#ask-lord-arthur-blog

[nuninho2000]

Grindeldore? Marthur? Ted/Adromeda? Do you like them

Grindelwald X Albus Dumbledore has a romantic ship i never had an exact opinion about, their dynamic, partnership and their ambition of ruling over the Muggles , the Deathly Hallows legend etc was quite interesting but like we know that all fell apart when Aberforth found out and called Albus out because he had a responsibility of taking care of Ariana and one thing led to another when Grindelwald found out and attacked Aberforth and Albus defend his brother and then during duel between the three it was Ariana ended up dying and we never found out who really killed her during duel .

Years passed and many things happened but eventually Albus and Aberforth made amends after years without speaking to each other because during Ariana's funeral Aberforth rightly punched Albus'nose and then in 1945 Albus Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald and won the Elder Wand from Grindelwald himself in the duel and the dark wizard was send to Nurmengard , ironically that was the prison Grindelwald build for his enemies.

In 1998 Grindelwald was killed by Lord Voldemort because he refused to tell where the Elder Wand was ( I will never forgive the movies for putting Grindelwald telling where it was) so in conclusion if I like their dynamic and storyline? I do and it's one my favourite side stories and if I ship them ? No .

About Arthur and Molly i just love them and they are in fact the best couple in the series because they are the definition of what is of being a realistic couple and extraordinary parents , they are not perfect but which loving parent is not ? They are so cute and remarkable people.

Ted and Andromeda are very interesting because of the three ships you ask me they are the least we know about , i would really would love to know the details how a pure blood witch who comes from Pure Blood fanatic family eventually fell in love with a Muggle born , i find Andromeda quite interesting character because unlike many people who easily try to make Slytherin character good people Andromeda is the character who should be used has role model that all Slytherin ( the House that produced the most dark wizards ) are not all bad people, she broke the rules of her family by marry a Muggle born and having a child with him so yes i do like a lot and would like to know more about them and more details about their love story.

[roaringheat]

YEAAA LONE WOLF <333

[threadbearsweater]

one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan

When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

[heavenlymorals]

Biblical References in Both RDR games.

I love biblical references so much. When it comes to literature, it's probably my favorite type of symbolism. Like I genuinely get so happy when I connect things to the Bible which is what I'm going to do right now 😊😊 I also like the way that religion is incorporated into RDR as a whole, including the main characters' reaction to it.

So yup, here are just a few references or connections that I was able to make in no particular order.

Also, some of these are complete reaches and I'm aware of that, but fuck it, it's my blog and I do what I want 💪🏼

- The character and tragedy of Issac. In the Bible, Issac is the child of Abraham who is asked to be sacrificed by God by his father as a test of faith. God eventually intervenes to save Issac because he only wanted to test Abraham's faith. Dutch is shown as a God-like figure to the gang, as their devotion is to him. Arthur, indirectly, sacrifices Issac by not being there and by following what Dutch wanted. Arthur, Issac, and Dutch are parallels to Abraham, Issac, and God.

- Leviticus is the book that comes after the book of Exodus. After the gang's escape or exodus from Blackwater after the Blackwater massacre, they are met by Leviticus Cornwall, who becomes the next obstacle for the gang. After the gang's exodus, they get in trouble with Leviticus.

- The image of the deer and a mountain. Psalm 18:32-34 in the Bible says, "It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way blameless? He makes my feet like deers' feet, and sets me upon my high places." In Arthur's condemnation of Dutch, Micah, and their evil, he becomes steady in his identity and beliefs, like a deer's feet on a mountain, which is where he dies in the end. W symbolism.

- The mission "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah." In the Bible, Sodom and Gomorrah were two cities that were so morally depraved and evil that God decided to destroy the both of them, saying that if there was even one good person in those cities, he'd spare them, but there weren't. In those missions, you also do two evil acts, going from one and then BACK to the other. You rob the bank and then go BACK to collect the debt from Edith Downes. So you finish one evil deed and to straight to the next. This can also show how morally bankrupt Arthur's apathy made him at this point in the game.

- Micah's guns say "Vengeance is hereby mine." This could be a reference to Roman's 12:19 "vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." Micah's violent nature makes him take his anger out on the world.

- "Your father is seduced by him with the forked tongue. It's no use hoping." The blind prophet to Arthur. Pretty straight forward symbolism, it's a nod to the snake that seduced Eve, just like how Micah manipulates Dutch.

- Dutch walking away from Arthur when he dies and though he realizes his wrong doing and feels shame, his pride forbids him from apologizing or saying he was wrong. This can be a parallel to how Adam and Eve run away from God when they feel shame over believing in the snake, but their pride won't allow them to apologize to God, hence damning them like how Micah damned Dutch.

- There were twelve ACTIVE gang members before the Blackwater massacre. When I mean active, I mean gang members who are canonically consistent (so not uncle, Swanson, Strauss, or the girls) on going on jobs for the gang. Micah, Bill, Javier, John, Hosea, Arthur, Charles, Sean, Lenny, Josiah, Mac and Davey Callender. Christ had 12 disciples and Dutch is portrayed as a savior to the gang, or a Christ like figure. And would you look at that, there is a traitor in both groups of twelve (Micah and Judas).

- Both John and Arthur's graves have scripture from Jesus's sermon on the mountain (Matthew 5:1-12). John's is blessed are the peacemakers and Arthur's is blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

- The go back for the money ending. If you go back for the money and have low honor, you'll see that the camp is engulfed in flames as you try to get the money. The fight with Micah is brutal and you die faced down in the dark. This death is an allegory for going to either hell and purgatory as you choose a final evil act of leaving your brother to possibly die just so you can get money as an act of revenge. If you have high honor, you are still surrounded by flames, but you still have a chance at heaven given that you die facing up seeing the light one final time.

- The help John ending has similar connotations. If you have low honor, you die by gunshot and are shrouded in darkness, which can symbolize the absence of God's light and how Arthur's final act couldn't absolve the lack of guilt he feels for the rest of the actions that he KNOWS are evil (click here for a my interpretation of Arthur's morality). In high honor, though, you get to crawl to the mountain side and see the rising sun, symbolizing heaven, warmth, and a new purity.

- In low honor, the coyote goes down to a dark cave, representing damnation and the rejection of holy light. In high honor, the deer steps into a heavenly field of light. Love that so much to be honest.

- Just the very Catholic vibe of Arthur's redemption. Doing good deeds, feeling guilt, all that.

- John's new life is basically this: "Let him who stole steal no longer, but rather let him labor, working with his hands what is good, that he may have something to give him who has need." -Ephesians 4:28. John gives up his old life to be an honest laborer, a rancher, and a proper man.

- The Strange Man in RDR rides on a donkey, which is pretty interesting because Jesus Christ also made his grand entry on a donkey.

- Just the Strange Man in general to be honest. Some say he's God, others say he's the Devil, and others say he's Cain from the Bible, which is my personal favorite theory but whatever.

- Dutch's horse could be a reference to Revelations 6:8- "And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." Dutch's rash actions caused the death of the gang and RDR's incarnate of Hades or Hell was Micah, following him. Dutch is the only one, canonically, to have a pale horse.

- "Am I prepared for eternal damnation? Am I passed any kind of saving? Or is that just fairy tales?" Arthur in his journal. I love this line so much because of its very agnostic nature whilst still showing the Christian mindset of 1899 America. This line also shows that Arthur is canonically agnostic which is a yippee from me because it's like the only thing me and this man have in common lmao 😭

- "Bad news awaits you, sir. Sadly, sooner than you think. But beyond the news, paradise awaits. Paradise.." Blind Man Cassidy to Arthur. Sorry but I just love that. High honor Arthur lived such an awful life but he still has a chance at paradise and heaven? Love that so much.

- God (pun intended), I love biblical symbolism. Couldn't you tell?

[howlett-n-morgan]

Take Me Home

1. TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: if you're seeing this for the first time, welcome! If not, and you were following my other blog, welcome back! Either way, I hope you enjoy this dumpster fire brought to you by my imagination ✨️

Summary: In the town of Agua Fria lived a shooter called Texas Red. Many men had tried to take him, and that many men were dead. A duelist and potential outlaw, with a secret no one knows. The perfect recruit for Dutch Van Der Linde to sweet talk into joining up.

Warnings: game typical violence, gun violence, dueling, old fashioned ways of thinking (no racism depicted in this chapter, but misogyny is mentioned) mild language, Arthur is a grump but also a sweetheart.

WC: 6.5k

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair? “Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.” 

The light from the outside window is what wakes you first, the brightness pooling over your closed eyelids before they even open. You’re still in Agua Fria, the place you've made a name for yourself. Charlie Brooks, but that's not the one that comes to mind. 

Texas Red. The unkillable. Nothing more than a duelist to many, and even less so to those who don't care for that sort of thing. But to those who dare challenge the big iron on your hip, you are not anything short of a quick handed master. Only eighteen years old, or so they say - it’s what you’ve told them, but like your name, it isn’t true. Whichever way you spell it out, your reputation is the reason people know you; You have the fastest draw on this side of anywhere. 

For someone who's known near and far as the kid who never lost a match, the nickname is a little less than favorable. Texas Red isn't for the blood on your hands, it's for the ginger of your hair. It's factual, not demeaning… but still unfavorable. You do not care much what they call you anymore, just as long as they know what comes with it. Too many men have underestimated your ability, one and nineteen more. 

Here in Agua Fria there's folks that will come from far and wide, just to test your trigger finger. Today is no different. You've spent the night in a hotel above the saloon, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, you know there ought to be a man there, ready and willing to die. 

“That's him.” 

You hear from under the breath of the bartender. He served you only last night, one drink of silky whiskey before bed, nothing more. You told him your name, but not the one people know. Word gets around, you suppose. Your pistol has twenty notches on the handle, folks can tell enough from that alone. One of the outlaws that hangs around here does the same thing… except he takes pride in those marks, as opposed to you. You make those marks to remember the weight of your pistol, heavier every time a notch is made.

The man before you is tall and strong, likely a farmer that does heavy work. He has a sly look about him, but you don't feel bothered too much. You think his hands, worn by the sun and weathered by his work - whatever it may be - will not draw fast enough to even graze you. They are too stiff where they hang by his side, probably from pushing a plow, or milling a field. 

He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's what you assume. He's here to challenge me, they always are. No one asks after you otherwise… except for maybe some working women, but that never ends well.

“You're the kid?” He looks you over, a furrowed brow and a smirk brush his features, but it doesn't last. Yes, you think. I'm the kid, and this is my gun.

“Yes sir,” your voice is a little lower, the early morning is stuck in the pitch of it. 

His question was so vague, but having been asked about eight times out of twenty ‘are you the kid?’ makes you a pretty damn good guesser of what your answer ought to be.

He takes another once over after a step forward, and now you can see that he stands about a head taller than you. He's not quite intimidating, but you can admit, the anxiousness of a man initiating a duel is always a thing that prickles your skin, warms your very fingertips. Maybe that's why you shoot so fast. 

“You don't look like a killer,” he looks down, but his nose is somehow still in the air. He wants to prove something, to someone or to himself you can't be sure, but only the most foolish of men dare your gun this way. 

“I'm not one.” 

And he laughs. You don't even think to look up at him, you keep my face forward. I don't have anything to prove, but of course you know you’ll have to.

“You shoot folks, got a name for it,” he settled his hands on his belt. It's a gun belt, sure, but the rounds don't even match the gun at his hip. They look bigger, as for a rifle. This farmer likely shoots ducks. Sitting or flying, that’s not the relevant point. 

He has experience, and that's what clouds his mind. He thinks you’re a sitting duck. 

“I do, but I ain't no killer,” you paused, rounding the man, stepping up to the bar and pointing for a glass of water. This early in the morning, any form of alcohol shouldn't be legal. You reckon it's the very thing that made this gentleman bold and eager enough to try what he's about to. At least you’re pretty darn sure that he's about to, otherwise he’s just an adoring spectator. “I shoot folks as need shootin’, but they always ask for it. I ain't malicious or nothin’.” 

“Maybe you's the one that needs shootin’.”

Atta boy, getting to the point. You have to smile. He looks confused by it and he very well should be… people don’t normally crack a grin when being threatened.

“S’pose you wanna be the one that does it,” You take a drink of the water you’re handed, but it does little to wash away the tickle in your throat, trying to climb its way up in the form of the chuckle. 

“If I gotta be.” 

You’ve never seen this man around town. Being here in this area almost two months, you’ve seen more of the traveling recluses than any of the farmers. Seen more of the local outlaws, too. They never stay long, they cause a little trouble here and there… but never the farmers. They come into town maybe once, twice a month. They harbor most of their own supplies on their land. No need for the town. 

“And you think you'll hit me?” 

“I've never missed.” 

And then that chuckle finally does escape you. 

“I knew twenty men who hadn't, either,” but the other's words were a bit more out of ignorance. They wanted to show off, thought they had nothing to lose. You were just a skinny kid with red hair and a heavy gun that you could barely stand to carry. 

“I like my odds.” 

So you turn to the bartender. He watched this same charade last month. A different man, not quite as tall, but just as confident. He stops wiping down an empty glass, and looks to you with a look of annoyance. What did you do to deserve it? You haven't the slightest clue. When he looks at the challenger with sincerity and condolences, you know what he thinks behind those eyes.

This is a fine young man, he may have a wife and some children. He doesn't know what he's doing, he had a strong drink. He only heard one story, it isn't fair. 

But of course, you can't back out. You’ve never backed out. Never having anything to lose, and like today, no one has ever tried to convince you otherwise. If you die now, you can go out a hero of sorts, the gunslinger of Agua Fria. If you live, then you'll someday die a legend. Texas Red, the unkillable.

You will have to step outside, and you will have to shoot this man, but for the first time, you feel you oughta know his name. You stepped to meet him and offered your hand. It's smaller compared to his. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Robert Sims.” 

He shakes your hand tightly, he wants to show how strong he is… as if that somehow makes him shoot faster.

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-” 

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair?

“Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.” 

He scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor. Maybe he doesn't wanna do this. He seems to be rolling it over in his head. If he wins he kills you, a scrawny kid with an ugly hat, and not a friend in the world. If he loses, well… he dies. 

But as if foolishness ruled his mind, he settles on his thoughts, and you can see it clear as day when he decides. 

“Are you ready to step outside?” 

And you smile again. He could've been your friend. He seems like a kind enough man, a little arrogant, but a man of honor in himself. He even struck you with a slanted smile of his own, but for no reason other than your reputation alone, he wants to kill you. Always a shame. 

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever. 

Thirty paces apart on the dirt road outside, the poor man never even cleared leather, but a bullet rests between his collarbones, and he himself rests on the ground. He’s got a pouch on his hip you noticed earlier, so while everyone around is frozen in place, you carefully go up to his body, stripping the valuables from him before moving on your way. To the winner go the spoils.

You holster your weapon, turn around and face the folks that stopped their journeys to watch. Some had seen the last one, they expected the outcome. Others were a bit surprised. David beat Goliath. The bigger opponent fell. 

You took a walk around the block to settle down, find a nail to notch your pistol yet again. You’ve never forgotten your earlier opponents, but something about this one makes you sadder than the rest. One and Twenty more, and whoever else is stupid enough to have the same idea.

