just a woman who wants to be an author. inbox is open, leave requests for something you’d like me to write! i’m mostly on AO3 now, so go follow me at @skye_03! my other tumblr is @wannabe_author03
this chapter made me want pizza and alcohol okay bye
chandler bing x female!reader
summary: its been a few months since you moved to the city and you're settling in pretty well with your new group of friends
word count: ~4.5k
warnings: mentions of black mold, alcohol, a little snooping, but its harmless fun
<previous next>
"What would you guys do if you were omnipotent?" you ask suddenly during a quiet afternoon in the cafe.
"Probably make myself immortal," Monica says, looking up from her crossword. "And be able to time-travel, I've always wanted to do that as a kid."
"Ooh, time travel would be sick," you say. "I'd want to immediately know how to play the bass."
"Oh, that's good, that's good." Rachel smiles, handing you your latte.
"What about you, Phoebe?" you ask the woman sitting on the floor.
"I would want, um, world peace. No more hunger. Good things for the rainforest." She grins before quickly adding, "Oh, and bigger boobs!"
"Well, see, you took mine," Ross says. You giggle, holding your warm mug and leaning back into the couch next to Chandler, who quickly removes his arm from behind the couch. "Chandler, what about you?"
Chandler shrugs. "If I were omnipotent for a day, I'd make myself omnipotent forever."
You scoff and roll your eyes. "Lame."
Rachel also tches. "See, there's always that one guy. 'If I had a wish, I'd wish for three more wishes.'"
You laugh again and turn as the door opens. Joey walks in and you hit him with your burning question. "Joey! Joey, what would you do if you were omnipotent for a day?"
He blinks at your question and answers, "Probably kill myself."
Your eyes widen and you breathe out a laugh. "Sorry?"
"Hey," he starts as he takes a seat beside Ross. "If little Joey's dead, then I've got no reason to live."
You shake your head and take a sip of your drink.
"Uh, Joey." Ross's first mistake was to try and help. "Omnipotent."
Joey's eyes widen and in the most sympathetic voice you've ever heard him use, he says, "You are?"
You choke on your drink, laughing into your mug and almost spilling coffee on yourself. Chandler places a hand on your back while Phoebe hands you a napkin, taking your drink from you. You laugh again, wiping your face, and look at Joey.
"Dude, you're so funny. Do you know that?"
Joey smiles and shrugs. "People say that I am."
You clear your throat and lean back in your seat again. Chandler has an arm across the back of the couch again, but this time he doesn't move it, something everyone but you catches on to.
His arm doesn't move for the next thirty minutes either. Eventually, you notice but think nothing of it. Ross does it with Phoebe and there's certainly nothing there. Your newfound friend group talks about nothing and everything at once as the afternoon grows later. After a while, you glance at your watch and realize you need to head out, even though you don't want to.
With a groan, you sit up. "I've got to head out."
"Why?" Monica wonders.
You sniff and start to get your things together in your tote bag. "My window is leaking in my bathroom and kitchen, so my super is going to check it out. Also, there's this weird substance on my windowsills that looks like dirt, but I swear to god if it's black mold I'm going to kill someone."
"Well, good luck," Chandler says, watching you take out your walkman and put the headphones around your neck.
"I'll be back in an hour or so," you tell them and start your mixtape. "See you guys later."
And then you head out. Chandler watches you through the window--which isn't creepy because it's so big. He watches you take out your lighter and light a cigarette before walking on your way. For someone who moved to the city a few months ago, you already seem very much at home.
The second the door closes, Joey moves to sit by Chandler and says, "Chan. If you don't ask her out, I'm going to."
"Yeah, why haven't you asked her yet?" Monica asks. "With the way your arm was behind her for an hour, someone would assume you guys are dating."
Chandler scoffs and shrugs, feeling his neck heat up. "I--I don't know. I think she's too cool for me."
"She's too cool for all of us," Ross says.
"I think she's into you." Phoebe pokes his leg and smiles. "She's always around you."
"Yeah, because I was the first person she met here and she's my friend."
"So? I think you'd have a shot." Phoebe tells him. "Her aura is brighter around you."
Chandler isn't sure what that means, but he shrugs anyway. "I--I don't know. I really think she's cool, I don't want to mess this friendship up."
His friends nod in understanding but Joey asks, "So, does this mean I can ask her on a date?"
"No!" he blurts out, perhaps too loudly because someone at a neighboring table turns to glare at him for a moment.
"Woah, okay, man." Joey holds his hands up in surrender. "I know now to mess with your girl."
Heat rushes to Chandler's cheeks and he huffs, feeling very uncomfortable. "Whatever."
~*~
An hour and a half later, you return to the coffee shop pissed out of your mind. You angrily open the door and let it slam shut behind you. Monica, Phoebe, and Ross are still here and all look at you when you approach. You're frowning, something they've never seen you do before, and your head looks like it's about to explode.
"Woah, what's up?" Monica asks as you dramatically sit between Ross and Phoebe. "You look pissed."
"Because I am," you snap, shedding your jacket. "There's black fucking mold in my apartment."
"Oh, gross!"
"No, it gets better," you add, looking between your friends while your heart thumps rapidly in your throat. "It's not just my apartment. It's the entire goddamn floor."
"Oh no!"
"That's awful."
Phoebe puts her arm around you and you lean into your side, feeling yourself calm down quickly as her scent of patchouli envelops you. "I asked how long it would take them to fix it, but the super said I had to move out for a week."
"For a week?" Monica asks.
You nod. "Yeah. I hate to ask, but could I maybe stay with you and Rachel? I'll chip in with food and stuff."
Monica smiles and says, "Yeah, of course. Phoebe was actually going to be spending the night too, we can have a girls' night."
"Oh, that's fun!" Phoebe exclaims, smiling.
You grin and feel your anger slip away. You're lucky to have these people as your friends. "Thanks."
~*~
Later that night, you're making drinks with Phoebe and Monica while dressed in your pajamas. You went to your apartment to pack your things and you're glad you did your laundry yesterday.
Rachel is out with her friends and you want to assume they're nice, but they give you snooty rich-girl vibes. Plus their screaming only made you more angry than you were before, but now that you've taken two shots of rum, you feel a little better.
You fire up the blender again on your famous Tiki Death Punch--which is really just a strawberry and pineapple daiquiri--while Phoebe gets the glasses out and the door opens.
"Hey, Rach," Monica greets, finishing up the cookie dough. "How was it with your friends?"
And then, in unison, you, Phoebe, and Monica scream, mocking what Rachel and her friends did. You giggle and take off the lid to analyze your work before unplugging the blender and moving toward the glasses. But when you look back up, Rachel does not look amused and you hiss through your teeth. "Anyway, you want some Tiki Death Punch?"
"What's that?" Rachel asks, sounding exhausted.
You finish pouring the third glass and answer, "Well, it's rum and--"
Rachel doesn't even let you finish before she's taken the pitcher from your hands and is sticking a straw through the liquid.
You blink at your empty hands. "Okay."
"We thought that Phoebe was staying over and Y/N is staying here for the week, we'd have kinda like a slumber party thing. We've got trashy magazines, we've got cookie dough, we got Twister."
"I brought Monopoly and Balderdash," you add, glancing at the phone as it rings.
"And I brought Operation," Phoebe says, walking towards Rachel, who looks miserable. "But, um, I lost the tweezers so we can't operate. But we can prep the guy!"
You smile at her enthusiasm.
With the phone in her hand, Monica walks towards Rachel and says, "Uh, Rach, it's the Visa card people."
She groans and rolls her eyes. "Oh, God, ask them what they want."
"Could you please tell me what this is in reference to?" Monica asks into the phone before lowering it down and addressing Rachel. "Um, they say there's been some unusual activity on your account."
"But I haven't used my card in weeks," Rachel says, sounding even more exasperated now.
"That is the unusual activity." Rachel stands and pinches the bridge of her nose as Monica adds, "Look, they just want to see if you're okay."
"They want to know if I'm okay? Okay, they want to know if I'm okay. Okay, let's see." Slowly, you take a sip each time she says okay. "Well, let's see, the FICA guys took all my money. Everyone I know is either getting married or getting pregnant or getting promoted and I'm getting coffee. And it's not even for me! So if that sounds like I'm okay, okay, then you can tell them I'm okay. Okay?"
You swallow your last sip and see that half of your drink is gone.
Monica slowly licks her lips and lifts the phone to her ear. "Uh, Rachel has left the building. Can you call back?"
"Alright, come on!" With her voice breaking and tears in her eyes, Rachel unfurls the game mat and says, "Let's play Twister."
"Oh, Rachel!" You walk over to her and lead her to the couch as she wipes her tears. "Come on, babe, it's okay, you're fine."
"No, I'm not!" she exclaims, sniffling. "Everyone I know is being more productive than I am."
Monica sits on the other side of her and rubs her arm. "Oh, come on. You should feel great about yourself. You're doing this amazing and independent thing!"
But she just rolls her eyes and asks, "Monica, what is so amazing? I gave up, like, everything! And for what?"
"You are just like Jack!" Phoebe exclaims from her spot on the table.
Looking at her, you squint. "Pheebs, I'm a little tipsy, but what are you talking about?"
"Jack from 'Jack and the Beanstalk'," she answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "See, he gave up something, but then he got those magic beans. And then he woke up and there was this--this big plant outside of his window full of possibilities and stuff. And he lived in a village and you live in the village."
Rachel holds up a hand to stop her. "Okay, but, Pheebs, Pheebs. Jack gave up a cow. I gave up an orthodontist. Okay? I--I know I didn't love him, but--"
"Oh, see, Jack did love the cow."
You sigh and take another long sip of your drink.
"But, see, it was a plan," Rachel continues. "You know? It was clear. Everything was figured out and now everything's just kinda like..."
She flails her hands around, searching for the word, and you suggest, "Floopy?"
"Yeah."
You put your hands back on her arm and say, "I've been there."
"Really?" she asks, looking at you.
You nod. "Yeah, I'm there right now. I mean, I want to be a famous screenwriter and probably a director. But I live in a shitty apartment with black mold and I work as a hostess." You laugh at yourself and continue. "I live, like, three thousand kilometers away from home in a whole new country. I was supposed to go to school for nursing because my mom and my dad are both doctors, but I changed my major halfway through and moved here." You smile at her and rub up and down her arm. "And I'm happy I did because I met you guys. And, sure, I kind of hate my job and I don't have any time to write and I pour oil down my drains to fuck with my landlord. But I'm doing my own thing, doing what I like. Not what everyone else is doing. Does that make sense?"
Rachel shrugs, but then she nods.
Monica puts a hand on her shoulder. "Yeah. I mean, you've just gotta figure at some point it's all gonna come together, and it's just gonna be...un-floopy."
But then Rachel sighs and says, "Okay, but, Monica, what if--what if it doesn't come together?"
Monica rocks back and forth, searching for an answer, before quietly saying, "Pheebs?"
Phoebe puts her drink down and starts, "Well, 'cause you just like...I don't like this question. Y/N?"
You think about this question every night in bed, but you don't have an answer. And so you look around, muttering things under your breath so the heat will be off you.
"Okay, see, see you guys? What if we don't get magic beans? I mean, what if all we've got are...beans?"
Yeah, that's a thought that crosses your mind in the middle of the night too. And so you loudly slurp up the rest of your drink and pick up the pitcher. "I need more rum."
~*~
An hour and two pitchers of Tiki Death Punch later, you're all sitting in various positions in the living room. Phoebe is lying on the floor with her head on the ottoman and her hair over her face. Monica is eating cookie dough right out of the bowl with the wooden spoon. Rachel is lying across the couch with her legs in your lap. You're on your third drink and you're not even sure you can finish that. God, you're depressed, you really should get in touch with a pharmacist to get back on Prozac, but that's a hassle with the American healthcare system. Why can't it just be free like the rest of the world?
Rachel, who is changed into much comfier clothes, sighs and says, "I'm sorry, guys, I didn't mean to bring you down."
"No, you were right," Monica says, smushing the dough. "I don't have a plan!"
There's a knock at the door and that's the first time you've felt happy in forty-five minutes. "Thank Christ, food."
Rachel gets up to get the pizza and Monica says, "Phoebe?"
"Huh?" She flips her ponytail out from her face.
"Do you have a plan?"
She scoffs and says, "I don't even have a pla'."
Rachel swings the door open and a young teenage kid is standing there with pizzas. "Hi. One mushroom, green pepper, and onion?"
You almost burst into tears right then and there.
Rachel sighs. "No, no, no that's not what we ordered! We ordered a fat-free crust with extra cheese!" She also sounds like she's about to cry and lifts her fingers to her temple.
"Wait, you're not G. Stephanopoulos?"
"No."
"Oh, man, my dad's gonna kill me!"
Suddenly, Monica jumps across your legs and you almost piss yourself. Slowly, you and Phoebe follow as she asks the teenager, "Did you say G. Stephanopoulos?"
He nods. "Yeah, yeah, this one goes across the street. I must've given him yours. Oh, bonehead, bonehead." To be honest, him hitting himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand does make you smile a little.
"Wait, was this a--a small Mediterranean guy with curiously intelligent good looks?"
The kid nods. "Yeah, sounds about right."
"Was he wearing a stunning blue suit?"
"A--and a power tie?" Phoebe adds.
The kid shakes his head. "Nah, pretty much just a towel."
Monica's mouth drops and she leans on Phoebe for support like she's swooning. "Oh, god."
"So do you guys want me to take this back?" the poor kid asks.
"What? Are you nuts?" Monica seizes the pizza from his hand. "We've got George Stephanopoulos' pizza!"
While Rachel pays the kid, Monica rushes to the window and grabs the binoculars.
"Who is George Stephanopoulos?" you ask Phoebe.
But before she can answer, Monica shouts out, "I see pizza!"
Phoebe runs over to look, but you and Rachel stay by the pizza. You open it and almost start to salivate. You haven't eaten since lunch and you've been craving pizza all week.
"Who are we spying on?" Rachel wonders.
"You know the White House Advisor? Clinton's campaign guy, uh, the one with the great hair, sexy smile, and really cute butt?"
You laugh at her description and eat a piece of bell pepper. "No, but I wish I did."
Rachel nods. "Oh, yeah, the little guy! Oh, I love him!"
Together, you each take a piece of pizza and walk over to the window as Phoebe says, "Ooh, wait, I see a woman."
"Oh, please tell me it's his mother," Monica says.
You squint to try to see where she's looking, but it's too dark for you to see much.
And then Phoebe says, "It's definitely not his mother."
"Oh no."
"Oh, wait, she walking across the floor. She's walking, she's walking, she's going for the pizza." Angrily, Phoebe shouts out, "Hey, that's not for you, bitch!" Quickly, she covers her mouth and the four of you giggle. Rachel hands Monica her piece of pizza and you bite into your own.
Yeah, you don't need Prozac anymore, not if you have pizza and the girls.
~*~
A little while later, you're all out on the balcony. You're full of pizza and alcohol, but you're drinking water now. It's cold outside and there's a blanket over the metal chair you're sitting on and you're wearing the red sweatshirt Chandler gave to you a couple of weeks ago when you said you were cold. You forgot to give it back and maybe if you wear it you'll remember.
Monica comes back in with another pitcher of Death Punch and by now you're sure you've used up all your rum. But it's okay because you're having fun spying on his American politician with your friends.
"Are the lights still out?" Monica asks, climbing through the window.
"Yeah," Rachel says, binoculars still glued to her eyes.
"Well, maybe they're napping."
You scoff, straw halfway in your mouth. "Please, they're having sex, Mon."
"Shut up!" Monica and Phoebe shout at the same time.
You laugh, leaning your head back.
Everyone gets their drinks and sits back down when Rachel asks, "So what do you think George is like?"
"I think he's shy," Monica answers.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. I think you have to draw him out. And then...when you do, he's a preppy animal."
You all giggle and you feel like a schoolgirl again. You swat at her while she laughs and you laugh and so do Phoebe and Rachel.
Another half-hour later, you're all laughing and telling each other lies that you've told other people.
"Okay, okay I got one," Monica says and looks at Phoebe. "Do you remember that vegetarian pâté that I made that you loved so much?"
