#glacier x blaze | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mokulule · 6 months

Text

Almanac - Chapter 1

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Masterpost Summary: Summoning extradimensional beings was never without a cost. Jason didn’t consider himself particularly knowledgeable when it came to magic, but that he knew. Desperate situations however called for desperate measures and the Justice League was desperate with Trigon suddenly allied to ghosts of all things. Summoning the Ghost King in that context even seemed like a sensible choice.

For better or worse John Constantine was the expert on those kinds of deals.

At least when his information wasn’t out of date.

Chapter 1 - September 23rd Fall Equinox

The summoning circle blazed in tall green flames. John grit his teeth against the terrible heat. Sweat ran down his brow, but he barely even dared blink. Across from him Zatanna was equally affected. This was like no summoning he’d ever done before. Normally the circle and the ingredients in a summoning ritual would do most of the work, that was the whole point. But this, John thought, as he doubled down on his hold on the magic, this was like riding a dragon. It was almost like the Ghost King really didn’t want to be summoned.

What else could cause this?

But they couldn’t give up, the fate of the world depended on it. Zatanna was not looking good, John didn’t suppose he himself was looking chipper either right now, but he had done things to increase his magic power Zatanna never had, because she was too good, and she was flagging. John growled, he’d be dammed a hundred more times if he lost her to this ritual.

Come on you bloody bastard!

A green rip opened in the middle of the circle with a terrible screeching sound. There was yelling and ears being covered behind him by the Justice League, but John couldn’t focus on that, it was not over. They were nearly there. A flickering dark shadowy form was getting sucked upwards through the rip. Wind rushed around the room, throwing papers and small objects around the room; The bucket of stag blood they’d used for the circle splattered onto Green Lantern judging by the sound of disgust. As long and tiresome as the ritual had been as suddenly it was over. Like an elastic band finally snapping, the shadow was pulled all the way through, the rip closed and the flames died.

“ ̵̨̜̩̜̖͈̺͈͎̜̩̻̖͔̗̺̳̘͈̳̖̩͂̄̏̇͂̂̃͒͌̊̓́̿̽̽̀̚͜ ̶̧̡̢̜̯̘͔̺̻̖͚͚͍̪̼͙̲̭͌͛̈́̈́̆̀͝N̵̢̢̧͓̩̱̮̰̪̘͙̹͍̪̤̼̺̑̀̓̔̔̍̂̍͛̈̈́͋͛͆̆͌̌̃̀̄̕Ơ̵̡̱͕̬͕͎̞̞̟͔͇̽̀́̇̐̂͂́̈́̈́̾͜͠ͅ ̷̢͖̯̰̙̥̤͔̹̜̦̙͙̲̪̲̯̗̙̦͓̜̓̋̂͋͘̚͝ ̶̭̺̣̻͖͗̍̔͂ ̶̡̰̞̹͇͓̫̜͖͛́̀̒̃͆̀͑́̅̂͌̿͐̚͝͝.”

The word rung in the sudden silence like a bell, cracked like glaciers, skittered across their mortal senses like small needles. John fell to his knees clutching his chest. It was so cold it was hard to breathe. Teeth chattering he forced himself to look up. The shadow coalesced into something with too long limbs, too many joints, claws, teeth. It had gained a blazing white flame and underneath there were two pools of green.

It observed them with an intensity like a thousand eyes on them, then it drew in on itself, getting smaller until it was more person shaped and the cold disappeared.

John gasped in relief. He wasn’t the only one. He looked to Zatanna, she met his eyes with a pale and tense nod. She was alright.

“Aaaaargh!” The frustrated scream had them quickly focused back on the circle. The green pools, now more eye shaped glared back at them all.

“The fucking Justice League of course, who else would summon me to save the world?” The shadow for lack of better words paced back and forth in the air, then spun on John. “And you John Constantine should know better.”

There was a pool of dread in his stomach and every single backup plan vanished from his mind as those toxic green eyes held him trapped. “If you have a problem that calls for the assistance of a ghost, why do you not ask a ghost you know? Why in the Realms would you summon the Ghost King? Of all the bullheaded…” The angry words devolved into an angry growly mutter too low for anyone to hear the words, but it was a sound that grated in their bones. And the Ghost King resumed their pacing.

“Deadman is-“

“I’m talking about Phantom,” the king snapped.

“Phantom?” John repeated baffled, meeting the equally baffled eyes of Zatanna. The friendly spirit from small Amity Park? “No offense, your Majesty, but Phantom is small fry compared to this.”

“Full offense,” The King growled. “I am Phantom.”

With a bright flash, suddenly there was Phantom. The surprisingly human looking ghost, who would have fit in perfectly amongst the Justice League standing outside the circle with his white highlighted tight black suit and the logo on his chest. Right now his usually friendly face was drawn into a glare.

It was then, when it clicked with a small delay in his brain that Phantom was the Ghost King, that John Constantine realized how much he’d fucked up.

Oo o oO

Danny was livid. He had done his very best to resist this summoning, but of course summonings weren’t meant to be resisted and with John Constantine and Zatanna Zatara two of the Justice League Dark’s most powerful magic users being the ones reeling him in like a fucking fish, it was no wonder he hadn’t succeeded. This was a disaster. Why did they put him in this situation?

“We thought you were a city spirit…” Constantine trailed off helplessly.

And that had Danny gaping. They thought… how? why? He was confused, but most of all-

“Excuse me, did I introduce myself as Amity? No, I did not.”

Of all the stupid things to think. City spirits were some of the proudest ghosts around, to even think a city spirit would introduce themselves by anything other than their name was beyond moronic. And last he checked his hometown wasn’t called freaking Phantomville.

“We thought, since you never left the city-“ Zatanna cut herself off when Danny swiveled his glare on her.

“It. Is. My. Haunt,” Danny hissed enunciating each word clearly, the lights in the room flickered. “Did you not at all think it was weird that a city spirit-“ he made quotation marks around the words- “was visible to regular people?”

“We figured it was because of all the death magic in the air,” fucking Constantine said and Danny keened in despair. It was a sound just at the edge of human hearing, and most of them really couldn’t hear anything of it aside from a very high pitched tone that had the entire group flinching. Superman though, not only flinched but also took a step back covering his mouth, he looked sick.

“You could have asked, like normal people. What did I do to give you the impression you couldn’t just ask?” He dug his hands into his hair and tugged, doubled over and took a deep calming breath.

“Okay,” he forced his voice chipper, “so we’ve established you’re morons and now you’re all going to pay the price.”

There was a moment of silence as they all took that in and Danny’s eyes ran over their faces: Constantine, Zatanna, the big seven of the original Justice League and would you look at that Batman brought a bunch of his brood along, one of which was an actual child. Danny whimpered.

“I don’t really understand the problem,” the Flash stepped up to the circle in, well, a flash. “If you can help us then what does it matter that we summoned you instead of going to you?”

