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zae-heeyyy · 3 months

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Seraphic

Summary: You are Arthur's angel. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,222 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: Whew 😅 I'm a little nervous to post this one. 🫣 Been sitting on it for a while (no pun intended) I've read and reread it a million times, and I'm ready to share. Also, we're pretending like Arthur's tent actually closes. Anyway thanks for reading!

Seraphic: something angelic or celestial in nature, often suggesting purity, beauty, or holiness.

By 1 a.m., the sounds of camp had reduced to the songs of crickets and the crackle of the fire. While everybody else slept, you waited up for Arthur, reading a book under lantern light in his tent. He arrived eventually, keeping his greeting short and joining you on his cot with slouched shoulders, seemingly exhausted. When he took his hat off, the grimace on his face became all the more apparent. His expression and tense body language told you all you needed to know; whatever happened out there wasn't good.

You handed him a match and a cigarette from his nightstand, and he thanked you with a nod. Using the heel of his boot, he struck the match and lit the cigarette, holding it with his thumb and index fingers. Flickering lantern light and the burning ember tip illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"Should I ask?" You traced a gentle finger over the bruises, and he shook his head.

"Best not," he replied, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

"Well, I'm glad you're still in one piece," you said, looking him over. His shirt had seen cleaner, less wrinkled days, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "Well, mostly in one piece."

He let out a gust of air, a failed attempt at a laugh, before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning.

"Headache?" you asked, and he confirmed. The discomfort came with the life he lived. Loud gunfire, the rush of adrenaline, and focusing on his shots all combined to leave him in pain afterward. You exited the tent momentarily and returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of miracle tonic.

"Here—for your head." He took the medicine and snuffed his cigarette. Rejoining him, you sat on the cot and dabbed his face with the wet cloth, wiping away dirt and sweat. A soft kiss on his temple prompted him to lean into you, the tension finally dissipating. You wrapped your arms around his big frame and held him close. Obviously, he was your safe space, but oh—were you his. Eyes shut, he rested his head on your bosom.

Arthur found comfort in his typical role as protector and provider. But in these moments, when roles faded, he could feel the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders—a crushing weight he didn't even realize he was carrying. Being with you like this made him wonder if heaven was real because you were godsent.

To Arthur's dismay, you unraveled yourself from him to tie the tent flap closed, sealing the two of you away in the dark. Walking between his legs, you untied his neckerchief and dusted his soiled shirt.

"—Needs a wash. Your blood or someone else's?" you questioned, fingers undoing the top button.

"Not mine," he answered. Peeling the shirt off and tossing it aside, you studied him for a second time tonight. He'd seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, but his brow stayed brooding. Still positioned with his legs on either side of you, you caressed his face, one of your thumbs stroking the hairless scar on his chin.

"What else can I do?"

"You done enough; I'm fine." He gave your hand on his face a reassuring squeeze.

Leaning forward, you kissed him tenderly. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer until your foreheads touched. You spoke low against his mouth, a playful grin forming on yours.

"You gotta stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Arthur Morgan."

Your demand was met with a chuckle, and he replied, "I'll do my best, darlin'." You peppered his lips with loving, tender kisses, making him smile against them and squeeze you tighter in a hug. You would do just about anything to see that man smile at you the way he did, all soft and endearing.

Your kisses subsided, but Arthur's affectionate gaze stayed fixed on you. The slight smile on his face had straightened, his expression mirroring the intensity of the one he wore when he first confessed his love for you.

"Got that look on your face," you told him, and he just blinked slowly, awestruck. Though he often swore he was a man of few words, he could fill volumes with his devotion for you. You loved it when he got like that, entranced and overwhelmed with love.

The way he watched you set a fire within you that warmed the most intimate parts of your being. He was surprised when you let yourself fall heavily into him, trying to get as close as possible. Maybe he was going to say something or make a noise, but he didn't have the time before your mouth was on his again, your tongue pushing through his lips to tangle with his. You only pulled away when you needed to breathe.

Instead of pressing your lips to his once more, you dropped to your knees in front of him. Eyes widening, he tried to bring you back up to your feet, shaking his head, once again astounded by you.

"Sweetheart—"

Still on your knees, you patted his cheek and looked up at him with doe eyes. "Shhh, let me take care of you, Arthur." His hand found yours on his face, and he turned to kiss it, nodding placidly. Both of you managed to keep your volume low as you helped him strip down to his union suit. You began working at the buttons of his neckline, doing more ripping than unbuttoning, shoving the fabric down his shoulders.

As more clothing fell away, you trailed sweet kisses down his abdomen. At the same time, his hands roamed wherever they could. The rough pads of his fingers lightly tracing your skin mirrored a faint electric charge. Despite being a brute of an outlaw, he was overly careful with his hands when it came to you; your body was fine china and deserved to be treated as such. Goosebumps formed in a wake left by his touch.

As you kissed down the trail of hair under his belly button, his rapid breathing hitched, and the bulge between his legs strained against the flannel fabric, begging to be unleashed. You tried to find his eyes as you groped him through the underwear, but his head was tipped back, his mouth agape.

"Look at me." You whispered, and he snapped to attention like a soldier following commands. Eyes locked on his, you unclasped the last button, and his length sprung free, the pink head of his cock primed with anticipation. A teasing laugh crept up within you as you trailed soft kisses from the base of his shaft and left one long lingering peck on the tip. The loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart was music to your ears. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you took his entire length in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down, taking him deeper until your nose touched the curly hairs at the base.

Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; a deep, guttural groan escaped him.

Your mouth was the warmest, most intoxicating blanket he'd ever been wrapped in, and he never wanted to leave. He gaped at you, seeing your mouth full of him, his pupils dilated with pure lust. The blunt tip of his cock pressed to the back of your throat, making it constrict around him. His whole body shuddered.

"Look whatchu' do to me, woman," he rattled, tangling his hands in your hair. Despite his eagerness, you withdrew from his aching sex, a string of saliva joining your lips to him. Something reminiscent of a whine exited him when you stepped away, but his open mouth fell shut at the sight of your bloomers slipping down your legs. You kissed him, savoring the salty, bitter taste of his arousal mixed with the tobacco and herbs of his mouth.

"Lay back," you murmured in his ear. Obeying your command once again, he let out a grunt as he felt your weight on top of him. You straddled him, and he held you up, his fingers digging firmly into your sides. Bending at the waist, you kissed longingly, your hips undulating against his. He pulled your nightgown up around your midriff, one of his hands gripping the flesh of your ass while the other one went between your legs. His index finger sank painstakingly into your weeping cunt, then brushed over your clit, making you shiver. He raised himself on his elbows, reaching for the hem of your sleep dress.

"Take this off; let me see you." You raised your arms and let him yank the garment away, leaving you completely exposed on top of him. "Beautiful," he breathed, using the back of his hand to graze your skin. Breathy sighs escaped you as he traced delicate circles around your nipples. His eyes bored into you, absorbing every detail like you were the most captivating thing that ever lived. Hyperfocused on your body, he fondled your breasts before gliding his hands down your torso, ogling, taking all of you in.

Freezing, his stare intensified as you massaged the tip of his cock up and down your glistening slit. Touching his lips to yours, you pushed him into your wet folds. Neither of you could contain the sounds building with you. He split you open, stretching you, making room for him, filling you. You held yourself up with your hands braced on his chest, but you went weak as he bottomed out within you, brushing against that deep, tender spot. You would've fallen if he wasn't there to hold you up, a thought mirroring one he had about you so often.

"I got you," he whispered into your ear. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips up into you, the warm embrace of your center clearing his mind and driving him mad all the same. Finally, you started to ride, surging and sinking into him. He was a simple, agnostic man, but being with you like this made him believe in all the theocracy of angels, soulmates, and divine intervention. This was his bliss. This was his heaven, and you were his seraph. He'd go through hell every day if it meant coming home to this—to you. Hypnotized in the rhythm of you, a new thought crossed his mind every time you bounced.

Up.

She's so goddamn beautiful.

Down.

So perfect.

Up.

My girl.

Down.

My girl, my girl, my girl, my girl.

Up.

My angel.

Down.

I love her so much.

Up.

So wet.

Down

So warm.

Up.

So danm tight.

Down.

Shit.

And before you could come back up again, he squeezed his eyes shut, halting your hips with all the strength he could muster, fighting the damn-near irresistible urge to cum inside of you. Sweat had built up on his brow, and his stomach rose and fell quickly with each panting breath. You folded to kiss him, your hard nipples grazing against his chest.

"It's okay," you whispered, patting his face and grinding antagonizingly slow against him. You wanted him—needed him— to come undone for you. With that goal in mind, you picked up the pace and rolled your hips relentlessly, moaning your every thought into his ear.

"You feel so good inside of me."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Your climax was building fast, and you reached to give relief to that sensitive bundle of nerves atop your center. Arthur pushed your hand away swiftly, replacing it with his own. Always a giver, he'd do anything to feel useful while you were treating him like royalty.

While one hand worked your clit, his other gripped the meat of your hip, rocking you in time with his upward thrusts. His head tipped and hit the pillow, and you could feel his thighs tensing and shaking beneath you. Lips parted, he stared up at you. You felt him twitch inside you, and his brow finally relaxed.

That did it for you.

You were wordless as your orgasm ripped through you, your head swirling, and your veins on fire. Arthur's guiding hand on your hip didn't stop, and he fucked you through your climax. Hugging your body close and nuzzling his face into your neck, he growled as he painted your inner core with his own release. You stayed like that, glued to each other as you came down from your highs.

"You're too good for me," he finally said. You clasped a hand into his, kissing the long-forgotten bruises on his knuckles.

"Shut up." You responded, and he didn't say another self-deprecating word. It was the least he could do.

You cleaned up and redressed, nestling into the small, one-man cot. Finally settled for the night, you resorted to your regular bedtime positions: your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, your legs tangled in one another's.

He rose before you in the morning, perching himself on the cot's edge while you slept behind him. He wrote in his journal, his thumb leaving a smudge on the page:

"For a long time, I believed I could not live a bad life and expect good things to happen to me. Yet somehow, this woman of pure goodness entered my life, and it is clear now that I have been a fool."

#peep the angel number word count #all banners made by be #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 photography #read dead redemption 2 photography #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #wait i used 3 word counters and they all gave different numbers so idk what that's about. grammarly says 2222 though so 🤷🏾‍♀️#zaefic #amje

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aeralux · 1 month

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Hard To Resist

Betrothed to the one and only Cregan Stark. Your first meeting with him luckily goes better than expected.

Content warning: smut, cunnilingus (female receiving)

As a proper Lady of the North, your fate had long been determined before you learned to walk. Your father and brothers had found the perfect match for you, another northerner. “A proper man,” as they described him. Big, burly, and rough. Those were the only descriptive words you knew of him, not nearly enough to draw a picture of my betrothed.

Alas, the day to meet your future Lord husband has arrived. You were doing everything in my power to calm my nerves. Like playing with your wolves, Wane and Cusp, even resorting to having a strong drink. Nothing seemed to work. For a moment, you were contemplating an escape and riding with your wolves off into the distance.

Your daydream was interrupted by my eldest brother knocking on my door. The loud sound startled me.

“Yes?" You asked, fearing that your soon-to-be husband had arrived. “Open up, dearest,” your brother answered with his usual affectionate nickname for you. Being almost 20 years your elder, he had become your second father figure more than my brother. "Come in, Arthur,” you answered, sadness in your voice. "My dearest sister, this should be a joyful day. Not a sad one," he tried cheering you up but to no avail. How was one supposed to be happy when being married off to a stranger? "Easy for you to say. You got to choose who you married. And you knew your wife beforehand," you complained to my brother, getting pissed off. "I refuse to be treated as a broodmare and sent to some hairy northerner," already on the verge of tears, fuming. "My dear sister, it is your responsibility to strengthen the bond between our families, and you are fully aware of this."

You scowl, looking down at your feet. "I am well aware of my responsibilities and duties. It seems like that is all I was born for. To marry some man I have never met, all for the greater good. All for the greater good," my tantrum was cut off by the sound of marching hooves. The Starks have arrived. You looked at my brother with big eyes, feeling vulnerable and scared. "It will be alright, sister. You are beautiful, bright, cunning. He will take good care of you," he caressed your arms, trying to soothe your nerves. "Now let us go. Father and Albert are probably outside already, greeting our guests. And your soon-to-be husband," Arthur smirked at you, but his words only made me feel more uneasy.

We began walking downstairs, Arthur protectively placing a hand around my shoulders. As you reached the front door, you took a deep breath. "I'm ready," you said as you looked at your older brother. "Excellent!" he said before the guards pushed the massive entrance doors to reveal your eventual Lord husband.

Your breath caught in your throat upon seeing him. He was indeed big, burly, and rough but also wildly handsome. Cregan Stark looked every part of the Lord of the North. Tall, muscular, and rugged. A true warrior. He looked you over as he took in his first sight of you. Cregan had a stern look on his face, and as you met his grey eyes, you felt a shiver run down your spine. You walked over to him and curtsied. "Hello, Lord Stark. I am Lady Y/N. My family and I welcome you to our lands."

Cregan nodded his head respectfully. “Thank you, my lady.” He then stepped forward and took your hand in a firm, but not uncomfortably tight, grip. He raised your knuckles to his lips and planted a light kiss on them. “You look lovely,” he said before looking up to meet your gaze. You couldn’t help but blush, hearing soft words from such a brute man. Cregan smirked faintly, as he observed your cheeks tint with a light shade of pink. He found it amusing, how he could make you blush with a simple statement like that.

Cregan greeted my parents and brothers, giving a strong handshake. “Arthur good to see you again,” Lord Stark said to my brother, giving him a tight smile that my brother returned.

“If the Lords find fit, I would like to speak to my Lady in private,” boomed Cregan’s deep voice, gesturing to my father and two older brothers. My father and brothers looked at each other before nodding in agreement. You didn’t say anything in return and led him to our castle's library. The library was modest, with big windows yet little light due to your House being far up in the North. At least I would feel at home in Winterfell, I thought.

“Here,” you walked into the library, waiting for him to follow suit. Cregan followed you as you walked to the library. He couldn't deny that his eyes were glued to your backside as you walked ahead, his gaze slowly running over the curves of your hips. Once you reached the library, you gestured for him to step inside, and he closed the doors behind him. You were alone now. Just the two of you, in the quiet, empty, library. Cregan glanced around the large room for a moment, before his grey eyes settled on you once again. He then smirked faintly and leaned back against one of the bookshelves, crossing his arms over his muscular chest as he regarded you. “Now I believe we should get to know one another, don’t you think?” He said, his voice coming out in a low tone. “Oh? Yes, yes, of course,” I was a bit surprised by his boldness, but it made me smile nonetheless. Cregan chuckled, finding your slight smile rather adorable. He pushed away from the bookshelf and began to slowly close the distance between the two of you.

“Now, I want you to be entirely truthful with me, my lady.” He said as he stopped just in front of you. He was much taller, towering over you. “Tell me, what do you think of me, at this very moment?” Cregan’s gaze wandered over your face, studying every feature. The way your hair fell, the contour of your nose, the shape of your lips, the length of your eyelashes. He couldn’t help but think you looked absolutely beautiful. The boldness of his question took you back. “Well… seeing as I do not know much about your personality. At this very moment, I would say that you are handsome. My brother was right when he said that you are the very picture of a Northern man. And I must say that I am rather pleased with whom my brother decided to betroth me to,” you look down blushing, not wanting to see his reaction to the last part.

A smirk tugged on the corners of Cregan’s lips as your cheeks flushed pink once again, and you kept looking down. He found it amusing how he was able to make you blush so easily, and he took a step even closer, barely leaving any space between the two of you.

“Quite pleased, you say?” He repeated, his voice coming out in a low, teasing tone. “Now tell me, do you say that simply to flatter me, or are you being entirely truthful, my lady?”

“I do not care for lying my Lord, I will always speak the truth,” you smiled at him, finally daring to look him in the eyes.

Cregan chuckled lowly, enjoying the sound of your voice saying the words “my Lord”. “I like that about you. I can’t stand liars.”

He then raised a hand and gently lifted your chin with his index finger, forcing you to look up and meet his eyes once more. His thumb gently stroked over your lower lip. “And you certainly wouldn’t lie about thinking I’m handsome, now would you?”

Your breath got caught in your throat when he gently touched your lip. Goosebumps rise on your skin. “No, of course not,” you muttered quietly. Cregan chuckled. “I know you wouldn’t, my lady.” He leaned in slightly, the distance between the two of you even smaller now. His face was only mere inches from yours now. He kept your chin raisedwith his thumb, slowly running the digit over the smooth skin. “You’re honest. I like that.” Another low chuckle came from him, as he slowly leaned even closer, his breath now warm and hot against your skin.

You tried to keep your composure but having him so close was making you slowly lose your self-control. “Arthur didn’t mention anything about me?” You asked upon hearing his words. Didn’t your brother mention what kind of a woman you were?

