you knew he saw how you reacted to the nickname his younger version gives you every night in your dreams… and although it reminded you of something only a close person could say to their beloved, for the hell you didn't know what it meant or how he knew about it. But before you could answer something (or take the one little step that lasted between you and him to feel his lips on yours), Ivan arrived with your horses. "Thank you, Ivan." the general cleared his throat. You could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn't happy about being interrupted either.

"General. Let me remind you that in two hours…"

"Postpone all my appointments. I'll be unavailable." you couldn't help but send Ivan a victorious smile from behind Kirigan's shoulder, which made heartrender wince. Aleksander turned to glance at you, and you gave him a nice, polite smile, making sure the flash of malice disappeared from your eyes. The man shifted his confused looks to Ivan. "I'll be back tonight. Lady Petrova needs an escort."

"Of course, General, have a nice trip."

"Thank you, Ivan."

You gave Grisha a fleeting glance and malicious smile before you and Aleksander left the palace grounds. Ivan has tried to stop the general from joining you more than once this month... he has failed miserably each time. Seeing Grisha grumpier than usual was another advantage of your quest... besides being with Aleksander.

"Wanna race?!" you shouted, not giving him time to answer as you galloped your horse along, laughing as the general chased after you.

~•♤♤♤•~

"Forgotten fountain in the middle of the forest? I didn't think you knew such romantic places, general." you said with a teasing smile as you dismounted from your horses.

"You find it romantic?" he asked, throwing an amused glance over his shoulder as he tossed out the branches in the fountain. You smiled, internally laughing at how the great general commanding the entire Second Army was preparing the atmosphere for your pseudo date.

"Oh, don't tease me. You know what I meant. It's amazing that with your work schedule you have time to wander around and find places like this."

"You do realize I have free time sometimes, right?"

"Rearranging figures on a war table is no leisure time, General." Kirigan snorted, shaking his head in amusement. You smiled as you walked over to the fountain to stand next to him. Only then did you see what was so amazing about her that the general brought you here. It was dedicated to the Black Heretic. "Wait… that's your ancestor's story, isn't it?"

"You know it just from those old pictures?" he asked, apparently impressed with your knowledge, to which you snorted indignantly.

"Of course. Every child in Ravka know his story... well, or at least they should. To be honest, I'm not sure how ignorant the other nobles are, but I hope they're not that bad after all. But I'm guessing you didn't bring me here for a history lesson, did you?"

"When I was a boy, I used to run away and hide here once I realised I was the descendant of the most hated Grisha in Ravka. I've come here to throw a coin and make a wish in the fountain that I could be anyone else."

"A dangerous wish." I murmured as I looked at the pictures on the fountain to avoid his scrutinising gaze. "You never know what fate may befall you. It may turn out that things weren't so bad after all." I replied, remembering all the stories of noblewomen I had the opportunity to know... not all of them lived wonderful, fairy-tale lives. At least not the ones with powdered bruises.

"I devoted my life to undoing the greatest sin of my forbear. But I never seen this as a solution. Only as a reminder of the problem. They always need someone to blame."

"Every story needs a villain." you replied, sitting on the edge of the fountain, facing the general. "Sometimes it happens that there are several of them in one, if we look at the matter from the perspective of someone else. So forgive me if I say that I don't consider your ancestor to be evil incarnate."

"Why wouldn't you?" he asked curiously, walking over to you and sitting across from you.

"Every coin has two sides. Maybe he created a fold; maybe he wanted more power, but no one ever told it from his side. Maybe he wasn't the only villain in this story. Also, I don't believe in a golden hero and a vicious villain fighting doggedly against each other. There are no pure black or white people; we are all grey in our own way." you said, dipping your hand in the water, playing with it, and making small waves with your hand movements.

You glanced at the general, noticing that he was closely watching as you played with the water. You furrowed your brow, not knowing what so interesting he sees in this childish behaviour.

"And how gray are you?" his question snapped you out of your thoughts. You shrugged, still running your fingers through the water.

"I think I still have a long way to go to find out."

"What if I already know?" you frowned as you looked at him, which turned out to be your worst mistake. His dark eyes were to be your undoing…

You felt it again. This need to be close to him, this bond between you and him that was formed from the moment your eyes met in the ballroom a month ago. You were supposed to be his undoing, the downfall of the great, black general... so far, he's been the one who's been messing with your mind effectively, making you doubt everything your father ever taught you about your superiority over the Grishas. And you played the role Kirigan expected of you, like a foolish, naive girl.

"And how would you know that?" you whispered, cursing yourself for the obvious weakness in your voice.

Kirigan placed his hand on yours, the one you used to lean on at the fountain. His touch sent that weird feeling into your chest and made you shiver uncontrollably again. You were losing control… and the worst part was that you didn't mind at all.

"I feel like I've known you and waited for you my whole life. As if you were long lost part of me, which finally came back." you couldn't get rid of that terrible feeling of déjà vu that came over you after his words.

Somewhere in the back of your mind and deep in your heart, you had the feeling—no, you were SURE—that you had been in this situation before. That he once held your hand, telling you that you were destined to be together and that the stars, fate, destiny, saints, gods, or whoever was watching over you were responsible for bringing your souls together.

But it was impossible. You didn't know him before, you couldn't. You've never been to the king's palace until now…

However, everything ceased to matter the moment he leaned in, crossing the short distance between you and catching your lips in a kiss.

You gasped in surprise, your only warning being his tighter grip on your hand, which you only noticed after his soft lips gently pressed against yours. However, you had the sense to return his kiss, deepening it just as you felt Aleksander about to pull away from you.

He grabbed your waist tightly with one arm, pulling you to him, but he never let go of his firm grip on your hand.

You groaned, sinking into the so damn familiar closeness of his body against yours, taking in every ounce of his warmth and scent. But it was his gentle biting on your bottom lip that made you forget anything other than his lips on yours and let yourself get completely lost in the moment. You took your hand out of the water, grabbing the back of his head to get as close to him as possible, when suddenly a huge wave of cold, chilly water splashed you.

You gasped, breaking away from Kirigan. You sighed as cool water dripped from your hair onto your already-soaked dress that was sticking to your skin. You shifted your confused gaze to the equally wet man in front of you, who stared at you with an incomprehensible, fascinated twinkle in his eye.

"What have just happened?" you gasped, glancing at the now empty fountain.

"Are you asking about our kiss or the fact that you just demonstrated tidemaker's abilities?"

"What? No. I can't be Grisha. I…"

"Have you ever been tested, milaya?" he asked softly, so calmly he almost managed to calm your frantically beating heart. But you couldn't shake the feeling of panic rising within you. All plans would go to hell if you turned out to be… one of THEM.

"You know perfectly well what it is like among the nobles. They would rather kill or throw away a child with such powers." you replied, marvelling at how you managed to sound cold and emotionless despite your growing fear.

Kirigan frowned, obviously dissatisfied with your ability to cover up your emotions. What you didn't know was that your eyes betrayed all your emotions to him. He'd stared at them for so long that it would be impossible for him now not to be able to read your emotions.

"Well… it's always better to know, isn't it?" you stared at him for a moment before you nodded uncertainly, swallowing nervously. You couldn't be Grisha. That… whatever happened, it couldn't be it. "May I?" he made sure, pointing to the sleeve of your dress. You nodded silently.

For a moment, the world stops. It's just you and the general, who, with unusual delicacy for him, rolls up the sleeve of your wet dress and uses his sharp-pointed ring to cut your skin.

You're both shocked and oddly excited to see the water gushing out and the hot fire coming from where he cut your skin. Suddenly, a wind rises around you, drying you both and blowing some of the leaves off the trees into the empty fountain. You freeze, feeling the dormant power coursing through your veins, which the general's touch awakens with incredible ease.

It's like he's bringing to life a version of yourself you don't know...

"You are a Grisha. Etherealki Tribrid to be precise." he says, breaking the silence between you. You raise your confused gaze back to him, noticing that he's still studying your face. Weighing, evaluating, expecting something, and having hope so clearly written in his dark eyes that for a moment you are at a loss for words.

"You… you don't seem surprised." you manage to get out of you. You are terrified of your weakness right now. But with the general staring at you with such... tenderness and longing, you're not sure which of you has put your heart in more danger. You just don't know what caused this sudden, overt display of affection for you.

"I felt your power. Only someone special could carry such a huge amount of energy. You and I are going to change the world, Y/N."

