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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

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A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

-----

Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee.

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell.

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”.

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something.

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room.

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room.

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed.

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother.

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod.

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him.

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day.

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily.

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you.

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own. You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed.

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side.

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories - tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea.

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack.

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists.

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days.

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew.

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier.

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour.

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive.

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack.

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist.

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards.

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close.

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.”

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you.

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling.

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could.

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness.

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you.

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace.

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable.

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven.

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work.

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway.

Good.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket.

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life.

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss.

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core.

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss.

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth.

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes. Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move.

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity.

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core.

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance.

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were.

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever.

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open.

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you.

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.”

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time.

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them?

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped.

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared.

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.”

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that?

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets.

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties.

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home.

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition.

Arthur’s room.

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.”

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen.

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!”

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

#rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader #rdrbigbang2021 #rdrbigbang

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sirensmojo · 4 years ago

Text

"KINDRED", 4 - Thomas Shelby x Reader.

Warnings: Swearing, romance, violence, guns, drama, slight smut(“slight”?)

Word Count: 5k+

AN: When it’s a reader and Tommy scene, it’s Tommy POV.

❰ Previous Chapter

Tommy leaned backwards on his desk chair, a cigarette stuck in between his index and middle fingers. He was looking at the ceiling as if its colour brought to him answers to the multiple questions that had been clouding his mind lately.

Since the day he and Y/N kissed, he noticed she had been avoiding him. She didn’t even send him the weekly book she usually dropped at the office.

He didn’t understand her, and each time he tried to put back together the pieces to get a clear view of her character, the memories of the smell of her hair brought him somewhere else. And whenever he would dare to close his eyes too long, he would taste her lips again.

Even if she chose to stay away from him, he entered her world once and appreciated it so greatly it had printed into his spirits, like a hand in wet cement.

He allowed himself to shift his thoughts to Mosley from time to time, the d-day was approaching and with it, the time he’ll take the lead of the British fascist party.

(...)

The only way Lizzie found to see her husband these days was to come back in business as Tommy’s secretary. He told her she wouldn’t have to work when they got their daughter, Ruby, but he was rarely home, and when he was, his mind was elsewhere.

Even after promising to let her in sometimes, she struggled the most to read him, but despite all, she was deeply in love with him. She had to make the effort and reach for him.

He didn’t agree with her taking back her job at first and she knew exactly why, as being responsible for her having a baby, he had to take care of her, at least he felt like he did. He was undeniably a murderer, cut-throat gangster, but he had convictions and rules to stick to.

This morning began as normal as any other for the Shelby company limited, Lizzie was occupied with papers as Tommy locked himself in his office.

The door opened, Lizzie’s gaze instantly got up, searching for who might that be. When her gaze met the figure, her jaw dropped. ‘Not again’ she thought. This scene reminds her of the time May Carleton came in here only to entice her Tommy.

She knew he didn’t owe her anything, but he could’ve waited at least a day or two before calling another woman. Not even twenty-four hours earlier Tommy was fucking her in some alley in the cold, probably thinking about a woman he knew before France. But he said he was fucking her, Lizzie, and not his lost teenage lover, even if she knew better.

Tommy and his cock.

That May Carleton was walking so confidently in front of Lizzie, she probably thought she was the one to own Tommy’s cock. If only she knew. She glared at her so strongly that May avoided looking at her at all costs.

The woman that just passed the door didn’t look her way, too occupied walking straight to the doors of Tommy’s office with the arrogance of an army.

Lizzie’s eyes went from her seemingly very expensive shoes, up her green pants suit in which pockets she kept a hand, to her suit jacket that fell perfectly on her waist as the end of which was drawing the woman’s hips. Her leather belt marked, even more, her waist and its golden details matched the imposing blue pearls necklace along with the large same looking earrings.

As soon as the woman entered the room, the atmosphere switched, her figure called the eyes, not only due to her ostentatious jewellery collection but also by the woman’s charismatic aura. Even the clicking sound her heels made on the hard ground was full of power. Anyone could hear the confidence in each of her steps, which made Lizzie gasp.

As a moth attracted to light, Tommy got out of his office, a cigarette hanging on his lips. He pressed a shoulder on the door frame, his eyes fixed on the woman walking towards him.

He was indeed waiting for her.

His deep blue eyes weren’t examining the woman’s form in an enticed way, he was solely looking at her face, a thing that made Lizzie’s heart ached because she understood there might be more than sexual attraction between them.

Lizzie knew her husband. From the way he dawdled on the woman’s face to the little waving of his shoulders, she just knew.

The atmosphere again had changed, Lizzie was now oppressed by their two presences, the warm and powerful one of the stranger and the usual cold and disconcerting one of her husband, one completing the other.

As her heart didn’t want to admit it yet, a burning look was exchanged by the two pairs of eyes, and confirmed the obvious her brain already knew, Thomas had found his match, and it wasn’t her.

(...)

Tommy took off his shoulder from the door frame and stood straight as he humidified his lips. The librarian walked to him with her usual unreadable face and when she was close enough, she grabbed his cigarette off his fingers taking her time to make their skin touch as much as she could. Her eyes were still deeply in Tommy’s as millions of sparks animated the tips of his fingers.

The man coughed and turned to Lizzie, motioning his hand to the woman behind the desk, in an attempt to ignore the sparks. “Mrs Y/L/N, meet my wife, Lizzie. Lizzie, it’s Mrs Y/L/N, the librarian I work with at the House Of Commons.” He had sensed the intense look of his wife since Y/N came closer to him.

“Mrs Shelby! I am so honoured to meet you, I heard about your typewriting skills, writing eyes closed, eh? I could never.” Y/N gave a warm smile to Lizzie that squinted her eyes in anticipation. His wife didn’t believe in what the librarian just told and he was sure Y/N knew it too.

“Yeah? Well, I never heard of you.” Lizzie spitted.

“It’s because you don’t keep company with my people.” She had the audacity to take a puff on the cigarette she stole earlier from Tommy looking his wife straight in the eyes.

Even if Y/N’s voice was calm and solemn, it was clear it was an attack. The implication made Lizzie gritted her teeth as she got up and joined them. Tommy rubbed a hand on his own face knowing exactly what she was going to do.

She stood behind the librarian. “And what business do you have here in Birmingham if you work in London?”

“You’re husband,” Y/n responded, not even turning to her. She bypassed Tommy and opened the door’s office before disappearing behind them.

Lizzie followed her with her eyes before looking up at her husband. “The fuck is she doing here? Are you going to fuck her, Thomas?”

“No, Lizzie. Am not going to fuck her.” He responded exhaling deeply.

“Yeah, take me for an fucking idiot.” She walked to the desk to grab her hat & coat. “That’s all you’re good for anyway. You fucked all Birmingham and now London, huh?” She sneered before shaking her head walking to the exit.

“Lizzie.” He called, but the woman had already closed the door.

Tommy raised his brows and sighed before turning to the office where he marked a pause. It was another type of storm he had to face now. He finally opened the door and got in, only to find Y/N seated behind his desk, in his chair.

“Tommy Shelby, OBE, what a pleasure to meet your family.”

“It was quite a show you put out there.” He closed behind him.

When he turned back at the room, she was walking toward him, but she already was pretty near.

“So you fucked all Birmingham already, hum? Trying to expand your activities in London?” Y/N leaned on him, she was so close he could smell her breath and he wondered what was her fucking problem. She ignored him for days after they kissed and here she was again, pushing him to the edges. It was almost as if it was a game for her. And if it was, she was winning all the damn rounds.

“And you? What’s with the attitude?”

“What are you talking about.” She took a step back.

“You have been busy this week, eh?” Tommy walked to the counter and poured whiskey in two glasses.

“Well, the man you have your little brother watching, he talks.” She loosely let out. “The bookmaker Billy Grade, the one that conducts the football betting business” She paused looking at Tommy’s surprised expression. “He doesn’t like Arthur.”

“To who?” Was the simple question he needed an answer to.

“I made moves with Mosley so, yes, it had been a busy week, Thomas.”

At the revelation, Tommy’s eyes squinted. If there was one thing he learnt with Grace was to make sure his feelings weren’t a shackle to business.

“I’m not betraying you, no need for these wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. But you gotta know he’s offered me the South.” She went to the counter and took the glasses before sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk, one cup in her hand, the other she put on one of the numerous files covering the desk.

Tommy went sitting in his armchair. He lit a cigarette and held one to the woman that declined.

“Only like to take yours.” She gave as an explanation.

“How come he offered you the south?” He ignored her comment.

“North’s Mc Cavern’s, Middle’s yours, South’s vacant. But I have another plan for the South, and you might agree with me as well.” A rictus took place at the corner of her lips, as Tommy looked at her, curious. “Mr Solomons. I know he wrote you that he’s still alive.”

Tommy’s lids fluttered a couple times, he didn’t say anything. How could she know so much all the time? Was she listening to him or something? He for a second thought it might be her spying on him on the phone but this idea went away almost immediately.

She wasn’t Grace.

“He and I are great friends. Not as if he really has any, but do I?” She muttered utterly to herself.

Tommy coughed and leaned back on his chair, making himself comfortable.

“What’s with you, Tommy?” Asked the librarian, and he himself couldn’t put a finger on what was going on. It was always that way when she was around, but everything intensified when they leaned their breath as one and connected together.

His mind was so full of thoughts that had nothing to do with business that it was hard for him to concentrate. But for some reason, he just couldn’t push those thoughts aside.

He wanted her, he yearned for her to touch him the way she did that night, to intertwine their fingers together again and forget about Mosley for an instant, just one. Tommy humidified his lips again as raising his eyebrows, it was like his lips were always dry or incomplete. Her lips belonged on his. He raised his gaze to her in distress.

“You want to come to me house, Tommy? Again?” Her voice resonated in his head, her words taking him by surprise.

“Huh?”

“Have a drink or two, meet my cat...” She went on, looking intently at his soul hiding behind his icy blue iris.

He didn’t recognize her, but did he even know her? It seems not. Every time they meet, she puts another mask on. Somewhere in his soul, he believed it wasn’t a good idea, that thing they shared. But he knew he couldn’t turn away and break the partnership. Not now. Not only could she be hard to beat if they turned to enemies, but he also needed her, she was part of his business now. She was too precious an ally for him to withdraw from the deal.

As he didn’t respond, she drank from her cup, finishing its countenance in one go. “I’ll ask Arthur then...replace his Linda.” She added looking up to the ceiling innocently.

“The fuck did you say?” He hustled to spit as watching her without blinking.

Her gaze went back on Tommy, a playful gleam animating her pupils.

“What do you say?” She sent him back the ball. It was indeed a game for her, and he knew once again she would be the winner because he wouldn’t say no.

He tried to escape her game by coughing it away and smoked his cigarette. “How are you going to bring up Alfie Solomons with Mosley?” He went back on business, but the woman didn’t seem ready yet to give up.

She got up and grabbed the phone with one hand as the other was dialling a number. She sat at the corner of the desk, turning toward the Shelby brother and the phone. Tommy watched her movements closely, curious about how she was going to handle him dismissing her offer.

He couldn’t even hide the fact her stubbornness did something to him, even if he repressed any desire for her. It was as if they were the principal characters in the regency era drama he ended up devouring as it was the book Y/N was reading on their first meeting.

He was so deep in thought he didn’t hear the librarian asking the cable woman to put her in connection with the individual she intended to reach.

“Yeah, Arthur, it’s me. I wonder if you would wa--” Tommy had heard enough. He hung up the line and fixed the phone for what feels like centuries, slowly realizing what his reaction meant.

The Y/E/C eyes woman remained silent, a silence that felt heavy on Tommy’s conscience. He straightened back and leaned on the back of his chair, glancing at the ceiling.

He was done with those games. He couldn’t believe he dove into her crude farce head first, and now he had to face her because she had been staring at him the last minute.

“You’re a devil.” He let the words lazily slip between his lips.

“Call me Lilith.” She spiritedly exclaimed. Tommy’s eyes went to her face at that exact moment.

“So you’re jew, eh? That explains why you know Alfie, but contradicts the fact you and Mosley are close.” Tommy thought out loud. According to his memories, Lilith was a demon of the jew tradition, which led him to his conclusion.

The woman instantly smiled, seemingly very content about the Shelby head struggling to catch her.

“Fair enough.”

“You come to my house?”

“I was talking about the comparison.” He paused, looking at her blankly.

She sighed.

No doubt she was annoyed by Tommy’s behaviour, but she won way too much at their little game. It was about time Tommy won. It was unusual of him to be that shallow but it was their intimate space, so he didn’t care.

(...)

Gina couldn’t see anything when the abductors took her out of the car to lead her down some stairs into what she surmised to be a cellar, she already had a piece of cloth hiding her vision and one in her mouth, preventing her from screaming.

She was petrified and the fact the individuals didn’t say a word, neither during the ride nor once in the room didn’t help her. She could feel heavy drops of sweat rolling down her forehead as dried tears itched the corners of her eyes.

The place was colder than what she remembered a cellar to be. Flashes of her childhood coming back to her from time to time.

“THREE… TWO… ONE… ZERO. I’M COMING GINA!” Her cousin shouted from the kitchen where they last saw each other. The little girl used to come down in the cellar to hide when playing hide and seek with any member of her family, from her cousins to her father.

As her mother was severely ill, she couldn’t play with Gina, but her father always did. When not leading the believers to sing the praises of the Almighty at the local church, he was both a father and a mother to her.

Although her mother & herself loved each other more than anything, she soon stopped seeing her. When at first her father let Gina visit the room of her mother once a day, it decreased from once a week, to once a month to simply never.

Despite the child doggedly asking for her mother, he remained unyielding and managed to keep his daughter away from her mother for her own sake.

It was only when growing older and after the death of her mother that Gina understood her father’s demeanour. He was desperate not to let his daughter watch her mother die.

This time, the cellar didn’t feel familiar and it’s not a joyful feeling that resides in her. Her body reacting to the cold, she was shivering as goosebumps appeared at the same time as she heard footsteps coming her way. Her blood boiling like hot water, she struggled to breathe.

“Call her father.” Gina heard a female voice she had never heard before. She listened to footsteps receding before a whimper escaped her throat.

“Well, you heard the woman, let her talk.” The voice ordered. And just like that, her mouth got freed. “Go on.” The female voice seemed to address her directly.

“What do you want with my father?” She managed to say after she moved her jaws to get rid of the piece of cloth’s taste.

“He’s an old friend.”

“Can’t you just call like normal people instead of abducting his child?” Gina murmured, not totally relieved from the fear. She wanted to appear unmoved and plucked all the courage left in her to get an untroubled voice.

“I know you, Gina.” The voice started, getting closer. “You alright? You’re trembling.” Well, it seems like all the effort she put in wasn’t enough, her true emotions were discovered.

“You know me, huh? So you know as soon as you detach me I’ll assault you and spit right in your face, right?” She angrily let out, she didn’t accept to be defeated nor seen while being vulnerable and defenceless.

But it seems like the individual challenged her, because she heard someone pass behind her and loosen the cords holding back her hands. At the same moment, the piece of cloth blinding her fell on her collarbones.

Before her, stood straight a woman with a closed face, her facial traits weren’t aggressive, but in her eyes, Gina could swear she saw in there an untamed fire. Her brown eyes slid to a sitting white dog near the stranger, it looked like a wolf, even its huge size reminded her of the fierce beast she read about as a teenager.

It was ridiculous to see this situation unleashed the least probable memories of her youth into her mind as vividly as yesterday.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The woman before Gina mimicked her voice, a smile drawing on her lips. “They always ask the same questions.” She shrugged her shoulders seeing Gina’s surprised expression. The freshly Gray woman closed her mouth that was slightly open in an “o” shape and clenched her jaw.

“Well, I need your father to come here, in England. And you,” she tapped Gina’s end of nose, “you’re the thing that’ll make him travel the world all the way to Birmingham. To my greatest pleasure,” She patted her own chest before motioning to Gina, “and much to your displeasure.”

Gina didn’t even know what to say, she used the time the woman spent talking to massage her wrists as the cords were tied very tight. Her gaze dawdled on the woman in front of her, she was wearing a very long purple coat to which two buttons situated at the waist of its owner were closed. She also wore black lace gloves with ostentatious golden rings above the fabric. The diamonds of her rings were blue, matching her earrings. When the woman turned to the side to pat her dog’s head, Gina noticed she had braided her hair in a single braid that fell on her back.

The woman crouched down for her eyes to be at the same level as the dog’s ones, one of her hands scratching its head. “One single word and it attacks you, so you better behave.” She turned her head to Gina, warning her. The blonde woman glared at the other before glancing toward the dog in anticipation.

Y/N got back up and turned her back to Gina as she started to walk toward the stairs. “Get comfortable, it’s your new home for a few days.”

“What, you’re leaving me in this? With the dog?” She screamed at the Y/H/C haired woman.

“If I were you, I’d avoid screaming, Gina doesn’t like too loud noises.” She waved goodbye as answering without even glancing toward Gray.

“What?” Gina asked, confusion in her voice.

Y/N chuckled a bit before turning around, her index went from the dog to Gina, “Yeah, meet your twin.” She walked backwards a couple of seconds before turning back to the stairs and climbing them.

(...)

House Of Commons, London.

The door of Tommy’s office abruptly opened on an angry Michael.

The Shelby brother that was pouring himself some whisky glanced at his cousin. “Michael.” He welcomed.

“Where the fuck is my wife, Tommy?” Gray asked, frowning.

“What?” He squinted his eyes.

“Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Wife.” Michael spitted each word, looking straight into his older cousin’s eyes.

Tom blinked a couple times, not understanding the request.

“Days ago when coming back from the fucking restaurant some fucking people took her.” The younger Gray calmed a bit, seeing that Tommy truly didn’t know what he was talking about.

“How did they look?” Tom asked, concerned. Even if Michael might have betrayed him, he was family still and anyone jeopardizing the life of a member of the Shelby clan or someone related to them should taste the sweet fondles of death’s fingers.

“Men in fucking black.” Michael started to pace up and down, both his hands passing over his face. “I’m getting mad, Tom, me head fucking all over the place...” He continued.

“Men, no women?” Tommy brows raised, he had to ask. He remembered the conversation he had with that librarian when she was telling him she thought Gina was the weakness and force of his cousin and that she might do something about it.

“No.” Michael stated firmly. Tommy’s tensed shoulders relaxed. “Or..” Tommy raised his brows. “I don’t know, Tom. Fuck.”

“We’re going to find her, Michael. Stay in your hotel room, stay put, near the phone, right?” The Shelbys' head tapped his cousin’s shoulder before leaving the office.

(...)

He stopped the car near the portals and got out, a cigarette hanging on his lips. Tommy walked the pointlessly long alley, by-passing a ton of fountains and trimmed bushes of different forms and shapes.

The fair distance gave him time to rethink everything that concerned Y/N and his relationship with her. If she truly was behind the disappearance of his cousin’s wife, he would have to deal with her, meaning going to war, which was far from the plan since he entered politics.

He knocked on the door without waiting any further once he joined the principal door. He was looking intently at the windows trying to see a silhouette through it or an ignited light of some sort, but nothing.

The door abruptly opened, making a loud noise and the figure of the librarian was to be seen. Tommy raised his hand to her face, pointing his gun at her, but when her body was fully visible thanks to the moon shining, he blinked, bewildered.

His eyes dropped on a Y/N only dressed with an emeraude lace nightgown. The top was all see-through, but it didn’t stop him from cocking the gun and hold it steady in between her eyebrows. Even though he was here because he suspected her to have turned her back to him, his body reacted a whole different way to the view. His heart started to pounder in his chest as a warmth suddenly took prisoner his upper body. He swallowed in an attempt to dismiss the feeling ready to burst out.

“Missing our start?” She let out, not even pretending to be scared or shook by the situation. As a matter of fact, in their second meeting, Tom indeed pulled a gun at her, how could he forget that. Nobody ever had the nerve to threaten him on his own doorsteps, but of course, she did.

“Where’s Gina?” He ignored she was half-naked along with her remark.

“What the fuck, Thomas?” One of her eyebrows raised in confusion. “What’s happened?”

Tommy switched the position of his fingers, putting his index right on top of the trigger to make known he knew she was lying.

As she felt the danger, the woman banged the door on Tom’s face and not even a second later, he heard bullets being fired as he saw holes drawing through the door. The time stopped, or at least everything appeared as slower.

He instinctively put his arms over his head and kneeled as other bullets were being fired, he managed his way to the wall of the mansion, staying down.

“Fucking hell, Y/N!” He shouted his lungs out, his ears whistling due to the bullets’ noise.

“Remember when I warned you, Thomas. You pull a gun, I shoot!” She accentuated the last part, her tone underlined by anger.

“Why did you take her?” He kept his head close to the wall as shaking it, trying to totally recover his hearing.

“You should’ve asked that when you could, Sergent Major.” She calmly stated.

Tommy could hear she was re-loading her gun.

He looked at the gravels under him and recognized the bullet belonging to a rifle. He frowned, wondering how come she got a rifle.

“No. Put down the rifle, I'm throwing me gun.” He said loudly before dropping his gun in the grass far away from him, his weapon made a muffled noise while encountering the ground.

He didn’t hear anything for a minute that seems to last hours. The night breeze came fondling his face, helping him to ease his breath as the silence made him fully recover his hearing.

The front door opened, and Y/N peeked through. Only one of her Y/E/C eyes was to be seen, and even if her pupil was dilated due to the adrenaline, her look seemed concerned. “Are you hurt?” She solemnly asked, she, as well, being out of breath.

Tommy shook his head on both sides before he managed to stand, helped by the wall.

“You mad woman.” He closed his eyes as taking a deep breath in, knowing she wouldn't try to kill him tonight. When he opened his eyes again, she was in front of him, barefoot on the gravel.

“Sorry… I tend to lose my shit when I’m in danger.” She placed the rifle hanging around her neck to her side, a hand holding it still.

“You weren’t. I wasn’t gonna fucking shot, just trying to scare you.”

“...Well you angered me.” She hesitated in even giving him an answer. She finally decided she didn't need the rifle anymore and went placing it against the wall.

“Not fear, eh?” He teased, and she shook her head as a response.

“Why the fuck did you take Gina away? Michael’s all over the place, he even came to me. The boy’s fucking losing it.”

“Well, firstly, he deserved a little reminding he was still a boy as you correctly underlined,” she raised her brows looking at him, “secondly, after further research, I found it I know her father. Long story short, he’s the only one to be able to deal with her uncle if we don’t want any blood spilt.”

“Fucking was about to spill me gut on your doorstep, the fuck you care about spilt blood, Y/N?” He furrowed his brows as agitating one of his hands, motioning to the ground beneath their feet.

“Yeah,” she acquiesced, “not me that cares about fucking family. It’s you.”

That’s when he realized how serious she took their partnership. When he thought she was solely doing what fitted her best, she indeed took into consideration Tommy's convictions. She took seriously the fact he didn't want the family to be hurt. And although he ranged on her side regarding scaring Michael a bit to make him realize something, he never thought of Y/N to be tough enough to act with as much strategy as ruthlessness. She definitely outdid him in this case.

This sudden realisation aroused something in him. She cared. Even if the care she gave was nonetheless peculiar and typical to her character, she did what she could with what she had right? And right now she was working with him with as much resilience and fierceness as she would do with her own organisation.

“If it was up to me, fucking bullets to the head for both of ‘em and we done.” She dismissively worded as looking afar. “Where’s your gun?” She lazily looked back at him.

Tommy hesitated a short period of time before he grabbed her wrist and pulled her against himself. She didn’t push him away as he neared his face near her, she was the one sealing their lips together. This time, none of them were eager for the other, their kiss was light, soft and pure, contrasting with the chaotic situation they put themselves in.

The blue-eyed man slipped a hand on her back, fondling her skin above the piece of cloth covering her body while she reached for the button of his pants under his coat.

The atmosphere switched, not even seconds earlier it was love talking, now it was a whole another emotion ruling them.

Tom started to walk toward the door, forcing her to walk backwards. When she understood what he intended to do she murmured a soft “No.” and he opened his eyes darkened by desire and urge, looking into hers that were screaming for sex.

A smile grew on her lips as she went sticking her back to the nearest wall, her fingers strongly gripping on the man’s tie. He didn’t break the eye contact and joined her, flattening one of his hands on the cold wall. The warmth of his longing for the woman added to the coldness of the night were mixing together so well he felt a little dizzy.

He couldn’t think about how often he imagined them during their first time or how often he tried to picture Y/N’s curves in his head but his body somehow knew how much he wanted this. His hands were dawdling on any portion of her figure he could find, gulping each piece that was giving to him as if she was the first woman he’d ever touched.