Cregan shook his head. “He didn’t.” He ran his fingers through strands of your hair before continuing. “He simply told me you were a good fit for a Lord. That you would be a proper Lady of Winterfell. That you could hold your own in the North, amongst my household.”

A smirk tugged on his lips once again as he continued to twist your hair around his fingers. “What he failed to mention, however, is how gorgeous you truly are.”

I chuckled. “Well, I guess it would be unforeseen of my brother to call his own younger sister gorgeous.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Cregan laughed faintly, enjoying the sound of your laugh.

He stepped even closer, and gently pushed you backwards to press you up against one of the bookshelves. He gently ran his hands down the sides of your arms, running his calloused fingertips over your smooth skin. “He also neglected to mention how I would have to keep you away from all other men in the North…”

“You think I can’t hold my own?” You asked in a teasing tone, tilting your head.

Cregan chuckled, the low sound making your stomach flip. He found your attitude entertaining, the little smirk on your lips, the way you tilted your head. He took a moment to study your face with his gaze; the long, delicate eyelashes that framed your eyes, the way your lips curved into that little smirk. “Oh, I’m sure you can.” He said, his smirk widening. “But I don’t even want other men to think about how utterly ravishing you are.”

“I don’t see how that would matter, as you would be the only one doing the ravishing, no?” You smirked, joking ofcourse. But Cregan didn’t seem to take it as lightly.

His smirk grew wider at your reply. He liked this slightly bratty, sassy side of yours. It was a nice change, as most women he interacted with tended to swoon in his presence. He took another step forward, completely closing the space between the two of you and trapping you between his body and the bookshelf. He leaned in, his face barely a centimeter away from yours as he whispered in a low, silky tone. “Careful with those words, my lady. They might tempt me to do more.”

“And as much as I would love nothing more. That will be saved for later.” You said in a sultry tone, control slipping from your grasp. Resting a hand softly on his strong and sturdy chest.

Cregan’s smirk turned into a small, amused smile at your reply. He knew you were right; it would hardly be proper to do anything too inappropriate in this library. He then looked down at your hand, resting on his chest as you spoke. He gently picked it up and interlaced it with his, bringing it up to his mouth to plant a light kiss on your knuckles. “I suppose you’re right…” he said, his lips gently brushing over your skin, “As much as I would very much love to right now.”

You blushed and yet again looked down. His words make your stomach flip, pleasure shooting to your core.

“Although I did have a question for you, my Lord. Will my two wolves be able to make permanent residence in your castle? I have grown far too attached.”

A small, amused smile tugged on Cregan’s lips at your question. He was a tad surprised that you’d even ask him that; he’d assumed you would’ve brought them with you anyway.

“Of course, you can bring them. I expected you would bring them along. After all, how is Lady of Winterfell supposed to get along without her dire wolves?” He said with a slight chuckle.

All you could do in response was smile shyly. His demeanor so different when with you.

Cregan smirked faintly, finding your shy smile endearing. He also found it a bit peculiar, that a northern woman would be shy. In his experience, northern girls usually were quite forward, even brash, whereas it seemed he was making you nervous. He kept his hand firmly grasping yours, gently squeezing it as he spoke, his eyes locking with yours. “I have a question for you, too, my lady.” He took a step forward, closing the already small space between the two of you even further. He now had you completely pressed up against the bookshelf as he spoke in a low, deep tone. “You said you were ‘quite pleased’ with me, after taking me in… but I want to know. Are you truly content, with the idea of marrying me?”

You found his question odd, considering men usually didn’t care much for a woman’s opinion on the betrothal. But you answered nonetheless.

“Yes. I am. Why would I not? I trust who my brother and father picked for me.”

Cregan smirked faintly as you answered, his lips still over your knuckles. He liked the way your soft skin felt underneath them, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss more of you.

He looked back up at your face, and gently brought his free hand up to your chin, lifting it slightly so you were looking directly into his eyes.

“Just ‘yes’? No other answer?” He teased with a slight smile, his thumb gently caressing your jawline.

His touch sent shivers down your spine, cursing yourself for feeling so weak from a man’s simple touch.

“What would you like me to say then?” You asked breathlessly, mind starting to go blank.

Cregan chuckled lowly as he gently tugged you even closer. You were now pressed against him, his broad, muscular chest completely enclosing you. “Perhaps I’d like you to give me a different response. Maybe tell me…”

He began to slowly and carefully lower his lips to your jawline, planting gentle kisses along it before moving to your ear and whispering.

“How much you want me…”

Hearing his provocative words, you threw all caution out the window. “What if I just… showed you,” you replied as you gently placed your hand from his chest onto his cheek, pulling him closer. Planting a soft kiss on his lips.

Cregan’s eyes darkened as you planted a delicate kiss on his lips. He couldn’t help the feeling of desire that began to ignite within him. He was taken by surprise at your bold move. He would have assumed you were shy, but here you were, taking the initiative. Cregan quickly got over the momentary shock and decided to match your boldness. He deepened the kiss, tilting his head to the side to get a better angle. He then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against his large form, completely pressing you against the bookshelf.

You let out a quiet mewl, feeling his strong hands around you. His rough touches turning you on. He chuckled at the sound of your mewl and quickly decided he wanted to hear more of them. His hands slowly traveled down over your hips and to your thighs, which he grabbed a hold of firmly and lifted you, easily manhandling you to pin you against the bookshelf. He kept his body pressed flush against yours and continued to hungrily kiss you, his hands still holding your thighs.

You let out a breathy gasp, your hands immediately going to rest on his shoulders as he lifted you.

Cregan smirked faintly at the sound of your gasp, the sound making his lust for you grow, he let his hands slowly slide up your thighs to your ass, grabbing a firm hold of it.

You continued to make quiet sounds of pleasure, the desire to have him only growing in you.

Cregan found himself growing more and more addicted to the small noises you continued to make. He found them adorable, and it only encouraged him to kiss you even more passionately. He pushed his body even closer to yours, as close as he possibly could, and began to kiss down your neck and collarbone.

Your mouth fell open as he did that and you couldn’t help but moan his name.

“Cregan,” you whimpered.

Hearing you moan his name for the first time almost made him grow feral. He liked the way it sounded, the way it rolled off your tongue. He continued to slowly drag his lips down your neck, nibbling on the sensitive skin.

“Again.” He breathed out against your skin, his grip on your thighs and ass tightening. “Say my name again.”

You started to feel dizzy the way he was sucking purple marks onto your neck. Letting out a gasp.

“Cregan…please” You whined and begged him, not even knowing for what. Your mind was already foggy with arousal.

Cregan smirked faintly at the way you moaned his name, the way you begged him. He knew exactly what you were craving, even if you did not, and placed another kiss on your neck, letting his tongue slowly drag against your skin before pulling back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Please, what, my Lady?" He asked in a low, teasing tone, his hands digging into your flesh.

Your breath stuttered as you felt him drag his tongue across your neck, hips involuntarily bucking against his.

Cregan let out a low growl as he felt your hips buck against him. He was barely able to remain in control of himself, resisting the urge to completely rip your clothes off and take you right there in the library.

He placed a final kiss on your neck before speaking, his words coming out in a low, rumbling growl. “You are going to be the death of me, aren’t you, little wolf?”

You whined pathetically, hoping that no one could hear the inappropriate scene that was going on.

He took ahold of your hips and started moving them against his. You pulled him into a rough and passionate kiss, giving his hair an experimental tug. To your surprise, Cregan seemed to enjoy it, letting out a low growl.

He quickly moved you to a nearby sofa, laying you down. He was almost desperate in his moves, needing to take you as soon as possible.

He opened his eyes again, looking down at you with darkened eyes. He was no longer trying to hold back, no longer trying to rein in his desire for you. He needed you, and he was going to have you, right there in the library if that’s what it took.

“I need you, little wolf.”

"Is it that hard to resist me?" You giggled. Your teasing only egging him on.

Cregan huffed at your words, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could tell you were enjoying taunting him. He could see the smirk on your face.

“It’s very difficult.” He admitted, his tone was low and strained as if it was taking all his willpower not to just fuck you until you could no longer walk.

“I don’t like to be patient.” He added with a slight growl, his hands moving up your dress skirts, bunching them around your waist before sitting down on his knees in front of you. Letting his hands caress your now exposed thighs.

You covered your mouth to stop the whines from spilling out your lips. His light touches kept traveling upwards, getting closer and closer to your cunt. You couldn't help but shiver in arousal and anticipation, needing his mouth on your heat already.

Cregan started placing light kisses near your chemise, looking up at you for permission. When you nodded your head, Cregan pulled them down forcefully.

"Soaked already, my Lady?" He questioned and smirked, cockiness in his voice.

You didn't even get a chance to respond before you felt his mouth on folds. Licking at your wetness like a man starved. All he got in response from you were loud whines. He began to suck on your clit, doing everything in his power to draw more moans from you. Pressing kisses on your slit and opening, flicking his tongue over your pussy over and over again, swirling his tongue over your sensitive bud, your thighs began shaking.

"Ohh, Gods, Cregan!" You moaned like a whore, his tongue bringing you closer to your release.

At that, Cregan began to move his tongue quicker, adding two fingers into your pussy, working you open.

"Ahh!" You couldn't help but moan loudly at that, his big fingers stretching you open deliciously. You began to move your hips against his fingers and face, trying to get your dripping cunt even closer to him.

"Mm, just like that, ride my fingers," Cregan mumbled against your cunt, the vibrations almost sending you over the edge.

He curled his fingers expertly against your soft spot, starting to go faster.

All he wanted right now was your sweet release to coat his lips. After all, there is no nectar sweeter than your wife's cunt. At least that's what Cregan thought.

When you arched your back and let out a loud moan, he knew he hit the right spot.

"Faster! Please let me cum!"

Cregan was surprised by your bold words but couldn't deny that they turned him on even more. Knowing that you were desperate for him.

Cregan began pumping his fingers into you even faster, his erection already painfully pressing into his breeches. He will deal will that later, right now he was focusing on getting his Lady to come all over his face.

With a pointed tongue, he began to quickly flick your clit. Your legs trembling around his face, he couldn't help but smirk. It felt like he was splitting you open with his fingers, the pain of the stretch only adding to your pleasure, whines, and moans spilling from your mouth.

"Ohh, I'm... I'm so close, make me cum, please" You begged your soon-to-be husband, clamping your thighs around him.

He hummed against your cunt, and his movements became sloppy, his own arousal making him feel dizzy.

As he felt your cunt begin to pulse around his fingers, he knew you were close. Cregan gave a final few sucks to your pearl, and that is what threw you off the edge.

You came with a loud moan, your legs shaking and hips bucking against his face.

Cregan kept thrusting his fingers in you, working you through your release. When he pulled away from your cunt you saw how his face glistened with your juices and his spit. The sight so erotic and lewd.

You still felt the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body shivering.

"Your cunt tastes divine, my Lady. I can't wait to enjoy this every single night." Cregan said with a smirk, placing wet kisses on your thigh to calm you down.

You gave him a lazy smile and leaned down to kiss him, tasting your release on his tongue.

"Hey! You might want to save some for the wedding night!" Came your brother's voice from the other side of the door.

Author's note: This was quite literally my first fanfic/smut so if it feels rushed, weird etc. it is probably because of that. Although I did enjoy writing it. Any feedback would be appreciated. THANK YOUU MWAHH!!!

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #house stark #cregan stark smut #cregan stark #hotd imagine #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon smut #hotd smut #house of the dragon x you #hotd x reader #cregan smut #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #hotd fanfic

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brunetttebaby · 7 months

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ARTHUR MORGAN FLUFF!! people only ever write smut about him☹️ (as if my last fanfics haven’t been only smut)

he’s such a sweet lover. not even just in the bedroom, but in general! he’s loves taking care of his sweet girl, and would do anything and everything for you.

when the gang was in colter, you constantly found it hard to keep warm, and arthur being the walking heater he is, was the first to offer to hold you in his large coat, warming you up almost instantly.

when you’re in trouble with the law, he’s always there to protect you, assuring you everything’s gonna be alright as long as he’s by your side:(( and that’s true! he’s a big burly man, who wouldn’t be afraid of him?!?

sometimes he’ll come into camp injured, and you’ll run over to him, always taking care of his wounds, despite him telling you there’s no need.

“really, darling,” he started, slightly wincing as you pressed a damp cloth to his face. he always got into petty bar fights, and won nearly all of them, of course. “there’s no need for you to do this. ‘s just a scratch.” he continued, letting out a louder groan as you applied pressure on the now bruised skin.

“don’t be ridiculous, arthur. i want to take care of you.” you responded simply, leaning closer to press a kiss to his cheek. he’d let you, groaning at the soreness of it.

he’d be the type of lover to make sure he always got you flowers after being away for an extended period of time. “here darling, i got these for you. i hope you like ‘em.” he said with a slight hesitance in his words. despite being with him for months now, he still worried what you though about him.

“oh arthur, i love them. you’re so sweet.” you took them from his hands, quickly wrapping her arms around him and kissing him softly.

AND HIS KISSES?!? AHHH. he’s such a sweet kisser. well; he can be. he has experience, we know that for a fact. but he’s so soft with his movements. a hand on your waist, another on your cheek to feel the heat radiating.

and i’m ONLY talking about high honor arthur. i’m sorry low honor arthur girl; i can’t.

he’d be an old romantic forever. writing you sweet notes in his pretty handwriting, attached to a drawing of you, or a book he’d think you’d enjoy, anything sweet like that.

AND he REMEMBERS. THE. LITTLE. THINGS.

favorite color? he’s writing it down. your favorite scent? he’s looking for it nearly everywhere! it’s so sweet, you’re not even sure how you got so lucky.

a/n: i was fr rambling but i just love him so much! im sorry for my wlw followers but i just had to(maybe some of you might enjoy this hehe)

#arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader

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anna-proxx · 4 months

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☆ evening in camp ☆

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 1882

a/n: my dear readers, this is my first attempt at a rdr2 oneshot here on tumblr, I started with something easy but will definitely add more action in the future. this right here broke my writer's block and for that i am grateful. hope this brings you some comfort whenever you need it.

It was a chilly evening, meek distant noise of nocturnal animals creating a peaceful ambience, along with the crackling fire nearby. The whole camp was already either asleep or holed up in their tents.

It has been a good day. Arthur and Javier successfully robbed a homestead, Micah was still locked up in jail and Bill brought a good catch from his hunting trip.

Javier sang and played the guitar by the campfire earlier and some people sang along. In general, this evening was one of those that made you feel warm inside.

The night sky was clear, stars peeking down at you as you wished your mare a good night, patting her neck and giving her a carrot before you'd leave her to sleep. That girl was dear to you and you showed her gratitude every day.

A small kiss on her nose and you finally turned around, admiring the full moon shining bright on the ink black sky. You walked across the quiet camp, careful not to make too much noise. You made your way straight towards the small light of an oil lamp in Arthur's tent.

He sat on his bed, slouched over his journal set on the table, writing with all focus. You smiled, feeling all the affection you felt for that man.

When you came close, he looked up from his journal, his gaze softening as he patted the place beside him. "C'm sit."

You sat right next to him, putting your hands in your lap as you gave Arthur a bright smile. He chuckled. "Ya done givin' that horse a g'night kiss?" he asked with a small grin on his face, returning his attention to the half-filled pages.

You slightly poked his arm with your elbow, a soft smile lingering on your lips. "She's like my family," you explained.

"I know. 'S cute."

You shuffled a bit closer, watching the pencil in Arthur's hand move swiftly. You enjoyed watching him write and draw, those idle moments always brought you comfort. And you had the honor to be allowed to watch. Arthur believed his drawings were nothing special but you knew better. His ability to draw details of an animal or scenery he saw just once from memory still blew your mind. You could barely recall such details, let alone draw them.

You quietly continued to watch, taking in every pretty letter he drew one after another. When he was done with the entry, he flipped the page and started sketching.

"What are you drawing?" you asked, watching the first lines of the sketch.

"A moose I saw t'day," Arthur answered, his voice calm and focused.

You continued to watch him and set your elbow on the table after a while, leaning your head against your hand. As always the drawing came out beautiful and you admired the authentic features of the animal that was looking up at you from the page. Arthur put the pencil aside and sighed, stretching his arms.

He then looked at you, a warm smile on his lips as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. You leaned back from the table and snuggled into the half-embrace, resting your head on Arthur's shoulder. His body was warm and so were his fingers that drew small circles on your arm.

"Ya tired yet, darlin'?"

You smiled at the pet name and slightly shook your head. "Not really."

"Do y'want me to draw s'mthing for ya?" Arthur offered, watching your face intently as you thought.

"Me," you eventually said with a small grin. He drew you all the time and you loved every each one of those drawings.

"M'kay." He shortly caressed your arm before removing his from around you, shifting in his seat as he took the pencil again. He slightly nodded towards you. "Sit there, wanna hav' a good look at ya."

You slightly moved away to sit at the other edge, still facing Arthur who turned his body towards you, bending his leg on the bed to lean his journal against it. You shortly ran fingers through your hair, setting strands over your shoulders, and straightened your back, ready to be his model.

