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delysiadayne · 1 year

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*DREAM WEAVER.

*NAME: Delysia Dayne *TITLE: Ruling Lady of Starfall *AGE: thirty-two *FACECLAIM: Aditi Rao Hydari

we welcome delysia dayne to winterfell , the ruling lady of starfall. keep an eye out for their insidious nature, they tend to cover it up by acting oracular. rumor has it they are against the peace treaty, and their loyalties lie with house dayne and house martell. you’ll know it’s them when you get flashes of golden sands shifting within an ornate hourglass; a trail of smoke off a freshly-blown match, rising to the ether; the deflective intrigue of the occult; the equal presence of beauty and terror; a gaze not unlike the moon — cosmic and obscured and unreachable.

DETAILS, HISTORY, & WANTED CONNECTIONS UNDER THE CUT!

✨ BASICS.

FULL NAME: Delysia Dayne

FAMILIAR NAMES / ALIASES: The Amethyst of Starfall; The Lilac Raconteuse ( to the Martell family members who know of her spy work )

TITLES: Ruling Lady of Starfall ( acquired through birth )

AGE: thirty-two

GENDER: demi woman

PRONOUNS: she / they

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual

RELIGION: Faith of the Seven, but also a healthy mix of the occult and other religions found throught Dorne.

LANGUAGES, IN ORDER OF FLUENCY: the common tongue, a few dialects of Low Valyrian, bits and pieces of the language of Asshai.

ALLEGIANCE: House Dayne and House Martell / somewhat uninterested in forging alliances outside of the Dornish and their existing allies, but not opposed to it.

✨ PERSONALITY.

POSITIVE TRAITS: adventurous, disarming, eloquent, observant, gregarious

NEUTRAL TRAITS: calculating, creative, enigmatic, inventive, mistrusting

NEGATIVE TRAITS: delusive, hedonist, narcissistic, self-indulgent, untruthful

ALIGNMENT: chaotic neutral

CHARACTER ALLUSIONS: Holly Golightly, Serena van der Woodsen, Audrey Horne, Daisy Buchanan, Luna Lovegood ( ? ), Melisandre, more tbd.

✨ PHYSICALITY.

FC: aditi rao hydari

APPEARANCE: although her features do not necessarily indicate Valyrian descent, Delysia’s physical attributes do somewhat reflect what has been written in the history books of the famed Valyrian beauties of old.

HAIR: a warm chestnut brown, with natural silver-gold highlights running throughout. kept waist-length and gently curling, and occasionally adorned with beads and headdresses in the dornish fashion.

EYES: strikingly lilac, with the outer part of the iris a deeper violet shade.

HEIGHT: 5′6″

NOTABLE FEATURES: a markedly expressive brow; half-lidded doe eyes that can seem vacant and incisive all at once; fingers adorned with rings and hands clear of any sign of menial labor; the general countenance of youth concealing a penchant for private mischief.

SCENT: cloves, saffron, violet, pink pepper, oud, citrus.

✨ HISTORY.

( aka im *still* too tired from holiday shenanigans to write a proper bio so here is a bullet-list summary of del’s whole vibe! )

Although House Dayne has historically been celebrated for their expert sword-wielders, it is worth noting that there has long existed an air of magic and mystery about the House, from its inception to its present day.

Delysia Dayne, the firstborn child of the previous Ruling Lady of Starfall, has embraced the latter trademark of the house since her youth, despite her parents’ and councillors’ best attempts to shape her into someone more befitting of the title of Ruler.

When her temperament and interests revealed themselves by her teenage years, they largely hoped she would abdicate her role to one of her younger, better-suited siblings. However, Delysia, far too attached to the privileges that came with being the heir apparent, simply refused and proceeded to carry on in her own individual way, answering questions with riddles and deflecting responsibility for more interesting pursuits.

In youth, she cultivated a more-than-recreational pastime of palm-reading and other occult practices. Delysia was well-suited to the mystical, not because she was easy to trick into belief, but because she held skepticism and intrigue in equal measure. The practices — no matter how ill-perceived they were by others — felt, in some way, like a divine connection to her forebears who, too, had reportedly used magic to raise their House to greatness.

Despite being born into nobility, the first people Delysia loved were the commonfolk, of Essos, instilling in her the fervent passion to chase excitement wherever it may be had. What first started as a small whirlwind of a girl, winds changing course upon the slightest gust of something new, has since developed into an entirely hedonistic woman, devoted to a life of leisure.

For a while, it was a sustainable way of life. The responsibilities of ruling were not passed onto her while her mother still lived, and her siblings could play at being council members throne-sitters while she chased whatever interested her: lovers, songs, experiences, and the like.

Like any good thing consumed to excess, this lifestyle grew to bore the younger Delysia, and she soon took to inventing excitement of her own. It started small, with the invented slip of a rumour invented against one of her family’s rivals, a rumour which then build up into a legend of its own and saw them dismissed from court.

She’d long been a creative sort, easily dreaming up stories to pass off as truths and divining truths from something as ambiguous as dreams. This, combined with a talent for observance and the already limited expectations placed on her due to her supposed ‘airiness’, led her to strike up a partnership with Abraxas Martell to act as his spy.

It’s a role she’s held in secret for a few years now, telling lies in order to gain truths from others, and using her talent with cards and other practices of the occult to convince Dornish foes and neutral parties of various beliefs to bring about the Dornish interests to fruition.

At thirty-one, she succeeded her mother as the Ruling Lady of Starfall, a role she has only now begun to cherish for the connections and access it provides her in order to better fulfill the roles she truly loves: that of spy, and storyteller.

✨ WANTED CONNECTIONS.

once again, I’m too distracted to form up more specific connections, so here are some generic ideas! hmu if you’d like to plot anything at all, and i’ll be adding to this list / del’s plots page soon <333

the old cat-and-mouse rival spies !!

regulars who go to her for their card or tea leaf readings

ladies in waiting ; would love to play around with someone spying on her, but also a close confidante !!

paramours, current or past !

previous betrothals, since broken

personal guard(s) who lowkey hate having to keep track of her / follow her around on her little adventures

council members / advisors

that first love she’s not quite been able to let go of

fellow nobility she’s known for most of her life ( friends and frenemies welcome! )

someone who never expected to be taken in by delysia’s charm, and insists they haven’t — but there’s proof to suggest otherwise

bonus points if they trust her only to inevitably get played by her later on

her ever-dreaded betrothal

the stannis to her melisandre ( though she’s less heretical than mel, this would be a fun dynamic to play around with! )

the sibling(s) who had to put up with delysia’s childhood wants — likely with rolled eyes, but a hand outstretched nonetheless !! ( pls...im always soft for a sibby connect <3 )

#rfms.intro #// no that's not the official house words but it looked pretty okay #and as per this is all over the place pls love del anyway <3

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theparanormalperiodical · 3 years

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Everything You Never Knew About The Nazi UFO Conspiracy Theory (it’s a wild ride)

Oil.

You could tell the story of the modern world through oil.

The thick, sticky liquid is the dark glue clobbering the West together. Nations go to war, governments plot and plunder, and innocent people get caught up in the crossfire. All for oil.

But the oil I’m talking about didn’t start a war. It instead leads us to a little known historical tale. A tale that in turn brings us to the front step of a conspiracy theory.

Our story starts in Queen Maud Land, Antarctica.

It’s currently -46 degrees celsius. We are surrounded by soft, white stretches of snow and sharp, mountain-esque peaks breaching the ice.

But some would have you believe there is much more to the land lying just beyond the North Pole. According to some theorists, beneath the frost-bitten ground lies an entire hidden society. And amongst the people gathering in this underground bunker sits technological advances quite literally out of this world.

In 1938, an expedition from Nazi Germany was sent out to take control of Queen Maud Land (known then as New Swabia) in order to supply whale oil for the upcoming war in Western Europe.

Theorists, however, claimed that after the war, the remaining Nazis in Europe fled to New Swabia and may have even kept and developed their advancements in aircraft technology. Yes, it is here they keep and dispatch their UFO technology, helped only by a superhuman race or aliens!

Strap in, kids. It’s time to talk about the messy, mysterious and my-god-this-is-weird-shit Nazi UFOs.

2010 was a pretty tame year by the decade’s standards.

But in late November, a meme was born. A meme that probably relaunched a conspiracy that once thrived in a postwar world: it claimed aliens paid a visit to the guys at the top during Nazi Germany’s heyday and offered up advice for advanced aircraft technology.

Ancient Aliens (season 2 episode 5) gave us innocent viewers the lowdown on the UFOs spotted during and after the war that were supposedly related to Hitler’s regime.

This theory clusters alongside other Ancient Aliens theories - that extraterrestrials have popped down now and then to help construct vast civilisations like Ancient Egypt.

Is it true?

Is it bugger.

But the theories and the evidence put forward frame a unique time in history.

What are Nazi UFOs?

The title of this theory is far from imaginative. The theory claims the Nazis were successful in advancing aircrafts and spacecrafts during WW2. But there is also talk of postwar survival of this technology, whether concealed at the North Pole or hiding in plain sight at NASA.

We know that the Nazis made vast strides in engineering and weaponry. In fact, the ‘evidence’ route forward by theorists relies heavily on accounts from high-up figures in the Axis countries.

Take the Repulsine: this was a specialised engine built during the war. How far was the stretch from this feat of engineering to alien-tech? Is it possible that an advanced race of extraterrestrials stopped by with a few tips and tricks?

Apparently so, as put forward by the claims of the Haunebu flying saucer and the occult-inspired Die Glocke (the existence of both of these aircrafts is, of course, highly disputed).

Nazi UFO believers should get some credit, however - they at least did some research. They got their facts right on three crucial pieces of evidence, before losing control of the wheel and skidding off the track completely.

Firstly, yes, we know they claimed New Swabia in 1938 for the purpose of obtaining whale oil and potentially for imperial pursuits, as well.

And yeah, they researched advanced propulsion tech. They even created a prototype of a circular-winged aircraft that looks preeeeetty similar to your run-of-the-mill UFO.

They even get right that there were flurries of UFO sightings during the war by allied forces.

But as soon as 1950, outlandish claims emerged, mere years after Germany surrendered and the Allies claimed victory. But we need to start at the beginning.

The year is 1944.

The end of the war is just on the horizon. The Allies have liberated Western Europe from Nazi grip. But a new, surprising threat is in the soldiers line of sight, too.

It was a cold, November evening. Lt. Fred Ringwald was in a night fighter piloted by a fellow Lieutenant. As they soared above the Rhine valley, the two american soldiers spotted something in the hills of Strasbourg.

8 fiery, orange lights were staring back at them.

They were sure, as any fighter pilot in that situation, that this was enemy aircraft. And yet nothing showed up on the radar. As soon as they turned the plane to prepare to fight, the orange lights had disappeared.

Many would attribute such sightings to combat fatigue, St. Elmo’s Fire (weather phenomena during a storm where glowing plasma appears near masts) or the fact that pilots would have seen many aircrafts clogging across Europe's skies.

But soon, the sightings began to spread. And fast.

In December, a pilot saw “5 or 6 flashing red and green lights in ’T’ shape.” in the skies near Breisach, Germany. They followed him but quickly vanished.

Days later, two orange glowing lights were spotted by two more flight crews.

They rose from the earth to 10,000 feet before tailing the fighters for approx. 2 minutes. They then stopped following the allied planes and disappeared.

“They appear to be under perfect control at all times”

Keith Chester

These sightings would become so common, they’d be given a nickname:

Foo fighters.

Scientists would go on to investigate them, later decoding them as advanced German aircrafts and weaponry. As they were only spotted by allied forces, it was likely they were advancements such as the V-1 or V-2 rocket.

But after the war, UFO sightings continued to apparently connect the dots:

Project Sign, an official US UFO investigation team, linked the designs of the German Horten brothers to UFO reports. The head of the follow up investigation confirmed some of their findings:

“When WWII ended, the Germans had several radical types of aircraft and guided missiles under development. The majority were in the most preliminary stages, but they were the only known craft that could even approach the performance of objects reported by UFO observers.”

Captain Edward J. Ruppelt, 1959

It was only after the war that accounts from former officials of the Axis regimes appeared to support these claims.

The first newspaper report forging a connection between UFOs and the crushed Nazi regime was written by a former Italian Minister of National Economy under Mussolini’s regime:

"types of flying discs were designed and studied in Germany and Italy as early as 1942"

But this doesn’t suggest aliens airdropped a PDF of flying saucer designs. We know that flying saucer aircrafts can and have been created.

A similar account from a Czeh scientist spurred on another key element of this conspiracy theory.

Die Glocke.

December 9th 1965.

All is peaceful in the small town of Kecksberg, Pennsylvania. That’s about to change.

Six American citizens in Detroit, Michigan, Windsor and Ontario witnessed a fireball score across the sky. NASA later claimed that this was a meteorite or a Soviet satellite crashing back to Earth.