"But… I can't… no one can know about this. Please, Aleksander." you pleaded in a panic, gripping his hand tightly. "Promise me that this will stay between us. If my father finds out about this… if the court finds out… Please, Aleksander." the man was staring at you. Apparently, the prospect of having a tribrid in his army was too tempting for him to just forget what had happened here. You had to convince him otherwise. "Wouldn't it be better if it stayed between us? You could train me yourself. Secretly teach me how to use… this. Wouldn't it be better to have a secret weapon? Someone who can be summoned to the battlefield if needed and used as an element of surprise?"

"I don't want to use you." he growled, wrinkling his nose as he realized how sharp his words had come out. "I want you to be my equal, Y/N. But fine. We'll keep everything that happened here to ourselves. You'll come to my office every night so we can train."

"Every night? You want to cause a scandal, General?" you ask, regaining your ability to joke and banter.

For now, you hide all your doubts, fear and greyness that your life will change irreversibly in the back of your head. You allow yourself to get lost in the general's eyes for a while before returning to real life… before you have to decide what to do about the "Grishas case", knowing your newfound abilities now.

"Do you care?" you know what he's asking you, but he doesn't know how many different meanings his question has for you. And you're afraid that once he finds out about your plan against him and against his people, he'll stop looking at you with that... adoration in his eyes. Because, for some strange reason, you want him to look at you like that.

"No…" you replied, moving your gaze between his mouth and eyes. "I guess not."

~•♤♤♤•~

"I can't believe it! How did you know that was my favorite dish?!" I ask him after another grueling session of our training as he returns with a dinner brought to his door by servants.

"I have my ways." he responds, laughing as you practically pounce on the food ravenously. You didn't realize that using Grisha's powers was so… exhausting.

"Just like my allergy to the awful pollen that's out now, what particular, specific type of tea do I like, and what books do I prefer to read? What's next? Just hand me my favourite flowers and tell me it's pure case?" you laugh over your plate, glancing at him briefly. The general blushes slightly and clears his throat awkwardly. "Oh, Saints, you do have flowers for me, don't you?" you asked as a little smirk started to form on your face.

"It seems to you, vain little tribrid." you tremble at his words, and that sick feeling of deja vu follows you every time his damn dark irises pierce your soul. If he wanted you to go crazy, you're sure he was well on his way to making it happen.

Aleksander, on the other hand, stared longingly at you, searching for any trace of recognition in your eyes. How many times in those training sessions has he wished your memories of living with him would come back to you? He didn't know. Ever since he made sure you displayed the powers of virtually all ethereals, he's spent countless sleepless nights in his bed dreaming of the moment you'll whisper that damn nickname you love for him.

But nothing like that was coming.

Instead, he had to fight this urge to kiss you to death, to hold you forever in his safe arms where nothing could hurt you. He had to fight his longing for your slightest touch, your tender gaze, and the unconditional love you had. And with each passing day, he cursed himself for his inability to remember the life you two had spent together.

He was desperate enough to talk to his mother about it. He went to her as soon as he was sure it was really you to brag about his hunch and victory over her judgement. And complain about your innate ability to spite him and not remember him when he worked so hard to make it happen.

"If it's not her, then explain to me how she's already ruining all my plans and is getting on my nerves?" he asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow at Baghra.

"Just because you have a natural bad luck with women doesn't mean Y/N is back from the dead." she replied ironically, not even looking up at him.

"It is her. And when I prove it, forget about seeing her, because I won't let you."

"I'm not a spoiled child, General." you laugh back, snapping him out of his thoughts as cool water hits his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you, failing to keep an amused smile from spreading across his lips.

Saints, how he wants to kiss that malicious smirk off your alluring lips. But he has to be careful with you. He has to control himself. He can't lose you or scare you away now, not when he's so close to getting HIS Y/N back.

"You're definitely acting like one." he replies teasingly as he takes out the flowers hidden behind his back and hands them to you.

You sigh in shock before another heart-melting smile appears on your lips. You dip your nose in the flowers, and Aleksander tries to remember this moment forever. The silent hope that you will remember one of the many times he gave you those special flowers you loved bursts into unwillingness in his chest.

"Please, as if you don't like to spoil me…" you just reply teasingly, reminding him how fate was never on his side. It would be impossible for him to just get you back like that.

"I'd throw all the jewels in the world at your feet just to see that beautiful, wide smile spread across your lips." you tremble under his heavy, intent gaze, feeling him ignite that familiar, strange fire inside you, calling for him.

The answer to his confession just slipped out of your mouth as a whisper.

"You don't need jewels to make me smile like a fool in love."

Aleksander flinched as he recognised the words you said to him—the exact same words you used in response to his confession hundreds of years ago. You liked torturing him with it. Remind him of stolen moments with you in the woods, away from the king's men, his mother, and other envious people too scared of your abilities to see you as anything more than a dangerous monster. You loved throwing him into the past, while you stuck hard to what was happening now. At times like this, he promised himself that once he had you back, he would never let you go. He won't be that weak to let someone take you from him again.

You, in turn, watched him bewildered as another vision/memory flashed before your eyes. His warm lips on your wind-cold skin, his whispered promises in your ear as he held you close to him, his shadows dancing around you, shielding anyone from seeing you two.

That memory revived in your mind as the general's lips met yours.

Kissing him, enjoying the firm grip around your waist, you had those strange visions again. You were beginning to wonder if the general had seen through your cunning plan and decided to punish you by driving you crazy with these supposed memories.

But you didn't want to do anything about it. Not when he felt so good against you.

You kiss him greedily, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him closer to you. He picks you up, placing you on his war table. Your hands travel up his shoulders to the buttons of his kefta and his to the strings of your corset at the back of your dress...

Just then, a loud knock interrupts you.

You laugh in disbelief that they're bothering you again. Aleksander smiles, biting his lip as he looks at you with amusement in his eyes. How he missed your sincere, carefree laugh.

"Go see what it is." you whisper to him as you slide off the table to stand on your own feet. Aleksander smirks mischievously and leans in to steal a kiss from you. You giggle as you push him away and whisper a softly "go".

You blush, feeling like a teenager caught kissing a boy. And you have a very strange feeling that this has happened before...

"Aleksander!" you squeal, laughing as quietly as you can. "Someone will see us!" you reprimand him by tapping him lightly in the chest.

"Only if you keep being so loud. Besides, how can you blame me for wanting to kiss my beautiful beloved after weeks apart?"

"Your secret beloved I would like to point out. Baghra and my parents will kill us if they find us here." you remind him, only smiling wider as his grip tightens around your waist.

"They'll have to go through my shadows first… that gives us enough time to escape."

"Well, well, what a cunning boyfriend I have. I like that plan of yours." I whisper into his lips, teasing him, as I move away each time he wants to kiss me.

"Y/N?" Aleksander's whisper and his gentle grip on my shoulder pulls me out of my memories. "Everything's all right?" he looks at you with concern in his eyes and something else, something like longing mixed with hope. You have no idea what it could be.

NO. I have strange visions of you where you love and need me more than anything in this world. I have dreams of a reality where it's just us, too busy loving ourselves to see anything else or care about all the problems in the world. And I have a feeling that I'm going to go crazy if you once again arouse in me that feeling of familiarity and fire that for some unknown reason cries out desperately for your slightest touch and affection. - you think.

"I'm fine, just thought of something. What did Ivan want from you?" I ask with a gentle smile.

"I have to go now. The First Army soldiers and my Grishas have reportedly gotten into some kind of fight. I need to investigate it."

You freeze, knowing full well what's going on. Your and your father's plan. Kirigan is about to get into the middle of a fight caused by the people of the first army (actually hired by your father's thugs). A fight with a general defending his people in the main role will start, which your father and the king are supposed to come across by "pure accident". You were supposed to let him get into your trap.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't worry, it's probably some stupid skirmish." he assures you, but you know better. You know that once he goes there, he will be banished at best for suspicion of treason and wanting to start a rebellion - rumours your father is now spreading to the king.

Your brain screams for you to let it go. You were Grisha, but people like you would never accept you; you knew that. And the nobles would kick you out if they found out about your powers; it was safer for you to get rid of the general, the only person who knew about your abilities.

But your stupid heart already bled at the thought of putting Aleksander in danger and being the cause of his downfall—the thing you were supposed to be so proud of only a few months ago.

"Wait!" you scream, reaching for his hand before he steps away from you. You lost. You lost the war with the devil and sold him your heart and the soul he had anyway, since he kissed you at the fountain, since he started appearing in your dreams as a strange vision of an alternate world where you live with him as his. A vision you desperately wanted to come true. "Please don't go."

"Why?" he asks, placing his hands gently on your shoulders.

"I... you can't... trap... my father... and king... they..." you hyperventilate, tears welling up in your eyes uncontrollably, and an indescribably great feeling of unease seizes you, making it a huge challenge to take even the slightest breath.