His face was relaxed as he started sketching, the soft sounds of the pencil gliding over the paper filling the air between you. Arthur kept looking up at you regularly, a gentle smile on his face as he met your soft affectionate gaze.

There was silence between you two but it was comfortable, happy. The light from the oil lamp lazily danced over the left side of his face, highlighting his features.

He was beautiful. As you remained motionless, you thought about how often he put himself down, being completely clueless about how he looked in your eyes.

"You're so pretty," you said quietly, nothing but affection and genuinity in your voice.

Arthur looked up at you surprised, then got visibly flustered as he blushed and looked back down at the sketch, scribbling on. He let out a small low chuckle. "I ain't pretty."

You slightly frowned, displeased with him rejecting the compliment like that. "So I am a liar?"

Arthur looked up, for a short moment he looked like a clueless child trying to find the right words. "I ain't meant it that way..."

You couldn't hold back a smile. "Just take the goddamn compliment, Mr Morgan, it's not so hard."

Arthur softly huffed as he returned his focus to the sketch, seemingly uncomfortable. A sad feeling grew in your chest. He really had no idea, did he?

"Am I a good model?" you asked after a while of silence. You knew very well he could draw you from memory but this was easier and you enjoyed being the center of his attention in any way. Frankly, Arthur enjoyed studying your features as you sat in front of him as well.

Arthur smiled. "M'favorite."

After a few more moments, he took a few glances at you and back at the journal with a satisfied expression, putting the pencil away.

Your face lit up as you shuffled over, curiously peeking at the page. You were met with your own soft gaze staring back at you, every detail of your face in its place. It melted your heart how carefully drawn each line was.

You kissed Arthur's cheek, loosely wrapping your arms around his neck. "Beautiful as always. Thank you."

"Yer beautiful," he said in response, putting the journal flat open on the table.

You slightly blushed and moved to sit behind him, resting your chin on his shoulder as you kept your arms wrapped around him. You weren't great at accepting compliments either. "Thank you, Mr Morgan." You sighed softly, feeling Arthur's hands envelope yours. "My talented outlaw," you mumbled quietly but clearly enough for him to hear.

You heard a chuckle. "What?" you asked, unsure of what that was for. "Yer in an affectionate mood t'day," he stated, amusement in his voice.

"There a problem with that?" you asked but the smile on your face remained.

You slightly leaned back and moved your hands to his shoulders, instinctively massaging them as you thought. Arthur was out hunting, riding and shooting most of the time, so your massages were always appreciated.

You heard a quiet sigh of relief as his body started becoming more relaxed.

"Would u like to go hunt with me tomorrow?" you asked. You were tired of being stuck in the camp and honestly going on a little trip with Arthur wouldn't be bad at all.

"Sure."

You smiled and reached for his suspenders, then slid them off his shoulders. He understood and unbuttoned his shirt so that you could get a better access to his back and shoulders.

"Thank you, darlin'."

You hummed in response and continued, your gaze moving over his exposed skin covered with small scars. You wondered about the story behind each one of them, some seemed to be almost faded while there was one very fresh bruise, a red line of dried blood.

Arthur took out a cigarette and lit it, puffing as he relaxed under your touch. He probably would've offered you one as well if you smoked, but you didn't, only ever tasting tobacco when you kissed him. You never minded.

After a few more moments you put a kiss on the nape of his neck, then kissed the fresher wound as well. You were always so worried whenever he left to do a dangerous job, only praying he'd return in one piece, but you knew it was his life; and you were a part of it.

When you moved to sit next to him again, cheeky smile on your face as your eyes met, Arthur sighed, mumbling with cigarette between his lips. "Yer too good for'm, woman."

You stared into his blue eyes for a long moment, a quiet voiceless conversation happening between you two with eye contact alone. He cared for you as much as you cared for him.

Without a word you snuggled up closer, soon being enclosed by body warmth as he embraced you. You relaxed into the hug and closed your eyes, just listening to Arthur's inhales and exhales of the smoke.

You assumed Arthur must've been thinking as well, as there was yet another comfortable silence between you two and you were slowly but surely slipping into sleep.

Arthur stubbed out his cigarette and wrapped his arm around your waist, making you open your eyes just as he moved back to a half sitting half lying position on his bed, effortlessly taking you with him so that you lay between his legs, head resting on his chest. You quietly giggled at the sudden movement and made yourself comfortable afterwards, positioning your head exactly so that you have Arthur's heartbeat beneath your ear.

You were happy to have him all for yourself, safe, alive. The mess in Blackwater or the emergent stop in Colter could've been much more fatal for you two. Davey and Jenny were gone. John was attacked by wolves. And although you loved Horseshoe Overlook, the homely feeling and the beautiful view, you knew you'd have to move eventually. You needed money and you weren't getting it exactly the legal way, and you could only lie low so long.

And frankly, with Micah in the gang now, your worry rose even more. Dutch trusted him, for some goddamn reason, but he seemed to be reckless and dangerous, bending some of the morals this gang used to have. Not to mention him being a straight up jerk to everyone.

"Arthur?" you spoke, your voice slightly worried as you caressed his arm with your fingers.

"Hm?" His chest vibrated under your head.

"We can't let another Blackwater happen again."

Arthur understood what you meant. Him and Hosea tried convincing Dutch that the ferry job was a bad idea but it happened nonetheless, putting your gang in a situation worse than ever before. You worried about the influence Micah had on Dutch and the potential limits.

You knew that Arthur trusted Dutch, him and Hosea raised him, after all; but he wasn't stupid either. And the plans Dutch claimed to have planted seeds of doubt in almost everyone.

Arthur's response was a sigh and a kiss on top of your head, his arms hugging you just a bit tighter. There wasn't really much he could say to comfort you, he always tried to be honest and he couldn't know how the future would unfold, after all.

But you trusted him. That he would do the right thing.

With Arthur's heartbeat echoing under your ear and embraced by his warmth, you were slowly being lulled to sleep by his regular breaths.

Whether you'd stay outlaws forever or not, this really was all you had wished for.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr #rdr fanfiction #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan x reader fluff #☆ annie writes #☆ annie's imagines

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ethernights · 1 year

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Arthur Morgan Headcanons :3

he’s a killer no he’s my little pookie bear (gn! reader)

I feel like he’s super domestic - that one of his favourite things in the world is just to be at camp with you

Not even doing anything particular he just loves being around you while being safe and comfortable in camp

He most definitely loves cuddles in the mornings. He roles over in the morning and takes in your sleeping form, slowly and tentatively he wraps his arms around you and holds you close to him planting soft little kisses and with his large hands tracing the lines of your back.

“Mornin’ sweetheart” he says as you stir with that handsome goofy smile he never does as often as you’d like.

You plant a soft, lazy kiss on his lips “Morning handsome”. He opens his mouth to object but you shush him and settle down into his arms.

“I don’t want to get up” you mumble into his chest. He lets out a hearty chuckle, “do ya’ want Miss Grimshaw to beat you up?”

You laugh too, “No, but i want to just say here a little longer”

“Me too love. Just a little while longer ok?”

He’s so gentle towards you, not because he thinks you’re fragile but because he’s so afraid of hurting not just you but everyone he cares about.

Is always sketching you, wether you’re looking or not. Even before you got together, he’d have just pages dedicated to you (not in the creepy way) doing the hundreds of different things you do each day.

Pretty sketches of you picking flowers with Jack, with said flowers in your hair, chopping vegetables with Pearson, carrying in kindling from the forest and cutting wood. Anything really - it’s the only drawings that he really loves to look back on, especially when he’s away from camp and missing you.

With your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, you wipe the thin sheen of sweat from your forehead after chopping up some wood for camp - you spot Arthur sitting on his bed, nose in his journal sketching away. When his looks up, his pretty blue eyes meet yours- he adverts his gaze and shoves his nose back into his journal with a blush spreading over his cheeks and nose.

When he sees you walking over to him, he (not very discreetly) closes his journal and places it beside him as you sit next to him.

“What you drawing cowboy?” you smile, noticing the redness of his cheeks.

“I uh, jus’ pretty things i seen” he says avoiding your gaze.

“Can i see?” you ask as he looks a little hesitant.

“I guess-“ He says opening up his journal to his recent page.

You read your name scribbled atop of the page in his pretty cursive writing, however the charcoal drawing of you drawing the axe down into the wood makes you blush a little. The other sketches of your face and side profile make you smile - you admire the scratches of the charcoal against the page, how he captures the high points and the low points of your face.

“These are beautiful Arthur” You say, amazed with his talent.

Instinctively he goes to say some self-depreciating comment, not used to accepting praise but he sees your wide eyes and large smile. “Thank you sweetheart”

He also really likes riding with you on the same horse, in-front or behind him he doesn’t care. He loves the way you wrap your arms around him and hold onto his gun belt. Or way that you lean back into his chest while he has one hand on the reins and the other resting atop your thigh or his arm wrapped around your stomach.

Overall i think he loves physical affection - giving and receiving, it’s definitely his love language. Just holding you and admiring you is his personal definition of heaven. PDA is definitely not his thing though, he much prefers the privacy of his tent or the quietness and peace of the wilderness even if it doesn’t last long while the two of you are there.

#rdr #rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption #rdr2 arthur #van der linde gang #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan headcanons

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tansyuduri · 3 months

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Chapter 13 Of Our Stars Still Shine Together

It was sunset by the time they stepped onto a capsule of the London Eye. Merlin looked around their roomy capsule as they entered, taking in the clear glass and white material of the pod.

Arthur immediately moved forward to gaze out, holding the metal bar that looped around the pod.

Merlin could see the excitement and eagerness in his eyes. He felt his own eyes crinkle up slightly as he smiled. It was nice to see Arthur like this. All excited and enthusiastic. Though there was a bit of nervousness in Arthur’s face as well. At the height? They were not even high up yet. And Arthur had never been afraid of heights…

“It usually takes a half hour to get all the way around so we have some time.” Merlin mused, then went to stand next to his king and the love of his life. His own long hands ran over the railing.

Arthu put away his phone. “In that case we’ll have to wait to take pictures.”

“Is that why you wanted to come here? To take pictures?”

Arthur gave Merlin a smile that made his heart turn over and then scooted closer to him. “Partly.” His king admitted. “I had other things I wanted to do as well.” There was a low sensual tone to his voice.

“I like other things.” Merlin moved ever closer to the man so that their hips touched. “But if you try to fuck me here I will have to draw a line.”

Arthur sputtered. “What? Here? With everyone… No!”

“Good.” Merlin replied.

“Good.” Arthur said as well.

There was a pause as they continued to ascend. Merlin admired how the fading sun and beautiful sky contrasted with the colors of Arthur’s skin and hair.

He turned his head and lifted a hand to grab Arthur’s before kissing him deeply.

Arthur’s arms wrapped around him and his mouth met Merlin’s tenderly and passionately. It was a softer kiss to start but quickly started to increase in intensity as they breathed each other's air. Merlin pulled Arthur closer to him and found his king had the same idea. He tilted his head to the side, exploring the angles Arthur’s lips could press to his. It felt so right. It felt like home.

How had he gone so long without doing this? Kissing Arthur seemed as crucial to him as drinking water and breathing air nowadays. And there were no words for the warm softness that spread through him at Arthur’s touch. There were no words for what this meant, for having Arthur like this. Suddenly Merlin knew what else he needed. As much as sunlight, as much as air. He would handle it if… if it didn’t work out but…

Merlin stood back as they neared the top of the wheel. Time passed so quickly when kissing Arthur. He took a step back, prepared himself and then looked up to meet Arthur’s curious eyes. The sunset colored the sky behind them golden red. Camelot colors.

“Arthur, when we go into this fight… or whatever we will face…. I want us to be together in another way… I want us to be engaged. Arthur, I want us to be engaged.”

Find it here

Art by @kairennart

#merthur fanfiction #my fanfiction #merthur fanart #bbc merlin fanfiction #bbc merlin fanart #merlin fanart #merthur engagment #bbc arthur #arthur pendragon #bbc merlin #merlin #merlin emrys #m #merthur

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corrupte3d-mindz · 2 months

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His Angel

Possessive! Thomas Shelby x F! Younger Reader

Summary: Thomas can’t help himself when it comes to her, she gets everything she wants from him.

Wordcount: 3.4k

Warnings:

possessive! Thomas, head-over-heels! Thomas, lap sitting, kissing, soft talking, praise, lovey dovey things from Thomas.

Inspiration: Too Sweet - Hozier

The Garrison snug was thick with the familiar haze of smoke, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and sweat. Thomas sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid yet relaxed, an oxymoron that only he could embody so effortlessly.

Arthur was mid-sentence, his gruff voice detailing the latest shipment, but Thomas’s mind was already elsewhere, drifting into the echo of his brother’s words. John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael murmured amongst themselves, the background noise a symphony of camaraderie and business. The soft knock at the door silenced the room instantly. It was a knock they all recognized, a signal that brought an immediate hush over the group. Thomas’s eyes flicked to the door, and his entire demeanor shifted. The sharpness in his gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing into something almost tender. He took a long and deliberate drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dim light, before turning in his chair to face the door.

As the knob turned and the door creaked open, time seemed to slow. There she stood, framed in the doorway like a vision from a dream. Her off-white fur coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, contrasting beautifully with the dark, rich red of her dress. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, accentuating every curve with a grace that seemed almost unreal. The bottom hem brushed just past her ankles, revealing her black heels with their signature red bottoms—a custom pair made just for her by Thomas and his connections. Thomas felt a swell of emotion as he took her in. Her makeup was flawless, enhancing her natural beauty without overpowering it. The deep crimson of her lips matched the ruby drop earrings that dangled delicately from her ears, the diamonds in her dog collar necklace catching the light and adding an extra sparkle to her already radiant presence. Her hair was styled in a poodle bob, a classic look that gave her an air of timeless elegance.

He rose from his seat and stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table; the movement drawing the attention of the room, but he paid no mind to the eyes on his back. His focus was entirely on her. With a few long strides, he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to pull her gently by the waist. As the door closed behind her, sealing them off from the world, he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.

"What did I ever do.." he sighed softly again, "...to get so lucky with someone like you?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion and the smell of cigarettes, whiskey as well as his natural musk he has. He tilted his head slightly, inhaling the scent of her hair—a delicate fragrance that sent a shiver down her spine. The sensation of his breath and the intimacy of the moment made her heart flutter.

She smiled up at him, her eyes full of warmth and adoration. "Maybe it’s not about luck, Tommy. Maybe it's just meant to be," she whispered back, her voice soft and melodic.

Oh, how she spoke to him; he loved it so, it always melted his cold and dark heart; tugging at his vulnerable little heart strings, oh he would do anything she ever asked him. The quiet laughter from the table behind them went ignored. Thomas was lost in her presence, the rest of the world fading into the background. He traced his fingers lightly over her waist, feeling the delicate fabric of her dress under his touch. Her skin was warm, even through the material, and he could feel her heartbeat quicken under his fingertips. He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his own filled with a mix of awe and affection. "You’re too sweet for a man like me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a rough edge to his words, a hint of the darkness that always seemed to linger just beneath the surface.

She reached up, cupping his face in her gloved hand. "But you’re just right for me," she replied, her smile never wavering.

The sincerity in her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them; his eyes filled with love as he spoke softly just so she could hear. "ingerul meu," he said, his voice breaking slightly; as he spoke his romani language. It was a rare moment of vulnerability; but it was more rare for him to speak his language and say such caring words, it something that he only ever allowed himself in her presence.

For a few precious moments, they stood there, wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world outside their small bubble. Her presence was a balm to his troubled soul, a touch of sweetness in his otherwise bitter existence. The noise of the pub, the business, the danger—they all melted away, leaving just the two of them. Thomas buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, holding her as if she might disappear if he let go. Her hair smelled like wildflowers, a scent that clashed so wonderfully with the leather and smoke that clung to him. Eventually, the world intruded once more. Thomas pulled back, but kept one arm wrapped around her waist. "Come, sit wit' me," he said, his voice a low rumble, guiding her to the table. He pulled out his chair and sat down, before tapping his lap slightly, the gesture almost gentlemanly despite the roughness of his exterior. She blushed slightly before taking off her off-white fur coat and hanging it on the small coat rack next to him.

She moved to sit down in his lap, her movements graceful and cautious. Thomas helped her get comfortable; his hands gripping her waist to steady her. Each touch was possessive yet tender, as if he were afraid to break her. He occasionally let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear. These sounds were uncharacteristic of the man known for his stoicism, but with her, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He eventually let go of her waist and rested his hands in the softness of her lap. Her presence grounded him, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold steel he often felt in his chest. The conversation Thomas once had with Arthur resumed, it was about a shipment of theirs, the details gritty and grim, but necessary. Time passed slowly as they talked about things she didn't need to worry about. She would occasionally feel uncomfortable in his lap, and moved slightly to sit differently. Each time she moved, he let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear; his reactions a testament to how much he loved and needed her.