UFOlogists weren’t so sure.

Many claim they saw a large object the size of a VW Beetle spotted with strange symbols, like hieroglyphics, being carried out by a truck from the area cordoned off at the crash site.

UFOlogists believe they recovered The Bell, an occult-alien-hybrid spacecraft.

Apparently, such claims bear a similarity to the designs of an aircraft laid out in a Wehrmacht document about a vertical take-off craft. And then Rudolph Schirever, the man claiming he designed it during the war, gave a statement the same month something crashed to the earth.

He told Der Spiegel that he designed a craft powered by rotating turbine blades. He developed it until April 1945 at BMW in Prague before fleeing to the Czeh Republic, as it is now known. 3 years later, he claimed the designs were stolen.

He thinks Czeh agents nicked his ideas for a foreign power.

Could it have been for an underground society of failed Nazi war criminals stowed away in underground base in Antartica?

(That was a mouthful.)

Many have attached their own take to Die Glocke.

Some believe it was anti-gravitational, others claim it was a time-machine. Some claim a Nazi colonel handed it over to the US military to buy his freedom, and a few even allege that the US forces forced Nazi scientists to build Die Glocke and advance it’s anti-gravity technology.

This stuff is pretty out there.

Quite literally.

But the last bit does fit actual history: US forces did bring over Nazi scientists to advance their space technology.

Postwar Theories

When historians began to reflect on the war decades after it ended, new ideas banking on UFOs followed suit.

In the 1960s, one of these most infamous theories was put forward in the controversial book The Morning of the Magicians.

It made numerous claims about the mysterious and fictional Vril Society which was based on a novel about superhuman-angel-alien beings that lived inside the Earth. In 1935, a German engineer fled to the US spouting claims that the Nazis did indeed have a society dedicated to finding the Vril.

The Morning of the Magicians claimed the Vril Society was a precursor to the Nazi party amongst other ideas. They supposedly created flying disc prototypes and had a secret base on the moon.

Oh, and about that Antarctica underground base?

It’s so the Nazis can vanish into the Earth and meet that advanced race living down there.

Jumping onto this New Swabia bandwagon was Ernst Zündel.

This Holocaust denier (*stares into camera*) wrote many books throughout the 70s claiming flying saucers were secret weapons released from this base. He even claimed he would attempt to locate the base and reveal the Earth was crammed full of aliens this entire time!

In 2002, he let slip that it was a big ruse to bring in more cash for his publishing company.

At the end of the decade, Migeul Serrano gave it a go. He was a Nazi sympathiser and believed that Hitler was the avatar (a deity on earth) of a Hindu god. Apparently he was hanging out with the hyperborean gods (Greek gods that are stowed away at the North Pole) underground until he was ready to release UFOs and bring in the Fourth Reich.

The last, infamous proponent of this theory had physical, real-life consequences.

A year after Serrano made his claims, Richard Chase professed that Nazi UFOs had forced him to commit numerous brutal and bloody crimes under threat to his own life.

Chase is one of the most infamous serial killers in history, earning the title the Vampire of Sacramento due to his reputation for murder, rape, cannibalism and necrophilia. These claims can be traced back to his schizophrenia which prompted him to believe prison officials were poisoning his food as directed by Nazi UFOs.

***

I think sometimes it’s easier for us to frame the atrocities committed by the Nazi regime within the context of something the horror genre would spit out. We’d much rather spin tales of occult rituals and far-out entities than admit actual humans did what they did.

It’s no surprise that following the war, a surge in movies detailing alien invasion emerged. It fit the fears of impending doom from a foreign, fascist government, a reality for many nations during WW2.

What do you think is the craziest claim?

If you liked this blogpost, make sure you like and reblog it. And while you’re down there, hit follow to read something spooky every weekend!

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kvetchlandia · 4 years

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Out of darkness I come, a woman. I carry a child, and have forgotten whose it is; Once I knew. But now there is no longer any man for me . . . Behind me all of them have disappeared like rivulets The earth drank dry. And on I go and on. Before the day I must be in the mountains, and already constellations fade. Out of darkness I come. Through shadowed streets I walked alone, Then sudden, lunging light with talons ripped soft blackness, As a panther fells a doe, And a door flung wide spat ugly screams, demented howling, beastly cries. And men rolled drunken in the street. I shook them from my skirt as I walked past. And then I crossed the empty marketplace. Leaves swam in puddles where the moon was shining. Emaciated, greedy dogs sniffed garbage on the stones. Fruits rotted squashed; An old man dressed in rags still bowed his poor, tormented strings And raised his thin, discordant, mournful voice Unheard. Those fruits had once grown ripe in sun and dew, In happy fragrant dreams of loving blooms, But the whimpering beggar Had long ago forgotten this, and thought of nothing but his hunger and his thirst. Before the palace of the mighty I stood still, And when I trod upon the lowest step The flesh-red porphyry burst cracking underneath my sole.— I turned And gazed aloft to barren windows, to the midnight candle of the thinker, Who pondered, pondered, but could not invent redemption from his doubt, And to the muffled lamp within the sickroom, Where the patient would not learn How he should die. Beneath the bridge Two horrid skeletons disputed gold. I raised the gray shield of my poverty before my face And passed them by unharmed. Now, far away, the river whispers to its banks. And now I stumble forward on the stony, stubborn path. Jumbled rocks and thistles wound my groping hands: A cave awaits me That conceals inside its deepest crack the bronze-green, nameless raven. I will enter And crouch down to rest beneath the sheltering shadows of his giant wings, And listen, drowsing, to the silent, growing word my child speaks, And sleep, my brow turned eastward, Until sunrise.

--Gertrud Kolmar, “Out of the Darkness” 1938

---

Aus dem Dunkel komme ich, eine Frau. Ich trage ein Kind und weiß nicht mehr, wessen; Einmal hab’ ich’s gewußt. Aber nun ist kein Mann mehr für mich ... Alle sind hinter mir eingesunken wie Rinnsal, Das die Erde trank. Ich gehe weiter und weiter. Denn ich will vor Tag ins Gebirge, und die Gestirne schwinden schon.

Aus dem Dunkel komme ich. Durch finstere Gassen schritt ich einsam, Da jäh vorstürzendes Licht mit Krallen die sanfte Schwärz zerriß, Der Pardel die Hirschkuh, Und weit aufgestoßene Tür häßliches Kreischen, wüstes Gejohle, tierisches Brüllen spie. Trunkene wälzten sich . . . Ich schüttelte das am Wege vom Saum meines Kleides.

Und ich wanderte über den verödeten Markt. Blätter schwammen in Lachen, die den Mond spiegelten. Magere, gierige Hunde berochen Abfälle auf den Steinen. Früchte faulten zertreten, Und ein Greis in Lumpen quälte noch immer sein armes Saitenspiel Und sang mit dünner, mißtönig klagender Stimme Ungehört. Und diese Früchte waren einst in Sonne und Tau gereift, Träumend noch vom Duft und Glück der liebenden Blüte, Doch der wimmernde Bettler Vergaß das längst und kannte nichts anderes mehr als Hunger Und Durst. Vor dem Schlosse des Mächtigen stand ich still, Und da ich die unterste Stufe trat, Zerbarst der fleischrote Porphyr knackend an meiner Sohle.— Ich wendete mich Und schaute empor zu dem kahlen Fenster, der späten Kerze des Denkenden, Der sann und sann und nie seiner Frage Erlösung fand, Und zu dem verhüllten Lämpchen des Kranken, der doch nicht lernte, Wie er sterben sollte. Unter dem Brückenbogen Zankten zwei scheußliche Gerippe sich um Gold. Ich hob meine Armut als grauen Schild vor mein Antlitz Und zog ungefährdet vorbei.

Im Fernen redet der Fluß mit seinen Ufern.

Nun strauchl’ ich den steinigen, widerstrebenden Pfad hinan. Felsgeröll, Stachelsträucher verwunden die blinden, tastenden Hände: Eine Höhle wartet, Die im tiefsten Geklüft den erzgrünen Raben herbergt, der Keinen Namen hat. Da werde ich eingehn, Unter dem Schutz der großen schattenden Schwinge mich Niederkauern und ruhn, Verdämmernd dem stummen wachsenden Wort meines Kindes lauschen Und schlafen, die Stirn gen Osten geneigt, Bis Sonnenaufgang.

--Gertrud Kolmar, “Aus Dem Dunkel” 1938

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flamehairedwritings · 4 years

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The Fire In Your Eyes: Chapter One

Main Characters: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY for violence, gore, character deaths, animal deaths, swearing, sexual themes and sex.

Summary: Saved by Arthur Morgan when her town is attacked, a young woman’s past comes back to haunt her when she has no choice but to join the Van der Linde Gang.

The Fire In Your Eyes Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or re-post my work; credit does not count.

Stand Unshaken

Ada knew she’d checked the locks on the doors. Twice. She knew she had. She knew they were locked.

But what if when she’d checked them the second time she’d accidentally unlocked one? Or all of them?

Blowing out a breath, she turned onto her back for the countless time in the last hour, brushing her curls away from her face with her forearm before settling her arm above her head.

Staring at the bed canopy, she drummed her finger tips against the pillow.

Go to sleep.

Usually it was fine. Some days she just had to check them once then that was it, she could sleep.

Some nights, she couldn’t.

One more time, then that’s it, I’ll really know.

Exhaling a long breath, she pushed the covers from her body and slid her legs off the bed, lowering her feet to the floor. The cold wood reminded her it was a ridiculous time of night to be doing this, but she soothed the silent argument with another one more time.

Fumbling for her robe from the back of her chair by the window, she tugged it on and wrapped the cord around her waist as she peered through the gap in the curtains. Lantern flames flickered in the town of Strawberry in the near distance, some dwindling in the late hour, and beyond the roofs of the furthest buildings the moon shone through the tall trees.

And there was no sign of any human movement anywhere.

Pushing her hair over her shoulder and rounding the bed, she found the doorknob and carefully opened the door. Avoiding where she knew the boards would creak, she moved quietly down the hallway, past Annie and her mother’s bedrooms, the doors firmly shut. They were both light sleepers but she had mastered the art of silent walking long ago, even in the dark knowing each step to take.

One hand found the banister as the other lifted her robe so she could begin descending the stairs.

Her foot landed on the bottom step when she heard it.

Pausing, she stopped breathing, straining to place the sound in the distance.

Is that thunder?

The newspaper had warned of an incoming storm─

Rapid gun fire echoed up from the valley of the town.

Ada’s eyes widened as her head snapped up.

Oh, Lord, please, no...

Floorboards creaked above her but it was an inconsequential sound compared to the screaming, yelling and gun shots that started to rise.

Move.

Darting forward, she grabbed the Repeater propped by the front door and pressed her back to the wall by the nearest window. Lifting the curtain, she peered out. She could only make out glimpses of the frenzied movement occurring below, the house situated too far up the hill behind the town to get a clear picture─

Oh, God.

Flickering lights started to grow larger, rising up the hill.

“Miss!”

Jolting, Ada spun to see Annie running down the stairs, gripping the skirt of her nightdress, her eyes wide.

“Annie, get back up─”

“Miss, what’s happenin’?”

Reaching out to her, Ada gripped her forearm, holding her steady as she stumbled on the last step. “I think there’s an attack on the town, Annie, I need you─ Annie, look at me, please.” She gripped her arm a little tighter when the other woman whimpered, trying to regain her full attention as Annie tried to look over her shoulder, managing to catch her gaze. “Annie, I need you to take Mama down the back stairs and to the barn, the noise should have woken Adam, he’s probably already getting the horses ready, so I need you both to take Mama away, all right? I need you to all get away.”

Annie nodded several times, her eyes still wide in terror. “Yes, Miss, I will, I─ Wait, Miss, where’re you gonna go?”

“I’m going to get you some time.” Ada quickly continued as Annie whimpered again and opened her mouth to interrupt, “You remember the place we all talked about, don’t you? The one past the dam? I’ll meet you all there, all right? I won’t be long.”

She waited until Annie nodded before she released her, gently pushing her towards the stairs. “Good, go on.”

Turning as soon as she knew she was running back up the stairs, Ada returned to the window, her heart thumping in her chest as the lights drew nearer, so near she could start to make out the shapes of the people carrying them: five men. Men with hoods concealing their faces and guns in their hands.

Calm down, calm down, focus.

“Ada? Ada, darling?!”

She ignored her mother’s calls, ignored the tugging they drew at her heart. She could hear Annie gently coaxing her towards the backstairs, and focused on the men. They were walking up the path now and she didn’t move, knowing the darkness of the house would keep the little of her face peering out hidden. For the next few minutes.

Drawing back the hammer on the Repeater, she clenched her jaw as she adjusted her grip, blowing out a slow breath.

Then, they paused, the one on the far left nudging the man beside him. All their heads turned. Her brow started to dip, when she suddenly realised.