Once you feel at rest you land back in the saloon, but it's not as empty as before, your single friend Robert Sims being the occupant. Now there are three men. There is a tall dark haired man with a mustache and a bowler hat, a darker skinned man beside him against the bar, and a young man that looked all too similar to yourself in complexion and hair color. It was nice to know that you weren’t the only one God would curse that way. 

You don't plan on letting yourself be bothered, so you sit down one stool over, beckoning a whiskey you can shoot to chase the adrenaline. You thought you had calmed down, but sitting here it feels as though you’re in the middle of a footrace, with the speed accelerating instead of decreasing. 

“Charlie Brooks?” The tall man with the mustache was the first to speak, and directly to you. 

These men have guns on their hips, and you hope they are not thinking what the last man thought. You’ve barely calmed down enough from Robert Sims, and your head would hurt having to shoot twice in one day. 

“Yes,” your confusion forced through. 

“I'd like to talk with you. This man here tells me you're quite the gunslinger,” he gestures to the bartender and you give him a glance, seemingly just doing his job minding his business when he's not running his mouth about you. 

“He told ya? Or were you outside?” 

The man had a laugh that seemed comforting almost. It was hearty and full of actual joy. He pat you on the back and you had half a mind to turn away from it for a moment, unsure of why he was so friendly or if you appreciated it yet. It’s been a while since you felt the comforting or friendly touch of someone who didn’t later try and shoot you.

“I did in fact see your show of skill, but I wasn't sure if approaching you after a fiasco like that would end up poorly for me.” 

And so you smile, because his sense of humor is alike yours, and he looks to be unphased by your violent acts of earlier. You technically didn’t break any laws. Didn’t do anything wrong, even by killing a man. He had threatened to shoot your first, if no one claims they saw the duel, you can write it off as self defense… but this man doesn’t seem too deterred. In fact, he looks all too happy having witnessed your properly provoked quick draw.

“I ain't jumpy, if that's what you're worried about.” 

But he had a different point on his mind, so the subject was changed in an instant. 

“Look, son. I'm gonna cut to the chase,” he pointed at your pistol, the newest twenty-one mark shining where it peaked out of your holster. “You have a gift for using that. I could use some talent like yours.” 

And suddenly you’re confused again. Who is this guy? What does he want? 

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.” 

“I can very well see that. I'm not looking for a temporary gun, kid. I need someone long term.” 

And suddenly your interest is piqued. The other men haven't said a word, and yet they seem to be a part of this offer, whatever it is. They are fully invested in your answer, on the edge of their seat - metaphorically, since they’ve been standing - while waiting. It’s strange, as if it’s all been plotted.

“Not sure I quite understand,” You slide the empty glass back after taking the second shot of whiskey, but hold your hand over the top, keeping the bartender from refilling a third. 

“If you'd be so kind as to follow me and my friends, I would be happy to explain in further detail,” he steps away from the bar, his hand outstretched to the door. This situation reads danger in every which way, but you don't stray from it. You can’t believe you’re doing it, but you follow along, an open mind. 

Nothing to lose.

-

Your horse was in the stables, an older stallion that was probably bred from war. His coat was full and black, like a starless night sky. Fury, you called him. These other men had put their horses up in the stables as well, but they were quite a bit stranger when it came to interacting with the horse hand. They paid him off so he’d forget any of you had been here. 

These men must be outlaws. Dutch, Javier, and Sean… From the time of their introductions, you were watching them with vigilance. You had started to gather that much from the way people ran inside when they passed, but the other behaviors lead you to believe that they weren’t the typical type. They weren’t just bad men looking for trouble and fun. They had reasoning, and they had qualms about who they spoke to about what. They were careful, if that word can even describe an outlaw. 

You followed them out of town, and down a road a bit. Agua Fria was a bit drier than other parts of Texas, but it had some nice trees here and there, with ponds and hills to break up the dusty roads. When you came to a clearing, a full on campsite set up, you immediately looked around, taking in who you thought would be the most imminent threats. 

“Right over here,” Dutch said, dismounting his horse and leading it to a hitching post. You followed him and the others, and the redhead, Sean, took your horse off your hands. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled. 

“This is the camp, ain’t much to look at but we’re all very tight knit, here.” 

You followed behind Dutch, he was the ringleader of all of this, as far as you could tell. He gave the orders, and the others followed. You couldn’t say you didn’t see why. He had all the capabilities of a natural born leader. His presence, his personable way with words, and even his ability to convince a random stranger to follow him. 

“S’cozy,” you said, nodding to each person you passed. He didn’t bother introducing you to them yet, and you figure it’s because he wants to see how well you fit first. No point in getting anyone attached. 

“It is indeed. I’ll have you wait here for just a moment, you can mingle, if you’d like. I’m gonna talk to a few friends of mine,” he told you before ducking into a tent, the flaps falling behind him. 

You huffed a breath, turning to the first face you saw and tipping your hat. 

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

The young woman looked up to you, a sweet smile on her face. She had lovely dark hair and beautiful blue eyes that reflected a clear sky. 

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher. 

“First Mack and Davey, now this… kid? You can’t keep picking up people like they’re stray dogs, Dutch…” Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand man was the one to speak first. He’d just heard quite a story - which to be fair, Dutch liked telling grand stories - that seemed to be impossible. 

“I know, I know… but you wouldn’t believe it even if you saw it. Hell, even I don’t.” 

“Let me get this straight,” another voice piped up from the corner, standing to make his presence more known. “This eighteen year old kid, who can barely hold up a gun… is the fastest draw you’ve ever seen?” 

“I blinked and the man was dead,” Dutch furthered his point, hearing a low whistle from the youngest man in the tent. They began to peak through the open tent flaps, not letting anyone else see them. 

“Abigail seems to like him.”

“Abigail likes everyone except John these days,” Hosea joked around, sitting himself back down when he’d taken his look at the kid. He was a spry little thing, but looked like a boy still in adolescence.

“Listen,” Dutch began, his hands raised to calm the air. “This kid could mean the difference between life or death in some of our upcoming jobs.”

The younger man looked to Dutch, then to Hosea, and then to the ground, shaking his head. Dutch was like his father, but these fantasies he conjured up sometimes to justify his antics could be wild. 

“He can shoot faster than me?” 

“My boy, I’d let you challenge him yourself if I wasn’t sure he’d drop you where you stand.” Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder before turning to Hosea. 

“If he’s really as fast as you say, we should keep him. He can’t be of any harm otherwise.”

-

A moment lasted longer than you thought it would, but you’d garnered the attention of not one but two ladies whilst sitting in the shade of the trees. 

Abigail, the heavily pregnant young woman you’d started conversation with, and Tilly, a young lady who seemed to be swooning with every word you said. You didn’t have the heart to say nothing to her, you weren’t even sure you’d be sticking around. 

“And then what happened?” Tilly asked, scooting closer. 

“Well, I guess I shot him. S’how most these stories end, sadly.”

You suddenly felt a bit sorrowful. You’d shot a man down only today and here you’d moved on so quickly. The time of self recovery was getting shorter and shorter. Maybe you ought to stop shooting folks, then you could make some ground on a normal life… but that’s never really been your way, not since you left home. If you stay with this gang, though… the shooting gets worse, and you know that for a fact. 

“But you’re a good shot, probably why Dutch wants ya,” Abigail lifted a brow, nodding towards the tent. You were sure he’d liked you well enough, and you liked this whole tight knit unit well enough. If you shoot enough folk, you reckon you get to stay. 

“Speak of the Devil,” Tilly smiled behind where you were standing, and you took it as a queue to turn around yourself. 

“We sure as hell want him,” Dutch said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I have some people I want you to meet. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.”

And the man - Hosea - smiled and waved. He seemed nice, and gentlemanly. He had a kind face, like that of a dedicated father. 

“And this,” Dutch stood aside, revealing another man stood behind him… “Is Arthur Morgan. My enforcer, and right hand man.”

You froze when he lifted his head, hat tipping upward enough to see his face. Your breath hitched in your throat as you scanned his features, falling to the stretch of his body and then roaming back up to the brim of his hat. You weren’t sure if it was from fear or from awe, but the tenseness in your body was thick and unwavering. He had all the toughness of a rugged outlaw, but his eyes were calm, serene. Like pools of oasis water against a dry and scorching desert. A beautiful man by anyone’s standard, but completely unaware of himself. 

Standing before you now, he nodded in greeting, and you had to snap out of the haze that even now surrounded you, clouding your mind and blocking out anything that wasn’t him. 

Sweet Lord above, help me look away… and finally you did, begrudgingly. 

“He’s gonna show you around, give you the rundown of how things are here,” 

“Sounds-” you coughed once, trying to play off your strange behavior as you cleared your throat. “Sounds just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dutch leaned in towards Arthur at the last second, nudging his arm as he did. “Don’t test ‘im before he’s had a chance to settle. I don’t feel like losing two fast guns on the same day.”

You heard the tail end of the conversation, but pretended it passed over your head. You were standing quietly, still halfway in awe of the man. Sandy strands of hair that fell over the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline stubbled in the same lovely color. He let his hat fall over his eyes again, but you were certain if you’d been able to see them again, you’d not be able to look away.

He fell into a slow walk beside you, beginning to lead through the campsite.

“What’s your name, kid?” 

Kid, as if you were actually one… 

“Charlie Brooks, sir,” You replied, holding a firm hand out. This was reflectant of a similar introduction you’d made earlier this morning. Didn’t matter what happened though, you wouldn’t be shooting the man before you. Not even if he begged. 

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

You dropped your pleasant expression, huffing a fast breath to match the new look on your face.

“Texas Red… But I ain’t even from Texas, so,” and it was true. You’d only earned that nickname here. 

“The red part still fits,” Arthur was teasing you. Perhaps this is what Dutch meant by ‘don’t test him.’

You sighed, realizing that you’d found the downside to this ruggedly handsome stranger… “My name is Charlie Brooks.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t get upset, boy… I’m only poking fun.”

You drop the tension in your shoulders… you didn’t like being teased, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad coming from this Arthur character. 

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.”

Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself. 

“You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did. 

You only nodded, and kept walking. 

He had shown you the laundry areas, where the girls nearly strip the boys down just so they have something to do in the daytime. He showed you to Mr. Pearson’s ‘kitchen,’ if you could even call it that. He showed you where the weapons are kept, but not where to refill them. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to yet. You take in every word he says, committing it to memory, not only so you can fit in around here, but also so you can recall the sound of his voice on a whim. 

He shows you down to the sloped rim of the pond, where usually one at the time, members of the camp come to bathe in their spare hours. You wondered how far down the way you would have to bathe, just on the off chance someone might come and see. 

“Bill takes care of the horses, mostly. I’m sure he’ll add yours to his rounds if you ask ‘im,” he mentioned, walking back past the horse rails and troughs. Your horse was standing happily in the sunshine, enjoying the blue skies and grass compared to the dusty and dark stables you always put him up in.

“I’ll remember that,” you say, as if you’ll forget anything else. So far you remember everyone’s name - everyone you passed by, at least - and every individual location of the camp. 

“Miss Grimshaw and the others should have a tent for ya by sundown… if not, just bunk with me until tomorrow,” he offered, hands sat steadily on his gun belt. Your face flushed, but lucky for you, he was much taller and couldn’t see under the brim of your hat when you tilted your head. 

“That’s kind of you,” you nodded in reply, saying nothing more. 

He began to back away, needing to attend to something else, but he stopped short. 

“You’re alright, kid,” he complimented, as best as he could give one, anyway. “See you ‘round.”

And you stood still, watching him walk away with your hands at your sides. 

“I’m in deep shit…”

-

Early to bed, early to rise, yatta yatta yatta. You still hate mornings. The camp wakes at the crack of dawn, and you stir just as some folks are leaving, mounting their horses and setting off for the adventures ahead. You’re fairly certain it’s Dutch, Bill, and that other man Hosea, the one with the kind face.

You did end up taking Arthur up on his offer to bunk for the night. He was kind enough to set up one of the spare cots for you, unwilling to argue about sleeping on the ground and all that. He pegged you for the arguing type and wanted to leave well enough alone. 

He was gone from the tent-like structure by the wagon, away somewhere probably having a cup of that coffee you smelled. They must have had a pot brewing somewhere, because it was the only thing willing you to leave the shaded area you were resting. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but you could already feel the effects of the heat swirling in around the camp. 

It was strange, going about your morning routine with others present. Washing up your face in one of the water barrels, raking your hair back over your head with your wet fingers to let the hair sit flat before you crushed it down with your hat. You’d been nearly presentable, good enough for the morning, anyway. 

It wasn’t long before you were sitting close to the congregated group, a cup of coffee in your own hands. It wasn’t the best you’ve had, but hey, it helped you keep your eyes open. You didn’t dare interject into the conversation, unknowing of it they would accept it. Not that it mattered, because you liked hearing them interact as is. They were a rowdy bunch, but they had some wit here and there.

After a while, you zoned out during talks of events you hadn’t been to, people you hadn’t met, things you didn’t get to see before coming here. You watched a bunny that leapt across the camp, running into the wilderness ahead only to disappear behind some rocks. You realized by then you were at the end of your coffee cup. You stood up to take it back to Mr. Pearson, but were interrupted by one of the others in the circle. You remember his name is John. 

“How about you, Brooks?” He asked, catching you off guard, for you had absolutely no clue what the conversation was. 

“How about me?” you replied, a furrowed brow as you stopped in your tracks and waited. 

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

You scoffed, a slanted eyebrow to the man when he seemed in disbelief. You don’t blame him, he’s never seen you shoot. 

“Faster.”

“Boy’s got some pride on ‘im. Shouldn’t be too hard to break it down,” the only other redhead in the gang reared his accented voice. “Ay, Arthur?” 

You turned to the man, stoic and quiet, his hat covering most of his face so you couldn’t see what his features were saying. 

“If Dutch says he’s faster than me, I won’t push my luck.”

Except for he wanted to. He really wanted to, and you were curious to see his skill as well. Maybe not against you, because hell… you ain’t never lost before but there’s a first time for everything, and you like it here too much to throw it away. 

“I don’t buy it. That’s just Dutch telling tales like he does,” John stood up and clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Never in my life have I seen someone with Arthur’s shootin’ speed.”

“Never?” 

You knew it was probably not in your best interest to boast your ability on the first day, but shit, it was the only thing you had going for you. You had to make way in this group somehow. 

“Never.” 

“Alright,” you nodded. “I propose a game. Two bullets, our names carved in. We set up a can to shoot and whoever’s bullet gets trapped inside s’the one that got there first.”

Arthur lifted his head, and for the first time this morning, you saw his eyes. Your face instantly got red, but no one seemed to notice, too caught up in the heat of the exchange. 

He nodded once, a slow and decisive nod. He was thinking it over. 

“Sure,” he said, his thick accent coating the word. “Guess I’ll play along.”

And the group dispersed, grabbing everything needed. Arthur took it upon himself to carve the bullets, and strangely, you trusted him not to tamper with yours. He didn’t seem like the type to play dirty. He didn’t look like he needed to be. 