Each kiss enticed him a bit more and whenever he closed his eyes he could literally see fireworks exploding everywhere in him. And whenever he would open them, he would find Y/N looking intently at him, her expression revealing everything she could never tell him, her feelings for him as well as her deepest fear, frustrations & beyond, her eyes being the messenger of the immensity of a soul, to another.

She quickly got to his bum she previously teased with one knee before reaching for his length.

Her cold fingers struck it a few times before she came aligning him with the distress for feeling him inside.

Once he was perfectly aligned, she released him and reunited her lips to his, where they belonged, giving him the green light. He thrust slowly at first, letting her some time to get used to his size. She murmured a low “Tommy...”, her legs encircling his hips as he grabbed one of them firmly. He was keeping her as close to him as possible, making sure their bodies were as connected as their souls were. He ultimately began to come and go, increasing his pace as time passed by.

Her high pitched moans came directly to his ears, the best sounds he’s heard out of his entire life without a doubt.

Following Chapter ❱

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #thomas shelby x y/n

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laiqualaurelote · 3 years ago

Note

The two Inception WIPs? 👀

Thank you! these are ancient. Now You Are Dangerous is a crossover in which Arthur is actually Brendan from Brick (Rian Johnson's high school neo-noir murder mystery starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and thus behaves as if he is in a film noir all the time. Its title is from a line in The Maltese Falcon that is reprised in Brick.

shoring fragments against my ruins brb is an Arthur/Eames English degree university!AU that is probably my favourite WIP I'll never finish, that title became self-prophetic and I'm still sad sometimes when I think about it

Eames, Arthur could not help noticing, had begun to pop up a lot. He kept sitting next to Arthur in seminars, plonking his hideous and horribly distended satchel between them.

“What the hell is in there?” said Arthur, annoyed, after one especially ostentatious attempt to wrestle the satchel into the meagre gap between their chairs.

“My Johnson,” said Eames, and winked. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “By which I mean to say, my Dictionary Of The English Language, by Samuel Johnson,” went on Eames, pulling the offending volume out of his bag and into his lap.

“Who the fuck carries a Johnson dictionary around with them?” said Arthur. “It’s so thick.”

“Precisely,” said Eames. “Nothing like a Johnson to make a man feel well-endowed.”

Next, he began appearing in the library when Arthur was there. Although it was only a few weeks into first term, Arthur had already earned a reputation for being the first after each seminar to clean out the shelves of not just next week’s text, but the relevant critical reading to boot. Arthur, the rest of his cohort would come to agree, was the worst. Arthur didn’t care what people thought. He was paying international fees and he wanted his money’s worth.

Moderns seminar over, Arthur dumped his stack of Ezra Pound readings into the book drop and swooped upon the library shelves. His seminar leader, notoriously flighty, kept changing the texts; she’d told them at the last minute that for the Hemingway seminar, they wouldn’t be doing A Farewell To Arms but The Sun Also Rises. It was rather late, thought Arthur, to get a copy off Book Depository, and so it was with chagrin that he saw that the last copy of The Sun Also Rises had disappeared from the shelf.

There was a familiar figure in the corner of his eye. Arthur turned to see Eames leaning against a shelf, pointedly flicking through The Sun Also Rises.

Arthur swallowed. “I need that book, Eames.”

“Looks like you’ve missed the boat,” said Eames, and then in aggravating tones, “darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Arthur. “And you have Davis for Moderns, you’re reading Ford Madox Ford next week.”

“You know a lot about my schedule, don’t you,” remarked Eames.

Arthur knew Eames’ schedule because he’d made it a point to look up his name on the seminar lists last week, just so he could see what other classes he had the annoying boy in. “All the better to avoid you with. If you don’t need Sun, why are you hogging it?”

“Surely you don’t need all those critical readings, yet you hog them all the same,” said Eames. “And who’s to say a man can’t just pick something up for leisurely reading? Get back in touch with good old Hem?”

“Eames,” said Arthur. “The book.”

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Or what?”

Arthur reached out, seized the nearest tome - which was the Norton Anthology of English Poetry, second edition - and dropped it on Eames’ foot.

The crash made heads turn all the way down the library floor. “Ow!” shouted Eames, his hand falling. Arthur plucked the book from his fingers and hightailed it to the borrowing station.

Eames caught up with him outside the library. “Are all you Americans so bloody barbaric?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Are all you Brits so goddamn insufferable?”

Eames huffed, and then he moved. Arthur found himself up against the library wall, fenced in with one large palm on either side of his torso and Eames suddenly, awfully close. He was very broad. Arthur had not quite noticed before.

“I - “ began Arthur, and was overcome by the terrible sensation of blanking that he had only ever experienced in one exam he had inadequately prepared for, and then spent the rest of his life endeavouring to ensure it never happened again. But Eames, it seemed, was not something you could prepare for.

Eames chuckled, low in his throat. His hand dropped to where Arthur’s satchel hung, and Arthur’s hand shot out by instinct to seize his wrist. But Eames only skimmed the lid of the satchel with a knuckle.

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” And then suddenly he was out of Arthur’s space, hands in his pockets and strolling off across the quad.

Arthur walked the twenty minutes back to his halls in a daze. His Korean neighbour in 5D had her boyfriend over and they were having very loud sex, so he went instead to the kitchen to try to read, only he still couldn’t, because the afternoon’s events were buzzing under his skin until it felt fit to split. He should not have done that, thought Arthur, word was only going to get around, as if the rest of his course didn’t already think he had no chill, though of course when had he been the kind of person who cared what other people thought? Though also when had he been the kind of person who resorted to actual bodily harm to get ahead in class? And above all Eames’ expression when Arthur had dropped the book on his foot, more shock than rage; the way Eames had chuckled when he had Arthur against the wall; the way he hadn’t taken the book but instead quoted it back at Arthur and then sloped off - “oh, shit,” said Arthur, “oh, shit, this is not good, I cannot be having with this,” and he went to the tap to get some water, but because it was that kind of day, the tap came off in his hand and water started spouting ceiling-wards in an arc that perfectly framed the face of his Nigerian flatmate from 5A as she walked in on him with the tap in his hand, dripping wet.

“Jesus, 5C,” said his flatmate, “you have no chill.”

#wip ask game #work in progress #inception #inception fic #arthur/eames #university au #english degree #brick

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historyofid · 3 years ago

Text

Summary, Week 4

Lecture 4: Art Nouveau and more

Gilded Age The Industrial Revolution allowed (made inevitable?) the Victorian era’s creation of opulent looking objects in many materials, and many price ranges. The wealth created by manufacturing (and transportation, and industry of all sorts) made a new class of super-rich, not through inheritance but through capitalism and consumption. Many designers and craftsmen appealed to this wealthy market by creating ostentatious luxury goods. The second half of the 19th century also saw tremendous advances in old technologies, the introduction of new technologies, and a gradual shift away from steam power to turbines and electricity. This early era of electricity is often called the Second Industrial Revolution.

• You should know these folks: - Alexander Graham Bell - Thomas Edison (Westinghouse) - George Eastman (Kodak) - Christopher Sholes - I.K. Brunel

• You might like to know: - Elisha Otis (Otis Elevator) - Eadweard Muybridge - Gottlieb Daimler - Karl Benz - Edward C. Moore (Tiffany)

• I showed work by these folks but you are under no obligation to recognize their names: - Cornelius & Co, - Nunns and Clark - Julius Dessoir - Alexander Roux - David Hughes - William Thomson - George Phelps - Charles Elmer Yetman - Christopher Huygens - Niépce Brothers - Joseph Etienne Lenoir - Alphonse Beau de Rochas - Nikolaus Otto - Pavel Ovchinnikov - Benn Pitman - Herter Brothers

I cut these folks out to save time but suspect you might enjoy looking them up: - George Hunzinger

Art Nouveau: – First global style, only “self-concious” style (it was called Art Nouveau while it was happening). – First time designers began thinking in terms of stylizing. – Designs came from significant and meaningful sources, but were inherently fashionable. – The influence of Japanese art changed the way Western artists considered their work (and also an increasing awareness of “other” cultures). – The world began to consider trends and use that information in the design and marketing processes. – Consumption as we now know it is a product of the Art Nouveau sensibility. – Technology, and available materials challenge designers to begin figuring out how to give form to new devices.

• You should know these folks: – Héctor Guimard – Louis Comfort Tiffany – Henry Van de Velde – René Lalique – Émille Gallé – Daum frères – Tiffany & Co. – Gorham Co. – Ernst Hæckel – Victor Horta – Antonio Gaudi – Peter Behrens

• You might like these folks: – Sigfried Bing – Mariano Fortuny – Gustave Serrurier-Bovy – Eugene Gaillard – Otto Wagner – Paulding Farnham (Tiffany) – Lumière Brothers – John Wannamaker – William C. Codman (Gorham) – Leon Kann – Greenwood Pottery – La Pierre Mfg. Co. – William B. Durgin Co. – Charles Rohlfs – Carlo Bugatti

• No reason to know, but how could you not want to: – Loïe Fuller – Buster Brown

• Other names employed in the execution of this lecture: – Alphonse Mucha – George de Feure – Edward Colonna – Cornelius L. J. Begeer – Arthur Silver/Silver Studio – C.F.A. Voysey – William H. Bradley – Frank Hazenplug – Edward Penfield – William Carqueville – Hugnet Frères – Wilhelm Lucas von Cranach – Philippe Wolfers – John T. Curran – Jacob Prytz – Joseph Heinrichs – Candace Wheeler

#HOID

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thepaperpanda · 5 years ago

Text

Little Dreams || Arthur Morgan x Reader Smut

Summary: While being away from.the camp, you and Arthur enjoy the time together.

Warnings: Smut & Micah Bell

Words: 1237

Authors: Bear

"You know, Art, once I had a dream of a cozy place, a place where we could start a family, our own one" you told him as you were having your head on his chest.

It was one of those evenings where you and him went outside the camp to spend some time in your own company. Now, you were laying on a grass, sky full of stars just right above your heads.

"You have a new horizon, some kind of a melancholy town where we will build the new future together" Arthur said jokingly as his strong arm wrapped around your waist.

You smiled at him briefly and hummed a song under breath.

"Darlin', I promised you once that I'll do whatever it takes to fulfill your dream which I also share with ya" Arthur put hat on his face, inhaling cold air of the upcoming night.

The wind blew gently in your face and you giggled when you felt he tickled your side. "Mr Morgan, stop it now or I'll have to punish ya!" You warned him playfully.

You knew your words caught his attention immediately. His large hand grabbed your hip and squeezed enough to leave bruise. He took hat off his face and grinned at you in the way he always did when he was teasing you.

"Am I mistaken or are you messing with a dangerous outlaw, miss Y/N?" He teased kissing top of your head, his eyes on your features.

You rolled lock of you hair on your index finger. "I like to play with fire, sir" you told him firmly, licking your rosy lips slowly and raising head to look him in the eye.

You loved it. Those intimate moments were priceless to you and they meant much more than feelings he was showing you while being in the camp. Of course, you were a couple and everyone knew the fact, yet Arthur Morgan was always getting a bit shy about being open if it came to his feelings toward you. He was type of man to rather kiss your cheek than make out with you when others were looking. And though you loved this romantic side of his, you also craved more.

Arthur's palm slipped suddenly under your chin, he grabbed it and pulled you into a messy kiss. Your hands pressed his chest and you hummed happily, he was a good kisser.

When you broke the kiss to gasp for air, he smirked. "Eager at her cowboy as always, duh?"

You served him a brief nod before climbing on top of him. "Always."

You unbuttoned his shirt making sure to tease his exposed skin with nails. When his plain shirt was opened fully, you leaned to him and kissed his jaw, moving down his body. After jaw there was a time to caress his clavicles with your soft lips. Then you moved to his neck for a second to lick a trail down to his belly. You smirked when you heard a deep grunt - it was a sign you were doing a good job. As you were standing him, you could feel how hard he got, just for you and it made you wet. You moved one hand to rub over his crotch and Arthur shivered, like he wanted to escape your touch because of unbearable pleasure.

"Darlin', holy Christ, look whataya doin' to me" he whispered through parted lips as his hands moved to unbuckle his leather belt.

You kissed him, your tongue danced with his as you did.

He closed his eyes shut and grunted again when he pulled his already hardened cock out of his jeans.

Your palm wrapped around the shaft and you pumped it, then spat on it to make him slick and more vulnerable at touch you served.

"Undress, darlin'. I need to taste you" he almost begged while helping you with jerking his member.

You licked lips and smiled at him but obeyed his ask. When you dropped your clothes off, you knelt next to him to kiss his lips. He gave you a wry smirk and grabbed your hips, pulling them hardly. You knew what he wanted and you let out a whimper. Soon, you straddled his face, slowly and gently and moaned his name as soon as his lips wrapped around your hit, already slick sex.

Arthur was so skilled, both his fingers and tongue were making miracles to your craving body. Everytime you were having sex.

You tried to rock your hips but his strong palms were holding them tightly, preventing you from any kind of move. His tongue teased your entrance as his thumb rubbed circles around your swollen clitoris.

You moaned again and bended down to wrap mouth around his hard shaft. You bobbed your head back and forth, sucking onto his tip and massaging his balls with free hand. He was grunting deeply and it was giving your pussy an additional friction, so in the end you were moaning for him, giving same in return.

You both were pleasuring one another and there was no end to your mixed moans and groans.

Finally, he cum in your mouth and you gladly swallowed everything he gave you. You pumped hand few more times around his dick and sucked briefly onto his balls.

Shortly after, you started to rock your hips hardly, grinding on his face, which he happily obligated. You supported yourself on his wide chest, digging nails in his skin. He sucked your pussy hard enough to leave you moaning his name as you cum and your wetness dripped down your parted thighs, right onto his bearded mouth.

Then you moved yourself from him and quickly laid right on his side, nuzzling to his neck. "Oh, dear heavens, how good it was! You're freaking amazing, love" you praised him, stroking his jaw as he was looking at you.

"Darlin', it's you who make me so hot, just look at yourself, fucking shivering from me eating that sweet pussy out" he grinned widely and handled you clothes. "Put 'em on, I don't want you to get sick."

As you put your dress and coat on, you heard a nasty laughter from nearby. Arthur was buckling his belt again as he looked at that direction only to frown angrily. "What the fuck are ya doing here, you shit?"

It was no one else but Micah Bell himself, he leant back against the tree, huffing on his cigarette. "Just having some nice views, night's early, I went to think about things and I was pleased by some interesting event" he smirked at you both nastily. "Y/N, I would never say you're such a dirty whore but as I see now, Morgan taught you some things."

Arthur quickly got up and pulled to his back, pulling his revolver out from behind the belt. He aimed at Micah. "Get the fuck off of us and go somewhere else instead, duh?"

Micah ostentatiously improved old jeans on his crotch, smiling wryly at you as he measured your features with his eyes. "Don't ya forget, darlin', one day you're gonna be mine." After these words he simply walked away.

You shivered and nuzzled to Arthur.

"Don't ya worry, I'm here and he won't bother you again, don't ya worry," Arthur stroked your hair and grabbed your palm. "Let's go back to camp. We need some rest before another duties will occur."

Pandies🐼: @imidarogerson @grossograsso @thewildgardensstuff @leven-and-ashley @la-verdura @bearded-steve-rogers @sebbystan-plantlover @atuckyismylife @krispyjellyfishzombie @personality-within @haseki-huricihan @choppedgardenwhispers @vroobelek @lattimelka @chris-beamz @hidden-secrets69 @purepearls @volcanoxxx @kastrup-sofie @mikkal-akasaki @withoutashadowofhope @radbluebirdeagle @marvel-fan-site @smutloversblog @buquete @super-psycho-love69 @tanglesss @peter-sommer @baysidewest @vegemania @philip-stan @chodiusmmm @subwaystunnel @tykorclint @dagger-dragger @kurant @nothing-can-least-forever @oxfordkipem @deliciousbouquet90 @tuptuptup @hellenna80 @karina-marina9 @latimeriaaa @bratko @wurld89 @scott-evans @kiss-me-rouge @ovonel-espaniol @dancing-tacco @ratugadhi @white-tiger-shangrila @axn69 @eternal-life-awaits @mrs-laura-harmon @artsy-inside @gleeeeees @darkllaama @jatut @agawux @fuzzy-tigrrr @jrjohnsson2 @maaargoshaaa @dontgetmewrongman @einexx @nwmtagsb @anini71 @secretlygrantaire @kyloren-supreme-ben @infinity-stones-seeker @thehappyspider @wings4life @huxyluxy @dontbeafraidchild @misafiryanki @electronicpatrolcollective @thisismysecrethappyplace @aulika @hidden-secrets69 @a-happy-wolf @creative-seahorse @biologyforliving @stareyedplanet @arthurmorgan-bae

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan smut #Arthur Morgan x reader smut #Arthur Morgan one shot #Arthur Morgan drabble #Arthur Morgan fic #Arthur Morgan fiction #Arthur Morgan x you #Rdr2 #Rdr2 x reader #Rdr2 x you #Rdr2 smut #Micah Bell #Micah Bell is a nasty rat #oh yes he is!

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dustedmagazine · 4 years ago

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Dust Volume 7, Number 3

Black Country, New Road

One of the funniest parts of Martin Amis’ Inside Story concerns an up-and-coming novelist, constantly asked at literary festivals to differentiate between his short stories and novels and just as consistently coming up with new ways to say that the short stories are, well, shorter. Same deal with Dust. These abbreviated reviews are, indeed, shorter than the full-lengths, but otherwise well worth reading. And, hoo boy, are there a lot of them this time. Contributors include Ian Mathers, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Patrick Masterson, Arthur Krumins, Eric McDowell, Justin Cober-Lake, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Jonathan Shaw and Bryon Hayes.

Aarktica and Black Tape for a Blue Girl — Eating Rose Petals (Projekt: Archive)

Eating Rose Petals by Aarktica and Black Tape for a Blue Girl

Aarktica’s Jon DeRosa and Black Tape for a Blue Girl’s Sam Rosenthal have known each other for a long time, but this release is the first time they’ve actually worked together. Rosenthal was so struck by the title song, one of the few from Aarktica’s 2019 release Mareación to feature DeRosa’s vocals, that with the latter’s permission and participation he created the almost 19-minute “Fleeting Rose Petals”, which features the original track backwards with wordless additional vocals from DeRosa, plus additional material by Rosenthal before and after it. The original (also included here, along with the closing “Valley of the Roses” which features Rosenthal further reworking the additional material from “Fleeting Rose Petals”) already felt like a single lambent moment in time suspended and held, and by reworking and reconfiguring that material over a full 37-minute span that effect is only intensified.

Ian Mathers

Altaat & Euter — Split (Ikuisuus)

split by Altaat / Euter

Two experimental drone outfits from Finland play extended abstract compositions on this split LP. Altaat’s sidelong “Palava Palaava” sounds like an orchestra tuning up in a wind tunnel as it splices long bowed tones with the rush and whir of large machinery. But however, chaotic that may sound, the actual effect is quite serene, the om of dissonant overtones melting into a white noise background of rattling, humming, whooshing mechanical sounds. Altaat’s Niko Karlsson and Miki Brunou, along with Jari Koho, subsume the noisy clatter of the post-industrial era into a dream-like, beckoning hiss. Euter, also a duo but not willing to give up personal names, works a less organically grounded sound, filling an expansive, echoey space with chortling, wobbling synth cadences, metallic clangs and staticky, between-stations blare. The long “Slowly Underwater,” unfolds in chilly surreality. You get the sense of vast metal furnaces blowing out corrosive chemical clouds, of mechanical sensors picking up and sending signals and of chittering, hurrying life amid ruins. (No, I’m not hearing anything especially watery.) “Magnetic Mammals,” which follows, is similarly machine-like and ominous, picking up vast, sirening sounds as if from a distance with bubbling bursts of radio interference in the foreground. Altaat’s side is certainly closer to conventional Western classical music, but Euter finds some intriguing, disquieting spaces. Makes you wonder what they’re putting in the water up there in reindeer land.

Jennifer Kelly

Rrill Bell — Ballad of the External Life (Elevator Bath)

ballad of the external life by Rrill Bell ////// aka The Preterite

One of the challenges of early electronic music was its labor intensity; it could take months of recording, processing, card-punching and pondering to come up with a few minutes of music. But tools change, and with them, opportunities for access open up. The music of Rrill Bell, a German-based American musician, makes that lengthy process shake hands with instant performance. Originally trained as a percussionist, he works mainly with tapes, which he records, uses in performance, and in the course of performance, records over and re-uses again. But in concert, he tends to improvise with these materials, making split-second decisions that occasionally get preserved for potential re-visiting.

If that sounds like a recipe for frenetic sonic action, it’s not. Mr. Bell’s tastes in original sounds tend towards bells and environmental captures, and he rarely crowds the mix. Tones squiggle and unspool, unidentifiable bumps appear and disappear, and birds chirp at the periphery. It’s easy to characterize this as ambient music, since a low-volume listen is pleasant but undemanding. But keep in mind that successful ambient music must be interesting as well as ignorable, and the dream-like sound walk of Ballad of the External Life still delivers.

Bill Meyer

Black Country, New Road — For the First Time (Ninja Tune)

For the first time by Black Country, New Road

“Sunglasses” erupts out of a blare of feedback, a roar of guitar noise that splinters and disintegrates as you trace its melody. Synths sound like police sirens. It’s all very slow and ominous, and for a minute, all those Slint comparisons make sense. And then it resolves into something like an indie rock song, spoke-sung over thunderous drums by one Isaac Wood, he of the tremulous voice and the unreliable narrative, whose art song proclivities may bring bands like Wild Beasts to mind, though without the fey falsetto. The song is a marvel of bravado and doubt, working the soft seam between ordinary male adolescence and mental illness, and the sunglasses play a key part. Says Wood, “I am looking at you with my best eyes and I wish you could tell/I wish all my kids would stop dressing up like Richard Hell/I am locked away in a high-tech/Wraparound, translucent, blue-tinted fortress/And you cannot touch me.” (Also, later, “I am more than adequate/Leave Kanye out of it,” which strikes me as brilliant for reasons I can’t fathom.) The point is that there are startling, riveting lyrics here, of the sort that you could make a case for leaving it unadorned, but Black Country, New Road is not interested in simplicity. The rather large ensemble includes not just the regular rock instruments but saxophone, violin and synths, all knotted up in proggy complexities and paced by a drummer (Charlie Wayne) good enough to give Black Midi’s Morgan Simpson a run for his money (the two bands are aligned and friends and Black Midi gets a name check in one of the songs). Indeed, the opening track of this six-cut collection is aptly titled “Instrumental,” a whirling gypsy klezmer cubist fantasy that is, if anything, nervier and more complicated than the vocal tracks. This is exciting, volatile stuff that could go anywhere from here.

Jennifer Kelly

Deniz Cuylan — No Such Thing As Free Will (Hush Hush)

No Such Thing As Free Will by Deniz Cuylan

Everything about Deniz Cuylan’s solo debut is understated. Six instrumental tracks running to just 27 minutes, released on the fittingly named Hush Hush Records, No Such Thing As Free Will seeks to evoke something subtle and universal out of minimal ingredients. There’s a robust architecture to this music, generating a sober, contemplative mood. Arpeggios on nylon-string classical guitar cycle around in precise arcs, gently bolstered by piano, clarinet and cello. The space in opener “Clearing” shyly invites the listener in; the record reaches a modest peak in the bright harmonics of “She Was Always Here” and the almost joyful elegance of “Flaneurs in Hakone”; then the music recedes into a melancholic fog on the closing title track. It’s telling, therefore, that Cuylan has worked as a soundtrack composer — his music feels complementary, receding modestly into life’s scenery rather than commanding the spotlight.

Tim Clarke

Arnold de Boer — Minimal Guitar (Makkum)

MINIMAL GUITAR by arnolddeboer

Somedays you just don’t do what you’re supposed to do. At the end of the last summer, Arnold de Boer decided to extend his holiday by a day and take a walk around town. When he got back home, he sat down, picked up an instrument and listened to the music that came out of his fingers. The music was no more expected than the activity that preceded it. Instead of the rough, voltage-enhanced intricacy of the music he plays with The Ex or his one-man band, Zea, de Boer played a set of acoustic guitar solos. Neither ostentatious nor self-consciously rustic, de Boer’s playing tends to zero in on an idea and see where it wants to go. Each rhythmic pattern, decaying harmonic, or rap on the body proposes an idea, which de Boer either explores or restates with minimal variation. Ah, there’s that word. This isn’t a study in minimalism, but an appreciation of how little you need to do if the original idea is sound.