Soon, everyone had said what they needed to say, and they called the little meeting to a close. Arthur, John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael started to get up and leave the snug, their goodbyes curt and businesslike. Thomas watched and waited as they filtered out, his focus shifting back to her as the room emptied. It was just them now, them and the air around them, them and the world only. Thomas sighed, the weight of the world momentarily lifting as he leaned forward to rest his chin on her head, his arms wrapping around her waist to hold her closer. He occasionally sniffed her hair; oh, how he loved how she smelled. The sweet scent was intoxicating, a reminder of the softness and sweetness she brought into his life. His arm now slightly wrapping around her waist; an action that held her more against him. His other hand found its way to her hands; cupping them both in his large, calloused hand, feeling the contrast between his roughness and her softness.

"I heard y' had problems when visitin' Polly the other day... why didn't y'-tell me? Eh'.." His voice was a low whisper as he leaned into her ear, his lips brushing against the soft flesh of her earlobe. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, a mix of his tenderness and the latent danger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface with him. "I had 'em handle it, they won' give ye' problems anymore—" His voice filled with a mixture of slow-burning rage for the men who gave her problems she shouldn't have to deal with and a deep, abiding love for her.

His words were a promise, a declaration of the lengths he would go to protect her. His hand tightened around hers, his grip firm but gentle. She was the light in his darkness, the sweetness in his bitterness, and he would do anything to keep her safe. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and love, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest, a rare feeling for a man so accustomed to the cold. Her voice was soft when she replied, "I didn't want to worry you, Tommy. You've got so much on your plate already." Her words were filled with the kind of understanding and compassion that only she could offer. She was too kind, too sweet, too loving, and he was acutely aware of how undeserving he felt of her love. He shook his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "You never worry me, love. Yer the only good thing in this bloody world. An' if anyone tries to take that away, I'll deal with 'em myself." There was a fierce protectiveness in his voice, a promise of retribution for anyone who dared to threaten her peace. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The pub, the business, the danger—they all became background noise to the rhythm of their shared breath. Thomas stroked her hair, his touch gentle, his heart full.

Her presence was like a soothing balm to his tumultuous soul, and in these stolen moments, he allowed himself to savor the peace she brought him. His entire being radiated a dangerous intensity, a brooding darkness that was barely contained beneath the surface. The sharp planes of his face were etched with a perpetual look of determination, his eyes glinting with a mix of love and ferocity. There was a rage simmering within him, a fury that was always ready to explode at the slightest provocation. But with her, that anger was tempered by a tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else. As he sat there, holding her close, his thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind of emotions. He was a man used to control, accustomed to bending the world to his will. Yet, when it came to her, he found himself at a loss. She was everything he had never known he needed: kind, sweet, understanding, and loving. She was the light to his darkness, the softness to his hardness, and he was utterly captivated by her. His tone was dark, his words dripping with unspoken promises; he stopped petting her soft hair. He could feel the tension in her body as he spoke, her confusion evident in the way she shifted slightly on his lap. He picked her up slightly, turning her around to face him. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand left her hands and moved to cup her face roughly, his touch firm yet somehow gentle.

"If people ever fuckin' knew..." he began, his voice low and menacing. His eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of understanding. But she looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes, not comprehending the depths of his words. "The thin's I'd be willin' t'do for yeh," he continued, his touch becoming more possessive, his fingers digging into her soft skin. There was a darkness in his gaze, a promise of violence that he would unleash upon anyone who dared to harm her. "They woul' realize t'one they should b' scared of is not me..." he said, his nose scrunching in a gesture that was both menacing and almost tender. "It's you, love."

She still didn't understand, and that only fueled his frustration. How could she not see that she held more power over him than anyone else ever had? How could she not realize that she was the one thing in this world that could bring him to his knees? He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin as he spoke.

"They don't know what it's like, lovin' someone like yeh. They don't know what I'd do, what I'd sacrifice, to keep yeh safe," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'd tear the world apart for yeh, I'd burn it all down if it meant keepin' yeh by my side."

His words were a vow, a promise of the lengths he would go to protect her. He could feel her trembling in his grasp, whether from fear or something else, he wasn't sure. But he needed her to understand, needed her to see that she was the most important thing in his life.

"You make me better, love. You make me want to be better," he confessed, his voice softening for a moment. "But that don't mean I won't do what's necessary. That don't mean I won't become a monster if it means keepin' yeh safe." He could see the thoughts piling up in her brain, in her eyes; he could tell by the way her lips quivered, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. His touch was gentler now, a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before. "I love yeh," he whispered, the words carrying a weight that was almost tangible. "More than anythin' in this world. An' I'll do whatever it takes to make sure nothin' ever hurts yeh."

Her skin was soft and smooth, a delicate canvas beneath his rough fingers. He traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch feather-light, almost reverent. His thumb brushed against her lips, and he felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. The crimson stain of her lipstick left a faint mark on his thumb, a vivid reminder of her presence.

"I've been thinkin' 'bout..." His voice trailed off, rough and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid thoughts. He paused, his thumb resting against her lips, feeling the soft, pliant flesh beneath his touch. The struggle to find the right words was evident in the furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw. "I just wish I could've met yeh before all this." The words finally came, a rough whisper in the quiet of the snug. His thumb traced her lower lip, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. There was a vulnerability in his voice that she rarely heard, a glimpse of the man beneath the hardened exterior.

He gazed into her eyes, those windows of softness and light that calmed the storm within him.

"Ești prea dulce pentru mine," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, rough and full of the gravel of his Birmingham accent. His Romani roots slipped into his words, a tender whisper of his heritage that only she was privy to. She smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the understanding and love she held for him. Her hand covered his, her fingers curling around his, feeling the strength and callouses of a man who had fought many battles. Before she could respond, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was more battle than embrace. His lips crashed against hers with a force that spoke of desperation and need, a raw intensity that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The kiss was a tempest of emotions—passion, anger, pain, and a lingering sadness that he could never quite shake. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, as if he feared she might vanish if he let go. His other hand cupped her face, thumb brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. She clung to him, her arms finally moving to encircle his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if anchoring herself to him. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into her mouth, exploring and claiming in a way that was both possessive and reverent. He tasted the sweetness of her, a stark contrast to the bitter whiskey and smoke that lingered on his own tongue. Her taste was intoxicating, a heady blend of innocence and warmth that he couldn't get enough of. He gripped her face more firmly, his need for her bordering on frantic.

Time seemed to stand still as they kissed, the world outside the snug fading into oblivion. It was as if they were the only two people in existence, bound together by a connection that defied explanation. The kiss went on, a relentless exploration that left them both breathless. When they finally pulled apart, a thin string of saliva still connected their lips, a physical reminder of the bond they shared. Thomas's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his gaze never leaving her face. Her lipstick was smeared, a vibrant red that now adorned his own lips and around his mouth. She looked equally disheveled, her eyes bright with the same mix of emotions that churned within him. He watched as she leaned back against the table, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Without a word, he pulled her against him once more, her face finding its place in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her close. The silence between them was thick with unspoken words, a quiet that was both comforting and fraught with tension.

"îngerul meu dulce și dulce," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her skin. My sweet, sweet angel. The words were a confession, an admission of a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. In her arms, he found a sanctuary from the darkness that constantly threatened to consume him.

Her hand moved to his chest, resting over his heart as if to soothe the turmoil that raged within. She didn't need to say anything; her presence was enough, her touch a silent promise that she wasn't going anywhere. He tightened his grip on her, drawing strength from her unwavering support. Thomas's thoughts were a chaotic swirl of emotions, memories of a past marred by violence and loss clashing with the hope that she represented. She was everything he needed but didn't deserve, a beacon of light in his dark, dangerous world. He knew he should push her away, should protect her from the storm that was his life, but he couldn't. She was his, and he would do whatever it took to keep her by his side. As he held her, he couldn't help but marvel at the way she fit so perfectly against him, as if she were made to be there. Her kindness, her sweetness, her unwavering love—they were the antithesis of everything he had known, and yet they were exactly what he needed. She balanced him in a way nothing else could, her softness soothing the jagged edges of his soul.

Author's Notes:

This song is actually so fucking perfect, like it matches Thomas so well. God I can't believe I let this one shot sit on the back burner for this long!!! The reader is literally too sweet for Thomas; because she's too sweet like wine....ahhhhh!!! Please check out these articles to understand it more!!: What does it mean? 'Too Sweet' by Hozier.

The person who asked for an older and dom! Cillian paired w a younger reader; I must tell you that's its being worked on it's just I've had weird problems with it, like it's cursed. I've spent a couple hours on writing for it; then saved it only for it to not save. I've had text formatting problems; the whole 9 yards; everything and the damn kitchen sink.

However it is in the works and should be one of my next uploads; if I don't have problems with it.

To just a simple passer by; I hope you enjoyed this one shot as I did writing it.

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wutheringcaterpillar · 25 days

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Hii, i was wondering if you could write a Thomas catching the reader smoking (sister or whatever you prefer) and getting scolded because of the damage that Thomas has experienced firsthand thanks to his addiction because come on, that man shouldn't even be able to climb a ladder without being exhausted lol. Btw love ur writing 💖💌

I thought the idea of this was so cute! I made this into a short little drabble, hope you enjoy <3

Warnings: smoking,

Pairing tommy x sister!reader, siblings bickering

Tommy stood up from his chair outside, tossing the money onto the center of the glass and flailing his arms up in defeat while Arthur hollored in victory, pulling the one thousand pounds his way.

Tossing his feet up on the table, Arthur lit himself a cigarette while the other Shelby brothers and Johnny doggs called it a night, having lost enough money.

Arthur tried to convince Tommy to stay and hang out maybe do a line or two but Tommy waved him off, heading back toward the house.

When he was about to round the corner, he noticed you were leaning against the wooden ladder that was stood up right against the house with one of your preppy friends Tommy never cared for. He was nearly in disbelief seeing the tube of cancer between your lips, laughing and giggling overhearing some talk about a celebrity that was your new found love interest.

"Fuckin' hell." He mumbled to himself, thinking about how he thought you'd been smart enough to take a hint that smoking wasn't good for you, nor anyone for that matter but apparently his sister was more ill informed than he imagined.

"Eh!" Hearing Tommy's voice roar through the quiet midnight air, you tossed the cigarette onto the ground, your friend Isabelle stomping on it aggressively before trying to kick it away.

Hurriedly she reached into her pocket, pinching a piece of gum out and handing it to you. Tommy nodded your friend off, mentioning how she had a house of her own just down the street, leaving you alone with Tommy.

"What the fuck are you doing? You don't smoke?" No, no, Tommy surely wasn't going to guilt trip with you with how he smokes nearly two packs a day if not more.

"What's the big deal! You smoke all the time, that's a little hypocritical don't you think?" Isabelle yelled back after you goodbye and good luck, forcing to Tommy to draw your attention back to him before before Isabelle was running back over here in her annoying stature.

"So what eh? If you friends said you should jump off a bridge because they did would you?"

"Well I might if it will get me away from your constant nagging. Besides my friends aren't stupid like yours." Tommy scoffed, grabbing at your bag, tussling with you in a tug of war until he ripped the accessory from your clutch, dumping the items out on the lawn to reveal not only one but two packs of cigarettes. Actually the longer he stared at it, the more he noticed some of these were the ones he rolled himself, sticking out like a sore them in the porch light.

"You little thief! I can barely walk up me own fuckin' stairs, y/n." His blue eyes shined with utter disappointment and disapproval, making you cower, eye scanning anywhere but him as if that would get you out of the situation.

His eyes bore into your skull hard enough that if he had lasers they would shoot right through you irresponsible, per-petulant head.

"That doesn't stop you now does it?" You crossed your arms, finally quipping back earning a roll of the eyes from Tommy. Couldn't you understand that wasn't the point. Through Tommy's hard shell he was always soft for his baby sister and just wanted you to live a long prosperous life, not make irrational, selfish decisions as he often did himself.

Picking up the cigarettes, he stuffed them inside his jacket pocket, before you sighed and both leaned down to pick up the rest of your belongings.

"I'm just looking out for you y'know. One of us Shelby's has to outlive 50. What do you say we go inside eh? Don't need you getting a cold." Looking up at the sky, storm clouds were roaming in but you knew better this was just an excuse to get off the topic of conversation. If anything you'd just have to be more secretive with where your smoking at from now on.

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby #tommy shelby

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hihomeghere · 5 months

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My eyes only | Arthur Morgan / Reader

Word count : 500+ (just a little guy) Summary : Arthur thinks you look like a work of art Warnings/tags : Fluff, allusions to smut, nakedness, Arthur being in love, set in Shady Bell.

“You look like one of them paintings.” Arthur said lying next to you. Supporting himself on his arm as he sat up, his blanket hanging low on his hips. The sight offers you the slightest peek at the low v of his pelvis. His arm unconsciously flexed, the muscles of his bicep pulled tight.

“What do you mean?” You chuckled, rolling over to face him. Heat poured off your skin, your hair sticking to the back of your neck as you come down from your high. The only thing covering your nakedness was a flimsy sheet, pulled lazily over your body by Arthur.

“You know, those portraits.” He said, a wicked grin on his face, “The ones that French feller made in Saint Denis.”

“Arthur!” You laughed, hitting him on the chest, a satisfying slap echoing through the room.

“What?” He laughed, deep and heartily. His shoulder shook as he grinned.

“You’re awful.” You said, shaking your head, trying to hide your smile.

“You’re laughin’.”

“Am not!” You chuckled looking up at the rotted ceiling. He rolled over, wrapping his hand around your bare waist. Digging his fingers into the soft skin of your side, you squirmed laughing under him. “Stop! Stop!” You cried, your cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling. The setting sun peeking through the window, illuminating Arthur’s backside like a halo. Although he was anything but an angel at the moment. “I’m gonna pee!” You laughed, your hands planted on his chest as you tried to shove the ox of a man off of you.

“Alright, alright.” He relented, collapsing on top of you. You let out a loud ‘omph’ as he pushed all the air out of your lungs. You rolled your eyes, your fingers drawing mindless patterns along his freckled back.

He picked up his head, smirking up at you. “I’m serious, ya know?” He said softly, his finger trailing down your cheek. The hands of a killer, hands that have beaten and broken the strongest of men. Now lay featherlight touches along your face. “You’re beautiful.” He said, a soft blush covering his cheeks, the scars on his nose and chin a stark white against his skin.

If anyone looked like a work of art it would be Arthur. His body seemed to be carved out of marble, strong and hard. His muscles rippled under his flesh. And those eyes, bright blue pools you often found yourself drowning in.

“I think I should be saying that to you.” You whisper, smiling up at him. He shakes his head, a grin pulling at his lips.

“Nah, ain’t much to look at here ‘cept for you.” He mumbled, laying a kiss on your shoulder. You’d have to disagree, but your words die on your tongue as his lips lay a trail over your collarbone and up your neck.

“Maybe I should ask Mr. Châtenay to paint my likeness, hm?” You tease. His hand, no longer laying dormant next to your body, squeezes your hip.

“Not a chance in hell darlin’.” He said grinning wickedly at you. His other hand that had been moving along your cheek gripped the back of your neck. “You’re for my eyes only.”

#Arthur Morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr #fluff #hihomeghere #drabble #john Marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 1 month

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˗ˏˋ Arthur Morgan Modern!AU Headcanons ´ˎ˗

To answer this ask from the lovely @crystalofmoon19 , I got to think a bit more deeply about what a modern!AU Arthur could be. This absolutely stunning Arthur pic is from @arthurmorgan-vp!

JOB ´ˎ˗

Has a job that means a lot to him and is totally dedicated when doing it.

Arthur flourishes when helping others. I saw a Chartur fanart that portrayed him as a nurse and god I love this idea. He's emotionally VERY tough, making him efficient even in difficult and stressful times when a patient's life is in his hands. He's also a practical person who needs to have a concrete, manual aspect in his work. On top of that, we have the whole "service to society" aspect.

Police officer could also fit this dynamic. (I know it's pretty ironic considering he's a criminal in the canon but it's one of these jobs where he could put his strength into action to help others).

Also, without the need to survive and do criminal acts, with a caring family who could push him in the right ways, he also could have a job in arts. Arthur canonically is a curious and inventive person, he draws every little thing he finds interesting around him and cares for places, characters and events most people wouldn’t. I could picture him as an illustrator/concept artist. Or tattoo artist too? Why not.

HOBBIES ´ˎ˗

Sooooo artsy.

If he works at the hospital, he needs to have a sketchbook to just write and draw like in the canon. With other mediums being way more accessible nowadays, I think he could also paint and even sculpt from time to time.

Art helps him to get dark thoughts out of his head and focus on something when life gets hard.

However, if he already works in an artsy field, I think he would need to get up and move after a whole day sitting and would love to just go jogging, hiking, and taking long walks in nature. A combat sport could also do the work, as Arthur has an important code of honor: a discipline like Judo or Wrestling could help him get all his pent-up energy out while respecting his opponent; boxing could work too.