Sean set up the can on a log, a crudely drawn X out of charcoal on the rusty front of it. There were words being exchanged as you both stepped up, opening your guns to drop out all the bullets before Arthur handed yours over. His etching wasn’t too bad, but you dropped the smug look on your face when you saw what he actually put on it. 

“I told you my name’s not Red,” you huffed, taking it anyway and dropping it into the cylinder, giving it a quick spin to line it up. 

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it but you,” he teased, loading his own gun and standing beside you, about five yards away from the can. 

“Need me to count?” you joked back, hopefully not in vain. You wouldn’t be pridefully wounded if you lost in all honesty. You’d been waiting for your talent to fail you for a long time now, and without any stakes on the table, you suppose today could be the day. 

Both guns now strapped to your hips, you waited in silence, and so did everyone else. It wasn’t something that needed cheering on, but it was definitely something to be on the edge of your seat for. 

You saw Arthur drop his hand out of the corner of your eye, so you cleared leather as fast as you could in hopes that your shot would land, and it did… or at least, you thought it did. The can went flying and both guns had been fired. 

“Who won?” John yelled over in question to Sean, who went to kneel down by the log, picking up the can. 

“Uh…” He held up the can, showing two bullet holes, before dumping out both bullets from the inside. “Both of em’.” 

And for the first time in any shoot out you’d ever participated in, you were too stunned to speak. You never doubted this man’s abilities as a talented gunslinger, but given you’d never seen him shoot, and knowing your own track record… it was surprising to see. 

“Well,” Arthur turned to you, as the others continued to chat amongst themselves, not sure how to split the bets they had made beforehand. “You beat me.” 

He offered his hand to you to shake, but you shook you head, you didn’t understand. 

“It’s a draw, both bullets hit,” you tried to reason, but he was set on his own explanation. 

“You hit first. Mine went through the top as it was fallin’.”

You shook his hand anyway, but froze in place when he spoke. Could he really tell? Was he that detail oriented when shooting? You’d never known much of your craft, just that you could do it, just that you’d practiced a bunch and got pretty damn good… but you didn’t even think to make that observation. 

“That don’t count,” you tried to absolve him, still feeling as though from what he said alone, he was the better gunslinger. “I’ve never said this before… but I would not duel you, Arthur Morgan. You’ve scared me somethin’ awful with that gun.”

He had a chuckle in his exhale as he let it fall from his lips, a nod and the drop of your handshake. “Guess we both met our match today.”

“I’d say so.”

-

The day was slow. When Dutch and Hosea and Bill returned in the evening, there was some wind of a job coming up, the first one you’d inevitably be invited to. It was discussed quickly and not in great detail, and the heads of the camp still had some ideas churning about it. Hopefully you’d be able to keep up in the heat of the moment, as you’d never done anything like this before. Never robbed folk - alive folk, at least - or taken something as a means to survive. You’ve lived off of bets and fools you shot dead. It was a lousy way to live but it had never gotten as low as stealing or cold blooded murder. 

The thoughts turned over in your head and for some reason you couldn’t seem to lose them, but at the end of the night they were momentarily stalled when Arthur helped you carry the already assembled cot into your new tent. It was simple, just a double sided narrow-pitched tent, no room inside for anything but a cot and a single human. You could just kick your boots under the cot when you slept, that would be the extent of your storage space. At least it had the privacy of the two flaps at the front, current parted like curtains to allow entrance. 

Once everything was set up, Arthur took a step back, but didn’t leave yet. 

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll owe you one,” you promised, trying to be as casual about his genuine help and concern over you the past day. No one had ever shown this much attentiveness to you, and though you know he’s only acting on orders from Dutch, it feels like he really cares. He’s kind and he’s gentle, despite his rugged appearance and reputation. 

“S’no problem,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking from side to side to make sure everyone had either retired for the night or was too occupied to listen in. “I wanted to tell you something.”

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms. 

He sighed and met your eyes again, debating his words in his head. Out with it already…

“I know you’re a lady,” he tried to speak evenly, but the tail end of his sentence got caught. 

Your eyes widened before he even finished his sentence. You looked around as well before shoving him inside your tent, too small for one person let alone two. 

“You don’t know anything,” you assured him, suddenly self conscious of how he perceived you. What was it? Your voice? The way you walked? Your body? Was anybody else going to notice? 

“I wasn’t pryin’, I swear,” he said, reaching into his satchel, still on his hip after a long day. “Bill left early this morning, I took care of your horse. These fell out of your saddlebag…”

He held out to you the most damning piece of evidence there could possibly be. Long cotton wraps and a sanitary apron, the brand new woolen padding you’d gotten was pressed inside and ready. 

Shit. You didn’t even think twice about hiding the contents of your saddle bag when arriving here. No one had ever been kind enough to care for your horse, so you didn’t worry. 

You looked into his eyes, firm but not judgemental. When you looked at him just a second too long they turned to a silent fear. Like he was a child getting caught stealing sweets. 

“Don’t tell Dutch,” you begged, and he huffed a sigh, unsure of what to do. 

“I can’t lie to im’,” he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. You were new, this wasn’t just about loyalty, it was about hierarchy. You, the new soldier, could not dare ask the second in command to deprive his leader of the truth. 

“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t tell him, yet. I’ll think of a way to let him know…”

You knew it was a stretch, but he was wonderful with the women of the camp, a man of high honor among the ladies. Surely he would help you, just until you were ready to share your secret. 

“We’re different, y’know? If you’ve been hidin’ all this time out there, that’s one thing… but you ain’t gotta do that here.”

“I don’t want them to look at me differently…” you trailed, silently pleading with him. 

He nodded, the look in your eyes nearly breaking his heart. There’s a story within you, but he’ll wait to hear it. For now, he just complies, hearing your voice at it’s softest point, the feminine silkiness flowing through. You only ever spoke to yourself like that anymore.

“Okay,” he placed a warm hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, before maneuvering out of your small tent. “Just until you tell ‘im yourself, ya hear?” 

You nodded in understanding, a thankful and sweet smile dining your features. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Red…”

TAGS: @sheepdogchick3

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (5)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The midday sun filters through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting warm light on the long table where the Targaryen family and their closest retainers are gathered for lunch. The lavish spread of food is as much for show as it is for sustenance—ornate platters piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and rich sauces. Yet, for all the finery, a tension lingers in the air, taut as a drawn bowstring. Servants move silently along the walls, their faces blank masks, well aware that the mood of the room could shift in an instant.

You sit beside Rhaegar, your brother’s familiar presence a comfort even as you notice the subtle strain in his posture. His face is drawn, the shadow of something dark clouding his normally serene expression. He wears the haunted look you’ve seen so often when his dragondreams have plagued him during the night, those cryptic, foreboding visions that offer more questions than answers. Rhaegar usually confides in you—his closest ally and confidante—but this morning, there was no opportunity. The king’s summons came early, and both of you were dragged into the presence of Aerys before even a word could be exchanged in private.

The gathering is a performance, a display orchestrated by Aerys more for his own twisted pleasure than any genuine familial warmth. The lords and ladies invited to dine with you cast furtive glances, each trying to discern the hidden meanings in every exchange, every gesture. It is a room full of people poised on the edge, waiting for the king’s mood to turn, for his unpredictable whims to manifest.

You reach for Rhaegar’s hand beneath the table, your fingers brushing against his in a gentle attempt to offer comfort. He turns his head slightly, meeting your gaze for a fleeting moment. The concern in your eyes prompts him to give a faint squeeze of your hand, but his mind seems distant, lost in the haze of his visions.

“I saw the tower again,” he murmurs, so quietly that only you can hear. “It’s clearer now… the blue roses, the shadowed faces.” His voice trails off, his expression tightening as if he’s trying to make sense of fragments that refuse to align. “There’s blood… and a choice.”

Before you can ask more, Aerys’ voice slices through the air, sharp and sudden. “A toast!” he declares, raising his goblet high. The movement is so abrupt that the lords and ladies present scramble to follow, lifting their own goblets with varying degrees of eagerness and dread.

You freeze, your hand still clasped with Rhaegar’s under the table as your father’s gaze lands squarely on you. There’s something unsettling in his eyes—a mix of pride, possessiveness, and something darker that makes your skin crawl. His smile is thin, more like a grimace, as he begins to speak, his voice dripping with a twisted affection that sends shivers down your spine.

“To my daughter,” Aerys proclaims, his tone almost giddy. “The flower of House Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria made flesh. Beauty unmatched, grace beyond compare! A jewel among common stones!” His words grow louder, more fervent, as he looks directly at you. “Who could resist such a vision of purity? Who could deny that she is worthy of the greatest honors the realm can bestow?”

The room is deathly silent. You can feel the eyes of every noble in the hall boring into you, some of the ladies blushing at the king’s proclamations while the lords exchange uncomfortable glances. Even the servants seem to shrink away, as if hoping to melt into the shadows. The intensity of Aerys’ gaze, the fevered light in his eyes as he speaks of you, sends a jolt of anxiety through your chest. You force yourself to hold his gaze, knowing that showing any sign of discomfort would only encourage him further.

But Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his knuckles white with tension. “Father,” he says, his voice steady but laced with an edge that carries barely restrained fury. “Your compliments are… generous. But such displays are best saved for more appropriate occasions.”

Aerys’ head snaps toward Rhaegar, his smile twisting into a sneer. “And what would you know of appropriate, boy? Do you think yourself fit to judge what I choose to honor?” His voice rises with every word, his mood shifting like a storm at sea. “You sit there like some sullen ghost, whispering secrets, while your sister shines as the star of this family. Perhaps if you spent less time brooding over dreams and more time appreciating what is before you, you’d understand the true value of what I offer!”

The tension thickens, the atmosphere in the hall turning suffocating. You can see Rhaegar struggling to keep his temper in check, his jaw clenched so tightly that it’s a wonder he doesn’t shatter his teeth. You know how much he hates this—the way Aerys parades you around as if you’re nothing more than a prized possession, a tool to be flaunted before the court. It’s a cruel mockery of the family you once were, a twisted shadow of the father who has long since been consumed by madness.

Desperate for some sense of stability, you let your gaze drift across the room, searching for something—someone—that can anchor you in this nightmare. And then you find him. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the reach of the table, his eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity that only you recognize. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only silent support, a steadying presence that cuts through the chaos.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the comfort in his eyes is enough to give you the strength to hold your composure. The bond you share is one built on trust, on the understanding that even in the darkest moments, you are not alone. You draw in a slow breath, calming the frantic beat of your heart as you give Arthur the faintest of nods, a silent acknowledgment that his presence is a lifeline in a sea of madness.

Aerys, still glaring at Rhaegar, finally returns his attention to you, his tone sickly sweet but laced with the same madness that has become his trademark. “Do not let your brother’s sullenness ruin this day for you, my dear,” he says with a mock tenderness that makes your stomach twist. “You are the light that guides this family, the flame that burns brightest in the darkness. Perhaps I should have you sit closer to me—after all, what is a king without his most precious jewel?”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with anger, but before he can respond, you tighten your grip on his hand under the table, silently pleading with him to let it go. The last thing you need is for this already volatile situation to explode further. Rhaegar catches the warning in your gaze and reluctantly falls silent, though the tension in him remains palpable.

The hall falls into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the clinking of goblets as the lords and ladies murmur among themselves, desperate to avoid drawing Aerys’ ire. The king takes a long, indulgent sip from his goblet, seemingly satisfied with the discomfort he’s sown.

You return your attention to Arthur, who remains as steadfast as ever, his eyes locked onto yours. The room may be filled with whispers and judgmental stares, but in that brief, shared glance, you find the strength to keep your head held high. No matter how twisted the court’s games become, no matter how suffocating the weight of Aerys’ obsession grows, you know that there is still someone who sees you for who you truly are—someone who would stand by your side through it all.

The meal continues, but the lightness of the festivities outside feels miles away. The tension remains, lingering like a dark cloud over the gathering. And yet, beneath the surface, there’s a current of determination that runs through you and Rhaegar, a shared resolve that no matter how much Aerys tries to twist and control, there is still strength in the bonds you’ve forged—with each other, with those you trust.

The uneasy atmosphere clings to the room like a damp fog, making every bite of food taste bland and every sip of wine feel heavy. The conversation at the table is stilted at best, strained with the weight of the tension that lingers after Aerys' unsettling outburst. The lords and ladies continue with their meals, but their gazes dart nervously between each other, clearly more concerned with staying out of the king’s attention than with enjoying the feast.

You keep your head down, focusing on the food in front of you, though every bite feels forced. The memory of Aerys' twisted toast, his unsettlingly affectionate words still lingering in the air, makes your stomach churn. Rhaegar’s silence is heavy beside you, and though you hold his hand under the table still, the weight of his dragondreams and the tension with your father drags him deeper into brooding thoughts. The rest of the table—filled with lords, ladies, and noble guests from across the realm—remains stiff and formal, the usual lively conversations replaced by murmurs of caution.

But as you lift your gaze across the table, your attention is drawn to a cluster of Northmen—Lord Rickard Stark and his sons, Brandon and Eddard. The Starks, so often distant from the southern courts and their intrigues, are rarely seen this far south unless duty demands it. Yet here they are, attending a festival that has little to do with their interests. And as you observe them, it becomes clear that they, too, are uneasy.

Lord Rickard sits with a stern expression, his gray eyes observing everything with the quiet intensity that only a man accustomed to harsh winters can carry. His sons sit beside him, Brandon with his strong, confident bearing, and Eddard with the quieter, more contemplative demeanor of a man who prefers action over words. The Northmen shift in their seats, uncomfortable not just with the courtly splendor but with the palpable sense of dread that hangs in the air.

Brandon leans slightly toward his father, his voice low but clear enough for you to catch snippets of their conversation. “This is not what we expected,” he murmurs, his tone edged with disapproval. “The stories of the Mad King were no exaggeration.”

Lord Rickard’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes narrow slightly in thought. “We knew the risks in coming here,” he replies quietly, his voice gravelly from years spent in the cold winds of the North. “But duty to the crown remains, no matter how twisted it has become. We cannot afford to show weakness, especially not in a den of vipers like this.”

Eddard, the youngest and most reserved of the Starks, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before quickly looking away, as though unsure of how to reconcile the images of the noble Targaryens with the madness of their father. “We should have stayed in Winterfell,” he mutters under his breath, his discomfort clear. “This is no place for honorable men.”

Rickard hears the words but does not rebuke them. Instead, his eyes flicker toward Aerys, who sits at the head of the table, muttering to himself while occasionally casting possessive glances in your direction. The unease is plain on the Stark lord’s face. There is no love lost between the North and the South, and the differences are only made more glaring by the grotesque spectacle they’ve been forced to endure.

You wonder what drew the Starks here in the first place. It is unusual for the cold and distant North to be represented at such a festival, especially one that celebrates the Mother—a figure more revered in the South than among the practical gods worshipped in Winterfell. The presence of the Starks suggests something more than just a visit; perhaps they have come out of obligation, or perhaps there are whispers of unrest even in the North that require the great houses to stay close to the center of power.

As you ponder this, Rhaegar’s voice quietly interrupts your thoughts. “The Northmen are uneasy,” he murmurs, his tone laced with the same weariness that haunts his every word. “They feel the madness as clearly as we do. They’re not blind to the truth hidden behind the courtesies.”