The vegetarian nods.
Monica snickers. "Well, unless goose is a vegetable!"
You and Rachel laugh while Phoebe screws her face up in disgust.
"Okay, fine, fine. Now I don't feel so bad about sleeping with Jason Hurley."
You sip on your water, having no idea who that is, but enjoying the way Monica's eyes widen. "What? You slept with Jason?"
"You were already broken up."
"How long?"
Phoebe shrugs. "Just a couple hours."
You laugh while Monica rolls her eyes.
Giggling, Rachel sits up. "Okay, okay, I got one." But since the pillow is leaning on the side of the wall, when she sits up, it falls to the balcony below. You smile as she continues. "Anyway. The Valentine Tommy Rollerson left in your locker was really from me!"
Monica looks at her friend. "Excuse me?"
Rachel returns to her original position. "Oh, hello? Like he was really gonna send you one." Monica rolls her eyes and Rachel adds, "She was a big girl."
You gasp and laugh.
"Well, at least big girls don't pee their pants in the seventh grade," she retaliates, leaning toward you and Phoebe.
Rachel gasps, "I was laughing! You made me laugh!"
As the two girls argue, movement catches your eye and you look across the street to where George lives and gasp, standing up. "Look, there he is!"
"Where?"
You blink, pointing at his huge windows. "Right where we've been looking all night."
Together, the four of you watch this man stand only clad in a towel. If you were sober, you'd feel bad.
"Oh, he's so cute," Rachel says.
"George, baby, drop the towel!" Monica exclaims.
In unison, you all chant "Drop the towel" and you're pretty sure he can hear you. Because then he does. And you gasp and all say, "Wow."
Heat rushes to your cheeks and you look away, giggling. "Okay, I don't know if Clinton is a good president, but I'll vote for him if that's his campaign manager."
The girls giggle and go back to their seats before you all can be arrested for spying.
"I have a question, Y/N," Rachel says, hopping back up on the ledge.
"What's up?"
"Are you interested in anyone right now?"
You raise a brow at the sudden question. "Well, now I'm interested in George Stephanopoulos."
Rachel rolls her eyes but smiles. "I can understand that."
Shrugging, you stir your water with your straw. "I mean, not really. I moved here a few months ago. I've been trying to figure my way around the city, I guess I haven't had much time to look at anyone like that."
"Then why are you wearing Chandler's sweatshirt?" Phoebe asks, smiling as she takes a sip of her drink.
You look down at the piece of fabric and rub it between your fingers. It's soft and thick and it reminds you of him. "He lent it to me the other week. I just...forgot to give it back."
"Okay," Phoebe says with a breathy laugh like she doesn't believe you.
You look at your friends and see that they all have the same expression--they suspect something. "W--what? No, it's not like that!"
"We didn't say anything," Monica assures you.
"You didn't have to." You take another gulp of your drink and feel some heat creep up your cheeks. "I don't know. He's my friend and I think he's cute, but I'm not looking for a relationship right now, you know?"
"Yeah, I do," Rachel agrees and you hear the truth in her voice. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's okay," you tell them. "I mean. Chandler is funny and he's really sweet, but, like, mentally I'm not ready." Something dawns on you and you grab Monica's arm with wide eyes. "Does he have a thing for me?"
"No," she answers easily. "No, have you met Chandler? He's the most socially awkward person I've met."
Slowly, you nod, staring down at your drink. "Okay, okay. Cool. 'Cause I don't want to make things awkward." And then you're quiet, still staring at your drink, before you put it on the small, dingy table and stand up. "I'm going to use the bathroom."
"Are you okay?" Phoebe asks as you wobble over to the window.
"Yeah," you answer, slowly folding yourself to go through it. Your vision is swimming a little. "I'm just drunk."
"We all are," Rachel says and watches as you go back into the apartment. When the door closes, she leans close to her friends and says, "No one tell Chandler."
Monica places a hand on her heart. "No, for sure. She's totally justified, though, I wouldn't want to date someone directly after moving to another country."
Phoebe nods. "Besides, Chandler is a big boy, he can figure out his own feelings." But then she adds after a moment, "Well, maybe not, but that's his problem."
Rachel and Monica chuckle and go back to spying on Stephanopoulos.
~*~
Later, the boys come back from their hockey game. Before you can ask who won, you see Ross wearing a brace over his nose. Chandler tells you that he was hit in the face with a puck and ended up having to go to the emergency room for a broken nose.
But Ross seems in happier spirits than he was before and that you're grateful for.
Eventually, Phoebe, Joey, Monica, and Rachel are playing a game of Twister while Ross flicks the spinner. You're making some more drinks with the remaining rum for the boys to have, figuring they need it after their night.
"What's the legal drinking age in Canada?" Chandler asks, watching you pour the last of your rum into the blender before placing the empty bottle to the side.
"Eighteen," you answer, measuring the sugar with your heart. "Well, actually, it's eighteen in Manitoba, Québec, and Alberta. Everywhere else it's nineteen."
Chandler breathes out a laugh. "It's twenty-one here."
"Can't men be drafted into war when they're eighteen?"
He nods. "Yeah. It's messed up."
You hum and fire the blender up, keeping an elbow on it and closing your eyes. You've had a long day. You're still mad about your apartment and having to squat at Monica and Rachel's for a week. You know they don't mind, but you still feel bad. You'll cook them dinner a few times, that'll be nice. You would clean, but Monica is very particular about it so you figure it's best to leave it be.
Opening your eyes again, you turn the blender off and serve it up, giving one to Chandler first. You clink your glass of water with his and giggle as he smiles. You both take a sip at the same time when Chandler suddenly takes your wrist and holds your arm up.
"This sweatshirt is familiar," he says, teasing evident in his tone.
You smile and shrug. "Some guy gave it to me."
"Is that guy going to get it back?"
You shrug again. "Eventually."
Chandler tilts his head then and says, "You keep it."
"What?" you ask in disbelief. "No, Chandler, it's yours."
He shrugs, resisting the extremely strong urge to run his hand up and down your arm. "It looks better on you."
You scoff. "It does not."
He nods, smiling. "It does." His eyes trail up your figure before landing on your face. "It makes your eyes pop."
"It makes my eyes pop?"
"Yeah."
Smiling just a little, you pull the sleeves over your hands. "Thank you, Chan."
And as you walk away to give Ross his drink, Chandler breathes. He's not entirely sure how he feels about you. You're hot, you're cool, but you're also his friend. And he just basically said your eyes are pretty.
He takes a long drink of your concoction, something called Tiki Death Punch, and pours himself some more. As if that will do anything to calm his nerves. Nothing can calm his nerves when he's with you.
uhhh this is super overdue but here it is for the new year!! i hope you guys like it!! also hope you guys have had a happy and safe holiday season! x.
chandler bing x female!reader
summary: after making plans, chandler bing shows the cool, alternative girl from canada around the city
word count: ~2.9k
warnings: none
<previous next>
Chandler made good on his promise to show you around. Of course he did, how could he not? You gave him your number. Chandler may be stupid, but if he turned down the opportunity to hang out with you, he’d have Joey check him into a mental institution.
He didn’t call you right away, he figured it would be best to wait a few days. He wanted to wait at least three days, but he caved at two and a half and left you a voicemail on his lunch break.
He had rehearsed it many times and written it down several times. He wanted to get the words just right.
“Hey, y/n. Sorry to bother you, but if you still want to, I’m still open to showing you around the city. Or, well, parts. Um, yeah. I’m free this weekend, we can get coffee too or something if you want. But just let me know. Bye.”
When he hung up, he felt like the air had been pulled directly from his lungs and he immediately wanted to shoot himself. Why did he stutter so much? He knew why, but why? Why did he say ‘but’ so many times?
He did his best not to think about it for the rest of the day.
When he got home from work, exhausted as all hell, he had managed to forget about the whole phone call for at least an hour. But the moment he walked through the door, Joey called his name with a smirk and a strange look in his eyes.
“What’s with you?” Chandler asked, loosening his tie and finally being able to breathe again.
Instead of answering right away, his friend pointed to the phone and said, “She left you a message, man!”
His stomach dropped to his toes and he felt dread creep up his fingertips. Oh, God, what if you didn’t want him to show you around anymore? What if his quick reply freaked you out? God, if you never wanted to see him ever again Chandler couldn’t live with himself.
But still, he made himself walk towards the answering machine. It was blinking, so it was clear Joey hadn’t read it, but Chandler wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
He looked up at his friend, who seemed excited, the opposite of how he felt.
Swallowing, he pressed play and your perfect voice sounded through the apartment.
“Hey, Chandler! Great to hear from you, I was wondering if you’d call.”
He blinked at the phone. Were you waiting for him to call?
“Sorry about not answering, I was at work and then the bartender was sick and I had to do it. Real cool to make the new girl bartend by herself after she finished her training.” You laugh and Chandler feels the corners of his lips quirk up. “Sorry, I’m rambling. But, uh, yeah, I’d totally be down for Sunday. And coffee sounds great. Just call me back when you can and we can figure out the details or whatever. Bye, Chan.”
The machine clicked, signaling you had hung up, and Chandler stared at the white box with a smile on his face and a warm, somewhat foreign feeling in his heart.
Joey shook his shoulders, a grin plastered across his cheeks. "You got it, man, you're in!"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he said, shrugging Joey off of him. "So, like, should I call her back now or wait?"
Glancing at the time the message from you was received, Joey answered, "I mean, she called a couple of hours ago. Do it now, man, she's probably off of work."
He nodded, feeling his heart rate pick up again. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
But instead of grabbing the phone, he just stared at it. He stared at it for so long that Joey had to touch his arm to get him to look at him.
"You want to order a pizza first?"
Chandler nodded. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."
And so, forty-five minutes and two-thirds of a pizza later, Chandler mustered up the courage to call you.
It only takes two rings for you to pick up.
"Hello?" Chandler has been waiting to hear your voice again for days and nothing can describe the pure amount of euphoria that rushes through his veins at your tone.
He keeps calm, however, and says, "Hey, y/n, it's Chandler."
Your tone lightens and he can practically hear the smile in your voice. "Oh, hey, Chan!"
A smile paints itself across his cheeks and heat rises up his neck and he tries to ignore Joey's excited looks. "Hey."
"You got my message, right?" For a moment, he hears some noises from your side of the call, almost like you're closing a plastic container, and he hopes he didn't catch you in the middle of eating. "I'm free on Sunday, is that cool?"
"Yeah, that works." He suggests meeting up at nine and when you laugh a little, his grin widens at your nervousness. "What is it?"
You laugh again and elaborate. "Okay, so, actually, I work the night before and we don't close until, like, one. So maybe ten? Instead?"
Chandler would hang out with you at three in the morning if you asked him to. "Yeah, that's fine."
"Awesome. So, around ten at Central Perk? Since it's really the only place I know in the city?"
A teasing smile pulls at his lips as he waves his roommate away before he embarrasses himself. "For now."
"For now?"
"Yeah. I'll show you around to all the good places."
"Even the Empire State Building?" Your voice is teasing and it makes his organs do gymnastics.
He chuckles and nods even if you can't see it. "Even the Empire State Building."
"Sick! See you then, Chan."
"See you then, y/n." He needs to come up with a nickname for you.
"Bye."
"Bye."
And then you hang up and Chandler places the phone back down. There's a beat where he makes eye contact with Joey before they both erupt into celebratory cheers and jump up and down together like they always do.
"Go Chandler!"
"Go me!"
~*~
Sunday comes both sooner and later than you expected. It's sooner because you worked a double the day before but it's also later because you've been looking forward to it ever since the two of you scheduled it.
But, eventually, ten o'clock rolls around and you're sitting at a table in Central Perk patiently waiting. You haven't been here for long, but since you always get nervous meeting up with new people, you grabbed a newspaper and started to do the crossword to calm your nerves.
You like Chandler, a lot. He's very sweet, funny, and he's pretty cute, too. You share a lot of similar interests, but since you've only had one encounter and a couple of phone calls, you still get anxious.
You're sure it will go away when you both make conversation.
Chewing on the end of the pencil, you rack your mind for the solution to this one question, but you can't quite remember the name, though it's on the tip of your tongue.
The bell above the door rings and you look up, smiling when you see Chandler. You wave him over and he quickly spots you, casually walking over.
"You do the crossword, too?" he asks with a small smile.
You nod. "Sometimes, yeah. Hey, I need your help with one. What's a prehistoric beast with a large bony frill?"
He tilts his head and asks, "How many letters is it?"
Glancing down at the paper, you count the little squares and answer, "Eleven."
He mouths some letters, and counts with his fingers, before saying, "Triceratops."
"That's what it is!" You quickly scribble it down in messy handwriting. "I knew that, I just forgot the word for it."
"Yeah, sure." He gives you a teasing smirk as you stand up, stashing the newspaper into your bag.
You raise a brow at him. "Wow, rude, Chan."
"I'm messing."
"I know." You smile at him. "So. You promised to show me where the good coffee is?"
He nods and moves towards the door, holding it open for you to go out of. "I did. You like bagels?"
"Of course I do, I'm not a monster."
Your humor always gets to him and he jerks his head down the street. "Come on. I'll show you a great place."
"Lead the way."
~*~
An hour later, you stand beside Chandler with a bagel in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Okay,” you say, walking past a couple holding hands. “It might have been a long wait, but you say it’s worth it?”
Chandler nods and smiles. “I promise you, it is.”
He leads you to a little bench by a flower shop and you take a seat laying the bagel across your lap.
“Coffee first,” he says to you.
“But you said the bagel is the best part.”
“Best for last?”
“I always do best for first.”
“Okay, well, drawing out the tension makes things better.”
You roll your eyes and hold out your coffee cup. “Clink me, Bing.”
A smile creeps onto his face and he can't help but say, "Is that a euphemism?"
Mirroring his teasing smile, you reply, "You wish."
He does.
But he doesn't say that and instead taps his disposable coffee cup against yours and takes a sip at the same time as you do.
Taking a sip, you immediately flinch back at the searing burning sensation on your tongue. Chandler does the same thing and you both laugh.
"He did warn it was hot," you mutter, referencing the kind older man who cashed you out while you run your front teeth over your tongue.
Chandler smiles. "Yeah, he did."
After blowing on the liquid for another moment, you both clink your cups again and you take a sip. Chandler recommended the latte and you trusted his opinion. Sure enough, as soon as the slightly-cooled down liquid touches your tongue, you're glad you trusted him.
"Woah," you say, looking at Chandler.
He's smiling. "Right?"
You smile back, taking another sip of the delicious beverage. "This is so good."
"I told you it would be good."
"It's not just good, it's great."
"Exactly. None of my other friends think it's very good."
You frown just a little. "Really? I mean, Central Perk is good and all, but this is amazing."
He just shrugs. "It's okay. I have you to go with me now."
You smile at him and a strange and warm feeling flutters in your chest.
But before you can even think about it, Chandler is putting the coffee down beside him on the bench and picking up his bagel. "Okay. Try the bagel now."
Nodding, you place the coffee down and carefully unwrap a small section of the bagel that you can eat. You had gotten a bagel called an 'All-Nighter', which had two eggs, bacon, cheese, and some kind of chipotle aioli on a cheesy bagel. It sounded like actual heaven considering you hadn't eaten all day and your mouth waters as the delectable scent wafts up to your nose.
Once again, you and Chandler clink your own bagels--he got one called the 'Santa Fe' with egg whites, sausage, and salsa on a plain bagel--and take a bite at the same time.
You're not one to groan at food, but this sandwich is so good you almost do. It's messy and you're glad for the double layer of paper around it. It's cheesy, it's warm, and it's a little spicy. It's everything you've been craving.
"Holy shit," you say, mouth still a little full. "This is so good, Chandler."
He just nods, already taking another bite.
Licking a stray piece of sauce from your lips, you hardly swallow before you go in for another bite. Together, you and Chandler eat in silence, too busy consuming your own individual meals like it's the last meal. Honestly, you would want this bagel to be your last meal.
You finish first, licking your greasy fingers before using a napkin to wipe them. Carefully, you shove all your trash into the bag and take a couple more sips of your latte before it gets cold.