Suddenly, all you hear is a buzzing in your ears. Slowly, your knees weaken, and you fall straight into the waiting arms of Aleksander, who looks like he's screaming something. You are enveloped in blissful darkness.

But before you lose your consciousness one thought runs through your mind.

What the hell did I did?

~•♤♤♤•~

You opened your eyes. It was dawn. You were in a clearing near some castle ruins. There were a lot of soldiers around you.

You slowly got up on your elbows and lifted yourself off the ground. You tried to push your way through the crowd of soldiers, but as soon as your arm was about to touch one of them, you felt yourself walking through it. You froze in place.

The sound of Aleksander's voice snapped you out of your daze. You walked forward, passing through the soldiers as you reached the stairs of the palace ruins.

It was a younger version of him, exactly the one you saw in your dreams. But this time it wasn't a pleasant dream. The love in his eyes was replaced by pure fear and fury.

You turned to where he was staring and gasped as you spotted a beaten, bloodied version of yourself held by one of the king's soldiers.

"Surrender. Or your girl will die." Aleksander stared at the younger version of you, trying to make eye contact with you, making sure you were still holding on to your life for him, despite the gruesome state you were in. "This one was brave. She was willing to die than reveal your hiding place. Fortunately, we got another, weaker one. Now, you better hurry before that bitch bleeds to death."

Tears began to form in Aleksander's eyes. He raised his trembling hands in surrender. You lifted your head with difficulty, watching him.

Then all hell broke loose. You set a soldier on fire and started a great fire. You tried to approach Aleksander and he came to you, but the soldiers around you were faster. One of them caught you; the rest kept Aleksander, who was struggling with all his strength, from rushing to your rescue and summoning his shadows. The soldier drew his dagger.

Your eyes and Aleksander's did not separate for a moment. Desperation and fear were reflected in his eyes, which met your gaze full of sadness and fear for his life.

"Aleksander, I love you-AGH!" you tell him when a soldier pierces your heart with a dagger in front of your beloved.

"Y/N!" Aleksander screams, tears in his eyes obscuring his vision at your last breath and your last look at him. He is overcome with rage, grief, and frustration so great that he can do nothing but scream.

His scream proves deadly. Deadly for his enemies.

His grief, desperation, and tremendous pain piercing his heart and seeing his beloved Y/N die raised within him a power so great that it covered the world in the darkness of his shadow.

And so the fold is born.

And Aleksander remains utterly alone in his darkness.

~•♤♤♤•~

You jump out of bed, screaming. You just saw yourself die... but it wasn't you, was it? It's just your twisted imagination. Aleksander couldn't... couldn't create the fold. The Black Heretic lived hundreds of years before you; it couldn't be true. It's just your sick imagination. You kept telling yourself.

You looked around the room, recognising that you were in the general's bedroom. You changed out of his black shirt, which you don't know who put you in, and left the bedroom in a hurry. You didn't know how Aleksander would treat you after he found out about your father's plan, and he certainly did after your panic attack in his war room. You also didn't want to risk getting caught in the general's chamber.

You were about to leave Aleksander's chamber, but someone's hand grabbed your arm tightly and covered your mouth. You tried to wriggle out of his attacker's grip, but in vain. Fortunately, the stranger let you go as soon as you entered one of the secret passages of the Little Palace.

You turned around, freezing as you came face to face with the woman haunting your dreams…

"Who are you?" you whispered in horror, recognizing the woman as the light from her torch illuminated her face.

"It doesn't matter. You need to get out of here as soon as possible." she grabbed your hand again in a strong, bruising grip, but this time you managed to pull away from her.

"Who the hell are you?! Why am I dreaming about you and some Aleksander?! How do I know you, Baghra?!"

"Hush for the saints! We're not far from his room." she tried to silence you, fearing that at any moment you would bring Aleksander back to his chambers here.

"Whose room? General's? What does he have to do with it? What the hell is going on here?!"

"Shut up you stupid girl before he comes here. I'm trying to save you."

"Saved me from what? I don't need a hero, thank you very much. All I want to know is why I'm having these fucking visions about you. Who are you? Why am I having some weird flashbacks about you from hundreds of years ago?" you ask, tired of it all, trying to finally get to the truth, whatever it may be.

"Aleksander was right… it's true. It's really you." she says in shock, eyeing you closely as you use all your powers in anger, summoning both fire, water and a light breeze in the deserted secret passage.

"Aleksander? Which one? Kirigan or some other? Answer me for the love of saints!" you scream at her, feeling like you're about to lose your mind at any moment.

"Child, there is only one Aleksander. My son. Aleksander Morozova. Black Heretic. General Kirigan and many other names he's taken since you died."

"What? What are you talking about? It's impossible, a Black Heretic lived hundreds of years ago… wait. Since I died? What do you mean by since I die?" the vision you just had haunts you again. Your blood, Alexander's screams. Screams of people turned by his grief, anger and rage into volcra as he creates a fold...

"You real name is Y/N…"

"BAGHRA!" Aleksander's furious scream echoes through the deserted corridor. He walks over to me faster than I can blink and stands between me and his supposed mother. "Go away."

"Aleksander..." she begins in a serious tone, but one dark look from the general keeps her silent. Never, not even during their worst quarrels, had he dared to oppose her so openly, so hostilely.

"I said... Go. Away." Baghra looks at you. Half in disappointment, half in fear, knowing full well the reason why her son is ready to use his shadows on her.

She lets go. This time. She knows full well he can't bring back your memories anyway. Or at least she hopes so.

Shee leaves you alone in a dark corridor. Aleksander slowly turns to you and reaches for you, but you pull away before his fingertips even try to touch you. He freezes. He watches you fearfully, afraid of what Baghra might have told you to make you so disgusted by his small touch.

"Don't take a step further. Why do I know you? Why did YOU know me before anything started between us? What the hell is this all about?!"

"Y/N... you need to calm down." he tries to calm you down as he sees you gasping for breath again. He reaches out to touch your cheek tenderly but you jump away from him. The fire begins to slowly circulate around your hands as you unknowingly summon it.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME! Who are you? Who are you to me? That's true? Are you a Black Heretic? What is going on here?!" you scream, you feel an indescribable power flowing through you that you are unable to control, a flood of emotions floods your mind, and your powers go out of control as a great wind rises and the corridor begins to slowly fill with water. The fire in your hands grows bigger, more alive, more uncontrollable.

"My milaya, please... try to calm down for me." he says, taking a step towards you with his hands up so you can see his every little move, every attempt to touch you.

"What am I?" you whisper, your tears flow freely, the water begins to rise faster and faster, the wind is so great that it blows both his and your hair and his black kefta in all directions, and the living fire from your hands prevents him from approaching you without risk of burning himself. But Aleksander doesn't care.

He wades towards you through the water that comes up to his hips and cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look him in the eyes. As soon as his skin touches yours, everything stops. The wind stops blowing, the fire disappears, and the water stops at a constant level. It is quiet. Eerily silent as you stare at him in a daze, tears dripping from your eyes into the makeshift river you created in the hallway.

"You know who you are. Just reach for it. Please, come back to me, Y/N Y/L/N. Moya milaya, moya lapushka..." he pleads, resting his forehead against yours.

You close your eyes. The flood of vivid memories makes your head hurt, but as soon as all the images are gone from your eyes, you open them to look into those familiar dark irises that pierce through you. And you cry with relief, finally knowing perfectly well how you know him, why you associate him with home, peace, love, unconditional devotion.

"Sasha?" you whisper, afraid you've gone completely insane, that it's all a nasty, twisted figment of your imagination.

And Aleksander sighs with relief hearing that damn diminutive he missed so much.

"It's me. My beloved Y/N. My life. My Light. My tribrid. You are finally here." he takes you in his arms as tears flow freely down your cheeks. You snuggle into him, your nose brushing his neck as you inhale the damn good smell of his perfume. Aleksander buries his nose in your hair, trying to hold back tears as he trembles uncontrollably. He finally had you. After hundreds of years, months of torture where he had you at his fingertips but couldn't touch you properly, you were finally with him. "Eya fyela chi." he whispers in old Ravkan, making you laugh in relief.

"I love you too, Sasha. I promise I'm not going anywhere anymore. Nobody and nothing will take me away from you."

"Brave of you to think I'd let you go anywhere. You stay by my side. Forever. I won't waste such a wonderful gift from the saints, my little flame." he says, kissing your temple.

You shiver for the first time enjoying the familiar feeling of love and warmth that comes with this tender gesture, often repeated by him in the past.