“It matters,” Danny said rubbing the bridge of his nose, “because you’ve gone and made it official. You didn’t ask small time ghost hero Phantom for help saving the world, you went and summoned the High King of the Infinite Realms.” He waved a hand allowing the green flaming crown to manifest over his head and the ring to appear on his right hand, the long starry night cape settled over his shoulders with a familiar weight like freshly fallen snow.

“The fact that I am one and the same is irrelevant. Intent is the most important thing in magic.”

“So we can just unsummon you?” The Flash suggested, looking from Danny to Constantine and Zatanna who both looked away.

Danny chuckled humorlessly. He touched a hand to his chest pushing energy into the chains binding him, so they could all see the chains going from him to each and everyone of them.

“We are already bound in a pre-contract, that’s what a summoning is.”

Oo o oO

Jason looked down at the Lazarus green glowing chain, going from his chest to the Ghost King. From each of his brothers including the brat’s - the brat, who actually looked scared. No matter, his maturity and upbringing he was still just a kid. Anger flared in his chest, but before he could do anything Bruce stepped forward.

“John, what is the meaning of this,” he demanded. To the League, that was just the gruff Batman voice. To Jason and the birds, the undertone of fear was obvious. Nothing set the old man off like a threat to his birds. Jason would know, he’d taken advantage of that before.

Constantine grimaced, “well, you see-“

But the Ghost King interrupted him. “No, let me explain. John Constantine is the greatest con man that ever lived. He could sell sand in the Sahara. He’s swindled demons and gods alike. He’s somehow managed to sell his soul like fifty fucking times, making the day of his eventual death into a jurisdictional nightmare of interdimensional proportions.”

He paused to take another deep breath - something Jason noticed with bemusement was a bit strange for a ghost.

“Ol’ Johnny here probably expected Pariah Dark, the previous Ghost King, the kind of mad hat conquerer who’s been locked up for millennia for unspeakable crimes against the Realms - just the kind of proud, single minded sod that’s ripe for John’s kind of swindling. Whose only spells of freedom came from summonings like this, which were thankfully rare, ‘cause very few people are stupid enough to summon the Ghost King.”

“But me-” he touched his chest, “there’s a reason I’m not locked in a sarcophagus. For one I don’t deal in souls or eternal damnation, secondly even if I did I wouldn’t touch that soul of yours with a ten feet pole.”

“Congratulations, Jackass, you managed to summon the actually ruling Monarch of the World In Between Worlds at full power and there’s absolutely nothing you can offer me. I deal in equivalent exchange. Nothing matters to you as much as the world, except your own skin and your ownership of that is questionable at best. That leaves your… friends? Or coworkers? Is that what they are? to pay.”

And with that the King turned to them all, green eyes both angry and resigned.

“Better start thinking about what things you’re willing to give up, I’ll be friendly and let your offerings stack, the world is heavy enough as it is.”

An unsettled murmur rustled through the assembled heroes. It was one thing to sacrifice in the heat of battle, but this was something none of them had prepared for. They had all expected Constantine to handle things, they all were just present for safety’s sake. It was certainly why Jason was there or he wouldn’t have been in same room as the heroes.

Ever since his revival he’d had somewhat of a magic resistance and the All Blades were the best bet if something went south. That had been the idea at least, but this had gone south in the entirely different direction. And, Jason suspected, the All Blades probably wouldn’t even work on the king. The impression Jason got from him wasn’t evil at all; he had purposefully directed their thoughts in the direction of physical possessions.

With the room stalled in uncertainty, Jason felt anger rising. They were wasting time when the solution was obvious. He’d said he didn’t deal in souls or eternal damnation that still left a wide range of interpretation to Jason’s thinking.

“Oi, Spooky!” He stepped forward tilting his head up in challenge, “You can have me, - a willing sacrifice gotta be worth a good deal.”

There were gasps all around him but he didn’t look just kept eye contact with those glowing Lazarus eyes as they turned to him in consideration.

The was a sudden cacophony of protest from his brothers, hands grabbing onto him pulling him back but he stood his ground.

“J-Hood, back down right now!” That was Bruce’s voice and for a moment there, it was almost like he actually cared, but then he was just ordering him about like usual. Then Dick was in front of him and even he couldn’t ignore that.

“Jay, no,” he hissed lowly horrified, “what’s the matter with you?”

The was a small tug in Jason’s chest at that.

“He said he didn’t deal in souls,” Tim pointed out urgently.

“Todd,” was everything Damian said, but there was a vulnerability there that was rarely in the little brat’s voice.

Jason couldn’t help but smile. It was heartening that they cared at least a little. He set a hand down on Damian’s head and ruffled his hair roughly. “Take care of my books, brat.”

“NO,” That was Dick, and he held on tighter, Jason couldn’t shrug him off, but as it turned out he didn’t have to.

There was a tug on the chain in his chest and he slipped right through his brothers and flew right up to the king inside the circle until he hovered level with the Lazarus green eyes.

The was a cacophony of protest but it was somehow muted like background noise from here inside the circle and yet the crackling fire of the crown was loud in his ears. The inhuman Lazarus eyes flickered from Jason then behind him and then back again.

“You offer your life to the High Ghost King as a sacrifice?”

Jason shuddered, felt fear grip him at the wording, because that was what it meant. Truthfully he didn’t want to die, but he’d been there and he’d done that, and if he was to die again, at least those eyes held no cruelty. He was the obvious choice. He clenched his jaw and steeled his resolve, the world would do fine without him.

“I do.” There was a momentary frown like regret on the king’s face before he looked to the wider room.

“Then with the consequences of that we have a deal, and I, High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, will save the world.” The chains leading to everyone but Jason burst into showers of tiny green stars.

“Come.” A white gloved hand was reached out to him, deceptively human if it wasn’t for the glow. Jason took the hand and next he knew the world turned into a green swirl.

The world solidified suddenly like a punch to the gut and Jason fell to his knees in loose sand. He gagged, but nothing came up from his empty stomach. Slowly he looked up, they were in the desert. In the distance was the nightmarish portal to the Dark Dimension Trigon’s forces were coming through. If only Raven hadn’t been hurt so early in the fight, but Trigon was working with someone else, someone Constantine had claimed was a powerful ghost and the combined forces were not something they had been prepared for. Even so there were heroes in the distance trying to hold back the hordes.

“What are we doing here?” He looked up to the King who was floating just half a foot off the ground and he was suddenly aware of the fact that he was kneeling.

“Figured the least I could do is show you that I uphold my end of the bargain. Stay here, this distance should be safe.”

With that the Ghost King flew off.

Jason had half a mind to try escaping, but as the first punch was thrown in the distance the futility settled in his gut. At least he could enjoy the show.

Oo o oO

“Daniel,” Vlad greeted him in his typical self satisfied drawl, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Danny’s lips split in a grin. He wouldn’t be so satisfied in a moment. He flashed forward throwing a punch that sent Vlad into a crater in the ground. He looked down at the man who at one point had been his nemesis. Now he just looked sad and confused.

“I think you’ll find you miscalculated this time, Plasmius.”