Chandler is soon finished and while he's wiping his hands, you say, "That was the best sandwich I've ever had in my life, Chan."
"I told you it would be life-changing."
"I'm so sorry for doubting you," you tease, smiling and stretching your legs out in front of you and taking in the scene. It's almost noon on a Sunday in Manhattan and the streets are, unsurprisingly, crawling with people, but everyone seems a lot more relaxed and chill on Sunday rather than a busy Friday morning when you're running late for work.
You and Chandler lapse into a pleasant silence where you both just people-watch for a few minutes while your meals digest. You watch the people go by and wonder what they're doing today and what plans they have. You wonder if they've ever had a life-changing bagel as well, you wonder how many of them are new to the city like you and how many know it well like Chandler.
He speaks up. “What do you want to go see first?”
Looking at him, you know the first thing you want to do. “Empire State Building.”
He smiles and stands, offering you a hand. “Come on, then.”
Taking it, you let him haul you up before dropping his hand almost immediately. For a second, disappointment fills his chest before he pushes it away. Together, he leads you to the Empire State Building, talking about everything and nothing all at once.
~*~
By the time it was getting dark, you had both wandered halfway around Manhatten. You had seen the Empire State Building, walked by the National Museum—where his friend Ross worked, which you thought was interesting—you had walked around Times Square, and by the Rockefeller Center.
“Is it true that at Christmas they have a huge tree?” you ask as Chandler walks beside you.
He nods, smiling. “It is. And they have an ice rink.”
This makes you stop in your tracks and you turn to him. He blinks and stands next to you, completely aware that there’s a giant smile on your face.
“Are you serious?” you ask.
Chandler nods slowly. “Yeah, I’m serious. What, do you like skating?”
“Uh, yeah.” You laugh and roll your eyes. “Chandler, I love skating. You know I did hockey for, like, years right?”
“No, I didn’t.”
You widen your eyes at him. “Oh. Well, I did.”
“I didn’t know you liked hockey.”
“I’m from Canada,” you say, starting to walk once more. “It’s a requirement. I got my first stick on my fifth birthday.”
“That’s so cool,” your friend says. “I love hockey.”
“What’re the teams in the city? I know there’s the Rangers, I just can’t remember the other one.”
“The Islanders,” he tells you. “But the Rangers are better. Joey and I go to the games a lot, but if I have an extra ticket, you can come too.”
“Thanks.” You smile at him, this cute little half-smile that makes his chest squeeze.
But he doesn’t think about it and smiles back, nods, and listens as you explain how you were the best defender on your team in primary school.
Eventually, you make it back to your apartment. Hell’s Kitchen isn’t as sketchy as it used to be and Chandler walks you up to your apartment building. It’s well past sunset, but the streetlights are bright enough.
“This is me,” you say, gesturing behind you to the building. “Thanks for walking me back.”
“It was no problem,” Chandler says, completely aware that you both walked right past his own apartment building twenty minutes ago. “I’m not far from here. Besides, I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t get mugged.”
“Considering I have three dollars in my wallet, I don’t think that’s a problem.”
Chandler laughs and you laugh too and you realize how much you love his company. He’s funny and he gets you. He’s fun to be around and he’s nice, something a little uncommon here in the city.
“We should do this again,” you hear yourself say. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Me too,” he replies. “Call me?”
He doesn’t mean to say it. It slips out and his eyes widen the words leave his lips but you just laugh gently and nod.
“I will.” Taking his hand, you shake it twice. Your rings are cold against his hand but he’s quickly distracted away from that when you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. You have to lean on your tiptoes to do it and you’re already pulled away when he realizes what you’ve done.
Releasing his hand, you watch his neck heat up and panic rises up in you for fear you’ve gone too far. But then a small smile crosses his face and the knot in your stomach loosens.
Before the silence becomes awkward, you say, “Goodnight, Chandler. Get home safe.”
“You too,” he blurts out before cursing. But you just laugh that sweet laugh of yours and buzz yourself in, propping the door with your foot.
“Don’t get mugged on the way home, Chan.” And with another wave, you walk inside and let the door close behind you.
And Chandler is left standing alone in the streets of New York with a cheesy smile on his face. He scratches his chin but the grin doesn’t leave his face the entire time he meanders his way back to his apartment.
And his smile only grows wider when Joey mentions the lipstick stain on his cheek.
while im cleaning out my drafts, here's something from a few months ago. i really like this and i've written and are currently writing some more little chapters, so be on the lookout for them!! this is also posted on my ao3 if you want to go read it there too :)
chandler bing x female!reader
summary: new york city is a big place for a girl who lived in canada her entire life, but you manage. one afternoon, while getting some work done in a cozy coffee shop, a very handsome brunette asks to sit beside you. who are you to tell him no?
word count: ~2.3k
warnings: none i don't think lmao that never happens
next>
Central Perk is a special spot for Chandler Bing. That's where he talks with his friends, it's where they all relax, it's where he met Rachel just a couple of months ago, coming in wearing a wedding dress and looking highly frazzled. It's got a nice, calming atmosphere, pretty good coffee, and the absolute best spot in all of Manhattan.
The area with the couch is where he and his friends always sit. Sometimes he feels bad for taking it, but nobody seems to mind, ever. And so he always sits there, usually on the couch when it is available.
When he walked into Central Perk one afternoon after work, he just wanted to grab a coffee and wait for the rest of his friends to show up eventually. He didn't expect there to be anyone there, no one ever was at this time on a Thursday.
But then he saw someone sitting in his spot.
Normally, he would have been upset, probably ask them to leave, nicely, of course, and pray to God that they left because he hates confrontation.
However, the person sitting in his spot was probably the most beautiful person he had ever seen. She looked like she had been there for a few hours, at least, because there was an empty plate with crumbs on it and a large mug drained, both sitting on the coffee table her feet were propped up on.
For a moment, Chandler stood at the counter and stared at her like some kind of creep. He had never seen her around and he knew he'd remember if he did. She wore gray jeans rolled up at the ankles to show off her colorful socks underneath a pair of black and white Converses. As his eyes traveled up her frame, he saw her wearing some kind of band tee and a tiny, silver necklace around her neck. She seemed to be writing something and, from what Chandler could tell, she seemed to be deep into thought. Her pencil scratched across the notebook and every so often, she would pause and read over it before promptly erasing something and writing once more.
He heard his name being said and turned around to see Guther holding out a coffee cup to him.
"Oh, thanks, Gunther," he told the worker, taking the coffee from him.
Chandler had never been good at talking to girls and more often than not chickened out on the opportunity to do so. But he didn't want to chicken out on talking to you.
And so, with confidence, he walked over to the area he always sat at and stood just beside the couch, next to your arm that was leaning on the armrest.
Before now, he didn't notice the headphones around your ears and the Walkman that sat beside you, but when he clears his throat and you don't react, he understands why. And so, again and a little bit louder, he clears his throat, gently tapping on your shoulder.
Your eyes tear away from the page in your lap at the touch of another person and you whip your head up to see a man standing beside you, looking at you with a smile. Perhaps too loudly, you exclaim, "Oh, shit, sorry!" and hastily pause your music and let the headphones rest around your neck. You blink up at the man and ask, "Yes?"
"I, uh." Chandler swallows thickly because even your voice is one from a dream. "You're, uh, kind of in my spot."
With a mischievous smile, you turn around in your seat like you're looking for something. "Oh, word? I don't see your name on it."
And then you smile at him snarkily and Chandler forgets how to breathe. But then he laughs, a bit awkwardly. Your sarcastic grin fades into a true one and you add, "Don't worry, I'll move."
When you start to gather your things, Chandler is quick to put a stop to it. He doesn't want you to move, not now, not ever. Not when he's just started to talk to you. "No, no, you're fine, I'm just kidding."
You stop your movements and look up at him. "Oh, alright. You can sit next to me, though."
Chandler doesn't have to be told twice. He sits beside you on the opposite side of the couch and takes a drink of his coffee like that will do anything to cure his jitters.
"What's your name?" you ask him, setting your notebook in your lap for just a moment. You wonder if he wants to have a conversation, but not many people in New York do.
He answers, "Chandler."
"Nice to meet you, Chandler. I'm y/n."
God, even your name sounds like something from a song.
"It's nice to meet you, too, y/n." He takes notice of the notebook in your lap and feels the urge to ask, "Mind if I ask what you're writing?"
With another grin, you say, "What if I did?"
Chandler can only wonder if your smile is contagious because he feels his lips curl upwards. "I mean, I'd still ask. I'm nosey."
You laugh and tilt your notebook for him to read. "It's a screenplay I'm writing."
Chandler's eyes widen. "You're a screenwriter? What, you make movies and stuff?"
"I wish." You scoff and feel a slight heat rise to your cheeks. "No, I write stories for movies and stuff. At least, I try."
"Is it not going so well?"
You shrug. "I don't know. Some studio called me up a few months ago, said they liked the idea I submitted and gave me a few months to come up with a first draft. And I've got two more weeks to finish it, so we'll see."
"I'm sure it's great," Chandler says and he means it. He can't write for shit, but something about you seems so...creative and special. "Even if I just met you."
You laugh again and close the notebook, stashing it away in the tote bag that rests on the floor. "Thanks, really."
"Of course." When you turn your body to face him, he sees what band is on your shirt and, even though he knows who it is, he asks, "What band is that?"
When he points to your chest, you look down and answer, "Oh, Nirvana."
"Oh, my God, I love them!"
"Really?" Your face breaks into a grin and you lean forwards a little. "What's your favorite song."
"'Heart-Shaped Box'," he says.
"Oh, that's good. I like 'Come As You Are'."
Soon, the conversation seems to flow quite naturally between the pair of you. He tells you about his boring job, something with a bunch of numbers and nothing exciting. You both compare bands and he realizes you're much more into rock and alternative works, but he guessed that the second he saw the leather jacket that rests beside you.
Joey is the first to arrive. Chandler glances up at the door when he hears the bell above it jingle and sees his roommate falter at the sight of you. You're not looking, rummaging through your tote bag for something and Chandler's eyes widen at the sight of the other person. If Joey flirts with you, Chandler will kill him.
Joey, clearly not catching on to Chandler's look from across the cafe, sees you and smirks, walking over.
"Hey, Chandler," he greets but doesn't look at his friend, eyes settling on you. "Who's, uh, your friend?"
You turn up at the sound of another person and spot the Italian-American smiling at you. You smile back and say, "I'm y/n."
"How you doin'?" Joey smirks and sits himself down on the high stool beside you. "I'm Joey."
"Hi, Joey," you reply, glancing at Chandler who quickly wipes the glare from his face and smiles at you. "You guys know each other?"
"We're roommates," he answers, motioning at his friend who is still staring at you.
You blink and shift in your seat. "Oh."
"I like your shirt," Joey says.
"You like Nirvana, too?" Your face brightens and Chandler almost melts.
But then his roommate says, "Who?"
And that look on your face is gone. Your smile falls and you look away back into your tote, mumbling, "Never mind."
Chandler meets his friend's eyes and shakes his head twice, brows furrowed. Joey always gets the girl. Chandler deserves to hope, at least.
You pull out a packet of gum and open it. You take a piece out and unwrap it before offering one to Chandler. He smiles and takes it, popping it in his mouth and shoving the wrapper in his pocket.
"Want some gum?" you ask the other man with darker and messier hair.
He takes one and thanks you. You return it with a grin and put the gum back in your tote, on top of your notebook.
Joey says your name and you look at him. "So, you live around here?"
You nod. "Yeah, I live in Hell's Kitchen."
"Oh, cool, cool. How long have you lived here? You grew up in New York?"
Immediately, you shake your head. "Oh, no, no, I didn't grow up here."
"Where'd you grow up?" Chandler asks, tilting his head
"Winnipeg," you answer, biting back a smile.
Chandler's brows furrow and Joey asks, "Where's that?"
"Manitoba." Your straight cracks a bit and you try to fight the smile that wants to paint itself across your lips.
Joey looks lost and asks again, "...Where's that?"
"Canada," you tell him, fully grinning now.
Joey gasps and Chandler tries not to roll his eyes. He figured it out when you said Manitoba. He says, "You're from Canada?"
You nod, turning your head to look at him. "Yep."
"Do you speak French?" Joey asks, touching your arm, clearly already friendly with you.
Turning to him, you answer, "Non."
Chandler laughs and you giggle, crossing one leg over the other.
"I speak Italian," Joey says.
You raise a brow. "Yeah?"
He nods and leans forward in his chair, smirking. "Sei bellissima."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're beautiful," he answers, voice a little lower than it was before.
Some heat rushes up your neck and you look away at your lap. "Oh."
Chandler glares at his friend, but Joey doesn't catch it.
Thankfully, before Chandler reaches over you to choke Joey, the bell dings and he glances at the door. Monica, Ross, Phoebe, and Rachel are walking in and while the rest of his friends make their way over, Rachel immediately goes to clock in for her shift.
They walk over and greet the other two and Phoebe is the first to address you. "Oh, wow, you're pretty."
You laugh out loud, blushing even harder at the compliment from a woman, touching your necklace. "Thank you. I like your skirt."
Phoebe giggles and swishes her skirt. "Thanks."
"This is y/n," Chandler introduces you to his friends.
"Hey." You lift your hand in a wave of sorts, feeling like you're butting in on their group. You should leave, but in a minute. You don't want to be rude.
Chandler's friends introduce themselves--Ross, Monica, and Phoebe, you repeat their names in your head to remember better--and then he gestures towards the coffee bar. "And the girl over there is Rachel."
"It's nice to meet you guys," you say politely, squeezing your hands in your lap.
"You too." Monica smiles. "I love your shirt, by the way."
"Thanks." You grin, basking in all the compliments.
Ross looks at Monica and asks, "You listen to Nirvana?"
Monica fixes him with a look. "Yes, because I'm cooler than you."
You chuckle at their interaction when Joey suddenly blurts out, "Ask her where she's from!"
You giggle at the man's antics and look at the others.
Ross smiles and asks, "Alright. Where are you from?"
"Winnipeg," you reply, still smiling. Chandler thinks he's going to swoon.
Monica is the first to figure it out. "You live in Canada?"
You nod. "I mean, I used to. I moved to Hell's Kitchen a couple of weeks ago."
"Oh, my god, so you just moved here," Chandler says.
"Why did you move all the way from Canada down to here?" Ross wonders.
"I'm a screenwriter and ended up getting a job down here," you answer. "Besides, Canada is boring, so I was looking for a change of scenery."
"Well, how do you like it here so far?" Phoebe asks.
You shrug. "It's pretty nice. A little colder, somehow, but I like it. There are a lot more people and a lot more things to do and see. I lived in Winnipeg my entire life so I kind of felt like I saw everything."
"I've always wanted to go to Canada," Rachel says, coming to hand out coffee.
You smile. "It's nice. Alberta is really pretty."
Mustering up some courage, Chandler says, "Hey, if you ever need someone to show you around the city, I'll be happy to help you."
And then you look at him and grin, nodding. "That'd be sick."
He feels heat start to creep up his cheeks, and he smiles back. "Awesome."
You look at the time on the clock and say, "I've got to head out, but it was great to meet you guys."
"Yeah, you too!" Monica says.
Taking a Post-it note from your bag, you write down your number and hand it to Chandler. He takes it and tries not to stare at it too hard. "Hope to catch you guys later."
Chandler's friends wave to you and you walk out the door, shrugging your jacket on before walking off. Chandler stares at the window for several seconds after you're gone and only snaps out of it when Monica says something.
"Chandler, how the hell did you get her number?"