He leaned in, catching your lips in a passionate, long-awaited kiss. And you couldn't do anything other than enjoy the taste of his lips on yours and how you could create new memories with him without the old ones attacking you with every touch he made. You are no longer an intruder in your own body. And the unknown fire calling for him turned into the familiar flame of love.

[fidgetspringer-art]

Was looking through my notes app and found this little Noah and Martin blurb that I had plans of turning into a little comic (and still might) but I think the writing itself is worth sharing c:

Martin turns up just when Noah is starting to think he's succeeded in leaving unnoticed. He should have known better. He's tried fleeing from Martin's bed a few times before, but with how light of a sleeper he is, Martin always notices.

The gravel crunches under Martin's boots as he walks up.

Noah ignores him, keeps his back turned as he stuffs his clothes haphazardly into his saddle bags, eager to be off before Martin can say too much. It's early morning still, the sun barely threatening to creep above the horizon. It's warm, he's been awake most of the night, tossing and turning in the stifling heat of Martin's bedroom. He tugs the strap of one of his bags shut with force.

Every little sound coming from behind him ramps up his already bubbling frustration. There's the slight shuffle of Martin's feet, and Noah just knows he's gearing up to say something. He's yet to outright ask Noah to stay, but the words are still there, held in that awful tension between them. Martin shuffles again. It grates on Noah's nerves until his jaw aches with how hard he's clenching his teeth.

He doesn't jump, but he does flinch when Martin finally speaks up.

"Got you something."

Noah bites back his irritation and turns to look. Martin is holding out a small rectangular box towards him, the plastic glossy and clear.

It isn't until Noah takes it that he realises what it is. "A tape? How am i supposed to listen to this?" He gestures to his disaster of a bike as if to say, 'where's the tape deck, idiot?'

Martin's face falls. "Oh." He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he's embarrassed. "Right."

Noah regrets his words immediately, but he doesn't know how to take them back. They're both silent for a moment that seems to stretch on for too long. The plastic of the cassette tape in his hands is cool to the touch. Noah looks down at it. Inside the case is a torn out piece of what must have been a page from a notebook. In Martin's hasty hand it says 'For the road' in blue pen, with what must be Martin's best attempt at drawing a motorcycle next to it. It's a mixtape, Noah realises. One that Martin put together for him.

Noah feels the guilt like the sharp point of a knife against his heart. He tucks the tape into his jacket pocket. Martin is still not looking at him, just frowning down at the ground.

"Hey." Noah says, keeping his tone light. "Saw you had a new horse down in the front pasture, tell me about it?"

That finally has Martin meeting his eyes with a small smile. Both of them understanding that this is Noah's way of apologising. He's never been very good at the real deal.

Noah finishes packing his bags to the sound of Martin explaining why the mare is in for training and how he's planning to solve her problems. He's using a bunch of terms that Noah doesn't understand, but that's okay, that small smile stays on Martin's face while he talks and that's all that matters.

Months later, Noah pulls over to the side of the road. He's surrounded by pitch dark woods. There are ghosts or worse howling at his heels, he's sure of it. Still, he puts the kickstand down and gets off his bike. He leans back against the solid weight of it and with trembling hands he pulls the smooth plastic case free from his pocket.

The old walkman he picked up from a second hand store a few towns back sits at the top of his saddle bag. The ear pieces feel strange when he pulls them over his head. The cassette clicks as he inserts it and when he hits the button there's a few seconds of crackling static before the first song fills his ears.

He buries his face in his hands and suddenly he's in the Bronco. Martin is next to him. They're checking fences, driving down the bumpy gravel road towards the back pasture.

Martin's neck is sunburnt. There's dust clinging to the fabric of his jeans. It's been dry for weeks, too dry, Martin says. Noah's shirt is clingy with sweat.

Martin turns the radio up and hums along, mumbling a few lines under his breath. There's the faintest bit of a smile curving the edge of his mouth, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Noah pulls his hood over his head and ignores the chill of the forest biting at his cheeks.

[butchbarneygumble]

Imagine how I must feel as one of the only fans of Mighty Magiswords. You know. A headcanons-and-fanfic kind of fan. I even cosplayed Prohyas once.

Of course, it's nothing compared to what the actual victims went through... I'm fine. But it still felt like a part of my identity has been permanently soured. I don't want to seem like I somehow have it worse, that's not my intention. Nothing bad happened to me personally. I'm only posting my own side of how I deal with the situation, to get some closure myself and show solidarity with the victims.

I don't admire him anymore, and that's putting it lightly.

Full story under cut. Content warning for non-graphic discussion of csa.

The news came to me from my ex-but-still-friend. He told me privately, out of nowhere, just dropped it on me. Like, "Hey, sorry to tell you, but the guy you like got arrested for csa". However, I am glad he told me rather than me having to find out on my own.

The news hit me, and I felt nothing in my body. I usually would get this painful fight-or-flight all through my body whenever I read something that upset me, something I've been training myself to get better with. But right now? I just felt like... "huh. That happened." It helped a lot that Magiswords wasn't my fixation of the moment. And like... it's been like I've been slipping away from it. Like I didn't need it anymore.

More and more people were talking about him, and it wasn't positive. Who? Kyle.

I talked to him. Personally, like many people did. He never acted weird to me. I admired him. I loved his art, sent him physical fanart, all that stuff. I knew more than one person said he was not trustworthy but hey, he made a show that saved my life, so it was a constant struggle between feeling like I had to pick sides. I was going through hell by virtue of my dad being terminally sick and needing constant care, so I was gonna ignore the red flags and enjoy my silly sword show that brought me such joy.

Even if as time went on it started get harder and harder.

But you know what a certain depressed horse show said? When you're wearing rose coloured glasses, red flags just look like flags.

I now think dodged a bullet.

What emotions do I feel? Betrayal. Anger. Disgust. Disappointment.

The irony about it all. The sheer painful irony of blacklisting somebody for *drawings*, and then going behind everybody's back to actually hoard *actual* csa, and revenge porn, and all sorts of nasty stuff. For the record: there is nothing wrong with being put off or disgusted by specific sorts of drawings. But the irony here is what's most painful to me. I do not like people using this as a "gotcha" for either side of this tired argument. It's disrespectful to the actual victims.

People say I can easily seperate art from the artist if I want to but... right now I don't think I want to. He's in every pore of its identity. I do not want to talk or think about Magiswords right now, and I don't know if I ever will again.

It meant so much to me. Prohyas felt like Me. Being a goofy capable adult who doesn't stop collecting things he likes just cuz he's an adult. I thought I was trans for a while and the euphoria of relating to Prohyas helped that. Then he got lowkey confirmed nonbinary and I was over the moon.

It was good. Emphasis on "was".

And to the man himself I have one thing to say: you're another one in a long history of cartoon artists who end up being unsavoury, slimy people, taking advantage of young people, especially girls, in the animation industry. Not something to be proud of. I know we talked and you seemed perfectly okay to me, personally. All I can think is thank god it never went beyond casual chats.

I guess I can finally say I never liked the joke about Vambre not liking pants. Sure, sensory issues exist, but I doubt that was the intention of the design. I have deleted my sideblog where I chronicled ooc screencaps of the show and deleted my little spotify playlist of songs that reminded me of the show. I don't want to finish my longfic where Prohyas and Flonk fell in love anymore. I can't even change it into ocs because it's just so ingrained in the show's lore. So yeah, there's that.

I'll be fine. When the news hit I took it surprisingly well. I was going to an Alestorm concert and it was the most fun I had in ages. So yeah, I've got Christopher Bowes and His Plate of Beans to fill the void of comedy music. Was fixating on Simpsons already so there's that in terms of cartoons. I'm fine.

All I can say is my heart goes out to all the victims, and I'm deeply sorry I didn't see you sooner. I hope you can heal and have some semblance of closure now that he's gotten arrested. My heart goes out to all of you and again, I am so so sorry. I wish you all the love and healing.

[kaiju-krew]

Hey there! Firstly, big big fan of your art and headcanons, ty for your cool and awesome big brain ❤️ Now that you’ve seen the movie, I’m wondering what your thoughts are on Shimo??? I’ve just seen impressions of her so scattered. (I saw your post on how she will NOT be treated as a pet, and I so appreciate that.)