Bill Meyer

Dusk + Blackdown — Rinse FM Mix January 28, 2021 (Rinse FM)

Rinse FM · Keysound (100% Keysound Production Mix) - 28 January 2021

I’m not sure there’s a place left on the internet better suited to explaining the rise of grime, dubstep and its attendant mutations than Martin Clark’s aging Blogspot under his Blackdown alias. From ground zero in London, Clark has been documenter, eyewitness and participant alike, a true lifer fully evidenced by his longtime partnership with Dan Frampton, aka Dusk, showcasing new music on their monthly Rinse radio show and Keysound Recordings record label. They’re an essential part of the culture, so it’s especially pleasant when they serve up some of their own riches. After the traditional December year-end roundup show, Dusk and Blackdown came roaring out of the gates in January with an all-Keysound broadcast in the middle of the night that features gobs of unreleased rollage over its two hours. It’s a nice reminder that though time may pass, URLs may cut out and memories may dim, some are still putting in the work one release, one radio show, one listen at a time. The sound is the key is right.

Patrick Masterson

EKG — 200 Years Of Electricals (Bandcamp)

200 Years of Electricals by EKG (Ernst Karel & Kyle Bruckmann)

Most things don’t hold their value. Why should time be any different? So, if Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote 100 Years of Solitude in the 1960s, EKG might as well proclaim 200 Years Of Electricals in 2021. EKG is Kyle Bruckmann (double reeds, analog electronics, organ) and Ernst Karel (analog electronics, microphones). The duo first convened in the mid-1990s, when both men lived in Chicago, and Karel was mainly known as a trumpeter. They’ve carried on in sporadic fashion ever since, playing increasingly rare concerts as each man moved away from his original home base. They’ve turned snippets from these shows into subdued musical constructions, which they’ve issued on a number of compact discs over the years. For their first release in over a decade, the duo, who currently both live in the Bay area, have ditched the trumpet and the physical album format, and incorporated some of the field recordings that have become Karel’s main sound material in his solo work. But in other respects, this effort is every bit as concerned with iteration and inevitability as Marquez’ book. When you flip a switch, something hums. When you layer quiet sounds, they don’t necessarily get louder, but they do exert a stronger magnetism upon your ear. And you when spread your quietness over a vast stretch of silence, efforts to follow the sound inevitably do strange things to your sense of time. Wait, how many years have we been listening to that crackle? Why stop now?

Bill Meyer

Michael Feuerstack — Harmonize the Moon (Forward Music Group)

Harmonize the Moon by Michael Feuerstack

Montreal-based singer-songwriter Michael Feuerstack sweeps aside all extraneous fluff on his new album, Harmonize the Moon, zeroing in on precise finger-picked guitar parts, vivid lyrical imagery and a stark, affecting tone. He has a knack for smuggling blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments of understated wonder into traditional-sounding folk songs you’ll imagine you’ve heard somewhere before. Indeed, he wryly admits to recycling the past in the opening song: “I used to be a singer, bumping around in the astral plane / Picking up astral trash, to polish it up again.” Though the foundation of guitar and vocals carries most of the weight, there’s tasteful reinforcement from vocal harmonies, electric guitar, lap steel, bass and drums. Amid these clean, spare arrangements, some of the lines stop you in your tracks, like the following from “Too Kind”: “The world is broken mirrors, traps and triggers / And cold blood pools in the kindest eyes.” With 10 finely honed songs running to just over half an hour, everything is measured and rather lovely. (Beautiful cover art, too.)

Tim Clarke

Michael and Peter Formanek — Dyads (Out Of Your Head Records)

Dyads by Michael and Peter Formanek

Virtuoso bassist, stalwart sideman, solid bandleader, fearless improviser, intriguing composer — Michael Formanek is all of those things, but he’s also a cool dad. At least that’s what it looks like from the outside. Not only did he include his son, Peter, in his musical activities from an early age, giving the youngster a chance to sit in with the likes of Tim Berne and Jim Black. Upon Peter’s return home from college, he joined him in a working duo. Dyads is their first recording, and it is testimony to the merits of giving the kid first-hand experience in the family business. Peter, who plays tenor saxophone and clarinet, has learned the merits of having a bold tone, a flexible improvisational approach and a way with a tune. Their performances unfold with a combination of patience and pith, which permits the listener to savor the elegance with which each musician supports the other.

Bill Meyer

Chris Forsyth & the Solar Motel Band — Rare Dreams: Solar Live 2.27.18 (No Quarter)

Rare Dreams: Solar Live 2.27.18 by Chris Forsyth & The Solar Motel Band

Chris Forsyth teams with Sunwatchers Peter Kerlin and Jason Robira at London’s Café OTO for expansive, incendiary jams that will remind you like a physical ache of what you’ve been missing in live music this awful year. “Dream in the Non-Dream” is a wide-horizon, endless vamp, driven ever forward by Kerlin and Robira in lock-sync, while Forsyth ratchets up tension with a car jack, then spins it off in wreckless, fiery abandon. “The First Ten Minutes of Cocksucker Blues” similarly balances rigor and open-ended-ness, marking off the measures with a hammering, repetitive cadence that becomes a mantra over time. There are also two Neil Young covers, both tending towards the electrified, Crazy Horse side of things, a slow by blistering “Don’t Be Denied” and a raucous “Barstool Blues” from Zuma. It’s all great stuff, and it might hold you for a month or two until we can all crowd up to the stage again.

Jennifer Kelly

Alexander Hawkins — Togetherness Music (Intakt)

Togetherness Music by Alexander Hawkins

Whether you listen to him in duos with Evan Parker or Tomeka Reid, small bands like the Chicago/London Underground or Decoy, or leading his own ensembles, English keyboardist Alexander Hawkins accompanies and improvises with an astute perception of the situation’s requirements. The title Togetherness Music can be taken several ways. The six-part suite combines parts from two different commissioned pieces, and it brings together elements of free and conducted improvisation, scored chamber music, and some discrete electronic interventions. Passages showcasing Evan Parker’s intricate soprano saxophone lines and Mark Sanders’ kinetic percussion contrast and coexist with rich and patiently evolving string passages executed by the Riot Ensemble. This music feels less like a sum of differing approaches than the expression of a cohesive in which all Hawkins’ good ideas fit together.

Bill Meyer

Russell Hoke — The Melancholy Traveller (Round Bale Recordings)

The Melancholy Traveler by Russell Hoke

This release follows up on the archival compilation A Voice From the Lonesome Playground from 2016 of Hoke’s material from small run releases of the 1980’s. With the new material here, Hoke delves into the unadulterated sound of voice and guitar or banjo, with mainly his own songs of loneliness and also the singularly bittersweet moments of existing as yourself, free and detached from society. Also covering two beautiful takes on Sandy Denny songs, which fit into the UK/US traditional direction of the rest. The album rests in the same delicate territory as other folkies such as Connie Converse, Jackson C. Frank, or even the more sedate songs of Daniel Johnston. What brings the album together is the expressiveness in any given moment of a song. The tact and execution consistently bring the emotion of the songwriting home.

Arthur Krumins

In Layers — Pliable (FMR)

Pliable by In Layers

In Layers puts up a middle finger against anyone who thinks that European unity is a passed fancy. The quartet’s members come from Portugal, Iceland and Holland, and their collective experience encompasses Nordic music theatre, lyric free jazz and the tooth-powderingly loud trio, Cactus Truck. But the music they make doesn’t really sound like any of that. Guitarist Marcelo Dos Reis, drummer Onno Govaert, pianist Kristján Martinsson and trumpeter Luís Vicente improvise music that is spacious enough to frustrate viral transmission, but composed of elements hefty enough to tip a scale. There’s plenty of bravura playing, but the displays are subordinate to the music’s abstract cohesion. You won’t hum it, but you won’t forget it, either.

Bill Meyer

Just For the Record: Conversations With and About “Blue” Gene Tyranny

Composer, writer and pianist Robert Sheff, better known as “Blue” Gene Tyranny, collaborator with everyone from Iggy Pop to Robert Ashley, passed away at the end of 2020. Just before that, David Bernabo’s documentary about Tyranny’s life and work, and more generally about the avant garde world Tyranny was a vital part of, how much of it almost vanished and the ways it continues to be vibrant even today, was released. For a while Just For the Record was available to rent, but this year Bernabo made it available for free on UbuWeb Film. It’s a wonderful watch for anyone who’s a fan of “Blue” Gene’s work, for sure. The conversations with him are near the end of his life, but his evident joy in music and art and people shines through, and the conversations with Joan La Barbara, David Grubbs, Kyle Gann and others cast new light on both his history and work and importance and the group of artists that he worked with and around. There’s so much here you almost wish for a miniseries instead (one episode on reissue labels and blogs, one on Robert Ashley’s operas, one on Tyranny’s time as a Stooge…), but given how overlooked artists like “Blue” Gene Tyranny often are, it still feels like a gift to have what’s here.

Ian Mathers

Kariu Kenji — Sekai (Bruit Direct Disques)

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Sekai is a COVID-era exercise in circumstantial lemonade-making. Kariu Kenji’s band, OWKMJ, executes intricate, quick-changing jazz rock with aplomb. Stuck alone at home, he has made a solo record that never betrays his prodigious dexterity as a guitarist. Instead, Kenji has fashioned an album of low-key, keyboard-heavy bedroom pop. It is low key, almost to a fault, since you could easily miss the subtle fault lines between clean and distorted sounds, let alone the moments when he unobtrusively pulls the rhythmic rug out from under a song. The songs poetically render small memories and quietly absurd scenarios, which are considerately translated for the benefit of people who won’t understand Kenji’s all-Japanese crooning.

Bill Meyer

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkeybirds — Swing from the Sean Delear (In the Red)

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Kid Congo Powers has been in more great bands than anyone I can think of — The Cramps and The Gun Club to start with, but also Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds, Divine Horsemen and, just last year, the Wolfmanhattan Project with Mick Collins and Bob Bert. That’s exalted company all round, and his latest, with Pink Monkeybirds, is no slouch alongside any of them. It begins with a vamping, churning, soul-funk-psychedelic “Sean DeLear,” which commemorates the recently deceased Bay Area punk-fashion icon in exultant, chandelier-swinging style. All three side one cuts are bangers, spinning out Sam & Dave bass-and-drum foundations into dayglow garage extravaganzas, but the 14-minute b-side “He Walked In” takes things in another direction, slowing the pace down and letting the music smoulder, a trippy hippy flute weaving through heat-shimmered desert psychedelia. Like the opener, it’s an elegy, this time to Gun Club front man, Jeffrey Lee Pierce, a haunted surf rock dreamscape where spirits dwell.

Jennifer Kelly

Katy Kirby — Cool Dry Place (Keeled Scales)

Cool Dry Place by Katy Kirby

Katy Kirby makes a stripped down, lofi pop that aspires to bigger things. Even low-key, acoustic strummed, bedroom ballads like “Eyelids” are always on the verge of busting out into flute-y, melismatic diva choruses. Even the tender “Cool Dry Place,” dreams of a big pop payoff and gets there in the end. And the single “Traffic!” is strung through with the tension between its muted, all-natural melody and the crescendoing climax that waits at the end. Here Kirby’s plain, wholesome voice gets threaded with fluttering autotune, not because she can’t hit the notes, but because that’s how big pop songs sound. This is the opposite of Katy Perry doing carpool karaoke. It’s acoustic, unadorned versions of songs that long for mainstream gloss and glamor.

Jennifer Kelly

The Koreatown Oddity — “Breastmilk” b/w “My Name Is Dominique” (Stones Throw)

Breastmilk by The Koreatown Oddity

“I got the hook-up from my baby mama / While you fetish freaks get it off the black market.” If the cover art left any room for doubt, the lyrics soon make it clear that Dominique Purdy’s approach to the subject of his latest single is every bit as literal as it is cartoonish. While albums like last year’s Little Dominiques Nosebleed put the Koreatown Oddity’s powers as a storyteller on full display, the rapper’s rhetorical mode here is ostensibly argumentative, with appeals to the all-naturalness — and deliciousness — of his preferred “regimen”:“You looking at me like I’m a strange human / But you drinking cow’s milk — fuck is you doing?” In the space of just two and a half minutes, he also achieves a hilarious upending of a range of hip-hop tropes, from the objectification of women to the glorification of illicit substances, not to mention MC braggadocio. There may even be a comment on fatherhood in there, too, for anyone who really wants to go looking.

The b-side of the 7” offers something different altogether, a stiff-legged but hypnotic beat beset by periodic electronic splatters and the somewhat manic refrain: “My name is Dominique and I’m a fresh musician.” Indeed.

Eric McDowell

Bobby Lee — Origin Myths (Tompkins Square)

Origin Myths by Bobby Lee

A swamp-gassed shimmer hangs over Bobby Lee’s electric blues, as notes bloom and waver and subside like ghostly lights in a humid dusk. Bobby Lee, the man, lives in Sheffield, England, but his music dwells in some lysergic delta, in the south but not entirely of it or anywhere else. Listen to the way that notes flicker in the steady runs of “Broken Prayer Stick,” a regular cadence of them left to warp and wander in steamy sunshine. Or the way that sustained tones drift like seaweed in “Looking for Pine and Obsidian,” losing themselves in thickets of overtone and echo. Bobby Lee would likely find a kindred spirit in Tarotplane’s PJ Dorsey or in William Tyler in a transcendental mood. Like them, his blues drift towards revelation but very, very slowly.

Jennifer Kelly

Nashville Ambient Ensemble — Cerulean (Centripetal Force)

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Thinking of Nashville doesn't typically bring to mind ambient music, nor does the image of pedal steel guitar typically suggest the work of an electronic composer. Nashville Ambient Ensemble, though, mixes those elements. What makes the group's debut album Cerulean feel special isn't its oddness — other acts, of course, do this sort of dreamy work — but that the Nashville elements remain so present. Pedal steel player Luke Schneider does much of the work to create that feel. The instrument itself has long since moved out of its traditional settings (a quick dip into the music of Susan Alcorn, for example, can prompt a fun rabbit trail of the guitar far removed from Western swing), but composer Michael Hix and this group enjoyably maintain the country signifiers even while moving into far spacier terrain. Some of the album pushes toward psychedelic swirls, but the ensemble restrains these gestures. As they head west out of Nashville, they resist simply playing a given genre with a gimmick. Cerulean isn't spaced out country, and it isn't twanged-up ambient. Instead, the group develops its own curious space.

Justin Cober-Lake

Neutrals — "Personal Computing” b/w “In the Future” (Slumberland)

Personal Computing by neutrals

The clever punk lifers in Neutrals upload two incisive songs about technology here. The a-side, “Personal Technology,” bashes antically through a tale of a young man with an, ahem, very committed relationship with computer paraphernalia, amid crashing, Clash-like chords and rumbling bass and drums. As noted when Neutrals’ 2020 EP Rent/Your House pried Dusted’s Jonathan Shaw away from black metal mid-last year, the front-person Allan McNaughton retains a Glaswegian accent, despite decades stateside, which gives these two cuts a rough Northern post-punk glamor. But the obsession with last year’s state-of-the-art, the excruciating torture of “loading,” is all Silicon Valley, enjoying BDSM with its peripherals. The b-side takes a somewhat more expansive view of technology, asking a la Dan Melchior what happened to the flying cars we were promised. Both are sharp and stinging and utterly catchy. I’d call it old school except for its fascination with the new.

Jennifer Kelly

Nun Gun — Mondo Decay (Algiers Recordings/Witty Books)

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Mondo Decay is the audio component of a recent collaboration between Algiers’ multi-instrumentalist Lee Tesche and visual artist Brad Feuerheim (who drums on four of the tracks). The two bonded over a mutual love of 1970s Italian cannibal zombie films and their soundtracks. Joined by fellow Algiers member Ryan Mahan and a roster of guest vocalists including Mark Stewart (The Pop Group), ONO and Mourning [A] BLKstar, Tesche reconfigures the soundtracks to make explicit the connections between present conditions and the socio-political turmoil that informed the original films. Musically that means claustrophobic dub inflected industrial grind, hip-hop influenced cut-ups, mutant disco and plenty of noirish saxophone. Nun Gun emphasizes atmospheric atrophy and deliberate decay with great and pointed effect to create a terrifically dark soundtrack to accompany the book of Feuerheim’s bleak photographs of post-industrial malaise.

Andrew Forell

Oui Ennui — Virga/Recrudescence (self-released)

Virga/Recrudescence by Oui Ennui

In the words that accompany the release of Jonn Wallen’s second album of 2021, he says that “when rationalizing yet another synthesizer purchase, I've often remarked to myself, ‘Well why wouldn't I want that color? I'll have it.’” It’s that attachment to messing around with new toys, a mass of streaks of rain appearing to hang under a cloud and evaporating before reaching the ground (“Virga”), the recurrence of an undesirable condition (“Recrudescence”), and what seems to be a whole lot of Brian Eno (“Oblique Strategies”) that informs these two extended avant-garde digressions. “Virga” is a roaring 24-minute star birth that veers into plinking helicopter rotaries without warning at one point, while “Recrudescence” covers more ground both literal (it’s 39 minutes) and figurative (woodland creatures, Space Age percolations and various rhythms sprout up throughout). Likely better experienced at high volume in a small club setting, we’ll have to settle instead for our headphones barely handling another intriguing development in the ongoing Oui Ennui experiment. How long before DFA co-founder Jonathan Galkin stops lurking in his Bandcamp buys and starts offering him a deal, I wonder?

Patrick Masterson

Payroll Giovanni \ Cardo — Another Day Another Dollar (BYLUG Entertainment)

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At some point in his career, Payroll Giovanni switched from worker to boss. His new album with the producer Cardo is another chapter in the Boss of All Bosses saga. Songs on the CD approximate the language of business manuals and the cheap sloganeering of workers union reps. Work harder, save more, invest, save again — the usual tips handed down to the unfortunate few who didn’t make it like Payroll did. By the middle of the album, you start to feel like you are at a stakeholders meeting where the CEO went for rapping instead of a PowerPoint presentation. When the rapper fails, it’s hardly the producer’s fault, so Cardo just plays up to Payroll with lazy, muzak-ish beats.

Ray Garraty

Rio da Yung Og \ Nuez — Life of a Yung Og (Southern Giants/Ghetto Boyz)

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Rio da Yung Og has been working with a lot of producers (and quite a few of them later got their fame because of it), but up until now he hasn’t released a collaboration with a single producer. His EP with Nuez came out of nowhere but it is a nice change of beats. Up to now, Rio has mostly recorded his raps with very bassy beats. Nuez provides a Southern vibe, more relaxed and less heavy on the bass, which allows to Rio shine. At this point it’s evident that Rio da Yung Og saves his best lines for his solo work (just compare this EP with simultaneously released Heatcheck EP, a collaborative work with artists of varying degrees of talent). In fact, the whole 21 minutes seem to be recorded in one single sleepless studio session with Rio freestyling his way through under the heavy influence of lean. This is Rio at his most desperate, just before his five-year bid in the federal pen. On “Whatchu Need” and “Last Call” (thanks to Nuez’s production) he sounds close to the early Scarface in a paranoid mode.

Ray Garraty

Ben Roidl-Ward and Zachary Good — arb (Carrier)

arb by Zachary Good and Ben Roidl-Ward

A decade back, bassoonist Ben Roidl-Ward and clarinetist Zachary Good were students at Oberlin College. The two friends formed a duo, The Arboretum, which performed new works. Nowadays they teach and perform separately, but share an apartment in Chicago. When the city got locked down and their gigs dried up, they revived the band, after a fashion. The six pieces on arb (named after that first project), which clocks in at just under half an hour, focus on a single musical phenomenon. Each musician plays sustained multiphonics (a technique whereby a horn player sings or hums a note while playing another) that are pitched close enough that their sounds interfere as well as blend with one another. The interactions can be dramatic; on “Guby,” the clarinet sounds like it is keying morse code into the fabric of the bassoon’s timbres. Listening to this music is a bit like staring at a heat mirage; the harder and longer you focus, the less certain you are of your own perceptions.

Bill Meyer.

Rotura — Estamos Fracasando (Self-released)

Estamos fracasando by Rotura

This new EP of melodic anarcho-punk from Barcelona is deceptively breezy stuff. Rotura’s guitars have some crunch and the rhythm section is tight — think Subhumans c. Rats meets Orange County in 1982. But the alto vocals of Silvia (no last names provided) are clean and tuneful, and there are seductive hooks galore. All the musical excitements and pleasures contrast with the intense reports of misery and struggle in the lyrics. “Pisadas (Confinament)” sounds like a COVID-period song, documenting the sound of footsteps resounding through a network of deserted streets and abandoned shops; “Sobrevivir”engages the manifold alienations and inhumanities that attend the refugee crisis in Europe’s Mediterranean nations. Upbeats subjects, those ain’t. But the music keeps your hips shaking and your head nodding. Rotura constructs lively sonic spaces in which to encounter some sharply political punk discourse. One of the EP’s best songs is “Palabras,” which sets to music a poem included in Svetlana Alexandrovna Alexievich’s The Unwomanly Face of War (1987); like much of that book, “Palabras” speaks in the voice of a female combat veteran of the Soviet Army, one who served in World War II. It’s a terrific song, from a very good punk record.

Jonathan Shaw

Sahara — The Curse (Regain Records)

The Curse by Sahara

Argentine miscreants Sahara bill themselves as a “stoner doom” band, and one wonders why anybody would willingly self-apply a label so surpassingly stupid to music they made and presumably care about. The middle-schooler-with-a-magic-marker degree of technical polish on the art for the cassette’s j-card doubles down on the crispy-fried semiotics — but sort of lovably so. This reviewer was rather charmed. If you can penetrate the choking layers of weed smoke and unironic hesherdom to press play, you may be pleasantly surprised. Sahara’s songs don’t evoke Kyuss or Acid Witch nearly so much as Blue Cheer, and that’s a really good thing. It’s power-trio, bluesy-boogie music, played by dudes who cut their teeth on Master of Reality and No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith (with just a little Physical Graffiti in the mix, for the boogie). While no wheels are being reinvented (or competently balanced, for that matter), there’s a winning rawker quality to the enterprise, kicked up a notch or three by the unambiguously great time these guys are having playing the tunes. It won’t be for everyone: it sounds like it was recorded in someone’s Dad’s garage, and the songs have titles like “Altar of Sacrifice” and “The Curse (instrumental).” But if you love the fact that they included “(instrumental)” in parens, it could be for you. Buyer beware: when listening, you may find yourself suddenly craving a sheet of brownies. The entire sheet.

Jonathan Shaw

Bernard Santacruz / Michael Zerang — Cardinal Point (Fundacja Sluchaj)

Cardinal Point by Bernard Santacruz & Michael Zerang

French bassist Bernard Santacruz and Assyrian-American percussionist Michael Zerang have encountered each other in larger ensembles on either side of the ocean since the turn of the century, but it took them until the autumn of 2019 to record a distillation of their musical concord. Beyond their shared history, they are matched in depth of experience. Both were born in the latter half of the 1950s, and each has passed through a myriad of improvisational settings on their way to developing their respective styles. Santacruz is an economical player with a beautiful, rounded tone. Zerang can supply whatever rhythm you need, but whenever freed from time-keeping requirements, he gravitates to sounds that project the movement and friction required to make them. So, while this is a record made with drums and a double bass, it’s by no means a groove-bound affair; melodic fragments confront seething ruptures, and strings and skins knot together into thickets of texture. Each man maintains his individuality while they jointly solve the problems of collaborative music-making.

Bill Meyer

Ignaz Schick & Oliver Steidle — ILOG2 (Zarek)

ILOG2 by Ignaz Schick & Oliver Steidle

These two German gentlemen lay down a bizarre yet intriguing hybrid of free jazz, hip hop and musique concrète on their sophomore effort as a duo. Schick is a serial collaborator who divides his time between turntablism and saxophone skronk. Steidle, on the other hand, is rooted in the free jazz world as a drummer. Together they conjure two distinct modes: ADHD-inspired percussion-and-noise workouts and atmospheric electronics-forward soundscapes. Between these two disparate personalities, the more aggressive one tends to dominate. It’s in this high-energy state that the duo dwells in the worlds of hip hop, jungle and free jazz. Steidle’s drumming is out in front, as he deftly throws himself around the kit with the enthusiasm of Lightning Bolt’s Brian Chippendale. Schick takes an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach to noise-making. His Bomb Squad-meets-Pierre Schaeffer method of weaving snippets of speech, instrumental passages, drones, and blasts of noise is the perfect foil for Steidle’s frenetic skin-pounding. Schick and Steidle tug at the outer limits of beat-making with their unusual blend of electro-acoustic sound, and while they let a slight touch of the ethereal temper their blaze, the sparks still fly.