He shrugs, looks at the bright blue Post-it note, and reads it.
here :) (xxx-xxx-xxxx)
He smiles and puts it in his pocket, trying to ignore the looks his friends are giving him. You're very cool and very pretty and Chandler can't wait to see you again.
hey hey hey!!!!!! i SUPERRR LOVE hey coyote so much!! love love love the slow burn and arthur’s affection is so cute <33 loving your work so far!!! hope you’re doing okay, and i hope you’ll update soon!! (no pressure though) and if it’d be okay, could you tag me in the future chapters? thanks so much and love your work!!! 💘💘💘
HI OMG I MEANT TO REPLY TO THIS ASK A FEW DAYS AGO BUT I GOT DISTRACTED HELLO??? THANKS SM FOR ENJOYING EVERYTHING SO MUCH IT RESLLY MEANS THE WORLD
but i have actually moved my writing to AO3 because i like the formatting there better. i’m still updating, or at least trying to bc i really really enjoy this work bc arthur morgan is my husband. butttt yeah i probably won’t be updating on here anymore. plus i made some changes to the chapters (tiny ones tbh) so i feel like that would get confusing.
BUT to everyone seeing this, go follow me on AO3. my user is skye_03!! i’ll prolly be linking it in my bio or smthing, but lmk if y’all have any problems!!
and again, thank you guys so much for enjoying this series so far. i know i’m the WORST at updating and i typically end up abandoning my works because i lose interest pretty fast and that is my most toxic trait, but i have genuinely been working on this fanfic for a while and i’ve got loads of chapters already written, so i’m trying to be better.
buttt yeah!! lmk if you guys have any issues w finding me and let me know in the comments of those works if you want to be tagged bc i’ll totally try to do that!! stay safe guys AND STAY HYDRATED BC ITS BEEN SO HOT WHERE I LIVE OKAY I LOVE YOU x.
hii when are you gonna update hey coyote? im not pressuring you at all its just that you disappeared for a month then never came back rn so im worried 😭😭
ermmm hey. so its me againnnnn back from the grave.
college sucks and i am still depressed but my red dead hyperfixation has returned since i bought the game sooooo ive been writing more. i actually have a lot written because its just fun for me to do it, i didn't realize how popular it was so far.
BUT my spring break is almost over and so i will be assembling another chapter to release!!!! i am so so so sorry to people that did enjoy 'hey coyote' and have had to suffer with such little content but hey. i am not known for my reliability.
ANYWAYS. i will do my best to keep you guys updated! and thanks for sticking around with me if you have for this long!! love you guys
heyyyyy i've totally had this finished but school started up again and i forgot to upload despite the fact that i've been writing more of it. that's probably a good thing. let me know what y'all think so far, send me asks or messages or something! hope you enjoy! x.
arthur morgan x female!reader
summary: the van der linde gang exchanges blows with their sworn enemies, the o'driscolls once again
word count: ~ 6.3k
warnings: cursing, violence, mentions of killing, alcohol, hope you guys like a slow burn and tension bc that's what this is turning into
<previous next>
The gang heads southwest. That O’Driscoll you encountered did say their camp was near a lake and that lake was southwest.
“Let’s go find these bastards before they find us, and rob this score they’re planning,” Dutch exclaims from up ahead.
You all ride in silence, not like there’s much of anything to talk about. You’re just glad to be in the action again. Micah was right about one thing, you did love action. You never turned yellow per se, you were just out of commission. But now you weren't sick and honestly feeling better than before. You felt stronger, more alert and ready. Maybe your body got sick to let you get a breather.
You had missed the wind on your face, even if it was blistering cold. You missed being outside in the fresh air and you hoped the sun would come out, though it was unlikely the storm would break any time soon. You missed sitting on your horse, feeling her legs move and thump under you as she ran. You missed the feeling of her leather reins in your hands, of the comfortable weight of your revolvers and rifle on your back. You missed this, being a true outlaw, being a cowboy.
After a while, Dutch slows down a bit, looking at something to the side. “Tracks…horses, quite a few of ‘em. Far as I can tell, the only fools out here are us and them. They must be this way.”
The gang picks up the pace again and Arthur asks, “You good, Dutch?”
“Of course,” he answers. “Listen, I know you don’t think much of my ideas recently, but this is the right move.”
“Okay,” Arthur says, casting a wary glance at you before looking ahead. “You know I got your back.”
“I learned a long time ago that you hit Colm O’Driscoll, wait for him and people you love die.” That hits a bit hard, considering Annabelle was part of the reason their feud started. You did like her, she was always nice.
You sigh. “This feud between you two needs to be put to rest, one way or another.”
“It will be,” says Bill from beside you.
“Some things I can forgive, others I can forget,” begins Dutch, “But what he did to Annabelle, I can’t do neither.”
That was a rough time for the gang and you don’t blame him for wanting revenge. But he always, always said that revenge was something you couldn’t afford. That was really the only thing that was stopping you from going home and blowing your dad’s head off for a while. It was odd for him to be going back on his word now.
“You killed his brother, Dutch,” Arthur points out.
“Yes,” Dutch answers, clearly still angry. “I did. And I hope the bastards’ll be reunited soon enough. That’s how this’ll end.”
“Damn right, boss!” exclaims Micah.
You scoff and share a look with Arthur, who is beside you. You shake your head. Micah, you can’t stand him. Dutch, he’s not right. He said that this wasn’t a revenge mission, but he was beginning to make it sound like it was. Still, you’d ride beside him.
Soon, Dutch points ahead and begins to slow down. “See that smoke? Let’s cut up here and take a look. They said it was near the lake, we must be close.”
The horses trudge up a hill and soon you can see the black smoke he was talking about.
“Hold up here!”
You pull back on Hazel’s reins and she slows to a stop. Your hand goes to scratch behind her ear, you know she likes that spot.
“Alright, gentlemen, this is it,” Dutch says, his head slightly lowered. “Are we goddamn ready?”
“Ready!”
“Ready, Dutch.”
You nod, slowly.
“Good. Now, Mister Morgan and I, we’re going to head up here a little, see if we can’t get a sense of the layout of the camp. Mister Williamson, Mister Bell, you two take up a hidden position just outside the camp. Mister Summers, Mister Escuella, Miss L/N, you three hold position here.”
You nod along.
“Let’s go.”
All of you dismount and head to your positions. Micah and Bill head down the mountain while Dutch and Arthur head up to a ledge.
You’re left with Lenny and Javier. You like both of them, much more than Bill and Micah. They’re just generally nicer, especially Lenny. He’s one of the newest members, but he’s good at what he does.
You always check your guns before a fight, and you do so now. You check to make sure your pistols are fully loaded and so is your rifle. They’ve been cleaned properly, that was one thing you did while you were sick. You also have enough ammo on you, so you don’t need to worry about that.
“So what’s this whole thing about Colm and Dutch?” asks Lenny, arms crossed.
You sling your rifle over your shoulder and say, “Dutch and Colm used to work together, believe it or not. I mean, they was both outlaws at the time, neither of them trusted the other, but, you know. They never liked either, though. Colm treated his own men like shit and Colm just didn’t agree with Dutch’s views.” You adjust your hat to scratch at your temple. “At one point, for reasons I don’t know ‘cause I wasn’t there, Dutch killed Colm’s brother. That made Colm mad and so he killed Annabelle, Dutch’s girl. And bam, blood feud.”
“Damn,” Lenny says.
You spot Arthur and Dutch heading back down and shrug. “Yeah, well, if you ask me, it’s getting all drawn out at this point.”
“It must’ve been hard,” Javier says. “Losing someone like that.”
You just scratch at your nose. “Probably. Last guy I loved tried to stab me on multiple occasions, so.”
Lenny and Javier chuckle as Arthur and Dutch return.
“You two.” Dutch points at Javier and Lenny. “Get up there and keep us covered.”
“You got it, Dutch,” Javier says and begins to walk up.
Arthur goes to grab the rifle from his horse and quickly comes back.
“What’s the plan?” you ask as you begin to walk down the mountain.
“We’ll circle around the far side and go down that way, same as Micah and Bill. Like you said.” He looks at you. “Revenge is a luxury we can’t afford.”
You nod, slowly. “Yeah. Just…didn’t seem like you held the same sentiment for a while.”
Dutch shakes his head. “Y/N. Y/N, have you completely lost faith in me?”
Your heart stings again and you shoot Arthur a pained look before turning away as Dutch continues.
“Our needs right now are supplies, equipment, and a way out of here. Everything else, including Colm, can wait.”
“Okay,” Arthur says and you nod in agreement.
Dutch peers over the ledge and says distastefully, “There’s enough of those bastards down there to deal with as is.”
When you follow his eyes, you realize he’s right. There are plenty and one might think that the odds wouldn't be in your favor, but your team was good. Still, it would be hard. Not like you expected it to be easy, per se.
You three make your way down the switchbacks that get steeper the further you went down. You yourself almost slipped once, but Arthur took your hand and held onto it as you wobbled. Heart pounding, you thanked him. He held onto it the entire rest of the way down.
When you reached the bottom, Arthur continued to hold onto your hand and asks, “Maybe I should take the lead on this. They’re going to be gunning for you.”
“They ain’t got me yet,” Dutch simply says in a low voice.
“No,” you say, swinging Artuhr’s hand just a bit absentmindedly. “But with the way our luck’s been…”
“Hush. Let’s just get down there, first.”
“Yeah, shut up, Arthur,” you tell the man beside you, smirking.
He just rolled his eyes, bumped your head gently, and let go of your hand so you could catch up to Dutch.
“Down these trees, quick.”
As you approach the base and a wooden structure, you three crouch and kind of waddle the rest of the way there. You enter the structure and you can spot either Micah or Bill waiting down at the end. You take cover behind part of a wall with Arthur directly next to you. Your rifle is out and you thank God you have gloves because your palms are sweaty. It’s not like you’re afraid of dying, you’ve never been scared of that. You’re just nervous something will go horribly wrong and someone else will die.
“What are we doing, Dutch?” Arthur asks quietly. “I can take this if you want.”
“Just make the call,” says the older man. “You wanna take the lead? Go.”
You look at Arthur and he looks back at you. He’s never particularly been a leader-type, but he does know how to make good moves. He’s smart and he’s careful for the most part. He’s led a couple missions himself. You’d follow him to the ends of the earth. If he wants to do this, he can. And you tell him with a firm nod and a small smile.
He gives you one of his half-smiles and turns to Dutch. “Okay. I’ll go first.”
You watch as Arthur aims, cocks his gun, and fires a bullet right into an O’Driscoll’s head. The gunshot rings loud and that’s all you need for everyone else to know you’re there.
“You’re dead, you sons of bitches!” you shout, shooting one in the side of his mouth. Blood flies and he falls to the ground.
“They’re under that walkway, there!” you hear one nearby shout and you yourself quickly silence him before the gang moves out to make for better cover. You dive behind a crate and push your back to it, a bullet whizzing past.
“Everyone, push up!” Dutch exclaims.
Insults are being hurled between gunshots, but you never waste your breath. They’re really just wasting the last of theirs. Often, you don’t even let them finish their sentence.
You shoot man after man down, and if you really had any moral compass left, you’d think it was wrong. But hey, they hated you, too.
A corner of the box you’re hiding behind blows off and you scoot over before looking up and searching. You spot a few men standing by a house and set your sights on them. One is foolish enough to be standing out in the open, but he soon falls. Typical O’Driscoll.
Another piece of your crate is blown to bits, and you realize you have to move. Upon scanning your surroundings, you see a couple of metal carts. Quickly you make a break for it, and just in time too. The moment you take cover, another shot falls to the crate and it splinters into hundreds of pieces. You breathe a sigh of relief, quickly reload, and get back to what you do best.
You’ve always had one of the best shots in the gang. There’s a reason you and Charles often go hunting together. He enjoys your company, but also because you’re good at it. You grew up in a small, rural town and your father knew how to hunt. When you were young, he took you with him on good days. Those were one of the few good memories you had of him. Part of you craves to get a sniper rifle, but it’s somewhat useless. Dutch hardly ever needs a sniper, you’re just as good on the ground.
“Y/N!” Bill shouts, moving out slightly from his cover before quickly being brought back by a ping of a bullet. “Up top, on the water tower!”
You see the water tower, and you see the man on top. With a smirk, you say, “I got ‘em,” and aim. Your hands are never shaky when you’re aiming and they’re not now. You see the man on the water tower and he doesn’t see you. In seconds, his arms drop and he falls from the tower into the snow, a hole in the front of his head.
“Suck it,” you mutter, sitting back down to reload. You knew it was a good idea to pack more rifle ammo than pistol ammo.
Your lot seems to be winning. Dutch warns of more in the cabins, and you decide to set your sights on them. You need a closer shot, though, and turn to Arthur, who is taking cover behind you in his own metal cart. “Arthur, cover me.”
“I always do,” he says and shoots another man down.
There’s not much cover between where you are now and the cabins, but you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got. So, you throw your rifle over your back and make a run for a low-lying water trough, or at least that’s what it looks like. You crouch down low, up to your calves in the snow, and take your rifle.
There are two cabins before you, one directly in front, the other parallel to you with a broken and rotting wagon in front. You spot an O’Driscoll slowly coming out of the cabin, crouching, but the moment a spot of skin appears, you shoot at it. He screams and falls to the ground. He’s better in your sight and you finish him off quickly.
You catch sight of someone in the cabin parallel from the window and he gets a couple good attempted shots before you kill him. His head smacks on the windowsill and you cringe. “Sorry.”
The gunfire comes to a stop and Bill shouts, “I think that’s all of ‘em!”
“Search the bodies!” Dutch shouts, standing up. “Strip everything we can find from them!”
You stand and head for a nearby body as other members of your gang loot what bodies they can get to. These men don’t seem to have much, but you manage to steal a few bucks from a few of them and they have plenty of bullets you need.
“You recognize any of them, Dutch?” asks Bill.
“Of course not,” Dutch answers. “Colm doesn’t give a damn about his men. All he cares about is numbers. If you can shoot a gun, ride a horse, and kill without thought, you’re in. Think how long some of you have been with me? I imagine Colm doesn’t even have the names of these fools.”
It’s a lot of names to remember, you think as you take the rifle cartridges off of another man. Suddenly, there’s the crack of gunshots from behind and a bullet whizzes right past your ear. In instinct, you fall to your stomach, eyes wide.
“Heads up boys! We’ve got more coming in from the forest!”
You groan and haul yourself up to take shelter behind a crate. “Goddamn, how many men does he have?”
Many of their men come in on horses, but you take care to avoid shooting the horses and just the men riding them. It’s not like it was the animal’s choice to get roped into all of this. But they just keep coming and coming, it doesn’t seem like there’s an end to them. Every time you take one down, two more show up.
“Shit, there’s a lot of them,” Dutch says from on your far left, also hiding behind a box. “What do you think, Arthur? Should we hold ground here, or go at them?”
“I say we go at the bastards,” he answers, picking another one down.
Dutch nods. “Come on, then. Everyone with me!”
You do one final reload and advance with Dutch to pick off more O’Driscoll’s.
“There’s more in the forest!” you shout, shooting another one down. You take quick cover behind a tree and peek around to see an O’Driscoll pointing his gun at you just a few yards away. You yelp and turn to the other side, shooting him in the ear. Blood splatters against the tree and into the snow.
You pick off a few other ones that are seen running between trees or behind the grasses and soon the sound of gunfire comes to an end again. With a sigh, you lower your gun. Despite it being so cold, your hair is sticking to the back of your neck.
“The cowards are running away!” exclaims Dutch. “Good work, boys. Back to the camp. We’ll get what we need and clear out.”
You regroup around the center of the camp and you loot a few bodies along the way. You find a bit more, a platinum pocket watch, some health cures, even some horse stimulants. Finally, you make your way back and sling your gun over your shoulder.
“Good work, boys,” Dutch says once everyone has arrived. “Now, let’s tear this place apart.” He whistles and mounts his horse. “Bill, you go search that wagon there. Micah, search that building. Y/N, you go with him. Arthur, you take that building to the left. Alright, men, quick! Find those detonators, explosives, anything you can. Let’s go.”
Part of you is reluctant to go with Micah, but it’s what Dutch wants you to do. So you and Micah walk into a building together with a few bodies. Micah searches the building while you kneel down to search the men.
“How did ya fair in that fight, L/N?” Micah asks with his back to you.
You pause and look at him. “Well, I ain’t dead, so.”
“You ain’t got shot?”
You fix him with a confused glare and reply, “Clearly, Micah.” You scoff and take some health cures before moving on to the next body before quickly realizing there was little there that you wanted. “Shit, these fuckers don’t have anything useful on them.” You stand and step over the body to approach the last one on the other side of the room.