I will say, for me the ‘old gal’ vibes are so strong and I’m here for it. Like when Goji blasts his atomic breath into the sky at the end and she’s looking at it with such awe and her cute super gummy smile, it reminds me of when a grandma gets shown some common piece of technology that the rest of us are used to, but she just can’t heckin believe it because she lives in a damn cave??? I loved that.

hi hi! omg u think i have a big brain...... compliment of the century.... i must have ppl fooled bcuz i am viscerally dumb most of the time

anywAYS. gxk spoilers below (and a lot of ranting)

shimo my beloved💙 i appreciate most interpretations of her, besides people who are just straight up caling her a dog. and like, not in the way i’d compare goji to a cat? for me it's more mannerisms based, so for goji my main expression/mannerism inspirations are cats, wolves, and komodo dragons (obviously), and for mosu it's owls and cats, with a crumb of horses because of their 'ear' communication so i use that with her antennae.

sorry for tangent but anyways. i dont need someone barking at me that i call goji a cat/draw him acting like a cat so calling shimo ‘kong’s pet dog’ is fine. i think its the difference between goji having the personality i characterize him with + mannerisms inspired by other animals, vs. him having no personality besides Being A Cat. like, he’s a dumbfuck but he’s clearly an intelligent creature capable of communication and understanding. i make a lot of shitposts but truly in my personal hc i’d never reduce him to ‘pet level intelligence’

i think i’m extra touchy about people calling her ‘kong’s pet’ because like. dawg. did you watch the movie? she was JUST freed from being skar’s slave/beast of burden/abused pet whatever you wanna call it. why would you want her to become another creature’s pet again?(obviously minus the abuse) idk mannn it just feels…. reductive somehow. she clearly shows intelligence and understanding when she realizes what’s happening during the fight and helps to kill skar. i just refuse to reduce her entire character to kong’s pet status bcuz that makes me uncomfortable asf.

as a disclaimer, you’re welcome to have whatever hc you enjoy. me expressing my personal thoughts on the matter isn’t an attack on anyone who characterizes her that way, i’m just not interested in engaging with it in the slightest.

DOUBLE ANYWAYS i just needed to get that outta my system. TIME FOR CUTE FUN IDEAS YAHOOO

i’m seeing mixed info about her age so idk where she actually sits there?? i remember seeing something like she’s the First Titan but i also think the novelization of the movie said she’s only 3 million years old?? when im p sure they’ve said goji is 250+ million years old so…. i have no clue there lol. personally she feels less jaded and grumpy than goji does to me so my brain automatically sees her as similar or younger bcuz of my Grumpy Old Man bias.

i’m still workin out my ideas for her but based on how the movie ends i like to think she helps kong with relocating the apes to a better home, and they mostly live in HE. her n kong venture up for surface dates bcuz she gets what she fucking deserves 💙

goji nearly has an aneurysm the first time they come up, since mosu literally takes them for a lil tour of monster island. bro standing there clenching his fist like the arthur meme, he begrudgingly knows she’s right and eventually he gets used to it

i got more ideas cookin for her but this post is already too damn long cuz of my ranting time to stfu

SHIMO BEST GIRL 10/10

[scaryscarecrows]

Ownership

Arkham City is the latest bad idea in a long, long line of bad ideas. Jason’s really not sure why, exactly, this was allowed to happen (well, money, but still), but it was and it’s making keeping tabs on the Batman a lot harder.

But Jason’s not here for the Bat tonight. He’s here because of the very persistent rumors that something’s wrong with Joker. Morbidly, he’d like to know. Practically, he needs to know; Joker, out of all the freaks in here, is likely to intervene in any of Jason’s plans. His obsession with Batman makes him a dark horse, and while Jason is inclined to kill him, that operation must be handled delicately. Joker’s the sick sort of bastard to booby-trap himself and if Jason never gets another faceful of laughing gas, it will be too soon.

Joker’s hideout is not hard to find. Even a complete fucking moron with no eyes and no ears would find it. It’s quiet tonight, only a few guards and–thank God–no sign of Harley. The guards go down easy, no bullets required, and soon enough he’s slipping into Sionis’ old mill.

…

Huh.

Penguin’s got a big sonofabitch on his payroll now, with one arm. One half of a pair of conjoined twins, apparently. He hadn’t realized the twin had come here. Somehow, the sigh of a ginormous clown is…a lot scarier than it should be. He’s just gonna leave that guy alone. He’s not here for him anyway, he’s just here for a little investigation. He’s even in civvies, to blend in a little better.

Creak.

He hears it too late; before he can turn, there’s a wire wrapping around his throat and pulling, bringing him to the ground and digging into his skin and he can’t breathe–

“Baby boy!”

Nononononononononononono–

Joker leans over him. Flesh is peeling off his skull and there’s pustules and he stinks like somethin’ Croc threw up. But dark spots are dancing in Jason’s vision now and all he can think is, I don’t wanna die here, please–

All at once, the wire loosens and Joker’s straddling him, those purple leather-gloved fingers stroking the brand lovingly.

“I’ve missed you!” He cackles, and it quickly turns into a nasty cough. Jason’s just frozen, gasping for breath and caught in a loop of don’t make him mad don’t make him mad. “Naughty, naughty, running away like that! But now you’re heeeere again, with meeeee.”

NO!

Jason elbows him the face, bursting a pustule and peeling a chunk of skin off. He intends to follow it by clawing the rest of the bastard’s face off, but Joker’s stronger than he looks, even now, and he lunges forward with one arm pressed against Jason’s throat. The other hand opens a switchblade and traces it under his eye first, then down towards his lips, and then back up again–

–and cuts the brand back open.

It’s not fully healed. Jason’s not sure it would matter. He can’t tell if the pain is physical, psychological, or both. It doesn’t matter, anyway: Joker draws the bloody knife back with a wide, wide smile, wipes the blade across Jason’s lips, and tucks it away.

“You’re mine,” he rasps. “Don’t ever forget that, Todders.”

Jason swallows. Old conditioning is pushing him to submit, to nod his head and whisper yes sir, m’sorry, sir, please don’t do it again.

The Arkham Knight, however, isn’t having being a goddamn chew toy. And that’s the side that wins out.

Mostly.

He brings his knee up to the bastard’s crotch and takes advantage of the immediate recoil to shove him to the side, scramble to his feet, and run.

He’ll tell himself, later, that he let the bastard live so he could die slowly and painfully. He might even believe it, after a while. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s not going back, he’s not doing that again.

He can’t live through that again.

THE END

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 23

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to save the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Word count: 3.5k

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well), she/her pronouns

A flash of gray hair in the corner of your vision catches your attention and you look up from your rifle. There hasn't been an opportunity to use that weapon yet, but you were playing with the thought of practicing with it.

Lately you haven't had the time to build a makeshift training ground and you don't really need one for your handheld gun anymore. Besides, you rarely take the rifle with you when you leave the camp, but it would still be smart to get somewhat familiar with it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you?", Hosea asks and you hastily shake your head with a smile. You could never say no to his company.

"Not at all.", you answer and with a grunt, he sits down next to you. A sharp cough escapes him, but he quickly catches himself again. His eyes are set on the rifle that you're inspecting. "Is that one of the weapons Lenny and Arthur stole from these Lemoyne Raiders?"

"It is. Lenny gave it to me, but I haven't used it yet."

"Well, do you know how to shoot a rifle?"

Before answering him, you bite on your lower lip and lean back into your chair. "Nope."

The older man let's out a thoughtful hum as he nods to himself. "The way things are going, I think you might wanna change that."

He's absolutely right. It seems like every single front is closing in, leaving the gang no room to run away or even take a  breath. With the Pinkertons, O'Driscolls and other people on your tail, you will need all the firepower you can get.

A sigh crosses your lips when you wonder about how long it will take for you all to be driven away from Saint Denis and Shady Belle. Yet another state you will end up wanted in.

"Dutch's gut feeling is saying that we can make it big this time.", Hosea rips you out of your thoughts and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at his words. "And I must agree."

"Do you mean the bank?", you ask, watching his features move as his mind works. You have heard talk about robbing the city bank, but nothing concrete.

"Precisely. We're working on a plan right now." He proceeds to tell you about some distraction he will create in order to draw all the lawmen to one spot. That way Dutch and the others can slip into the bank without worrying too much about getting caught.

Once he's done explaining the finer details to you, you nod. "Sounds good."

"I was thinking about going to Saint Denis today to scout for a good spot. Are you busy?" Something flickers in his eyes as he asks the question, a mix of anticipation and delight.

"I'd love to!", you say, faster than intended and you clear your throat. Quickly, you rush to your tent to store away the rifle and together with Hosea you make your way to the horses.

The ride to the city is filled with friendly chatter. It's mainly Hosea telling you about the stuff the gang used to get into back in their early days. He's a fantastic storyteller, always having your full attention.

There is so much you'd want to ask him, but decide that it's better to keep your mouth shut. You'd like to see if he knows about Arthur's son, Isaac. The outlaw hasn't told you anything besides the fact that he existed and died, but you don't want to push it. You shouldn't.