Bryon Hayes

John Tejada — Year Of The Living Dead (Kompakt)

Year Of The Living Dead by John Tejada

On Year Of The Living Dead, John Tejada chases the human through machines, seeking the traces of connection and shadows of loss blurred by the conditions we continue to live through. His minimal dub-inflected techno is immaculately produced and composed rather than constructed. Suffused with warmth and emotional depth, Tejada employs a sonic palette the elasticity of which makes his music generously expansive and resonant. Melancholy chord progressions, heartbeat percussion, a bottom end in turns ominous and cocooning. The 4X4 structure provides a framework in which Tejada is free to focus on the granular aspects of tone, pitch, ebb and flow so that while on the surface his brand of microhouse may sound “all the same” there is both plenty of interest for home listeners and danceable beats for the more active. There’s no abrasion here, no confrontation, little to challenge but Tejada’s music moves along with the relentless soft power of molten molasses.

Andrew Forell

Tree — Soul Trap (self-released)

SOUL TRAP by TREE

Tremaine Johnson is one of those heads who’s been around the block. He’s gotten that MTV airtime, he’s done records with Chris Crack and Vic Spencer, he’s outlasted a car company that sponsored one of his EPs, he’s performed at Pitchfork. But maybe more than anything, the Chicago rapper and producer wants to make sure he doesn’t forget his roots as the father of “soul trap” — and you don’t, either. Following steadily on from 2020’s abbreviated The Blue Tape and nearly two years on from his last proper full-length We Grown Now, Tree has lost none of his step as he rounds 40 years aboard this tainted orb exuding the confidence of a relaxed auteur rowing through verses and songs at his own pace; his sandpaper vocals sound at ease with his beats as he addresses negotiating parenthood, bills, the creation and maintenance of his art. Though these tracks had reportedly been sitting around for years before Soul Trap’s release, listening to this album only goes to serve the greater point that the man has a style out of step and time with his contemporaries. That’s worth more than remembering; it’s worth celebrating.

Patrick Masterson

Dave Tucker / Pat Thomas / Thurston Moore / Mark Sanders — Educated Guess (577 Records)

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Hale, hearty, and steeped in the lore of a multitude of American underground art movements, Thurston Moore always seemed like a guy who was creatively rooted in his native soil. But he seems to have found solid footing since moving to England. On this record, he fits right into an improvising ensemble that is composed of Café Oto regulars. Keyboardist Pat Thomas, drummer Mark Sanders and guitarist and electronic musician Dave Tucker, who convened the quartet, are all long-standing members of London’s improvised music scene. But Moore, a punk from way back when, was probably quite tickled that Tucker played with the Fall for a brief spell in 1981. The sound they develop over the course of this set is pleasingly unbounded, with fragments of monster movie sound design and some jungle-style drum machine beats that could have been pulled from a pirate radio broadcast in 1994 sharing space with cavernous prepared piano, restless percussive exploration, and Moore sounding just like himself, but respectfully restrained when the moment demands.

Bill Meyer

Karima Walker — Waking the Dreaming Body (Keeled Scales)

Waking the Dreaming Body by Karima Walker

Karima Walker’s second album considers the full-ness of empty space. Her songs, if that’s what they are, arise out of soft, slow drones that fluctuate in a natural way, like tides or winds or aurora borealis. They incorporate natural desert sounds captured from near at hand as she locked down in Arizona, and they unfold in a sublimely gradual way as if, like the growth of plants, the movement of continents, the melting of snow, they cannot be rushed but must proceed on their own terms. She sings, a bit, in brief, dream-haunted phrases that seem as distant and unknowable as the organ tones that swell around her. “Reconstellated” best represents her eerie blend of human and electronic sounds, internal dialogue and the wide spaces of the natural world. She murmurs, “Sonoran sky plays a movie/Draw a line to the stars inside of me/Write it down, tell your friends/I know where I am but I can’t tell where I started,” against a blipping, percolating atmosphere. The title track is, by contrast, several orders folkier and more conventional, a gentle conjunction of acoustic guitar and Walker’s clear, trilling soprano, as she considers the way the ineffable intersects with the mundane. “Seems every morning starts the same way, waking the dreaming body,” she croons in this track near the end of the album, coming up into the daylight after a long nocturnal exploration.

Jennifer Kelly

Whisker — Moon Mood (Husky Pants)

Moon Mood by Whisker

Bassist Andrew Scott Young and multi-instrumentalist Ben Billington are luminaries of Chicago’s experimental jazz and electronic scenes as members of Tiger Hatchery, soloists and collaborators with a range of local groups. In Moon Mood the duo performs two lengthy improvisations for double bass and electronics. Young’s bass is to the fore, and his bow work is particularly expressive as he explores the registers of his instrument. Billington works a number of patches to interpolate all nature of blips and plinks and squelchy runs that respond to and interrogate the bass. The workouts are as much an investigation of sonic limits as a demonstration of the sympathetic interaction between natural and artificial sounds, if that is even a worthwhile dichotomy these days. Moon Mood is a fascinating conversation well worth eavesdropping on.

Andrew Forell

Wode — Burn in Many Mirrors (20 Buck Spin)

Burn In Many Mirrors by Wode

The guys in Manchester-based band Wode play black metal, but they don’t wear corpsepaint or futz around with severed goat’s heads and candelabras. That’s a good thing, because their music has bombast aplenty. Any additional theatrics might send the project over into a species of irritating kitsch. When Wode’s music works — as it does on “Lunar Madness,” the first track on the band’s latest LP, Burn in Many Mirrors — it’s muscular stuff, with terrific momentum and gut-thudding energy. Throughout the song, vocalist Michael Czerwoniuk does his usual stuff, chewing the sonic scenery, plentiful groans and gurgles punctuating all his shouting. Even in the maximalist context of black metal vocals, he’s a handful. But on “Lunar Madness,” there’s enough interest and excitement generated by the rhythms and riffs to offset his histrionics. A couple songs on the record are shaped by oft-handled forms, and rely overmuch on Czerwoniuk’s outsized presence; upon listening to “Fire in the Hills,” you may find yourself flashing on the self-parodic antics of Jim Dandy Mangrum, or on metal heroics that were already tired on records like Bark at the Moon. That’s too bad. When Wode clicks as a unit, they can make compelling sounds. “Sulphuric Glow” moves at a dead run for nearly the entirety of its five minutes, and while Czerwoniuk’s vocal stylings are still a bit much, the riffs are fluid and furious. If he could just dial stuff back to 11, folks might be able hear the rest of the band. They’re pretty good.

Jonathan Shaw

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minervacasterly · 5 years ago

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History behind The Spanish Princess (season 1), Prince Arthur part 3: More than his brother's Shadow This will be the final chapter on my Arthur series, and before I start, I want to thank all the history buffs who liked and commented my previous posts. You guys are awesome. One of the main gripes that I have about how Arthur is depicted in popular media is that rather being a fully developed character, he’s presented as a foil -the complete opposite of his brother- to further enhance Henry VII’s qualities. We saw this in the BBC 1970 miniseries and we’ve also seen it countless times in historical fiction. In spite of its obvious historical inaccuracies, I will give Starz some credit because we did get to a brief glimpse of a regal looking Arthur who’s eager to make his father proud and takes his duties seriously. The novel went further showing him to be arrogant even. PG probably got this assumption based on his bawdy remarks the morning after his wedding night when he told his servants and curious friends that he was dying for a drink after spending the night in Spain. Given his education, the expectations and heavy burden placed on his shoulders, and on top of that, his age, can anyone really blame him for acting like any teen would in his position? No one at the time knew the repercussions that his remarks would bring to Catherine and her daughter with his younger brother, Henry VIII. As far as anyone was aware, Arthur, a handsome, healthy looking young man of fifteen would outlive his father by many years. By the time his old man died, he and Catherine would have a litter of royal babies, securing the Tudor Dynasty for good. The fact that he died young is what has made countless historians and fiction writers speculate on his health and assume that had he lived, he would have been a sickly king just like his father’s uncle, the last Lancastrian king, Henry VI. While Henry VII DID lobby to turn his uncle into a saint and like his predecessor, continued to capitalize on the cult that grew around him; he wasn’t ignorant about the sort of king he was. Had he been less indecisive, the scholarly and religious traits that Henry VII admired and stressed on his son’s tutors to make sure that Arthur came to embody them as well, would have made him one of the most admired kings of his age. But as it was, he was a timid, terribly insecure individual whose character flaws -among other things- is what drove his dynasty to the ground. Therefore, using the same rule book that had been created by his father-in-law, Edward IV, on the education of a crown prince, he and his mother, Margaret Beaufort, added other clauses that focused on his physical education. Arthur’s religiosity, physique and intellectual curiosity was praised by his Humanist contemporaries. In his biography on the king of England that never was, Sean Cunningham, shows the plethora of books he consumed on an almost daily basis and how as he got older, he became more interested in government, not merely learning about it through passively observing royal officials running his principality. Similarly, his wife also instructed by the best minds in her native country. Both Elizabeth of York, his mother, and grandmother, Margaret Beaufort represented two ideals of feminine virtue. Catherine’s embodiment of both of these ideals wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by the young prince who would have come to value her wisdom and appreciate her company. Arthur’s court would have seen the same ostentatious displays of pageantry and jousts of Henry VIII’s court, albeit less frequently since his instructors made a habit of reminding the young prince of the sins of his predecessors, including that of his legendary namesake whose passions had led to the destruction of Camelot. I can’t stress this enough, that just as Henry VIII was praised by his contemporaries throughout his reign, especially during the first years when he was married to Catherine; so was Arthur. He was the CROWN PRINCE after all. The heir, so it makes obvious sense that the heir and NOT the spare, was going to have a rigorous and strict upbringing to prepare him for the challenges ahead. The more we read about Arthur, the more we get a glimpse into an alternate reality, ruled by a king who would have surrounded himself with scholars, and put on ostentatious displays meant to dazzle foreigners and earn him the envy of other Christian kings. Other suggested reading: Catherine of Aragon and Lost Kings by Amy Licence, Henry VII by SB Chrimes and Margaret Beaufort by Elizabeth Norton.

#Prince Arthur #Tudor #History #Henry VIII #the spanish princess #Fact vs fiction

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arthurjdrake · 4 years ago

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TIMING: Simultaneously with the finale chatzy. LOCATION: Arthur’s House PARTIES: Arthur & @humanmoodring SUMMARY: Nadia and Arthur finally have a heart to heart about the ghost that continues to haunt her memories and discuss the healing possibility that help from others might lend with ZERO interruptions.

TW: Vomit, Descriptions of injury & Blood

With Nadia coming over for a meal and general catch-up Arthur had taken the time to speak to Elena (as best as he could converse with the ghost) about staying upstairs if possible. She hadn’t seemed too happy if the message on his fridge was anything to go by, but judging by the lack of interference he had to his cooking he figured he’d convinced her well enough for the time being. The food was just in the oven - chicken parmigiana wrapped with parma ham, smothered in a homemade tomato sauce and mozzarella with a side of jersey salad and creamy mashed potatoes. He’d also gotten out a bottle of red to share, keenly aware of the fact they had also talked about discussing her mysterious history. Life had taught him one thing, and that was such talks were often helped along with the fortification of a good drink. He was just grabbing the plates out of the cupboard when the doorbell rang, hurrying through the house he pulled the door open with a smile. “Hey there, come in, come in” he ushered stepping back “not too tricky to find me I hope?”

The first thing Nadia noticed when she pulled up to Arthur’s house was that it was really fucking nice. Not in, like, an ostentatious way, but still impressive. She let out a low whistle as she got out of her truck and brushed off the front of her sweater a bit nervously, the material soft and comforting and nice even if the weather was getting pretty warm. Sweaters always seemed like an extra layer of protection to Nadia, and she felt like she needed it. Not because she thought Arthur was going to judge her harshly; she didn’t think that at all. But she’d never had this conversation in person. Not really. However, she wanted to tell Arthur in person. After everything he’d done for her, he deserved it. More than, really. In person was a bit more vulnerable, though, forcing her to deal with emotions, her own emotions, when writing allowed her to kind of distance herself from that. Still, she needed to do this. She smiled at Arthur as he let her in. “Not tricky at all. Nice house, by the way.” She looked around at the open space, relaxing a bit. It suited him, warm and inviting just as he’d been for as long as she’d known him. She shot him a look of concern. “How are you feeling, by the way? All healed up?”

Arthur could understand the use of clothes to help present the appearance and persona you wanted the world to believe and see you for. People, regardless of how good or non-judgemental they claimed to be, all formed first impressions by sight even if it was subconscious. Unlike the more formal appearance he presented at work, typically opting for suits and far more formal attire here in the space of his his home Arthur’s attire was by far more casual. A white tri-blend tee layered under a black and white flannel check shirt with the sleeves folded up above the elbow left intricately monochrome inked (and typically covered) arms free to play host. “Thanks,” he grinned warmly, “not bad isn’t it? Here, take your shoes off… I’ve got food on.” Though the moment of concern softened his grin to a smile, naturally inclined to settle other people’s concerns with words or general physical affection he reached out touching her elbow briefly though the heat of his skin always came as a shock to most people considering his body temperature averaged around 120°F. “All fixed and in working order, promise. Come on, wine and food that I hope you won’t judge too harshly considering your mum’s standards, yeah?”

It was nice to hang out with Arthur in a more laid back setting. Not that working stopped him and Nadia from teasing each other, but there was still always the added factor of them making sure to spend time researching. But the relaxing atmosphere was helping her considerably. It was cool to see Arthur’s tattoos, to see him as a young man and not just a wise, immortal being. This could almost be considered normal, if he wasn’t actually a wise, immortal being and she wasn’t here to tell him about her life. They were just two colleagues, two friends, eating dinner and catching up after a series of hectic weeks. “It’s fantastic, Arthur. And it suits you, too.” She unlaced her boots and sat them neatly near the front door before following him to the kitchen. Arthur’s touch was warm, hot, really, but she didn’t mind. She never felt warm anymore, hadn’t much since she woke up, so the heat was nice. “I’m glad you’re doing better.” Nadia followed him to the kitchen, where the food he’d prepared already smelled wonderful and, she had no doubt, would give her ma a run for her money. “Dude, I’m sure it’s gonna be fantastic. Especially if those cheesecakes were any indication.”

There were certain boundaries that had to be maintained at work, but it was nice to just step back and relax. “A part of me wonders if it’s too big… But in comparison to where I was it’s so much better,” Arthur explained as he wandered through to the kitchen while Nadia unlaced her boots. “It’s not really surprising, I patch up fast even from the worst of states,” there was mild humour in his tone even if the topic wasn’t the most cheery. By the time she joined him he was already pouring a couple of glasses of wine out, setting them on the counter as he went to plate up the salad. “Maybe, can’t say I’ve ever had to compete with someone’s mother when it comes to cooking though.” He grabbed a tea towel, folding it over and pulled open the oven to grab the baking tray out “where did you grow up? What was your life like before… All this supernatural shit? Can’t say I’ve ever asked.” After all, tonight was about getting to know one another.

It was a lot of space, probably too much for Nadia, but that didn’t make it any less homey. Touches of Arthur were all throughout the place as she looked around, eventually wandering to the kitchen. Even though she trusted his words, she looked him over closely. She couldn’t see any noticeable signs of damage. She gave a nod, pleased that he was better. “Those tears really do work wonders, huh?” She took a glass of wine and watched as he dealt with the food, wondering if she should help. “I mean, you stand a fighting chance. It’s been years since I’ve eaten my mom’s cooking.” God, could she even remember what it tasted like? “Do you need any help?” She could probably help him get plates and utensils if he showed her where everything was. As for her past… “I mean, the here and now’s always been more vital, dude.” She felt awkward; after months of giving the bear minimum, she was now having to figure out how to share about her life again. Like she’d ever done it before. Even back before White Crest, before the possession, she’d been shit at this kind of thing. “Uh, I’m from Phoenix, Arizona.” She smiled a bit. “Sometimes it’s kind of funny that I work for an actual phoenix. Can’t really lose my roots, I guess. But, uh, my dad’s Cuban. My mom’s Italian-American, from Chicago. How the fuck they ended up in the fucking desert of all places is anyone’s guess, but…” That was very little about her, about her life. “I mean,” she laughed drily, “my life kind of sucked before I woke up here. I was a lonely kid, a lonely teenager, only one real friend in college. Then, she left, and I went a little wild for awhile and,” and she got possessed, but the words were thick in her mouth. She took a drink. “Yeah. But what about you? What’s this life been like?”

“Bring you back from the brink of death more or less, last I heard they’re one of the rarest commodities on the black market… Not easy to get your hands on them. Phoenixes are rare to come upon and even harder to pick out of a crowd.” Arthur didn’t mind, it wasn’t the most complex meal but it tasted good and that was what mattered. “I think I’m alright here, could you grab the knives and forks out that draw there? Second one down,” he pointed out a drawer not far from where she was. “True, but it’s nice to know where people come from,” he countered lightly not in a prying sense but a simple sharing of opinion from someone that liked to get to know others. “Huh, go figure,” he laughed quietly at the irony but grew quiet as Nadia spoke.

Taking the plates over to the table nearby and setting them down he nodded along, but his expression grew sympathetic as she trailed off and he didn’t press for the time being. He settled in his chair, contemplating the answer “it’s been… I’ve been lucky, Mercy’s always tried her best whenever I’ve had to be rehomed… Always tried to put me with good people” it didn’t always work, but she tried and that’s what counted in his mind. “I was adopted by a couple from London, stayed there most of my life - school, the works. I was an only child which had its perks but I think I would’ve liked a sibling... My parents had… big expectations for me, and it was hard not to cave under the effort of trying to carry and live up to them.”

He took a sip of wine seeming to grow quieter, “I’m thankful for every opportunity they gave me but it was hard - coming to terms and trying to understand what I was without anyone there to help me understand…” he rested his chin on his hand “thought I was losing my mind when I started getting flashes of all these past lifetimes. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on. Did every scan under the sun… Eventually I knew better than to mention it… Until it eventually came back what I was.” It hadn’t been the easiest journey but he’d gotten there. “Anyway, how’s the food?”

“You need to keep safe, then.” Hearing that his tears were incredibly rare and valuable did nothing to help soothe Nadia. Worrying about Arthur getting attacked because of what he was added itself to her list of things to look out for when it came to her friends. She grabbed the silverware and helped him set the table before they sat down, a lot on her mind.

She smiled a bit as he mentioned how Mercy made sure he was well taken care of. “She’s a good friend, I can tell.” She remembered the older woman’s request, trying to think about how to best go about asking him what he wanted for his birthday. She’d figure out how to do that later. At the mention of him being an only child, she nodded. “I was an only kid, too. I was enough trouble on my own, and I was the kind of kid that wanted-- well, needed to be alone sometimes. Both my parents came from big families, though. I’m sure they wanted more kids, but I was a handful, I guess.”

She took a bite of food, savoring the flavor of it. She couldn’t remember her mother’s cooking. She couldn’t. It was a bit depressing to think about, but she figured that if Arthur’s cooking wasn’t just as good, it was a close fucking second. There were so many things from her life in Phoenix that she was beginning to realize that she was forgetting. The taste of her ma’s cooking, the type of beer her father drank, the color of Brooke’s eyes. She knew what it was like to get flashes of things that she didn’t understand, even if it was for different reasons that Arthur. “I think you’ve done a good job with getting from where you were to where you are now, for what it’s worth,” she told him. She took another bite of food. After she swallowed, she said, “It’s fucking fantastic.”

“I’m as safe as houses, barely anyone knows about me - besides you, Evelyn and Mercy… That’s it. And it’s how I’d prefer to keep it.” Arthur often got frustrated when people treated him with kid gloves because of his physicality, and it occasionally led to random acts of attempted heroics to try and prove them otherwise - which almost always ended up proving their point that he was extremely breakable. “Plus,” he added as an afterthought, “out of most supernaturals phoenixes are usually the ones that blend in the easiest… Except for the pinfeathers. But other than that we don’t have weird feeding habits, we don’t prey on people… We just… live.”

“She is. A pain in the ass at times, but I wouldn’t trade her for anything,” he admitted fondly. It was nice to be able to relate to someone in a way, “it’s weird, I get flashes of my first life - fragments really, but I had loads of siblings and I hated it… Yet now I hate not having them,” he supposed it just went to show what you took for granted at times. “Ah, yeah I was always too worried to act up as a kid… Felt like every moment had to count for something or else I’d somehow failed…” not the healthiest mentality for a child to have, but looking back he could recognise his faults. “But I get that - wanting to be alone, silence is good when you just need to recharge but sometimes you need people to balance that…”

He ate a few mouthfuls, a comfortable silence settling over the room between the clinks of cutlery and occasional sip of wine. Nadia’s remark broke the silence and he gave her a smile, “you too… You’re a long way from home,” it was an idle remark, made in passing contemplation of the little information she’d given “ life isn’t easy, but we all make the best of what we have don’t we? It’s what we do with it that truly counts for anything.” His smile broadened at the compliment, “if that’s the verdict on the dinner no clue what you’ll say about dessert.”

“That’s good,” Nadia said, glad she’d been cautious when talking to people about Arthur. If anyone guessed anything about him, it was probably that the man might be a spellcaster of some kind. She really had thought he was, like, a wizard or something after the way he’d healed after their first meeting, with his more bookish tendencies, and, as he’d mentioned, his mostly human facade. “You blend in pretty well. I don’t think I’d have guessed what you were if you hadn’t told me. I mean, I knew a bit about phoenixes in mythology, but I don’t know if I’d have figured you out.”

She smiled at the way he fondly talked of Mercy, reminding her of the way the woman referred to him online. They cared about each other, and it was nice to see. Nice to be able to feel, though it was muted and muddled. “I mean, you two have known each other for forever. Literally.” What was it like to know someone for that long? She couldn’t imagine. She also couldn’t imagine siblings. “I think it was for the best that I grew up alone.” Though, who knew? Maybe she’d be better at the emotions thing. Or, possibly, she’d be worse. “I didn’t act up too much. I kept my grades up and was usually quiet, even though I listened to the wrong kinds of music. My father and I got frustrated with each other a lot. He was always mad, and I always wanted to know why. When I couldn’t figure it out, I gave him reasons.” She took a drink, feeling like she was talking too much. She was talking too much, and about the wrong things. This wasn’t why she’d come here.

Nadia was a long way from home. She was as far away from home as she could be while still being in the same country. She missed home sometimes so much that it ached. But she knew she couldn’t go back. The few people that had she’d known and loved didn’t feel the same about her. “We’re both a long way from home,” she said quietly. She raised her glass to him. “You’re right. We’ve just got to make the best of it. Personally, I’m glad to be here. In spite of how I got here.” She grinned. “If deserts better than dinner, you might be stuck with me. Sorry, but you’ve provided me with a job, good conversation, and stellar food. I’d be a fool to leave.”

“That’s how I’d prefer it to be, most people make the mistake… I’m happy to let them believe it.” If not for certain other traits it was vaguely passable and Arthur would happily stick to that story because it meant keeping him off people’s radar for what he truly was.

“Yeah, kind of crazy when you think about it. She’s barely ever missed a birthday or like-- anything. Even though I can’t even remember my original one now.” It was part of what kept them both sane and in touch with the world around them. “Though doesn’t mean she doesn’t drive me mad at times,” he huffed, but regardless the words were spoken fondly. “You think?” who could say what anyone would be, circumstances and situations played a role in affecting how a person turned out. It didn’t do to dwell for long, but it was a curious thing to contemplate occasionally. Hearing Nadia explain her dynamic with her father caused him to cock his head a little, “it’s hard. Parents are just trying their best to stop kids falling into the same traps they did… But often I find in trying to avoid them they often help steer a path directly towards them anyway. Sometimes you just need to know when to be upfront.”

“True…” he raised his own cup marginally, “to finding new homes” and new families. Though that was left unsaid. “Yeah? I’m still not sure I’m sold - like on one hand it’s great to be in a place with so many other supernaturals but the risk of death or serious maiming is a big damper on truly enjoying it. You know?” He finished up his plate, looking humoured by the remark “well, offer’s always there if you need a place to crash and there’s always food to spare in my kitchen.” Gathering the plates up he headed back to the kitchen, dropping them in the dishwasher before returning with a plate of coconut and passion fruit slices. “Come on,” he waved her over from the dining table towards the lounge and the vivarium situated to one side of it where his tortoises roamed. “Get comfy.” Then they could sit down and talk.

“It’s certainly a good way to protect yourself,” Nadia said, still thinking about what Arthur mentioned about his tears being valuable on supernatural black markets. She dreaded to think what would happen to her friend if someone captured him to use just to make a few dollars.