They started to run in the same moment she did.

Running through the family room to the kitchen, she swiftly withdrew the bolts that kept the back door locked and wrenched it open. Racing out, she ignored the cold, wet mud that clung to her bare feet as she ran along the dirt path.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the barn, the wagon rolling out of it carrying her mother, Annie and Adam. Adam was trying to gain control of the two horses pulling the wagon, tugging at the reins and murmuring to them as they danced about, jittery from the noise and each other, their ears twitching.

Ada tried to run faster, seeing the men, closer than she was, approaching the barn in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t look at them, though, if she did then something might happen to her family, she couldn’t look away, she couldn’t look away, don’t look away─

Gunshots fired, and it was as if they tore through her. She came to a juddering halt, her eyes wide. Adam fell first, his white hair blinding against the dark of the night. She heard Annie scream, before it was suddenly cut short. Then her mother stood, her head and shoulders appearing above the sides of the wagon.

Ada wanted to scream out to her. She wanted to tell her to get down, to stop being so foolish, get down, Mama, please, please, please─

Gunshots rang out, and then there was silence.

Run.

A voice in her brain was screaming at her but the message didn’t reach down to her feet. A cold numbness swept over her body as the men approached the bodies but she couldn’t look away from the wagon. Couldn’t look at the men. Couldn’t look at the bodies.

Run.

The men were looking over them, searching pockets, taking things from them.

For God’s sake, run.

One of the men lifted his head.

A bullet whizzed past her shoulder and she jolted back into her body.

They saw her.

Before she knew it, she was running. Back towards the house, around it, down the path. She could hear them calling after her, taunting, laughing.

Irish voices.

Oh, God, no...

She forced herself to just focus on how far away the voices were and that they weren’t shooting at her.

She didn’t slow as she ran down the hill. Screams from the centre of town and gun fire started to overtake from the noise of the men chasing her, and, rounding down the bottom of the path, she froze suddenly, her senses assaulted by the sight before her.

Flames and smoke billowed up from various buildings, making the air thick and heavy. People were running and shouting, some trying to fight back, others fleeing in every direction. She had to swiftly lunge to the side to avoid a horse that suddenly appeared from the depths of the thick smoke and raced past her, it’s eyes rolling as it screamed.

God help us all, this is going to be a massacre.

The yells of the men behind her as they also dodged the horse had her running again, taking advantage of what she could.

She ran into the smoke and haze.

The main source of activity seemed to be coming from the Sheriff’s office, so she turned right before the bridge, running past the doctor’s office. The door was wide open but before she could look a man knocked against her shoulder as he stumbled past her and she turned her head, reaching out to him to warn him that he was heading into more danger when he collapsed, and she saw the blood soaking the back of his shirt, spilling out into the mud.

“Hey, girlie, where’re you goin’?”

Inhaling sharply at the voice behind her, Ada turned, gripping the Repeater with both hands.

A man, his face unconcealed, grinned at her. Soot and flecks of blood covered his skin, but his green eyes shone brightly. “What’ve you got there, girlie? You got a gun?”

His Irish accent was gentle, maybe in another time and another place soothing, but his gaze on her was hard, unyielding. A hunter with it’s prey.

Raising the gun, aiming at his chest, she grit her teeth in an attempt to stop her voice from shaking. “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

Pure delight spread across his features as he raised his hands.

“Oh, c’mon now, that’s no way to welcome someone to your town, is it, darlin’?” He took a sudden step closer, making her recoil a step back in return, nearly slipping in the mud. “I’ve had a long, hard day and I just want to have a chat with a pretty girl, all righ’?”

“Don’t come near me, please.”

“‘Please’? Oh, darlin’...” He started to lower his hands, his grin still wide. “I do like hearin’ you beg─”

She squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked back slightly, knocking against her cheekbone, but she barely felt it. The man made a strange, groaning sound. Looking down, he appeared dumbfounded as his hand pressed over the hole in his chest.

“You bitch...” He almost slurred the words as he looked up at her. “... You shot me. You fuckin’ bitch.”

He went for his gun.

She squeezed the trigger again. He fell to the ground with a harsh, choking sound, his arms and legs splaying out. She kept the gun trained on his chest as she stared down at him, watching his body twitch. Then, he stilled.

She didn’t move, breathing hard.

An explosion near the Sheriff’s office made her jump and finally tear her gaze away from the corpse.

Keep moving.

Lowering the gun, Ada went to take a step and swiftly stopped herself. Keep moving where? She didn’t know when the screaming and gunfire stopped, but the town was quiet, eerily so. She could hear voices from somewhere but they were calm, conversational. She started moving away from them, quickening into a run when she heard a separate set of voices to the right of her; men coming down the south path. She ran to the cabin on the bank of the river, crouching low as she moved to the front door.

Opening it an inch or two, she quickly assessed the room, finding it, mercifully, as empty as it had been for the past few weeks. Stepping in and closing the door behind herself as quietly as possible, she kept low, leaning down on one knee, and peered out of the nearest window. Buildings were still burning, keeping the town covered in a blanket of smoke.

She couldn’t see a damn thing.

Ducking down again, she pressed her back against the wall, keeping the gun tight against her chest. She took a moment to debate her options; wait until they were gone, if they ever did leave, or try and escape now and risk being seen?

Think, think, think.

If she could get into the cover of the trees, she could lose them if she was seen, but, no, she still needed to actually get out of the town. Exhaling sharply, she closed her eyes, mentally mapping out the town and its exits in her mind.

The stream.

Yes, she could follow the water down by walking along the bank, it’d be freezing but she could round the bottom─

A door opened.

She was on her feet in seconds, gun raised.

A man paused in the door way, his hands instantly raising. “Woah, miss, easy.”

He was an American, but so had been one of the men who’d chased her. He didn’t have a hood on, but there was a black bandanna tied around his neck. Her gaze quickly darted behind him, seeing a window in the room behind him open. Why would he come in discreetly if he was part of the gang? Then again, she didn’t recognise him and this was a damn small town. And the guns strapped to his waist spoke for themselves─

“Easy, miss, it’s all righ’. I’m not with them.”

Her gaze flicked back to meet his. He probably had practically seen her mind racing, debating.

“It sure looks that way,” she countered, her finger hovering over the trigger.

He kept his eyes on her, not moving a muscle, and it should have bolstered her that he was taking her seriously but it just made him harder to gauge.

“I’m not. They’re the O’Driscoll’s, ma’am. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of ‘em.”

Ada inhaled a shaking breath but her hand didn’t tremble as she kept the gun trained on him.

Yes, she’d heard of them.

Swallowing thickly, she adjusted her grip on the Repeater. “Who are you, then? A bounty hunter?”

A laugh escaped him, a short, rough sound. “No, ma’am, I am not.”

“I take it you’re not a lawman of any kind.”

“No.”

“Answer my question, then.”

He regarded her for a moment or two before finally speaking. “I’m Arthur Morgan, I’m with the Van der Linde Gang.”

Oh, them she’d also heard of.

She lifted her chin slightly, her gaze flicking over him once more. “I read about you in the paper. I read about what you all did in Blackwater, what you’ve done.”

“Have you now?”

“You’ve all got a high price on your heads. Especially Mr van der Linde.”

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly, something having amused him. “Yes, we do.”

“Why should I believe you’re any different than the O’Driscoll’s?”

The amusement vanished. “’cause we actually got morals, unlike these animals. Dutch always says feed people as needs feedin’, save people as needs savin’... I think you need savin’, miss.”

The words were out of her mouth before he’d even finished his sentence. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrows rose. “With all due respect, you ain’t. We ain’t the best of people but we’re better than them.”

It was now her turn to regard him. ’Gentleman Dutch’, an article had once called the notorious outlaw, in exterior alone above and beyond─

A gunshot sounded from the other side of town, making her jump and Arthur stiffened, though, thankfully, her finger was no longer over the trigger. His hands lowered as he looked out the window behind her, his jaw moving.

“Miss, I’m gonna need you to make a decision.”

She stared at him. She thought of Adam, of Annie, of her mother, of the people of this town, if there even were any left.

She had no choice.

She made her decision.

Lowering the gun, Ada clenched her jaw. “Shall we go out the front door or the window?”

“Down.”

“What─”

He lunged towards her, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her down. Yelping, the gun dropped from her hands as she fell to the floor, Arthur leaning over her as the window above them shattered and glass rained down upon them.

Bullets exploded into the room and she could hear the sound of them embedding into the wall opposite.

“Shit,” Arthur hissed under his breath, his arms trapping her in, keeping her down.

Once the glass had stopped falling, he moved away from her and into a crouch. Pulling the guns from the holsters at his waist, he peered over the shards still in place before quickly ducking down again, a bullet flying past him.

“God damn it...”

She looked away from him as he started to fire back, her gaze slowly falling to the glass surrounding her.

Focus on this. Work out how to get through this.

Carefully shifting her feet under her, Ada ignored the slight jolts of pain of some of the shards biting into her. Reaching her hands out, she pressed them down onto a clear space of floor, dug her toes into the ground and gently pushed herself forward, trying to stay down as she moved. Retreating behind a counter, she pressed against it, her gaze finally returning to the man.

Arthur was still shooting back but they both knew they were overwhelmed, the bullets battering against the cabin making that very clear.

Ducking down to reload his guns, he looked over at her, assessing her.

“We’re gonna need to run.”

“I know.” She couldn’t help the slight bite to her tone.

“These feller’s ain’t gonna let us go easy.”

“I know,” she repeated, arching an eyebrow. “So, what’s the plan? You get yourself out of these things all the time.”

The gunfire ceased.

Matching her expression, he then peered over the edge of the window again. “Well, ma’am. That I do.”

Holstering his guns, he opened a satchel she hadn’t previously noticed around him. Searching in it, he pulled what looked like some sort of red tube from it.

Then, when he removed a pack of matches, she realised very quickly that it was not just a red tube.

“That’s not exactly subtle,” she protested, even as she crawled across the floor to the room this man had first appeared out of.

“Yeah, well, sometimes you need a distraction.” Shifting to his knees, Arthur glanced at her as he struck a match against the floor. “Get ready to run.”

Lighting the stick of dynamite, he hurled it out of the shattered window in the same moment she rose to her feet. Running through the door and across the room, narrowly avoiding striking her hip against the bedpost, she pulled herself through the window, Arthur right behind her.

Jumping over the fence on the back porch, Ada ran towards the river, her original though not thought out plan the only thing in her mind. She heard Arthur still behind her, following, and didn’t know whether to be glad or terrified that he apparently hadn’t thought of the next step whilst she had.

Arthur caught hold of her upper arm when she stumbled as the dynamite exploded and the ground shook, and started hauling her over the rocks.

She ignored the sound of wood cracking apart and shouting as she ran, the sharp edges of the rocks biting at her bare feet and cold water soaking her legs and robe, though Arthur’s firm hold on her kept her upright and moving. Finally reaching the grass of the hill, he released a short, sharp whistle as he started to pull her up it. She heard the faint whinny of a horse and her gaze darted about the treeline. Then, a black horse broke through the bushes and cantered towards them, tossing it’s head.

Gripping the back of the saddle and pommel as the horse came to a stop, Arthur pulled himself up, staring across at the path leading to the town as he settled in the saddle.

“Come on.” Holding his arm out to her, he pulled her up behind him once she took hold of his forearm. “Hold on.”

Seizing the sides of his coat just in time, Ada held on tightly as Arthur pushed the horse into a canter, guiding it down the hill and across the stream. Once over, he urged the horse into a gallop, taking them down the main road. The horse was fast, but her heart was still pounding. Would they have men patrolling the outskirts of the town in case anyone tried to leave or arrive? Would they come after them?

They soon came to the Dakota River, a bridge holding a train track high up to their right. Slowing the horse a little, he guided it towards the river. A quiet, involuntary sound left her as cold water, kicked up by the horse’s canter, fell upon her feet and legs, making the robe and nightdress underneath cling to her skin.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder. No one was following them, yet.

On the other side of the river, Arthur kicked the horse back into a gallop, taking them down the path to their right.

“They comin’?”

His voice took her by surprise and irritated her slightly, as if being silent was what was keeping them safe. Ada looked over her shoulder again, finding the road empty.

“No. I can’t see anyone.”

“All right. We might’ve lost ‘em, then.” With a gentle pull on the reins and a quiet murmur, he brought the horse down to a trot, patting the snorting animal’s neck. Rolling his shoulders, he exhaled a short breath. “Keep an eye out, though. They could send two or three.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the path behind them. They both fell silent, the only sound the horse’s hooves against the dirt and the occasional whistling of birds in the trees.

“What’s your name, miss?”

Oh, Lord.

It was a valid question, but it startled her.

“Annie Sawyer,” she lied smoothly.

He may have claimed to have morals and be treating her kindly now but who knew what him and his gang would do if they found out who she was. Well, she could probably take a pretty good guess.