You nod subtly, agreeing with his assessment. “It’s a rare thing for them to come this far south without cause. Perhaps they suspect that something more is at play here.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flick toward Lord Stark and his sons, considering them for a long moment. “They’ve come to witness the unraveling firsthand,” he says quietly. “They know that the realm is on the brink, and they’re taking the measure of it before deciding where they’ll stand when the flames rise.”

The thought is unsettling, but you can’t deny that there’s truth in his words. The Starks are not known for idle travel; they’ve come for a reason, and whatever it is, it’s tied to the growing tension that seems to permeate every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

A sudden clattering of utensils draws your attention back to Aerys, who is now eyeing the Starks with a peculiar interest, his gaze calculating and more focused than it was just moments ago. “Ah, Lord Rickard!” he exclaims suddenly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s rare to see the wolves of Winterfell in such fine company. Tell me, how does the North find our southern hospitality? I would hate for our guests to feel unwelcome.”

The room falls silent again, all eyes turning to the Starks as Rickard slowly rises from his seat, bowing with the politeness expected in the presence of the king, though his expression remains inscrutable. “Your Grace honors us with this invitation,” Rickard says carefully, his words respectful yet guarded. “The North appreciates the warmth of the South’s hospitality, though it is quite different from what we are accustomed to.”

Aerys leans back in his seat, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “Different indeed. The North is known for its harsh winters and cold nights, but here in the South, we have ways of keeping warm, do we not?” His gaze flickers briefly back to you, his smile widening in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Perhaps our honored guests would like to join us in our more… intimate traditions?”

The suggestion is laced with insinuation, and you can see the faint tightening of Rickard’s jaw, though he remains composed. “The North has its own customs, Your Grace,” he replies coolly. “But we are always eager to learn from our southern kin.”

The tension ratchets up another notch, the unspoken meaning of Aerys’ words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Rhaegar’s hand tightens around yours beneath the table, a silent warning to remain calm, even as his own fury simmers just below the surface.

You glance again toward Arthur, who stands at the edge of the room, his eyes locked on you. There’s a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that you’ve come to recognize—he’s prepared for anything, knowing that in a single moment, Aerys’ mood could swing from sinister amusement to outright violence. The silent connection you share is your anchor, and you hold onto it as the tension in the room thickens, the meal dragging on with a sense of impending disaster.

As the uneasy silence stretches, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the soft murmurs of nervous guests, you can’t help but wonder how much longer the realm can bear this strain. The Starks, the Targaryens, the lords and ladies gathered here—everyone is waiting, watching for the moment when the first crack in the fragile peace becomes a gaping chasm.

The midday feast stretches into the afternoon as the court makes its way to the festival grounds for the continuation of the celebrations. The tension from the uncomfortable meal lingers like a bad taste, but the atmosphere gradually brightens as music and laughter fill the air. The royal pavilion has been set up near the jousting lists, draped in rich Targaryen colors, with banners fluttering in the warm breeze. Lords and ladies stroll through the grounds, exchanging pleasantries, and the smallfolk cheer as performers and musicians entertain the gathered crowd.

But even amidst the revelry, you notice a shift in the mood as the arrival of House Martell is announced. The vibrant orange and red sigil of the sun-and-spear flutters high, and there is a buzz of excitement and curiosity as the Dornish contingent makes its way toward the pavilion. It is no secret that Dorne has been a topic of discussion in Aerys’ small council, and many have speculated that an alliance with House Martell would be advantageous—both politically and strategically.

Prince Doran Martell leads the group, his gait measured and dignified. His younger siblings, Elia and Oberyn, walk beside him, each a striking contrast in personality and appearance. Elia, graceful and poised, exudes a quiet strength, her dark eyes keenly observing everything around her. Oberyn, with his sharp features and confident smirk, radiates a more dangerous energy, his eyes glittering with amusement as he scans the crowd with the air of a man who knows he’s being watched and relishes it.

It’s clear from the way the courtiers glance toward the Martells that there’s more at play than simple courtesy. The whispers grow louder, and you can almost feel the weight of the speculative stares as people connect the Martells’ presence with the recent discussions within the small council, much to Tywin’s distaste. Dorne, long known for its independence and reluctance to bend to the Iron Throne’s will, has always been a key piece in the game of thrones, and Aerys—ever paranoid, ever calculating—has been increasingly pressured by some members of his council to solidify an alliance with the southern kingdom.

As the Martells approach, Rhaegar’s grip tightens around the armrest of his seat, his expression unreadable. You don’t miss the flicker of discomfort that passes through his eyes as Elia Martell steps forward with a soft, demure smile. It’s no secret that certain factions within the court, including members of the king’s council, have been pushing for a marriage between Rhaegar and Elia—a union that would solidify ties with Dorne and strengthen House Targaryen’s position in the realm.

But you know your brother better than most. Despite his princely demeanor, Rhaegar is a man of deep convictions, one who loathes being manipulated by those who view him as little more than a political pawn. His dreams—his visions—constantly weigh on him, and the idea of a marriage arranged solely for political gain is not something he would accept lightly.

You catch Rhaegar’s eye, and he gives you a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message is clear—not now, not here. There’s too much at stake, too many eyes watching. But the tension between duty and desire gnaws at him, and you can feel the weight of that conflict in the air.

As the Dornish entourage reaches the pavilion, Prince Doran offers a graceful bow to King Aerys, his voice smooth and respectful. “Your Grace, it is an honor to be here and partake in the festivities. Dorne brings its warmest regards and hopes that the peace and prosperity of the realm continue under your wise rule.”

Aerys, for once, seems to rein in his usual erratic behavior. He nods slowly, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Prince Doran. It is a rare thing to see our Dornish cousins so far from the sands of Sunspear. But these are rare times, are they not?”

The exchange is laced with undercurrents of meaning, and you can almost hear the unspoken negotiations happening in the silences between their words. Oberyn’s gaze sweeps the gathering, his eyes sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, a smirk tugs at his lips, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s one of amusement or curiosity.

Elia’s presence, on the other hand, is far more subdued. She inclines her head toward you and Rhaegar with practiced elegance, but her eyes hold a quiet intensity. It’s clear that she is as aware as anyone of the implications of her being here. Her dark gaze lingers on Rhaegar, searching for something—perhaps a sign of his thoughts, his feelings toward the marriage that has been whispered about in hushed circles.

Rhaegar returns her gaze with polite distance, his smile courteous but strained. He offers her a formal nod, acknowledging her with the respect due to her station, but the lack of warmth in his eyes speaks volumes. The court notices it too, and the whispers begin anew—questions, speculations, murmurs of what this means for the much-rumored alliance.

King Aerys, ever the disruptor, suddenly raises his voice, cutting through the murmurs. “It is fitting that our Dornish cousins join us for the festival in Mother's name,” he says, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “After all, the beauty of Dorne is as famed as its resistance. Perhaps it is time to bring the two closer together, wouldn’t you say?”

The question hangs in the air, charged with meaning. Aerys’ eyes flick toward you briefly, but then return to Rhaegar, who remains silent, his expression carefully neutral. The court waits, breath held, to see how this game will unfold.

Prince Doran, ever the diplomat, smiles graciously. “Dorne is always open to discussions that benefit the realm, Your Grace. But such matters require delicate handling, don’t they?” His voice is smooth, his words carefully chosen—a reminder that while the Martells may be here, they will not be rushed into anything without careful consideration.

Aerys’ eyes narrow, the ghost of irritation flashing across his features before his grin returns, sharper this time. “Delicacy is often overrated, Prince Doran. Sometimes, the boldness of fire is what’s needed to forge true bonds.”

Rhaegar’s hand tightens again, and you feel the tension radiating from him. He’s trapped between duty and his own desires, the weight of expectations pressing down from every side. But before the conversation can spiral further, the musicians strike up a lively tune, and the attention of the court is momentarily drawn away from the tension toward the festivities.

The Dornish nobles blend into the crowd, their presence a reminder of the delicate balance at play. The day continues, but the undercurrent of unease remains, a shadow over the festivities. You know that Dorne’s arrival is just another piece moving on the board—a board that seems more treacherous with every passing day.

The festivities continue into the late afternoon, with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets filling the warm air. The sun casts a golden hue over the grounds as the nobles revel in the lively atmosphere. You stroll along the edges of the celebration, Ser Arthur faithfully at your side. Despite the tension woven into the day’s events, you manage to find comfort in the little moments—the brief exchanges of smiles and the shared glances between you and your knight, who remains ever vigilant but subtly more relaxed when he’s near you.

As you walk past a group of lords engaged in a spirited conversation, you notice Oberyn Martell approaching from across the courtyard, his stride confident and almost languid, as if he has all the time in the world. He’s dressed in the vibrant colors of House Martell, his tunic a striking shade of orange with rich gold embroidery. His presence draws attention wherever he goes, and it’s no surprise when he comes directly toward you, a playful smirk already curving his lips.

“Princess,” he greets you, his voice smooth like honeyed wine, with a hint of teasing that dances on the edge of propriety. He offers you a low bow that’s more exaggerated than necessary, clearly intended to amuse rather than impress. “I was hoping I might steal a moment of your time. The festivities are grand, yes, but they pale in comparison to the chance to speak with a true daughter of Valyria.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Oberyn’s reputation precedes him—bold, dangerous, with a silver tongue that could charm even the most guarded courtiers. “Prince Oberyn,” you reply, your tone light, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve made it your mission to charm your way through every lady present today.”

Oberyn grins, unabashed. “I would never be so crude as to deny it. But can you blame me, Princess? The beauty of the South may be celebrated, but it is the rare elegance of Targaryen blood that truly captivates.” His eyes gleam with mischief as he adds, “Besides, why limit oneself to just one conquest when there are so many delightful encounters to be had?”

Arthur, standing dutifully beside you, watches the exchange with a careful eye, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his otherwise stoic expression. Oberyn’s reputation as the Red Viper may be formidable, but it’s clear that this is all in good fun. Still, Arthur remains close, a silent reminder that you are not without protection.

You decide to play along, matching Oberyn’s banter with a smile that’s equal parts amusement and challenge. “It’s a wonder you have time for the festivities at all, Prince Oberyn. Surely, with all these conquests you speak of, you must be exhausted.”

Oberyn’s laugh is warm and rich, and he takes a step closer, though he remains just outside the edge of propriety. “Ah, but a little exhaustion is a small price to pay for such pleasures, don’t you think? Life is short, Princess, and the days we live in are fraught with uncertainty. Why not seize every moment of joy we can, while we still have the chance?”

You can’t help but find his unashamed charm refreshing, especially after the tension and dourness of the day’s earlier events. There’s something disarming about Oberyn’s approach—the way he speaks so boldly, without hiding behind the masks of courtly pretense that so many others wear.

Arthur clears his throat lightly, his voice measured but carrying a note of dry humor. “Careful, Prince Oberyn. The princess is well-guarded, and not just by her knights. Her wit is sharp enough to match even the famed Red Viper.”

Oberyn chuckles, inclining his head toward Arthur with an exaggerated expression of mock deference. “Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and a master of words as well. I suppose I should tread carefully, lest I find myself on the receiving end of both your sword and her tongue.”

You exchange a quick glance with Arthur, and for a moment, there’s an unspoken understanding—both of you are enjoying the banter, allowing a brief reprieve from the weight of the day. It’s a rare thing to find lightness in these times, and even Arthur, whose duty often keeps him vigilant and serious, seems slightly more at ease.

“Prince Oberyn,” you say, feigning a thoughtful expression, “you speak of seizing joy in the face of uncertainty. And yet, for all your charm, I wonder—how often does that charm get you into trouble?”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his smirk widening. “More often than not, I confess. But what’s life without a little trouble, Princess? Surely, even someone as regal as yourself has indulged in a moment or two of rebellion, hmm?”

Arthur’s posture stiffens ever so slightly, his protective instincts flaring at Oberyn’s insinuation, but there’s no real threat in the prince’s words—only playful curiosity. Before Arthur can interject, you decide to lean into the game, allowing yourself a moment of levity.

“Rebellion is an interesting word, Prince Oberyn,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I’ll leave it to your imagination. After all, a little mystery keeps things intriguing, does it not?”

Oberyn’s laugh is genuine, his eyes dancing with approval. “Indeed, Princess. You are as formidable in wit as you are in beauty. I find myself more captivated with each passing moment.”

Arthur can’t help but shake his head slightly, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Be careful, Prince. The court is a dangerous place to be captivated.”

“Danger and delight often walk hand in hand, Ser Arthur,” Oberyn counters smoothly. “But perhaps I should save my wits and leave the princess in peace—for now.”

With a graceful bow and one last roguish smile, Oberyn steps back, giving you a parting wink before he saunters away, undoubtedly seeking out his next amusement. As he disappears into the crowd, you can’t help but chuckle softly, finding yourself oddly refreshed by the encounter.

Arthur steps closer, offering you his arm once more. “I’ll admit, I was almost certain you’d skewer him with words by the end of that conversation,” he remarks, his tone laced with gentle humor.

You take his arm, allowing yourself to relax a bit more now that the exchange is over. “He’s harmless—mostly. Besides, it’s rare to have a conversation that isn’t laced with veiled threats and hidden motives. A bit of straightforward mischief can be… refreshing.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s good to see you smile, even if it’s Oberyn Martell’s antics that brought it out. There’s been too much weight on your shoulders lately.”

You glance up at him, finding comfort in the steadiness of his gaze. “Thank you, Arthur. For always being by my side.”

He offers you a reassuring smile. “Always, Y/N.”

The festival grounds are a swirl of color and sound, the jubilant atmosphere masking the tension that lies just beneath the surface. As Rhaegar moves through the crowd, his expression carefully composed, he does his best to avoid Cersei’s sharp green eyes that have been following him like a hawk all afternoon. Her persistent advances, thinly veiled behind her honeyed words and practiced smiles, have left him with a deep sense of unease. The more she presses, the more he feels the weight of the expectations crushing down on him—expectations he has little interest in fulfilling.

But as fate would have it, in his attempt to evade Cersei, he finds himself facing another challenge: Elia Martell. The delicate and poised princess of Dorne catches his eye as she approaches with a gentle smile, her dark eyes filled with quiet warmth. Elia is everything a future queen should be—gracious, kind, and intelligent. Yet, despite these virtues, Rhaegar feels a gnawing sense of distance, a barrier he cannot breach, no matter how much the court desires this union.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Elia greets him with a soft curtsy. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The festival has brought so much joy to everyone.” Her voice is soothing, almost melodic, but Rhaegar’s thoughts are elsewhere.

He smiles politely, offering her a courteous nod. “Indeed, it’s a rare sight to see so much happiness in the capital,” he replies, his voice calm but lacking in true engagement. He is too aware of the expectations draped upon them—how this conversation, so benign on the surface, is being watched by those who would love nothing more than to see them married and united. But Rhaegar’s mind isn’t on Elia or the games of courtly politics.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement—something familiar and comforting. Turning his head slightly, he sees you, his sister, slipping away from the crowd with Ser Arthur Dayne at your side. It’s a subtle retreat, almost unnoticed by those around you, but Rhaegar’s eyes catch the brief moment when your hand brushes against Arthur’s, a touch so brief it would seem accidental to anyone else. Yet he knows better. He sees the way your hand lingers just a moment longer, the way you gently nudge Arthur as you murmur something to him, coaxing him to follow your lead.