It's already a huge deal that he mentioned it to you in the first place, considering he's such a closed off person in general. Even when you believe that you know him and have him kind of figured out, you don't. But you're not any better.

Arthur doesn't know who you are or where you're from, but then again, the person you used to be is long gone.

"So I heard that you and Arthur got into a disagreement the other day?" An involuntary scoff escapes you and you immediately feel bad when Hosea gives you an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"No, no, it's not that. I just didn't expect for it to get around like this.", you answer, letting your gaze wander around. "But we're on good terms again. Arthur and I, I mean."

Another thoughtful hum can be heard coming from Hosea. "That's good to hear. The boy needs some time with these things. I'm not telling you to put up with all his bad habits, but I want you to know that he cares."

"I know." A soft smile creeps up your face as your mind begins to be flooded with images and thoughts of the outlaw.

"He might not be what one would call a chivalrous gentleman, he's far from that mind you, but he's loyal and good when it counts."

The topic of Arthur and your complicated relationship with him soon dies down the deeper you ride into Saint Denis. "I was thinking to look for something as far away as possible from the bank.", he suggests.

"Do we already know what the distraction is supposed to look like?", you ask, giving him a curious look and the ghost of a smile hushes over his face.

"Lenny and Arthur didn't only get weapons from these Raiders. They brought some explosives too."

Your eyes widen in shock and you whip your head around to face him. "You want to blow something up?"

Hosea throws you a warning look and you quickly close your mouth. Your voice had come out too loud. But surely they won't be using all of the explosives the two men have stolen from Shady Belle? It's enough to destroy a whole building.

That's when it clicks in your mind, the last puzzle piece falling into place. They in fact do plan on blowing up a building. That would be enough to draw out every single police officer in this damned city. A shiver runs down your spine when you imagine the consequences.

"That's quite a big thing though. If we get caught..." The rest of your sentence is left unspoken, but there is no need to finish it. It's obvious, judging by the man's expression, that he's aware of the risks. These are some high stakes.

"We have a plan and any plan can work out just fine if executed properly.", he argues with his gaze fixed straight forward at the road. That might be true, but so far the gang has had some bad luck regarding all their plans lately.

Valentine wasn't supposed to escalate. Rhodes wasn't supposed to escalate. Now this? You understand that you need more money, one last big score to be able to finally leave this place for good, but it worries you. If anything, and that could be the tiniest thing, would go wrong then it might end up worse than Blackwater.

But you don't voice these concerns. There is no need to plant doubt. If you all do it with enough confidence then the chance of success might become higher.

"So this distraction.", you start, scanning the street to make sure no one can hear you. "What about the civilians?"

"I was thinking about an abandoned warehouse or something like that. Of course we won't be able to eliminate the risk of anyone getting hurt entirely, but we can narrow it down."

It leaves a bad taste on your tongue, but you don't argue it. After a few moments of silence, Hosea goes to hitch up his horse on the side of the road and you do the same. He stretches his back with a groan and looks around.

"How about we split up for now and ask around individually? If anyone asks questions, tell them that you're looking for company storage."

You nod and watch him disappear around the corner. This part of the city is filled with warehouses and factories. The air here is even more difficult to breathe in, but it's only today that you have to linger in this part of the city. Hopefully.

As you walk around, trying to find someone who looks like they could give you the answers you need, you spot a familiar mop of curly blonde hair. It's the same face, the same dimples and the same dashing smile that you have seen at the saloon with Sadie before Arthur stomped in so rudely.

Instead of the worn set of clothes from that night, Jim is wearing a neat three piece suit. It fits him more, but at the same time he looks kind of out of place and uncomfortable in it as if the fabric is made out of a sturdy material.

Without him noticing it, you walk up to him and tap his shoulder. "Excuse me, kind stranger."

He turns around in a swift motion and his entire face lights up in recognition when his bright green eyes fall on your form. Something shifts in his demeanor as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

"It's so good to see you again!", he exclaims with excitement, but then his expression changes into a worried mask. "I hope it all turned out fine with your friend."

Heat rises up to your face as you think back to the scene Arthur had caused. Remembering it still fills you with embarrassment. "Yes, we talked it out. It's all good now."

"I want to apologize again. I had no idea that you were...", he stumbles over the last few words, struggling to finish the sentence and you wave it off.

"Don't worry about it. Him and I...it's a complicated situation."

"I understand." Something similar to relief seems to wash over him. With the conversation slowly dying down, you begin to awkwardly step from one foot to another.

"Would you like to have a drink? Coffee or tea maybe?", he then asks and you offer him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, but now is not a good time."

His eyebrows shoot up and he quickly raises his hands, looking almost embarrassed. "Oh, no, I didn't mean anything by my offer! I just thought that-"

"No, don't worry. I know.", you interrupt him with an amused chuckle. "I actually don't have the time right now. I'm here on...a business matter."

Jim studies your face, visibly interested by your statement. "Business, you say? I didn't know you were a business woman."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Jim."

"Touché and it's James. My name is James." It only makes sense that he didn't use a real name back in the saloon, but this isn't the best fake name either. It's not a difficult task to connect these two together, but you don't comment on it.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, James.", you say, getting a cheeky grin out of him. He fidgets with his hands as his gaze wanders around the tall buildings surrounding you.

"May I ask what business you're here for?", he asks and you cross your arms infront of your chest.

"I'm looking for storage." It doesn't make you feel too good, having to lie to him, but it's not like you have much of a choice either.

Much to your surprise, his eyes light up. "I can help you with that, actually. There is a warehouse we're looking to sell. If you're interested, I could make you a decent deal. You know, with a discount for family and friends."

At the last sentence, James throws in a friendly wink and you force yourself to smile.

This is horrible. I'm horrible.

"Is it possible to look at it right now?", you ask, trying to hide the hope in your voice and he nods.

"Of course. It's not that far away from here."

As he begins to lead the way, your arm shoots forward and you grab his sleeve. He stops dead in his tracks and turns around with a puzzled expression.

"Actually, I'm here with my business partner. It would be better to find him, so he can see it too.", you say and notice dread spreading on his face.

"Is it your friend from the saloon?" His voice comes out almost careful like he doesn't want to hear your answer and you can't blame him. James probably doesn't think too fondly of Arthur and you're not holding his reaction against him.

"No, it's someone else." Your words earn you a relieved sigh from the man and together you start looking for Hosea.

It doesn't take long to find the conman. By the looks of it, he didn't stray too far away from where you left your horses. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he spots you and he shakes James' hand, giving him a fake name.

Briefly, you explain your encounter with the other man and your conversation about the empty warehouse. Something flickers in his expression and he looks at you almost like a proud father. Instinctively, you straighten your back.

As James leads the two of you to the place, Hosea leans over to you and speaks in a lowered voice. "How'd you meet this guy?"

"I ran into him at the saloon one night.", you whisper and he nods to himself.

"And you trust him?"

It takes a few heartbeats for you to answer. Trust is a strong word and you're not sure if you'd use it in this instance, but so far James hasn't given you a reason to doubt him. "Well, I think he's being genuine."

That's apparently a good enough answer for him and he drops the topic. It fills you with joy, knowing that someone like Hosea trusts and values your opinion like this. Lying to James this much has left you feeling guilty and awful, but at least you can find some pleasure to it all.

After crossing a few streets and turning around a couple corners, you arrive at a large building and James fishes keys out of his pocket. With a click, the front door opens and he steps aside to let you enter first.

Dust is flying around in the air and you cough into your fist. There is a wet, almost moldy smell and you wrinkle your nose. "How long has this place been standing empty?"

"A while.", James answers awkwardly and scratches the back of his neck. "We've been trying to sell it for ages now."

Hosea makes a round, inspecting the walls and steel pillars that hold the structure up. All of the windows are in tact, but covered in grime, making it difficult for sunlight to enter. At the other side of the warehouse are metal stairs that seem to be leading up to some kind of office.

"I understand if you want more time to think it over.", James says, handing you a small card. "If you want to look at it again or have any questions, you can find me under this address."

With a mumbled 'thank you', you pocket the card and you all leave the building. Once you're outside, you fill your lungs with fresh air, but it still feels like there is a thick layer of dust coating your insides.

"Thank you so much, James.", you breathe out, you and Hosea shaking his hand.

"Oh, don't thank me. You're doing me a favor by taking that place off my hands.", he jokes, chuckling and bids you farewell.

Yes, that place will be gone alright.