Finally Vlad actually seemed to register that Danny was wearing the full regalia and what that meant. His face paled to white.

“No, your Majesty, please, have mercy,” he begged, folding instantly - pitiful.

Danny snarled, fangs and limbs growing and growing with sickening cracks, like the frozen surface of a lake when you’ve stepped too far. He was the darkness of space itself, too many mouths split into white fanged grins.

“A line was crossed today.” His words reverberated across the field halting all the combatants in place as terror gripped them. “You have been warned time and time again. Now a price has been paid, a deal has been made and you shall reap what you have sown.”

With that he swept across the battlefield dark and all encompassing leaving only the heroes standing cold and shaken as he pushed Trigon’s army and Vlad and his panicking ghost minions back into the Dark Dimension.

The portal closed behind him when he willed it.

The large horned guy in the armor who was shouting in outrage had to be Trigon. The Ghost King was bound in contract to save the world from this threat. He could technically stop now, the threat was ended they had no portal and those were not simple to make, but was the world really saved when Trigon still stood and his army was still whole?

No, the Ghost King did not think so.

It had been a very stressful morning. He would very much enjoy taking it out on these fools.

Oo o oO

It didn’t take long before the Ghost King reappeared, thankfully looking more human, though there was still a wild glint in his eyes as if the beast hadn’t quite been sated.

“It’s done then.” Jason said with resignation. The green eyes blinked down at him slowly and again a white gloved hand was offered as if Jason had any real choice in the matter. Annoyance that he wouldn’t just get things over with rose up and Jason grabbed the hand with more aggression than was maybe wise.

All he got in return was a bemused look, as if he was less threatening than a kitten. Which arguably, compared to the eldritch monarch of the death, he probably was.

The world turned into a green swirl again. When the world solidified he found that traveling this way didn’t get easier a second time. He was down on his hands and knees in plush red carpet, his stomach turned nauseously. Shit it felt like he really would puke this time.

Suddenly a cool hand touched his forehead, somehow easing enough of the nausea that he could look up.

The king was kneeling in front of him, a worried look on his face. And that had anger rising in Jason’s chest, because how dare he.

“Why don’t you just get it over already?”

Black eyebrows rose.

“Get it over with?” He had the audacity to ask.

“Just kill me already, stop playing with me.”

Any leftover amusement went out of the Ghost King’s face at that.

“Why would I kill you?” He asked flatly.

“Because I gave you my life? What else would it mean!"

"Your life belonging to me, does not mean I have to kill you, in fact that would be rather stupid of me.”

“What difference does it make? Aren’t you the king of the dead!”

The King shrugged. “Sure, but I don’t own my subjects. Death is the one thing that will free you from me.”

Jason paled, he hadn’t considered this. The Ghost King had said he didn’t deal in souls or eternal damnation, but a human life wasn’t eternal - hadn’t he himself thought there was a lot of leeway in those statements?

“No no no, I’m gonna stop you there, you look like I ate your favorite pair of slippers.”

Jason blinked, startled out of his spiraling train of thought by the sheer absurdity.

“Is that something you have experience with?”

“You’ll never know.” The king grinned back at him teeth definitely sharp enough to rip slippers to pieces. His features turned serious. “Now you listen closely. You did not offer your mind-“ he poked Jason’s forehead firmly- “your body, your soul or your service-“ he underscored each of the last three words with a poke to Jason’s chest.

He got up to his feet.

“All I own in capacity of King is your life. And so your life will be lived here with me, that is all. Wording is very important in magic.” With those words he strode down the hall, cape flaring out behind him.

Jason was left on the floor, mind reeling.

“You changed the wording,” Jason realized, because he had offered himself - all of him being implied. But the Ghost King had changed the wording when they made the deal. He jumped to his feet to catch up. It’s wasn’t hard, the Ghost King was actually rather short when he deigned to touch the ground.

“You changed the wording,” Jason repeated firmly, “you-“

“I already told you I’m not into the soul trade. Nor do I want any slaves, there’s enough of that mess leftover from the previous king.”

He grimaced at that.

He wouldn’t kill him. He’d changed the wording, so Jason’s will was his own. He wasn’t a servant or slave, or a soldier or anything. “So what then?”

“What then?” The king stopped and looked back at Jason bewildered.

“You own my life and you have no plan or purpose for me, what am I gonna do?”

His eyebrows drew down in a frown but Jason was not done. Indignation burned hot in his chest.

“If you are not going to kill me or have any use for me, why even bring me here? You could own my life just as easily in Gotham as you can here!”

There was a rumble, it sounded like it was in the distance but somehow Jason knew it was from the ghost king in front of him. His legs suddenly felt unsteady.

“You are here,” the King growled, “because idiots decided to summon me and you and your family are paying the toll for saving the world.”

The anger turned to ice in his chest. “My family, what do you mean?”

“I mean, Jason Todd, that you mean the world to them and if it wasn’t for that your sacrifice wouldn’t have been enough, you think too little of yourself for that.”

What? No! That couldn’t be right?

“You’re lying,” he whispered. It couldn’t be true. Jason was the one paying the price, not his family. It couldn’t be.

The Ghost King snarled, morphing into sharp shadows and glowing eyes.

“You dare,” his voice boomed from all around Jason and he clapped his hands over his ears.

“I have stretched-” he seemed to grow longer and longer into spindlier shadows, chittering and cracking, “stretched, as far as I can on this deal and you call me a liar!”

The last word rumbled through Jason’s bones like a bulldozer and he fell to his knees. Nothing existed for Jason in that moment but the pain and the voice- he had nothing left to do anything with, he could neither protest or apologize. Only feel and hear despite plugging his ears.

“You summoned me! I did not ask to be cast as a villain in your Saturday morning cartoon!”

The temperature plummeted and there was something like a mournful wail in the distance, then a long spindly arm opened a door in the wall. Jason could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago, but honestly up could be down right now and he wouldn’t know. His teeth clattered and he desperately wanted to wrap his arms around his body, but dared not move them from his ears.

“Your room,” the King spat. The tapestries on the wall melted slowly together with his shadows.

“You may move around the castle, but don’t go into the west wing, those are my rooms, and don’t go into the dungeons - for your own sake.” He disappeared in a short flash of light.

Jason’s ears popped as pressure and temperature returned to normal and he gasped as if he hadn’t breathed for several minutes. Maybe he hadn’t. He couldn’t remember.

His mind was reeling, unable to comprehend, to process, what had happened. Words, he didn’t know them, but the King’s voice felt engraved onto his bones.

Beyond the doorway was a bed. A bed, he turned the concept around in his head as if it was a strange new thing, despite that he knew he should know the concept.

Slowly he picked himself up. With every staggered step, he felt more and more worried he would just melt into the carpet, but finally he fell down on top of soft covers.

Bed good.