Rhaegar’s brow furrows ever so slightly. There is nothing overtly improper in the interaction—it could be dismissed as a simple gesture between a princess and her sworn knight. But Rhaegar knows both of you well enough to read the subtleties. He recognizes the unspoken connection between you and Arthur, a bond that runs deeper than mere duty. It’s in the way Arthur’s eyes soften when he looks at you, the way he stands just a little closer than necessary, always ready to protect. And it’s in your demeanor, the way you relax slightly when Arthur is near, a small comfort in a world filled with dangers and uncertainties.

As much as Rhaegar trusts Arthur, the sight of you together—alone and retreating from the crowd—sparks a flicker of concern in his chest. His protective instincts flare up, mingled with an unease that he can’t quite place. His mind drifts away from Elia’s gentle conversation, distracted by the need to find you, to make sure you’re safe, and perhaps, to understand the growing connection between you and the Sword of the Morning.

Elia continues to speak, her tone warm and gracious. “I’ve always admired the strength of House Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar. Your family’s legacy is woven into the very fabric of Westeros. To see you here, carrying that legacy forward, is truly inspiring.”

Rhaegar forces himself to stay present, nodding as she speaks, but his thoughts remain clouded with concern. “Thank you, Princess Elia,” he replies, his voice polite but distant. “The legacy we bear is a heavy one, but it is our duty to uphold it, no matter the cost.”

Elia’s gaze softens, sensing something beneath his words, but before she can press further, Rhaegar’s attention shifts once more toward the direction you’ve gone. His eyes dart over the crowd, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. He feels an inexplicable pull to follow you, to be near you, to understand the bond you’ve formed with your sworn protector.

Elia notices his distraction, her expression flickering with concern. “Is something troubling you, my prince?”

Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, offering a strained smile. “Nothing of consequence, Princess. My thoughts are simply elsewhere today.”

Elia’s understanding nod is tinged with quiet resignation. She is perceptive enough to know that Rhaegar’s heart and mind are not fully present, though she cannot fully grasp why. There’s a quiet grace in the way she steps back, allowing the conversation to end without pushing further, though it’s clear she knows this is more than mere distraction.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Elia says softly, her voice carrying a hint of sadness. “I hope the rest of your day is peaceful.”

Rhaegar inclines his head in thanks, offering her a final nod before excusing himself. As he moves away, he casts one last look in the direction you went, determined to find you, to make sure all is well. The knot in his chest tightens as he thinks about you—about the way Arthur’s presence seems to comfort you in a way few others can. There’s a part of him that feels guilty for leaving you to bear so much of the court’s scrutiny alone, especially when you’ve always stood by him through his darkest moments.

Rhaegar knows he should return to the heart of the festival, where his presence is expected, where lords and ladies await his favor. But his instincts push him in another direction, driving him to find you. You’ve always been his closest ally, his truest friend, and the one who understands the burdens he carries without needing to ask. And now, with the growing shadows in his dreams and the weight of the future pressing down on him, he feels that need to be close to you more than ever.

The festival continues to whirl around him—the laughter, the music, the colors blending into a blur—but Rhaegar’s mind is focused on one thing: finding his sister, finding you, and understanding why the sight of you and Ser Arthur together fills him with both comfort and concern.

In a secluded garden nestled within the labyrinthine paths of the Red Keep, far from the prying eyes of courtiers and nobles, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. It’s a rare oasis of peace in a castle that is often suffocating with intrigue and danger. You and Arthur stand close, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of longing, love, and a flicker of hesitation—hesitation that melts away the moment your lips meet.

The first kiss is soft, tender, as if testing the boundaries, but the spark that ignites between you quickly blazes into something more. The carefully maintained distance you’ve held for so long always collapses under the weight of your desire. Arthur’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him down to deepen the kiss. The world outside fades away as your passion consumes you both, a fire that has been burning quietly beneath the surface for far too long.

There’s a desperation in the way he kisses you, as if every moment could be the last. Your bodies press against each other, the cool metal of his armor a stark contrast to the heat between you. It’s reckless and dangerous, but you’ve never felt more alive than in his arms. Each stolen moment, each whispered promise, every touch that sends shivers down your spine—all of it leads to this. The tension that’s been building between you both, masked behind duty and decorum, finally breaks free.

You lean back against the rough bark of a tree, pulling Arthur with you as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. You gasp softly, your fingers tightening their grip on his cloak as he presses closer, his breath hot against your skin. It’s a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, fear—all wrapped up in the overwhelming need to be near him, to be with him, if only for this fleeting moment.

But even in your passion, there’s an edge of danger. The knowledge that this is forbidden, that if your father were to discover your relationship, it could lead to ruin for you both, lingers in the back of your mind. Yet that risk only heightens the thrill, driving you both further into the embrace. Arthur’s hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring himself to you, while his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent.

“Y/N,” he murmurs between breaths, his voice rough with emotion, “you have no idea how much I—” He breaks off, kissing you again before he can finish the thought, as if words are inadequate for what he feels.

But before he can say more, a sound—a sharp intake of breath—breaks through the haze of your passion. The both of you freeze, your lips still brushing, hearts pounding in your chests as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the secluded path.

You break apart, breathless and flushed, as the reality of where you are comes crashing down. Arthur steps back just enough to put distance between you, his expression a mix of frustration and regret, though his hand remains on your arm, grounding you.

Emerging from the shadows is Rhaegar, his face pale, his violet eyes wide with shock. The look of disbelief on his face is quickly replaced by fear—fear not for himself, but for you.

Rhaegar steps forward, his face a mixture of shock, fear, and something that looks almost like betrayal. His eyes dart between you and Arthur, taking in the flushed cheeks, the way your breaths still come in ragged gasps, and the undeniable closeness between you both. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind racing with the implications of what he’s just witnessed.

“Y/N… Arthur…” Rhaegar’s voice trembles slightly, and the gravity of what he’s stumbled upon sinks in fully. His instinct is not to scold or condemn, but the terror of what could happen if your father were to find out is palpable in every word. “Do you realize what you’re risking? If Father—if *Aerys*—ever discovers this, it will mean ruin. For both of you!”

You pull away from Arthur fully, your heart hammering in your chest as you take a step toward your brother. “Rhaegar, please, I know how dangerous this is, but—” Your words falter as you see the raw panic in his eyes. You’ve seen Rhaegar handle courtly intrigues and navigate the madness of your father with a cool head, but now, faced with the possibility of you being harmed, he looks utterly shaken.

Arthur’s face is drawn, his expression hardening with the knowledge that Rhaegar is right. “I would never willingly put her in harm’s way,” Arthur says quietly, his voice firm but tinged with guilt. “I know the risk I’m taking, but—” He stops, searching for the right words. “But I cannot regret what I feel for her.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “This isn’t about regret, Ser Arthur. This is about survival.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “You know what Father’s like. You’ve seen how possessive he is, especially with Y/N. If he finds out about this… he could do something unspeakable.” Rhaegar’s voice cracks slightly, and he reaches out, taking your hands in his, as if trying to shield you from the very thought. “You’re all I have left, Y/N. I can’t lose you to his madness.”

The fear in his eyes mirrors the worry that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind ever since this secret relationship began. You know your father’s paranoia and cruelty, how he views you as a prized possession, a symbol of his power. If Aerys even suspects that you’ve formed an attachment beyond his control, the consequences would be catastrophic. Yet, even as you acknowledge the danger, your feelings for Arthur remain undeniable—a connection deeper than anything you’ve experienced before.

“Rhaegar,” you say softly, squeezing his hands. “I understand the risk, truly, I do. But this isn’t something I can turn away from. Arthur… he’s more than just a knight to me. He’s been my constant, my strength, through all of this madness. I can’t let fear dictate everything we do.”

Arthur’s gaze remains steady on Rhaegar, even as guilt and determination war within him. “If you ask it, I’ll leave her side and never act on this again,” he says, the words heavy with the weight of sacrifice. “But I swear on my honor, I will always protect her, no matter the cost.”

Rhaegar’s expression softens at Arthur’s vow, recognizing the sincerity in his words. He’s torn between the love he holds for you and the duty he feels to keep you safe from the horrors that Aerys could unleash. For a long moment, the three of you stand in silence, the distant sounds of the festival faintly reaching your ears as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the secluded garden.

Finally, Rhaegar lets out a deep breath, a mixture of resignation and resolve settling in his eyes. “I won’t betray your secret,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a hint of sorrow. “But you have to be careful—far more careful than this. I can’t watch over you every moment, and if even the faintest rumor reaches Father’s ears… We all know what he’s capable of.”

You nod, feeling the gravity of his words settling heavily in your chest. “I’ll be more cautious, I promise.” You look between Rhaegar and Arthur, both of whom are bound by their loyalty to you, even if it tears them apart inside.

Rhaegar’s hand drops from yours, and he gives Arthur a hard look. “If you truly care for her, then your duty is to ensure that this never comes to light. You’re one of the few I trust, Ser Arthur, but if this secret endangers her life… you’ll have to let her go.”

Arthur nods solemnly, his jaw set. “I would sooner lay down my life than see her harmed, but I understand, Prince Rhaegar.”

With a final, lingering glance at you, Rhaegar turns and walks away, his footsteps heavy with the burden of what he’s just witnessed. He disappears back into the festival, leaving you and Arthur standing alone once more, the silence between you now tinged with a bittersweet edge.

Arthur steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “We’ll be careful,” he whispers, his voice laced with both determination and affection. “But I won’t let this be the end, Y/N.”

You lean into his touch, finding strength in his presence even as the weight of the world presses down on you. “Neither will I,” you whisper back, sealing the promise with a kiss—this one softer, but no less filled with the depth of your emotions.

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart as he steps away from the secluded garden. The shock of what he just witnessed lingers, gnawing at the back of his mind like a persistent ache. The sight of you and Arthur locked in such an intimate embrace, the raw passion between you—he cannot shake it. It isn’t the impropriety of it that haunts him, but the danger, the unbearable risk you’re both taking. If Aerys were to discover this…

Rhaegar’s thoughts spiral, a mixture of fear, anger, and desperation clouding his mind. He knows the lengths to which Aerys will go to control everything within his grasp. His father’s obsession with you is unhealthy, twisted—a possessiveness that borders on something darker. Rhaegar has long suspected that Aerys sees you not just as his daughter, but as a possession, a symbol of power that he clings to more tightly with each passing day. The thought makes his stomach turn, and his resolve hardens.

As he emerges from the shadows and rejoins the festival, Rhaegar’s gaze sweeps across the bustling courtyard, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. His eyes finally settle on you both as you step back into the throng of nobles and courtiers. The lighthearted laughter and music of the celebration are a stark contrast to the tension that still thrums through him, but you and Arthur carry yourselves with practiced ease, as though nothing has happened.

You’re smiling, speaking with some noble ladies who eagerly engage you in conversation. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, his expression calm but always alert. He remains close enough to be within reach if needed but maintains the careful distance expected of a knight. To anyone watching, it’s just another day at court—no one would suspect the secret that lies beneath the surface. But Rhaegar can’t unsee what he now knows; the bond between you and Arthur is undeniable, and it’s something neither of you can easily hide.

Rhaegar’s chest tightens with a mix of protectiveness and helplessness. You’ve always been his anchor, his guiding star in a world gone mad. Losing you to Aerys’ schemes or, worse, seeing you destroyed by the king’s madness, is a fate Rhaegar cannot allow. He’s watched you endure the court’s venomous whispers and Aerys’ possessive nature, always standing strong despite the dangers. But this—this relationship with Arthur—puts you in greater jeopardy than ever before.

His gaze shifts from you to Aerys, who is holding court in the center of the pavilion, surrounded by sycophantic lords and eager noblewomen. The king is in one of his rare moments of relative calm, his laughter loud and grating as he basks in the hollow praises showered upon him. Yet, even from a distance, Rhaegar can see the darkness lurking behind his father’s eyes—a madness that is always teetering on the edge of explosion.

Aerys’ gaze drifts lazily across the assembled crowd, but Rhaegar catches the moment when his father’s eyes land on you. The intensity in Aerys’ stare sharpens, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold. It’s that look again—the one that chills Rhaegar to his core. Aerys’ fixation on you is not the protective affection of a father; it’s something possessive, twisted, a hunger that defies all reason. Rhaegar knows that if Aerys ever suspected that your heart belonged to another, especially a knight like Arthur Dayne, there would be no limit to the cruelty he would unleash.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, anger and determination warring within him. He’s spent so much of his life navigating the complexities of court politics, trying to maintain a facade of control while keeping his own desires buried beneath duty and expectation. But this is different. This is about you, about protecting the one person he loves more than anything in this world. He cannot, will not, allow you to be another victim of Aerys’ madness.

Silently, Rhaegar makes a vow to himself. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means defying Aerys more openly, even if it means making decisions that will change the course of all their lives. He’s already burdened with the knowledge of prophecies, of visions that tug at his mind and point toward an uncertain future. But none of that matters more than protecting you. If it comes to it, he will take you far from King’s Landing, away from the shadows that cling to the Iron Throne, and keep you safe from the darkness that threatens to consume them all.

For now, though, Rhaegar knows he must be patient. He watches as you laugh with a lady from House Tyrell, your smile masking the tension beneath. Arthur’s eyes flick briefly toward Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They both know the stakes. They both know what must be done to ensure your safety.

Rhaegar straightens, his expression growing resolute. He steps back into the crowd, moving through the festival with the grace expected of a prince, but his mind is already working through plans, contingencies, and possibilities. He will keep a closer eye on you and Arthur, ensuring that any risks are minimized. And when the time comes, he will act—swiftly and decisively—to shield you from the storm that is brewing.

No matter what happens, Rhaegar Targaryen will not allow Aerys’ madness to touch you. Not while there is breath in his body.

[regulusrules]

FIC RECS: Tore apart my sanity edition

Missed doing those, especially that the brilliance of this fandom is quite endless. You'd think you've read everything, then a fic comes and makes you stare two ceilings above. I think we all have PhDs in ceiling reading at this point.

1. through storm and hellfire by @prattery.

Look, I know I scream a lot about fics, but this time it's so rightfully, I swear. There is something about this one that just unravels you so fully, so reverently. It was a spiritual experience; reading this fic. Anything written by this author is a spiritual experience. If you're new to my blog, you will soon know that I fall apart for such beautiful prose so easily. And the way Arthur was written here.. holy lord in the sky. I haven't survived this fic as of yet (weeks later). It was not Merlin who got kidnapped here; it's our literal hearts.

2. you hold a knife at my throat (i tell you exactly where to cut) by @nextstopparis.

All I can say is that I found this one on the night of my final MA exam and risked failing because I stayed up till dawn reading it. And guess what? I'd do it a hundred times over. Because this fic killed me 🤩 With a knife knowing exactly where to cut 🤩

Whenever it's Protective!Arthur that is as much consumed by Merlin's safety as Merlin was with his, then know I am absolutely and utterly gone. And everything that comes with Arthur teaching Merlin how to wield weapons and its close proximity trope. Oh boy. I was literally killed, I'm telling you.