100% have a Polaroid and takes pictures of good times and his close ones every chance he gets. His bedroom/apartment is full of objects that carry an emotional value to him.

MODERN THINGS HE LIKES ´ˎ˗

Barbecues.

Would wear the ugliest apron and cap while doing them btw. And doesn't see what the problem is.

Classical rock music and vinyl. Thinking about Led Zepplin, The Stones, The Doors. Vintage music all the way. Has a secret soft spot for Lady Gaga though. Don't tell John. And (not-so) hot take, it's Hosea who introduces him to his old blues and rock records (Dutch prefers Jazz music.)

Camping and long hiking trips. Trekking when he feels really adventurous.

Going to the cinema. (100% eats salty popcorn and messes with John during the film if it's a family outing.)

In modern days Arthur would have been born in 1988. This means he was a '90s kid: he fondly remembers VHS tapes, baggy jeans, his old PlayStation One, maybe watching the first episodes of Pokémon, too. He's canonically such a nostalgic.

Would 100% make his own mix on cassette tapes btw

Flannels. I picture him with comfy rather than fancy clothes. He would also have a big leather jacket or vintage bomber for winter. And a leather bag like this one where important work papers are mixed with random trinkets found on his hikes.

RANDOM LITTLE FACTS ´ˎ˗

Arthur is so messy (I mean look at his tent). His car (Hosea's old one) is also a complete mess, cups, leftovers from meals, CDs, work stuff and random objects cover every possible inch of it.

Talking about it, looooves to drive. Totally do it with one hand on the wheel. And with good music ofc. (He would put his other hand on your thigh)

Has a dog. Or wants one deeply. A big one. And he definitely wants a lot of animals once he has a bigger house with you.

I said he could be a tattoo artist. I think he would have a tattoo, of an animal. Of course, we as a fandom thinks of the deer, but it has to be something meaningful to him. Maybe the animal who inspires him the most, or one they have seen in the wild with John during a walk in the woods.

Arthur is not a good cook. Buys a lot of food telling himself this time, he will succeed at making this damn dish. Biggest mess ever, ingredients everywhere on the floor, the walls, his body and hair. Pure chaos. Everything burns. Kitchen ends up on fire. Uses the internet as last hope, tries to watch as many tutorials as possible but it doesn't help+his phone ends up covered in egg white, flour, and wet ingredients. Throws away the food and gives up, orders a pizza.

Repeat previous paragraph every time he wants to try a new dish he saw somewhere.

(The phone is okay because he has the strongest and largest phone case ever. The kind of enormous one made to protect phones in building zones, for his hikes. It's pitch black.)

Overall I'd say a Modern!AU Arthur would probably be a bit happier even though still very nostalgic and melancholic at times (without the constant need to run away and kill people, his mental health would be much better.)

Important disclaimer: these are my personal thoughts, they could totally be shitty, I'm not at all claiming this is the absolute truth about him. A character is always subject to a personal interpretation, therefore anyone could picture him differently! Btw, I would love to hear your thoughts about it!

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked my silly little ideas.

I'm thinking about doing a part.2 where we could dive into his habits, his relationships with family, friends and s/o and other little fun facts. Let me know if I should! -Pine 🌱

#also he's way less stinky and takes extremly hot showers #I actually LOVED doing this #prepare for more headcanon guys #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan modern au #red dead redemption modern au #rdr2 modern au #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan headcanons #rdr2 headcanon #rdr2 headcanons #arthur morgan headcanon #rdr2 community #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader

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zae-heeyyy · 3 months

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Stelliferous

Summary: You stargaze with Arthur. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 1,353 Tags: fluff, shy, high honor Arthur Warnings: no warnings, enjoy the fluff.

a/n: Just a little something I thought of when I found this camp. Plus, I really wanted to draw a constellation. Fun fact, the game has accurate constellations, and Orion is one of them! I had a lot of fun reading about Orion mythology for this one. And TYSM to my tumblr bestie @littlemistey for helping me get the journal entry just right!

stelliferous: filled with stars or bearing stars, often used to describe a visibly starry night.

As everyone went about their business for the night, you headed to a deserted clearing just beyond camp and sat on the ground. You loved sitting alone, getting lost in the stars and the tales that went with them. Just as you were settling down, the snap of a twig alerted you to someone else's presence. The stars had aligned perfectly for you that night, putting you and Arthur in the same place at the same time.

You rose and looked around, spotting the cowboy leaning against a tree. If it were anybody else, you'd be annoyed, but seeing him there made your heart flutter in all the good ways. You loved looking at him just as much as you loved looking up at the stars. But the stars didn't make you weak in the knees at the sight of them or make you laugh until your stomach hurt. But just like the stars, Arthur always felt so out of reach.

"Things're really goin' downhill back there if a lady would rather sleep in the grass than in her tent," he said. His face was neutral, but you could see a playful glint in his eyes. You hugged your knees to your chest and tried to hide your shyness.

"Oh, hey Arthur, I was just––"

He held out a halting hand and tipped his head.

"I was just jokin, miss. I know what it's like to want some peace and quiet." He pushed himself off the tree and gave a two-finger wave. "Anyway, I won't disturb you."

You spoke out before he could leave. "It's no trouble, Arthur." You turned away from him and cranked your neck to the sky. "Y'ever wonder if it's just us out here?" It wasn't a question you expected him to answer. You were just thinking aloud. He didn't respond for a long moment but sauntered towards you, his boots appearing in your peripheral.

"I don't do much thinkin'."

You turned to glance at him again, shaking your head.

"Oh, hush, Arthur Morgan. We all know you do more thinkin' than any other fool around here."

You could tell he was fighting hard to keep the frown on his face from curving upward.

"That ain't saying much." He chuckled on his exhale, then, with a grunt, sat down beside you. "This whatchu' always doing out here? Just—" he gestured to the sky, "—looking up?"

"Don't knock it til you try it, Arthur." A soft smile formed on your face, and you waited expectantly. He quirked an eyebrow, then put his hands behind his head and laid back. A satisfied grin crossed your face, and you dropped down, too.

You spent the rest of the night pointing out stars and constellations to Arthur, sharing all the stories you knew about them. An hour crept by before a yawn escaped you. Arthur didn't show it, but your departure was the last thing he wanted. With one arm still behind his head and the other slung across his stomach, he kept his eyes trained on the sky above.

He was hooked—not on the stars, but on you. Then and there, he realized he could spend eternity on the ground, captivated by the rise of pitch in your voice when you got excited and how your eyes crinkled at the corners when your smile stretched from ear to ear.

From that night, Arthur used stargazing as his excuse to be near you, sometimes sitting so close to you that your shoulders rubbed when you pointed upward. Once, you turned to ask him a question and noticed him staring at you instead of the sky.

"It's impolite to stare, Mr. Morgan." His expression faltered, and he opened his mouth in a stuttering attempt to damage control.

He didn't need to be ashamed, though; you'd felt his eyes on you many times before. He admired you like you admired the stars, and knowing that sent waves of adoration through you.

Arthur caught up with you another evening just as you were finishing dinner. Golden sunlight reflected on his face as he glanced down at his feet, clutching his hat between his fingers. He reached nervously towards your hand, thought too hard, and placed it back on his hat. He started to speak, his words low and careful.

"Got somethin' to show you—somethin' I found— if you'll ride with me?"

You suppressed a building laugh, trying to save him further embarrassment. It tickled you that someone as audacious as him could be made so flustered by the likes of you. Your amusement was well hidden, and you reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"It's about time you asked me on a ride, Mr. Morgan." He nodded and placed his hat back on his head, the brim shielding the building smile on his face. He walked you to his horse. He got on first and held a strong arm down to pull you up.

The two of you road down the Heartlands, across the Dakota River, and through Bard's Crossing. He slowed when you approached a hill outside Lone Mule Stead. Arthur helped you off the horse with one hand, keeping hold until you stood in front of a campsite that overlooked the Upper Montana River and beyond. The site was breathtaking; you could make out the lights of Blackwater, boats on the water, and the expansive night sky in all its glory. Just to the side of the spot stood a small brass telescope. When you finally saw it, your eyes widened, and you met Arthur's, your mouth agape.

"Found this out here the other day," he gestured towards it, beckoning you.

"Oh, Arthur," you ran your fingers across the smooth brass cylinder. You shook your head in slow incredulity. "I've never seen one in person, only seen 'em in books."

Arthur removed the cap on the end, letting it swing on its chain. He nodded toward the viewing device again, and you walked around to the lens, bending to look through it.

"I hope it's everything you read about, miss." His voice was comforting, like the soft rumble of distant thunder. Breathless, you pressed your eye to the lens, and a speckled blanket of black engulfed your vision. Truthfully, the stars were the same as always, but knowing Arthur had curated this moment, just for you, made the night sky more beautiful than ever. When you were done taking it in, you stood to see Arthur watching you from a few feet away. You approached the crate he was sitting on, your hands outstretched and reaching for his.

"Thank you, really," you said. The gunslinger stood and accepted your hands, his lips pressed together tightly as if opening his mouth would betray him. His eyes were strictly focused on your clasped hands. Surely, if his mouth would betray him, his eyes would too.

"Arthur." His name coming off your lips so endearingly could kill him. He finally looked up, his mouth falling open to speak, but you didn't give him the chance. You rose on your toes, your lips crashing against his hurriedly. When he finally realized what was happening, his shoulders fell relaxed, and he wrapped two arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Your mouths moved in sync with each other's until you pulled away for air. Heat had built up in his face, and you saved him the trouble of hiding his blush by wrapping your arms around him tight.

As breathtaking as it was, you forwent the telescope for the rest of the night, opting to wrap yourself in Arthur's arms instead. You pointed up at a line of bright stars.

"See those three? That's Orion's Belt."

"Orion?" he asked, saying the name as if it were a foreign language.

"Orion. He was a hunter—a big and strong one. They say he was a bit of a drunk brute, too. He reminds me of someone." You didn't need to peel your eyes away from the warrior in the sky to feel the warmth of the one right next to you, a knowing, gentle smile on his lips.

#take a shot every time i write stars or sky #shout out to the astronomy girlies #rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fan fiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 community #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fluff #zaefic #amje

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novaursa · 23 days

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The Price of Fire (7)

- 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 all the parts of this story, or if you want to read 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: 9 000+

- Previous part: 6

- Next part: 8

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The walls of the Red Keep seem to close in around you as the hours slip away, each moment thick with the weight of unspoken fears and the ever-present shadow of your father’s madness. Two weeks have passed since the last incident in the throne room, but the dread in your stomach has only grown, an ever-tightening knot that never truly loosens.

It’s late afternoon when you hear the muffled sound of voices just outside your chamber door. Your hand tightens around the edge of the table you’re seated at, the delicate embroidery in your hands forgotten. A soft knock echoes through the room, and you turn your gaze toward the door just as it creaks open.

Ser Arthur steps inside first, his expression as stony as ever, but there’s a tension in his eyes you’ve come to recognize—a flicker of concern that tells you something is wrong. Close behind him is Ser Barristan Selmy, and though the older knight tries to mask it, his unease is plain to see. The lines on his face seem deeper, his usual calm demeanor strained.

“My lady,” Barristan begins, his voice gentler than usual, though there’s a tremor in it that sets your nerves alight. “The king has… summoned you. He demands your presence in the throne room.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, his hand subtly moving toward the hilt of the Morning as if the very idea of taking you before Aerys is a threat he must ward against. “For what purpose, Ser Barristan?” Arthur’s tone is low, barely restrained, as he steps slightly in front of you, his protective instincts overriding decorum. “What does the king want with her this time?”

Barristan looks away briefly, his shoulders heavy with the burden of orders he clearly wishes he didn’t have to give. “It is not our place to question the king, Ser Arthur,” he replies, though there’s a note of regret in his voice. “But I have heard enough to know it involves the pyromancers… and those cursed eggs again.”

A chill runs down your spine at the mention of the pyromancers, and your mind races, conjuring images of flames, stone-cold eggs, and your father’s fevered eyes. You’ve seen this before, yet something in Barristan’s tone, the dread lingering beneath his words, tells you that this time is different. Worse.

Arthur turns to you, his eyes locking with yours, a silent exchange passing between you. He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand what he’s feeling—helplessness, anger, and a desperation to protect you from whatever fresh horror awaits. But the reality of your situation crashes down on you both. He cannot defy the king’s orders, and neither can you.

“Let’s get this over with,” you whisper, though your voice wavers despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Barristan nods solemnly, stepping aside as Arthur offers you his arm. You take it, drawing strength from his silent presence, even as your heart thuds heavily in your chest. The walk to the throne room feels longer than usual, the silence broken only by the heavy tread of boots on stone. Every step is a reminder of the peril you’re walking into, each corner turned bringing you closer to a chamber that has become a place of nightmares.

As you near the entrance, you hear the murmur of gathered courtiers, the swell of whispers rising and falling like a tide. The massive doors swing open, revealing a room packed with nobles and courtiers, their faces a mixture of curiosity and fear. You catch sight of familiar faces—Tywin Lannister standing with his cold, calculating expression, Cersei beside him with a faint smile playing on her lips as her eyes flit toward you. Pycelle’s rotund form looms near the back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Varys stands close to the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable, a ghost of a smile curling his lips as he watches you enter. The Kingsguard stand in rigid formation around the room, their armor gleaming, but it’s Arthur’s presence by your side that keeps you from trembling.

Your gaze is drawn toward the center of the room, and your blood turns to ice. The dragon eggs—those ancient stones that have long lost their warmth—are placed in the same brazier as before. But now, close to the brazier, there are men—three of them—chained to iron posts driven deep into the stone floor. Their eyes are wide with terror, the chains rattling as they struggle against their bonds, their cries muffled by the gags forced into their mouths.

It’s only then that you fully realize what’s happening—what your father intends. Sacrifice. A twisted attempt to give life to the dead eggs through the deaths of these poor souls. The pyromancers stand at the ready, holding jars of wildfire, the sickly green substance gleaming ominously in the torchlight.

The sight nearly takes your breath away, and you instinctively grip Arthur’s arm tighter. He stiffens beside you, and you feel his tension radiating through his body. But he doesn’t move—he can’t move. Not here, not with everyone watching. Not with the king present.

And then you see him—your father. King Aerys stands near the Iron Throne, a dark shadow in his black robes. His hair is wild, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that makes your stomach churn. Blood stains his hands and forearms—fresh cuts from the throne’s sharp blades, though he seems entirely unaware of the wounds. He grins as you enter, a grotesque display of teeth and madness.

“Ah, my daughter has arrived!” Aerys exclaims, his voice carrying through the room, drawing the attention of every soul present. “Come, come closer, my jewel. You must witness this grand spectacle, the rebirth of our house, the awakening of our dragons!”

The court falls into a tense silence, every eye turning to you, the weight of expectation pressing down like a suffocating shroud. You want to flee, to run as far as you can from this nightmare, but you force your feet to move forward, your steps steady even though each one feels like it could lead to your doom.

“Father…” You manage to keep your voice steady, though dread curls deep in your gut. “What are you doing?”

“Greatness, my child! Glory beyond imagining!” Aerys cries, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the room. “The flames will rise, the blood will flow, and the dragons will awaken once more! It is the sacrifice of these pitiful souls that will bring our ancestors roaring back to life!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, every instinct screaming that you should turn and run. But you know that doing so would only seal the fates of those chained men—and perhaps your own. You glance at Arthur, whose expression is a mask of stone, but his eyes blaze with barely contained rage. Even Ser Barristan, who stands nearby, looks as though he might step forward to protest—but he, too, is bound by his duty.

Aerys’s eyes glint with madness as he steps closer to the brazier, the heat from the flames making his skin glisten with sweat. “Come, Y/N,” he beckons, his voice dipping into a sickly sweet tone. “Stand beside me and witness what it means to truly be a Targaryen. You, of all people, must see this. You are the blood of the dragon, and it is through your presence that the flames will be given purpose.”

Your blood runs cold as he gestures for you to come forward. The eyes of the court burn into you, waiting to see what you’ll do, what you’ll say. But your feet feel like they’re made of lead, refusing to obey the king’s summons, even as your mind races for some way out of this madness.

And in that moment, you realize there is no escape—not from this room, not from the twisted plans your father has laid out. The fate of those chained men, of the dead dragon eggs, of your family, all hinges on what happens next.

As your heart pounds in your chest, you take a step forward, toward your father, toward the pyromancers and their jars of wildfire, toward the nightmarish scene laid out before you.

And then, with every eye in the room fixed on you, Aerys’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, his smile widening into something monstrous. “Come closer, daughter. The flames await.”

Your steps falter as you approach your father, the madness in his eyes more terrifying than the flames flickering in the braziers beside the dragon eggs. The heat of the room prickles your skin, but it’s the icy dread within you that leaves your hands trembling. Aerys’s grin widens as you draw closer, his bony fingers twitching in anticipation. The pyromancers stand ready, their faces half-shrouded by the hoods of their dark robes, holding vials of green wildfire that glimmer ominously.