“Birthdays are pretty important,” she said with a grin. “Speaking of birthdays, when’s yours?” She knew the answer thanks to Mercy, but it’d be best to hold off on that information. She still needed to figure out what he might possibly want, both for the valkyrie and for herself. She wanted to get him something nice, too. Even if she went with what she told Mercy and went the more homemade route. Time, effort, those were the kinds of gifts she’d appreciated when she actually gave a damn about that kind of thing. Birthdays hadn’t been a big deal for Nadia in years, though, even before the possession. These days, she’d appreciated being about to not think about it, drink a little by herself, and then not sleep. It’d been an average day of a birthday, and that had been what she wanted. She appreciated Arthur’s approach to talking about parents. It gave her a good out. “Yeah, everybody says they want better for their kids. Sometimes they just, like, go about it the wrong way, I guess.”

That was the kind of toast she could get behind. She took a drink and laughed, thinking about all the shit she’d been through during the last few months. “Oh, White Crest is hell. Like, probably literally? I was getting sent giant pallets of salt by a company run by demons. But I’ve felt more comfortable here than I have anywhere else, even back home. I have a job that I’ve always wanted and more friends than I’ve ever had in my life.” She grinned as they moved to the sitting area. “I might not crash on your couch, but don’t tempt me to come raid your fridge, Arthur.” She got situated, looking around for the tortoises she’d heard so much about. She was putting off the inevitable, really.

“It’s worked this long, though so far as the hunters I’ve met in town… Most don’t really seem all that good at their jobs, which… isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Arthur remarked thoughtfully. “But yeah, it’s worked so far so… I’ll keep on that track.”

“Mine? Depends, the original - I can’t remember but apparently it was sometime in winter but in this lifetime it’s around the twentieth of June… That��s the day I’ve celebrated though it might be out by a little bit.” Considering there was a period between him coming back and Mercy finding a family to place him with but more or less that was the way it had always been. It worked well enough so no point trying to fix what wasn’t broken. “How about you?” It’d be useful to know for himself, so he could try to arrange something for Nadia when hers did come around. It seemed like the right and good thing to do after all.

“It’s been referred to as a hellmouth in most of the texts I’ve read soooo… take that one how you will” he huffed, this truly was one of the most weird and interesting places he’d ever lived in his life. “By demons? You didn’t sign any contracts right?” He shifted as he settled on the sofa, folding a leg up comfortably. “You’re welcome to it, always spare food. I’ve got four spare rooms going upstairs as well if you ever do feel the need especially to escape those uh, screams…” But that was beside the point, he took a bite of the dessert square looking over at her. “So… You don’t like ghosts?” it was a gentle prod to hopefully lay the path for the true conversation this night was meant to be about.

Snorting a bit, Nadia thought about the hunters that she personally knew. Alain and Kaden were both good guys, even if she didn’t believe in the same things as them. She couldn’t imagine them hunting Arthur down just to sell his tears on the black market. But, then again, she didn’t really know them while they were hunting. Better safe than sorry. “Yeah, that’s smart.”

She nodded. “Twentieth’s pretty soon,” she said with a smile. “You know I’m gonna get you something, right? You could help a gal out, you know, give her a hint, maybe?” She twirled the stem of her wine glass slowly. “I mean, it was back in February. The twenty-third. I didn’t really celebrate.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t that big of a deal.” All things considered, it had been an alright birthday. It had just been a regular Sunday, which is exactly what she’d wanted.

“Hellmouth is fuckng right,” Nadia muttered. “No, no contract. Someone signed me up for a subscription. It’s been, like, cancelled now, though.” She relaxed a little, taking another drink of her wine. “I’ll definitely keep it in mind. My apartment’s mostly scream free… Mostly.” She grimaced a bit, thinking about the essential oils subscription and what a bitch that was going to be. “On second thought, I might be over here, like, once a month. Just when she gets a package delivered.” She picked up a desert square of her own, but, with his question, she wasn’t feeling too hungry. Nadia gave a slight laugh. “Not really ghosts so much as one in particular. But they,” she paused, “scare me.” She ran a hand through her hair. “One of them kind of, like, ruined my life, so.”

“It is,” Arthur agreed to the date being near, but really what did it matter? It was just another year and another birthday. “Honestly, I don’t have much I want. I’d be happy with anything you got me you know? The sentiment is more what matters… Really I’d be happier with like… people coming over, having a meal and just a nice ordinary night you know? Pizza and beers, maybe a barbecue - I haven’t had a good barbecue in ages.”

“Signed you up for a subscription? What are they? Fae? They love their deals, almost as much as spellcasters do” he groaned as he leaned back into the sofa pulling one leg up and tucking it comfortably under the other that still hung off the cushions. “Mostly? She hasn’t done anything recently has she?” he paused gauging Nadia’s reaction to his next question “I’m guessing you know about her… supernatural thing right?”

But talk turned to ghosts, and Arthur tried to be tactful in his line of conversation. Though there was no easy way to let a conversation like this come about. “Right… I got the impression… Do you… I know it’s hard for you,” he started sympathetically, “do you want to walk me through what happened?”

Well, that was absolutely no help to Nadia for Mercy, but it did solidify her thought that he’d probably enjoy something with thought and effort over something expensive. “You know, a barbecue doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I still have leftover fireworks from a thing,” she said. Which, she’d told Erin it’d be for a barbecue. This would certainly make it less of a lie.

She laughed a little bit. “She thought she was doing something nice. It’s the thought that counts. And, like, at least I can look back on it and laugh, now.” Of course, she wasn’t laughing any time Regan’s subscriptions came in and the screaming started, but still. “I mean, she can get a bit… loud sometimes,” she said, wincing a bit. “Yeah, I know about her thing. It’s the worst kept secret ever.” She couldn’t say what Regan’s thing was since she was still bound by Deirdre’s promise, but she figured, if Arthur was mentioning screaming, then he knew. Really, the fact that Arthur knew wasn’t even surprising. At the rate things were going, everyone was going to know about Regan before Regan even knew.

Nadia took a bite of her desert square. It was good, but it still stuck to her throat. She swallowed tightly. “Yeah, yeah, I can walk you-- I mean, there’s really not too much to tell.” She laughed breathlessly, humorlessly. “I was, like, a junior in college. Everything was shitty. We-- me, my parents, my single friend-- we thought I was depressed, which, I mean. But I was getting some bad blackouts, sometimes for days at a time. My friend, she-- I mean, she left. Whatever.” She took a long sip of wine. “It got worse, nothing was helping. I’d wake up and not know where I was, who I was, what I was doing.” She could see herself in a mirror, covered in blood. Whose blood? Whose? “Then, I don’t know. I woke up in White Crest in late December a few months ago,” she said quietly. “Some kids had helped me out. A human soul’s worth thirty thousand dollars, in case you were wondering.”

“A thing?” Arthur inquired curiously, though considering how often fireworks were used for things in America it wasn’t all that surprising of a thing to hear someone say. “Well, if you want to come along you’re more than welcome to.”

“I guess so, though salt seems like an interesting thing to be signed up for…” Useful for ghosts amongst other supernatural things he supposed but he could see how bulk orders could soon stack up to be infuriating. “It is, Kaden accidentally told me but I wasn’t planning on mentioning it to her considering how she gets whenever that sort of stuff comes up in conversation.” It wasn’t surprising how entrenched people could become when the foundations of their very reality of life seemed to be under threat. In a way, Arthur felt bad for her but equally it was important to recognise the danger her denial posed to those that were around her. “The issue is, the longer her denial goes on the more harm she poses to those around her - including you, which unfortunately doesn’t sit very well with me.”

As Nadia spoke, Arthur remained quiet occasionally taking a sip of wine but otherwise he left her to tell her tale not wishing to interrupt her already staccato rhythm. “Do you know anything about the ghost that possessed you?” from the fragments of an overall tale it was clear enough to him that was what had happened. He set his glass aside, sitting forwards and reaching for Nadia’s hand slowly. A quiet show of support and reminder that he would always stand in her corner no matter what. Though he knew in a town like White Crest it wasn’t easy to say she wasn’t at risk again? “Has anything else like that happened while you’ve been here?” he asked, rubbing his thumb in a small soothing arc over her hand.

“I ended up not using them in the way I thought,” Nadia said breezily, not bothering to explain what exactly her “thing” was. Probably best to not mention blowing up the mime restaurant only to end up with the town invaded by mimes for weeks. Especially when those mimes ended up landing him in the hospital.

“Yeah, you ask a neighbor to borrow some salt one time, and you’re stuck with a reputation.” Not an unjustifiable one, though. Nadia kept salt lines up around her house for months, even after the banishment had been put up. She laughed a bit, thinking about just how Arthur bringing up Regan’s banshee-ness would go in a conversation. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. But she’s really not dangerous. Not intentionally. And as long as I can predict when something might upset her,” she flinched a bit, “which, okay, not the easiest, but she’d only really hurt me in person, and I can-- I’m a-- I feel people’s emotions-- empath, so if she starts getting upset or whatever I can kind of prepare for things.”

This time, when Nadia laughed, it was sharp and insincere. “She was a fucking criminal,and she made me a criminal, and she ruined my life for six fucking years.” She sagged a bit under Arthur’s touch, one knee pulled up to her chest and her head resting on it. She didn’t know why it was both relieving and exhausting to tell him this. Maybe it was because it was in person, and his comfort felt real, and having him be here and listen to her meant so much. She should tell him the truth, that she was scared about getting possessed again, that it’d happened more than once, that she knew her ghost hadn’t given up quite yet. Instead, she gave him a watery smile. “It’s been a bit touch and go for a while, but I should be in the clear, ghost wise, now. Just lingering shit, you know? I’m sure your ghost is great.”

“Well, I love fireworks and anything fire related so you’re welcome to bring them along if you want. We can annoy the neighbours with them.”

Arthur laughed at the sentiment, it was kind of funny to hear her say that out loud and the idea of these ridiculously cursed subscriptions was a little bit funny. “Who else got one? I’m curious to know what hellish gifts people were getting from this company.” Nadia did her best to dissuade his concerns, unfortunately, he was schooled enough to know that glass wasn’t the only thing a sound that loud could damage. “Do you know how sound breaks things?” it was a question of genuine curiosity but he explained anyway slipping easily into his more studious nature “it makes things vibrate. The pitch influences how fast those things vibrate and if it’s high and sustained enough things break because of that….” He paused, Nadia might have faith in Regan’s control but Arthur wasn’t quite so certain on the topic “the control is what concerns me… From the stuff I’ve seen people posting online about damage and stuff she doesn’t have it. And depending on what kind of decibels those screams are hitting… If someone’s stood too close they could be seriously injured and they could potentially die. There’s not much that can prepare you for death - and that’s me speaking from experience.” Perhaps it was a solemn subject to touch on, but he wanted to make sure Nadia was truly prepared for the potential consequences of continuing to associate with Regan. Perhaps it was unfair, Arthur knew it wasn’t her fault but Nadia’s well-being was of more paramount concern to him presently.

As she sagged, Arthur continued to hold her hand rubbing the calming pattern into her skin. “What is it you’re afraid people will judge you for?” she’d mentioned it online before they’d arranged this, but Arthur wanted to try and help her work through some of her concerns regarding the things that ahd happened to her - which in his opinion were far beyond her own control. But admitting that was hard and scary in itself. In the kitchen his phone buzzed, but he ignored it. He’d call whoever was phoning back later. He didn’t prompt her to look up from where she’d rested her head, curling into herself in a protective fashion he’d seen countless times across his lifetimes. “Is that what haunts you at night?” the question was softly spoken, “or is it the fear of what this ghost would do if they did come back?” It could very well be both, despite their similarities they were distinctly separate. One concerned the past, and one the future. Her watery smile earned a sympathetic look, and he shifted to wrap his arms around her pulling her in for a tight embrace of comforting warmth that radiated from him. “I get that, but there’s no need to be ashamed of being scared… Possession is… it’s a violation of your person. Your very rights. Being scared of having your control taken away is one of the most valid fears anyone could ever experience - and I’m sure this is something you already know, but it takes time to adjust to life after experiencing something like that…” He pulled back a fraction looking at her with a steady and intense look, “but-- I want you to know if you ever need me. I’m here and I’ll always have your back, no matter the time or how bad you think things are. I’ll always be in your corner. Hm?”

“You know, I don’t know if it was a subscription, but a woman in town was getting sent mayo and bones.” Nadia shivered just thinking about sticking her hands in that fucking mayo, the demon with the goat eyes’ voice in her head. “And you probably saw that Kaden was getting sent large baguettes. That was fun.” She sighed, knowing that what Arthur said about the vibrations was true. Still, she had faith that Regan would figure it out. “I know that her denial is… concerning. But she doesn’t want to hurt people, and I think that’s almost enough to, if not stop the denial, then to at least put her in the frame of mind to accept help. I’m hoping she’ll talk to someone.” She paused, thinking it over. Hanging out with Regan was high risk, high reward. High risk because it could kill her. High reward because she was Nadia’s best friend, and she was easy to spend time with. Besides. Nadia was beginning to enjoy taking risks. “I know she could kill me, but it’s not going to happen. One because that would be such a shitty thing to do to her. Two because I’m going to be careful, I promise. I don’t have a death wish. I’ve got six years to make up for.”

Six years-- almost seven, really-- that she’d never get back. Her relationship with her parents was gone. Even if she could somehow get all the charges against her dropped, it didn’t matter. There was a stain on her now, one that would never go away. She felt it like a ghost, saw it in the mirror every time she passed by. What was she afraid people would judge her for? She was scared they’d see her the way she did late at night when she could do nothing but think. “I’m afraid they won’t-- I’m afraid they’ll just see a criminal or worse. They’ll just see someone to be pitied.” One day, someone was going to look too close and see that something was missing. Maybe the only reason she saw it was because she knew who she was supposed to be before all of this. “I dream about what I did while-- or what I might’ve done. What I could've done.” Everyone died, usually, in her dreams, and she’s left alone all over again. Arthur’s arms around her was the last strike against her resolve. She gripped him tightly, tears in her eyes. “I don’t know who I am, these days,” she said roughly. “But thank you for trusting me and being in my corner.”

“Bones in mayo? Or both separately?” Arthur questioned in mild concern, “see the bones I wouldn’t mind so much… The mayo, eugh” he contorted his face and stuck his tongue out. Definitely not a fan of condiments. The mention of the baguettes made him laugh, “I saw that… Didn’t realise it was Regan’s doing - that’s even better,” he couldn’t help the laugh it was unfortunate but it was kind of funny as a bystander to watch the torment. Even he wasn’t above a good laugh occasionally especially considering the baguettes really didn’t seem like that bad of a thing to receive.

His mood grew a tad more serious “doesn’t want to, doesn't equate to won’t Nadia.” Ultimately, it wasn’t his job nor his position to lecture her or anyone else, but he would advise caution where he felt it was needed. Not that this wasn’t something she had no doubt considered, but he had to at least give himself the peace of mind of saying it out loud. Making sure she heard him and understood his concern for her well-being. “Fine… But it doesn’t mean I don’t think that this isn’t something she needs to come to terms with. Is there no one that can help her with it?”

“Which is understandable,” he said softly, “but sometimes pity, sympathy, compassion - whatever you want to call it from other people isn’t the worst thing in the world. Sometimes it does us a world of good to let someone else feel sorry, step in and help take care of you…” That wasn’t to say it was easy, “taking down those walls that you’ve built if only for a little while will probably help you find some peace and time to recharge.” He squeezed her hands affectionately, “being vulnerable takes a great deal of strength and mental fortitude… To be open to letting other people listen and help and the fact you’re here, that you’re talking about it is a step in the right direction.”

Arthur kept Nadia hugged tight for a long while, pressing her face to his shoulder as he rubbed his other hand over the curve of her spine. “You will. With time, I’m sure you will,” he assured her quietly holding on for a little while longer before he eventually pulled back his hands resting on her shoulders. “I’m proud of you Nadia.”

“Separately,” Nadia said. She pause. “I think? The bones and the mayo were equally bad because they were apparently human bones and had to be examined.” Honestly, after putting her hands in the shit, she planned to never even look at mayo ever again. Laughing along with him, she said, “It’s funny now, and I know she was just being nice, but damn. It was the fucking worse.”

She sighed. “I know. I know. But I trust her not to hurt me. Not intentionally, and I’d never blame her for an accident.” Nadia pinched the bridge between her nose. She didn’t want to keep talking about this. She appreciated Arthur’s words and the fact that he obviously cared for her. It was touching. Still, she was a big girl, even if she didn’t remember six years’ worth of life experiences. She knew how to be cautious, and she could make her own decisions, even if they were fucking stupid sometimes. “It is, and she will, eventually. She’ll get help. It’ll be alright. I believe that.”

Taking in his words was hard, even if Nadia knew they were true. Because she felt all of it—pity, sympathy, compassion— so vividly from other people, and she knew when they were sincere about it, but that didn’t change the way she was. Part of it was the way she was raised: distant parents that wanted to help her but didn’t know how when time after time nothing they did seemed to help. Part of it was also experience: everyone she’d let into her life before left, sometimes cruelly. Countless arguments and phone calls and conversations that led to heartbreak and disappointment weren’t worth it, in the end. She didn’t see her walls as walls; it was more like a suit of armor, and once someone found the flaws and worked their way in, rust was more likely to set in. At that point, armor’s less of a protection and more of a hindrance. She laughed a bit, even though she was crying. She hated the weakness, though she wouldn’t say so. “Being vulnerable sucks major ass, bird boss, but if this is a step in the right direction, then I’m willing to work on it.” Even if it led to more hurt in the end.

They stayed there for a bit, and Nadia allowed the rust to set in. One day, maybe she’d lay her armor down, wouldn’t need it. Maybe in White Crest was different than Phoenix in that way. She was finding comfort and warmth here that she’d never felt before, and that meant something, despite the shit show the place seemed to be. As Arthur leaned back, she wiped her eyes a bit. “Thank you, Arthur.”

As Nadia chose to insist again Arthur fought against the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine,” but it didn’t mean the worry didn’t linger after the fact. But he didn’t want to push too far into that conversation tonight. It wasn’t worth delving into.

Arthur knew his words probably weren’t new. But the lesson of building walls or plating armour plate on top of plate could keep the world and new experiences from ever coming into your life. They could keep you safe and warm but when you waded into waters too deep armour would only weigh you down until you ended up being swept away by the currents. Not to mention their capacity for keeping people at a distance and protecting yourself from hurt was perhaps one of the oldest things he’d seen people do but in the end they had always been left wanting and lonely. That wasn’t something he wanted to see happen to Nadia and if it meant working to keep her safe, to see her through to those better times then he’d happily put the graft in to help where he could. “I know and it might mean down the line you’re opening yourself up to hurt… But you’re opening yourself up to love as well and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that love is always worth the pain.”

“Ah, least I could do…” he smiled at her fondly, before moving to take his near empty wine-glass. “I think we’re in need for a refill.” With that he got up and headed back to the kitchen but not before ruffling her hair affectionately.

It was mid-pour in the kitchen that it happened. A heat throbbing from the scar on his left palm, the searing pressure as if some invisible force had taken him by the throat as though intent on collapsing it in on itself. He gagged, choking as he felt his air supply cut off, as if it had suddenly been sucked out of the room. The glass and bottle fell, seemingly in slow-motion but in reality it was mere seconds, the crimson swirl glistening preceding the ringing crash of his glass smashing into hundreds of shards on the stone floor. His hands grasp his throat as he staggered, falling as black spots swam across his vision. There was a brief moment of respite, before the pain caused his body to lurch and the cry of pain was stifled into a weak gurgle.

Arthur could never claim to know what it felt like to drown, he’d never been in water for as long as he’d existed. But the shock of icy brackish liquid was instantly debilitating. Strangely, he supposed it was the nearest thing he could imagine to being set on fire, though this was not the familiar warmth but a blistering heat that felt like every one of his cells was being set alight. He gasped for air, but seemingly swallowed only water. Over and over he gasped and gulped greedily, for any hint of oxygen yet the act only served to allow more and more deadly water to be inhaled and swallowed. Hold your breath! He tried fighting for as long as he could until every cell screamed let me breath; his mouth was forced ajar once more gasping again as the phantom water forced its way into his mouth, up his nose and into his bursting lungs.

Tears burned like vinegar as they ran down his cheeks. It hurts. He thought. Why does it hurt so much? Please, please make it stop. Please, I beg of you.

In his last conscious moments, he tried to open his eyes, to see something familiar, but all he saw was the inky darkness of eternal night and a name upon his lips. “Freyja.”

As Nadia sat waiting for Arthur to come back with their wine, she thought about the night’s events, how they went better than she could have expected. Maybe she needed to stop expecting people to hate her for all of this. No one, not a single person she’d talked about this with, blamed her for what happened. She knew, deep down, that she was the victim in the scenario, as much as she hated it. She’d been the one to be possessed, she’d had her life taken from her. She didn’t remember any of the things she’d done, didn’t know how truly awful they were. Still, there was a part of her that expected to be stronger. She had always thought that she could fight off whatever problems came her way. Metaphorically, of course. She wasn’t a big fighter, otherwise. Obviously, the fight had been taken out of her for six years.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sounds of glass shattering. Nadia jumped up from the couch and rushed into the kitchen, not sure what to expect. Certainly not Arthur, on the ground, water gurgling from his mouth, the corners of them burning from it. “No no no nonono,” she cried out as she ran to him, sliding on her knees a bit as she got close. She wiped away the water from his mouth, the tears from his cheeks. His pain, his fear and confusion, all of it was loud and awful in her head. She couldn’t imagine how bad it must be for him since she knew she didn’t feel everything. As he called out for Freyja, for Mercy, she pulled him into her lap, trying to make him comfortable. “It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.”

Closing her eyes, she begged for it to be okay. Because, truthfully, she didn’t know. For several minutes, she did her best to calm him and herself down. Before he passed out, he was acting like he was drowning, but he didn’t keep showing the symptoms once he was asleep. All she could do was offer him comfort, trying to assure him that he was alright. She moved them away from the spilled wine and waited for him to wake up. “Please, please be okay.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how long he was out for, seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time seemed to crawl to a stop as the darkness clouded his vision and a fatal liquid spilled from his mouth; corrosive like acid turning his mouth into a frothing grey mess and cracked his lips until they blistered and bled. His body contorted before it grew still, eyes unseeing and for a moment there was nothing.

He returned to consciousness with a rasping gurgled gasp, flopping over onto his side as he hacked up inky brackish water streaked with blood and spittal. His mouth burned and blearily he could make out someone else in the room with him. But only one thought was on his mind. “Mo-” he tried to say, but the word was cut off by another hacking cough that splattered beads of blood over the floor leaning over on his hands that crunched into the shards of glass on the floor.

“I-- mobile now” he felt faint, as if the world were about to spin away from him again if he moved too fast. But the world hardly mattered if the hollow ache that radiated from the palm of his hand was anything to go by. The lack of familiar warmth and connection from the person invisibly tethered on the other end. He slipped, tripping and catching himself as he blindly searched on the counter for his phone with a trembling hand.

When his fingers latched on, the device was wrenched off the counter and Arthur sank once more to the ground his back pressed into the cabinets. Hands shaking as he saw the missed calls and set about playing the voicemail she’d left. Fresh tears tracked down his face, stabbing the redial button and holding the phone to his ear. “Pickup pickup pickup. Pleasepleaseplease,” there was a strange desperation in the words.

It went to voicemail.

“Fuck!” he spat, jabbing the button again and waiting. Again, and again, and again.

Eventually, on the seventh try Arthur let the dial go through lines of healed skin contrasting to the gruesome maw of his mouth from the connection to Mercy’s death. “Frey? Frey! FUCK Please pick up, pleasepleaseplease. I need you to pick up right now and tell me you’re okay. I felt– it can’t– You didn’t–” he thumped his hand on the ground, blind to the glinting shards that pricked his skin and bled fresh trails of crimson through his fingers. “PICK UP. DON’T YOU DARE! PICK UP RIGHT NOW!” Did it matter he was screaming into the receiver curling over it to make his voice heard wherever she’d gone? Would she hear him then? He pressed the phone harder to his ear, a sob that shook the very foundations of his person working its way up his throat, voice breaking when he spoke after the extended silence. “Please… We only just found each other. I can’t– I can’t lose you now. Please come back, come home. Just one more time… One more time. For me. We’ll make it work. It’ll be different. I promise this time it’ll be different. I’ll be different.” He exhaled, blinking past the tears “I never got to tell you I lo- No. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you when you come back. Please come back…”

By the end of the call he was left staring in anguish at the photo ID on the call his breath short and sharp, shaking as he ended the call. Too fast. Too much. It was all too much. A trembling hand pressed to his mouth, trying to stifle the pain that settled in his chest as he shook his head against the overwhelming realisation of what had happened.