Micah shuts a cabinet door. “They ain’t got anything useful in here, neither.”
You sigh and say, “I wonder where their plans would be. I mean, they must be around this camp somewhere, right?”
Micah just grunts and leans on the side of the doorframe, hands in his pockets and his head tilted low. He asks, “How come you never like me?”
“You’re mean,” you answer, searching his pockets and finding a few boxes of shotgun ammunition.
“We’re outlaws.”
“Sure. Don’t mean you have to be a dick all the time.” You roll the man over and rifle through his back pockets.
“I ain’t a dick all the time.”
Suddenly, in the man’s back pocket, you pull out a large and thick folded square of paper. “Sure you are.” You lean back on your heels and unfold it, eyes widening at what you see. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Micah asks, walking over to see as well.
You tilt the paper to him, smirking. “Think I just found their plans.” You roll the paper up and stand. “Come on. This is the only useful thing in this cabin.”
You make your way back to Dutch with Micah beside you. The sky had gotten darker between the time you arrived and the time after the fight.
“Did we get everything?” Dutch asks, rubbing his hands together.
“Think so, boss,” Micah answers as you both approach.
“I found this on one of them,” you add and hand him the paper.
“Thank you,” Dutch says as he takes them from you. He unfolds it and scans it before nodding. “Oh, yeah, interesting… this is something about the train they was gonna rob. A Mister Leviticus Cornwall.” He nods and rolls it back up. “Mount back up, let’s keep moving.”
Lenny and Javier had brought the horses down and you mount Hazel. She whinnies and flicks her tail and you give her a slight tap on the hindquarters as Dutch begins to move.
“Proud of you boys,” Dutch says as you begin to ride out. “All of you! Not a man down.”
“Good work, fellers.”
“Not bad for some starving down-and-outs. They can pummel us as hard as they like, but we will always get back up and fight,” Dutch says. “That’s who we are. Outlaws for life, fellers.”
You nod, wiping at your nose. Outlaws for life.
“Wait until we have John, Mac, Charles, and Sean back riding with us, and I believe, I know, they all will be back.”
Arthur, who is nearby you in the front, says, “Well, you didn’t get Colm, but this hit will hurt him a lot more than any bullet in the head.”
“Especially when we rob this train, too,” Dutch adds.
Arthur laughs. “Yeah, I guess we’ll see about that.”
“Oh, indeed we will.”
After a few moments of silence, you call up and say, “You know, Colm will come after us for this.”
Dutch nods, slowly. “Oh, of course he will, just like all the rest. But we’re gonna stay a step ahead of them, make sure we always know where they are before they know where we are. We allowed ourselves to get a step behind in Blackwater. That won’t happen again.”
You sure hope it doesn’t. You all travel at a slow pace for a while longer, but as Dutch realizes it’s getting dark, he shouts for you all to dig in and you all pick up the pace. The sky gets continuously darker, but you figure you’re making good time.
Then, you spot something up ahead. You squint, for a moment thinking you spot a figure on a horse in the distance. Then, as it moves, you know your suspicions are correct and shout, “Dutch! I see something!”
“What is it?”
“Looks like one of the fellers that was at the camp with Colm,” you say.
“Leave him to me,” Arthur says and you look back at him.
“Alright, we’re heading back,” Dutch says. “Just bring him back alive. He could be useful.”
“You got it,” Arthur says and veers off the trail and into the water to chase after the man. You watch him as he goes, always feeling a bit sad when he leaves. But you know he’ll be fine, he can handle one man. It’s not that you worry, you just miss him.
The gang makes it back to camp just as it gets dark and as the storm picks up more. You hitch Hazel up and give her some food while the gang disbands. You announce that you’ll wait for Arthur and Dutch nods before walking over.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks. “You look a lot better.”
You smile. “Feel a lot better too.”
“You had us worried. You had me worried.”
Your cheeks heat up. “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry, Dutch, I didn’t mean to get sick.”
He lets out an amused chuckle. “No one ever means to get sick, Y/N. It ain’t your fault.”
“You needed me.”
He shakes his head. “No, not really. Things were slow for a few days, everyone is resting up, gettin’ stronger. You didn’t miss anything.” He puts a hand on your shoulder.
“Yeah, well, I’ll see if Charles is up for hunting tomorrow or something. We need food.”
He nods. “Sure. Hey.” His tone catches your attention and you look up at him. “You did good today. You did some mighty fine shooting, you did some good looting. You found their plans.” Dutch gives you a smile and his hand moves up to rest on your cheek. “I’m proud of you, girl.”
Man, any time Dutch says that he’s proud of you makes you break into tears. No matter how many times he says it, it still has the same effect. So you take a deep breath and give him a tight hug. Dutch wraps his arms around you and squeezes. After a minute, you let go, eyes slightly wet. Hastily, you wipe them away.
“Thanks.”
Dutch nods and in the moonlight, you swear his eyes are misty, too. “Of course. Don’t stay out here too long.”
“Arthur should be back soon,” you say as he walks back to his cabin. “I’ll let you know.”
Dutch nods and soon you’re left alone in the snow with just your horse for company. So you turn to her and give her a few more oatcakes, knowing they’re her favorite. By the time Hazel is done eating, Arthur has yet to return, so you figure you’ll make a tiny snowman to pass the time. You have gloves on and you’ve always liked making tiny snowmen as it snowed.
When you were younger and it snowed around camp, you spent your free time making them and placing them around the camp. When you were bored and looking for attention, you’d send Hosea to try and look for all of them.
So you pack three different-sized balls of snow and stack them on top of each other. The wind blows past your ears and you’re thankful for your hat to protect you. After making the snowman, you go to place it on the fence by the horses and even find a couple little splinters to stick in it for arms.
As you bend down to make another one, you hear the sound of hooves and look up. Arthur has returned with a man on the back of his horse.
“Here we are, you sack of shit,” he says, coming to a stop. “Let’s introduce you to the boys.”
You hitch his horse while he drags the man off. “Damn, you’re just about as ugly as all the rest of your cousins,” you tell him with a smirk.
“Don’t hurt me, please,” he begs as you and Arthur walk to the cabin.
“Aw, don’t worry,” you tell him as you walk behind Arthur. “We’re real nice.”
The man is able to move his head just a bit and a look of confusion crosses over his face. “You’re a lady?”
“Sure am!” you say, perhaps too cheerfully. “And I know how to cut your intestines out with a spoon and play jump rope with ‘em. So don’t fucking try me. Or do, because that sounds like a lot of fun.”
Dutch opens the door with the plans in his hand and lets out a mild laugh when he sees what Arthur has. “Found the little shit, did you?”
“Yep,” Arthur says and drops the man to the snow. “I got ‘em.”
“Very good,” Dutch replies. “Welcome to your new home. Hope you’re real happy here.”
Arthur drags him up with a groan and you stand beside Dutch. The man isn't particularly attractive, at least not by your standards. His hair is a bit long and his beard is scruffy and his eyes are wide and full of fear.
“You want me to make him talk?” Arthur asks.
“Oh, no, now all we’ll get is lies.” He turns to the side and shouts, “Uncle! Mister Williamson. Tie this maggot up someplace safe. We get him hungry first. I got a saying, my friend.” Dutch continues in a quiet voice, “We shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need savin’...and feed ‘em as need feeding. We are gonna find out what you need.” Then he backs away, smiles, and turns back to the cabin. “I can’t believe it! An O’Driscoll in my camp.”
“No, I ain’t an O’Driscoll, mister!” shouts the man as Bill and Uncle drag him away, struggling to little avail. “I hate that feller!”
Dutch just waves him away and says, “Oh, whatever you say, son.” Then he turns to Arthur. “Well done, Arthur.”
Arthur shrugs. “I’m just sorry we missed out on Colm.”
Dutch opens the door partially and waves the paper in his hands. “Oh, well, there’s time enough for that. Now, I gotta go figure out if we can hit that train.”
“Okay.” And after that, you and Arthur are left alone outside.
Your friend looks at you and asks, “You know how to cut someone’s intestines out with a spoon?”
You shrug. “Not yet. Can’t be too hard, though. Just gotta find a strong enough spoon.”
Arthur just laughs and takes your hand, pulling you a bit closer. “You know, you can be scary sometimes, Miss L/N.”
“I mean, I am an outlaw,” you tell him, smiling. He looks…nice in the moonlight. “It’s kind of my job.”
“You do a fine job at it,” he replies. “I mean, not as good as me, but.”
You scoff and smack him with your hand. “Don’t be so full of yourself, Morgan.”
He grunts but smiles. “Can’t be full of myself if it’s true.”
“Tell me, who shot that guy off the tower today? Oh, right, it was me.”
“I didn’t see it. Can’t believe it if I didn’t see it.”
“Bill can vouch for me!”
“I don’t trust that man’s word more than I trust Micah.”
“Wow, that’s insulting to Bill.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit far. Still, I don’t believe you.” He tries to sound convincing, but he’s got that half-smile he always has when he messes with you.
So you just roll your eyes and smile. “Okay. Believe whatever you want, Morgan. I can’t change your opinion.” You make to turn, but Arthur grabs your wrist and spins you around to his chest. You let out a breath, taken by surprise and look up at him.
“Seriously,” he whispers to you, leaning forward while his hands wrap around your waist. “You did good today. Glad to see you better.” Then he presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes.
You shut your own eyes, smiling. Your hat is a bit messed up and so is Arthur’s, the brim poking your hair in a weird way. But you don’t mind because Arthur is holding you, something you missed while you were sick. He’s warm, despite the cold, and your stomach flips.
Arthur gives you a squeeze and pulls away a little bit and stares at you. You look back at him, just barely able to see his blue eyes in the shadows. His facial hair is a bit overgrown and he’s sort of shaggy, so you lift a hand up to his cheek.
“You gonna shave when we get outta this?” you question softly.
He blinks. “You want me to?”
“I don’t care, it’s your face.”
“Do you want me to?” he questions again.
Though you’re confused, you slowly nod. “Uh, sure. But not all the way. Like, not clean-shaven. Just, like, trim it.”
Arthur smiles some. “Alright.”
“Why you want my opinion anyways?”
“Cause I don’t want you to think I’m ugly.”
“Arthur, a shave won’t help. I’m afraid you’re too far gone,” you say sympathetically.
Arthur laughs. “You’re an asshole, Y/N, you know that?”
You cheekily smile. “You love me anyway.”
“I do.”
The two of you are silent, just kind of looking at each other. It’s odd, you’ve never stared so…intimately at each other. His hands are on your hips while one of your hands is on his face and the other on his shoulder. But you don’t hate it. In fact, you kind of like the way he’s looking at you, looking over your face. Normally, if any man stared at you so deeply, you’d feel uncomfortable. But not around Arthur. No, you’ve never felt uncomfortable around him. Hell, you were more comfortable when you were with him than anyone else, even Abigail. You acted like your own unapologetic self when you were with him and he never judged you. He liked you for who you were, that’s what made him such good company.
Arthur takes a deep breath before breaking away, perhaps a bit too soon for your liking. He drags a hand down your arm and steps back. Is his face red? No, it must be the cold.
“Come on,” he tells you, nodding his head towards the boy’s cabin. “I’m thirsty.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah, sure.”
Arthur turns his back to you and heads to the cabin. You follow behind him, a bit slower, still a bit confused as to what just happened.
But you have little time to think about it before you’re in the feller’s cabin, surrounded with loud talking and warmth. Silently, you make your way to a chair sitting beside the fire with the back against the window and sit down. Arthur sits in a chair nearby.
“I heard you caught that O’Driscoll, Arthur,” Micah says.
Arthur nods, leaning back in his chair. “Yep. Said his name was Kieran Duffy. Insists that he ain’t one of them.”
“If he ain’t one of them, why’s he with them?” asks Bill with a scoff.
Arthur just shrugs. “Dunno. Guess we’ll have to wait a couple days before he says anything.”
“Y’all think Dutch is really thinking about robbing that train?” Lenny wonders.
“Probably,” you answer, sinking down a bit and stashing your hands into your pockets. “I mean, it’s good. I think I’ve heard of this Cornwall guy, owns a lot of businesses and companies. He sounds rich. Could be a good score after Blackwater. We need it.”
There are a few grunts and nods in agreement. Bill then begins to talk about something, but all of a sudden, you don’t feel like talking. Your mind is still consumed with Arthur outside. He hadn’t ever looked at you like that, at least not that you could remember. What made him start now? And what did it mean, really?
Bill’s voice brings you out of your thoughts. “How’d you get to be such a good shot, Y/N?”
“What?” you ask, confused by the question.
“You shot a guy off a tower from far away. How’d you do it?”
You’re a bit taken aback. Shooting that guy wasn’t that big a deal, at least you didn’t think so. But you just shrug and answer, “My father taught me how to hunt since I was little. It was the only nice thing he ever did to me, so, I don’t know. He taught me how to shoot, so I suppose I got it from him.” Again, you shrug. “Not sure. I’ve just always been good at shooting.”
Javier has a bottle of whiskey in his hands and you ask if you can have it with raised brows. He hands it to you and you take a sip, uncomfortable talking about your father.
“She’s so modest,” teases Arthur and you kick him in the foot, glaring. He winces and rolls his eyes, handing his hand out for the bottle.
But you keep it close to your chest, trying not to smile. “No, fuck you.”
Arthur shakes his head and looks away. And then you feel better. What happened outside likely meant nothing, you shouldn’t dwell on it.
For a couple more hours, you and Arthur sit up and talk with the boys. You exchange stories, hurl insults at each other, just things you all typically do together. It’s nice to relax for once in a couple of weeks and you didn’t realize how much you missed it until you had it back.
“Say that again, Micah, and I’ll skin you alive and then sew it back onto you backwards,” you tell Micah with a fake glare and a playful smile.
Charles whistles from where he sits near you. “Oh, that’s a new one.”
You look at him and nod. “Yeah, I just came up with it.”
“You should save it,” he tells you.
“For a woman,” Micah begins, ever the antagonizer, “you’ve got some creative insults.”
“I can get more creative, if you’d like,” you challenge the man, fixing him with a stare. “Trust me, Micah, there’s plenty I’d like to say to you.”
“Try it.”
But before you can even get started, Arthur stops you, standing. “Alright, I think you’ve had enough to drink, Y/N.”
You stare up at him, vision swimming a little. “How does my being drunk have anything to do with me chewing Micah’s ass out?”
Arthur takes your arm and hauls you up. “Because you get freakishly descriptive. Come on.” He gently nudges you outside.
Lenny hands you your hat back from where you threw it at him earlier and you take it, placing it on your head. “You’re lame.”
“Yeah, sure.”
When you’re outside, you stumble. Your brain is a bit foggy, perhaps you did have too much to drink. Arthur takes your arm and helps you walk straight.
“I told you you’d get drunk if you tried to out-chug Bill,” Arthur chides, holding your hand.
“I won, didn’t I?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and you two quietly make it back to the cabin. You both part ways and Arthur wishes you a good night. You wish him the same and make your way into the room. In the lantern light, you can see Harold sleeping on your pillow. You shoo him away and he instead sleeps at the foot of the bed, his face buried into his tail.
Slowly, you undress, taking off your hat, boots, and coat before getting into bed, exhausted. At least you’re not sick anymore, that’s a plus.
Just as you’re about to doze off, there’s a quiet knock on the door. Instead of getting up and answering it, you just groan loud enough for them to hear. The door quietly opens before quietly shutting again. You hear footsteps go around the other side of the bed and there’s movement behind you before warm hands are on your arms.
It’s Arthur. You should have known.
“What you want?” you ask in a mumble, eyes still shut.
“I’m cold.”
You smile a little and scoot back. “Fine. You can spoon me.”
“Is this the same spoon you’re using on Kieran?” Arthur asks as his arms wrap around your waist and pulls you back into his chest once again.
“Huh?”
He sighs. “Nevermind. Just go to sleep.”
“Was about to before you showed up,” you mutter, shifting a little. His head goes to rest against yours again.
“So sorry.”
Your hands drift down to grab his fingers. “Nah. Don’t be.”