Before you can brace yourself, your father’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. You wince as his fingers dig into your flesh, dragging you forward until you’re nearly nose-to-nose with him. His breath is hot and sour against your face, his eyes alight with a manic glee that sends a shudder down your spine.

“Watch, daughter. Watch as the blood of the dragon rekindles the flames of old,” he hisses, his voice trembling with anticipation. Without warning, he pulls a dagger from his belt—its blade jagged and stained with old blood—and slashes it across your palm. The pain is sharp and sudden, tearing a cry from your lips as blood wells from the wound.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rings out, laced with alarm. You glance over your shoulder, seeing him take a step forward, his hand halfway to his sword before Ser Barristan places a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Barristan’s voice is grim as he says, “Stand down, Ser Arthur. These are the king’s orders.”

Arthur’s eyes blaze with barely contained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly you fear he might draw blood from his own lip. But his duty holds him in place, and you see the struggle tearing him apart inside. You want to reach out, to tell him it’s all right, but your father’s grip tightens, yanking your attention back to him.

Aerys’s own hand follows, the dagger slicing across his palm as well. His blood, dark and thin, mingles with yours as he drags you toward the brazier where the dragon eggs lie in their bed of embers. “This is what it means to be a Targaryen,” he whispers, his voice thick with twisted reverence. “Fire and blood, our birthright.”

You try to pull away, but his grip is iron. He forces your hand over the eggs, letting the crimson droplets of your blood, mixed with his, rain down upon the cold, lifeless shells. The sticky warmth of blood coats your fingers, and you can’t help the tremor that runs through you as he chants under his breath, words that sound more like a prayer to a forgotten god than anything else.

And then, as if satisfied with his grotesque ritual, Aerys shoves you to the side. You stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the brazier, the heat prickles your skin. “Set the flames ablaze!” Aerys orders, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. “Burn them all—the eggs, the men! Let the fire consume them and bring forth our legacy!”

The pyromancers don’t hesitate. With a flick of their wrists, they hurl the jars of wildfire toward the brazier. The green liquid splashes across the eggs, igniting instantly in a blinding surge of flames that leap hungrily toward the chained men. Their muffled screams pierce the air as the fire takes hold, spreading along the iron chains and engulfing them in a hellish inferno. The stench of burning flesh fills the room, and the crackle of wildfire mixes with the sickening sound of flesh searing away.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can move away, your father grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back as he forces you to watch. “Look, my daughter! Look at what power truly is!” His grip is painful, his voice dripping with a perverse kind of pride. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “This is our destiny—to bathe the world in fire and see it reborn in blood.”

The horror of it twists your stomach into knots, bile rising in your throat as the flames roar higher, crackling and snapping like the jaws of some hungry beast. You can feel the heat singeing your skin, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes, but you can’t tear your gaze away. The sight is too horrifying—men writhing in agony as the wildfire consumes them, their screams growing faint as the fire reduces them to ash.

The court watches in stunned silence, a mixture of awe and revulsion etched on their faces. You catch a glimpse of Tywin Lannister’s cold, impassive gaze, and Cersei’s eyes wide with a twisted fascination. Varys’s smile is barely there, a ghostly curve of his lips as he watches from the shadows, while Pycelle again strokes his beard nervously, muttering to himself.

But above all, you sense Arthur’s eyes on you—filled with pain, helplessness, and a burning fury that is barely contained. He’s bound by duty, forced to stand and watch as you endure this nightmare, unable to do anything but clench his fists and wait for the madness to end.

Then, just as you think you cannot bear another moment of this torment, Rhaegar’s voice slices through the chaos, filled with fury. “Father! Stop this madness!”

The crowd parts as Rhaegar pushes through, his face a mask of rage and desperation. His violet eyes blaze as he strides toward the brazier, his hands clenched into fists. “What is this insanity? You’re sacrificing men—innocent men—for the sake of dead stones!”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on your hair as he sneers at his son. “You speak of insanity, boy, but you have no vision! You think yourself wise, with your songs and your prophecies, but it is I who will restore the glory of our house! I am the king! I am the blood of the dragon!”

Rhaegar steps closer, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You are killing our people, our house, with your madness. Y/N is not your doll to use in these delusions, nor are those men your playthings to burn for your twisted pleasure!”

Aerys’s eyes flash with fury, and he releases your hair, turning to face Rhaegar fully. “You dare defy me? You dare to speak against your king? You would see our bloodline wither and die rather than embrace the fire that runs through our veins!”

“I would see us live!” Rhaegar snaps back, his voice cracking with emotion. “I would see us rise above this, not fall into ruin because of your obsession with dead dragons!”

The tension in the room is suffocating, every courtier holding their breath as father and son square off, the flames still roaring behind them. But before either can say another word, a loud crack echoes through the chamber, silencing everyone.

Your heart stops as you turn toward the brazier. The flames curl around the eggs, licking hungrily at the stone shells. And then you hear it—a screech, high-pitched and otherworldly, rising from the depths of the fire. The court gasps in unison as one of the eggs shifts, the stone splitting down the middle with a jagged crack.

For a heartbeat, everything is still, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the faint hiss of wildfire. And then, from within the shattered egg, a tiny, serpentine creature emerges—a dragon, no larger than a hound pup, with scales the color of midnight and eyes like molten gold. It lets out another screech, flapping its fragile wings as it takes its first breath in this world, born of fire and blood.

The room is deathly silent, every eye locked on the creature as it pulls itself free from the broken shell. Aerys’s eyes widen, tears glistening in them as he stares at the dragon with a mixture of awe and triumph. “It lives… it lives!” he breathes, his voice trembling with reverence. “The dragons have returned!”

But as the awe settles in, the horror of what was done to bring this moment to fruition lingers like a dark shadow over the court. The sacrifice of innocent men, the bloodshed, the madness—it all culminates in this fragile, fledgling creature that blinks in confusion, its tiny mouth snapping at the air.

And yet, as the silence stretches on, it becomes clear that the return of the dragon is not the victory Aerys had hoped for. The court watches in a mixture of horror and fascination, but beneath it all, there is a deeper, darker understanding—that this birth was a product of cruelty, not of destiny.

Aerys, however, seems blind to it all. He steps closer to the brazier, his voice rising with a manic glee. “This is only the beginning! The dragons will rise again, and our house will be reborn in fire and blood!”

But as you stand there, your heart still pounding in your chest, you realize that this is not the rebirth of your house—it is the beginning of its downfall. The dragon may have hatched, but it was born in a bed of madness, and the cost of its life was too high to ignore.

Rhaegar’s gaze meets yours, and you see the same understanding in his eyes. This moment, this creature, is not a triumph. It is a harbinger of the darkness that now looms over House Targaryen.

The throne room descends into chaos, the air thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning flesh mingling with the eerie, screeching cries of the newborn dragon. The court is frozen in a mixture of horror and fascination, eyes wide as the tiny creature struggles to free itself from the remnants of its shell, its dark wings stretching out in a fragile, jerky motion. Its scales glisten with moisture, gleaming obsidian in the flickering firelight, its golden eyes wild and hungry as it snaps at the air, testing its newfound freedom.

Rhaegar moves first, his instincts sharper than the shock that ripples through the crowd. His gaze locks onto you, and he pushes through the throng of courtiers, his face a mask of determination and fear. “Y/N!” he calls, his voice cutting through the clamor, desperation lacing every syllable. He can see the danger—you’re too close to the flames, too close to the madness that grips your father.

At the same time, Arthur breaks from his position near the edge of the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if needed. His eyes are locked on you, the woman he swore to protect, the woman he loves, as he weaves through the crowd, dodging courtiers and guards alike in his bid to reach you. His heart pounds in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency that drives him forward.

But before either man can reach you, Aerys’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. His nails dig into your skin, drawing a wince from you as he drags you closer to him, closer to the hatching brazier where the dragon now writhes. The heat is unbearable, the stench nauseating, but Aerys is beyond reason, his eyes fixed on the creature with a sick, twisted adoration.

“Father, stop!” You cry, struggling in his grip, but he only pulls you closer, his lips pulling back in a feral grin.

“You see, Y/N? You see what we are capable of when we embrace our destiny? The blood of the dragon flows strongest in you, in me! You will be the key to awakening them all!” His voice is frenzied, manic, and there is no sanity left in his eyes—only the feverish glow of a man consumed by his own delusions. He pulls you toward the dragon, shoving you so close that the heat scorches your skin, singeing the edges of your dress.

The little dragon screeches again, its head snapping in your direction as if sensing the fresh blood that still drips from your wounded hand. It lurches forward, its movements clumsy but quick, its tiny teeth bared in what could be either hunger or recognition.

“Let her go!” Rhaegar’s voice is a furious roar as he finally shoves his way through the crowd, his eyes blazing with both fury and terror. He strides toward Aerys, every muscle in his body coiled with the need to tear you from your father’s grasp. “You’ve done enough harm—let her go before someone gets killed!”

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, and for a brief moment, something like clarity flickers in his eyes, only to be extinguished by the wildfire of his madness. He tightens his hold on your wrist, yanking you closer to his side. “You dare command me?” he snarls, his voice rising in pitch, wild and venomous. “You, who would see our house fade into nothing, who would abandon the fire in our blood for weakness and sentimentality?”

Before Rhaegar can respond, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his voice cold and measured, but tinged with something that almost resembles concern. “Your Grace,” he begins, his tone calculated, yet edged with caution. “This is madness. We have seen the dragon hatch. It is a sign, yes, but your daughter’s life need not be risked further. This is enough.”

Aerys rounds on him, his face twisted in a snarl. “Enough?” he spits, his voice trembling with rage. “You presume to tell me what is enough? You, with your golden arrogance, your schemes to undermine my rule at every turn? You think I don’t see what you are, Tywin? You would have my daughter as a pawn in your little games, but she belongs to the fire! She belongs to me!”

Tywin’s expression darkens, but he holds his tongue, his calculating mind clearly weighing whether it is worth the risk to challenge the king further in this moment. For all his ambition, even Tywin Lannister knows there are limits when dealing with a madman armed with wildfire and delusions.

Meanwhile, Arthur has drawn closer, his hand still on the hilt of his sword as he positions himself just behind Rhaegar. His eyes are locked on Aerys, his body tensed, ready to strike should the king push you closer to danger. He knows he must tread carefully—one wrong move could lead to bloodshed, and you’re the one caught in the middle.

“Father, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try to keep calm. “You’ve already proven what you wanted. The dragon hatched. Let’s leave now, before more lives are lost.”

But Aerys doesn’t hear you—he’s too far gone, too enraptured by the flames and the cries of the newborn dragon. He grips your hair once more, pulling your head back and forcing you to look directly at the creature as it struggles to rise on shaky legs. “Look at it, Y/N! Look at what our blood has wrought! We are gods, you and I! We will bring forth fire and death to those who dare challenge us!”

The dragon screeches again, louder this time, its voice high and grating, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. It lunges toward you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, but the chains of the brazier keep it just out of reach, snapping its jaws inches away from your skin.

The tension in the room builds to a fever pitch, the courtiers frozen in place, unsure whether to flee or watch the nightmare unfold. The Kingsguard stand ready, their hands hovering near their swords, waiting for a signal that might never come.

Rhaegar’s patience snaps. He strides forward, grabbing Aerys by the arm and wrenching him away from you with a force that surprises even the king. “Enough!” he snarls, his face inches from Aerys’s, his eyes blazing with fury. “This madness ends now!”

For a moment, the two men stand locked in a furious standoff, father and son, both of them breathing hard, the flames flickering wildly around them. Aerys’s face contorts with rage, but there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a moment of doubt, as if he’s suddenly unsure whether the vision he clings to is real or merely another ghost conjured by his decaying mind.

The throne room vibrates with ominous intentions, the air crackling with the mingling scents of smoke, blood, and the wild, unnatural odor of newborn dragon flesh. Aerys and Rhaegar stand toe-to-toe, the firelight casting their faces in stark relief—father and son, both dragons, yet divided by madness and the darkness of their blood. Around them, courtiers stand frozen, watching the confrontation unfold with wide eyes, their breaths caught in their throats.

“Father, stop this insanity!” Rhaegar’s voice is sharp and commanding, resonating through the hall. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, poised to draw it should the need arise. “These creatures are not the saviors of our house; they are born of blood and madness. You’re risking everything for a delusion!”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with unholy fervor, his face twisted with both rage and joy. “You dare call this a delusion? You, who have done nothing but hide behind books and songs while I’ve fought to reclaim our birthright?” Spittle flies from his lips as he raves, his grip tightening on the edge of the brazier as if he could will the second egg to crack open with sheer force. “The dragons are ours, Rhaegar—mine and Y/N’s! We will be the ones to bring them forth, to birth them anew in fire and blood!”

Before Rhaegar can respond, a screech pierces the air—the dragon, small but fierce, has freed itself from the brazier. Its obsidian scales gleam in the firelight as it stretches its wings, shaking off the ash and embers that cling to its skin. The creature is no longer the fragile thing it was moments ago; there is a dark, primal strength in the way it moves, in the way its golden eyes gleam as it surveys the room.

The courtiers gasp and stumble back, fear rippling through the gathered crowd. Even Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow in wary calculation as he takes a measured step away from the creature, his face an unreadable mask.

The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the room—past Aerys, past Rhaegar—and locks onto you.

A chill runs down your spine as its eyes, molten gold and filled with an intelligence far beyond its size, bore into you. It slinks toward you, each step deliberate and cautious, its claws clicking softly against the stone floor. The court holds its collective breath, tension crackling like a drawn bowstring. Your heart pounds in your chest as the creature draws closer, but despite the terror seizing your limbs, you cannot move.

The dragon pauses before you, its eyes narrowing as it tilts its head, studying you with unnerving curiosity. Then, in a moment that defies everything you’ve ever known, it lowers its head, bowing before you. You feel a strange, invisible thread tighten between you and the creature—a bond forged in the fire of its birth, one that hums with a power that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The dragon’s screech quiets into a low, rumbling purr as it settles at your feet, no longer a threat but a guardian, a companion bound to you by forces neither of you fully understand.

The silence in the room is deafening, every gaze fixed on you and the dragon, disbelief and awe mingling in equal measure. For a moment, the world stands still—until Aerys’s voice shatters the quiet, filled with triumphant exultation.

“Behold!” Aerys cries, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The dragon has chosen! It knows its true blood—it knows its mother!” He strides toward you, his eyes alight with a fervor that borders on madness. “Yes, my daughter, this creature is ours—ours! It is as if we have birthed it ourselves, our blood flowing in its veins! This is our child, a gift from the gods, a symbol of our power!”

Rhaegar’s face pales, horror flashing across his features as he watches the scene unfold. “Father, this is madness,” he whispers, disbelief lacing his voice. He moves quickly, stepping between you and Aerys, placing himself protectively at your side. “This creature is not your child—it’s a beast, born of fire and bloodshed. You cannot twist this into something pure when it was born of sacrifice and death.”

Aerys ignores him, his gaze locked on the dragon as he reaches out with trembling fingers. “It is ours, Rhaegar. Ours to command, ours to nurture. Y/N, do you not see it? This is our destiny, yours and mine, to rule with fire and blood.”

But you see the truth in Rhaegar’s eyes—the fear, the revulsion, and the deep sadness that comes with realizing how far gone your father truly is. You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you finally speak. “Father… this is not what I wanted. This is not the future I imagined.”

Before Aerys can respond, Rhaegar’s grip tightens on your arm, pulling you back as he speaks urgently. “Y/N, we’re leaving. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument; it is a command, one born of desperation and love.

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, his expression twisting with fury. “You would take her from me? You, who knows nothing of the fire in our blood? She belongs here, with the dragon, with me!”

The dragon lets out a low growl, sensing the tension between its “mother” and the man who threatens her. But before it can act, a flash of white catches your eye—Arthur, his expression hard as steel, moving swiftly to stand beside Rhaegar.

“My prince,” Arthur says firmly, his eyes flicking between you and the dragon, “we need to go now.”

Aerys’s attention snaps to Arthur, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can take her from me, Sword of the Morning? You are nothing but a servant—my servant! You would defy me?”

But Arthur stands his ground, his voice cold and steady. “I serve the realm, Your Grace. And I serve the prince and princess first.”

Before Aerys can react, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his face a mask of cold calculation back in place. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice laced with thinly veiled concern, “perhaps it would be wise to allow the prince and princess to depart. They are clearly distressed, and we wouldn’t want any further… incidents to occur.”

Aerys rounds on him, fury blazing in his eyes. “You dare condescend to me, Tywin? You think you can soothe me with your false concern? You—”

But Rhaegar doesn’t wait for the argument to escalate further. With a sharp tug, he pulls you toward the exit, his grip on your arm firm but gentle. “We’re leaving now, Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “We’ll figure out what to do, but we can’t stay here.”