Yelping as Arthur started coughing and leaned over, Nadia sat back to give the man some space. The blood was concerning, and she didn’t have any time at all to process what was happening as he scrambled for his phone. Mercy, something was wrong with Mercy. She could tell before he made the call, before he started screaming into his phone. When he leaned against the cabinets, she moved closer to him, hoping to comfort him with her presence. She didn’t know what else to do. She really didn’t. So Nadia did what she could. She sat with him. His pain was like nothing she’d ever really felt before, but so was the love that was causing it. God, it was miserable. It felt so miserable, and she could barely process it.

When Arthur started breathing too fast, his words tapering out, she grabbed his hands. “Hey, no, hey!” She made him look away from his phone and towards her. “Hey. I don’t-- I don’t know what’s happening, okay? But it’s-- Mercy can’t die, right? Not easily. Right? So it’s--” Fuck, she didn’t know how to do this. “It’ll be-- She’s gotta be okay. She’s going to be okay.” Nadia really, really hoped so. Mercy, in the short time that she’d known the woman, was probably one of the toughest people out there, and the only thing that could kill her was having her head cut off. There was a brief moment of fear, the thought of Arthur choking because of some weird connection with Mercy that made it to where he couldn’t breathe, but he had seemed like he was drowning, not just suffering from no air.

The tables had turned, and Nadia found herself wrapping Arthur in a hug instead of the other way around. She couldn’t affect other people’s emotions; only feel them. But she tried to put as much comfort out as she could, hoping that somehow it would help. Hoping that, somehow, Mercy was okay. “It’ll be alright, Arthur. It will. I promise.”

#p: nadia #para #potw #ever leering eye #falling to pieces #// simultaneous thread to the last chatzy #// NOTHING BAD HAPPENS #AT ALL

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inkvvells · 5 years ago

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⧼ toby regbo, cis male, he/him/his / quarter-life crisis by judah and the lion + desks piled high with books and materials, always crowded but never messy; guilt and shame that eat away at him with every mention of family moments and memories he chose to not be part of; three cups of black coffee to make it through the day, four if there’s too much that needs done (there’s always too much that needs done). ⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that PERCY WEASLEY? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY-NINE year old pure blood WIZARD is a GRYFFINDOR alumnus who has gone on to be a MINISTRY EMPLOYEE. i’ve heard they can be quite DRIVEN & METICULOUS, but i don’t know… they came off very OSTENTATIOUS & NEUROTIC in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it? — [pinterest]

who ordered a pretentious, family-abandoning guilty nerd? no one?? guess this one is on the house then. i’m???? super inspired in writing this bio and its more of a character analysis than anything else bc he’s an established enough canon that we don’t know much about personally so i went ham but i’m not about to ask y’all to read the mess i’ll inevitablty type up for him, so here are a few brief bullet points for now bc i want this up:

learned that the best way to get praise was to do everything he was told, be as respected as bill and charlie, and look after the younger kids. he took these lessons and ran with them into overdrive because percy only knows two modes: zero or one-hundred. hence how he turned out to be a killjoy

stupidly smart and stupidly ambitious. the sorting hat considered putting him in slytherin and he debated with it until the hat got annoyed with him and gave him gryffindor instead. you can pry that hc out of my cold, dead hands

so much of him is based in guilty: for the fight he had with arthur, for putting up so much distance between him and his family for years, and for not coming back to them until the very last minute. there’s also an immense level of guilt thinking he had a part in fred’s death, because he was there when his brother was killed and he wonders if he hadn’t caused a distraction, if fred might still be alive. he’s never spoken about any of his guilt because he’s about as good at communicating as he is at having any chill (aka, not at all)

after the war (and all of the grief and pain and healing that followed), percy made his primary focus on rebuilding his relationship with his family. it’s not been easy, but if the war taught him anything, it’s that he will not lose even more time

currently employed at the ministry (duh) in the department of magical transportation because jkr said that somewhere, i’m just too tired to cite the source

i’ll make a stats page and link it later along with the rest of the finished bio, thank u and good night

BIO — under co.

Born the third son to Molly and Arthur Weasley, one of the very first lessons Percy learned was that it was easy to get lost in the crowd. In a family that finally tapered off at seven children, there was always someone crying, laughing, or making some sort of racket (sometimes all three at once). It was such a loud environment, and it was clear early on that Percy didn’t like loud. He liked things to be quiet and structured, because that made sense to him.

While all of his brothers were causing chaos, Percy was more likely to be found trailing after their mother. It was the only time when he felt like he got one-on-one time — he’s never been all that great at sharing, you see, even within his family. Even better than the time, he quickly realized that it was the best way to get recognition in a family as big as his. Rather than trying to make the biggest display for reinforcement, Percy learned to set himself apart by doing exactly what he was told. When his older brothers were away at school, and the younger kids were causing Molly to want to tear her hair, there was an overarching, sometimes unspoken (often times not) question of, why can’t you lot be like Percy? Responsible Percy, who completed all of his lessons as soon as possible and made sure to not track mud into the house and make a mess. It didn’t matter that it made him less likable to his siblings. It didn’t matter that that lack of likability sometimes felt like a lack of love, either (not that he would say that out loud). Their family was under enough stress, with seven kids and strained finances. He wouldn’t be the one to add any more stress.

Over time, it became less about being the responsible one for the sake of being good, and more so just... because that’s who Percy was. He could be overbearing to a fault, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that he sucked at communication. Whenever he scolded the younger kids for even the most minute thing, it didn’t come from a place of anger. In Percy’s mind, rules were established to keep you safe, and if his siblings broke any of the his mother’s rules, it meant they were making themselves unsafe. He may have been garbage at showing it, but Percy always has and always will love his family. The thought of something happening to them, especially something he could prevent, was not okay in his book. They needed to listen in order to be safe, and if that meant he had to act like an overbearing mother to guarantee that, then so be it.

While he was his mother’s shadow growing up, there was also a deep respect for his father. That respect greatly shifted as Percy grew up and learned their family’s status in the wizarding world, but as a little kid? He wanted so much to be like Arthur. That’s why his desire to enter the Ministry has existed as long as he can remember. Thus began a serous case of tunnel vision further fueled by Percy’s own ambition. Once he set his mind to something, good luck getting him to change it. And Percy’s mind was set on the best.

One thing Percy has kept to himself for years is something said to him during the sorting ceremony his first day at Hogwarts. Slytherin would suit you. Percy determined that that stupid hat must be broken, and mentally argued with it for a solid minute before it put him in Gryffindor — like his parents, like Bill, and like Charlie. His only real care? That he couldn’t stand to feel more disliked in his family than he already did.

His school years were everything that he needed them to be. By the time he started, he already had everything planned out. Get top marks? Done (friendly reminder that Percy got twelve O.W.L.’s, how tf). Become prefect? Done. Become Head Boy? Check, check, and check. Of course, it was far more than just a bit stressful when the twins started school and his lecturing towards them went into overdrive. Then Ron, who’s life seemed to be put in danger every five seconds after befriending Harry Potter. And then the entire debacle that was Ginny’s first year. Needless to say, Percy got his first grey hair at aged sixteen. But he managed to deal with (read: ignore) all of his stress and worry, and left Hogwarts with Os on all of his N.E.W.T.s and a job offer at the Ministry. Everything was going to according to plan.

Everything did not go as planned. His first year at the Ministry was an absolute disaster, to put it lightly. His boss never learned his name, which was humiliating enough. But Percy knew that what he wanted involved playing along in order to work your way up, so that’s exactly what he did. And it worked! Even when most of his correspondence with Crouch was done through letters, it felt like something. Being asked to carry out Crouch’s role in the Triwizard Tournament felt like a reward. Nevermind that he was 18 at the time and that job should have been done by somebody much more established than him. So when word got out that someone had been Imperio’d for ages by someone, Percy was an easy target to blame for not noticing. He could have bit back that had barely known Crouch beforehand, why was it being put on him? He didn’t fight back though. That wouldn’t do him any good. He took it all in stride, bit his tongue, and did what he’d always done: exactly as he was told.

We don’t discuss the fight and his subsequent abandoning of his family.

Percy doesn’t like to think about the almost three years that followed. Why would he? The first few weeks were spent seething with anger, towards his father and towards himself. After the anger cooled, it was replaced with overwhelming guilt. Not for the doubt that he’d had in his parents’ side, oh no. He was still very adamant that they were delusional for trusting the word of a teenage boy and an old (though arguably respectable) man over the governing forces, those same forces that he’d been in awe of since he was a kid. No, Percy’s guilt lay in the accusations he’d shouted, and the blame he’d placed on his father for their family’s financial state.

listen i’ll elaborate on his time during and after the war later, it’s like 2am and i’ve been fighting with my laptop for hours and this is already sO MUCH THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR, PERCY IS JUST MY CHILD

#nox.intro #percy.

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

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All Was Golden in the Sky (17/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

—

Rating: Mature AN: Hey, thanks for reading, it’s real nice.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

She misses the jacket.

It’s a ridiculous thing to miss, and far from the only thing, but Emma’s mind keeps drifting back to the jacket and the cut and how strange it is to keep thinking about the length of a goddamn leather jacket.

Because, all things considered, they’ve got much bigger things to deal with.

They’ve barely been back in Misthaven for two weeks and every day seems to bring some brand-new and increasingly difficult challenge because they’ve barely been back for two weeks but they were gone for years and people were left behind and King Arthur is, apparently, the biggest dick in a variety of different realms.

The first news of an attack came, approximately, four hours after they left the throne room.

Which, really, did not seem like enough time at all, but Emma figures the universe is just testing them all now and she can’t figure out how any of them are staying upright at this point.

They all must be averaging four hours of sleep a night.

Killian’s averaging, like, two.

She catches him, sometimes, staring out the window or the ceiling, wide eyes and slightly labored breathing, fingers tracing over her side like he’s trying to brand every inch of her.

With him.

Or something less dramatic.

But Emma gets nightmares too, clinging to sheets and Killian in equal measure until she has to apologize for the nail-shaped marks she leaves in his skin.

He never seems to mind.

And it’s not just Arthur. The problems come from every angle, a non-stop stream of political messes that have quickly turned to political fires. DunBroch has sent missives, demands to know what your intentions are now that you’ve returned, and Emma can’t really remember Ella and Thomas, but they’d sent an actual envoy who wanted an audience with her highness, an announcement that made Ruby cackle and Regina groan and there’d been a stack of signed papers in the man’s hands when he left.

There were whispers out of Arendelle, Elsa leaving almost as soon as they returned, and Emma doesn’t even want to think about what Midas has done because she doesn’t want to think about that field and none of the people they’d left behind seem all that inclined to celebrate their return.

Because there aren’t borders anymore, so much as there are burned down tree lines and empty fields, houses with broken windows and empty beds, signs of a fight that was lost long ago and Emma’s magic will not stop. It is, she imagines, because she keeps teleporting them places, a flash of smoke and feet that land with practiced ease now, bouncing between the throne room in Misthaven and the council chambers in Camelot, David’s voice getting more and more exasperated each time they leave without an agreement.

“You disappeared,” Arthur says, voice even and almost cool, as if cursing themselves is more than enough reason to launch a full-scale invasion. “And then even more people were gone. I’m afraid that left Misthaven ripe for the--” “--Oh my God, do not finish that sentence,” Emma grumbles. David can’t quite mask his laugh, lips tugged behind his teeth and eyes staring into the small bit of marble under his feet.

Arthur’s castle, it appears, is entirely made of marble.

She can hear Killian’s sharp inhale behind her, never more than a few feet away. Not that Emma is, particularly, opposed to that.

Because it hasn’t even been two weeks since they’ve returned to Misthaven and things aren’t right and Arthur must have practiced that look of self-satisfied superiority at some point.

Emma may break every mirror in his stupid, marble castle.

And then shorten the length of Killian’s jacket.

It’s not right.

They’re not right.

They’re walking on eggshells and tiptoeing around each other – because he knows she knows, a weird, convoluted sentence that’s probably a fairly good descriptor for their lives now and his fingers keep fluttering at his side, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

He hates his new sword.

She knows it. She knows he knows she knows it.

Arthur is talking again.

“I’m afraid being a ruler does, in fact, require said ruler to rule his kingdom.” Emma can hear David’s eye roll. “We have explained that,” he growls. “And, you know, not to belabor our point here, but not only are you invading a kingdom you were allied to--” “--No, no, no,” Arthur cuts in quickly, waving a quick hand through the air. Emma’s fingers curl around Killian’s hook. “That treaty is null and void when you disappear, your highness.” "That’s not how diplomacy works!” “David,” Emma chastises, but she tends to agree and if she’s been thinking about the length of leather jackets for nearly two weeks, then she’s been thinking about that scene on the farm outside of the town for just as long. The smoke still stings her nose every now and then, a rush of guilt and hint of pain, as if the loss had seared itself into her soul as well, making her whole body tremble and--

“You’ve got to breathe, love,” Killian mumbles. He turns slightly, not pulling his left arm away from her, but making it easier to rest his hand on her shoulder and maybe this is why Arthur is such a monumental dick.

It’s easy to reject treaties from a group of anxious royals all dealing with various and specific forms of post traumatic stress disorder.

Emma nods, jerky and less-than-impressive, particularly when she’s supposed to be some kind of ambassador, but one side of Killian’s mouth tugs up anyway. She wonders if she can get Regina to just...burn down a castle of marble. She wonders what the melting point of marble is.

Arthur’s expression hasn’t changed. “Shall we rehash, your highness? It only seems to be upsetting you.” “Fucking hell,” David grumbles, drawing another less-than-appropriate laugh out of Emma. She lets her head fall forward, a quick movement that she hopes is Killian’s lips ghosting over the top of her hair.

He definitely squeezes her shoulder.

They are honestly all disaster royals.

David takes a deep breath, running his hand over his face. Emma can see the exact moment he shifts, moving out of several negative emotions and diving directly into the deep end of determined and it, at least, makes Arthur’s eyebrows jump slightly.

“Ok,” David starts. “We were gone. We aren’t gone anymore. Obviously.” “He should have practiced this more,” Killian whispers in Emma’s ear. She has to bite her lip.

“You want to rehash, your majesty?” David continues, and that question is almost dripping with sarcasm. Emma figures that’s fair. She lifts her head up. “Fine, we can rehash. We’ve been lied to. From the very start. All of us. Tricked by George and the Dark One and lulled into a prophecy that was misleading from the very beginning--” “--That can’t possibly be--” “Oh no, no,” David cuts in, a quick head shake. “No interruptions right now. The prophecy wasn’t wrong, but the explanation was. It twisted everything and made it impossible to do anything except our goddamn best, which is exactly what we did, Arthur. And we’re not looking for sympathy or pity or anything except for you to stop being a goddamn, fucking bastard and get out of our kingdom.”

Arthur’s eyebrows get higher.

That’s the only response.

Emma has no idea where to look. Her eyes flit from face to face and ostentatious marble tile to even more ridiculous marble wall decor, but, eventually, her gaze lands on Killian’s and that’s nice. That’s, almost, normal.

None of this is normal.

Gods, she misses real coffee too.

“Had me right up until the end,” Killian murmurs, and Emma can’t help her laugh. It’s soft and, maybe, a little skeptical, like she’s not entirely sure if that’s the sound she’s supposed to be making. He definitely kisses her hair that time.

She smiles, reaching up to tug lightly on the lapels of a jacket, she hopes, she could, maybe get used to. Again. Because it’s not new. None of this is, but it feels impossibly unfamiliar and just, generically, impossible and Emma really thought they were done with all the allusions to Camelot after she slayed the goddamn dragon.

She really has no idea what happened to Rumplestilskin.

“Oh shut up,” David groans, Killian scoffing and pulling Emma back to his side. Arthur’s face is going to get stuck like that.

It’d serve him right.

“What exactly is it you hope to get from this, your majesty?” Emma asks, fully anticipating the way Killian’s hand tightens around her shoulders and David’s lips quirk and Arthur is frozen.

She lets her smile widen.

“Anything? Because I quite figure it out. Why keep doing this when--” She twists her head, fluttering her fingers and the ball of light that appears there bounces in a rhythm that she’s actually almost impressed by. Emma doesn’t look at Killian. She doesn’t have to.

He’s totally smiling.

Until.

“It’s exactly because of that,” Arthur says, low and still frustratingly even, as if the conversation hasn’t caused him any emotional distress at all. There’s something, though. Something that wasn’t there a moment before. And it’s not fear. Or pity. Or anything except--

“You’re defending yourself,” Emma breathes, understanding rushing through her and making her magic surge. Killian’s hand turns into a vice.

She can’t quite hide her hiss of pain, another sound Emma regrets as as soon as she makes it. And she doesn’t know enough words to describe the look that lands on Killian’s face when he’s realized what he’s done, something almost akin to shattering settling on his features, making Emma’s chest ache and her magic sputter and David coughs pointedly.

Like that will make this more diplomatic.

“What could you be protecting yourself from?” David presses. His hand lands on his sword hilt, a belt Emma doesn’t think he’s taken off since they got back.

Arthur actually has the gall to look surprised. “What? No, no, no, it’s not a what, your highness. It’s a who.” “We’re not a threat to you, Arthur,” Emma sneers. Her magic is back. Loud. And disorienting. It makes her vision go blurry and her breath hitch, parted lips and, what she hopes, is the world’s most potent glare on her face.

“I don’t think that’s true.” “That’s ridiculous! It’s--I mean, it’s shit, isn’t?” She gapes at David, his lips twisted into a near-agreement and almost-condemnation because they are so bad at this and Emma didn’t expect it to be so difficult to figure out how to put the pieces of their lives back together.

She’s really annoyed by her mind’s continued use of puzzle metaphors.

“We defeated the darkness,” Emma continues, taking a step forward. Or, at least, trying. Killian doesn’t let go of her shoulder, a quick flinch and rock forward and that’s been happening too.

He doesn’t like her not being there.

Arthur clicks his tongue, another expression Emma resents. He slumps slightly in his throne, more than a few jewels in the back and his own sword strapped to his side. It’s not Excalibur. There is no Excalibur.

Not anymore.

Gods, that’s so strange.

“So you claim,” Arthur says, eyes going thin and gaze turning penetrating. “But the prince is right. No matter what George had been doing or working for, he did bring you all together. Magic. Power. And--” He nods in Killian’s direction, the muscles in his throat shifting when he swallows. “That.” Emma has no explanation for what her body does. It doesn’t feel particularly human or comfortable, like a rather large slab of wood had been pressed to her and forced her to realign her spine.

Or she’s been placed between two marble slabs.

Everything feels heavy, like the air itself is reacting and it only takes Emma a moment to realize...it might be. Her magic flares, a burst of light from the tips of her fingers and another orb lingering around the shoulder Killian’s still got his fingers on and she tries to count.

“Three in, five out, three in, five out,” Emma mumbles, a bit of her light reflecting off the sword David’s half-drawn.

“Try six out, love.” She can’t actually bring herself to glare at Killian – not when the bags under his eyes are so obvious and the jacket doesn’t look right and they’ve got to find him another sword, but Emma looks and his smile is forced.

Like he’s in pain too.

“God, that’s so long,” Emma mutters. “Who could exhale for that long?” “It might work.” “I really think that’s impossible.” Killian’s smile shifts, still not perfect, but definitely getting there and Emma does, in fact, breathe a bit easier when his hook falls to her hip. She turns back to Arthur. “What did you mean? Exactly?” “Was that not obvious?” “Let’s not go in circles, your majesty,” Emma hisses. “You’re right. And so was David. We were gone. And we’re not going to shirk blame for any of the things we’ve done. We are here to accept them and fix them and help rebuild this kingdom. We’re not looking to take over anything. That’s--fuck, that is honestly the last thing we want. We don’t need anymore responsibility than we already have.” “Not helping,” David murmurs.

Emma flips him off. They are a picture of mature, royal, responsibility. “I really could not care less,” Emma promises. “You attacked us, Arthur. Everyone did. We--ok, you’re scared of our magic? Fine. What do I need to do to fix that?” He doesn’t answer immediately, which is only kind of annoying, but Emma expects just about everything to be annoying at this point and--

“What about him?” That is not the answer Emma thinks she’s going to get. Because it’s not an answer. It’s a question. And one directed at Killian.

He stiffens next to her, tongue darting between his lips when he rocks his weight between his heels. “What about me?”

“You’re quite the enigma aren’t you, Captain?” Arthur drawls, the calm forced now. A muscle in his temple keeps jumping. “We’ve heard the rumors. Of you. What you’ve done. And then, well of course, what you couldn’t own up to doing. Are they true?” “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” “You know. Camelot is landlocked. Not often we hear things from other realms separated by a sea, but--every now and then, there’s some news and a few murmurs and the man was very talkative once he got a few ales in him. And a slightly heavier pocket.” Killian tilts his head, and Emma isn’t sure if the thump she hears is her heart or his. The jacket, suddenly, looks a little more menacing, fluttering at his ankles when he takes a step forward, the light of her magic bouncing off the curve of his hook and his fingers drifting towards his sword.

Arthur presses his lips together.

“A name, your majesty.” “No, no, no, I also know how diplomacy works, pirate,” Arthur says. “And I know I’ve got leverage now. The question is, do you? And was the man speaking the truth?” “Babe,” Emma mutters. Killian freezes. “What is he talking about?”

“I don’t know.” She makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat, more wrong that they probably should have discussed before, but there hasn’t been time and Emma just wants some time. She wants quiet. And peace.

She wants her heart to calm the fuck down.

Killian glances at her, a smirk and a flash in his eyes because he probably can’t hear her heart, but it would almost make sense at this point. Her magic, on the other hand. “That bad, huh?” “Worse,” Emma promises.

He chuckles, a loud exhale when he pulls his hand away from his sword. “He thinks I’ve still got magic,” Killian says, and Arthur nearly falls out of his throne.

That would have been funny. It probably shouldn’t be.

David’s eyes bug, lips parting with a pop and he’s got his sword out. Diplomacy, it seems, has been cast to the wayside. “What?” he balks. “How--how would he even know? I thought you said no one knew.” “Rumplestilskin did,” Killian shrugs. “And he didn’t leave this realm right after I did. I was in New York for years too.” “Abandoning your kingdom,” Arthur adds, scoffing when Emma mumbles seriously, shut the fuck up under her breath.

It is not really under her breath.

“He didn’t want people to know he’d lost his magic, but…” Killian trails off, another head tilt and look cast Emma’s direction. “I’m sure for the right price or the right deal, it would have been worth it. To know what I’d done. Or where Emma was.” “And did this man know that?” David looks at Arthur when he asks, all fury and magic and the throne wobbles precariously on its perch.

Arthur shakes his head. “I don't have to answer that.” “How long ago was this?” Emma asks, something tugging at the back of her mind. It’s not an idea, not really, isn’t more than a passing thought or half a consideration, but Killian had to get a magic bean somehow and--”What did he look like?” “At least a year ago.” “That’s only half the answer.” “Yes, it is.” Emma groans, throwing her head back with the force of the noise. Arthur’s throne stops moving. So does he. He tries, makes several gallant attempts to twist and turn, but there are invisible bounds around him and she’s definitely getting better at that.

She didn’t even have to move her hand.

“Oh, that was good, Swan,” Killian says, almost sounding genuine. There’s still a bit of perspiration at his temple though, a tiny pinch between his brows. He’s not telling her something. “Brag to Regina about that later because--”

“Is that a threat, Savior?” Arthur asks.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Are you serious?” “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.” “Well, that’s stupid,” Emma says bluntly, David snickering next to her and she can almost feel Killian’s pride push out of him. “Get your knights out of our kingdom, Arthur. It’s not yours. It never was.” “Or what?” “Damnit,” David breathes.

Emma smile stretches the muscles in her face, wholly uncomfortable until there’s a press of metal into the small of her back. She leans into it. “We just want to come home, Arthur. That’s all. We aren’t trying to conquer anything. There’s not magic. There’s no warning. It’s just us and--” “I want to know the Dark One is gone,” Arthur cuts in sharply. It catches Emma off guard, which is far less impressive than the other magic she’d just done, because this makes her current magic sputter and waver and it’s more than enough time for Arthur to break free of his bonds. His feet slam onto the marble when he jumps up, all chain mail and an actual cloak and the door behind him swings open to let in several heavily armored knights.

Emma sighs.

“That’s just unnecessary,” Killian mumbles.

She doesn’t think. She twists and turns, presses up on her toes and brushes a kiss to his cheek, more stubble and exhaustion she can practically taste. “I love you.” He doesn’t exhale. Not quite. There are knights moving towards them too quickly for that, swords drawn and pointed directly at his chest. David is grumbling curses, bobbing on the balls of his feet with magic percolating around him and Emma can hardly see past the glare around her.