“All right, Miss Sawyer, I’m gonna take you to where my gang is hidin’ out, okay?”

“Where are they?”

“Now, I ain’t gonna tell you but I ain’t gonna blindfold you, all right?”

Her jaw moved. “Fine.”

Wonderful. That’s probably a great sign of trust to him.

“We ain’t gonna be able to stop at any point, I don’t want anyone associatin’ us with what happened back there and I don’t wanna give ‘em a chance to lead ‘em back to my people.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”

She tightened her grip on his coat once more as he urged the horse back into a gallop, leaving behind the smouldering remains of Strawberry and her home in the distance.

Comments, reblogs and likes make my day in a way I can’t describe.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in this series!

Questions?

I have literally no idea who to tag for this, so if you don’t like/reblog/comment I’ll untag you next week, no worries at all!!

Tagged: @sergeantangel, @belfry-bat

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan x original female character #rdr2 fanfiction #flamehairedwritings #my writing #red dead redemption 2 #i'm a smidge nervous about this #i've been writing it for a year #let's see how it goes

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victoodles · 5 years

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Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 5)

follow the series on AO3 and make sure you read part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

The water’s crisp chill envelops you wholly; it feels good against your bare skin - invigorating. You’re weightless, swimming among the stray bluegills that happen your way. Worldly burdens don't follow you beyond the lake’s edge.

Like water off a duck’s back.

You reemerge to the surface, wet hair clinging to your back and you push the remaining strays off your forehead. The evening air nips at exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

It doesn’t bother you none. It instead acts as a reminder that you’re still capable of feeling such sensations.

And helps to assuage the guilt.

It’s a crushing weight on your chest, one that seems to get heavier the more that time keeps slowly inching forward.

You’re still here.

And others aren’t.

You pray the mountain waters can cleanse you of a stain that has plagued you since the fall of Beaver Hollow.

No.

Even weeks before that. Since Blackwater, starting with a nameless girl on a boat and ending with Hellfire. Fate pushed one domino and the ensuing fall condemned the Van der Linde’s to a pattern of bloodshed, destruction, and death.

So much death.

You’re still here.

Why are you still here?

You shouldn’t be here.

You stifle a cry, biting your lip until it withers and dies in your throat. These types ideations are incessant, rapid thoughts that show you no mercy. And it doesn’t seem like that will change anytime soon. You float on your back and look at the stars above in an attempt to calm them.

The irony is almost as painful as the losses you’ve endured.

You’re a hunter, a survivor: self taught through books, trial and error, and pure tenacity. What once was worn as a badge of honor now casts an ugly scar across your heart.

Jenny, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly, Susan.

You lived.

And they died.

It seemed a higher power has deemed you worthier than other members of your family.

Was it really that simple?

Or could it be broken down to survival of the fittest? A complicated game of statistics and chances that predetermined everyone's worth.

What put you above others on this unknown hierarchy?

Failure.

Useless.

You couldn’t do anything to save them.

Just sit there and look pretty.

Tears silently roll down your cheeks and you ask aloud, why?

The moon has no answer. It just envelops you in its pearly glow as it continues to rock you against the gentle lake waves.

Arthur rouses with a drowsy call of your name, reaching over to find your side of the bed (unfortunately) empty. He calls for you again, a little more urgency in his voice as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

Again he is met with silence and he promptly rises from bed to investigate. There’s no threat or sense of danger but he can’t quell the twenty years of fear that came with his old lifestyle.

His jacket is gone from its usual perch on a chair; he instead spies it from the front window, crumpled on the shore.

Worry fuels him as he hurriedly heads outside, clad in only his union suit. Stray rocks and twigs poke at the bottoms of his bare feet but he can’t bring himself to notice or care.

Arthur’s anxiety bleeds into confusion when he notices your chemise laying just beside his jacket. He finally finds you, laying still and on your back a few meters into the water.

Rationality blows away in the evening breeze and Arthur dashes into the water. He calls out to you as he struggles to cut through the waves as fast as possible. Despite his size and strength, Arthur is no match for the tides.

Arthur garners your attention, and you’re quite calm in contrast to how frantic he feels and looks. Strangely enough it puts him a little more at ease but does nothing to alleviate his concern. You’re standing when he finally reaches you, your nudity barely concealed by the water’s edge.

Despite years of intimacy between you, Arthur still finds himself averting his gaze with a dust of red gracing his cheeks. Your chivalrous cowboy would still never dare to look upon you in any state of undress unless he knew you wanted him to. A fond smile finds its way to your lips as you cup his cheek, turning his face back towards you.

The poor dear is soaked in his union suit, not sparing a second to remove it at the chance you could've been hurt. Distress is still heavily apparent in his eyes and you feel just dreadful for worrying him so.

I’m okay.

It’s a blur between truth and lie; it calms him to know there’s no harm caused. But he is still bewildered, brow furrowed as he continues to look you over.

Yes there’s nothing physically wrong, but he knows you so much better than that. Arthur has learned how to conquer the battles that don’t require punches to be thrown or guns to be shot.

“What’s goin’ on?” It’s poised so simply, but the question runs much deeper. His gaze is intense - he wants to know everything. There's no reasonable explanation for dashing off in the middle of the night for a midnight swim.

“I,” you start but any semblance of an explanation gets stuck painfully in your throat. How do you begin to tell him the surge of emotions that scourge you?

Such ugly things…

Arthur patiently awaits your response. He doesn’t push or pull, demand answers before you’re ready to give them. Tears cascade down your cheek and he’s there to sweep them away with a calloused thumb.

“I,” you try again. “I don’t understand.” You’re shivering but it isn’t from the cold. “I don’t understand, Arthur.”

Arthur cups your cheek with a reserved tenderness. “Understand what, darlin’?” He genuinely wants to comprehend your anguish, if you’ll let him.

“Why I’m here. Why I was deemed more deserving to draw another breath when,” the grief claws its way to the surface. “When others died.”

Say their names.

“Sean, Lenny, H-“ the one that hurts the most is the hardest to speak. “H-Hosea. They’re all gone and I couldn’t do anything to save them.”

Your tears are incessant, falling harder, faster, and Arthur’s hold on you shifts to your shoulders. It’s grounding, and you wish you could thank him for that right now.

“It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have-”

“Couldn’t have known?” You interject. “Of course I could’ve! Dutch was on a downward spiral, it was painfully apparent how flawed his supposed ‘plans’ were!” Tears burn in the corners of your eyes and your breathing becomes labored as your anguish wraps its gnarled hands around your throat.

“If I just spoke up, if I fought him even a little bit-“ Now it’s Arthur’s turn to interrupt as he takes your face carefully in his hands.

“Look at me,” he instructs and you hesitate to comply. He asks again, so sweetly this time it practically hurts to ignore. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes, not an ounce of blame or scrutiny.

“There was nothing you could’ve done. Dutch,” Arthur’s own pain comes out at the mention of his ex mentor’s name but he is quick to compose himself. “Dutch had us all fooled. Pretty words and speeches that were nothin’ more than hot air.”

“All our losses, all our failures, that’s a burden for his shoulders,” Arthur leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against your own. “Not yours.”

You press your forehead to his and revel in the feeling of his fingers against your skin. Sobs transition into sighs when he begins to kiss the tears away from your cheeks reverently.

“I’m here because of you.” It’s a reminder that steals the breath from your lungs. Arthur is alive, here in this world to live another day by your side.

“You say you didn’t fight hard enough? If you had listened to me, I would be dead and rotting on Roanoke Ridge.” The mere thought is more excruciating than any bullet to the chest and you can’t contain the sob that wracks you. Arthur shushes you softly with another well placed kiss.

“You did everything you could, darlin’.” You’ve done so much, and the gratitude Arthur has for your efforts is insurmountable. The crosses you’re bearing aren’t meant to be carried by you.

Give him your pain.

Give him everything.

“What can I do?” Another question that goes beyond mere simplicity. His lips are a whisper away from your own, awaiting your answer. Arthur would likely never shake the habit of willingly following orders. But if you were the one making the demands, he would fall to his knees and obey time and time again.

“Arthur,” his name sounds honeyed sweet as it falls from your lips. He graces you with a small smile while you think. You take his hand in yours, tracing it down your body and stopping just above your breast. Another endearing blush is cast across his face.

“Help me forget,” and you finally close the gap between the two of you, kissing him feverishly. Arthur responds in kind; he will gladly be a vessel for your desires if that’s what you need.

The moon continues to shine above, and it will continue to do so. Many had come and gone but Arthur was still here.

You’re still here.

And that is enough for now.

#vic's fics!#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader

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gifuto-baru · 6 years

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Olympian Aesthetics

TAGGED BY: @cineraceous ♡♡♡ TAGGING: hmmm. @kechirase and @der-ausgleich and... hmmmm! anyone. :-) do it and say i tagged u.

APHRODITE

laughter-loving, sweet smiles, dressed in silk and satin, flower in their hair, thrives on attention, sees the world as a runway, unapologetically sexual, the sea washing their ankles, in love with love, stirrer of passion, cunning concealed by painted lips, secret daggers, doves, revolution in their kiss, delighting in the waves, flirtatious winks, strolling along the beach, staring wistfully from a balcony, this is how to be a heartbreaker, your girlfriend thinks they’re attractive, wants to be adored, gets turned on by danger

APOLLO

glitz and glamour, art galleries, turning the volume up, being made of gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, bathing in the sunlight, the powerful urge to create, collecting vinyl records, beautiful cover of wonderwall, playing multiple instruments, tasting like sunshine, healing touch, speaking in prophecies, smile mingled wrath, shunning lies, sporting shades, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, sleeps naked, arrow to the heart, paint brushes, probably has a tinder account

ARES

armed for battle, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, soft spot for children, gives piggyback rides, scarred body, blood on their hands and face, willing to fight the world for the ones they love, fights against injustice, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, boxing gloves, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, fist raised in protest, ignites revolutions, fear is a prison, more sensitive than what their tough shell will make you think, exhausted, damaged goods, force to be reckoned with, red roses, curses under their breath

ARTEMIS

keen sense of a hunter, freckles like constellations on their skin, piercing eyes, disheveled braid, moonlight peeking through the shadows, the calm of the forest at night, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, mother doe and her fawn, protecting their kin, the moon shimmering on a still lake, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, running with wolves, bonding while circled around a campfire, not being much of a people person, arrow hitting a target, popping egos, patience on 3%, touches heaven and returns howling

ATHENA

discerning gaze, unreadable face, the patience of a lifelong teacher, quiet museums, owl dove perched on their finger, armor that intimidates, eye for architecture, plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, big fan of logic, loves brain teasers, go-getter, balls of wool displayed on shelves, ancient buildings, sweaters in neutrals and cool colors, hair done up, can kill you with their brain, heads to the library often to research, sharpened pencils, abs that can cut steel, stoic statues, pottery classes

DEMETER

soil-covered hands, smile that can bloom flowers, skin loved by the sun, being the mom-friend, can lift you and your friends, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, takes pride in their beautiful garden, speaks to their plants (elementals), leaves rustling in the wind, stalks of wheat, picking fruit, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, values simplicity, daisies dotted across a collarbone, curls crowned with flowers, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air

DIONYSUS

drunk shitposter, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, seductive smirks, untamed curls, rich fabrics on dark skin, sleek-furred panthers, theater masks, stage productions, receiving a standing ovation, rose caught between their teeth, being the baby of the bunch, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup, creeping vines, inspiring loyalty, grand opera houses, masquerade balls, rolls of film, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor, pouring champagne into flutes, lives for the applause

HEPHAESTUS

the calloused hands of someone who knows labor, sweaty brow, flame burning in their eyes, inventive mind, broad shoulders, steampunk goggles, nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes, ashes, striking a match, blueprints for future projects, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, wrestles with bitterness, work boots have seen better years, wrinkled plaid shirts, iron melted in blazing fire, huge jackets, crafting masterpieces, greased-stained overalls, fascination with robotics, pain is fuel, stack of weaponry, even their muscles have muscles

HERA

resting bitch face, dressed to the nines, cows grazing on a pasture, cool rain, loving and hating fiercely, hand clutching a string of pearls, large chandelier with glittering crystals, plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims, romance to realism, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, files that under ‘fuck it’, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix, like their selfie or you’re grounded, knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, marble and gold

HERMES

devil-may-care smile, ink-stained hands, always up-to-date on the latest technology, will steal your french fries, does it for the vine, shitposter, puts googly eyes on everything, meme hoarder, long drives on the highway, ma and pop diners, spontaneous road trips, folded maps, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, shooting hoops on the basketball court, chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations, goes jogging in the morning, mixes redbull with coffee, menace on april fool’s, hoodies and sneakers

POSEIDON

storm with skin, color coral reefs, waves crashing against the shore, the sea casting its spell, stroking the soft fur of a cat, their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, clothes smeared with paint, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns for more, leather jackets, fondness for DIY projects, handwriting that flows across the page, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, mood as ever-changing as the sea, the roar of a motorcycle, compass with a spinning arrow

ZEUS

thunder in their heart, running on coffee, flash of lightning, natural charisma, eloquence, badass in a nice suit, aficionado of history, force of nature, lenny face, pretends they don’t have feelings but they do, nightmare-filled nights, proud arm around their lover’s waist, high-rise buildings, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, technician on the piano, maintains order, strong handshake, juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease, most likely to be voted class president out of their peers, expensive watch

#● headcanons: kinda creepy the way you're staring.#some of these are so cursed and of course they apply to askin

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deadendranch · 2 months

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THE STALLIONS

All three American Curly Horses! From left to right we have DER Passing Breeze, DER Concealed by the Moon and DER Phantom Force.