We are not talking about the fact that this is another wip... >.> I wanted to do something for Trauma Tuesday, but in the end I'm too tired, and then Clock suggested it would be Trauma Lite Tuesday, so that's what we're going for XD I don't tag people, if you want to follow the story please subscribe to the handy masterlist/subscription post

#Almanac #dp x dc #dead on main #summonings have consequences #trauma tuesday #though more like #trauma lite tuesday

831 notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 2 months

Text

Fear of the Dark

Dark!Ghost!Azriel x reader

synopsis: after escaping from the Shadowsinger, the High Lord provides you with a new home, in a location entirely of your own choosing. One that just so happens to be frequently visited by window-rattling blizzards, and snow so heavy you’ll often find yourself trapped within the supposedly safe haven. But when things begin moving on their own, and shadows stalk your well-lit halls, you begin to think maybe the Spymaster somehow eluded death, too.

warnings: references to implied noncon, dark!az, paranormal events, nonconsensual touching (shoulders, mouth, hip)

a/n: dedicating this to @azrielhours , and inspired by her wonderful Company of Phantoms🧡💛

want to know more?

word count: 1,963

-Fear of the Cold-

It’s been six months since he died in the fire.

Six months of roaring screams echoing through the desolate hallways.

Half a year.

It goes by quickly when swallowed by delusion. Of persistent psychosis.

Of imagined shadows stalking your corridors. Of dragging footsteps just outside your chambers. Of the windows rattling, and not from the sudden blizzards that sometimes hit—seemingly out of nowhere. Unpredictable, and haunting.

Some days you’ll wake up, greeted by the barren landscape or grey skies and greyer rock, and others all that lays there is white. Blinding, dominating white, like a blanket smothering the harsh, unforgiving terrain.

You know why you picked here to be your place of refuge. For complete isolation.

The rocky landscape means no one could stumble upon your house without intention, tucked up in the sides of the rugged mountain, weathered by icy rain and lashing winds that could make the blood in your fingertips recoil in the space of a breath. Cold so penetrating it could snatch the air from your lungs.

Few understand the true horror of the cold.

Absolute, inescapable cold.

Nature’s blade, that could cleave glaciers in two.

With the stormy skies, there is no access by air. Winged creatures staying clear of your northern-facing home. And yet, despite the utter isolation, you’re faced with company.

After not even a week in your new house, the hairs had been rising at the back of your neck. Unexplainable drafts ghosting up your spine, or kissing the length of your throat. Doors clicking shut during the grey hours of limited daylight. Books that fall from low shelves, the chandeliers that swing softly when you enter a room, plates that appear where they hadn’t been left.

It’s rarely dark in your house, but the weight is smothering. Every corner is kept clear of shadow, flame purging the darkness with a quiet conviction that feels almost reassuring. But there’s nothing reassuring about your new home. Forearms almost constantly littered in goosebumps, hairs rising, skin prickling.

Even at night, candles burn away at the dark, eating at every shadow that tries to crawl in from the cold. But it feels like lighting a fire in the barren wasteland of the frozen tundra. Flame blazing with superficial strength, until it melts the snow bowing the branches far above, ice slipping free, and smothering the fire in one smooth avalanche.

The glass is rattling again, deathly cold wind whipping, icy rain lashing down as you try to lower yourself into sleep. But every time you near that precipice, something pulls you back: the groan of heavy wooden beams that creak through your house, flame flickering with dwindling light as if blown by a ghostly breath, a strange coldness rising from the foot of your bed. That seeps into your blankets first, then spreads to your feet. Slowly crawling up your body, until you’re wrapped in the haunting embrace of long-dead arms.

Even fire can’t always clear his kind of dark.

Dark that smothers, and festers. That concentrates in the hollow space beneath your bed, that hides in the softness of your pillow, that lurks in the pits of your pupils.

He found a way inside, and now he’s sunk his claws in. Like hooked blades that disembowel when they’re extracted. You’d have to empty your brains out into a bucket to be free of him.

Even then, your body would remember. His touch memorised into the tissue of skin, his terror embedded in the sinew of flesh.

The window spiderwebs, the distinct sound of fracturing glass dumping icy water over your near sleeping form. Hauling you up from the pit of an ocean, wrapped in seaweed to face the stormy grit of the blizzard outside.

Instead, your attention is sucked in by the ever-shifting shadow at the foot of your bed, chilling wind pouring in through the glass, candles winking out. Swallowed in darkness.

The air is pulled from your lungs faster than the cold can snatch it, sat bolt upright in your still-cooling bed.

The darkness holds no recognisable form, simply clustered together as a writhing mass of overwhelming shadow, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Who lurks beneath those suffocatingly concentrated umbras. Inky and undulating.

You’re frozen to your mattress, an icicle thawing out far above as it drips cold sweat down onto your brow, every breath biting at your lungs, making your throat raw.

It’s dark, and you have no protection as he looms so tauntingly before you, hands trembling as they try to grip the freezing sheets. But you can hardly move.

Air chokes in your throat as the shadowy mass expands forward, encroaching toward the foot of your bed. Your eyes widen with terror, watching as talons of darkness spider-crawl onto your duvet, feet recoiling like hot blood against the cold, knees pulling up to your chest, back pressed against the headboard.

“You’re dead,” you breathe out, air thin and slippery between your lips. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me.”

Your stomach seizes, lurching as the shadowy tendrils stutter in their movements, like shoulders shaking with silent mirth. You get the feeling he’s laughing. Crawling closer still.

He reaches past your feet, darkness swarming over your knees, and within the cloying night you can feel the weight of hands. Of heavy, corporeal touch. One that sinks into your bones as they tremble with old fear.

“You can’t be here,” you whisper, pressing tight into the cold cushioning of the headboard, head tucking into your shoulders as you try to pull away from his overwhelming darkness, writhing throughout the deathly cold room, his touch like ice. “Leave me…” you breathe, voice breaking.

The weight of a palm weighs into the mattress, beside your hip, tying you in place as the living night, faceless and dominating, swells above you.

Your hand reaches sharply for your bedside table, viciously shaking fingers fumbling with the box of matches, sliding the cardboard out with a last trembling hope. Again the darkness stutters, a shadowy laugh whispering beside your ear, an icy draft kissing up the length of your throat.

The match strikes…once…twice…three time before sizzling into a small lick of flame.

In the few seconds of light you’re afforded, shadow easily melts away, pulling out instead hauntingly dark hazel eyes, piercing as the flame sharpens them. The cold, dead mouth that had once hungrily claimed your own, teeth dragging and prominent as they bit you into pieces. The eerily pale tones of his face, warmth vacant from the smooth planes.

You choke on a breath.

Soft, cruel lips curve at the edge, eyes twinkling with the reflection of your match, before his weight shifts over the bed and scarred, calloused fingers pinch out the flame. Skin that remembers its burn now extinguishing it without thought, freed from its sizzling agony.

You scream into the darkness, sinking down into the false safety of your duvet, hauling it over your head as you tuck yourself tight, trembling violently despite desperate attempts to still yourself. A cry breaks from your lips as you feel himself lower over you, directly atop you, trapped beneath his bulk. A cannonball shackled to your ankle, pulling you beneath a frozen lake, blood icing in your veins.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be alive.