It’s her. She’s the glare. Of the magical, variety.

And they probably should have been better prepared for this.

But part of her was hopeful and maybe even a little optimistic that they could just fall back into something and normal and--

“So much for signing that treaty now,” Emma mutters. She pushes her hands towards the floor, the surge of power moving from her head to her heels. It’s as if she’s being jumpstarted, the force of it almost enjoyable, if not a little distracting because it really is difficult to see when she’s glowing as much as she is.

She does hear Arthur’s throne tip over though, so that’s kind of satisfying.

And it all goes a little pear-shaped after that.

The knights advance, Arthur shouting commands like he’s actually going to get off the dais and use his stupid sword. David twists his blade in his hands, bending his knees slightly. “Oh, Gods, remind me to make fun of him for that later,” Killian mutters, mirroring Emma’s moves and turning so his back is pressed against hers.

Covering her six, as it were.

Or, whatever.

She needs to stop mixing up idioms from different realms.

“I can hear you,” David calls, metal clanging on metal. He grunts, far more exercise than they’d anticipated on what may be their fifteenth trip to Camelot at this point.

Emma is genuinely surprised this is the first time it’s broken down like this.

She can feel Killian shifting against her, the push of his shoulder blades into her and the edges of that stupid, ridiculous, far too long coat brushing against the back of her calves. She may lean back. She may be exceptionally greedy.

And only a little worried.

About a never-ending myriad of things, but mostly him and them and she wants. That’s it, really. She wants. Them and collective pronouns and for it all to be over already, for the rest of everything to begin and she wouldn’t be opposed to more than a few dates.

Possibly on a pirate ship.

“That was the point,” Killian says, a smile obvious in the words. He has to lunge to parry a blow from one of the knights, laughter ringing out like this is fun but Emma’s eyes flicker to Arthur when he, finally, moves, sword raised and fear obvious in his gaze.

He’s terrified.

Everyone might be terrified. Of them.

And their magic.

And what Killian had done.

Even without the specifics. Or the rumors of an inebriated, suddenly rich man who found his way to Camelot and started talking.

She lifts her hand on instinct and the possibility of what could be, that same bit of hope and unusual optimism, a burst of power from her palm and it’s just enough to leave Arthur staggering mid-step.

“We’re not a threat, Arthur,” Emma says again, only marginally confident he’ll believe her. He doesn’t. She knows it as soon as she closes her mouth. “To you, or anyone. This entire realm. We just--” “Prove he doesn’t have magic! That he’s not what that pirate said he was.” “I’m sorry, what?” Arthur pales, another exaggerated swallow. Emma’s head snaps towards Killian, every inch of her still vibrating with magic and questions, but the knights, apparently, don’t need to wait for orders and his arm flies through the air, the sound of his hook smashing the visor of the man in front of him echoing off the walls.

Arthur is going to be transparent soon.

“Fine,” Killian sighs, shaking his hair away from his eyes and his sleeve away from his hook and Emma barely has time to gasp before he does it. He sheaths his sword, a soft whoosh and quick roll of his shoulders and he hardly makes a noise when the point of his hook pierces the skin of his forearm.

Emma does. Loudly. So does David.

Killian will probably make fun of them for that.

“See,” he says, staring straight at Arthur and his suddenly very wobbly knees. He lifts his arm, drops of blood sliding down skin and threatening to stain the shirt underneath it. “Wouldn’t really work if I was still the Dark One, would it?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

Killian does all three.

“So, you can report back to your little contingent, your majesty because, let’s be honest with ourselves here, you’re leading the charge of the other kingdoms aren’t you?”

That gets Arthur to, at least, blink.

Emma needs to stop gasping. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, working a soft laugh out of Killian. “You think so?” “It’s an educated guess, at least.” “But--” David argues. “That’s...oh, Gods, that makes so much sense. Was it---was there some kind of agreement, Arthur?” Nothing. Silence. Stretching on for what feels like forever and then an extra day because Arthur really is an enormous dick, but then there’s the clack of boots and a sword scraping across marble when a knight pulls it off the floor and Emma’s reactions are getting very good.

So are Killian’s.

His arm is barely more than a blur, but there’s a look on his face that makes Emma’s pulse still for a moment, quiet fury and absolute hatred and he’s half a step in front of her before she realizes what’s happened.

“Don’t come near her again,” he bites out.

The sword clatters back to the ground.

“You know,” David drawls, “maybe we weren’t the ones who were such garbage at diplomacy. It seems kind of stupid, Arthur. This plan of yours. What was it, then? We disappear, half of Misthaven is gone, and you...what? Decide that you’re the best option for overlord of the realm?” “The once and future king,” Emma intones. Killian’s arm is still bleeding.

“Sounds better in the book.” Arthur makes a face of confusion. “What in all hells are you talking about?” “Just one hell, really,” Killian amends. “And not even that. The Underworld. If you want to get technical.” “Are you kidding me?” Emma asks, but he just shrugs and smirks and the look is right again. It’s hers again.

“It’s important to be accurate when dealing with diplomacy, Swan.” “Oh my God.” He flashes her another grin, a quick twist of eyebrows that make her mind race and her pulse race and her magic is even more visible, a pulse of light and glimmer of energy that makes the air around them noticeably warmer.

Emma huffs, but she’s not so much frustrated as she is--every other human emotion. She reaches her hand up slowly, light lingering between her fingers to brush away the hair matted to Killian’s forehead.

He closes his eyes.

“Take your knights out of our kingdom, Arthur,” she says, not bothering to look at the king or where, exactly, he’s standing. She hopes he fell over. “Tell the other kingdoms too. We’re not doing anything except coming home.” “And, maybe trading a bit,” David adds.

“Seriously?” He hums when she glares at him. “Diplomacy or whatever.” “Aye, whatever sounds about right, doesn’t it?” Killian mutters. He hasn’t opened his eyes, head falling forward just enough that his forehead rests against Emma’s.

She hopes he isn’t still bleeding.

“Arthur,” she continues, a quick kiss to the scar on Killian’s cheek before she turns slightly. “Do we have an agreement? Accord? What do you think works better?” Killian inhales, head falling even more so he can nuzzle slightly at her neck and that’s probably breaking every rule, but Emma...doesn’t care. Really. “They both sound fairly royal, Swan.” “I like accord better.” “More official,” David muses, Killian making a noise of agreement.

“Fine, fine,” Emma says quickly. “I want your word right now, Arthur. Take the knights out of Misthaven. No more attacks. No more burning farms and destroying homes. It’s not going to make anyone want your rule anymore. They’ll just think you’re the world’s biggest dick.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re mixing colloquialisms again, love,” Killian laughs. Emma relishes it.

She scoffs, letting her fingers find their way back to the front of his jacket so she can tug lightly on the leather that does and doesn’t make sense. Like everything. She’s going to teleport them straight back to her room, get him out of that jacket, make sure he isn’t bleeding anymore and then kiss him until he can’t remember the word colloquialism.

“You can’t just return here and expect everything to be the way that it was,” Arthur says, sounding like he’s warning them of something.

“That’s kind of the point.” “What?” “Sodding idiot,” Killian mutters, fingers seemingly moving of their own accord. David cannot sound disappointed enough. “Ok, yes, thank you,” he sighs. “But, also--well, you are a complete and utter ass, Arthur. And we are--” “--Done with diplomacy?” Emma suggests.

“Well, yeah.” “What pushed you in that direction, do you think, your highness?” Killian asks, rife with sarcasm. David shakes his head. “The insane king, the knights who, honestly, seem to be acting out of turn or--”

“--You,” David cuts in, and Arthur makes a noise between a gasp and a groan. “And not wanting to see what you’d do if those same knights, who--honestly, control your men Arthur...but, well, you might not have magic anymore, but I can only imagine what you’d do if someone threatened Emma. Or vice versa.” “That’s awfully melodramatic, don’t you think?” David shakes his head. “Nope. Threaten the knight guy one more time with your legitimately terrifying threatening face.” “Legitimately terrifying threatening face,” Emma echoes slowly.

“You got a better name for it?” “I mean--I don’t think it’s terrifying.” “Oh, no,” David groans. “You’re attracted to the face aren’t you?” Emma blushes, entirely mistimed and likely doing damage to their ability to draft a reasonable treaty that will benefit both kingdoms and ensure Camelot stops trying to actively screw them over, but she can feel Killian’s eyes on the side of her head and--

“I mean…”

Killian laughs, the sound settling in between tension-filled muscles and bones that are heavy with a lack of consistent REM sleep and Emma’s almost thankful for the curse because now she knows what REM sleep is and how important it is to a restful night.

“I love you too,” Killian says, spinning Emma back towards him so he can brush the back of his knuckles over her jaw and let his fingers fall through the ends of her hair. “Missed that part before. When I was making the attractive faces.” “You’re doing that smug thing again.” “And plan on doing it as long as you do, love.” Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s charmed and almost calm and still decidedly magical. “Pirate,” she accuses. It’s not really an insult.

He smirks at her.

“Alright, well,” David starts, dragging out the words until his discomfort is practically vibrating out of him. “So, uh...we want to, you know, keep the kingdom from being burned down or you guys want to keep staring longingly at each other?” “Do you not think we’re capable of doing both?” Emma asks.

And that laugh, oh, that one. It’s loud and easy and it flies out of Killian, lands directly in the middle of Emma and warms her from the inside out, a glow and a want and the start of everything she’s been waiting for.

Her mind is still hanging onto that feeling, though. She wonders. And has questions. And she’s going to get answers.

Probably after the kissing.

And definitely after she makes sure his arm is alright.

“Call back your knights,” Emma says, doing her best to sound official. “Tell DunBroch that we are interested in a peaceful resolution to this. Get used to the fact that Misthaven has magic. But magic that we are--” She glances at David, the ends of his mouth already tugging up into a smile and he gives her a quick nod. “We are more than willing to help with that magic,” Emma continues, “whenever we can, however we can. This is...this isn’t George’s kingdom anymore. No secrets. No murmurs. No rumors of darkness.”

“The darkness is gone. And now there’s the chance to start over. To fix it and try again, to make it better than it was before.”

Arthur stares at her for a moment, Emma’s heart sputtering erratically behind her ribs. She reaches her hand back on instinct.

And the metal she touches is cool against her fingers.

“What if I don’t agree?” Arthur asks, drawing several pointed curses out of all three of them. Most of Killian’s are not in English.

“What more could you want?” he demands. “We’ve given you everything you’ve asked for and--” “You’re worried about the Darkness?” Emma interrupts, Arthur nodding quickly. “There is no Darkness anymore. Because I killed it. I--” Her voice shakes, tears clouding her vision and grip going tight enough that her knuckles crack. “It’s gone, Arthur. But let me tell you something, you’re harping on something that doesn’t exist anymore and you’ve overlooked one very important thing.” “Which is?”

“Me. You keep doing this, destroying families and coming after our kingdom, I won’t think. I'll do what I have to do to save them. All of them. Because the Darkness was bad, but guess who destroyed the Darkness?”

She holds her hand out, David’s fingers curling around her wrist and her nails dig into her palm where its wrapped around Killian’s hook, eyes falling closed as the magic roars in her ears.

They don’t land in her room.

That’s probably for the best with David with them.

Until.

As per usual.

The book flies at them, a flap of pages the only warning before Emma’s hands are moving and she’s got less control, in that moment, than she did when she was seven and freezing.

The book disappears.

“Oh damn,” she mumbles, Killian crowding into her space with his sword brandished in front of them. “Shit, don’t tell Regina about that one. That wasn’t as impressive.” He must smile because Emma is fairly certain she can feel it through her hair when he ducks his head to kiss her temple, but she doesn’t have much time to focus on that because Will is groaning and Belle is apologizing, presumably for throwing a book at them and--

“What are you two doing in here?” David asks, glancing around the room that is, quite obviously, the library. On the direct opposite side of the castle from Emma’s room.

She clicks her tongue. “Seriously, that did not work the way I wanted it to at all.”

“Do you want the real answer or the answer we’d rather give you?” Will asks. He’s got his feet propped up on the edge of the table in front of him, balancing on the back two legs of the chair he’s sitting in.

Emma waves her hands again. So he doesn’t fall over.

Top notch Savior, doing top notch saving-type things.

Will grins. “Thanks. For that, I’ll give you the real answer, even though it’s embarrassing--” “--We’re hiding from Regina,” Belle cuts in, Emma’s eyes widening and she’s glad she did the chair thing. Will rolls his whole head when he groans. “She is currently, upstairs, throwing fire balls at inanimate objects because that person from--does Rapunzel’s kingdom actually have a name? I just keep thinking of the movies.”

“Seriously, you can’t keep ruining the punchlines to these jokes if you’re just going to present facts to the sovereigns--”

The door swings open again, more footsteps and more groans and there is not enough room for all of them in this rather limited amount of space.

“Goddamn, idiotic, pedantic...jerks,” Mary Margaret grumbles, Ruby half a step behind her and barely containing her laugh. Her smile, however, is a different story, wide and only a little mocking and a hint wolfish and David reaches to draw his sword.

“What are you possibly trying to accomplish with that?” Emma asks. “And, honestly, babe, you can put yours away too.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Will asks, and Ruby immediately starts to cackle.

Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to notice any of them. “Grew up in a goddamn forest, light a stupid candle, idiots.” “M”s,” Emma wavers, pushing lightly on the hilt of Killian’s sword. He kisses her again before he, finally, sheathes it. It makes that noise again. “What are you saying right now? And why are you guys in here too?” “Oh, this is our meeting place,” Ruby says, as if it’s obvious.

“For?” “Whining,” Will answers. “Grousing. What’s another word for this, babe?” Belle twists her lips, tilting her head back and forth in thought. “Bemoaning. Lamenting. Bellyaching, but that one is more slang than anything else.”

“Shouldn’t count then,” Killian mutters. “Yeah, well, you haven’t been here, so…” “Although we’re not opposed to you being here,” Mary Margaret adds, a quick return to the conversation that comes with only minimal sighing. “And sorry, for all the--” She waves her hands dramatically, shaking her hair off her shoulders. “We got a call from some of the dwarves, you know the ones who live over by the DunBroch border and they thought they were being attacked, but it was--” “--A rather large infestation of rabbits,” Ruby mumbles.

Emma’s eyes bug without her explicit permission. “Oh my God.” “Yeah, those were basically our thoughts too.” “But,” Mary Margaret adds, “then the whole thing dissolved into a criticism of our ruling tendencies, my inability to provide electricity and some rather pointed suggestions that we were doing a fairly bad job of...what was the world they used, Rubes?”

“Transitioning.”

“Oh, yeah, I hated that, honestly.”

Emma’s sigh falls out of her, all disappointment and wobbly knees and the certainty that she’s missing something. Big. “There’s got to be some kind of balance, right?”

She isn’t really waiting for an answer, was more asking the question rhetorically, but the rather resounding silence she gets is, admittedly, a little disappointing. She sighs again. “What I’m saying is...I mean, at the risk of giving Arthur any credit at all--” “--Oh, yeah, yeah, what happened with Arthur?” Ruby asks, a smile when Emma rolls her eyes at the interruption. “You weren’t trying to get to this room were you?” “Shut up.” “Ah, that might be an answer.” “I think we almost saved the whole thing, really,” David says, only sort of sounding like he’s lying. Ruby lifts her eyebrows.

“Killian,” Mary Margaret says, crouching lightly to push up the sleeve of his jacket. There’s red staining the fabric of his shirt. “Were you bleeding?” “The past tense there is important,” he mutters. Will may gag. “And I’m fine. It’s..it’s fine.” “Once more with feeling, Captain,” Belle says, one eyebrow arched and her lips twisted into complete disbelief.

“Arthur is terrified of Emma. We’re all saved.” “That only sounded kind of bitter,” Emma mumbles, but she never actually let go of his hook and the ring around her neck has fallen over the front of her dress. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that, Arthur is a dick, but we’re fairly positive we can get him to call off the attacks and he did bring up a good point.” David hums in confusion. “When? Before or after the knights attacked us?”

That gets a response – mostly just shouts of varying volume and slightly bugged eyes, and Killian’s tongue moves back between his lips, pressing to the corner of his mouth with an almost obvious impatience.

“Can I make my point, please?” Emma cries, close to pleading. Killian rests his head on top of hers, a deep breath that shudders through him and they’re a mess of wholly uncomfortable limbs, but it’s also kind of grounding and they never did much understand the concept of personal space.

It’s probably a magic thing.

“Your highness,” he mutters. She resists the urge to elbow him. That’s less romantic than the magic thing.

“We’re all fucked aren’t we?” “This is not your best work, Em,” Ruby admits, dropping onto the edge of Belle’s seat.

“You’re being impatient, that’s why. I’m--ok, well, we didn’t know who we were, but we were still us then, right?” “When we were cursed?” Mary Margaret asks.

Emma nods. “Yeah, exactly. What I’m saying is those people were us. Same personalities, for the most part, and I mean--we lived those lives. Those memories happened, even if the stuff before we got to Storybrooke was skewed. I hate to say it, but Arthur, and maybe even these dwarves are right. We’ve been trying to just settle back into what we were before the curse, but that was all George too and--” “--There’s got to be a balance, for us to be both, all at the same time,” David whispers, repeating her words and interrupting her speech and, for the first time, Emma doesn’t mind.

Much.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “We lived that. We miss electricity. And good coffee. Gods, we miss good coffee.” There are a few quiet laughs and murmured agreements, another kiss to her temple as Killian’s hand, somehow, finds its way to her hip. So he can squeeze it lightly. “We’ve got people we totally screwed who are going to hate us. But I wasn’t lying before. This is a chance for us. To do better. To...to start over, with the magic and the--”

“--Oh say True Love, say it,” Will laughs.

Emma clicks her tongue. His smile widens. “You’re no help at all. And I--if I ask you if you’re doing alright, based mostly on your defense techniques are you going to give me some snarky comment in response.” “Yes, absolutely.” “And,” Belle adds, shifting so she has to sling her arm around Ruby’s shoulders to make sure they don’t both fall on the floor, “that was mostly instinct. Regina did offer to get us weapons.” “Ten thousand doubloons she didn’t want to chance offending the books with steel,” Killian says, some of the anxious energy in the air disappearing.

It makes it easier to breathe.

Emma still wants to know about the pirate in Camelot. And what he knew.

“What do you think the conversion of doubloons to dollars is?” Mary Margaret asks. “Like ballpark it for me.” “I’ll have to get back to you on that, your highness.” “Yeah, that’s too much math for now.” Emma laughs, an ease to it that’s nearly comforting. More so when she curls herself into Killian’s side, cheek pressed against leather. “This isn’t going to be easy, but--” “--It’s a chance to start over,” David finishes. “For the better.” “Exactly. And maybe someone can tell me what happened to Rumplestilskin.” Will blinks. “Do you not know?” “No,” Killian says, soft, but with a fierceness that’s more memory and more past mistakes and--

“I punched him,” Belle answers. “Several times. And then, um...after--well, you know after--” She shakes her head, not bothering to brush away the tears on her cheeks. “It was bad and Ruby was trying to take care of Emma and, well...you know, he tried to run, probably go find some of the people he brought with him or Isaac. Where is Isaac?” “We have too many enemies,” Ruby says.

David glares at her. “In a cell without a key. Keep going Belle.”

“Right, right,” she stammers. “Well, we had some time, after. And so we got him up and there was still magic on him. He couldn’t really move and he was--he realized he’d lost, I think, rather quickly and it was pretty easy after that. There were police eventually. A huge thing like that, there had to be some kind of explanation and we didn’t really give it to them, but we told them that we saw him outside Grand Central around that time...raving and shouting and that was pretty much true and uh--” Belle clicks her teeth, grimacing slightly. “--We got a call that he was going to be indicted on criminal mischief, which seems really low, but…”

She doesn’t finish. And Emma can barely keep her footing when Killian moves, but then there are more limbs in their pretzel and he’s mumbling against Belle’s hair, quiet thanks and even softer promises and she sniffles very loudly.

“We left before they could ask us to testify or anything stupid official like that.” “Stupid official, huh?” Killian asks.

“Yeah, exactly that.”

“So, we’ll take, like, several million doubloons,” Will grins “However that converts.” Killian laughs, pulling back with Emma still pinned against his side. “There are taverns here, you know.” “Are you trying to get me a job?” “At least make you productive.” “Ah, that’s probably fair. Don’t try and get Belle out of this library though. She’s totally geeking out about some of these maps.” “I told you that in confidence,” Belle cries, but Will shrugs and Emma starts to let herself hope again. Maybe this will be alright. Maybe this will be the new normal.

“Yeah, well, stop blowing my jokes up and then we’ll talk.”

Regina finds them eventually – “It wasn’t really that bad, you didn’t have to run down here.” “You set the curtains on fire, Regina.” – more discussions of Camelot and treaties and maybe meeting with some of the non-magical folk who didn’t make either trip to the Land Without Magic. And it’s good. Great, even. Productive and positive and some other word with a similar start, but Emma’s whole body feels like it’s sagging by the time she crawls into bed.

She doesn’t want to fall asleep, but Killian is still going over maps and boundary lines and David had several ideas about possible trade routes and her eyes must close, because they snap open when the door does, moonlight streaming through her window and his coat is a soft thud on the back of the chair when he shrugs out of it.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Killian says, moving towards the bed and his lips quirk when she tries to shake her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?” “Yeah, but I think you’re kind of into it.” “That’s very true.” “Oh, very, huh?” “Incredibly? Intensely? Incessantly?” “Those last two don’t seem very positive,” Emma points out, propping her head on her hand. She shifts back, giving him a few inches on the far too large bed and it only takes a moment for him to get out of his boots and next to her, barely any space between them. Emma should, really, start thinking more, but it’s been a day and nearly two weeks and several years and she flips on her back with something that may be instinct, letting Killian curl against her with his head on her stomach and her fingers in his hair.

His breath is warm against her skin when he exhales.

“I would have done it,” he says eventually, voice snapping through the silence of the room. Emma doesn’t stop her fingers. She knows what he’s talking about. “Arthur, I mean. And his knights. Whatever--any of it. I would have--” He moves his arm, wrapping it around her middle, like he’s trying to keep her there or make sure he stays there, the specifics not important. “I wouldn’t have even given it a second thought.” “That’s probably not supposed to be romantic, huh?” Killian barks out a noise that is likely supposed to be a laugh, a kiss pressed to the top of Emma’s thigh because she’d never actually pulled the blankets up. “No, probably not.” “Weird.” “Aye, the weirdest.” “You want to tell me the truth now?” He tilts his head up, blue eyes and a stare that Emma has always been sure can read her mind and know her thoughts and neither one of those things should be particularly romantic either. And yet here they are.

There are goosebumps on the back of his neck.

“About?” “Oh, don’t play coy, Lieutenant, it’s not cute,” Emma mutters. “A pirate in Camelot? Talking about your magic. What would you have needed with another pirate?” Killian hisses in a breath, a look that isn’t quite nervous, but might be a hint apprehensive, as if he’s worried about Emma’s reaction. “You knew him, actually,” he whispers. “He’d only remember your reputation. You made sure of that.” It takes her, approximately, five and a half seconds to realize.

“Teach? Edward Teach?” “One and the same.” “A pirate? Seriously?” “Seriously,” Killian repeats. “Rather notorious one, in fact. I believe he left the occupation of ruining young boys’ lives a few years after I got my commission. Liam and I had heard tell of him, although I didn’t realize who he was at first. Changed his name, you see.” “You’re dragging this out on purpose.” “I’m trying to keep my audience rapt.” “Did you miss the part where I’m pretty into your face? Because I feel like that’s enough to get me to keep listening.” “Simply content to stare then, ma’am?” He does something ridiculous with his eyebrows when he says it, the tip of his tongue wholly distracting pressed to the inside of his cheek. Emma can actually feel herself blush. She kind of wishes she’d pulled the blankets up.

She feels more than a little exposed.

“What did you need Edward Teach for?” Killian swallows. “Because,” he says slowly, dragging the words against the curve of Emma’s hip and the top of her thigh and it’s another attempt at distraction that would probably work if she weren’t so goddamn stubborn. “Edward Teach became Blackbeard and Blackbeard stole a magic bean from a giant.” Emma tenses. Her whole body goes taut, far too many thoughts and even more feelings, a spark of magic and flush of how ridiculously attracted she is to his face and the feel of him next to her and she wants, wants, wants. She--

“There’s more to this,” Emma mutters, another quasi accusation.