As you watch him disappear into the distance, you can't help but feel even worse than you did throughout this entire interaction. He seems so nice and lovely and you're over here taking advantage of these traits that are so rare to find in people already.

Hosea praises your efforts while you mount your horses and return back to camp. "You did fantastic today. I'll make sure to tell Dutch and then I'll get back to you about how to proceed."

"Okay.", you croak out, only listening with one ear. It's a big thing you accomplished, yes. This will probably bring you higher in the gang's hierarchy, which is something you aspired in the very beginning.

Now you're just left feeling strangely off like when you bite into something and the consistency isn't what you expected. Maybe you're blowing this out of proportions. How long have you known James? Not long at all.

Then why does it feel wrong? A sigh escapes you as you push these thoughts to the far back of your mind. Once you're back in camp, you will seek out Sadie or Arthur and try to distract yourself.

Only that the image you're greeted with isn't anything you were ready for. Dutch, Lenny and Arthur are standing on the front porch of the large house, looking like they were run over by several horses.

Worry pierces your chest like a blade and you rush over to the three men. Your eyes scan Arthur's scratched up face and disheveled hair. At this point, the shadow of a beard is starting to take form on him.

"What happened?", Hosea asks before you can and he joins your side.

Your gaze wanders to the other two men. Lenny looks to be in a similar state as Arthur, but Dutch seems to have been hit the hardest. Blood is covering most of his forehead and his black hair is matted with the red liquid. He's holding his head, groaning and hissing.

"It was a set-up.", he grumbles through gritted teeth. His features aren't contorted in pain, but in fury. Flames of rage are burning high behind his cold, calculating eyes. "Bronte set us up with the trolley station."

Dread washes over you as you widen your eyes. Something must have happened for Angelo Bronte to set them up like that. Did Dutch insult him at the mayor's party? You throw Arthur a questioning look over your shoulder and he softly shakes his head.

Hosea and Dutch disappear into the house to talk more about what exactly happened and you place both hands on Arthur's shoulder blades. He mutters a few protests, but let's you guide him inside as well and up into his room.

There you gently push him down to sit on the bed and you search for something to clean the wounds and scratches with. It's funny how the situation is reversed now and you can only hope that it won't end in a fight this time.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?", you ask as you wet a clean cloth and softly dab it against his cheek. A pained hiss escapes his lips, but he doesn't flinch away under your touch.

"There was no money at the station. We barely scraped a few dollars together."

"That's much I understood.", you murmur, fully focused on getting all the glass shards out of his clothes and hair.

Arthur proceeds to tell you about the police chase, the crash and Dutch hitting his head. It's odd that Hosea and you didn't catch wind of any of that happening while you were in Saint Denis, but then again you were far away from the station.

"But what were you and Hosea doin'?"

"Planning the distraction for the bank heist."

"You found somethin' good?"

This isn't a topic you want to talk about, but you still force out an answer. "We found an empty warehouse to blow up. It's at the edge of town."

An approving sound comes out of his throat and you put the cloth away after finishing your work. It doesn't look like he got seriously injured and you sigh in relief.

"Your beard is growing back.", you comment, studying the stubbles with your lips curled up.

"You want me to shave?" His question isn't meant to be a joke. The look in his blue eyes is sincere and you bite back the silly grin that is threatening to take form on your lips. It makes you oddly happy, seeing that he'd shave it if it's something you'd want.

"No, I miss your beard. It suits you.", you answer and notice his shoulders relaxing. Judging by his reaction, it doesn't look like he wanted to shave either. You move your hand to cup his cheek and plant a gentle kiss on the other. "But you should rest up."

As you get up and your way towards the door, he calls out to you. You stand frozen in your tracks and turn around, worried that he might be more I jured than he has lead you to believe.

"Stay. Please.", he says in a low voice and you feel your heart skip a beat.

"Arthur-"

"No, I'm bein' an idiot aren't I? You don't have to stay here, sweetheart, I'm fine."

"No, I want to stay with you.", you say, voice stern and certain. His lips curl up ever so slightly as he moves aside for you to lay down next to him on the small mattress.

With his strong arms wrapped around your body and your head resting on his chest, you close your eyes and listen to the steady sound of his breathing.

Taglist: @shackspossum @abducted-cowz @heloixe

[straw-hat-rat]

The train heading to East Blue station blasted its whistle as it approached the small town of Logue. Some passengers disembarked as deliveries were sorted and a few people buying last minute tickets rushed to pay before the whistle signalling the train’s departure blew. 

In a saloon not far from the bustling station, some plans were quietly being made amongst a rough looking gang in a corner. Muttered sentences about a train robbery sifted through the din of conversations, clinking glass and scraping chair legs. The rest of the occupants diligently ignored them, minding their own business to avoid drawing trouble as they played poker. A woman stood up and knocked back her drink before picking up her mace, signalling that it was time for the gang to leave.

As they gathered their things and shuffled out of the saloon, a man who had been listening in on their plans bit the last piece of meat off of his roast and chewed in quiet contemplation. After finishing his food, he put his straw hat on and glanced at the trusted man sitting beside him. His colleague nodded and finished his drink before turning to the woman beside him. 

“Where’d you say you were goin’ again, um...Miss?” he asked her, completely forgetting her name.

“Oh, Vivi. I’m headed to East Blue. My family’s farm is there, and my fiance. We’re gonna get married in a few days,” she replied.

“Right. Well you better catch your train, it’ll be leavin’ soon.” 

The other man leaned over the bar and grinned at her. “Thanks a lot for all your help earlier! I thought we were gonna die!”

“It was the least I could do after you scared off those outlaws. I don’t know what I would have done. Thank you for escorting me to the station.” The young woman got up and waved as she left the saloon, rushing to make the train in time.

A frown replaced the wide grin after the woman was out of sight and he tipped his straw hat down a bit as he leaned against the bar.

“Seems there might be some trouble afoot with Iron Mace Alvida’s gang here. Reckon they’re talkin’ about the train in the station ‘bout to leave.” The other man removed his hat to wipe some sweat off his forehead. The desert sun was unrelenting.

“Must be. They’d still be drinkin’ in the saloon if they weren't plannin’ to move now.” 

“What about the others? Don’t forget we gotta meet up with ‘em.”

“They’ll be fine, this shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ll get the horses.”

After adjusting his straw hat to block the sun properly, he watched the gang mount their horses and gallop out of town, disappearing into the dusty plains in the direction the train was due.

“Here.” 

“Thanks, Zoro. They headed out that way,” he said as he pointed with a tilt of his head. 

“We gonna stir up some trouble?” Zoro sighed as he settled his hand on one of his three revolvers, the favoured white one.

A grin grew wide under the straw hat. “I wouldn’t be The Straw Hat Kid if we didn’t.”

Zoro huffed a brief, low laugh, “Why not, I could use a warm up.”

The pair mounted their horses when the train blew its whistle and the conductor called out “All aboard!”

As the train slowly chugged out of the station, they took off in the direction of Alvida’s gang. They weren’t too far behind them and fairly quickly caught up to their dust cloud. 

The gang found a good spot to wait for their target and rest their horses while Alvida gave last orders to her gang. “And don’t ya dare mess up again ya good fer nothin’s!”

A disorganised smattering of “Yes ma'ams” followed her berating shout.

“Good. Now pay attention! Let’s make this quick. Here comes the train.”

Just within earshot of the gang’s chatter, The Straw Hat Kid and Zoro listened. “So what’s the plan boss? Try to cut ‘em off before they reach the train?”

“Yeah. Let’s stir up some trouble.” His grin grew wider. ao3 link

[theravenchild]

What started out as a simple headcanon post has evolved into a full on fic snippet that I hope you all will enjoy!

So, I was thinking about how the game gives us no background for the thestral mount, Sepulchria, and how Hellendil just adores her. I head canon that she is one of the thestrals pulling the carriage during the dragon attack at the beginning of the game. She managed to survive the attack, but not without injury. Because thestrals are so intelligent, she remembers her destination was Hogwarts and continues on, showing up there a few days afterward.

Professor Howin finds her wandering the grounds and in need of care. After assessing the wounds and recalling Professor Fig's recounting of the dragon attack a few days before, she consults with him regarding the lost thestral. She puts the creature up in the stables with the others while they send a letter to the carriage driver, alerting him of the thestral's whereabouts and condition.

Hellendil enters Fig's office as he's reading the reply.