You heard him die, watched as the flesh slid from his bones, muscle melting beneath the blazing inferno of the house fire.

You smelled it. Could taste it in the smokey air.

“Come out…come out…,” the shadow rasps mirthfully, weight brushing atop the blanket, stroking down your arm, drifting to your hip. Touch biting into bone. “Come out…and play…”

“Go away,” you beg under your breath, squeezing yourself tight, tears burning as they drip over the bridge of your nose, sliding off your face. “Leave me alone…”

The darkness laughs, and your stomach seizes as the duvet is slowly pulled back, dragged firmly from your grip. Numbed fingers try to grapple with the sheets, but he’s so much stronger than you. Just as he’s always been.

“Stop it…” you beg, trying to turn to the side as the blanket is pulled away, revealing his swarming darkness that looms above, with a weight that should not be possible. A spectre should not be corporeal, should not have the right to touch the living. He should have lost that privilege upon passing.

Icy fingertips brush your cheek, and a small cry breaks from your lips, quiet and terrified, eyes squeezed shut in feeble attempts to keep him out as the storm rages.

He dips down, and chilly breath grazes the space beneath your jaw, a whimper pulling from your throat as a broad palm makes its way up your front, settling across your sternum heavily, pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Please…” you whisper, crying now, “just leave me alone…”

His cold mouth opens over your neck, soft lips sealing over a patch of skin as he tastes you, tongue slowly licking over the junction between your shoulder and neck. Darkness shrouds your bedroom, encasing you in a perpetually cold bubble, sealing out the lashing wind and rain, but trapping you in mist. Thick and impenetrable.

The phantom pulls away, lips grazing your jaw, and even with your eyes closed you can feel his proximity. The piercing weight of his attention as it presses up against your skin.

“Call out for me,” he rasps, voice shadowy and shifting, as if speaking in multiple tones at once. “Call out for me,” he urges, coldness thumbing across your cheek, as if trying to coax your eyes to open. So he can feel their warmth, and their terror.

But you shake your head, teeth chattering as you shiver, shuddering beneath his touch. “Go away,” you beg, “leave me alone.”

A soft puff of breath ghosts over your lips, like a faint laugh, and you shrink back into the mattress while his shadows wrap closer around your body, squeezing like serpents. “Call out for me,” he repeats, his gaze roving over your mouth, parted for air despite its bite.

Hot tears scald your skin as they drip out, peeking open your eyes, as breath is again snatched from your body. A mountain of pressure sitting atop your chest.

He’s as haunting as you remember, cruelly carved beauty, hewn from an ice that tries to be soft, but will only end up flooding if it thaws. Drowning you in his deadly affection. Filling your lungs until they’re close to bursting with his poisonous infatuation.

Hazel eyes flicker as they greedily devour your own, overwhelming and immense as you’re submerged into his obsession. Saturated in his hunger. Starvation so deep it persists after death.

“Azriel…” you breathe, lips trembling around his name, feeling as though its the last line of an enchantment, solidifying his presence, binding him to your own mortality.

Soft lips curve at their edges, a spark of life stolen from your existence. Fed off of, until he’s permanently entwined with your being. Persistent and parasitical.

He hums lowly, approvingly, and you swallow. Fear making you feel sick.

Slowly, as if basking in the descent, he settles his mouth atop your own, snow-soft lips slanting against a frozen stiff set, applying gentle pressure as he savours the feeling.

He still moves with such grace, such innate refinement that between the two of you, you seem the more lifeless. With unmoving limbs, and vacant eyes, you are the more dead.

The shadows pull away, blood gingerly rising to where his touch had been.

“I’ll return,” he whispers, mouth still faintly curved into a soft deception of tenderness.

Flickering night morphs and shifts, dissolving along with the wind.

“Find me in the dark.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

#azriel x reader #dark!azriel x reader #dark!azriel #ghost!azriel #dark!azriel x you #azriel fic #dark!azriel fic #fear of the dark

224 notes · View notes

scrollwyrm · 2 months

Text

Tui must love writing cold, stony IceWing royals that fall hopelessly in love with funny weirdos who they aren’t supposed to.

Glacier x Blaze

Winter x Qibli

Snowfall x Lynx

Snowfox x Snowflake

Arctic x FoeSlayer

#Tui stop #wings of fire #wof

133 notes · View notes

wings-of-fire-confessions · 1 month

Note

Dude sometimes I hate how fans ship characters. Yeah yeah the canon ships weren't that great but bro have you seen how bad the dynamics of some of these fan ships are???

Blaze X Glacier: Glacier literally thinks so poorly of Blaze throughout the entire series just like everyone else but let's push that aside cause they're allies I guess.

Burn X Scarlet: DUDE. BURN LITERALLY IS THE REASON SCARLET HAS A VENOM SVAR CAUSE SHE DIDN'T WANT TO GET HIT HERSELF! No amount of "they're girlbosses" can fix that.

Umber X Flame: Barely. Met. There isn't even any evidence they've talked to each other! They just both have scars. That's the only thing they have in common.

There's more but I'm not listing them, just use common sense. And then people will say "oh but these characters will grow out of hating each other 🥺" or "they'll forgive each other " or something and like SO CAN THE CHARACTERS IN CANON SHIPS. But then you say that and it's "well actually these guys would never work out 🤓" when like how do you know???

I feel like fans think they're making "better" more "healthy" ships than the canon ones, but not really.

#wings of fire confessions #wof confessions #wof #wings of fire #shipping

115 notes · View notes

who-is-this-weirdo · 5 months

Text

There is no heterosexual explanation to the sisters and their allies

#wof #wings of fire #my art #dragon #burn wof #scarlet wof #glacier wof #blaze wof #coral wof #blister wof #sandwing wof #skywing wof #icewing wof #seawing wof #burn x scarlet #glacier x blaze #coral x blister

100 notes · View notes

meroaw · 1 year

Photo

Queen Glacier x Blaze

#blaze #queen glacier #she loves sandwings #sandwing #wof #wings of fire #wings of fire artist #wof fans #wof fanart #fanart #art #artist #digital art #dragons #dragon artist #dragon #fanartist #meroaw wings of fire #meroaw wings of fire designs

505 notes · View notes

xyziiix · 11 months

Text

•𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽• - VII

•Pairing: Mid-honour!Arthur Morgan X Female!Reader•

•Summary: Finally moving from the frigid and isolated town of Colter, Arthur and Hosea recollect the past before the gang arrives at Horseshoe Overlook•

•warnings: language mostly, Hosea being a lil cutie•

!most of this chapter is in Arthur’s perspective!