After that, you pass out, with Arthur behind you breathing deeply.
hello again! i meant to post this earlier, but i totally forgot lmao. anyways, i hope you guys are enjoying this so far! let me know your guy's thoughts, i know there's not much action, but it'll kick up soon. rn i'm taking a couple of chapters to kind of develop the characters and their relationships. but here's another chapter, so lmk what you think! x.
arthur morgan x female!reader
summary: upon coming down with a cold, y/n is bedridden for a few days, but she's never alone
word count: ~4.9k (idk how this one is so much shorter but yk)
warnings: cursing, violence, mentions of killing, alcohol, mentions of abuse, some angst but this is red dead so that's to be expected
<previous next>
That night is the best night’s sleep you’ve had in a while. At one point you wake up before you fall back asleep.
Finally, your eyes crack open. The sky outside is bright and you can’t tell if it’s still snowing or not. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, noticing your chest aches. Arthur is no longer in the room, but you’re not surprised. Even though you sleep together sometimes, you never wake together. But that’s alright by you.
Harold is still in the room with you, but he jumps onto your chest and sits, staring at you with his light green eyes. You stare back at him and watch as he slowly blinks. You copy him and his tail swishes back and forth. You stroke down his back and he purrs, closing his eyes.
“Are you hungry?” you ask him, but your eyes widen at how scratchy your voice is. So you clear your throat and cough a few times, but it’s not too helpful. So you just shrug and set Hector down on the ground before you swing your legs out of bed. Your head aches and you have to lean forward and squeeze your eyes shut so the room doesn’t begin to spin.
You feel like shit and you know you should probably stay in bed and rest, but there are things that need to be done. It seems like the storm blew over and that you’re grateful for.
Hector meows up at you indignantly and you look down at him. “You hungry?” He meows again as if to answer you. So you sniff and nod. “Alright, I may have something for you.” Slowly, you rise and cough again. Making your way over to your bag, you rummage around before pulling out a can of salted offal and open it. Taking a wooden plate from the desk, you shake and scrape the offal onto the plate before placing it down on the floor for him. He hastily runs to it and bends down to eat while you pet his back.
You’re not hungry yourself so you pull your boots back on and put on your jacket and hat. Hector quickly finishes his food, so you pick him up and head back outside into the cold to go find anyone else. Arthur’s room is empty as you expected.
You make your way outside and across the way to another building you know a few people are staying in. When you open the door, Abigail is in there along with a few other women, Hosea, and little Jack. You shiver and set Harold down before making your way to the fire and sitting down heavily, arms already hurting.
“Are you alright, Y/N?” Abigail asks from beside you. “You look awful.”
You nod, slowly. “Yeah, ‘m fine.” You scoot closer to the fire and the heat burns your skin in that nice way. Still, you shiver.
“No you ain’t,” Hosea says.
You groan and shove your face into your hands. “Alright, I ain’t fine.” With a sigh, you look back up at the fire. “Think I got a cold or something…”
“You should be resting,” Hosea tells you, standing from his spot and walking over.
You just wave a hand. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, how is Miss Adler doing?” You turn your gaze up to Abigail.
“She seems to be doing okay,” she answers somewhat hesitantly. “She’s very kind, though.”
You nod. “She seemed like it. I really sucks, what happened to her.”
“Yes,” Tilly agrees.
“Any word from John?” you ask with a look up at Hosea.
“I sent Arthur and Javier out to look for him earlier this morning,” he tells you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Now get up, girl. You’re sick and you look like you’re going to pass out on the spot.”
You roll your eyes but allow him to pull you up anyway. He’s right. You feel like shit and the room begins to spin the moment you stand. Hosea grabs your hands as you start to sway and you blink rapidly.
“Are you alright?” he asks and you nod once your ears stop ringing.
“Y–yeah,” you tell him. Maybe you do need to rest.
“Get better, auntie Y/N!” exclaims Jack from where he is playing on the floor with Hector.
“Thanks, kid,” you tell him before following Hosea outside back into the snow. You trudge behind him, dragging your feet and watching the snow part around your boots. “Did Dutch tell you I’m sick?”
“Yes,” Hosea answers. “But he didn’t need to. You’re pale.”
“So are you,” you mutter under your breath.
Hosea takes you back to your room and you somewhat angrily throw off your boots and your coat.
“Just wish you’d stop treating me like a kid,” you say, putting your hat on the desk.
Hosea leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed and is smiling like he’s amused. “Stop acting like one.”
You just poke your tongue back out at him and he laughs. As you get back into bed, limbs aching and eyes heavy despite only being awake for a short period of time, Hosea walks over.
Already drowsy, you ask him, “Hosea?”
“Hm?”
“...I forgot.”
He smiles and pushes your hair out of your face. “Get some rest.”
Before he’s out the door, you’re already passed out again.
~*~
“Arthur, I can write better than you,” you told the boy sitting next to you one warm summer morning.
“No you can’t,” he snaps back at you, brows furrowed.
With a smirk, you nod and show him your paper. “Sure am. My G’s look better than yours.”
Arthur takes a look at your paper and scoffs. “No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do! Hosea!”
The older man walks over with amusement in his eyes. “What is it now?”
“Who’s handwriting is better, mine or Arthur’s?”
He peers down at both pieces of paper and seems to debate. Finally, he says, “They’re both excellent.”
You cross your arms at him. “That’s not what I asked.”
Hosea chuckles and ruffles at your hair, causing you to whine and slap his hand away. “I ain’t comparing them, you both did great. Come on, Y/N, we’ve gotta go to town.”
“But you haven’t admitted I’m better than Arthur,” you complain while Hosea takes your hand and leads you to the wagon.
Hosea helps you up before coming up himself. “Neither of you is better than the other, girl.”
“Yeah-huh,” you say as the wagon begins to take off. Your gang had made camp outside a town called Aleverton. You had been there for a few weeks, doing odd jobs to make some money. At least, everyone else was. Dutch and Hosea still thought you to be ‘too young’ to help out on heists or anything fun. But you had been with them for well over a year and you were thirteen now. How much older did you need to get?
As you make your way through the forest, Hosea finally turns onto the dirt road and steers in the direction of the little town. “You’re both talented in your own ways.”
“But one of us is better at writing than the other, right?”
Hosea smiles and shakes his head. “Why do you want me to admit it so much?”
Instead of answering, you huff, roll your eyes, and instead watch the scenery.
Hosea does not pry further. That’s why you like him. Well, you like Dutch too, but he’s not as understanding as Hosea. Dutch is wonderful, he taught you how to ride a horse and write and read, but Hosea gets you better. When you first came into the gang, after trying and unsuccessfully stealing Hosea’s pocketbook, you were hesitant to be around them. You had been on your own for weeks after escaping your monster of a father, so you were hesitant to be around them. But they quickly showed that you could trust them, and they never made an attempt to hurt you, not even when they were mad.
When you were first with them, you were quiet, reluctant to speak to anyone, afraid that if you said something wrong, then they’d kick you out and you’d be on your own again. But that never happened. At that time, you spent much of your time alone, making games for yourself or maybe helping with meager tasks. At night, you’d sit away from everyone else, away from the campfire and the singing and the loudness, you’d sit a bit aways and watch the stars. You didn’t know many of their names, so you came up with your own.
One night, you were laying out by yourself when you heard footsteps. Quickly, you sat up and pulled at the grass, heart thumping for an unknown reason.
“It’s just me,” Hosea had gently said, holding his hands up. He approached you and stopped. “Mind if I sit?”
Silently, you shrugged and slowly laid back down.
Hosea lay beside you and asked, “Whatcha looking at?”
“The stars.”
“Oh, wow. You know any of their names?”
You shrugged. “Only a few. Daddy showed me them a couple times when I was little when he took me hunting.”
“Show me.”
Slowly, you lifted a finger. “That’s Hercules. Beside it is Draco, he’s standing on his head. And over there is the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. Daddy said that the whole constellation is Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and that they’re actually bears.”
That night he pointed out other constellations. Aquila, the celestial swan, and Cygnus, the eagle. You had been calling them the stingray and giant T respectively. He showed you the constellation Lyra and told you that the bright star in it was called Vega. He pointed out Sagittarius, the archer. You didn’t even notice it. That was the first time in a long time you smiled.
That was why you liked Hosea better sometimes.
The sound of wooden wheels under gravel snaps you from your memory and you blink to see that you’ve arrived in the town. It wasn’t much to write home about, but it had the essentials. A general store, a jail where Hosea and Dutch did bounties, a saloon, and a doctor’s office.
Hosea parks the cart next to the general store and you hop out and wait for him. “What are we here for, again?”
“Just a few things,” Hosea says walking up the steps to the general store, but you spot something different in his tone of voice.
“Like what?” you ask again while he holds the door open. Immediately, you wander towards the candy. Would Hosea get you any chocolate?
“Just the essential,” he answered, tugging you away from the candy. You groan but trail along behind him as he gets what he needs.
When he goes to the front counter, you lean your back on it and kick your feet while he pays. “Why’d you bring me with me if this was it?”
“I didn’t say that was all. Now help me load this.”
After loading everything back onto the wagon, Hosea helps you hop down and leads you down the street.
“So what was on your mind back there in the wagon?” Hosea asks.
You look up at him. “Oh. Uh, nothing.”
Hosea smiles and shakes his head. “Kid, I’m a con artist. I know when you’re lying.”
Blushing, you figure he won’t drop it until you tell him. He hardly ever does. So, you say, “Well, it’s just that I’ve been with you guys for a while now and…”
“And?”
“And I haven’t seen any real action!” you exclaim, coming to a stop. “I haven’t been on any big mission or heists or anything because you won’t let me.”
“You’re young.”
“I’m thirteen! Arthur is just a few years older and he gets to go with you guys.”
“So that’s what you’re upset about?” asks Hosea with a raised brow. “You’re upset because we treat you too young, you think you’re missing out?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Something in Hosea’s expression changes and he shrugs. “Alright. Fine. You wanna be a cowboy? Every cowboy needs a gun and a hat.”
Then he begins to walk again. Thoroughly confused, you just stand there with furrowed brows. What?
“Come on,” he calls, beckoning you with a hand. Quickly, you follow up behind him, grabbing onto the edge of his coat.
“Where’re we going?” you ask as he takes you to a part of town you’re not familiar with.
“Gunsmith,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Thought I just said that.”
You still don’t follow. “Why are we going there?”
“It was your birthday last week, right?”
“Yeah.” That’s when it finally clicks. You stop and let go of his coat. Hosea looks down at you with a slight smirk. “You mean?”
He nods and laughs and you beam, eyes sparkling. He’s letting you get your own gun.
Hosea takes you inside the gunsmith and you immediately run up to the front and place your hands on the counter. “What kinds of guns do you have?”
The owner looks down at you mildly startled, but Hosea comes and places a hand on your shoulder to still your bouncing. “Apologies, sir, for my partner. She’s just excited.”
The owner regains his composure and nods, smiling. “I can see. How about you take a look, girl. See what catches your eye.”
So you open the book and are shocked by all the possibilities. A pistol? A revolver? A rifle, a shotgun? Then there are different customizations you can get with each thing. Quickly, you flip back and forth, not really reading any of it, too overwhelmed.
Nervously, you turn up to Hosea, who is watching with a smile. “Uh…”
“Here, let me.” He leans beside you and goes through the book with you. “You’re getting a revolver, no doubt about that.”
“What if I wanted a shotgun?”
“Every cowboy starts off with a revolver. You can get a shotgun at one point with your own money. You need to learn how to shoot a smaller gun first.”
“I know how to shoot,” you tell him. “I learned how to hunt, so I sorta know.”
“That’s good, then.” Hosea nods. “Now, pick one out. Don’t worry about the price.”
“I want that one.”
“Okay, nothing with three digits.”
So you pursue the options that you can have. The owner, who seems nice enough, helps you look too.
“You want one with a good range and rate of fire. And reload speed.”
So you look. Your reading has improved a lot, so you can understand most of the words on the pages. All the ones that matter, anyway. Finally, you settle on one, one that you can’t pronounce.
“That one,” you declare proudly as if you’ve won an award, smiling.
“The Schofield?” You nod. Hosea smiles and closes the book. “Alright then, cowboy, whatever you say.”
After buying it, you wave to the shop owner, thanking him for his help, and step outside.
You’re bouncing on your feet again and looking up at Hosea. “Can I hold it?”
Hosea shakes his head and stores it in his holster, much to your dismay. “Not yet, partner. Not until you grab yourself a hat.”
So Hosea takes you to the hat shop. At least, that’s what it seems like. You have a really fun time trying on every single hat. From proper cowboy hats to top hats to banker hats, you try it all and have fun.
Eventually, you settle on a hat. It’s got a wide brim, a leather band, and a telescoped crown, whatever that means. Regardless, you love it and ask Hosea’s opinion.
“You look like a fine cowboy.”
Later, when you returned back to camp, you leaped off the wagon in your hat and held your gun that had absolutely no bullets in it.
“Arthur, Arthur! Look what I got in town!”
~*~
For you, the next few days are a blur, comprised of you mostly sleeping through the day and reading whenever you couldn’t sleep. Arthur and Javier return with John and Arthur tells you about it when you wake up from a fever dream.
“Hey, there,” he says as you groggily wake up, extremely disoriented from your dream.
You still feel awful. Your nose is stuffy and your limbs hurt, but there’s little you can do about it besides waiting it out. The gang has no medicine. “I had the weirdest dream, Arthur.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was, like, on this giant planet with these tall, blue people with tails living in it. And they could ride these giant creatures with wings by, like, attaching the end of their tail to them?” As you speak, your voice is hoarse and weak. “It was so strange. They worshiped this giant, glowing willow tree, too.”
“That sounds like quite the dream,” he says, pushing your sweaty hair from your forehead. “How’re you feeling? Hosea said you didn’t look too good this morning.”
Slowly, you sit up, groaning. Arthur places a hand on the small of your back. “I don’t feel too good, neither. Can I have some water?”
Arthur nods and hands you his water pouch. You thank him and take a sip that quickly turns to you gulping down the whole thing. It’s all gone before you realize it and you lower it, giving Arthur an apologetic look. “Sorry…”
He just smiles and shakes his head. “You need it more.”
You slowly lay back down. “Did you find John?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he okay?”
Arthur leans back in his chair and shrugs. “He was alive. Javier and I found him up in the mountains. His horse was dead and he’s got a nasty scar on his face.”
You wince. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. Says he ran into some wolves.”
“Shit.”
“He’ll be okay,” Arthur says. “That boy always turns out fine.”
You smile faintly. “Yeah, he does. But he still can’t swim.”
Arthur laughs and you laugh weakly before it turns into a sneeze, leaving your head spinning and chest aching. You groan and turn onto your side, pushing your face into the pillow. Arthur rubs up and down your arm.
“You’re going to be okay, cowboy,” he tells you.
“I’m hungry,” you groan.
Arthur hands you an opened can of strawberries. “Here.”
You push yourself up onto one arm and slowly eat the strawberries. They don’t taste very good to you, but Arthur is trying to help. Besides, you know you need to eat something. Of course, you’d prefer some chicken soup or something, but your gang has little food. If you weren’t sick, you’d go out to hunt with Charles like you usually do, but his hand is injured and the flu is kicking your ass.
“Thank you,” you tell him as you hand the can back. You lay back down a sigh. “I never get sick.”
“We’ve been traveling in the blistering cold for days. It’s fine.”
“No, it ain’t,” you snap somewhat harshly. “Dutch needs me, I need to go hunting. We don’t have much food, Pearson is probably annoyed ‘cause of it. If I wasn’t sick, I could go out and get a couple deer.”
“Yeah, well, you are sick. There ain’t much you can do about it,” Arthur snaps back, staring down at you.
You hate the fact that he’s right, but you refuse to admit it aloud. So you just roll your eyes. You’re beginning to get tired again.
“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” Arthur says. “Even if you are being kind of a bitch.”
“You love me anyway,” you mumble, rolling back to your side, pulling the blanket over your shoulders.
“Yeah, I do.”