#DER Passing Breeze #DER Concealed by the Moon #DER Phantom Force #dead end ranch #mette thorne #sims 3 horses #the sims 3 #bridlepath #equality sims #american curly horse #der #the sims 3 pets #western

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helplesslyinlovewithcharacters · 7 years

Text

Wait in Line: Chapter Three - Derek Hale x Reader

Summary: (Y/n) has been Derek’s best friend for as long as he can remember and he can’t help being hopelessly in love with her. But then he loses his family to the fire and has to leave before he can tell her and now he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again.

As always, thanks to @agirlwithpointlessideas

Pairing: Derek Hale x Female Reader

Derek Hale Masterlist

Wait in Line Masterlist

Derek’s eyes narrowed as he watched (y/n) talk to Jason, anger spreading through his body as the creep’s eyes continually dropped to her chest whenever she looked away as they waited in the queue. A part of Derek wanted to blame it on the full moon, but he knew that wasn’t it. He was contemplating homicide when Dan snapped him out of his somewhat graphic daydream.

“Why don’t you ask (y/n) out instead of being so protective over her?” Derek had to stop himself from snarling, not understanding how he couldn’t grasp the fact that it wasn’t that simple. A couple of his teammates shared anxious glances as they waited for Derek to respond. They all knew (y/n) was a touchy subject.

“I’m not protective of her” As he spoke, Derek’s eyes drifted towards Alex, making him wince slightly when he noticed the crooked ridge in his nose. Maybe he was a bit protective. Dan scoffed, turning to him with a smirk, he opened his mouth to speak when (y/n) sat down in the seat next to Derek, setting down her tray before turning to them with a bright smile.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing” Derek didn’t realise how loudly he’d spoken until people on the table opposite them started to turn around. He shot (y/n) a wide, painfully forced smile and hoped that she wouldn’t notice his teammates’ poorly concealed laughter.

“Okay?” Amusement shone in her eyes but she didn’t question him.

“So, (y/n/n), are you coming to the game on Friday?” She stared at Dan in surprised, she’d gotten used to the team not really talking to her.

“Uh-yeah, of course, I’m coming” Derek shot Dan a warning glare, knowing exactly where he was going. He wasn’t entirely sure he could keep it together for another twenty minutes before their next lesson.

“Are you going to the after party?” (Y/n) frowned, she wasn’t really a party person, always skipping them so she could hang out with Derek instead. All eyes focused on Derek as his teammates waited for his fuse to blow.

“I-I don’t know” She tried to catch Derek’s eye but he was focusing on the empty plate in front of him. “I guess we could go, right Der?”

His head shot up as he was soothed by the kindness in her eyes. A smile worked its way onto his face as he turned to Dan with raised eyebrows, silently challenging him. “Sure, we’ll be there”

For the rest of lunch, he ignored his teammates, focusing on (y/n) instead. She smacked his hand away when he reached for her chocolate milk but relented when he shot her puppy eyes that she should have been immune to by this point.

Derek downed what remained of the drink, humming in delight as he dropped the empty bottle back onto (y/n)’s tray. He watched as she bit her lip in an attempt to stop herself from smiling.

“What?” She laughed softly before wiping her thumb across the bow of his lip. Derek froze in place, his eyes locked on hers as he tried not to lean into her touch.

(Y/n) wiped her thumb on her jeans, giggling at Derek’s shocked expression. “You had a milk moustache”

Derek nodded dumbly and wondered if he’d be able to focus for the rest of the day.

The week passed far too quickly for Derek’s liking, the dreaded party making him nervous the entire time as he thought of all the stupid, embarrassing things his friends could do to him.

They won the game easily, but it didn’t give Derek the same buzz that it usually did, instead, as he left school with (y/n) he felt on edge. He passed off her worried questions with forced smiles and laughter, his knuckles white from holding the steering wheel as he promised to pick her up in an hour. (Y/n) turned to open her car door before taking his hand in hers and squeezing it reassuringly.

“We don’t have to go” Derek rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“It’s fine, we’re going” She worried her lip, her hand hovering on the door handle. “I promise, it’ll be fun”

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment before nodding her head and getting out of the car. When he was sure she was inside, Derek thumped his head against the steering wheel, she’d just given him a way out and he hadn’t taken it. Maybe it was because he knew she’d been looking forward to it all week or maybe it was because his friends would never let him hear the end of it if he didn’t show up. Either way, they were going.

Derek laughed as (y/n) stared at the party with a mixture of amazement and disgust in her eyes. He took her by the hand and led her through to the kitchen, nodding at Dan as a way of greeting while he surveyed the table of drinks in front of them. (Y/n) reached for a jug of coke before Derek pushed her hand away.

“I wouldn’t drink that” She frowned, tilting her head to the side in a way that was far too adorable for Derek to handle. He bent over the jug, wincing slightly when the strong scent of rum burnt his nose. “There’s rum in it”

Her eyes scanned the table before she reached for a jug of orange juice instead, she held it up to his nose, laughing when he turned away.

“I’m guessing that’s a no too” Derek nodded his head, letting himself relax as they searched for a drink that wasn’t spiked.

They stayed in the kitchen for a while, talking to their friends before venturing into the garden. (Y/n) was tucked under Derek’s arm, snuggling into him to avoid getting cold while they watched a very competitive game of beer pong. They laughed along with everyone until Derek was dragged into the game, he turned to (y/n), not sure if she’d want to be left alone but she nodded for him to go ahead with an encouraging smile on her face.

Derek didn’t pull any punches as he played, he spent the game convincing himself that he wasn’t trying hard to impress (y/n), instead he was simply enjoying a bit of silly competition with his teammates. That didn’t stop his stomach dropping when he turned around after winning to find that (y/n) wasn’t there.

Panic flared in his stomach as he pushed through the crowds and tried desperately to hone in on her scent but it was impossible to follow when everywhere reeked of beer and sweaty bodies. His heart was pounding in his chest and he swore it stopped when he finally found her.

(Y/n) was laughing as her friend, Abbie, pulled her into the crowd of dancing, intoxicated teenagers. She seemed to glow in the low lights of the room, everything falling into focus around her. Her face was flushed red as Abbie tried to get her to dance, her movements awkward as she struggled to follow the rhythm of the song.

Derek was stood in the doorway, his feet frozen in place until he watched Jason shove his way through the crowd to get to (y/n). In that moment Derek fully accepted the fact that he was protective of (y/n) and that there was no way in hell he was going to let Jason dance with her, even if it meant breaking his own rules. He rushed through the crowd, mumbling apologies as he went. Just as Jason went to reach for (y/n)’s arm, Derek stood in front of her, taking her hands in his and pulling her against his chest.

She stared at him with wide eyes as she shouted over the music. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping Jason” Derek leant down to whisper in her ear so that she could hear him, having to stop himself from inhaling, knowing that her scent would send him into a daze. Her eyes found Jason in the crowd and she immediately recoiled, pushing herself further into Derek’s arms.

“Thank you” He only nodded his head before he started to move with the beat of the song. (Y/n) smiled at him while she tried to control her blush. They were close enough that she could feel every movement he made. Swallowing her nerves, she brought their entwined hands to her hips before securing Derek’s in place. His eyes shot up to hers but she only smiled before closing her eyes and mimicking his movements.

Derek briefly wondered if he was being punished for something as he fought desperately to control his body and to stop himself from doing something stupid. His fingers flexed on her hips experimentally before he pulled her closer. (Y/n)’s only response was to snake her arms around his neck as she let him guide her movements. Derek couldn’t stop looking at her face, admiring every detail as she relaxed and let him take control.

They stayed wrapped up in each other until the song changed, Derek thought it was over, moving to step away from her so he could go outside and get some much-needed air. But as the next song started (y/n) turned in his arms before leaning back against his chest.

She didn’t know what had come over her but she continually convinced herself that it was only dancing and that it was perfectly normal for best friends to dance together even if the dancing had turned into grinding.

When Derek’s eyes started to flash amber, he knew it was time to stop. He really didn’t need to wolf out because he couldn’t handle dancing with his best friend. Grabbing (y/n)’s hand, he started to lead her through the crowd.

He pulled in a deep breath as soon as they made it out of the front door and willed his heartbeat to slow down. Derek bent over his knees, focusing on the smell of the grass and the flowers outside Dan’s door instead of (y/n)’s intoxicating scent that had invaded his senses.

“Derek, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He weakly nodded his head as (y/n) started to rub his back. She bent down, locking eyes with him and giving him something to anchor himself to. Derek’s heartbeat gradually returned to a normal pace as he straightened his back.

“Thank you”

“Did I do something wrong? You should have told me, I would have stopped” He grabbed her shoulders, effectively cutting off her rambling.

“It wasn’t you, I promise, it was just-everything was so full on in there. I was overwhelmed and I couldn’t focus” Technically it wasn’t a lie, he had been overwhelmed and unable to focus, it just happened to be for different reasons. (Y/n)’s eyes searched his face before she nodded.

“Home?” Derek let his forehead rest against hers and wondered how he’d ever been lucky enough to grow up and become friends with (y/n).

“As long as we don’t watch another Disney movie” (Y/n) pulled away, trying not to laugh as she scoffed in offence.

“Excuse me, what’s wrong with Disney movies?”

“Nothing, apart from the fact that we’ve watched them all a hundred times” They bumped shoulders as they made their way down the street to Derek’s car. He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for hers, not sure he could handle any more physical contact yet.

“Fine, Monsters Inc?” Derek turned to her with a frown. “What? It’s Pixar not Disney”

“(Y/n)”

She thought for a moment, pulling the passenger door open while her eyes followed Derek as he made his way around the other side. “Mission Impossible? It’s not like we’ve watched that a thousand times”

Derek grinned while (y/n) pouted. “I love you”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever” She snickered under her breath before turning to him with a soft smile. Derek pulled in a shaky breath as he started the car, he’d told her he loved her more times than he could count but somehow, it felt different this time.

#derek hale x reader #derek hale imagine #derek hale fluff #derek hale #derek x reader #derek hale series #young!derek hale #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf fluff

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tipsycad147 · 4 years

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The Witch’s Besom – How to Craft and Use Your Own Magical Broom

By RADIANA PIȚ

“Los Caprichos” print by Francisco Goya from 1799. As depicted here, the broom is most constantly thought of as a magical vehicle that carries the witch or the wizard to the sabbath or to a metaphysical world.

The besom or the witch’s broom is a humble and apparently common household object. It became associated with witchcraft at a time when it was believed that witches concealed their wands among the bristles of their brooms and consequently used them to fly on them to their nocturnal gatherings and sabbaths.

It was believed that an ointment was used on the handle of the broom that either made it levitate or made the witch hallucinate and gave her the sensation of flying when mounting it. While nowadays the besom is not a flying vehicle anymore, it is still very potent in ritual magic and witchcraft. While every witch knows that you can use the besom for cleansing and energy sweeping, there is more to the power of the broom that is often overlooked.

Artemisia absinthium or Wormwood from “Flora von Deutschland Österreich und der Schweiz” by Dr. Otto Wilhelm Thome, 1885. This plant is used by Romanian women to create bristles for magical besoms on Marina’s Day. Not only does it make for a protective magical besom, but it is also an important ingredient in the making of Absinthe and it takes its name from queen-commander Artemisia, named so after the goddess of the wildland and the Moon beloved by all witches, Artemis.

cleansing and energy sweeping, there is more to the power of the broom that is often overlooked.

In Romanian lore, the besom is a potent object which becomes truly magical at special occasions. For example, for Marina’s Day which is celebrated in Romania on July 17, mothers celebrate Marina, the protector of the souls of dead children, by crafting brooms with bristles made out of Wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) and offering them to each other alongside flowers, corn, and chicks, and they keep the brooms which they use to sweep their homes and yards. They believe that these special brooms not only sweep away the dirt, but also bad luck and spirits such as the strigoi. Strigoii, which are believed to mount the brooms of the villagers to go to their nocturnal gatherings on the nights of Sângiorz (April 23) and Sântandrei (November 30), were unable to mount the brooms made of Wormwood.