!not proof read!

series Masterlist <<previous chapter

The snow melted into green and brown - into the beauty of an unfrozen environment, the sun gradually radiating warmth onto everyone as the gang descended the mountain that held the glacier. Horses whinnying as they pulled the carts full of personal belongings along the path which was finally not blanketed in white and ice. The cool breeze actually became a relief instead of a shiver now that the sunshine was actually blazing and not just seemingly there for the light of day. The scenery was much more welcomed than the previous winter wonderland - more full of life and vibrancy. The horses hauling Arthur and Hosea’s wagon huffed as their legs were submerged in the refreshing water of the shallow stream, but the wheels of the cart groaned in protest.

“Get us out the stream.” Hosea instructed Arthur, whom cracked the reins to urge the horses to move more efficiently - which became quite challenging as the current of the water pushed against the wagon, “you gotta keep us moving, but calm.”

As they finally got back onto the dirt and gravel, the small victory was discarded as the left side of the wagon dipped abruptly - the wheel having disconnected and toppling to the side. And the sounds of barrels and boxes falling out of the rear end didnt sooth Arthur’s frustration.

“Ah, shit!”

You were about three carts in front, unbeknownst of of the halt of their movement as the others continued down the path, leaving Arthur, Hosea, Bill, Charles, Javier and uncle behind to assess the problem.

“You alright back there?” Bill asked as he pulled the two mares to a stop.

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur bit sarcastically, throwing the reins off of his lap to jump down from the front of the wagon and stomp walk to the back.

“Well, what’s going on?” Javier asked, sat atop his horse.

Arthur let out a ‘gah’ of annoyance, throwing his hand up in the air as he properly took in the state of the cart. “I broke the goddamn wheel!”

“Alright! Let’s get it fixed.” Hosea urged as he also climbed off the wagon. Charles joined Hosea to haul the end of the wagon bed - dismissing Javier when he offered his help - Arthur lifted the heavy wood of the wheel. “Alright Charles, you and me hold the thing up, while you try and put the wheel back on, Arthur.”

“You still strong enough to hold up a wagon?” Arthur quipped as he trundled the wheel back over to the wagon.

“Shut up.” Hosea responded as he strained his knees to lift the wood up.

“M’just sayin’.” Arthur prompted, grunting as he lifted the wood up to join back onto the axle.

“Well, say less.”

Arthur panted as he crouched next to the wheel, giving the wood a few bashes with his broad shoulder to push the wheel back into place, when it looked secure enough to his satisfaction, he appeared at Charles and Hosea’s side. “You ain’t so useless after all.” He said to Hosea, his tone teasing.

The older man just let out an amused and prolonged laugh as he and Charles began retrieving all of the fallen supplies, “not quite.”

As Arthur made work of tightening the screws with a wrench - Hosea and Charles reloading the wagon - they became aware of watchful eyes. At the top of the cliffs edge, three men on horseback stood idly - observing them. Hosea’s - still - gloved hand wipes at his face as he analysed their positions, Charles and Arthur becoming slightly anxious.

“What do you think?” Arthur asked lowly as he placed the metal tool back onto the wagon bed.

“If they wanted trouble..” Charles began, staring up at the strangers, “we wouldn’t have seen them.” Hosea stiffly raised his arm, giving the three men a frigid wave - in an attempt of reassurance that they wouldn’t cause any problems.

“Poor bastards…” Hosea rasped, lowering his arm as neither of the watchers made any move, “we really screwed them over down here.” He then turned to look at his comrades. “Come on. Let’s not push our luck.

They finished loading the wagon, Bill and Javier had already gone to follow you and the others.

“What happened?” Asked asked as he lifted a large pot, hauling it onto the back.

“Well, get in.. and I’ll tell ya.”

The wagon you were in jostled and rutted over the stones, the path being less smoother than it were when it was covered in much softer snow rather than the uneven gravel, you were sat on the buckboard with Dutch, listening to him talk about anything and everything - that was the good thing about Dutch, he could talk for America and render you free of boredom - though, it could get a little tiring listening to him rant for seemingly hours on end. You peered over your shoulder, and when you noticed Bill was much further behind than the others and Arthur and Hosea were completely out of sight, you grew concerned.

“Hey, where’s Hosea and Arthur?” You glanced to Dutch. He didn’t even look behind him as he paused from what he was previously talking about, waving his hand dismissively.

“They’ll catch up, probably just stopped for a piss or somethin’.” He said, you just sighed as you turned to look at the path ahead. “Now what was i sayin?”

“Talkin’ bout the feller in Tumbleweed.” You replied, despite not really wanting to hear this story again.

“Right.” Dutch chuckled, laughing at the own recollection of the memory, some drunk tried to steal The Count - a story he’d told half a million times already.

Hosea had just finished telling Arthur and Charles the story of the Indians, how they lost all of the heartlands - and were either killed or herded to reservations by the government and army. Arthur then began to ask Charles of his tribe in the past, only to discover he was unsure whether he had one - but that his mother was captured by soldiers years after him and his parents fled from the tribe he was with, and he never saw her again.

“-Around thirteen, I just took off on my own.” Charles finished explaining.

“That was about the age we found young Arthur here,” Hosea chimed in before adding “-maybe a little older. John and Y/N were a little younger than that… but Arthur-“ he let out a quick laugh, “-A wilder delinquent you never did see. But he learned fast.”

“Not as fast as Marston, apparently.” Arthur added, sarcastic as ever.

“Wait, i don’t understand.” Charles began, “what’s the problem between you two?”

“Arthur?” Hosea joshed.

“It’s a long story…” Arthur grumbled.

“Well what about you and Y/N, how did you two properly get together.”

Arthur was a little taken aback by the question, it wasn’t often he was asked that considering most of the gang new the events that led to the two of you finally growing a pair and telling each other how you felt - though, Charles obviously didn’t know much of it. Hosea let out a delighted hum, probably readying himself to expose all of the embarrassing moments of the two of you as awkward teenagers/young adults. And just as he expected, Hosea beat Arthur to it.

“They was dancin’ around each other for years, it was as cute as a bugs ear.” Hosea amusedly responded, which actually drew a quick laugh from Charles. “I even remember talkin’ with Y/N about it when she was younger, tellin’ her she had more guts than Arthur here, and that she should just tell him she was sweet on him… but she didn’t, of course.”

While Arthur was grumbled at Hosea sharing the personal information, Charles was intrigued - he just… couldn’t imagine a big outlaw like Arthur being so smitten and timid as Hosea was making him out to be.

*ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄[next part written as if it were in the present - in your perspective]

You were sat at the table, your elbows resting on the old wood and holding your chin in your hands. You were completely lost in thought - with a far-away look in your eye. You were dwelling over the events of the day, where you and the others had been in town when you saw Arthur. But, before you could go to greet him, out came an unfortunately familiar woman to join him, Mary Gillis. You knew of Arthur’s relationship with her, despite him not sharing much with all of you - he’d mentioned her to you a few times, seeking advice while you both sat by the campfire late in the evening, and with you just clenching your jaw with a feigned smile plastered on your face while he told you about the woman he was in love with.

Your thoughts were cut off when Hosea’s face appeared in front of you, making you jump a little as he seemingly came out of no where to take the seat opposite you.