The storm doesn’t let up as the days progress like you thought it would. The boards of the building you’re sleeping in are thin and don’t do as much to shield from the wind and cold as you thought they would. Your condition doesn’t worsen, but it doesn’t get better, either.
You still spend the majority of your time in your room, often in too much pain to move. But you’re not alone. Arthur sits with you most of the time. Hosea visits and so does Dutch. So does little Jack, though you think it’s an excuse to play with your cat who is often by your side.
“I’m starting to think that cat likes you more than he likes me,” you joked one day while Jack is in your room chasing Harold around.
He just laughs and skitters around the smaller creature.
Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean that you can’t help with any plans. When Dutch sits with you, you ask him what the plan is, what’s next for the gang.
“I know that after Blackwater, we can’t go near there,” you ask him while slowly eating some peaches. “So, once the storm lets up, where will we go?”
He shifts in his seat. “Well, we still need the money. I was thinking we head west.”
You pause. “Dutch, ain’t we going east right now?”
“For now.”
“Our problems are worse in the west,” you tell him. “We’re wanted down that direction, we should head east. Look, we may be fine for now, but they’ll expect us to head west again. Out east, there’s plenty of opportunities. Sure, it’s closer to civilization, but it may be our best bet.”
Dutch nods slowly. “Alright. If you say so.”
Ever since Blackwater, something had been off about Dutch. You could see that. He shot and killed an innocent woman, that wasn’t ever in Dutch’s nature. You noticed how he became obsessed with the notion of getting enough money to disappear. Disappear to where?
Regardless, you remained by his side. You always would, no matter what. He was like a father to you, even if he didn’t particularly act like the father figure you came to love as you grew up. Dutch was a good man, a smart man. He knew what he was doing.
As the days drag on, your fever breaks. You get better. Your limbs no longer ache, your headache goes away, and your sneezing stops. Arthur, who has apparently become your doctor, finally finds you fit enough to get up.
“I told you, I’m fine,” you tell him, pulling on your boots. “I ain’t even sneezing no more.”
Arthur laughs and hands you your bag. “I believe you.”
Once you’re in your hat and gear, you finally feel like yourself again. If you were being honest, you missed having your guns on your sides and having a rifle on your back. You were back in business.
You and Arthur headed over to where the fellas were staying. You even missed them. Well, most of them. Certainly not Micah, you never missed him. But Lenny, Javier, even Bill.
It was cold outside, freezing. When you exhaled, your breath came out in a fog. But you liked it.
Arthur caught your smile as you walked and asked, arms folded, “Why you smiling?”
“I haven’t been outside in days,” you tell him. You stoop down and take a handful of snow, packing it into a ball and tossing it at the front of his shirt. “Live a little.”
Arthur just rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the smile that lingers. You follow him to where Javier is standing outside by a fire.
“Well, look who’s feeling better,” he says when you approach, smiling. He claps you on the shoulder and you do the same to him.
“Yeah,” you say, grinning. “Can’t believe a cold was kicking my ass.”
“Glad to see you better, amiga.”
“Thanks.”
Arthur holds the door open and you both quickly step inside, the wind beginning to blow harder. The boys seem in the middle of a conversation, but stop when you enter. Lenny is sitting on a wooden support and Micah and Bill are both sitting in seats.
“Hey!” exclaims Lenny. You’ve always liked Lenny. He’s young, but he’s got spunk and he’s kind, which is what’s really important.
“You don’t look half dead anymore,” teases Bill.
You just wave a hand at him and make your way over to the furnace. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Bill.” Arthur takes a seat beside you.
“Can’t believe you of all people were knocked down by some cold,” says Micah. Such a charmer.
You throw a glare at him. “Micah, if I had the chance, I’d sneeze on you.”
Micah rolls his eyes and continues on with what he was saying. “Anyway, like I was saying, I thought you boys liked action. A couple of days on the lam and you lot have all turned yella.” Arthur holds his hand out for the bottle of whiskey in his hand and Micah hands it to him. “Except for you, of course,” he adds, his words directed at Lenny.
You scoff and roll your eyes. Lenny rubs at his chin, a cigarette between his fingers. “Shut up, Micah.”
“I ain’t ever seen so many long faces!”
Javier comes in, quickly closing the door behind him. You poke Arthur and he looks at you before handing you the bottle. You hadn’t had a drink in days, Hosea wouldn’t let you, claiming it wouldn’t make you feel better. But when you take a swig, you have a sense that he was wrong. It burns down your throat in just the right way and it makes your face feel all warm.
“I guess,” starts Bill, slowly, “I guess folks miss them, that fell.”
Micah leans forward. “Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss.”
Lenny lets out a short laugh. “When you fall, there’ll be a party.”
You let out a small smile as you lift the bottle up to take another sip. Lenny and Bill laugh and you notice Arthur chuckling a little as he takes out a cigarette and a match.
“A party,” Bill says through Chuckles. “Probably.”
But then Micah stands and leans over Bill. “That funny, huh?”
Bill sniffs and looks up at him, still smiling. “Sure.”
Micah socks Bill in the cheek. Bill lets out a growl when he recovers and quickly stands to get back at him before Arthur and Lenny hold him back. You just watch with the bottle halfway to your mouth, but you’re not surprised.
“Come on, Micah, he didn’t even make the joke!” you exclaim over Bill’s struggle.
“Maybe I don’t like being laughed at by the likes of you two!” he shouts.
Dutch bursts in angrily. “Stop it!” he yells over the arguing. “Now.” Arthur and Lenny let go of Bill and everyone kind of stands there awkwardly. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s need punching, hard. You wanna sit around, wait for him to come find us? All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”
Arthur is already out the door and you’re quick to follow, still holding the nearly empty bottle in your hand. It takes a lot for you to get properly drunk or even buzzed. Now you’re just comfortably warm and ready enough for a fight.
The boys trickle out of the building and into the snow. Dutch comes out and you down the rest of the bottle and throw it on the ground, throat burning.
“You sure about this, Dutch?” questions Arthur while he pulls down his sleeves, a cigarette between his teeth.
“Yes,” answers the boss.
“Folk been through a lot recently, we hardly back on our feet yet,” he goes on.
Dutch leans forward just a bit. “And the last thing we need is to get bushwhacked by Colm O’Driscoll.” He smacks his shoulder. “Come on. Y/N, you up for this?”
You nod and toss the bottle onto the ground. “Yeah, I’m ready. Kind of itching for a fight, really.”
“Good.”
As you follow Dutch to the horses, you say, “I know you really hate him, Dutch, but I really don’t think that their lot came all the way up here in this weather just for us.”
“Sounds like you’re doubting me,” Dutch says as he approaches his horse. You stop in the snow and just stare at him. He said it in a voice you really don’t like, a tone you’ve heard from your birth father and now, far too much in Dutch any time you question him about anything. It hurts and it never fails to send a sharp pang through your heart.
So you step up and say in a quiet voice, “I would never doubt you. You know that. But…” He turns to you. “But you always told us that revenge isn’t a luxury we can afford.”
“This is the right call, Y/N,” he says to you, putting a hand on your shoulder. You look at it and then he turns and walks back to his horse. “This is about more than revenge for business long ago. They were talking about trains and detonators. Colm always had good information. Come on.”
With a sigh, you mount Hazel, petting down her neck. “Hey, girl.”
Arthur, who is already on his own horse, asks, “And you think now is the right time to hit a train?”
“Now you might fancy living on deer piss and rabbit shit,” Dutch begins, throwing a leg over his steed. “I’m getting too old for that life.” Charles walks by and you give him a short wave before Dutch begins in a loud voice, “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson? Would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscoll’s about!”
With that, he flicks his reins and your gang is off to kill some O’Driscoll’s. You follow behind Arthur, a smirk on your face. You missed this. You missed riding out on a mission, you missed having a purpose.
alright here i go with another hyperfixation. re-watching markiplier play red dead for the third time really brings out my love for cowboys and specifically arthur morgan
arthur morgan x female!reader
summary: after the disaster in blackwater, the van der linde gang are on the run. caught in the middle of a harsh snowstorm, they need to find shelter and food, fast
word count: ~8.7k
warnings: cursing, violence, mentions of death/corpses, micah being a creep as usual, little bit of angst, slight sexual suggestions
next>
By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end. America was becoming a land of laws. Even the west had mostly been tamed. A few gangs still roamed around, but they were being hunted down and destroyed.
The cold winter wind bites at your cheeks, searing them a dark shade. Your gang, Van der Linde, had been traveling through a harsh storm for days. It’s May for god’s sake, why is the weather like this? It was Dutch’s idea to travel north across the mountains to lose the law and you’re sure it worked considering how lost you all are.
It’s been a hard few days. Ever since a botched ferry job back in Blackwater, your group had been struggling. You had already lost three men and Davy, bless his heart, likely wouldn’t last much longer.
At least you managed to get out with a cat.
It’s getting more and more difficult to see and you can tell it’s getting darker outside by the second. Sunset would be soon and you had nowhere to set up camp just yet. Dutch sent Arthur out to look, but he hadn’t returned yet and you were beginning to get worried. John and Micah had been sent out as well and while you don’t care how long Micah is gone, John has been gone almost a whole day.
Your horse whinnies underneath you and she’s struggling through all of this snow. You shush her and stroke up and down her neck. “It’s alright girl, you’re fine. Come on.”
With a gentle tap on her sides, you urge her forward in the group towards the front to where Dutch and Hosea are leading. You keep your head tilted, the wind stinging your eyes. Of course it’s in the direction you all are walking.
“If we don’t stop soon, we’ll all be dying,” Hosea says as you approach, just catching his voice above the wind. “This weather, it’s May. I’m just hoping the law got as lost as we did.”
“Dutch!” you call, turning towards them and keeping a gloved hand atop your hat to avoid it from blowing away.
The two older gentlemen turn to you and Dutch exclaims, “Ah, Miss Y/N. How’re ya faring?”
“Been better, that’s for sure,” you answer in an attempt at a joke. Hosea chuckles. “Dutch, Arthur has been gone for a while and it’ll be dark soon. Let me go look for him.”
Dutch shakes his head. “No, Y/N, I’d rather you stay here. Bad enough we haven’t heard from John or Micah, can’t have you getting lost either.”
You frown and huff. He’s right, but you don’t like it. You’d rather you get lost and then possibly find Arthur than stay here and do nothing. But you give him a reluctant nod and keep a slow pace beside them.
Hosea says something but you can’t quite hear him. You turn to him and lean forward. “Pardon?”
“I said he’ll be fine,” Hosea repeats. “You and I both know Arthur well enough to know he won’t get lost.”
“There!” Dutch exclaims, pointing forward and you both follow his finger.
Squinting through the snowy haze, you can faintly see a figure of a man on a horse. You would recognize that hat anywhere.
“Arthur!” you exclaim as he approaches your group, covered in snow.
“Any luck?”
He tips his hat up and says, “I found a place we can get some shelter. Let Davy rest while he…you know.” He tugs his horse’s reins and they turn. “An old mining town, abandoned, it ain’t far. Come on.”
“Come on!” shouts Dutch and your group moves out, strengthened by the notion of shelter. A fire and the possibility of a cot is enough to encourage you to keep moving.
You give your horse a kick and she pushes on up towards Arthur’s horse. He looks at you and says over the storm, “How ya feeling?”
“Fine,” you answer and it’s honest. Sure, you’re tired and thirsty and cold, but you’ve been worse. “I can’t feel my toes, Arthur.”
Arthur Morgan laughs. “Good thing you’ve got a horse.”
You smile.
You and Arthur went way back. Like him, you were taken in by Dutch and Hosea as a young teen after escaping your abusive father and emotionally unavailable mother. For weeks, you had been moving from town to town trying to survive. In one town that you can’t even remember the name of, you ran into Hosea, literally. It was intentional and you nicked his pocketbook and got away with it under the guise of an orphan little girl. But, of course, when you went into an alley to look at your score, you were caught red-handed by Dutch.
He tried to take the pocketbook from you but you ducked and dodged and almost got away with it until Hosea caught the back of your shirt and literally shook it out of your hands.
After admitting you had been on your own, Dutch offered you a place in his gang. You accepted once he promised you food and a bath.
Since then, you have been by his side. Arthur was there before you, but since you were both close in age, you became close friends. Dutch and Hosea found you as a daughter of sorts and you found them as father figures.
Over the years, Arthur remained your closest friend. You had been through a lot together and that never drove either of you apart. You were there for him at the death of his son Isaac and Eliza and he was there for you when Antony, a man you had an interest in, turned out to be a serial killer. He had your back and you had his, no matter what. Often, you were both inseparable. You went on errands together, on heists and missions, and even hunting sometimes.
“How far is this mining town?” you ask him.
“Just down this hill,” he tells you, pointing forwards.
Sure enough, at the crest of the hill, you can see the town. It certainly looks like it’s seen better days, but no one appears to be home. It’s dark and quiet but there are walls and roofs.
The gang slowly makes their way down the hill, being careful with the wagons before entering the town. It feels like a ghost town and that is comforting in a strange way. The law would never expect you all to be here this deep into the mountains.
Dutch sends you to inspect the buildings and you hop off your horse to take a lantern. Abigail lights it for you and you head towards the closest building you can see. With your revolver drawn in front of you, you nudge the door open with your foot. It swings inwards and the wind slams it against the door.
The lantern lights up the room well enough and once you see it’s abandoned, you motion with your arm. “Bring Davey in here!”
The gang trickles in as you push a table towards the center of the room. Bill and Arthur carry Davey in on a cot and place him on the table. The gang trickles in and you watch from the door before shutting and latching it once everyone is inside.
Susan Grimshaw immediately gets to business, ordering Mary-Beth to start a fire and Karen to grab some blankets. You stand beside Arthur and peer at Davey’s pale face. His eyes are closed.
“Davey’s dead,” announces Abigail.
“There was nothing more you could have done,” says Reverend Swanson in an attempt to comfort.
You didn’t know Davey all too well, but you’re still sad. It’s hard to lose people and Davey was a nice kid. It’s a shame, really. You hope his brother is alright, but he was captured, so you have no way of knowing.
“What are we going to do, we need supplies?” Hosea asks.
Dutch turns to him. “First of all, you’re going to stay here and you’re going to get yourself warm.” You and Arthur gather around them to learn what to do next. “Now I sent John and Micah out scouting ahead. Arthur, Y/N, and I, we’re gonna ride out and see if we can find one of ‘em.”
You raise your brows. “In this?”
Dutch glances towards the door before giving you a small, reassuring smile. “Just for a short bit. I don’t see what other choice we have.”
Your breath comes out in a fog and you nod to step back while Dutch addresses the group.
“Listen, listen to me, all of ya, for a moment,” he begins. “Now, we’ve had…well, a bad couple of days.” There’s a heavy pause. “Now, I loved Davey, Jenny. Sean, Mac, they may be okay, we don’t know. But we lost some folks.” The wind blows and creaks the building and you spare a wary glance at the roof. “Now, if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I’d do it, gladly. But we’re gonna ride out and we are gonna find some food.” You find yourself nodding as he talks, perhaps to hype yourself up more or to keep warm, you’re not sure. Your hands are buried deep in your pockets and you’re leaning against Arthur just a bit. “Everybody, we’re safe now. There ain’t nobody following us through a storm like this one. And by the time they get here, well, we’re gonna be, we’re gonna be long gone. We’ve been through worse than this before. Mister Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days. Now all of you, all of you! Get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay with me. We ain’t done yet!”
With that, he turns and commands both of you to come with him. You give Arthur a pat on the arm and follow him out. Immediately, you regret it as the freezing wind and snow meets your face, but it’s alright. No one knows how to make a speech like Dutch and they always seem to renew your determination.
“Well, we ain’t run into them yet,” Dutch says once the three of you are outside. “So, they both must’ve headed further down the hill.”
“Sure.” Arthur nods before catching both your and Dutch’s arm. “Hey. I ain’t had time to ask, but what really went down back there on that boat?”
You and Dutch share a look before you turn back to your friend. “We missed you, that’s what happened.”
“Come on,” says Dutch, heading out.