The Wormwood broom is also used by the Romanian people to bring someone back home, to sweep away evil forces, and even illness by sweeping around the ill. The broom is also a potent tool against Muma Pădurii (the mother of the forest). For this, the broom of the witch or the disenchantress or the broom of the mother whose child is haunted by the mother of the forest is used during a disenchanting ritual by sweeping the entrance to the home or by placing it next to the child’s bed. In all the spells and charms where the broom is used to repel something evil, the disenchantress or the witch always says to said evil to leave and go far away “because I will sweep you with the broom” (“Că eu cu mătura te-oi mătura”) otherwise.

Now we live at a time when brooms are mass-produced, thus they lack personality and ‘magic’ and not many commit to crafting brooms, such as the Wormwood brooms of the Romanian women, but you can craft your own magical broom made out of a tree of your choosing or you can buy one from a specialised seller. Luckily for me, I live in Transylvania, Romania, and here people still make and sell besoms that closely resemble those of our ancestors. I bought my broom from a handcrafter who sells traditionally crafted wooden objects such as spoons, boxes, and besoms on the side of the road. Because of this, each besom is different from the other, it is unique, and hand work was put into it.

Illustration by Anton Kandaurov from 1899 of a witch from a fairy tale by А.С. Pushkin. As strongly suggested by the image, the handle of the besom is a phallic object, emanating male energy, but the bristles add a feminine touch to it – which is what makes the besom and interesting tool through which both male and female energies flow.

When I acquire such objects for my craft, I use an advice which was given to me by a historian who works at the Museum of Arad, my hometown, when I was in 5th grade. I often went there as a child and still do nowadays, to visit the ancient and medieval artifacts connected to my place of birth, and every time I’d reach the end of my visit, I’d stop by the little shop set at the entrance where they sell souvenirs, gemstones, crystals, and even shark fangs (well, there was only one and I bought it!). So, in 5th grade, I stopped by the little shop to buy my first gemstone. I knew nothing about gemstones other than the fact that I wanted to have them at home with me.

There were so many beautiful gemstones and I was so torn that I couldn’t decide which one to pick, so I asked the historian lady to help me out. She said: “You see, this is a very personal thing, I cannot choose on your behalf, but here’s an advice you can use from now on: choose the one that winks at you.” Somehow, I knew exactly what she meant and in a split second, the Green Aventurine twinkled at me. So I got it. Ever since, I look for that twinkle in certain objects before I get them. And when I saw the besom I own now, it instantly twinkled at me, so I got it and we’re great partners ever since. Try to look for that twinkle as well when you choose your broom, if you’re looking to buy one.

How to Create and Use your Besom

Because it is not used as a regular broom, the magical besom can be adorned with ribbons and charms of your choosing to increase the besom’s magical potency. Photo: https://www.flickr.com/photos/68689520@N07/6329809951

There are a few ways in which you can create your own besom. You can start from scratch, begin by acquiring a handle and then make everything yourself from there, or you can acquire a besom and make it your own. If you would like to commit to crafting your own besom from scratch, start by choosing a tree you would like to bond with and one which you know would be accessible to you. You may also choose more than one tree if you’d like the different parts of your broom to be made out of different wood. Doing this will enable you to bring in your space and craft the qualities of that tree and introduce an energy that serves you in your system. After you’ve chosen your tree, choose a special occasion such as your birthday, a full moon, or one of the seasonal festivals from the Wheel of the Year when you will take what you need from the tree to make your besom.

Hexenflug of the “Vaudoises” from a manuscript titled “Ladies’ Champion” from 1451, by Martin Le Franc. This is believed to be the first such illustration of women flying on a besom, respectively a stick. According to this illustration, the only difference between a mere woman and a witch is the ability to fly on a besom, which is unlike most manuscripts of the time which depicted witches as deformed creatures.

On that special occasion, ask the tree for permission to take a branch and twigs and honor it by leaving an offering (fruit or water). Then activate them during a ceremony. You can do so during the same or another special occasion, by blessing the branch and the twigs or by consecrating them through smudging. Bind the twigs to the branch with a ribbon or rope of your choosing or with another twig if you can. If you already have a handle, you only need to take a few twigs from your tree of choice and use the same process to craft the besom.

Whether you’ve started from scratch, a handle, or you already have a besom, you must make it your own. You do this by carving or painting symbols of your choice on the handle. You can also tie ribbons to it in colours of your choosing, adorn it with bells, and even add feathers in the bristle bouquet. I’ve put a feather from my native totem, the raven, and a couple of peacock feathers among my bristles, but you can use whatever feathers you have or which are of a provenance that is significant to you. If you have a spirit animal that is a bird, you may use feathers that belong to it. This will increase the potency of your broom. To finalise the crafting ritual, gently blow on your broom, from the bristles to the end of the handle, so that it may carry and protect you. In Romanian lore, another way to consecrate the besom is to sweep with it at the entrance of a cemetery.

Now that you have your own magical besom, you may use it for cleansing rituals. You can cleanse your home, by going from room to room and sweeping away negative energy, but make sure that the bristles don’t touch the floor as you do this. If you want to protect your home against unwanted visitors (physical or spiritual), sprinkle some salt at the entrance of your home and then sweep it outside. You can also use it to open and close your ritual circles, to cleanse your ritual space before and after casting a circle, and you can also use it to prevent nightmares or to remove night terrors and sleep paralysis. For this, you only have to place the broom under your bed at night and it will protect you.

Lastly, you may use the crafting of a besom for another witch to symbolise a rite of passage. It is something very endearing that doesn’t have to be reserved only for witches that belong to the same coven. Similar to the tradition on Marina’s Day, one witch may craft a broom for another witch and offer it to her as a way to honour her craft, magical maturation, and continuity of their magical lineage.

Every part of the magical besom is potent in spellwork. While the entire besom is used for energy sweeping and cleansing, the bristles can be used as spellwork ingredients too, especially for protective and tracking spells. Photo of Radiana Piț and her magical besom by Vlad Tudor. Instagram: @crowhag

Broom Bristle Cleansing Spell

As a practitioner of predominantly Romanian folk magic, I rarely use the broom as it is traditionally used in Western witchcraft. In Romanian tradition magical sweeping and cleansing ritual involving the broom are reserved for special occasions such as the night of Sângiorz or Sântandrei, in Romanian spellwork, the bristles of the broom are often used to repel evil forces, illness, or negative energy. This inspired me to develop a ritual that draws from the cleansing power of the broom. While I still use my ritual broom to sweep in the air throughout my home during every New Moon, or to cleanse my sacred space before and after magical work, I sometimes use the bristles when I feel jinxed, unlucky, or like there’s a cloud of negative energy over my head.

At dusk, I take a bristle of my broom, a needle (or a spindle), and a twig of thyme that I hold in my left hand, and with my right hand I hold my hair up. I then spin three times anticlockwise as I say:

Evil eye look away, Return from whence you came Or with the broom I’ll sweep you, With my hair I’ll whip you, With the needle I’ll prick you, With thyme I will burn you.

After I do this, I take a strand of my hair, the broom bristle, and the thyme twig and I burn them. I first smudge around myself, and then I continue smudging by going from room to room. I feel much better afterward and as if whatever was bothering me was removed.

If you ever feel like there’s a cloud of negative energy around you and you want it removed quickly and efficiently, perhaps this ritual will work for you as well. If you believe in the cleansing power of your broom, there is no reason why it wouldn’t work. Good luck!

www.Nettlesgarden.com – The Old Craft

https://www.nettlesgarden.com/2018/05/14/the-witchs-besom-how-to-craft-and-use-your-own-magical-broom/

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bradradke · 7 years

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COD 4 Variety Map Pack Coming To Modern Warfare Remastered on March 21st First on PS4.

Activision has announced that the Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare Variety Map Pack is coming to Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Remastered. It will be available March 21 on PlayStation 4.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Remastered Variety Map Pack will include four multiplayer maps, remastered from the original game:

Broadcast: Based on the TV station from the campaign mission “Charlie Don’t Surf”, this map provides a unique blend of confined corridors and wide-open spaces. Outside the station, the parking lot contains long sightlines, but once inside, cramped hallways and a computer-cluttered broadcast room provide ample close-range combat opportunities.

Chinatown: Set in a foggy downtown district, this nighttime map is lit up by flickering neon signs and a full moon. A re-imagining of the original Call of Duty multiplayer map “Carentan”, players will need to be careful on these streets, as almost every building in the map can be occupied, providing perfect cover for enemies waiting for a chance to line you up in their sights.

Creek: Set in a wide-open village ravaged by combat where concealment is the difference between life and death, a gaping ravine divides this map into two. Open clearings with sheer cliff faces and ample forested cover make this map ideal for snipers and long-range firefights.

Killhouse: A small training warehouse filled with various building mock ups that feature soft and hard cover points. Expect fast-paced and fierce firefights for maximum close-quarters chaos.

The four maps will be available for Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Remastered for $14.99. Players who purchase the Variety Map Pack for Modern Warfare Remastered will also get 10 Rare Supply Drops as an added bonus.

Players can preorder the Variety Map Pack for Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Remastered starting now on PS4.

The Variety Map Pack will be available on Xbox One and PC at a later date.

Teaser Trailer:

youtube

#Call of Duty #Modern Warfare Remastered #Variety Map Pack #COD #COD 4 #MWR #MW #Call of Duty Modern Warfare Remastered #Xbox #Xbox One #PC #Playstation #Playstation 4 #PS4

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witcherfic · 4 years

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littleherbalina July 22, 2020 at 12:35AM

by littleherbalina

At the unannounced visit of someone once very special to him, pre-B&W Regis ruminates what has happened in his teething years, what could have happened, and wonders what will happen now.

Words: 3929, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Queen of the Night (The Witcher), Dettlaff van der Eretein (mentioned)

Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Queen of the Night, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Original Character(s), Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy

Additional Tags: Angst, Sad, sad and sweet?, third limited to omniscient, so a bit of mememe mumbling in my style, very concealed smut, lots of hidden pining, Flashbacks, Feelings, Plot What Plot

#witcher #witcher fic #fic recs #ao3feed

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mtraki · 4 years

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Nobody had anything to say. For awhile, not even Dutch. Hosea just looked at them sitting around the fire, easing their aches and settling their nerves. Everyone else quietly went about their business, as if trying to ignore the steadily encroaching black mood without disturbing it.

Catherine remembered this from a job that had gone badly before. Still, it was admittedly a bit of a shock to see after everything had seemed to be going so well...

Slim and Arthur were still out, but nobody was saying anything, and it was too early to really worry, she supposed. He’d take the long way around to make sure nobody followed him to camp. He’d ride until the next morning if necessary.

Arthur knew his business, and knew how to take care of himself.

Still…

Dutch started to talk, addressing the men around the fire and the women who had started to curiously slip closer, eager to learn what was going on without drawing the wrath of Miss Grimshaw.

“This is just a simple misstep,” He was saying his voice firm, but calm. He wouldn’t sound so calm if something truly bad had occurred, Catherine didn’t think, “We all knew with winter coming, it was only a matter of time before all our opportunities looked like long-shots. And it was. But we got away with it, even if we got a few bumps and scrapes…”

Pale eyes leaving Dutch to inspect the circle of men, Catherine wondered who she should ask about the situation. There were few she found to be reliable for information even before her falling out with Dutch, but now, those sources were drying up swiftly. Like Javier, who was still punishing her for ‘betraying’ their leader with her act of ‘disloyalty’. Lenny was an ideal choice, but he was sitting close to Miss Kirk, and the lady did not want to intrude upon them-- that they would welcome her did not change that. Mister Williamson had never, in Catherine’s opinion, had anything useful to say, and Mister Bell would take too much pleasure in sharpening his tongue on her-- whether he said anything she could trust or not.

That left John and Charles. John was also an ideal choice, as he’d tell her what he’d seen frankly, not bothering to gloss over or sugarcoat anything. It was probably her favorite thing about him-- for all his youthful, sometimes arrogant, impatience, it also meant he lacked the patience to be anything but brazenly up-front about matters. If she asked him, he would tell her, whatever he thought about her or her situation with the gang, she was sure. But as she looked at him, she felt another gaze weighing on her. From her peripheral, Abigail watched her steadily, and Catherine did not need much imagination to picture what it was she was thinking, even though she couldn’t make out her expression without turning her eyes.

Instead, the lady went and sat beside Charles, who only spared her the briefest of glances-- which she suspected he’d do for any other person who sat next to him. They’d bonded, the two of them, somewhat, over the death of her first horse, a miserably abused shire, but Mister Smith didn’t open up or warm to much of anyone, and seemed particularly wary of her. Catherine suspected he recognized that if he caught her attention long enough, she would apply her not-insignificant skill, and pry him open like a particularly stubborn walnut.