3. Of Course Falling in Love is Awful. Why Else Would They Call It a Crush? by watchriverdale.

Respectfully, how does this marvel of a fic have less than a thousand reads?? If I may, it's one of the best AU - Canon Divergence that I've read in so long! Merlin being an actual physician, Arthur making silly excuses to go visit Merlin and it ending up for him falling head over heels, BAMF elements of both, just everything! Absolutely AMAZING. And the full circle at the end; what an icon.

4. The Walls of Camelot by spqr. (@andthepeople)

I'm literally not joking when I say my brain function grew and developed more after reading this fic. It was so fully-fledged in a way you don't find in literal published books. The amount of creativity and research combined in this fic.. WOW! You just literally live the war with them, all emotions entangled, all thoughts experienced. I think I had the hardest time processing that the fic ended more than anything else because of how invested I was in the story. I didn't want it to end. It was a wonderful, wonderful ride.

5. I suppose that I look different (without the robes and crown) by WingedWolf121. (@lancelotofthelake)

You know when fic writers begin to narrate Arthur through Merlin's eyes and describe him as golden? That is what I would say as the overall feel of this fic. I felt it radiating gold and beauty. It was unmatched, truly. From the AU idea to its execution.. I was hooked all 18K. I'd give it 18K kudos of my own alone. And the way it was written !!! Please. Any Arthur who just loves Merlin a tad too much is unparalleled. And when the same energy is returned by Merlin >>>

Oh and lastly: “Ask me who you were there to me, Merlin.” I'll leave you at that.

+ 1: My heart is readily yours by yours truly.

Have I mentioned how much this one tore my own sanity apart while writing it? (yes. yes I already have like a thousand times, tell me to shut up about it already). But it's for good reason. I am a changed human being after this fic. For better or for worse, I'm still not sure about that.

[desecrated-host]

⋆ ―❝ matching blog themes with @red-signal .ᐟall art in blog theme is by potato-lord-but-not .ᐟ❞ ꩜‧₊ . ꩜ ₊๋― arthur / mark / jedidiah / seymour / elijah / gerard (gerry if we're friends) / byron / martin / madeleine / jeremiah. he/it ― main interests: malevolent, the magnus archives, my ocs, the westing game, final destination, new albion, les miserables, cluedo, cookie run, christianity, the heart goes to heaven the head goes to hell, bayonets, clocks, decapitation. i have a ton of others, but they're less intense than the above. please ask me about any of my interests .ᐟ i always love talking about them. ──────⊱⋆⋅ ꩜ ⋅⋆⊰────── ✶₊˚― fictionkin .ᐟ i strongly identify with characters and like being referred to as them (original definition of the word). my main shifts are gerard keay, up & adam, ian mckinley, peter friedkin, martin blackwood, kayne, jedidiah martin, the salesman, elijah volkov, and cappuccino cookie. ― i tend to frequently have depressive episodes (especially lately), please block the #personal tag if you dont want to see anything vent-ish. 𖦹.₊๋ ⭑― feel free to send me requests .ᐟ i tend to only actually get them done if they seem fun to me, though. sorry if you send something and i dont do it .ᐟ ― please ask before sending DMs .ᐟ i dont like DMs and heavily prefer asks, especially if we dont know eachother well. ──────⊱⋆⋅ ꩜ ⋅⋆⊰────── ⋆⭑ . ― tags .ᐟ: #morning broadcast: posts/reblogs with commentary, #the weather: reblogs, #citizen interviews: asks, poetry week: writing, #my art :p: art, #my edits: edits/manga colorings #pandora calder, #laz thatcher, #temperence marlowe, #operator, #marquette calder, #charlie bethell: all my ocs! feel free to ask anything about them .ᐟ

[robinvomit]

Can I ask you for your thoughts on Jason Todd? I've been wanting to write for him but I feel like I should read the comics + watch shows/movies but I've been seeing him get portrayed so differently idk what is ooc or not T-T

fanon: cold ass edge lord that's always angry, vengeful, kind of dumb, only good for muscle, blood lust and hyper sexual ( which is the worst trait ive seen-- pls stop making jason treat his s/o like cheap one night stands, thanks. )

canon(aka, my interpretation ):

jason doesn't just talk for no reason and is usually dry, witty, sarcastic — he does have a wonderful sense of humor. he is very compassionate, very deeply feeling and surprisingly emotionally intelligent. yes he does have anger, who tf in his shoes wouldnt, but it is not just raw anger anymore, it is anger at injustice — the world, the shit system, etc. its shown several times jason has issues with most law run systems. he is confident, precise and moves with control. jason is the type to show care for quiet gestures: food, sitting together, physical comfort, knowing things. he does not verbalize how he feels often but he doesn't lack communication like some of the others. he's protective but not controlling and he's loyal to a steep fault. he can be considerably soft to those who have gained his trust. he's strategic, may not always have a plan but that seems to be rare, he has the mannerisms of someone trained to be a soldier. he masks with humor the same way dick masks with charm, tim masks with blankness, and damian masks with arrogance. he is incredibly intelligent and a very, very complex layered character ♡ he thinks and feels very deeply and idk, he's fucking traumatized but who in dc isn't atp. i also tend to write him as deeply romantic. also bc some people still dont know this; jason does canonically read classic literature! there is a blog with a list of all the canon books but all i have is:

Pride and Prejudice — Jane Austen ( his favorite )

Works by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Works by Alexander Dumas

The Art of War by Sun Tzu

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott ( he would hate the movie 💔 )

Canon Superman Comics lmao

and some unnamed self help books

[gingersnaptaff]

hi sarah!! from my main blog (ugh).🖤

Hi b!!!!!! Here's Gwen/Enid for u and I hope u love it! This is sort of a follow on from Cain's prompt so I hope that's okay!

‘When Geraint thought his flesh was whole, he came to Arthur and asked for permission to leave.’ - Geraint son of Erbin

Once Arthur had informed her of their cousin's recovery, Gwenhwyfar had done two things: plastered the most joyous smile on her face that she could muster, and, after their conversation had ended, immediately sought Owain to ascertain whether her husband was truthful. Of course, she could've had her ladies do so, for they were most adept at querying almost all of the knights, but this, she knew, would require a Queen's touch.

       And, perhaps, her wrath.

      “Owain!” She hailed him from across the field where he and Gwalchmai stood chatting companionably after their morning bout. “Is it true?” 

        “Is what true, your majesty?” He asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion. The wells of his eyes, dark as Annwfn, studied her intently, and Gwenhwyfar's resolve crumbled a little, the knife edge of it blunting.

       Her eyes swinging between the two men she babbled, “Is it true that Ge - that he means to leave us? That he's recovered?”

        His mouth hanging open like a panting hound's, Owain blinked at her owlishly. Words sputtered from the spigot of his lips, half-mumbled droplets of sound that belied his astonishment, and she quickly turned to Gwalchmai instead, “Well?” she snapped.

         A grimace twisted the normally handsome visage of the Hawk of May, and he ran a gauntleted hand through his tawny curls, the autumnal sun flaming them to rust. “Ay,” he announced with a weary sigh. “He means to leave in a few days, once winter is upon us. Morgan Tud decreed that he was well enough.”

          ‘Morgan Tud, of course, it would be his doing,’ she bitterly reflected, her hands curling into fists by her sides. 

        The urge to storm to the medical tent and screech at him until her throat grew raw stifled her, its inferno all-consuming. How dare he simply acquiesce to his wishes without a thought for what it might mean for Enid. For the despair and abuse, she would once again be forced to endure at his hands.

      And how could he even countenance tearing Enid away from her queen’s embrace after all she had suffered?

     It felt akin to a sick joke. A taunt. His flesh had been made whole again, yes, only for him to immediately fracture the scant happiness his wife had found for herself hither.

       God, she could've clawed his eyes out for that. 

       Once again, he would tear her away.

       Once again, he would drag her over mountain and hill and mud, all to satisfy the suppurating wounds his teulu had inflicted all those moons ago.

      But had Morgan not been made privy to the exploits of husband and wife the second he had laid eyes upon his battered body within the cloistered walls of the medical tent? Furthermore, how had he not been brought low by seething rage from all that had been recounted about their journey the way the rest of the court had been? 

        Why, a few nights ago Gwenhwyfar had watched as Peredur, normally the gentlest of knights, had spat his name into the hissing flames of a brazier as mouth curved into a sneer. “May he rot,” he had said. “I thought he was an angel when I first saw him, a knight like all the others. But he's nothing more than a devil, black-hearted and cruel.” 

        His words rang true. That thin veneer of easy camaraderie that had come so naturally to her and G - and him had long since fallen away, replaced by horror.

       ‘He's not fit to be a knight anymore than he is her lord husband,' she gritted her teeth, anger and despair warring within her at what she had put her dearest Enid through. ‘And I consented to their match.’ 

      “G -” Owain caught her dagger-sharp glare just before he said his name, his gasp sharp. He cleared his throat then, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He seeks to ride again, though I know not where.” 

        Gwenhwyfar hummed. Blood roared in her ears.

        Throughout the jumbled thoughts that assaulted her, and growing steadily fiercer and fiercer was the urge to avenge herself upon him. It burned hotter, brighter, taunting her like the dawn star that hung in the sky just out of reach.

         A tantalising vision, yes, but one she could not bring to boil. 

         Instead, her heart lurched violently within the confines of her chest. A lump rose in her throat and she could barely force herself to speak. “If that is what he has wished for, then we cannot deny him.”

        Gwalchmai and Owain nodded in agreement. Both, however, appeared fairly disgusted, and she did not know whether it was because of her reaction or because of… his looming departure.

         “You know as well as I,” Gwalchmai said at last, his green gaze meeting her grey one. “That Lady Enid-”

           “Will accompany him. Yes. I am all too aware of that, cousin.” Gwenhwyfar choked out. Tears stung her eyes but Owain's recriminating expression stung her more.

          “He’ll drag her behind him,” he spat, his voice a venomous hiss. His eyes hardened to jet, and his chest heaved with such passion that Gwenhwyfar would’ve thought him in love with Enid if she did not know where his proclivities lay. 

        “I know,” she seethed, her body shuddering. Her fists tightened, whitened, and her nails bit into the meat of her palms until they stung. “I know.” 

       Those words hurt to say. Bile scorched her throat. She took a shaky step forward, almost swooning, and pressed her lips together in an effort to keep the rapidly unravelling thread of her composure together. 

       Owain sighed lowly, the lingering tenseness in his shoulders softening a little in the face of her unspoken despondency. “I bore him love once, but I know his rage, Gwen. It’ll eat him alive.” 

        “Can you not beg him to cease? Or to soften his treatment of her? For the love of you that lingers within his heart-”

        Owain's throat worked. His dark eyes caught the sun, sucked her down into their fathomless depths. “There is naught I can do,” said the erstwhile Lion Knight, his lips crumpling into a thin, apologetic line. “He has not listened to me since he squired. Doubtless, he will not bring himself to do so now.”

       With a hollow laugh, she turned to Gwalchmai. He had remained silent throughout her and Owain's exchange, merely content to listen and divest himself of his gauntlets, but, in the face of her questioning glance he stiffened, straightening to his full, rather imposing height, and awaited her piece.

         “Can you not implore him to stay longer?” she asked, slowly uncurling her fists and stretching her fingers. A prickle of pain followed, clearing her head of rage. An odd numbness settled over her as she awaited his deliberation, although her heart still clamoured in her ears. Its frantic, uneasy thump matched the ‘thok-thok-thok!’ of Cai and Bedwyr's training swords that echoed throughout the wood. 

        For a moment Gwalchmai ignored her and opted to regard the two men, her husband's most staunch companions. A little way down they stood, bare-chested and perspiring, within a makeshift ring of cutdown tree trunks, darting towards each other and clashing their sticks. Ginger and black blurs they were, while their gait carried nothing but light-footed ebullience.

       Her mouth dried. The lump in her throat hardened. Tears blurred her vision, casting the world into a wash of colour.

       ‘Can't any of you do something? Won't you? You are his kin, his allies, his brothers-in-arms! You should be doing something!’

      Their laughter rang out. It was a flicker of warmth amongst the otherwise steadily cooling breeze, and Arthur's booming chuckle soon joined them. 

     She watched as her husband, clad only in a dirtied crimson tunic and checkered trews, embraced them. His face glowed with joy. His dark head bent towards Cai's ginger head and Bedwyr's mousy one while his lips moved rapidly. Then, they laughed again. 

      For a moment, Gwenhwyfar imagined that that was her and Enid, unbothered by all that had come and all that would soon be upon them. 

      But slowly, sorrowfully, she came back to herself. Mournfully, she remembered how she had left Enid slumbering in the warm womb of their tent that morn, with a quick kiss pressed to the tip of her nose, the way they'd done back when Gwenhwyfar was merely Queen of Rhos, and Enid her lady-in-waiting.

       And now, they were to be rented asunder once more. 

       Her guts twisted, her stomach lurching. All she could do was stare, unseeing. 

       Once their chuckles had ceased, Arthur threw his arms around his foster brothers and the three moved further off into the treeline. Gwenhwyfar had to squint to see them. 

       Soon, they were consumed by the forest's dark maw. 

      The rushing of a river scythed through the chilly air. Autumn's amber-tepidity would soon turn to winter's bitterness. 

      And, slinking with it like a serpent amongst the grass, Enid's departure.

     Gwalchmai’s voice shattered her out of her reverie, “Gwen…” 

   Gwenhwyfar's eyes slipped off them. Although she feared she knew his answer, she blinked away the burning salt of her tears and nodded hastily. “Ay?”

      He did not speak. The pallid cast of his face was enough indication.

      Gwenhwyfar swallowed down her remaining protestations. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded once and said, “I should go to her. She deserves to hear it from me.” 

        With that, she turned on her heel and marched across the muddied field to her tent.

----

The tent was warm when Gwenhwyfar entered. Her ladies milled about, jokes and laughter on their lips as they sat around the smouldering brazier in the centre of the tent, although every so often their eyes would flick to the bed where Enid lay, still dozing, cocooned by a mountain of furs. Contentment emanated from her being. The darkness of her unbound hair spilled across the pillows and she huffed softly. 

     A fond smile settled on Gwenhwyfar's face. She turned to her ladies, and espied Luned’s mousy brown hair from where she was by the card table, half-clad by darkness. “How has she been?” 

        “She’s been asleep ever since this morning, Your Majesty,” came Luned's reply, her ice blue gaze affixed on her slumbering sister-in-law. Her heart-shaped face and plump build mirrored that of her brothers and such a resemblance to him in that moment would've unnerved Gwenhwyfar, if she did not know that their demeanours were as different as fire and sea. 

        “Good. That's good.” Once she had unclasped her cloak, she collapsed into one of the seats that were clustered around the brazier and ran a hand through her windswept hair, detangling some of the knotted strands to distract herself. “Has she - Has she suffered any night terrors?”

       Luned's eyes briefly flicked to Enid before she shook her head. “When it looked like she would, we calmed her. Angharad gave her Milk of the Poppy just to make sure.”