The dragon screeches again, its eyes following you as you move, but it makes no move to attack. It remains crouched by the brazier, watching you leave with an almost mournful expression. You feel the bond tug at you, a strange ache in your chest as you walk away, but you force yourself to keep moving.

Arthur falls in step beside you, his presence a solid wall of protection as he shields you from the madness left behind. You glance back one last time, just in time to see Aerys reach out toward the dragon, his eyes gleaming with unholy joy. “Yes, my child… my beautiful child…”

The doors to the throne room slam shut behind you, cutting off the sight of your father, the dragon, and the pyromancers who still hover near the brazier. The noise of the court fades, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the rapid thudding of your heart.

You collapse against the cool stone wall in the corridor outside, the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. Rhaegar pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if to shield you from the horrors you’ve just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice raw with emotion. “I should never have let it get this far. I should have protected you better.”

You shake your head, tears burning in your eyes. “It’s not your fault, Rhaegar. Father… he’s beyond saving. We all are, in some ways.”

Arthur stands nearby, his sword still in hand, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of danger. When he’s satisfied that you’re safe for the moment, he steps closer, his expression softening as he looks at you. “You did well, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. “You kept your head when most would have broken.”

You manage a faint, shaky smile. “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing that.”

“We’ll find a way,” Rhaegar promises, his voice firm with determination. “We’ll figure this out.”

Arthur nods in agreement, his eyes meeting Rhaegar’s with an unspoken understanding. “For now, let’s get you somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all of this.”

As the three of you walk down the corridor, the shadows stretch long and dark around you, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel a spark of hope—a fragile, flickering thing, but it was there.

The heavy doors of the throne room remain shut, muffling the distant echoes of court life beyond. Inside, the once-grand hall is now shrouded in smoke and the eerie green glow of dwindling wildfire. The courtiers stand frozen, torn between awe and terror, their eyes darting between King Aerys and the small dragon now prowling around the smoldering brazier. Its obsidian scales shimmer like dark glass in the firelight, and the flicker of its eyes—molten gold and full of intent—keeps everyone on edge.

Aerys is utterly captivated, his attention consumed by the creature. He paces before it, hands outstretched as though in reverence, his eyes wide and unblinking, a man who has found purpose in his madness. “You see?” he whispers, almost to himself, though his voice carries across the silent room. “The blood of the dragon endures. This is proof that our power remains unbroken—that fire still answers our call.”

The dragon moves closer to him, its claws clicking against the stone floor. The creature’s wings flare slightly, casting long, menacing shadows that stretch across the walls. Aerys’s twisted smile widens, and he drops to his knees, bowing his head in what could only be described as worship.

“Magnificent,” murmurs one of the pyromancers, unable to tear his eyes from the dragon. “It lives—birthed from fire and blood, just as the old lore spoke of.” The other pyromancers exchange looks, their fascination clear as they huddle together, speaking in hushed, fevered tones about the possibilities this creature presents for their dark craft.

Tywin Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his face a mask of carefully controlled disgust. He makes no move to approach the king, but his cold eyes remain fixed on Aerys, taking in every detail of this unfolding disaster. “Your Grace,” Tywin finally speaks, his voice calm but edged with steel. “This… event is extraordinary, yes. But surely it is time to consider the safety of the realm. The presence of this dragon—” He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, “—in such a volatile environment is a risk.”

Aerys rounds on him, his eyes blazing with fervor. “A risk? You call this a risk, Tywin?” His voice rises, sharp and mocking. “You, with your golden pride and ambition, would dare question the return of our house’s greatest symbol? You lack vision, as always.” He laughs, a wild, grating sound that sends shivers down the spines of those nearby. “The dragon is our salvation! It will stay here, in the throne room, where it belongs—where it will be under my protection!”

Pycelle, his face pale and beaded with sweat, clears his throat and steps forward. “Your Grace, with all due respect, the throne room is—unsuited for such a creature. Perhaps it would be better served if the beast were kept in the improvised Dragonpit we can quickly construct, where it might be properly—”

“Enough!” Aerys shrieks, his voice cracking as he rounds on Pycelle. “Do not presume to tell me how to care for my child! It stays here—here, where it can watch over its throne, where all can witness the return of our glory!”

The dragon’s head turns toward Aerys as he speaks, as if it senses the intensity of his emotions. The court watches, paralyzed, as the creature inches closer to the Iron Throne, the jagged steel blades reflecting in its golden eyes. The pyromancers exchange glances, their awe deepening with every movement of the dragon.

Varys, who had been lingering at the edge of the shadows, slips away unnoticed, disappearing into the darkness with a subtle swish of his robes. No one remarks on his absence—those who do notice are more concerned with the king’s unpredictable mood and the ever-looming threat of the dragon in their midst.

As the courtiers murmur amongst themselves, Tywin presses his lips into a thin line, his calculating gaze sweeping across the room. He knows this situation is spiraling out of control, but there’s no room to maneuver—Aerys’s obsession is beyond reason, and any direct confrontation would only invite disaster.

Ser Jaime Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his expression one of wary amusement. His hand hovers near the pommel of his sword, ready to act should the dragon—or the king—become a threat. “A bold decision, Your Grace,” Jaime remarks, though there’s a mocking edge beneath the politeness. “Keeping a dragon in the throne room—how very fitting. After all, nothing else in this cursed hall has been able to match the madness of our times.”

Aerys barely registers the comment, his focus wholly consumed by the dragon. He kneels closer to the creature, his fingers trembling as he reaches out. The dragon’s head snaps toward him, teeth bared, but it does not strike. Instead, it simply watches, waiting, as if testing the king’s resolve.

“It is ours,” Aerys whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “The blood of the dragon recognizes its own. It will stay here, by the throne. It will grow strong, and in time, we shall see it reclaim the skies.”

Tywin takes a step forward, his tone measured and laced with warning. “Your Grace, this creature is not a mere pet—it’s a wild beast, born of fire and blood. Keeping it here in such close proximity to the court is—”

Aerys cuts him off with a vicious snarl. “It is mine! It belongs to me and to my daughter! It will stay where I command, and you—” he points a shaking finger at Tywin, his eyes blazing, “—you will remember your place.”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing more, recognizing the futility of arguing further. The court remains silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Everyone knows that challenging Aerys now would only lead to more bloodshed, and none are willing to risk their lives in the presence of both a mad king and a dragon.

The pyromancers bow low, their eyes gleaming with eager anticipation. “As you command, Your Grace. We shall prepare the throne room to be the dragon’s new lair. It will be a place worthy of its presence, a shrine to the rebirth of your house.”

Aerys smiles, a twisted, satisfied grin that sends a shiver down the spines of all who see it. “Yes,” he murmurs, stroking the air as if he were already petting the dragon’s scales. “This will be our sanctum—the heart of fire and blood. The dragon will stay here, where all can witness its glory.”

The dragon lets out a low growl, its eyes shifting between Aerys and the gathered court, as if it understands the weight of what has been proclaimed. The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, knowing that this new “child” of Aerys could just as easily turn on them as it could serve the king’s ambitions.

But Aerys remains entranced, his gaze never leaving the dragon as he whispers to himself, lost in his fevered dreams of power reborn. The court is dismissed, but no one dares move until Aerys waves a dismissive hand, lost in his own world. The courtiers leave as quickly as they can, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, a reminder of how far the realm has descended into madness.

As the last of them depart, the dragon curls at the foot of the Iron Throne, its eyes half-lidded as it watches Aerys with a gaze that is both predatory and curious. Aerys remains beside it, mumbling incoherently about fire, blood, and destiny, oblivious to the dark path he has chosen for himself and his house.

The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold that clings to your bones as you sit on the edge of the bed, your hand outstretched while Maester Pycelle inspects the wound left by your father’s dagger. His fingers are cold and dry as parchment, trembling slightly as he cleans the cut, murmuring in his usual pedantic tone about the necessity of avoiding infection. The scent of herbal salve fills the air, mingling with the distant echoes of the chaos still unfolding in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar stands by the window, the soft glow of dusk casting shadows across his face. He stares out into the night, lost in thought, his posture tense and his eyes troubled. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, ever protective. He hasn’t left your side since the moment you escaped the throne room, and though he remains silent, you can feel the weight of his concern in every glance he sends your way.

Pycelle’s mutterings are a dull hum in the background, your focus entirely on the tight line of Rhaegar’s mouth, the subtle slump in his usually straight shoulders. Finally, when the maester finishes wrapping your hand in clean linen, you find the strength to speak the question that has been gnawing at you since the madness in the throne room.

“Rhaegar… what happens now?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they leave your lips. You’ve always known your father’s grip on sanity was tenuous, but tonight felt different—darker, more final.

Rhaegar’s sigh is heavy, filled with a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years. He finally turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours, and in them, you see the burden of responsibility that he carries like a shroud. “Now?” he echoes, the word hanging in the air. “Now we try to hold this fractured realm together while our father plunges deeper into his delusions.”

Arthur shifts his weight slightly, his jaw tight as he struggles to contain his own thoughts. He glances at Rhaegar, then back at you, but remains silent, knowing this is a conversation between brother and sister first.

Rhaegar crosses the room and takes a seat beside you, his hand resting gently over yours, careful not to disturb the bandage. “I’ll talk to him,” he says, though there is little hope in his voice. “Once this feverish madness of his has dimmed down, I’ll try to reason with him. He must understand that what happened today cannot continue.”

You shake your head, doubt gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. “And what makes you think he’ll listen? He was… convinced that the dragon was our child, that it was born from us.” The words stick in your throat, bile rising as you recall the twisted gleam in Aerys’s eyes when he proclaimed the dragon a gift of your blood.

Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression hardening as he forces himself to remain calm. “He’s lost in his fantasies, yes, but there are moments—brief as they are—where he’s still lucid enough to recognize reality. We need to be patient and wait for one of those moments. If I can find that opening, maybe I can convince him to focus his obsession elsewhere.”

Arthur’s voice, low and firm, cuts through the tense silence. “You shouldn’t have to navigate this alone, Your Grace. The longer the king’s madness goes unchecked, the more dangerous he becomes—to Y/N, to the realm, to everyone.” His words are carefully measured, but the undercurrent of anger is clear. The thought of you being forced into another horrifying situation like the one in the throne room clearly torments him.

Rhaegar nods, though his eyes remain shadowed with doubt. “I know, Arthur. But what would you have me do? We are trapped in a court ruled by fear, with our own father sitting at the heart of it like a ticking time bomb. Any direct challenge to his authority could spark civil war.”

You bite your lip, the weight of your brother’s words settling like a stone in your chest. You can feel the walls closing in, the oppressive sense that there is no escape from this nightmare. “Is there really no way out of this?” you ask, your voice small and filled with a desperation you hate showing.

Rhaegar’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of the brother you knew before all of this—the one who would comfort you with songs and stories when the world outside seemed too dark to bear. “I’ll find a way, Y/N. I promise you that, even if it means I have to make decisions I never wanted to make.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “I won’t let him destroy us.”

Pycelle clears his throat, finishing his work and shuffling back a step. “The wound should heal without issue, Princess. Keep it clean and avoid straining the hand. I’ll prepare more salve and have it sent to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Maester Pycelle,” you reply automatically, though your attention is still fixed on Rhaegar and the quiet resolve hardening in his gaze.

The maester bows stiffly, casting a wary glance at Arthur before retreating from the room. Once the door closes behind him, the room feels smaller, the air thick with tension and unsaid fears.

Arthur finally speaks again, his voice a low rumble. “Whatever your plan is, Rhaegar, know that I’m with you. We can’t let him harm her—or anyone else—again.”

Rhaegar meets Arthur’s gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them. “I know I can count on you, Ser Arthur. But until we figure out a solution, we must tread carefully. We cannot afford to provoke our father into something even more catastrophic.”

You nod, feeling a mixture of gratitude and fear swirl within you. You know Rhaegar is trying his best to protect you, but the weight of your father’s madness is a heavy one to bear, and you can’t help but feel that it’s only a matter of time before something—someone—breaks.

“I trust you, Rhaegar,” you say softly, though the words feel fragile, like glass on the edge of shattering. “Just… promise me you won’t let him drag us all down with him.”

Rhaegar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a brief moment, you see the depth of his fear mirrored in his eyes. But he forces a small smile, squeezing your hand one last time before standing. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

With that, he takes his leave, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Arthur remains by your side, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor amidst the swirling uncertainty. He watches you carefully, his concern evident even in the silence that stretches between you. “Get some rest, my lady,” he finally says, though his tone is gentle, almost tender. “You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”

You manage a faint nod, your exhaustion catching up to you as the events of the day settle like a leaden weight in your limbs. But even as you lie down, pulling the covers around you, sleep remains elusive. Your mind races, filled with the image of the dragon’s eyes—their unblinking, knowing gaze—and the twisted words of your father as he proclaimed the creature a child born of your blood.

As you finally drift into a fitful sleep, Arthur remains close by, ever watchful, ever ready to defend you. But even with him there, the darkness creeping at the edges of your thoughts is impossible to ignore.

You wonder how much longer you can hold out against the rising tide of your father’s madness—and what will be left of your family when the storm finally breaks.

Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable but cold, calculating. His piercing green eyes scan the room as Jaime and Cersei stand before him, their postures tense. The usual arrogance in Cersei’s gaze is muted, replaced with unease, while Jaime leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his casual stance belying the seriousness of his expression.

“What we’ve witnessed today,” Tywin begins, his voice low and deliberate, “has shaken the foundation of this court more than any whisper or scheme could have. A dragon has been born, and with it, the Targaryen madness has been given a new life.”

Cersei’s eyes flash with anxiety as she steps forward, unable to keep her unease hidden. “Father, this changes everything. If Aerys has control over that creature, it strengthens his position—and his madness. He already considers himself untouchable, but now… now he’ll see himself as invincible.”

Jaime chuckles darkly from his position near the wall, though there’s no humor in it. “Invincible? The man is already half a corpse in his own mind, clinging to delusions of grandeur. That dragon is more of a threat to him than to anyone else in this castle. But still,” he adds, his expression turning grim, “it complicates things. Our position at court was precarious enough, and now we have to worry about Aerys using that beast to tighten his grip even further.”

Tywin steeples his fingers, his gaze distant as he considers their words. “You’re both correct. Aerys’s obsession with this so-called ‘rebirth’ will only drive him deeper into his madness. He’s unpredictable enough as it is, but now he believes he’s found proof that the gods favor him. If he sees that dragon as a weapon in his hands… well, that could make him far more dangerous than we’ve ever seen.”

Cersei steps closer to her father, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we must act quickly. Rhaegar and his sister clearly do not support Aerys’s madness. They’re our best chance to take control of this situation. If Rhaegar were to become king… and if I were to be his queen…” Her eyes gleam with ambition, the familiar hunger returning as she imagines the power that could be within her grasp.

Tywin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps approval—in his gaze. “That is the path we have been working toward, Cersei, but it is not without its dangers. Rhaegar is a cautious man, and while he despises his father’s madness, he is still bound by duty to the Targaryen name. We must tread carefully. Any overt move against Aerys could lead to bloodshed, and with a dragon in his arsenal, even the smallest provocation could have devastating consequences.”

Jaime pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms as he approaches the table. “I’ve been stationed near Aerys for long enough to know that he’s on the edge. One wrong move, and he could turn that creature against anyone he perceives as a threat. And if that happens, none of us—Rhaegar included—will be safe.”

Tywin’s eyes narrow as he considers his son’s words. “Which is why we must ensure that the dragon remains under control—or neutralized if necessary.”

Cersei frowns, her brows furrowing as she processes the implications. “You’re suggesting we find a way to… dispose of it? That would require subtlety, and the king’s attention is entirely fixed on it.”

“Not necessarily,” Tywin counters. “Aerys’s obsession with the dragon could be his weakness. If he becomes too focused on it, it may give us the opportunity to manipulate him in other ways. We can bide our time, waiting for the right moment to strike. But make no mistake—if the situation continues to spiral, we will need to act decisively. Aerys is a danger to everyone in King’s Landing, and now more than ever, that danger is real.”

Jaime’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “You mean more real than the wildfire he’s been stockpiling under the city? Or the executions he dreams of every night?”

Tywin doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, his gaze shifting back to Cersei. “Your focus must remain on gaining Rhaegar’s trust. He will be the key to any transition of power. If you can convince him that marrying you would stabilize the realm, then we can proceed from there. But until we know where his loyalties truly lie, we must remain patient.”

Cersei’s eyes gleam with determination. “I won’t fail, Father. Rhaegar is torn between his duty and his family—if I can show him that we’re the solution to that conflict, he’ll come to us willingly.”

Tywin nods approvingly. “Good. But remember—your ambition must be tempered by caution. Rhaegar is a man of principle. If he suspects we’re using him purely for our own ends, he’ll shut us out. He must believe that aligning with us is not just the best option, but the only option.”

Jaime runs a hand through his golden hair, glancing between his father and sister. “And what if Aerys decides that the dragon is the answer to all his problems? What if he starts using it to cement his control—publicly?”