“Good evening, Mister Smith, and welcome back,” She said softly, choosing a pitch that would allow him to hear her under Dutch’s speech, but not carry to the rest of them, “... I was hoping you might tell me what’s happened?”

He hesitated a long moment, ignoring her gaze as well as he might, but then he sighed, deciding he didn’t have the energy for withstanding a long siege, “... Pair of coaches had a group of security tailing them we didn’t notice until it caught up to us. Must have been a trap.”

“It was fortunate you weren’t hurt!”

He shrugged, “... Got lucky. Horses took the worst of it, I think, when we scattered.” Catching her look, he gestured with a flick of his fingers, “... Nothing serious.”

“What a relief…” She breathed, “... I imagine Mister Morgan is taking his time returning…”

There was another hesitation, one long enough to force Catherine to look at the big man again, wondering what in the world he was hiding from her. She hadn’t been worried about Arthur until this moment…

The realization Charles was finally looking at her made her wonder if that had been his goal-- to see if she was worried about Arthur, “... Last I saw him, he was leading a few of ‘em toward Tall Trees.”

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing…” She replied carefully, holding his look. Then, “... But that is a long run for Slim…”

“For Arthur too. Pretty sure he was bleeding…” When his words brought the steel in her pale eyes, Charles nodded, but said nothing else.

Catherine wanted to ask him why he hadn’t stayed with Arthur, but she realized the man himself had probably ordered him back here. Arthur was the enforcer-- it was his job to keep the others safe.

“... If he’s not back by morning,” Charles murmured distantly, looking back at the fire again, “I’ll go take a look.”

“Thank you.” With that, Catherine got up and walked away from the fire, toward her tent. Dutch was talking about California again, and ‘the plan’ to buy some land of their own and avoid the clutches of Uncle Sam and all his terrible industrialized civilization there. In California, they would truly live free.

Catherine had her doubts…

Roughly two hours later, with full dark upon the camp, they heard galloping hooves as someone left in a hurry. Hosea, among a few others, had no doubts as to who it might be, and likewise recognized there’d be no point giving chase: they didn’t have a horse that could outrun the moonlight thoroughbred, even though every one of them could likely outride the lady (with a few exceptions in Miss Grimshaw, the Reverend, and some others…).

Mister Strauss vexedly informed the silver-haired conman that he’d been in the middle of inventory and between one moment and the next, a few bottles of medicine had gone missing.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’ll be put to good use, Herr Strauss…”

Out under the clear desert night, racing beneath the moon and starlight, Catherine was filled with exhilaration, like that night out in the rainstorm. For just a moment, the speed and power of the stallion beneath her let her believe that she could truly be free. She could just keep riding without looking back! None of them could catch her…

It only lasted a moment though. A temporary distraction from her righteous anger.

How dare they leave him out here, injured or worse, so they could rest comfortably in camp?

How dare he take such a risk upon himself with no help or recourse if things should go badly?

… It was not lost on her that, once again, her emotions were getting the better of her concerning Arthur Morgan…

Foolish.

Maybe she should just ride off…

No. That would truly be foolish. Much as she wished it were otherwise, much as she worked to change herself, she was still very much a creature that needed keeping. She wouldn’t be, one day, she was certain of this, but that wasn’t today.

She told herself that perhaps it was that reason which had spurred her off in an all-fire hurry: less any true concern or feeling for Mister Morgan himself, and more concern for her investment in him. After all, if he were to die, she would lose her champion in the Van der Linde gang. Without Arthur, who would stand for her when others made clear they wanted her gone? The girls might, and Mister Summers might-- despite his own junior position in the gang-- but only Arthur had the position and authority in the gang, and trust and open-rapport with Dutch himself to speak up for her with any guarantee of success.

If she lost Arthur, what stopped the Van der Linde gang from throwing her out?

… What stopped them from selling her back to her father for ransom? They were outlaws, after all. It would be foolish for them to do anything else with her once they deemed her unworthy of them.

She needed him. She couldn’t lose him. It wasn’t about sentiment, it was about survival.

Thus convicted, it was a few minutes of riding through the moonlit chill of the open desert before she realized she had no hopes of finding him in Tall Trees without a lantern…

“I really am a hopeless fool… needing so much looking-after… I can already hear Mister Matthews scoffing his ‘I told you so’s…” She muttered under her breath.

Prudence would have dictated she turn back-- at least to get things she might need-- but stubborn pride won out, and she rode forward instead. Still, they slowed on the turning for Tall Trees, Catherine taking only a moment to appreciate the glistening of Woden’s coat steaming and shining like polished silver under the pale light before pulling the old, soft cloth from her saddlebags to wipe the sweat from him and spare him a chill. He puffed and grunted, but his ears were pricked forward and his eyes soft, and so the lady was certain he had enjoyed his run as much as she had. Even better, her padded work pants had indeed helped her sit steady in the saddle. Ahead, the long, deep shadows of the forested foothills loomed. In there, the night waited to swallow them up, away from the moonlight.

It was alright, she figured, if they kept to the road, they would do alright.

Admittedly, it was Slim who found them. Catherine would have ridden right by the well-concealed camp, in the deeper shadows of the underbrush, had the warhorse not nickered gently upon recognizing a horse from his own herd. At the sound, Woden halted and turned his head with an answering chuffing sound, and so Catherine simply let the reins loose and allowed him to make his own way carefully around the massive trees. It was only on the other side that she saw the tiny sliver of golden light, shuttered from the lantern, inside the canvas half-engulfed, but fully camouflaged by underbrush. They were invisible from the road, and the lady was impressed by the outlaw’s ingenuity.

Slim was alerted, so Catherine was wary. She’d seen the big warhorse advance, without command, on people approaching Arthur without his greeting them. Ardennes were usually bred and trained cavalry, and many cavalry mount schooling included kicking, biting, and trampling living things (mostly people, dogs, and horses) in defense of their rider. It wasn’t like Woden-- though an intelligent horse in his own right-- the thoroughbred’s flashing of hooves and lunging was the instinctive actions of a stallion protecting himself and his herd. It had little enough to do with Catherine. Slim, however, had been trained by people to put himself at risk for Arthur, and had been bred with the brains to consider that more often than relying on the instinct to run.

She’d seen it, when the warhorse had put his big body between Arthur and the ornery thoroughbred more than once. In the end, for all his bluster, Woden had been born and bred to run and run fast, and Slim had been bred and trained to fight.

Catherine knew herself to be watched. She had the warhorse’s undivided attention as she slowly dismounted and made her way to the tent entrance. She thought maybe it’d be wise to call out and let both the horse and outlaw know she was there-- that it was her. But Arthur wasn’t demanding she identify herself or her intentions, and that made her refrain from raising her voice. Instead, she let the horses bump noses and chuff at each other before hitching Woden to the same tree Slim seemed to be fastened to. Either because he recognized her, or because he was distracted with the other stallion, Slim lost interest in the lady altogether, and so she was free to crouch by the tent entrance and pull it quietly open.

She was greeted by the muzzle of a revolver and the utterly cold-blooded scowl of an unrepentant killer, twenty years in the making. The hammer was already cocked, and his finger on the trigger.

She would have been frightened-- truly frightened-- had she not already seen this mask and wondered over it before. Even so, the threat of lethal consequences at the twitch of a finger did give her pause, forcing her to swallow before flashing a coy smile.

“Good evening, Mister Morgan.” She whispered.

“W-what the hell are you doin’ out here?!” He demanded, keeping his voice quiet, which only made it sound all the harsher as he growled his shock and displeasure. Fortunately, he lowered the weapon and returned it to a configuration less suited to immediate usage as he spoke. With him thus distracted, she pushed her way into the tent, not bothering to wait for an invitation. It was cold out, even despite her nice coat.

He moved slowly to accommodate her, and what she first assumed to be begrudging was soon revealed to likely be pain. Like Charles had said, the entire ride side of his shirt under his arm was wet with blood. Catherine realized he must have very recently taken off his coat to address his wound when she’d interrupted him. It was laying beside him. Arthur noticed her looking at his bloody side, and growled at her again, “Don’t you start…”

Biting her tongue, Catherine met his gaze, took a breath, let it out slowly, then asked, “... Do you need help?”

He blinked and furrowed his brows at her like she’d said something strange, so she bit off a laugh, and shook her head, holding up her hands, “... I’m not Miss Jackson or Miss Grimshaw, I know. I probably won’t be good for much, but if you’ve a use for this pair of hands, they’re yours for the tasking.”

“... I can manage on my own jus’ fine, miss…”

“I’m quite certain of that… just… it’s there on your side, so I’m only wondering if it would be difficult to reach?” When his displeased expression didn’t change, she dropped her hands to her thighs and glanced aside, “... May I watch, then?”

“You ain’t supposed to be out here! Especially not by yerself! After dark, even!...” He groused at her, still minding his volume while his tone remained harsh.

Never one to suffer a lecture, and recognizing that unless she did something about it, he was likely to worry at her like a bone until she capitulated or left again, Catherine scoot nearer and touched his hand-- which he immediately jerked away-- effectively shutting his mouth, “... But I’m not out here alone. I’m with you.”

Unsporting of her to work him over with her wiles-- the coy meeting of his gaze with hers, the subtle pout of her lips, the barest flutter of her eyelashes-- while he was wounded, but she hadn’t charged out here to be scolded for her efforts and chased off again.

“Cut that out…” He grumbled. But the growl had left his voice and he couldn’t hold her gaze long.

“Are you really not going to let me help you with that wound?”

“You really not gonna stop fussin’ about it until I say y’can?”

Catherine couldn’t help but grin somewhat impishly at the look he gave her, “You know what they say about idle hands…”

“Ain’t ever been keen on what ‘they’ say, miss…”

“‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools’,” She quoted, “From Chaucer.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind,” She watched him slowly untuck his shirt from his trouser waist, but he froze when her eyes left his face, so she raised them again, “... Why do you do that?”

“... Do what?” His tone and expression couldn’t be more guarded, making clear he was definitely trying to hide his wound from her.

So… A little bait and switch, then…? “Insist on calling me ‘miss’. ‘Miss Schofield’ makes sense, particularly when you’re irritated with me, or when you’re discussing me with others. But ‘miss’ by itself sounds as if we are strangers, when we certainly are not.”

Furrowing his brow at her, he seemed to consider this only a moment before saying, “... Well, what do you want me to call you then?”

“My name.” Her hands snatched out and grabbed his bloodied shirtwaist and yanked it up.

“Hey! Dammit, woman!”

“I suppose that will suit for the moment…” She fought the grin as well as the wince as his powerful hands were crushingly strong around her wrists, “Good Lord, for such a small wound, it bleeds such an awful lot…”

“Yeah, well for such a dainty person, you sure make a lot of trouble in a short time!”

Now she couldn’t fight the laugh, “Go on and be cross with me, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here and that you could make good use of an extra pair of hands.”

He was growling again, “One day yer gonna shoot your mouth off to the wrong person at the wrong time--”

“--It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been whipped for being ‘smart’, Mister Morgan.”

“Lotta good it did you, I see…” He snarled back, “Though I’m supposin’ what you rich folk call ‘whippins’--”

“-- You may recall we talked about this once before,” She quipped archly, “when I told you I healed clean and do not often scar. My father was sure to hire only the most demanding and harshest of tutors and governesses. Rest assured: I was punished for my impertinence to your satisfaction.”

He said nothing, and the lady was uncomfortable with his silence. After several moments of reflection, she sobered and released his shirt, “... I didn’t have the right to touch you without permission. I-I apologize, that was… egregiously ill-mannered of me.”

“...Well,” He cleared his throat, apparently equally uncomfortable, “just so you know…”

“If you truly do not want my help, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back to the camp.”

The look he gave her made clear he had every intention of saying something biting, but he held his tongue and let out his breath instead. “...No, come on. May as well make yerself useful since you’ve insisted on fussin’ in affairs not yer business…”

At his direction, she wordlessly acted as his second pair of hands: moving the lantern so he could see better what he was doing, holding his shirt out of the way, handing him things from the pile he had set aside. He didn’t want her touching the wound, as she suspected he didn’t want her getting bloody.

Or maybe he didn’t want her touching his skin.

...Maybe he still remembered the last time she’d done so, with revulsion...

It wasn’t as if she could really blame him. The experience altogether had been largely unsatisfactory-- certainly one of her poorer performances. What it had done, however, was reveal to him the sort of woman she was, and the lengths to which she’d ply her trade of deceit. No matter his gentler affections for her, it was no surprise that he wouldn’t desire the touch of a filthy jezebel.

He wouldn’t be the first to consider her with disgust upon learning just how well-used her beautiful body was, and how stained with the lusts of others her flesh betrayed. One didn’t remain pure when living as a plaything for whichever man she was pushed into the path of. Certainly less so when practicing skill and proving agency in the doings...