       Satisfied, Gwenhwyfar smiled before she stood up and made her way over to the bed and gingerly sat down on the edge of it, so as not to wake her beloved, and then placed her hand atop the bedcovers, just above Enid's heart.

       Enid's cheeks were flushed a beguiling pink. She huffed again, a little discontented sound that made Gwenhwyfar and her ladies giggle quietly. Her hand crept across the covers, blindly searching for her lady's while a furrow marred her brow, and Gwenhwyfar chuckled as Enid’s fingers finally brushed against her hand. 

      A delighted moan came from the sleeping woman’s lips. A smile settled on her face. “Gwen…”

      “Fy enaid, wake up,” she murmured against the shell of her ear once she had leaned down, the curtain of her hair shielding them from the curious eyes of her ladies. “You can’t laze about all day or whatever will the court think?”

        Pouting, Enid cracked one bleary eye open and brought her hand up to cup Gwenhwyfar’s cheek. “You’d snarl at them until they stopped.” 

        Gwenhwyfar made a show of tutting. “Would I now?” she lowered her face so that their noses touched, and tried to banish the brass-bright amusement that shot through her words. “You seem rather certain of that, cariad. Shall I inform them of the Queen of Cornwall's tardiness and see what gossip makes their tongues wag?”

      Enid held her gaze. There was a look of such fierce indignation on her rosy face that Gwenhwyfar had the sudden urge to laugh. Oh, she hadn't seen that for quite a while. Not since…

      The night before she'd left for Cornwall.

     “Maybe,” she coyly replied. Her dark eyes smouldered like coals in the sun’s faint glaze. Before Gwenhwyfar even knew what was happening, Enid had caught her hand and tugged down the rest of the way, her merry, lilting laughter pouring into her ears. “But I'd much rather have my lady in my bed rather than with that prattling lot.”

     Gwenhwyfar laughed despite the ache that embedded itself within her. Enid's scent - lush meadowsweet and castille soap - cloyed the air. The arrowhead of her gaze sharpened, narrowed to her lover, while the flint that had encased her heart was banished by the kindled fire of adoration, and grew more and more aflame when Enid kissed her, slow and sweet. 

       Gwenhwyfar responded, her kisses harsh and unyielding, while her hands reverently mapped Enid's curves. She had filled out these last few months to Gwenhwyfar and Morgan Tud's relief. No longer was she skin and bone, stick-thin and gaunt from the torturous months spent on the road. No longer did bruises darken the skin of her wrists and arms. Her eyes, too, were bright, as captivating as the dusk.

      Gwenhwyfar sighed against her lover's lips. She drew away, swallowing down a scream. 

       Enid sat up, alarmed. “Gwen? What's wrong?”

       Unable to bear the look of despair that would surely follow the words she was about to say, she turned away, opting instead to stare at the glowing coals of the brazier. Her ladies glanced up at her with widened eyes, waiting. 

      “I received some… news,” she choked, “this morning.” 

       Enid laughed. The furs and bedcovers rustled and the bed frame creaked. “And?”

      The late afternoon light crept across the tent walls. A second later Gwenhwyfar jolted as a hand touched her shoulder. 

    She did not turn around. She could not acknowledge her. Not now. She must do her duty. 

      She must…

      “And… Oh Enid, you mustn't think terribly of me! I couldn't bear -” her breath hitched. “I couldn't bear that!” 

       “I don't understand,” Enid quavered. “Why would I even think that of you? Gwen, fy annwyl, what's brought this on?” 

     Gwenhwyfar sighed. It trembled upon the too-silent air. Outside, the men were laughing gaily. Slowly, she turned back to face Enid. “The news I received has to do with your… with your husband.”

      Her face crumpled. “God forgive me!” She sobbed, her head in her hands. “God forgive me, I didn't mean to wish for his death! I - I never thought-”

   Gwenhwyfar burst out, "He isn't! He isn't dead, although I wish he were for all that he heaped upon you alone! No-” She took another deep, raspy breath and gritted her teeth to alleviate the fierce heat that had settled within her. “No, he's alive.”

     Enid sniffled, wiping her nose on the furs. She rubbed at her blotchy cheek and croaked, “Oh.”

     Gwenhwyfar hummed as she sat on the bed again and drew Enid to her, nestling her in the crook of her shoulder. Her skin was soft, warm from weeping, and she pressed a kiss to her cheek, a dainty butterfly of a thing. “Ay.” She shut her eyes and sent a prayer up to Heaven. “He is well enough to travel, or so the King informed me this morning. He wishes to depart in a few days.”

    Enid sniffled. Her breaths grew shallow as she waited. Her mouth downturned. 

     “You are to go with him,” Gwenhwyfar whispered grimly, her entire being recoiling at the very idea. “Travel with him once again. He insisted.” 

      A wavering keen left Enid's lips and she threw her arms about Gwenhwyfar's neck and drew close in an effort to muffle her screams, the line of her body crumbling into Gwenhwyfar’s.

       “I know, I know, fy enaid,” Gwenhwyfar cradled her for a few moments while her ladies clustered about them, whispering soothing words and stroking Enid’s dark hair, sorrow stark on their faces. “If I had my way, then I would send him on alone and tuck you away in my breast so that you would be safe.”

      “Can't you?” she wept into the curve of Gwenhwyfar's neck. “Won't you? I don't want to go!” 

       Gwenhwyfar swallowed, clutching her to her chest as if she were a precious trinket. Tears were falling down her face now, and the last levee of her regal composure threatened to shatter.  “You know as well as I that my hands are tied, genethod melys. I cannot go against Arthur.”

     “But he'll listen to you!” 

      “Not in this, I fear. He is eager to depart. We've tarried here too long, you see, and he wishes for an end to the Cylch. He did not wish to move while you and Geraint -” she growled, aggrieved at her slip up- “your husband rested.” 

      A sharp whimper left Enid's lips. Her tear-filled eyes met Gwenhwyfar's and stared at her until she lowered her head demurely and eased herself from Gwenhwyfar's grip. 

     Gwenhwyfar let her go, watching as she sat back against the pillows, and placed her hands in her lap, “I see.” Her chest heaved as she fought against her tears and Gwenhwyfar's heart twinged so viciously at the sight that she thought it would cleave in two. 

    “Enid-” 

    “Don't!” 

    She sighed, gingerly reaching to cup her lover's cheek, and smiled when she did not flinch. “Fy enaid, listen to me: I love you. I do. I know you must go-”

    “You're making me!”

     “I know,” she pressed a kiss to Enid’s nose and smiled broadly at her lover’s answering giggle, despite the fierce look that hardened her expression. “I know, and you are right to feel aggrieved. You should be. God knows, if it were me in your position then I would feel so wrathful that I would cleave his head from his shoulders with his own sword.”

    Enid’s eyes glittered. “I wish you could.”

    “As do I. The joy it would give me…” she breathed. “But, alas, we must be separated once more.”

     Enid’s lips thinned. Fiddling with her bare ring finger in lieu of her wedding band she murmured bitterly, “I suppose I ought to be content.” 

     Claws of indignation dug into Gwenhwyfar’s heart, threatening to pluck it out as easily as the first summer berry off a stalk. “No,” she hissed before taking Enid into her arms once more and pressing a hard, wanting kiss to her lips. Enid followed her - as she always did, as she always would - melding her lips to hers, her body fitting against Gwenhwyfar's as easily as a ring upon a finger. 

     ‘By God,’ Gwenhwyfar thought, her trembling hands wrapped around Enid's waist, as she lost herself to the yielding softness of her lover's lips. ‘I wish I had a ring to pledge to you.’

     Her chest burned. Ached. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, searingly hot, and more dribbled over her fingers. 

     Enid sniffles shattered the all-encompassing silence. Her shoulders shook with repressed sobs, ones that Gwenhwyfar could not hope to quell with kisses no matter how desperately she tried.

     A broken sob tore from Enid's lips. Her breath whispered across Gwenhwyfar's cheek. She could do naught but kiss her harder, until her lips burned.

     Upon hearing the noise, her ladies turned their faces away to glance this way and that at the dark walls, each studiously avoiding the others' gazes. Out of the corner of her eye, Gwenhwyfar surveyed Luned leaning over to feed the brazier more coals. 

      All the while, Enid's moans thickened in the air and her ears. Each was the sweetest sound Gwenhwyfar had coaxed from her since they first kissed during her wedding two years past, and made all the more sweeter now that their long-feared parting was within sight.

    Her skin was warm beneath Gwenhwyfar's hands, the honey-heaven scent of her intoxicating. Laughter warmed the distinctly icy air that heralded winter’s coming, and Gwenhwyfar was not sure whether it was hers or Enid’s that gave her the greater amount of joy.

     When they broke apart, Gwenhwyfar's head spun. A tiny ribbon of spit connected them. She wiped it away with the tip of her finger, admiring the raspberry flush that had unfurled across Enid’s cheek.

     “You’re a covetous mistress,” came her lover’s watery reply, a dazed look upon her face. 

     Gwenhwyfar smirked, “Indeed. Only for you though,” she replied before adorning her Enid’s forehead with kisses,  tiny jewels that made her summon up a few frail giggles. She shuffled further onto the bed, careful not to hurt her dearest lover, before she laid her head against the bolster and stared up at the ceiling. 

       The moonlight's grey gauze fuzzed through the silk and set the rings on her hands to winking. The bloodstone of her engagement ring from Arthur smouldered with fire, as did the molten gold of her wedding ring. Another - blue sea glass flanked by creamy pearls - rippled with the waves like the tiniest of tides on the pointer finger of her left hand. The great dome of her coronation ring flashed upon her right ring finger, while a small ring of a silver moon and waves sat upon her porridge finger. 

     Surveying them the way her husband would his lands, she absentmindedly  twiddled with them all for a moment just as Enid glumly said, “I suppose that was your goodbye?” 

      “Not for a few more days,” Gwenhwyfar said as she sprawled out next to her. “We have time.”

    Eyes glassy with tears, Enid’s throat worked. “Alright,” she said, before she bowed her head once again.

     The brazier crackled. Popped. Gwenhwyfar breathed deeply. Her mind was caught between consoling and crying, berating either Arthur or him. Her right hand ghosted over her left, twiddled with the ring on her left pointer finger. Carefully, reverently, she slipped it off. Then, she cleared her throat. 

     Flinching, Enid’s head snapped up.  

     “Take this,” Gwenhwyfar pressed the sea glass ring - Dylan's ring, given to her all those years ago - into her lover’s palm before she even had time to protest. “You’ll have something of mine then,” she sought the honey-blonde of Luned’s head out of the gloom and continued, “Get me a chain, would you, Lun?” 

       Standing, Luned smirked, before she strode over to the dressing table. Tinkling cut through the black, and quick as a flash Luned reappeared, a fine silver chain gleaming in her hands like a ribbon of starlight. Gently she deposited it into Gwenhwyfar's hands and sprawled out in her seat again.  

        “Will it do?” she drawled, sounding a little like her brother in the smoothness of her speech. 

         “It will.”

          After she had strung it on, she placed it around Enid’s neck and clasped it. The ring hung between her breasts.

          “I can’t have it,” Enid burst out, clutching at the ring as if it scalded her. “I can’t! What if he sees it? He'll tear it off me, I know he will!”

        “Between me and God, he will not!” Gwenhwyfar hissed, her anger bettering her, before continuing more softly, “It is yours. If he does so then he is more of a fool than I thought! Fy enaid, you're mine. If that fool - forgive me, Luned, for I know you have the unfortunate luck of being related to such a man - thinks he can dare covet what is mine then he will be sorely mistaken.”

      With a hum of delight, Enid snuggled into her. Gwenhwyfar pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and murmured just as the first droplets of rain spattered onto the tent's roof: “Rest, Enid. I'll be here when you wake.”

        To her great relief, Enid softened in her arms and slept.

[violettavonviolet]

Merlin & Gravity falls fic recs

all fics are finished and fantastic! the word count goes up progressively, I've noted the ratings but do check the tags!

all fics marked with a star haven't left my brain since I read them.

Merlin

A Future Lined in Gold

predilection

Summary:

Gwaine's soulmate has magic. He knows this because his soulmark glows.

This wasn't as much of a problem until he started spending more time in Camelot where magic is banned, and where even someone catching sight of his soulmark could have him beheaded.

(A Merlin/Gwaine soulmate AU.)

6k gwaine/merlin teen

Secret Whistle

thenerdyindividual

Summary:

Merlin can't understand those stupid complicated hand signs Arthur uses on a hunt, but they figure out another way to communicate.

or: 5 times people were confused by Arthur and Merlin's secret language, and 1 time everyone understood.

6k merthur gen

Secrets

platonic_boner

Summary:

In which everyone gradually finds out that everyone else knew all along about the magic.

7k teen merthur

Co-Dependent

vintagemocha

Summary:

And then it hits Uther, like a fork of lightning: "Fine, then, no Merlin for a week."

"Oh, no," one of the knights, Sir Leon, gasps.

Arthur, whose jaw has been hanging open this entire time, finally regains his abilities of speech. "What?" he says. "No Merlin?"

+++

As punishment for Arthur's disobedience, Uther bans all contact with his manservant for a week.

It works out about as well as you could expect.

8k humor gen

The Authoritative Guide on Being the Bloke

writeonclara

Summary:

In the four years he and Merlin had been together, Merlin never so much hinted that he had a blog.

Well, at least not to Arthur. Everyone and their dog knew about it, except Arthur.

Arthur sighed and clicked Previous 10 Entries. It was a little like reading a biography about all of the things you would never, ever want to share with anyone.

ON SHAGGING THE BLOKE

Sort of like that.

OR: Merlin has a blog. Arthur finds out about it.

9k Merthur modern

Loyalty Before Royalty

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

"Where did you get that?" Arthur asked, but he already knew the answer. 

"Gwen."

"...and the horse?"

"Gwen."

"What about the-"

"Gwen." Merlin interrupted. Arthur nodded. At this point, he wasn't sure why he even bothered to ask. He was pretty certain his wife was going to knight Merlin any day now. He looked Merlin up and down for a few moments before accepting it all with a sigh.

"As long as you get my armor to me tomorrow...I don't care." He finally said, turning away. Merlin cleared his throat. 

"Gwen gave me tomorrow off."

"For the love of God." 

Or

I hate that Gwen and Merlin's friendship kind of withered away in the later seasons so here's a oneshot about her and Merlin abusing her new royal powers because that's what happens when your best friend becomes queen.

10k gwen& merlin gen

Good Fortune

platonic_boner

Summary:

Arthur makes Merlin a lord, and Merlin does an astonishingly good job of running a village.

11k merthur gen

Guarding the Guardian

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“Mordred, right?” Arthur asked, kneeling in front of him. The boy nodded, eyes wide as he looked at Arthur as if he might bolt at any moment. “What are you doing back in Camelot? My father won’t like seeing you again.”

“He’s hurt.” Mordred whispered and Arthur glanced over at where Merlin was unconscious. A sudden realization dawned on him.

“You healed him,” He said slowly “With magic.”

Mordred nodded. Arthur’s mind raced – thinking of all Merlin had survived in his encounters with bandits and sorcerers. Before he could ask if Mordred had been responsible for all of it, there was a groan as Merlin shifted, eyes flickering open.