“Aye, there is. But it’s not important.” “Nope, try again.” “Swan.” “Killian.” He sighs, not put-upon, but mostly disappointed, hooded eyes when he glances up at her. Emma lifts her brows. And exhales for six seconds straight. “I, uh---I couldn’t find anything to get to you, Swan. I knew where you were and--” “--How?” “Hmmm?” “How did you know?” Emma asks. “You said you found out. Before. But...how?” “A mermaid.” Emma blinks. She opens her mouth. And blinks again. There are noises coming out of her, but they’re not quite words and Killian’s expression is equal parts obnoxious and a little repentant. “That’s an entirely different and far too long story,” he says. “But, the short of it is that mermaids can travel between realms. That’s--the magic is incredible, Swan. I was always trying to get back, even if the Darkness didn’t want me to, but then--well, I found out what Rumplestiltskin was going to do and--” He shrugs, far too self deprecating and maybe a little self loathing and Emma can’t kiss him. That’s disappointing. “I wasn’t sure where you’d gone, Swan. Didn't know how to get there, but...Ariel, well she could. Without a curse or a bean or a bloody magic hat. She found you. Or, well, the idea of you. She found a town near the coast with more magic than she’d seen in one place in years. And I knew. That was you. But I couldn’t get there with her.” “No gills, huh?” Emma jokes. It doesn’t land. She didn’t expect it to. Killian shakes his head. “Not quite. So we started looking for other options and, eventually, that led us to Blackbeard.” “And you...what? Took the bean from him? Was there--I mean, did you...magic?” “No.” Emma has no right to be annoyed. She knows. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping and there are mermaids involved in this now, more magic and memories she wasn’t a part of and she wants to fix it. She wants to--

“Holy shit,” she breathes, Killian kissing the first patch of skin his lips land on. Her whole body shakes underneath him.

The room is spinning.

“Killian, how did you get a magic bean from Edward Teach?” “It was relatively easy, actually,” he says, and she’d almost believe that if it weren’t for the muscle in his jaw that jumps on every other letter. “Teach was always a greedy bastard. And he thought the bean was dead anyway, no chance of revival, but--” “--How?” He smiles at her. His eyes are glossy. “More than willing to make a trade. And I--the Darkness didn’t want it, wanted me to rip his throat out or, even better, his heart. Get him to give me his ship for a whole goddamn fleet, but I...I couldn’t. Not if I was going to find you, Swan. I was--it had to at least be a little honorable.” “How?”

The word barely squeaks its way out of her, because, really, she already knows the answer.

“He wanted a trade,” Killian says, smile barely that. “And I had the perfect thing to barter. The Jolly Roger.”

She’s not crying. That’s surprising. She’s too busy trying to keep breathing though, vision going spotty and Killian staring at her like he’s waiting for the cracks to form and the darkness to creep back in and she knows that too, knows that the sleepless nights and hours spent staring at the ceiling have been because of just that, fears of what’s been and could be and--

“You traded your ship for me?” He nods slowly. “Aye.” And it all happens in a blur. Emma tugs on his shirt and settles further into the pillows under her, the heavy feel of him on top of her a welcome weight, particularly when she arches her back and she can’t move her head quickly enough.

She can’t kiss him quickly enough.

She twists her neck, trying to prove something, bruising and needy and exhilarating because this is new and not and Killian groans into her mouth when Emma hooks her leg around his. She swipes her tongue across his lip, another sound that brands itself on her memory and Emma isn’t sure if the room is actually spinning or that’s just her soul, but it’s good and wonderful and everything and he pulls back slightly, staring with something almost resembling awe.

As if she’s the one who traded her ship for him.

He smiles.

And it’s not wholly different from the thousands of smiles she’s seen before, a quirk of his lips and the way his cheeks shift, soft crinkles around his eyes, but, somehow, it’s completely new and entirely better, something almost settling about it, like they’re falling back together or finding each other again and it’s every single time in one expression.

Killian’s thumb brushes over her cheek, fingers pushing into her hair and then the smile is gone, replaced with want and that same need and it makes Emma’s heart jump, a swell of feeling and magic in equal measure.

He may mumble I love you before his lips find hers again.

She may mumble always in return.

And it feels like it lasts forever, but couldn’t possibly be enough time, a moment Emma wants to stretch on because if this is what forever feels like, then she’ll embrace it with open arms. So, really, she’s not sure what compels her to say the next few words, just knows that she has to and she didn’t trade her ship for a magic bean, but she’ll be damned if he did.

Because they’ve got to be both. The past and the present and curses several times over, a pirate and a princess who never really wanted either title.

So.

“We’re getting it back,” Emma mutters, against Killian’s mouth and she can’t help whatever her hips do when he hums in response. “Your ship. That’s...we’re getting it back.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #all was golden in the sky #that stupid witch fic #i am very stressed out

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verai-marcel · 6 years ago

Text

Inescapable Rapture (RDR2 Fanfic, Ch. 4 of 5, 18+ ONLY)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Also on AO3 here.

Chapter 4: Never Let Me Go

Notes: Ever deeper.

WC: 1973

A couple of days later, you were on your own in the office once more, the doctor having gone out to visit one of the richer patients out on the northwest side of town where the larger homesteads were located. You were familiar enough with that area, having lifted a few bills from those houses before, so you knew you had some time to prepare medicines for the other patients on the doctor’s home visit list for tomorrow without interruption.

So focused on your task, you didn’t notice a man walking into the office until he was right next to your desk. Looking up, you saw a blond man with a newsboy cap, red shirt, jeans, and a bandana over his face. Once he had your attention, he patted at his gun holster. Your eyes widened at the unspoken threat.

“Keep quiet, and show me where the money is.”

You gulped, and slowly moved away from your desk, wishing you had locked the door, even though that would have meant people who needed your help wouldn’t have been able to come in. You led the robber down into the basement, where the safe was located. Fortunately, you had come up with a double safe system; the real safe was behind a painting off to the side next to a bunch of shelves, looking dusty and unkempt, while an ostentatious looking safe was directly in view from the stairs, and only had about $20 inside of it.

Opening it as slowly as possible, you hoped that someone would come by, find that you weren’t at your desk, and start calling out for you. Or better yet, they’d go look for the sheriff. When you finally got it open, you started to step aside.

A hand slammed into the wall next to your face.

“Thanks. Now why don’t we have some fun before I leave here.”

“No,” you snarled, trying to duck out underneath his arm. He grabbed your shoulder and pushed you into the wall. You kicked him in the shins, making him flinch long enough for you to tear yourself free, but he quickly chased you and tackled you by the stairs. He covered your mouth with a dirty gloved hand just as you were about to scream.

Without a word, he tore at your shirt, and you elbowed him in the face. He grunted and let go for a second, giving you a chance to roll away, but he pinned you down again. Glaring furiously at you, he backhanded you hard. Seeing stars for a second, you swung at him, but he just grabbed your wrist. You pulled and tugged while he laughed, and he punched you. You had seen it coming and had turned your head to avoid a direct hit, but he still hit you high on the cheek, the rough leather of his glove cutting your skin open. Your head rung with the impact.

“Get your hands off her.”

You had never been so happy to hear Arthur’s voice.

The robber didn’t speak, just pulled his gun out to shoot. But Arthur was faster, and shot the gun from his hand before leaping down the stairs and clocking him in the face with the butt of his pistol. You quickly scrambled out of the way, and Arthur’s gaze caught yours. His eyes widened at the sight of blood on your face, and then he turned to the other man, pure hatred emanating from his entire being. Arthur put his gun away and stalked towards the other man. The robber didn’t have a chance, as he cradled his injured hand and tried to get up, looking up just in time to have his face bashed in again. And again. And again. Arthur beat the man with his bare fists until he was unconscious, and then some more.

He finally stopped, after a few hard punches started sounding wet. Breathing heavily, Arthur spit on the robber. Then he took a deep breath before he turned to you. “You okay?”

You didn’t respond, still somewhat dazed from the hits you took, from the loud gunfire, and from watching Arthur exhibiting how strong he really was. He came towards you, blood splattered on his clothes and hands, and you flinched. He froze for a moment before looking down at himself. He pulled out his bandana and wiped his hands and arms, then put it away, keeping his eyes on you. He slowly got on one knee, watching you carefully as he put his arms out, and lowered his voice to a soft, soothing tone.

“Come to me when you’re ready.”

You stared at him for a couple moments. But then you started to crawl towards him, your head still aching.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

You kept moving towards his voice.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.”

You reached out and grabbed his hand and pulled yourself the rest of the way into his arms. He held you gently and pet your hair, murmuring reassurances.

“You’re okay now, I’ll keep you safe.”

You started to nod, but your head protested, so you just clung harder to him.

“I’m gonna throw him in jail. Unless you want me to kill him for you?”

“No,” you said. Jail in Arthur’s town? That’d probably be worse than death.

Arthur nodded. “Okay then.” He held you until you finally took a shuddering breath to stabilize yourself, and pulled back to look at him. He gave you a searching glance, and decided that you were alright for now. Letting go of you, he stepped away, went to pick up the robber, and headed up the stairs.

“Lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone but me or the doctor back in,” he commanded. You followed him up the stairs and locked the door behind him. Sliding down the door and sitting on the floor, you just breathed for a few moments. Then, steeling yourself for the pain, you got up and treated yourself in the doctor’s room. Looking in the mirror, you saw a bruise starting to bloom under your left eye, and the cut there was still oozing a bit of blood. Your right cheek hurt, but wasn’t bruising yet. You washed your cut and thought that it would probably scar.

You came back out into the main room, and sat against the door and waited.

***

You woke up to a knocking on the door, and Arthur’s voice calling your name, a bit frantically.

You got up and opened the door slowly, peeking out around it. He looked relieved to see you. You opened the door fully, and he wasted no time in gathering you up in his arms and holding you tight.

“You’re okay?” he asked, fretfully.

“I’m okay,” you lied.

He pulled back to look at you. “Please don’t lie to me anymore. Especially now.”

You swallowed. And you buried your head in his neck and sobbed quietly. This was by far one of the most scariest things that had happened to you. You knew it could’ve happened at any time when you went out to steal from houses; you were certain that if you had ever been caught, you might’ve been shot, or worse. But the danger had never been real, always a hypothetical situation that you carefully planned for, and luckily, had been a good enough cat burglar that you had never been found out until Arthur caught you.

Having faced actual danger to your person, you swore you’d never do anything that risky again. It was a truly harrowing experience.

Arthur let you cry on him for as long as you needed, rubbing your back and soothing you quietly. When you had finally released all the fear and tension that had built up inside of your heart, you pulled away from him, and he let you have your space.

“I’m okay now,” you said, truthfully.

Arthur slowly leaned in and kissed your cheek, right below the bruise. “Good.” He watched you lock up the office and held his hand out to you. You took his hand and walked with him to the sheriff’s building where his horse was hitched.

“I’ll make you something to eat, but if you’re tired, you can just sleep. Just tell me what you need,” he said as he lifted you up onto his horse. He climbed on behind you and the two of you cantered home.

***

Arthur did give you something light to nibble on, but you weren’t very hungry. You just wanted to sleep. But he did ask to wash you clean, because he couldn’t stand the fact that another man had touched you, and you felt the same way.

He carried the chair over and placed it by the water basin, heated up some water, and with a soft, clean flannel, he carefully scrubbed your face with warm water. His hands massaged your aching back and shoulders, and he slid your clothes off to wash the rest of you, taking his time to work all of your muscles. You were fully relaxed once he was done, and he carried you to the bed, laying you down like sleeping beauty and tucking you into the blankets.

He kissed your forehead. “I’ll be back in a little bit,” he whispered. “I need to clean up too.”

You glanced at his forearms and his face, still speckled in blood from before, and nodded. You drifted in and out sleep, but you were instantly awake once he crawled into bed with you, feeling his naked body spooning yours. He was hard against your bottom, but he didn’t act upon it, to your surprise. You turned in his arms and looked at him, his face relaxed, his ocean eyes watching you intensely, waiting for you to speak.

“Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Call me kitten.”

Arthur stared hard at you. “You sure? You been through a lot today.”

“Please,” you begged. “I need you.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Anything for you… kitten.”

You rolled him over onto his back and draped yourself over him. Rubbing against his hard shaft, he moaned, feeling you start to get slick as you rocked your hips against him. He skimmed his fingers over your hips and around your waist, letting you dictate the speed for once. You guided his hands to your breasts and squeezed, and he got the hint, playing with your nipples while you rode him slowly, building up a pleasurable heat.

Then you lifted yourself up and slowly, so slowly, lowered yourself onto his thick cock, sighing with pleasure as you felt him fill you all the way. It felt so satisfying, so perfect, and you started to ride him harder, leaning forward and placing your hands on his chest. Arthur reached between your legs to play with your clit, urging you to go faster.

“That’s it, ride me darlin’,” he rumbled. “Take your pleasure from me tonight, I’m all yours.”

You broke, crying out his name as you came around him. He wrapped both arms around you and pulled you close, lifting up his hips and pounding into you from below as your climax crashed through your body like a tornado.

Then he picked you up, lifting you just enough for him to slide out and setting you back down, guiding your hips to slide your wet folds over his cock a few times before he let go, moaning as he spilled his seed between your bodies.

You lay on top of him like dead weight, catching your breath. He played with your hair and ran his fingers lazily up and down your back, slowly drifting to sleep. You finally slid off his body and closed your eyes, your arms and legs wrapped around him. He turned and pulled you close.

“My little thief,” he whispered into your hair. “Stealin’ my heart.”

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Part 5 (FINALE) is here.

#writing #fanfic #lemon #nsft #arthur morgan #arthur x reader #deputy arthur #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #low honor arthur morgan #dubcon #deputy AU

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galadrieljones · 6 years ago

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A Funeral: Chapter 12 (Arthur Morgan x Mary Beth Gaskill)

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another as well as to the future, and to the unchecked dangers of the natural world.

Thanks @bearly-tolerable for the lovely banner!! <3

For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog. ^_^

Chapter 12: A Good Place

“Where’d you learn to dance, Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur smiled, spun her some. He held her with soft hands. He was not remarkable, but he could pull it off. He was a very good, strong lead. “Miss Grimshaw,” he said.

Mary Beth felt herself laughing. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said. “I was about twenty or twenty-one. I was kind of a piece of work back then. She thought it would teach me some manners.”

“And did it work?”

He gave her a very knowing look. “I think so. It never fails to impress the ladies. Makes me seem softer than I am.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” said Mary Beth, responding to his touch with her own.

“I know,” he said.

They danced some more. The waltz was not upbeat, but it had a nice rhythm. The music made the whole cottage feel dreamy, like the colors had faded, or they were blurring together. It was like dancing through a painting. When the tempo slowed, so did Arthur. He was not an ostentatious sort of man. He just liked the music. He guided her waist with one hand, and her hand with the other. She moved close so she could rest her head, every lightly, against his chest and hear his beating heart against the sound of the song. The track had dipped into a ballad now, and it was more violins. More strings. Arthur sighed, his chest big. His chin about touched the top of her head. She felt covered by him and very happy. Their movements were slow, but they were still movements, to the quiet rhythm of the waltz.

“So few of the other men back at camp are willing to part with their pride for a dance,” she said. “Even Javier.”

“Javier is more bashful than he seems,” said Arthur. “He doesn’t perform but for behind that guitar.”

“I’m surprised you take to it so nicely. You got a lot up your sleeve, Arthur.”

He laughed a little, into her hair. “I don’t know about that, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I’ve seen Dutch dance,” she said, “with Molly. Not so much no more. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s pretty smooth.”

“Perhaps Miss Grimshaw taught him as well.”

This amused her. “I always forget they was a thing.”

“It’s in the past,” said Arthur.

They got quieter. Her eyes were closed. Underneath the music was the crackling of the fire. She felt him move her hair off her back, push it all over one shoulder, in a practiced manner. His hands were big. He was disciplined in his touch. He traced one palm over her shoulder until she kind of shivered. He held her, not as friends. They had danced as friends, many times. This was not friends. This was something more. They were dancing very close.

He sighed, after a little while. His sighs were big, just like his hands. “Hmm,” he said, real low. Then he did it again, like he was thinking. Hmm. “Mary Beth,” he said finally.

“Yeah?”

He’d been saving up, maybe. He brought the back of her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles with his eyes closed. Her whole hand could fit inside of his. Then he spoke with true intention. “I ain’t ever gonna leave you,” he said, his voice all full of breath, all full of gravel, spilling down her back, into her hair.

She looked up at him. She was surprised by this—this outpouring. And yet she wasn’t. “I know,” she said.

He tucked the hair behind her ear, caressed both her cheeks, studying her. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re not a fool.”

“I deny. That’s what I do.”

“No it ain’t.”

“I ain’t gonna make you wait on me,” he said. “I want you. It’s all I want. Do you understand?”

She smiled, big, like melting into the earth. “Yeah, I do,” she said.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it was true, taking all the stray pieces of hair off her face. “If you want me, that’s gotta mean something.”

“I do,” she said.

They met eyes then, real brisk but hard, and then they sort of just, crashed into each other. Foreheads, then mouths. They kissed—this time deeper than the last, with a lot more meaning and forward motion, like they were fastening their souls and letting go of the bad. She held him by the wrists and he put his big hands in her curly hair. Then she sank into him and held him by his open collar, and he stood tall, signaling to her that he had cast off with his indecision. She had no indecision. At this point, words were meaningless. There had been so many words exchanged between them. Words were easy for them, and it was this, the action, that had needed its time to mature, but now it had as she felt her hands down his broad chest and tucked them against the tough leather of his belt, which holstered his heavy guns, and she thought that if he would let her take it off for him, that would be a symbol and she knew moments like this weren't meant to be symbols, like this was real life, but sometimes Mary Beth's mind couldn't help itself in this way.

It went like a rockslide. He did not stop her. He was consumed with the laces of her blouse and how they braided together, but for such big hands he had a careful precision to his touch, and it was trained and practiced and filled with subtlety. She was not so subtle. She fussed with the belt a little. It was big and cumbersome, but eventually she got it free, and this relieved him of the weight of his holsters—his revolver and his pistol. The movement, getting it off, had been kind of rough by accident, and she'd had to tug, and she could tell it kind of surprised him as he grunted deep in his chest. The guns were such heavy pieces, she thought. She could not believe how he carried them around on his body like this, day after day. She lowered the holsters to the floor, with one hand, slowly to where the guns and the leather all piled with a jingle and a heavy sound. She knew they were loaded. It would not have been safe to drop them.

Determined after that, she untucked his shirt because it had already sort of come untucked, but that was all he was gonna allow for the moment. He let her get that far, but a man of his chivalry, he scooped her into his arms and picked her up until her skirts and her legs all gathered around him. She was swept away in this. God it fucked her up and made her dizzy. He held her high up, with ease, so that she was nearly over him, chin down as they kissed, her hands covering his hair, and then he lowered them both to the bed, him sitting and her in his lap, and that was it—it all went out the window. His suspenders came down, her blouse came undone like a handkerchief, floating to the floor in a pile by the artillery. It was romantic down there, with the artillery. He seemed to know how to get a girl out of her skirt. He removed the ties and unhooked the grapple and then it, too, was on the floor. His shirt went with it. This all continued until she had him unbuttoned and out of his trousers, and then she was lowering herself, and he was inside of her. Just like that.

And with this, he put them at a full stop. He held her firmly by the shoulders. He stared at her until she was staring back, fixed with his focus, his careful blue eyes. They assessed—each other, the moment. He pushed the hair out of her face. She put his hair behind his ears. They both felt everything as she palmed his cheeks and rocked, slow against him. He nodded, his breath revealing itself now as vulnerable and ragged. It was good, he seemed to say. Slow was good. Don’t stop. He held her by the hips, felt behind until he could clamp her closer, harder, pushing into her, wrapping her into his wingspan until she seemed to diminish. She kissed him. He kissed her. This went on until he couldn’t take it anymore, picked her up, put her onto her back. He made good of her then, until she was but a puddle in the sheets. And he went with her, too. Sinking into the earth until he lost himself inside of her. The gramophone still turned. The music had stopped long ago, but it was determined to accompany them still. Deep. Gone. Till they finished.

Before Arthur, Mary Beth had only been with two boys in her whole life. That was years before. The last time had been a sweet-natured boy born to a farm, his hands always stained with dirt and clay, as he was a ranch hand for his daddy, breaking calves and breaking horses, plowing the earth. She had a soft spot for boys who worked with their hands. The gang had been camped somewhere in Colorado. It was the year John had disappeared. Arthur was pissed off constantly, all full of bluster. He was still far away from anything she ever could have envisioned taking for herself. Like a seething older brother, always brooding, mean—not to her, just to the world in general. Like he was gonna make it pay. But this boy, the rancher’s son, he’d taken to her at the saloon and brought her a bouquet of daffodils. It was early spring. They spent many days together in the valleys close to town. She told no one but Abigail, who she had sort of counted as a big sister in the beginning. He always pulled out, so she didn’t get pregnant. It ended when the gang had to leave. Somebody got pinched, a jailbreak—Bill maybe. It was always Bill. This got them into longterm trouble with the locals. It was time to move on.

Her first time had been all the way back in Kansas City, before she’d ever even met Arthur, or Dutch, or any of the boys. She was seventeen, and it was a boy she knew from the church downtown. She liked to go to church because it made her feel pure amidst her self-perceived sins as an urchin girl and a pickpocket, and though she had never been religious, not once in her life, she would talk to her mama, and her daddy, and her brother up in what she knew had to be heaven, while she sat idly in the pews, explaining all about her life now, and how she was sad, but she knew it would be okay. She met this boy, and he was poetic, as he liked to read William Wordsworth from a book he had stolen for her from the penny store. He was from the wrong side of the tracks. They always was. The two of them made love one time, on a soft blanket, on the bank of the Mississippi, but he had recently joined the Navy, and the very next day, he left Kansas City forever. She never saw or heard from him again. It was sad, but it was real.

That was girlhood, she knew now. That was dreams. These past few years she had grown up in quiet ways that changed her, tempered her down, gave her some grit. She’d seen things now, been places, lived in both safety and in fear, made friends—very close friends who no matter what became of her and them and their dying way of life, she would count as pieces of her heart forever. After her brother died, she knew she was never gonna be anything graceful in this world. Anything fancy. But she didn’t care. She had her books and her paper and her pens and her people. And she was good at her work, pickpocketing in the cities, and she was holding a good man in her good embrace, and he was holding her back, and it felt like everything bad and good she had ever experienced in her life so far was leading her straight into him. She was not trying to be romantic. She was not trying to be dreamy and whimsical, like she knew so many people thought her to be. She was just existing. And he had never once underestimated her, and that was the whole point.

When Arthur finished, he came inside her. It was not what he intended to do, but she urged him forth with her regular sense of promise and love, and it was what he wanted, and what she wanted, too. Giving themselves had been a conscious choice. There was nothing simple or short-lived about what they had undertaken that night. They lie in the sheets now, curled into one another. She was tracing his big scar with her fingers. He was just absorbing her sensations, his eyes closed. His heart still. He wanted to turn her around, finish her with his hands or his mouth—something, anything, but he was dead beat now, and so he would save it for next time, his giving. He pulled his fingers through a few strands of her hair. He touched every part of her body. The freckles went everywhere. It was not just her cheeks, or her shoulders or her knees. He thought of nothing but the present. She continued to pet him, like he were hers. Something bad inside of him disappeared.

She said she had to pee. This amused him, but he got up with her. She wrapped herself in a blanket. He walked her to the door, and waited, naked as an animal, in the doorway. The air was cold, but it was refreshing. She ran to the little outhouse, and she was back in a flash. She came back into the cottage, and he locked the door, and then she went back into the bed, and then he stoked the fire, picked up the needle off the record in the gramophone, so that all they could hear was the crackling flame and nature noises outside. Then he got back in the bed with her, where they lie beneath a linen cover in their quiet extinction, entangled with their messy skin and messy hair, and exhausted in the sheets. Arthur dimmed the lamp at the bedside table. The fire kept the room glowing and warm and feeling alive. They slept as if nothing had every happened.

The shadows from the flames threw across their naked bodies and into the walls. Her skirts and her blouse and his shirt and his pants, all their clothes and Arthur’s guns still lay quiet in their poetic shambles on the wooden floor. The dishes were stacked clean and washed in the basin, far away in the background. Outside, there were bears and ghosts and whispers of broken dreams and dead people, and the sky was just a wool blanket pressed to the light, full of pin pricks that looked and seemed like stars. Arthur dreamed of nothing. Or, he dreamed of falling, but never landing. He never hit. He never died. He had never been so tired in all his life. That's what he was dreaming. It was like he was resting, really resting, for the first time in a hundred years.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #arthur x mary beth #arthur morgan x mary beth gaskill #a funeral

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