“Here we are.” He sighed with a proud smile on his face as he placed a very thick book in front of you. You stared at the book for a moment, the idea of reading so many words already straining your eyes and stabbing your brain.

“I can’t read all this, Hosea. Y’know my readings as good as horse shit.”

“That’s why you gotta keep practicing.” He tapped his finger on the leather-bound cover at each syllable for extra measure, before he added, “besides, it’d do you better to practice reading than sitting here being pensive about Arthur all day.” His abrupt statement caused your heart to drop.

“What?”

He looked at you half-amusedly as you straightened up, quickly becoming awkward at his words - as they were true.

“You really think I don’t know about how you two act around each other?” He tipped his chin, giving you a pointed look.

“So this book, what it about?” You attempted to change the subject, not wanted the current topic of conversation to continue any further.

“Y/N.”

“What do you want me to say, Hosea?” Your brows furrowed as you began to grow irritated, the feeling of having this conversation out loud felt akin to being backed in a corner - suffocating. “You want me to say I’m sweet on Arthur? Cause I ain’t.”

“I practically raised you for the last twelve years, girl. I can tell when you’re lying to me.” He responded, eyes squinting momentarily at your visible defensiveness. A beat of silence washed over as you opted to look into the distance, unsure of what to say. “Arthur’s sweet on you, I can tell ya that.”

Your gaze snapped back to him before you scoffed, “no he ain’t, he’s with another woman.”

“I’m aware.”

“You think he’d be with another woman if he were sweet on me?”

“I think he’s trying to convince himself he’s not, though I ain’t gonna condone him bringing an innocent woman’s feelings into play if he doesn’t feel that way about her.” He replied nonchalantly, leaning back in the rickety chair, lacing his hands together over his chest.

“That’s a big ‘if’, Hosea.”

He shrugged, “I don’t think it’s a big ‘if’.”

“What actually makes you think that?” You urged, leaning forward, while you were putting a front about being annoyed - you couldn’t deny that you were intrigued, and that his words ignited a little bit of hope inside of you.

“I see the way he looks at you. And I know that because it’s how I used to look at Bessie.” He nodded. You fell silent at the mention of her, the woman who’d been one of your parental figures - the one reminding you the most of your own mother with her kind nature. Your face softened, not really knowing what to say.

“Hosea”-

“Arthur’s brooding, even with us he’s always been guarded…” he continued, lifting to scratch at his chin briefly before meeting your gaze with a serious expression, “-except when it comes to you. He cares about you, can’t you see?”

*ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄

“Alright, s’enough of that. We still headin’ the right way?” Arthur cut Hosea off, succeeding in changing the subject.

“That depends, are we still heading west in search fortune and repose in virgin forest as we planned?” Hosea asked rhetorically. “No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law eastwards down the mountains? Yes, i believe so.”

“You know this area?” Charles questioned.

“A little, I’ve been through a couple of times.” He answered, turning to scan the scenery momentarily, “there’s a livestock town not too far from here, called Valentine. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls. Our kind of place.”

“O’Driscolls?” Arthur added,

“Probably them too.”

“Pinkertons?” He drawled out, voice underlined with a hint of dread.

“Let’s hope not.”

“And this place we’re going… wait, what’s it called again?”

“Horseshoe overlook.” Hosea breathed out.

“It’s a good place to lie low?” Arthur asked again.

“It’ll do for now. And how low do you think Dutch is really going to lie?” Hosea quipped, “it’s just.. you know, maybe it’s me who’s changed, not him, but, we kept telling him that ferry job didn’t feel right. You and me had a real lead in Blackwater that could’ve worked out.” He shook his head slightly.

“Maybe.” Arthur replied.

“It just… isn’t like Dutch to lose his head like that.”

“Thinks go wrong sometimes. People die.” Arthur reminded, an attempt to reassure the older man. “It’s the way it is, always has been. Me, you, Dutch. We’ve all been in this line a’work a long time - and we’re still here, so… I figure we must’ve got it right a hell a’lot more than we got it wrong.”

You’d finally got yours and Arthur’s tent set up, trying your best to make it as homey as possible - considering half of your favourite belongings had been left in Blackwater - you’d even set up Arthur’s pictures on the side of the wagon - the ones with him, Dutch and Hosea, the one of Copper and even the picture of his father. You wiped at the sweat pooling on your skin, you’d already removed all of your winter clothing and changed it for something much more light to withstand the contrasting heat from Colter.

You were still worried on Arthur and Hosea’s whereabouts, yourself and the others having arrived at horseshoe overlook about an hour ago - but, you didn’t want to go making a big fuss about it just yet. After all, you knew Arthur was more than capable of taking care of himself.

You were currently placing trinkets onto the side table, busying yourself with making the tent look more aesthetically pleasing. When you heard the sound of horse trots and wheels dragging in the dirt, you immediately perked up and looked over to see the final wagon rolling in, with Hosea, Arthur, Charles and Javier climbing off of the wagon.

“You weren’t wrong, Hosea. This place is perfect!” Dutch called out, walking over to them.

“I hope so.” Hosea responded as he carefully manoeuvred himself to plant his feet back on the ground.

“Gentlemen…” Dutch started, undoubtedly leading to one of his big speeches, “we have survived.” You came to stand at the entrance of your tent, leaning against the side of the wagon as you watched Dutch wave Uncle out of his seat at the table in the middle of your newfound camp.

“For now.” Hosea added.

“Now, it is time to prosper.” He announced, you planned on joining them, but out of your peripheral you saw Miss Grimshaw wave you over, and you begrudgingly moved to join her and the girls as she quietly - not wanting to interrupt the men - but sternly instructed you all with unloaded the rest of the supplies.

“Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater.” Hosea stated as the two came to join Dutch, “then, Micah got you all excited about that ferry and here we are.” He threw his arms up, completely unimpressed. Arthur perched himself on the edge of the table, peering over his shoulder at his father-figures.

“We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea…” Dutch defended, standing up to be level with his friend, “every last one of us.” Arthur drowned them out slightly, looking over to where you and Tilly were working together to pull a large rolled fur out of the back of the wagon, he grew uncomfortable as heat covered his body - still wearing his winter coat. “But I kept us together.” Dutch argued, jabbing his hand - sporting a cigar - at Hosea, “kept us alive. Kept the nooses off our neck.” He added before moving to walk away from him.

“I guess I’m just worried.” Hosea prompted, his voice wavering with worry as he caught up with Dutch, placing a hand on his shoulder to grab his full attention, “I ain’t got that long, Dutch. I want folks safe before I go.” He said with desperation.

“Me too.” Dutch defended.

“And now we are stuck. East of the Grizzlies and out of money… and a long way from our dream of virgin land in the west.”

“I know, my brother, but we are safe.” Dutch said slowly, as if trying to drill the words into his worried friends mind. “We make a bit of money here, then we move again… head out around them, be west of Uncle Sam… in a few months buy some land.” He used his hands as he spoke.