“Arth – you!” He choked, sitting up quickly to grab Arthur’s arm as if he could yank the prince away. Mordred grinned.

“You’re awake!” He beamed and launched forward to hug him. Arthur watched as Merlin stiffened at the action – eyes widening before desperately trying to push him away.

“Arthur. Arthur, get him off of me-”

Or

After sneaking Mordred out of Camelot, he occasionally returns to make sure Merlin is doing okay. Arthur isn’t sure why this child is so concerned about the wellbeing of his servant… Nor Merlin's vehement attempts to ignore it.

16k gen humor

Whispering Your Name *

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

The Dorocha. They are the voices of the dead, my child. And, like the dead, they are numberless.

Or

A different take of the dorocha. Instead of them being faceless screams that attack you, they are actually figures of the dead. Merlin doesn't quite realize how much death affected him until him and the knights go to close the veil.

22k angst gen

Thick as Sorcerers

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

Arthur watched, unable to fully comprehend the events that had seemingly just crashed and burned in front of him rather than calmly unfold. He turned to look at the other knights who only shrugged as Mordred sank lower into his seat, lips pressed into a pout as he picked at his food. 

“I…” He started and paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts “Why do you want Merlin to like you so badly?” He finally sighed. Mordred stopped playing with his food, glancing up before looking at the door the servant in question had exited through 

“Because he’s Merlin.” He said as if that provided any sort of answer. 

Arthur didn’t deserve this. He did his best to be a good person. Maybe this was some kind of divine intervention saying he needed to up his charity game. He needed to give the lower town a bigger tax break or something. Perhaps ride out and save three more damsels than usual. 

"He has a point," Gwaine piped up as he inhaled another mead "He is Merlin."

Or

Merlin hates Mordred and Mordred is determined to put an end to that. Arthur is convinced that this child is after his man.

23k merthur merlin & mordred

um, excuse me? i was dying *

great_stone_dragon

Summary:

Gideon is a fourteen year old boy who wants to know the real tea. Camelot has a lot of secrets to offer.

1. The prince's manservant has magic and everyone knows (except the prince)

2. The prince is in love with his manservant and everyone knows (except the manservant)

OR

The Office if it was merthur in Camelot

30k humor gen

How to kill a king

Naelyn

Summary:

"That is how you deal with your problems! By politely stating your aim and waiting for your turn to come, instead of coming here with your weapons and no word of warning! D’you reckon it’s easy for me? Not only do I have to deal with the mess he,“ Merlin pointed at Arthur with his chin, “leaves behind him, but now I also have to deal with unplanned assassinations? This world has become a crazy place, isn’t that right, Gwaine?”

or:

Arthur's assassins seriously lack style, and Merlin tells them as much. The knights are stunned. So are the assassins. Also, Merlin's mad at Arthur, and so he is determined to ruin his day as much as possible. In the meanwhile, Gwaine's just living his best life (isn't he always?).

38k merthur crack

Next to You (It's the Rule)

LunaMyLove

Summary:

Arthur and Merlin have a special relationship. They always have, even when they were prince and servant. While many question it when first noticing, eventually it becomes an understanding in Camelot—and even among some other countries—that where there is Arthur, there is Merlin. And, where there is Merlin, there is Arthur.

Or

Arthur and Merlin's relationship as witnessed and explained by others.

Also, or

Five times someone realizes that Merlin is the Queen, one time Merlin realizes it himself, and one time he owns it.

62k merthur crack gen

Canary in a Cage

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“Lady Morgana,” The lord said, his brows furrowing as he took a step back “Pardon me for the assumption, but I was told the king’s ward never left the East tower?” He asked and gestured vaguely around the gardens. Morgana smiled and Merlin smirked from his hiding place as he watched Arthur consider swooping in to save the man, but clearly thinking better of it. 

“Ah, of course.” Morgana said “You must be confused. There are two wards of the king. I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet Merlin today.” 

Or

Uther took in Balinor’s child as a baby and claimed him as his ward. Merlin thinks he’s being held hostage, but whatever.

108k merthur

Gravity falls

to you, who bears my name

masterdipster

Summary:

In a world where most people have names printed on their wrist, Dipper Pines is born with a cipher.

22k Billdip teen and up

Five Minutes Older

thesnadger

Summary:

Mabel ends up trapped in 1979, without her brother and with a broken time machine that she can't fix herself. Luckily, her Grunkle Stan is there. Of course, he's a lot younger now...he has a mullet, he's living out of his car and he doesn't know he's her Grunkle. But he's not planning to let this weird, sparkly little girl end up alone on the streets.

27k time travel

Five Years Older

Nicnac

Summary:

When twenty-seven year old Mabel Pines stumbles across a banged-up time tape in the park, she tells herself that she's much too mature and responsible now to use it to go on a crazy adventure through time. 

Hahaha, yeah right.

46k time travel

The Small Things

Nicnac

Summary:

Stan had definitely showed up empty-handed, but he somehow ended up leaving with two five year olds in tow.

Eh, he'd been to worse memorial services.

55k series

The Whole of Us (is greater than the sum of our broken pieces)

Nicnac

Summary:

Stanford Pines was going to make his legacy by becoming the man who changed the world. Children weren't really part of the plan. 

At least, they weren't supposed to be.

144k teen and up

[canine-chaos]

About me

Hellooo! This is my vore blog!! I'm glad for every suggestion I get and I'm always happy when someone interacts with me in form of asks/comments/ etc. :)

!! Sometimes it takes a bit for me to finish a drawing because of my mental health !!

↓ Lists of stuff I will be drawing

Vore I like / will draw

Male Pred

Unaware Pred

Same-size Vore

Micro/Macro Vore

Object Vore

Soft Vore / Safe Vore

Fatal Vore

Accidental Vore

More than one prey

Both Willing and Unwilling Vore

Fearplay (Occasionally)

Fandoms (Characters I will draw)

(in terms of preds)

Note : That does not exclude any characters I haven't listed, these are just the ones I prefer and I'm most likely to draw

Marvel

Bucky (Winter Soldier)

Steve (Captain America)

Tony (Iron Man)

Logan (Wolverine)

Wade (Deadpool)

Loki

Thor

Pietro Maximoff

Peter (Star Lord)

Call Of Duty

Soap

Arcane

Jayce Talis

Viktor

Read Dead Redemption 2

Arthur Morgan

John Marston

Resident Evil

Leon S. Kennedy

Assassin's Creed

Jacob Frye

Baldur's Gate 3

Gale of Waterdeep

[transgendersteverandle]

So.. Soda forced me to get this app. I don't exactly know what I'm supposed to do here but.. Well I suppose you can ask me questions? There is a little box for that, right?

I think there is.

I suppose i should do a proper introduction so..

I'm Steve Randle.

I'm a man, obviously.

17 years old (so don't be sending me no odd shit.. Keep it in your pants. Unless your name is Sodapop Patrick Curtis..)

(What. Who said that? Cough cough. Must've been the wind.)

My best buddies are Soda and Two-Bit.

My dad has no clue I have this, and I'd prefer if he never learned about it. He'd probably beat me ass.. Haha.

Okay that's all I have to say.. Feel free to send me questions!!

[Ooc under cut]

Hellooooo!!! I'm the owner of this blog, and you can call me Lukas/Arthur. I also go by Steve but that'd be confusing on whether you're talking to me or Steve so.. Yeah just use Lukas/Arthur.

My main account is @r3d-m3dic

I use He/It/Yee/Haw pronouns!! Please use my neopronouns please please please!!

I'm a transgender man, so absolutely no she/her under any circumstances. I will find you /j

Other than The Outsiders I really light Night at the Museum, Red Dead Redemption, Lord of the Rings, and Ghostbusters!!

I am 15 years old IRL, so please keep your asks mostly SFW. if you are a Sodapop roleplayer you can go a little bit over the line, but not too much. This is because my version of Steve is hopelessly in love with Soda.

Also Steve is transgender, bisexual, and Mexican.

His mother's name is Gabriella. She was a nurse.

His father's name is Antonio, and he's a trucker. So he'll be gone for long periods of time.

He sees Two-Bit as kind of an older brother, but he'd die before admitting it.

His beef with Pony is nothing more than playful, on his side at least.

That's really all I have to say. Thx for reading all this <3

[fairyhagmother]

if it's not already been asked – sir gawain? just in general or from whatever text you choose. alternatively, guinevere. thx :)

I will do Gawain my special boy for a little bit of Arthurian *seasoning* for my blog. returning to my roots….may reblog this later with more incoherent thoughts abt Guinevere

first impression: bisexual guy who is also a HUGE cunt. but in a compelling way.

my impression now: bisexual guy who is also a HUGE cunt. but in a compelling way. I’m joking…..I do think he’s probably one of my favourite characters of all time (at least. the character that I produced by stabilising a broad range of data abt him) I think he is a master social player lol? Hyper aware of the rules of the genre and will be able to manipulate them for his own gain? Very selfish and very narcissistic in a way? But also extremely loyal to his family and very respectful to women (whether or not this is bc it benefits him I will leave up to ur interpretation)

Favourite thing abt the character: excellent fashion sense, occasional cunty one liner

Least favourite thing: honestly don’t know off the top of my head. I don’t like interpretations of his character where he is ‘too’ good—to me he is a consummate player in the game of chivalry, he is so violent but there is this sense of him being like “may god grant you a good day sir” to a man he’s abt to decapitate

Favourite scene: when a man challenges him to a duel bc his gf is in love with him and Gawain tells him that he cannot be blamed if god made him so handsome 😌 he’s my king I fear

Favourite interaction: Gawain and Arthur actually! When his brothers die and he runs to him weeping and goes ‘my king, my lord, my uncle!”

A character I wished he’d interacted with more: his MUM

Another character he reminds me of: no clue

A hc: his name starts with a G because it is a reference to his grandfather Gorlois! The G kind of links him back to his mother and to her parentage!

A song that reminds me of that character: ok YES I have a playlist (!!) that is just songs abt birds and family and it’s my Orkney bros playlist lmao? The birds are a ref to their family crest….the idea was songs that the brothers would sing together as this is canonically something they do :(

In our Talons - Bowerbirds

Hooves - Bowerbirds

Cuckoo Song - Cosmo Sheldrake

Unpopular opinion: I don’t mind when adaptations make morgan le fay his mother! i actually really like it lmao !! I know some medieval texts say that his mother is a sorceress of some kind who has told him stuff abt the future so yeah why not!

[highfemmeharker]

Intro (long post, sorry!)

Asks:

I'm currently in the process of developing and writing my modern au Dracula :) This is an ask blog for all of the characters that I'm in the process of developing (and this particular post is the masterlist of my refs), which are:

Jonathan Harker

Mina Murray-Harker

Lucy Westenra

(Dr.) John (Jack) Seward

Quincey Morris

(Honorable) Arthur (Art) Holmwood (or Lord Godalming)

R. M. Renfield

(Professor) Abraham Van Helsing

And, of course,

Count Dracula

Another super super fun thing is if you ask multiple characters, as the relationships between these guys are insane (*looks at Renfield*). You can practically slap LITERALLY ANY TWO CHARACTERS together, but here are some basic ones if you dunno who to ask at first:

The Holiest Love (Mina and Jonathan)

Doomed yuri (Lucy and Mina)

The Suitor Squad (Quincey, Arthur, and Jack)

The dry men of science (Jack and Van Helsing)

Insane gang (Renfield and Jack)

Master and Servant (Dracula and Renfield)

You can literally do anything. Please

Other fun things:

You can make characters do things! Renfield can show you his bugs, Quincey will shoot a bat, idgaf !!! Don't be afraid of being cringe because I promise you I'm way more cringey.

Canon-typical Dracula content applies. Please be aware of what you can handle!

If you specify a time in the novel I'll make it more accurate, if not, then this blog exists outside the constraints of the novel timeline.

Dracula's basically the only villain here (obv.) so don't be afraid to work with that!!! He straight up eats babies I'm sure you can goof around with him.

I'll try to get to as many asks as I can!!!

{{Also, you can always ask me, Lu, da mod, for anything about their world and how it will be modernized (still epistolary! a collection of emails, news articles, text messages, notes apps, tumblr posts, and the like.)}}

Tags

I'll tag posts based on characters so you can scrumble through, I might tag relationships but idk. I always tag Dracula and modern au :)

Main tags:

character ref: ref of the character/the basics

character hc: headcanons/thoughts about (a) certain character(s)/could even be a ramble

character asks: asks!!! please send in asks!!!

character art: more art things

ic post: post that I'm in character for! It will be obviously stated based on the ask and the text things, don't worry :)

worldbuilding: how can dracula take place 128 years later? this is my world logic

drac rambles: anything else ex. the original novel or thematic elements and such

I'm not developing this in time for Dracula daily THIS YEAR unfortunately, but perhaps by next year I'll make something work.

Links to my hcs and rambles

Queer headcanons

[havenesc]

hiii haven!! have some emojis -> 🎶💖🦅

(fanfic writer ask game)

HIIIII REVEK <3 <3 <3 thank you for the ask!!

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

okay so this can go a NUMBER of different ways because it depends on the fic i'm writing for!! and it's my blog so i'm going to give a long answer hehe >:)

for jason rancher, i have my playlist, but most specifically way out there by lord huron is my big inspo writing song for this au and i tend to loop it pretty aggressively when i'm writing jason's existential crisis-ing.

for cmad, the range is wild and dependent on the playlist, but i listen to a lot of pvris -- what's wrong, my house, nothing like a bit of vengeful lesbianism alternative to really nail home the vibes of two characters who are extremely estranged from their family/father figures and considered scorned -- but also yeti by paris paloma was like. ON repeat. for a good while.

and for night watch it's similar to cmad in that it shuffles the playlist, but i have one fic i was listening to if i lead by kiltro for a long time while writing it. also big pvris advocate (eyelids, you and i - stripped, use me, i am very predictable sorry)

💖 What made you start writing?

i have always loved reading and writing and creating things since i was itty bitty!! i even once tried to turn in my first manuscript for a story about king arthur's horse (????) to a very real ass publisher, all submitted in a big completely-hand-written binder with a ton of loose leaf pages shoved into the end of it. i was ten. i never heard back, but i sure was proud of myself. LOL

i was part of the original Horse-Art RPG on deviantArt back in like....oh? 2010 or so? which required a lot of writing that was not good, but i loved drawing and writing hand in hand like that!! i honestly really began to cut my teeth running roleplay blogs on tumblr -- big long prose back and forth replies all day every day. i wrote for characters like ellie from tlou back when it was only one video game, wrote my own original characters, and then it grew into writing my own short stories and then my own fanfiction. #cringebutfree babyyyyyy

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

for short, song-inspired fics, i usually won't outline -- i'll just fly by vibes and go back and edit the thing half to death! for long fics i absolutely outline, even if i end up having to restructure the outline a couple of times as characters tell me to fuck off and take things in a different direction. but i like trying to at least pretend i have a goal i'm working towards.

my current longest-running slowburn fic was supposed to be like. fifteen chapters. and we're sitting at? nineteen? and nobody's fucking kissed each other yet? but it sure is outlined to completion.