Tywin’s gaze turns steely, his voice cold and unyielding. “Then we will do what must be done. But that is a last resort. For now, we watch, we wait, and we maneuver carefully. The dragon may be a tool of fear, but fear can be wielded by those with the will to seize it.”

As the conversation draws to a close, Cersei’s thoughts churn with a renewed sense of purpose. She knows that winning Rhaegar’s favor is her path to power, and now, more than ever, she’s determined to succeed. The image of her sitting beside him as queen flickers in her mind like a beacon, drawing her forward, regardless of the dangers that lie in her path.

Jaime’s smile returns, this time with a hint of bitter amusement. “We’re all dancing on the edge of a knife. Let’s just hope we’re the ones holding the hilt when it all comes crashing down.”

Tywin’s silence is all the confirmation they need. The Lannisters, like everyone else in King’s Landing, know that the game is changing. The dragon in the throne room is not just a creature—it’s a symbol of the chaos that now reigns over the capital.

But chaos, Tywin knows, can be controlled. If they play their cards right, this madness could be the key to seizing the power they’ve long desired. And in the end, power is all that matters.

-A/N: Did I just played with the idea of the Mad King having a dragon in his arsenal. Yeah, I did. And nobody in Westeros will have a fun time with it. And words 'fire and blood' are used far too often, but it's so fitting.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #a song of ice and fire #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #got #arthur dayne x y/n #arthur dayne x you #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne #rhaegar targaryen #aerys ii targaryen #house targaryen

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anna-proxx · 3 months

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pretty please can we have arthur morgan falling in love with hyperfem! reader? ur stuff is always so so yummy,, no pressure ofc! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

⭒✧⋆｡guns n' bows ✧⋆｡⭒

pairing: Arthur Morgan x hyperfem!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst (good ending)

summary: Arthur finds himself adoring a dainty woman who joined the gang a while ago. It suddenly becomes clear to him he has fallen in love.

word count: 3294

tags: high honor arthur, fem!reader, (mutual) pining, arthur being a sweetheart

a/n: thank u so much, dolly! i had a few ideas on how to approach this and decided to make it more story-based and focus on arthur's inner process as he realizes he's in love with the reader (as i would imagine it to go). if you'd like something a bit different, lmk! i've been wanting to write a hyperfem fic for a while now, so i had fun with it. also, i'm thinking about writing a pt. 2 where i'd focus more on the reader's pov and have arthur express his feelings more (be a cutie around her) and confess his love. <3

dividers by @saradika / @saradika-graphics

✮ masterlist

Arthur Morgan wasn't used to being gentle with people. His hands were rough and calloused and his muscle memory trained to draw his guns and shoot. They were meant to be a weapon, to protect and harm for the people he considered his family.

Perhaps he had it in him, but there was no reason to be soft and gentle – the world was just as rough as him and he was assigned the burden of fighting against it. The softest he could get was between the pages of his journal as he wrote about his thoughts and sketched owls and beavers and when he patted dogs and talked to his horse.

But most of those were away from prying eyes and frankly, the role of a dense criminal prized for his brawn comfortably fit around his overlooked qualities, as that was all he needed to be. To survive, to fulfill his role.

And yet you saw right through it. Of course you did, you had a good heart, open to whoever you saw goodness in. While some might write Arthur off as a rugged criminal only, you noticed his edges weren't as sharp as he tried making them seem to be.

His duties were violent, sometimes brutal, the earth soaking up blood of his enemies and his image reflecting in their eyes as the last thing before they closed them forever. To some, he was their biggest nightmare. He wasn't a good man, to believe so would be naive and foolish, but he wasn't all bad either, as some would think.

Your heart was big enough to accept his sins and leave the judgment to whatever was above, meanwhile you sought his presence as it brought you a strangely warm sense of security and comfort. Like moth to a flame, his different nature allured you. Hardened on the outside and soft-hearted on the inside.

Perhaps that was the reason you found yourself liking this big outlaw. Scooted towards him at the campfire, or sat nearby and watched him as he lied on his cot and scribbled something into his journal.

You might've been fragile and soft spoken, but you weren't stupid and your intuition on people was like a radar you could wholeheartedly trust. So you did.

Arthur didn't exactly know you sometimes looked for his presence, but he did notice you were comfortable around him.

It baffled him a little – you were so small compared to him, wearing lace and frills and cute little bows in your hair and yet you didn't seem to be intimidated by his appearance or demeanor at all. It sparked joy inside of him whenever you'd come to him blabbering about the rainbow you saw or gave him a soft smile as your eyes met.

You never treated him with judgment or revulsion, despite knowing very well your morals were against everything he was doing. Just how big of a sweetheart were you to do that? He never said it, but it meant a lot to him.

He felt as though you weren't even a part of all this. You were like a gem among roughened stones or a flower growing in gravel, reading in your tent and braiding your horse's mane while he washed blood off his hands.

And truth be told, because of that, he found you to be soothing and healing for his battered soul. It was so different, to be around someone like you.

You brought out a side of him he didn't know he had, one that was more tender than he was used to be. He didn't feel so angry or cynical, even after a job gone wrong. When he was with you, being gentle was easy.

At the beginning, when you first fell with the gang, it was doubt and hesitation he felt towards you. You were so... untouched by the world's cruelty, so innocent and open-hearted.

Arthur assumed you were naive and feeble, not only in the physical sense but mental as well. The world posed a huge threat to someone like you and he was worried you wouldn't survive in such circumstances. He was convinced you'd run after a few weeks but you did no such thing.

As the months passed, you stayed with the gang, patient and resilient while remaining soft and feminine. You helped where you could and offered a listening ear to anyone who needed it; even managed to get Arthur to open up to you when you two were alone. And you barely ever complained, even ate all Pearson's stews though you must've been used to eating fine food. And you lit up the space wherever you went. Your optimism was invincible. How the hell were you managing to do that?

It dawned on him he must've terribly underestimated you and his doubtfulness turned into admiration and intrigue. You were one fascinating little thing.

Things have been going quite downhill, so he kept checking up on you and you always had a warm smile to offer. You were still sweet and charming, even with the law on your tail.

You were his polar opposite, gentle waves of the sea splashing against hard rocks hot from the sun. Soft clouds concealing the sky after a raging storm. A calm rain on a hot summer day.

Arthur had no intentions of falling in love ever again.

But his heart was a sneaky little traitor.

Dusk softly illuminated the lake's surface when he found you sitting on the pier, your feet splashing in the water. You put your shoes beside you and held the skirt of your dress at your knees to avoid getting it wet. It was your favorite, white and pink, the corset decorated with little bows at the front. Your locks curled loosely over your shoulders, a light pink bow tying some of it at the back of your head.

You looked so vulnerable and cute lost in your thoughts like this, your feet creating creases in the water as you idly watched them. You had no company with you, only a couple of ducks swimming nearby and butterflies fluttering their wings around your head.

Arthur wondered what your mind was occupied with and before he could properly think it through, his steps directed towards your small frame lit by warm light.

You were pondering on the events of the past few weeks when the heavy steps on the wooden planks caught your attention. Turning your head to look up at the person coming, your eyes lit up as you saw it was your favorite one.

"Arthur!" you called out, your big doe eyes digging a pit in Arthur's stomach.

"[Name]. How are you?" His gaze lingered on you as he stood before you, his hands placed on the gun belt around his hips. You found the concern sweet. Instead of it being a casual phrase, his eyes studied you for an actual answer.

"Good, I think. What about you?" Your voice was smooth like honey and inviting, giving the outlaw something to lean into.

"'M alright," his voice rumbled as he shifted on his feet, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Ya like this place?"

You shortly looked around, taking in the view of the trees and dim sky reflected back in the peaceful lake.

"I do, it's such a charming spot." You looked back into Arthur's face, catching a hint of a smile on his lips.

"'M glad to hear that."

You could almost hear his goodbye that would follow but before he had the chance, you spoke.

"Come on, join me." You patted the spot next to you and slightly turned your body towards Arthur when he sat beside you.

Arthur was a bit at loss of words, always quick with his witty responses but uncertain around you. Your flowery perfume overcame him, then the sight of your rosy cheeks and full lips. You looked like a doll, looking at him through your long lashes with the most innocent look in your eyes.

For a moment your company made him forget about everything. He felt like just a man instead of a sinner, leaning into the silent acceptance you provided him.

You swung your feet in the water. "What did you do today?" you asked kindly, no trace of judgment.

Arthur sighed, recalling the day's events. "Robbed a stagecoach, had to shoot 'em guards. Met a few of the O'Driscoll boys too."

He wasn't one to sugarcoat things, especially when there was no reason to. You knew what kind of person he was and despite you never expressing disgust, he knew you must've had certain sentiments of him and they were all true. He was no better than the crooks he fought. And yet, with you, he wished he was.

Your gaze found his hand resting over his knee, barely dried blood on his knuckles.

"Oh, Arthur!" You took his hand in his, examining the damage with focus as you held his palm with both your hands, yours small in comparison to his.

Arthur's breath faltered in his throat. A lukewarm feeling settled in his chest and slight panic ran through his mind as he was slow to realize just what was happening. The warm touch of your smooth fingers was unusually intensive and he wished for the moment to never stop, as if he ever cared for such things.

He felt silly for it. What was happening with him? Why did he feel such fondness at your delicate hands cradling his, the slight blush on your cheeks, the flyaway hairs around your head?

He furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar tightness in his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat picking up on pace.

He hasn't felt this way ever since...

"Your poor knuckles," you mumbled while gently running your finger over the bruises. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen them healed."

Your tone was nothing but caring, as if Arthur hadn't used the fist to break someone's jaw. You put his hand away, putting yours in your lap as you continued bathing your feet in the water and watching the thoughtful look on Arthur's face as he softly looked at you.

Arthur cleared his throat, chasing all the crazy thoughts away. "And how's yer day been?"

You tactfully ignored the change of topic and played around with your necklace as you spoke. "Well, it was alright. I've been doing chores almost whole day, then went to Rhodes for some supplies with Tilly and Javier. He also taught me a bit of one Spanish song!"

Oh did he? A pang of jealousy struck him. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Arthur, everything okay?" you asked, your brow furrowed at the sight of his troubled expression.

"Sure, 'm... just tired, that's all."

You nodded, looking at the sky coloring itself in blueish grays. "Yeah, I might go to sleep earlier today as well, I reckon."

Pulling your feet out of the water, you started putting on your shoes while Arthur stood up, offering you a hand by the time you were done. You smiled up at him and accepted his hand, being effortlessly pulled up to your feet.

"Thank you, Arthur."

Your voice wouldn't leave his head, even after you walked towards your tent, disappearing from his sight. He walked to his own one in a trance, left with many unanswered questions in his head.

This wasn't like him, even less to be so confused by his feelings. And yet, as he lay in his cot that night, he kept going back to the moment at the lake, imagining what it would've felt like to brush his fingers through your soft hair or cup your cheek.

Another heavy sigh.

Only yesterday you were still just you. A kind girl they had rescued when she had nowhere else to go, a young woman who–

No, who was he kidding. The warning signs had been there long before; the warmth in his chest whenever he saw you, that little jump his heart did when you said his name, the joy he felt when you asked him for small favors.

It gnawed at him, the sense of knowing he tried pushing away.

He fell in love with you. Somewhere along the way, without taking notice. As complicated and messy it would make things, in a way, admitting to himself the feelings he had for you felt relieving.

How was he so stupid not to realize sooner?

He loved the way you got excited over making flower crowns and how you'd weave some for the girls. He loved when he saw you consoling and comforting Karen into putting the bottle away, or even being kind to that bastard Kieran. He loved when he found you playing with Jack, letting him put flowers in your hair. He loved your feminine gaze, the one that would capture all his attention, or how your kindness towards him made him feel. As if there was still hope for him, as if he wasn't damned after all.

But there was a tight knot in his stomach. He might've set himself up for another heartbreak. How could you want someone like him?

Arthur fell asleep riddled with contradicting thoughts that night.

The new reality of being in love with you gave him a sort of solace. But it wasn't until morning that he decided he could only do one thing – keep his distance. For both his and your sake.

You were beautiful and dainty like a rose, but he was the thorns.

Arthur did as he promised to himself – despite the stolen glances and wishful thoughts split in half, he would avoid you, though it wasn't as apparent as he's been so busy lately. Not like he would complain about that, if anything, it took his mind off you, even if not for long.

Above all he wanted to return to camp after a difficult job and be close to you, talk to you, feel your calming presence.

What he didn't expect with his plan was how much it would wear him down.

But the last thing he wanted was to hurt you, which he assumed would eventually happen, or lose his head for someone who wouldn't reciprocate the same feelings back.

He returned to camp late today. In the middle of the night when everyone was already asleep. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in his cot, his shoulders slouched as he got down from the saddle and patted his horse a good night, unsaddling him to give him some rest too. The night was quiet and tranquil, like peace after a storm, given how Arthur's day went.

It has been weeks since Arthur had realized he had feelings for you by this point and looking towards the tents, he couldn't help but wonder whether you were alright. He hasn't been around much lately, so he could only guess you continued to be true to who you've been since the beginning. With ribbons in your hair and a dreamy look in your face.

He sighed at the image. What a lovestruck fool he was.

He missed your sleepy eyes and the little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you were confused.

As if something listened to his wishes, a small figure emerged from the shadows and he realized it was you.

Wearing your undergarments, bloomers with frills and lace, you made your way straight towards him. Your hair was in two braids tied by pink ribbons, though a bit messy from sleep, and the loose strands of hair tucked behind your ear.

He froze in place, watching you get closer while his heart went a little crazy. A part of him was happy to see you approaching him, whatever the reason for that was. It made him feel fuzzy inside and that scared him more than any gunfight.

"Arthur!" you called out for him with a slightly shaky voice, not stopping your steps until you stood right before him.

Arthur fought the urge to reach out for you as he saw you small and vulnerable, looking up at him with need, his heart struck with fear when he noticed the little tears in your eyes.

"[Name], what's wrong?" There was urgency in his voice, a worried look in his eyes and panic coursing through his veins.

You held a sob as you spoke, hugging yourself with your arms, a few of the loose strands falling into your face.

"J-just a nightmare. I woke up so s-scared." You started to shiver as you recalled the frightening images. As soft as you were on the outside, you had a vivid imagination and your nightmares could get very eerie and gruesome, causing chills to travel up your spine every time the memory flashed before your eyes.

Arthur's instincts now clutched his heart tightly, a knot tying itself in his stomach. He hated seeing you like this, helpless, afraid and trembling. The sight of you awakened every bit of his protective nature and he didn't want anything more than to hold you and never let you go, even put his life on the line just to keep you safe.

He didn't think twice.

"Aw, c'mere," he proposed in a low warm voice, enveloping you in his embrace gently enough to give you the option of changing your mind.

But you snuggled into the hug instead, a small sob escaping you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, your arms barely connecting behind his back.

He was so warm and firm and you have never felt safer in your whole life. The anxiety was slowly mellowed out, filling your heart with affection instead.

Arthur breathed in your scent and it made him feel lightheaded, and to feel your soft warm body pressed against his felt like a dream.

You were so delicate in his arms and your exposed skin made it hard for him to keep his thoughts straight. He was a gentleman of course, but his heart raced nonetheless and he feared you could hear it beating against your ear.

"It's okay, t'was just a dream." His voice was soothing and warm, and it worked like a charm. He consoled you with strokes on your back, his big palms hot through the thin layer of your undergarments.

"What horrible thin' did ya dream 'bout?" Arthur asked, his embrace not loosening around you. He was quite happy like this, protecting you between his arms, as if you always belonged there.

You kept your face nuzzled to his chest, comfortably leaning into the hug.

You started talking about the dream and he listened. A monster, you said, something big and deranged sneaking its way around to its victims. You rambled about the details, your descriptions a mess as you spoke in loose tangles.

Arthur slightly smiled at your stuttering, it made you even more adorable than you already were, though he didn't know it was even possible.

He would kill anyone who'd dare to touch you.

"'M the only scary thing 'round here 'm afraid," Arthur muttered, his chest rumbling under your head.

"As if," you retorted with your voice muffled, certainty in your disagreement.

It caught Arthur off guard a little and nervousness arose in him as he asked the following question. "You ain't scared of me?"

He knew if there was even an ounce of fear in you, it would've killed him.

You looked up at him, your eyes big and glossy. "I feel safe with you, Arthur."

His heart dropped and he looked into your eyes completely baffled, not grasping how such a sweet creature like you could say such a thing to him.

You felt safe with him.

You did.

He felt vulnerable under your gaze; not even heavens could make him feel so exposed. He was afraid you could read his thoughts with that pretty mind of yours as you held the eye contact, that you could recognize how much he was now melting and crumbling inside.

So much for being a tough hardened criminal.

He felt like a teenager again. The sweating hands, tingles in his stomach, it was all back.

Arthur tightened his embrace, cuddling you closer.

As he held you under the starry sky, your tiny arms wrapped around him, he was sure of one thing.

He could do many things. But staying away from you was not one of them.

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