“I hope so.” Hosea responded. Dutch then backed away slightly, his arms held up in a presenting motion.

“Would you just look around you.” He spun around to walk face the horizon, “this world has its consolations.”

You looked over to where the three were stood, watching Herr Strauss approach them with his leather case, you sighed as you placed the final box near where Javier was already making work of building a fire. You also looked over your shoulder, noticing Molly O’Shea sat in Dutch’s tent, evident that she’d done no labour what so ever, your brows furrowing in annoyance at her arrogance - clearly thinking that because she was Dutch’s little plaything that she didn’t have to pull her weight like the rest of you - it wasn’t that you didn’t necessarily like Miss O’Shea, she was actually very nice to talk to if you ignored the way she clearly looked down on you and everyone else.

“Now, everyone! Put your tools down for a moment.” Dutch called out, and you sighed as you stood fully again, your knees feeling weak and your eyes feeling heavy - after all, you hadn’t slept a wink in the last day, you and Arthur having spent the whole night riding back to Colter just to be on the move again to get here to Horseshoe. “Come on, gather round, quickly now.” You joined the circle being created, standing beside Karen as you looked to Arthur momentarily before switching back to Dutch. “I know that things have been tough, but we are safe now, and we are far too poor.” He lifted his hand as he continued. “So it is time for everyone to get to work.”

“I wonder if that means Miss O’Shea as well.” Karen joked in a whisper to you, prompting you to bob your head down to suppress the smirk pulling your lips, when you glanced up, your eyes met Arthur and he raised his brow at you - curious as to what you and Karen were so amused at - you bit your lip to hide your smile and continued listening in.

“Get to work, but stay out of trouble.” Hosea reminded, “remember, we are itinerant workers.”

-“Laid off when they shut down our factory to the north.” He added, you all already knew this of course, as you’d already used this fake backstory before. “Now, get out there, and see what you can find.” Dutch instructed before turning to a specific pair, “Uncle, Reverend Swanson… no more passengers.” He said, which pulled a small chorus of chuckling from the lot of you as you observed the two men’s dumbfounded states. “It is time for everyone to earn their keep.”

“There is a town a little way down the track, name of Valentine… live stock town. All mud and morons if I remember right.” Hosea explained. “That seems a decent place to start.”

“-And… we need food… real food. That means every day, one of you.” Mr Pearson chimed in.

“And remember-“ Dutch started again, briefly stepping into his tent to grab a familiar reddish-brown box in his hands, “- whatever it is that you find,” he slammed the box onto the barrel outside his tent. “The camp gets its slice.” He said pointedly, “now, be sensible out there.” And with that, you all began to scatter off to whatever it is you were previously doing, you glanced over your shoulder to see Miss Grimshaw talking to Arthur.

“Now, Y/N’s had your tent ready, Mr. Morgan, come with me.” She instructed, he nodded before following after her. “We put you over here.” She explained as she gestured towards the wagon.

“I’m sure everythin’ will be fine, Miss Grimshaw.” Arthur said dismissively, wanting nothing more than to get out of his extra layers and get some sleep - preferably with you with him doing the same.

“It should be, most of your stuff from Blackwater got saved.” She said, speed walking over to the tent - even Arthur struggling to keep up with her quick pace.

“Everythin’ apart from my money.” He added sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t remind me.” She shook him off with a sour expression.

“Well, we can always make more money.” He shrugged, moving to sit at the edge of the cot, already looking at the little additions you’d added to the Wagon.

“We’re gonna have to.” She agreed before turning to walk away, and Arthur visibly winced at her voice cutting through the air in a shout, “Miss Jackson! I’ve seen shit with more common sense than you. Do it properly.” Arthur sighed as he pulled his coat off of his shoulders, placing his satchel on the table after fishing a cigarette and match out. He looked up while striking the match on the sole of his boots to see you quickly walking over to the tent, wearily glancing to where Miss Grimshaw was hollering at the girls - not wanting her to catch you unoccupied.

“You okay?” He asked with a smirk, amused at your hurriedness, you gave him a wide, cheeky grin as you quickly untied the flaps from the metal poles holding the canopy up. And a minute later, the security of the flaps granted you a sense of privacy from the outside, the light in the tent a warm shade of orange from the setting sun. You moved next to him, dramatically flopping down onto your back with an exaggerated sigh while he just chuckled at you, the smell of tobacco filling the air as he blew a cloud of smoke out.

“I can‘t feel my legs.” You complained, your eyes shut. Arthur tutted at you before leaning over you to flick the cigarette out of the small gap between the canopy flaps and the wagon. Afterwards, he groaned as he laid down next to you - the cot being a tighter squeeze than the bed in Colter, not that either of you minded - he crossed his arms behind his head, inviting you to curl into his side and rest your head on his chest. After a beat, you lifted your head to look at him. “Arthur, you stink.” You said pointedly, raising your eyebrows at him - it was true, he’d been sweating in winter clothes for the last couple hours under the blazing sun.

He barked a laugh, and took you by surprise by reaching for the back of your head and pushing your head into the space between his chest and underarm, laughing boyishly as you let out a muffled scream. He finally let you go, his ribs aching from laughing as you sat up with a flabbergasted look on your face, you brought your hand to smack his chest even though you couldn’t suppress the grin on your face. “You’re disgusting.” You half-heartedly scolded.

“And when was the last time you were in a bath, Miss L/N?” Arthur asked, scrunching his face at you in feigned disgust, he lazily watched as you sat up to unlace your boots.

“I’ll have you know, Morgan, that as soon as I get to that town… Valentine, the first thing I’ll be doin’ is stayin’ in a hotel and having the most luxurious bath in the world.” You said matter-of-factly. After you had successfully tugged your boots off you looked over your shoulder to see Arthur’s boots - caked in mud - still on his feet and resting right on your clean cot.

“‘Most luxurious bath in the world’ huh?” He mimicked you while staring up at the canopy, feeling you tugging off his boots - grumbling about the rule of ‘having your boots on the damn bed’ - “think there’ll be room for me in your ‘luxurious bath’?” He asked.

“Not if you get dirt all over this cot.” You answered, he let out a chuckle, he heard the sound of his boots being dropped onto the floor before you settled next to him again, already closing your eyes as exhaustion looked over you.

“What do you think of this place then?” He asked you.

“I think it’s good, it ain’t the west. But, it’s better than bein’ up in those mountains.” You hummed.

“Better than freezin’ my ass off.” He agreed, you let out another hum as your eyes refused to open. He glanced down at you, noticing your responses becoming less aware. “You get some sleep, darlin’.”

“You too, Morgan.”

Sorry it’s been so long guys, and I’m sorry that the first chapter you get after such a long time is mid asf

Anyways, I’m at SO glad to finally get them away from colter - this is where the real fun starts 😉

-also, I AINT A MOLLY HATER! My girl deserved better - just needed to clarify that after the comment Karen and reader were laughing at abt her

Also I love Hosea 🥹 he’s a little cutie patootie

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #dutch van der linde

70 notes · View notes