“... You really want me to call you by your name?” His quiet voice interrupted her suddenly melancholy thinking as he packed the wound and surrounding skin with a mash of strong-smelling plant matter.

“Unless you insist on maintaining a formal distance,” She replied softly, perturbed, “In which case, I suppose I will have many more apologies to make…” Her thoughts turned to all the kisses she’d been so bold as to give him. Could she have been so mistaken this entire time? Had she, despite her repeated and insistent protests, allowed the gossip of others convince her that this man gave her any special consideration? She’d pushed so many things-- everything!-- and risked so much on the presumption that he desired her, and possibly even cared for her.

Hadn’t he said so, himself?

Well. No. He’d asked her if it ever occurred to her that someone might do things for her because they cared for her. Words could be so easily twisted, and she wasn’t the only one who could twist them into effective weapons. She’d learned from her father…

Surely Arthur had learned from his.

From Dutch.

“... It’s a little late for that…” The outlaw muttered wryly.

“No. Never. You are within your rights to withdraw,” Was her gentle correction, watching both of their hands: his large and busy, hers delicate and little more than useless. If she weren’t here, he might have removed his shirt altogether and not have to bother with it being held up at all. What a fool she was. What in the world did she think she could accomplish rushing out here? Even the medicine she’d brought was unnecessary: he already had enough in his satchel. “Hardly anybody would blame you, as long as you made your position clear.”

“... Blame me for what? Why is it soundin’ like we’re talkin’ about somethin’ else, now?”

Shaking her head, the lady huffed her self-reproach but said no more.

“... Anyway, I ain’t much for ‘formal’ in any case…”

“I suppose not.” It was a pointless discussion. She’d only brought it up as a distraction anyway. He’d call her whatever he liked. Or nothing at all. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long before his thinking was turned against her like Javier’s had…

Surely if she kept behaving in ways that tested his patience or outright angered him…

His hands paused with the bandaging, and his tone was acerbic, “... I suppose you think you can do so much better, then…?”

“I… What?” Blinking, her eyes moved to his face. His brows were creased, and the twist of his lips was somehow equal parts self-deprecating and scolding her.

“You must think you can wrap this better… Otherwise I dunno why yer giving the job such a nasty look…”

Had she been? With horror, Catherine wondered how it could be that her bitter feelings were showing so openly on her face! What was happening that she couldn’t conduct herself like usual and conceal her inner workings? This wasn’t the first time she’d been so disarmed in his presence! What was happening to her? What was he doing to her?

Turning away quickly, hoping the low lantern light would conceal the heat she felt in her face, she blurted, “No. I… was thinking about something else. In fact, it’s quite clear I’m a hindrance to you here more than anything. You’ve my deepest apologies, Mister Morgan. I’m quite ashamed of myself.”

He didn’t reply-- not to confirm her words or deny them, and the silence yawned deep with uncertainties.

Heart already racing, the lady could not resist the urge to fill the silence with more words, “Surely it was my insufferable pride that drove me to believe it prudent to disobey clear instructions… As usual, I thought very highly of my own ideas and abilities. It would be best if I remember my uselessness the next time I--”

“--What the hell is this, now?”

“... I…” She didn’t know. It was nonsense, really. “Nothing. Nevermind. Don’t pay me any attention, sir. I’ll say no more.”

“No, I ain’t gonna ‘nevermind’... What was all that?”

“It was nothing--”

“--Didn’t sound like nothing.” Arthur pointed out, finishing with his bandaging and tugging his shirt down again, out of her grip, “It sounded like you was scoldin’ yerself for my benefit.”

“Then there you have it.” She gestured dismissively as she drew away from him, eager for some space so she did not have to consider his disgust at her touch and her otherwise uselessness with so much immediacy. She froze, however, when after he wiped his hands clean on the front of his shirt, he reached for her. His hand hesitated when he saw her reaction, but then his fingers slowly uncurled and he tipped her chin gently back toward him.

“... If it’s all the same to you, Catherine, I’ll do the scoldin’ if I feel it needs sayin’. I’d rather not hear you say such things about yourself, again…” He cleared his throat when she met his eyes with hers, and added, “... Since you did say somethin’ about wanting to please me… before.”

“... As you wish.” Was her quiet answer. She wasn’t often speaking against herself in any case. What he asked was little trouble to provide. Even so, tension clenched through her spine, as she couldn’t decide whether the way he was touching her was displeasing or not… Usually this gesture was one of control and patronization. But his expression was anything but, and his touch was gentle enough she could pull free at any moment without struggle.

“You come out here lookin’ for me?”

Blinking, she frowned at the question, “Yes? I thought that was already clear…”

“Maybe, maybe it weren’t. Somebody tell you I needed help?”

Scoffing, Catherine almost withdrew her face from his hand. Almost, “Certainly not. Mister Smith informed me you might have been injured, but he seemed convinced you could see to yourself. Which, as it turns out, he was correct…”

“‘Course I could.”

“Of course you can.” She sighed.

“... So why’d you bother?”

Now she did withdraw, giving a helpless little laugh, “... Oh, I understand now. Very clever, Mister Morgan. I am not to humiliate myself, that is only your pleasure.”

His expression was naked confusion, “Is this humiliating to you?”

“How would you have me answer? Do you want me to tell you I was worried about you? But how can I say so when it is apparent my worry was both unfounded and offensive to you? My only recourse is to say I came to satisfy my own curiosity or sense of pride, and yet you’ve already told me not to say such things!”

“I’d have you tell the truth, is all.” He shrugged, confusion still hanging in the shadows of his face, sharing space with growing irritation at her tone. “Ain’t complicated…”

“Maybe I don’t have any simple answers to your questions, Mister Morgan. Again, I can only apologize.”

“I wish you’d quit…”

His words stung like a slap to the face. “... Very well.”

This time she did not try to fill the silence. She had no recourse, after all. Or her prattling had annoyed him beyond his patience. She let it stretch infinitely between them as he shrugged back into his coat with a slight shiver.

“... What I meant…” He began after he’d settled again, “... is that you don’t owe me any apologies. Surely not so many.”

“If you insist.” Was her cool reply.

After another moment of weighted silence, Arthur’s voice came quiet, “... Was you really worried about me, Catherine?”

What was the point of continuing the struggle? “I was.”

Then she moved for the exit.

“Where are you going?”

“... I… was going to go back to camp… Seeing as… Well… Sure you didn’t want me to stay here with you?” She smiled her apology, “... I didn’t think to pack my own tent. I don’t want to intrude upon you… any more than… I already have.”

He frowned and shook his head, then sighed, “... There’s no help for it, I guess. I don’t want you riding out alone again, and this’ll open up again if I mount up any time soon…” Then he flashed a small, teasing smile, “So if you behave yerself, Miss Schofield, you can stay here in th’tent where it’s warm.”

“How generous of you, Mister Morgan.” She kept her voice empty of all feeling. Nothing but naked civility, “Please excuse me: if I’m to stay, then I should see to my horse for the night.”

“Let me--”

“--No. Please.”

He protested no further and she left the dim light of the tent to untack her horse and tie him with a simple rope halter instead. The air was sharp with threat of frost. The cold would make leather stiff and the bit unbearable to soft horse mouths. The chill was welcome, draining the heat of her roiling emotions, even as it bit sharply at her hands. How distressing it was that she lost her composure so frequently when alone in this man’s company. How irritating. How upsetting, too, how every action and word spoken seemed to contradict itself inside her, as of late. She sought her own independence and did not want to be chained to Arthur Morgan and his will-- or any other person, for that matter! But at the same time, she needed his alliance until she no longer needed to depend on others to support herself, and in the meanwhile did not wish to be a burden to him. If he liked her, things would go so much more smoothly. But being pleasing so often meant being obedient, which grated against her independence!

Worse still, there were rebellious parts within her that truly did want to please the man, and not just for her own convenience…

No less frustrated and dissatisfied with herself, Catherine finished with her horse. Her saddle went with Arthur’s, where it would stay dry, and the bridle and bit went back into the tent with her.

The outlaw looked like he’d been doing some reflection of his own, with no satisfying conclusion. Still, he made the effort, offering his hands to help her in comfortably, and tugging her near him, “It’s cold out there…” was his blunt observation.

“Yes.” She shivered, even despite her coat, and clenched and unclenched her aching hands.

“I… uh…” He glanced around the tent, as if searching for the words to best use, as if he’d written them down on the canvas somewhere, “... I shouldn’t have scolded you so much. You… didn’t mean any harm, I know. I… don’t like you putting yerself in danger, is all. Especially not for me…”

Catherine almost opened her mouth to tell him it was fine, and that he didn’t have to apologize to her about it, but she decided against it. If she spoke up, he would stop talking. It was probably better to let him finish.

The outlaw continued awkwardly, and his awareness of his stumbling showed in the small, wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth. But his eyes were soft, and there was something very warm in his expression, “... It’s been a… long, long time since somebody was worried about me, is all, I guess. I should probably act more grateful, seein’ as I don’t deserve it at all…”

Reaching over, he covered both of her hands with his, his large palms easily swallowing her delicate, ladylike hands, “... I am grateful… Even if I don’t best show it… I just… Don’t risk yerself on my account. Alright?”

His touch was so impossibly warm that Catherine was also immediately grateful despite herself, and that gratitude spiked straight through her heart, causing it to skip a beat.

“I… Sorry…” He pulled away again, as if suddenly recognizing how intimate and forward his behavior was.

“No, please…” What was the use? After all, she was a kept creature, and she was exhausted and dissatisfied with her attempts at trying to be anything else for the time being. He was warm, and she was not.

It was… and was not… that simple.

He studied her face in the faint, shuttered glow of the lantern what seemed a breathless eternity, the shadows across his face leaving his usually light eyes dark. But he reached for her again, this time cupping the side of her face. Again, she marveled at how tender and gentle his calloused hand, wrought by a life of violence, could be. And so warm against her cheek. Entirely without thinking or calculation, she leaned into his touch, seeking his warmth.

Her reaction must have emboldened him, because he moved again, this time leaning in with his body, bringing his face near hers, and she immediately realized he meant to kiss her. But he hesitated at the last, smallest possible distance, as if entirely convinced she would draw away if given the chance.

Catherine didn’t move. She didn’t dare breathe or blink. She simply waited, eyes lowered, demure and nonthreatening, settling into the warmth of his nearness.

The press of his lips was almost shy, at the start, but her continued patience and willingness to allow his attentions encouraged him to commit fully to his course of action. She’d noted, before, how satisfying it was that he seemed to know how best to please a lady by kissing her, and her observations had not changed, but this was an entirely different sort of kiss. In Tumbleweed, he had been hungry, starving-- grabbing and taking, hoarding whatever he could get a hold of before he lost his chance. Now, he moved slow, tasting every inch of her lips like they were expensive wine, and as one breath rolled languidly into the next, he dared to sample beyond the fruits of her lips and into the sanctity of her mouth. Fitting, she supposed, for an outlaw to dare beyond what propriety might require. Though she could suppose very little, as her racing pulse and the heat of his touch made her all too pliant and yielding, her mind tumbling into something soft and rosy.

She wanted him to delve deeper. For his hands to grow firm and his mouth demanding. She wanted him to plumb as far into her as he dared and to scorch his touch across her skin so she’d never feel the cold again…

But he didn’t do that. He pulled away, slowly, leaving her in that soft, befuddled, rosy place so she could offer no protest nor wonder at how she’d never longed after the heat of a man’s body before now.

“... So sweet…” He murmured, open affection in his expression and voice as he admired her face still resting in his hand, “... you’re always so sweet to me…”

She was a kept creature. Self-satisfied. Thoughts muddy and inconsequential. A token contradiction to his statement niggled somewhere under the rosy fogginess, but she ignored it, “You’re warm.”

“Yeah…” She watched him think about it a few moments, weighing the consequences and the risks, but then he dropped his hand, taking hold of her arm above the elbow instead, his touch gentle. “Come on.”

She went, folding herself into his left side, resting her head against his shoulder while his arm went around her. He was warm.

Woden’s whinny woke them with a start, but they were still caught off-guard when seconds later Charles’s voice called out,

“Arthur?”

“... Yeah, Charles.”

“... Catherine with you?”

“Uh… Yeah.”

“... Can you two be ready to ride in a few minutes?”

Arthur didn’t understand the purpose of the inquiry. Catherine did.

“Yes, Mister Smith. It’s only the tent and tack needing addressing.”

“Good. Let’s get going, then.”

Arthur muttered under his breath about the ‘strange question’ while Catherine pulled away from the warmth of his body and noted the stiffness with which he sat up.

“... He was concerned we might need to dress, Mister Morgan.” She explained in a whisper .

“...Dress?”

“Yes.”

“Why would we…?” But when Catherine indicated herself and then the front of his trousers with a vague gesture and a knowing look, he caught on, “Oh.”

It took a great deal of self control to not giggle at how red his face became.

#my mic #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan #revolver fic

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