"Pity. She's quite a gentle creature." "Who do you mean, Professor?" the curious fifth year asks. "Ah, good to see you Hellendil," Fig answers as he looks up from the letter in front of him. "To answer your question, one of the thestral's drawing our carriage that fateful day. She found her way to the castle in spite of her injuries. Professor Howin has been keeping her with the others while we contacted the driver. It appears he's not interested in keeping a lame creature and has asked us to end her suffering." The fifth year's eyes widen and his jaw drops open, "But why? Surely someone knows how to treat her injuries? Won't a healing spell or draught help?" Fig moves around the desk to place a comforting hand on the tall Ravenclaw's shoulder, "Horses and thestrals are notoriously difficult to heal of such injuries. I'm no expert on the matter, but it's often kinder in the end to do just as her owner suggests." He bows his head and closes his eyes, "Even if she does recover, it's unlikely that she'll ever be able to perform her duties again."

"We have to give her a chance, Professor!" comes the impassioned reply, his brows pressed together in worried, begging expression. "What did Professor Howin say? Do we know that she won't heal? What if I take care of her myself!?" The professor chuckles, a soft smile forming on his face, "I must say, I admire your spirit, young man. You've not been here more than a week and already you're willing to take on tasks well above your current training, not to mention how well you did during our adventure at Gringots. Why don't we talk to Professor Howin about your request together? She's better equipped to know what kind of challenge we face. If she believes it is worth the effort, then I shall see what I can do to get the thestral signed over to our care." "Thank you, professor," Hellendil answers, a look of relief in his kind blue eyes. "I am curious though, as to why you're so passionate about this. It could come at great cost to heal the creature with no guarantees of success." "I like thestrals quite a lot, sir. There's a comfort in being able to see them." His eyes are a bit distant as he responds, as if there's something more on his mind. He doesn't elaborate and Fig respects his privacy. After a moment, he looks back at Professor Fig, "I just think we ought to give her a chance, professor. She made her way to us after our ordeal, and I think she deserves that much. If she's unable to bear the weight of a carriage, it doesn't make her any less deserving of a chance at life." Fig smiles at the young brunet, "You've quite a bit of compassion for someone your age. I hope you'll continue to nurture that side of yourself. The world could always use more people who are willing to give of themselves for others. Come, let's take a stroll down to Professor Howin's office and have a chat." Hellendil nods, "Of course, professor. After you," he gestures for Fig to lead the way and falls in step behind him.

After speaking with Professor Howin they decide to continue to treat the thestral. Even if she is unable to recover completely, her good nature makes her an ideal candidate to be a teaching specimen. Howin agrees to teach and supervise Hellendil as they care for the injured beast. The Ravenclaw grows ever more attached to the creature, somehow finding time nearly every day to visit and tend to her at the stables. Eventually she becomes strong enough to carry a passenger again.

Recognizing the care the new fifth year had taken throughout the healing process and his closeness with the creature, Professor Howin releases her into his custody, with the caveat that if he is ever unable or unwilling to care for her anymore, he would return her to the school and she would live out her days as an animal ambassador for teaching Hogwarts students.

[walrus150915]

Have you guys seen my other post talking about how Ambrosius n Ballister would look when they're middle aged?

Yea okay nvm I drew them together as old men yaoi again bc it's very funny

Ambrosius, you old rascal!👀

I love depicting older queer people being in love and living a calm cozy life with their families bc idk man... It makes me hopeful for the future

Ft. their kid Aquila and their kid-family friend-aunt-uncle-grandparent Nimona being annoyed with them (and I mean- wouldn't you be?)

By the way this post is framed I guess you could tell where I'm going with this

Headcanon time for the Boldheart household when Nimona is 1030yo, Ambrosius and Ballister are in their late 40s and their kid is a tween

- Nimona is a free traveler. She's done so many round-the-world trips that Magellan may choke from jealousy while burning in hell

- No matter where she is tho, she always comes back to Ballister and always shares new things she's seen and new friends she's made - people and animals alike. YES SHE HAS A TON OF FRIENDS SHE ALWAYS WANTED BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT SHE DESERVES!!! MY BABY😭

- She always makes her comeback a surprise: jumps from the roof on Bal's head, flies dramatically, knocks on the door to pretend she's a deliveryman or a postman

- Ballister works as an engineer bc the raw SKILL this fella used to build an arm WHILE having one is unmatched. "If you're good at something, you gotta proceed to get a career in this field, otherwise you're just wasting your potential" © my Asian mom (jk don't do this. I'm no professional artist but I draw bc it's my hobby)

- He probably worked on the deconstruction of the wall. The symbolism would be great + it'd make sense for his character!

- My man is overworking because of course he does. Nimona tries her best to slap it out of him but this man is a workaholic and nothing can fix it I'm afraid

- I have no idea what Ambrosius's job is. Sry😭

- I know it must be something artsy and something which doesn't bring much money. Ambrosius is BLOOMING at work tho. He's doing something he likes! Not something his parents made him do! And he's enjoying it! Knowing he'll get back home to his kid and husband and Nimona and hug them all sweetly!!

- Aquila is mostly B-student who's described as "Your child studies well, Mr Boldheart, but they need to be more active and social in the class"

- Aquila doesn't have much friends outside of their family. Their parents and Nimona are worried about it more than they are

- Nimona made it her undertaking to make sure Aquila doesn't feel the way she used to in a situation like this

- When she's in the mood, Nimona takes Aquila to school by using her powers. It's pretty much the norm for Aquila to arrive to school on the horse or on the back of an eagle or on the rhino lol

If we've started with Goldenheart, I guess we could also continue with them? (a tiny bit of spice under the cut)

- They're still disgustingly in love. Like it's cringy how in love they are

- They try to keep the sparkle alive no matter how repetitive their routine gets

- Slow dancing (which is actually just cuddling and rocking side to side together) in the kitchen? Kissing each other before and after work? Having romantic dinners from time to time? Yea that's their kinda stuff

- That sparkle also includes trying out new things in bed. They don't have as much energy as they used to tho😭 Instead of going two or even three rounds like they used to they'd rather just sleep WJJSSJJAJJWEJSJS

- [seahorse dad Bal since trans!Ballister headcanon is one of my favorites] Ambrosius's worshipping of Ballister's body increased 100x after Aquila was born bc THIS FELLOW MAN whom he loves VERY MUCH beared THEIR CHILD in his body for 9 months, how's that not amazing? A thing this man has for competence of his husband is insaneeeee

- I feel like their love life has only got better as the time went on

- As all parents do, these two learnt how to do everything very quietly

- Nimona could finally sleep calmly thank the creator they had a kid who made them learn

Okay I'm done with spice. Let's talk sweet (aka random ig)

- Bal cracks his joints a lot (grandpa LLLLL)

- Aquila DOES NOT have it good on Father's day

- Nimona teases Ballister for getting older (as a joke) but she's kinda worried about him, since he does get grey hair, wrinkles n stuff and. Uh. She doesn't. So-

I'M SORRY IT WASN'T MEANT TO BE ANGSTY

- Aquila is trilingual so real of them

- Yea the Boldheart household is multilingual. One could say something in English and the other would answer in Urdu no problem

I think that's about it. I blogged this earlier than planned bc I pressed the wrong button but I hope you enjoy this whiplash of my brainrot nevertheless

Heading to school rn. See ya when I come up with new things to talk abt wfvbhhnj!!!

[notasapleasure]

Sunday six

I am writing Saga AU part 2, I am I am I am! Lots of background and set-up to get through, but I think that's ok, part 1 started slowly too :')

And there's still plenty of opportunities for awkward idiots to totally misunderstand each other. As an example of the kind of thing I mean, I give you a time when I was in an Icelandic class with a friend, and the teacher told us that in the '90s the chat-up lines were no better than 'já eða nei?' (yes or no?) and my friend leaned over and whispered something, and, being deaf,* and not really catching his accent, I made him repeat it like five times until I realised he was saying 'já eða nei'. I snorted at his joke, carried on taking grammar notes, and only several years later went '.....WAIT a second. He was making a pass??' So I know first hand about such idiocy.

*Not like. Diagnosed actually deaf. But sometimes I really just don't catch words

What better time to have an awkward conversation about your friend's unacceptable behaviour than at a horse fight?

Cassian studied me. He couldn't hold my eyes for long, though, and turned back to the horses with a sigh, drawing his arms tighter about him. He said nothing for a while so I faced the match again too, and grimaced at the matted, bloody coats of the horses, their white rolling eyes and the blood-pink froth around their foaming mouths. Finally a winner was declared and Cassian grunted in disapproval - he must have bet on the loser. He didn't face me, and spat at the ground, but the words he muttered brought a confused warmth to my cheeks nonetheless: "Think this place could do with a few more like you, actually." It was spoken so quietly, so reluctantly, that I didn't fully parse it until we'd walked over to Cavo's cart to join the crowds gathering for refreshments.