A voice calls out from the distance, “Hey, you need horses?” It’s Charles, pulling along three horses. Your’s, Dutch’s, and Arthur’s. Behind him, in the snow, you spot an orange, fluffy cat. He’s yours, the one you snagged from the boat in Blackwater. You named him Harold for some reason and he quickly became your cat over just a few days.
“Oh, yeah,” Dutch answers with a sigh. “And Mister Smith, get yourself indoors. You need to rest that hand.”
Harold mews at you and rubs against your legs. You lean down to give him an affectionate scratch at his neck before mounting your horse, watching him trail behind Charles.
“I’ll live,” he says, waving a hand. But when Dutch literally yells at him, he complies and heads inside.
The three of you head out into the snow to search for John or Micah. You hope you find John first, you can’t stand Micah. He always seemed rude and shifty to you.
“I ain’t sure what we’re gonna find out here, Dutch,” says Arthur warily.
“If we find anything at all,” you add.
“Well, we have to try,” Dutch says. “Stay close, we’ll do our best to stick to the trail.”
“This goddamn weather,” Arthur mumbles.
“It’s gotta blow over soon,” you say, shivering. “It’s been like this for a couple of days.”
The three of you continue to ride in silence. At one point, Dutch warns of a bridge and you take it slow and steady so your horses don’t slip. That would be the opposite of what you wanted. Dutch asks the two of you to ride beside him and you take his left while Arthur takes his right.
The moon begins to come out as the clouds thin a bit, but the snow keeps coming in heavy. Normally, you love snow. You love how pretty it looks on the ground and in the trees and you like to take little boy Jack sledding and making snowmen with him. But you don’t like the snow when it doesn’t stop getting in your hair and when it’s hindering your movement. You're soaked to the bone and freezing, but you don’t let that deter you.
“Can’t believe we lost Davey, too,” Arthur states after more riding in silence.
“He’s the last one, Arthur,” Dutch says. “No more.” While you really truly want to believe that, in your line of work, it’s not likely. “We need to get those people warm and fed.”
“At least we don’t need to worry about the Pinkertons tailing us in this,” you comment as your horses pick up a bit of speed.
“Ah, a couple of more days and we’ll be on the other side.” Dutch looks at both of you. “You both need to help me pick the others back up. You’re the only ones I can rely on to stay strong right now.”
You let out a short laugh. “Wish I could, Dutch, but I think I’m beginning to lose feeling in my fingers.”
“Here, take this.” Dutch hands you the lantern. The handle is cold, but the flame is enough to make up for it.
“Oh, thanks,” you tell him and he nods.
Dutch looks ahead and slows his horse just a bit. “Wait, is that someone coming towards us?”
The three of you slow down some more and peer ahead through the snow. Sure enough, there is a figure on horseback, and for a moment you panic, thinking it’s the Pinkertons or someone else.
“You, up ahead!” Dutch calls, his voice deep. “Who’s there?”
For a moment you think it’s John. But it’s not. Instead, it is Micah approaching, holding up his own lantern. “Gentlemen.” He catches sight of you and gasps. “Oh, and lady.”
“Micah,” you reply, tipping your head.
If there’s one person you don’t like in the entire gang, it’s Micah. He’s always been a nasty man. Sure, you’re a group of outlaws and bandits and murderers, but most of you have morals. Not Micah. He never seems to think about what he does before he does it, which is dangerous. He’s snarky and sarcastic and rude and mean. Regardless, you put up with him because Dutch trusts him.
“Found anything?” asks Dutch.
“I think so,” he answers. “I found a little homestead down thataway.” He jerks his head backward.
“Okay. Anyone home?”
“Sure. Place is blazing with light and noise. Sounded like a party.”
“Let’s go see.”
“Follow me.” With that, Micah turns and heads back the direction he came. You three follow him along, saddles clinking. “How’s Davey doing?”
“He didn’t make it,” you call up to him.
“Nor did little Jenny,” Dutch adds.
“That’s too bad,” Micah says. “Davey was a real fighter. Both of them Callander boys is. Er, was. And Mac and Sean?”
“We don’t know.”
“Quite a business.”
You fall behind a bit to ride beside Arthur. “You good?” you call to him.
He nods. “Yeah. Was kinda hoping to sit inside by a fire for a bit, but…”
“Yeah, I feel you. We’ll be there soon enough.” A strange feeling washes across you. You know what it is. Quickly, your face screws up, and before Arthur can question it, you sneeze, hard, into the elbow of your jacket. Arthur blesses you but then you sneeze again and one last time, harder.
Your head hurts and you sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve, and groan. “Ouch.”
“You alright back there?” Dutch asks, turning around on his horse.
You just wave a hand. “Yeah, ‘m fine, keep going.” Your voice sounds a bit more nasally, but you assume it’s just because you sneezed half of your brain out.
Arthur touches your arm. “You sure you’re okay?”
With a shrug, you grin at him. “Not sure. Pretty sure I lost most of my braincells.”
He smiles and the tension lifts. You really hope you’re not getting sick, this would be a bad time for it.
Arthur calls ahead to Dutch, “Ask him if he’s seen John!”
Dutch repeats the question to Micah and then says, “He hasn’t seen him!”
“He’ll be fine,” you say. “Things always turn out right for him!”
“I hope. Mac and Sean are still out there, somewhere, too. Hey, I’ll take the rear, you two.”
You and Arthur gallop towards the middle while Dutch falls behind you both.
“Hey, have you seen anyone else, Micah?” you ask, moving a bit further ahead to be within earshot of him.
“I–I reckon we’re the only ones crazy enough to be out in this, Miss L/N,” he answers with a laugh.
You scoff. “Micah, you’re certainly not one to talk about crazy.”
He lets out an offended gasp. “Aw, what, no ‘glad you’re alright, Micah’?” Before you can reply, he continues on. “Look, it’s all going to work out, L/N. We lost a few folks, but that’s just how it goes sometimes.”
“Oh, well, it’s great that you sound so good about it!”
Micah dismisses your comment and changes the subject. “Where are all the others?”
“Old mining camp Arthur found, little ways back,” you answer. “It’s not a whole lot, but it’s better than nothing.”
Micah squints ahead and slows down. “Okay, let’s keep it down, gentlemen and lady. It’s just up ahead.”
At that, you frown. You’ve told Micah and some others at camp a million times to not single you out. It makes you uncomfortable and it makes you feel like less of a camp member. You know it’s not true, you’re more of an outlaw than most of them, but it still hurts when they feel the need to specifically single you out just because you’re the only lady that rides with the gang.
Regardless, you don’t mention it as you come into view of the house.
“Snuff and stash those lanterns, boys,” Dutch advises, specifically looking at you. That’s more like it. “Best you three lie low on this.”
You blow the lantern out and hook it onto your horse as she stops at the top of the hill. You can just make out a home down near the bottom of the hill and remark on how nice it looks. The house itself isn’t too big, but there are a few pens for animals and a barn near the back. These people may have some food they could spare.
“Alright, let’s head down there,” Dutch says before making his way down the hill. The three of you follow behind him. You approach the gate to the farm and you four hitch your horses behind a small cluster of trees.
Even from where you are, you can hear loud and slightly drunken singing. Dutch decides to take the lead and for the rest of you to get out of sight, explaining that ‘one lonely man is a lot less intimidating than four nasty degenerates.’
He’s right and you and Arthur take shelter in a cattle shed while Micah kneels behind a wagon. Your legs are stiff, but you still find it in yourself to crouch down close to Arthur with your back pressed against a half-wall, giving you a good vantage point. There’s fiddle music playing from inside the house and while everything seems well and good, part of you is inclined to suspect something worse may be happening.
Reaching a hand up, you brush some snow from Arthur’s hat. It once belonged to his father and he’s always worn it for as long as you can remember. It’s in surprisingly good shape. The snow falls to the ground in front of him and he gives you that half-smile of his. Then he takes your hand and he presses his chapped lips to your fingers. Arthur isn’t too affectionate judging his past, but he always does these little things to you that never fail to give you butterflies in the pit of your stomach.
Dutch approaches the stairs to the porch and stops, calling out, “Hello? Hello, anybody home?”
You and Arthur peek above the wall and watch as a man steps out of the home to confront your leader.
Dutch plays the part of a lonely man well and sounds relieved when he says, “Oh, well, hello friend.”
“Whatchu want?” demands the man standing on the porch. His southern accent is strong and it reminds you of something.
“I am very sorry to disturb you. Uh, my friends and I, well, we got into some…some trouble up the way. Lost in the storm.” A couple of more men walk out and down the steps, approaching Dutch. You don’t like this. “Ah, gentlemen!”
“We can’t help you, Mister,” one says, sounding hostile.
Yeah, this is bad, you determine. You try to listen to more of their conversation but Micah is breathing heavily and moving around. Is he trying to get you all caught?
“Arthur,” he suddenly says lowly towards the both of you. “Y/N, we got a problem. There’s a corpse right here.”
Your stomach drops and you hastily pull out your revolver and click the safety off. You quietly curse your breath and spot another man approaching Dutch from the side of the house. Dutch doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger, but you know things are going to turn south quickly.
“Guys, there’s a body in the wagon,” Micah repeats.
“Yeah, we heard you,” Arthur says, pulling out his own gun. “Just keep your eyes on Dutch.”
“I think you should go now, buddy,” says one of the men talking to Dutch.
Yeah, they’re certainly catching on.
“Now, friend,” Dutch begins, choosing his words carefully. “I ain’t asking for much. Please, I am…kinda desperate.”
“Hey…” one drawls. “I don’t believe it. Come here, partner. Come here!”
You lock eyes with Arthur and you both say the same thing with just a look. Dutch has been found out.
“It’s goddamn Dutch van der Linde, you morons!” one exclaims and you quickly hear the drawing of guns. “Colm is going to shit his pants.”
You stand and take aim.
“Put your han–”
Before he can finish his sentence, you shoot him straight in the head. The gunshot cracks through the winter wind and the man falls to the ground with a squeak into the snow. Your ears ring and your heart is thumping painfully in your chest but this is the first time all day you’ve been warm. Adrenaline flows through your veins and suddenly the cold isn’t as noticeable as the fight ensues.
Arthur and Micah arise from their hiding places and join the shootout. The enemy faintly cries for reinforcements and Dutch backs off to find some cover. You shoot down a man hiding behind a crate and the whiz of a bullet flies past your ear, causing you to duck down. Men come out on horses, but you can just about make out a man shooting from the top window.
“Come on, bastards, you’re dead now!” shouts a man who is standing out in the open. A rookie move, you shoot him in the chest and he too falls.
“One of them’s making a run for it, Arthur!” shouts Micah.
With the area in the yard mostly cleaned out, Arthur gets up to go after him. No one’s still gotten the man in the window and he makes an attempt to shoot at Arthur, but the bullet is short. Gritting your teeth, you stand and vault over the stable wall to get a better aim. When the man’s head comes into view as he lines up another shot, you aim and pull the trigger. Your bullet finds its mark, buried into the man’s skull. He slumps over the window.
There’s one more gunshot and you turn to see Arthur standing with his arm extended. Just feet in front of him is a fresh body.
And that’s that. Just as quickly as it’s begun, it’s over. Your measly group of four degenerates took out a whole group with no casualties.
Dutch stands and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. “That’s my girl, Y/N. Excellent shooting.”
With a small smile, you let out a breath and put your gun back in her holster. “Oh, it was nothing, Dutch, really.”
He lowers his hand and turns. “Goddamn O’Driscoll boys here? Why?”
“I dunno. Maybe same reason as us?” suggests Micah.
You typically loot bodies after a kill, but there’s not too much on these men. Just some spare ammo and maybe a pack of cigarettes. You just take the ammo. You have plenty of cigarettes in your saddle bag.
“Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house,” Dutch says, approaching the ajar door to the house. You two, let’s go search the cabin.”
You nod and trail behind Dutch into the cabin, Arthur not far behind. The interior is warm and bright and somewhat cozy, save for all the alcohol bottles strewn about.
“Smells like a party in here,” Arthur comments.
“Turn the place upside down, grab as many supplies as you can,” Dutch says. “We need the essentials. Food, medicine…whiskey.”
While Arthur searches the kitchen and Dutch looks at the table, you busy yourself with the drawers and cabinets. There appear to be a fair amount of things, some health tonics, and supplies, and plenty of canned foods like baked beans and pears and peaches. Canned peaches are Arthur’s favorite.
“I’m starving,” Arthur complains with a groan. At that, your own stomach growls. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were yourself until someone mentioned it.
“You should eat something now,” Dutch advises. “Get your strength up for the ride back.”
“Hey, Arthur.” You catch his attention and toss him a can of peaches you just pulled from a shelf.
He catches it with ease and turns the can around to look at the label. Then he gives you another one of his half-grins. To your surprise, he looks around in his pack and then tosses you your own can.
Caught off guard, you nearly don’t catch it. But you do before it smacks you in the nose and realize he gave you canned apricots. Your favorite.
Arthur truly is your best friend.
After searching the remaining cabinets, you stand beside the roaring fire, devouring your apricots. The juice is always your favorite part. Arthur continues to rummage around while Dutch stands beside the table.
“O’Driscolls, I can’t believe it,” he continues on with a shake of his head.
“It’s a strange one, alright.”
“Maybe they’re hiding up here like we are?” you suggest with a mouthful of fruit. Dutch gives you a look and despite being a grown woman, you still feel embarrassed and quickly swallow the fruit. Even though you’re outlaws, Dutch always did tell you to at least act like a human. “I mean, it makes sense. There’s a big price on Colm’s head. Hell, it’s almost as big as the one on yours.”
Dutch nods in understanding. “Wanting Colm dead is about the only thing Uncle Sam and me agree on.”
Arthur, who had been previously rummaging around upstairs, comes down and says, “Place is warm and dry. We could maybe move the women and Jack down here.”
You take another bite of your fruit as Dutch says, “Maybe. We’ll see how they are when we get back. I don’t really want us to split up.” Then he stands. “You two keep searching. I’ll pack these on the horses.”
“Okay,” you tell him again between a mouthful of food. He doesn’t even get a chance to reprimand you before the cold winter wind slams the door shut behind him.
The moment the door is closed, Arthur walks to your side by the fire. “There ain’t anything left in here.”
The two of you stand in silence for a few moments save for the howl of the wind, the cracking of the fire, and your scraping at the inside of the can. After polishing off the fruit, you place the empty can on the mantle and hold your hands out before the fire to get some more feeling in them. Now that you’ve eaten something and had some juice, you’re beginning to feel a bit better.
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my ass back there,” Arthur says from beside you after a beat.
You give him a confused look. “What?”
“At the shootout. Guy on the roof almost got me till you shot him.”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry about it, Arthur. You’d do the same for me.” You bump his hip with yours and give him a smile.
He returns the smile and takes your hands from the fire. He gently pulls you closer to him and tucks your arms inside his coat. Understanding his meaning, you wrap your arms around him in a hug with your arms inside his coat. He’s tall, at six feet four inches and you lean your head on his chest. Arthur’s own arms wrap around you and squeeze, pulling you tighter and closer together.
The two of you stand there in a hug to conserve warmth. It’s something you do often. You love physical contact and while Arthur isn’t the biggest fan, he’ll do it for you. His head bends down to rest atop yours and you find yourself closing your eyes for a moment, the firelight painting the insides of your eyelids in yellows and oranges.
“You’re cold,” you comment, feeling the dampness of the back of his shirt from the snow.
Arthur chuckles and says, “So are you.”
You squeeze him and he squeezes you back.
“Arthur?”
“Y/N?”
“Since it’s so cold, do you want to share a bed? To, you know, conserve body heat?”
He laughs again and asks, “Is this your way of asking me to sleep with you?”
“No, gross. You’re ugly,” you tease with a smile. He chuckles and sways you a little. “No, I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I get it. But it’s just a suggestion. My feelings won’t be hurt.”
“Ain’t like we haven’t done it before.”
“So…”
“Sure. To conserve body heat.”
You smile into his chest and give him another squeeze.
Finally, you both break away. You’re so tired you’d probably fall asleep standing up that way. Before you can completely pull away, Arthur grabs ahold of your forearms to stop you. He leans his head down and bumps his forehead with yours a couple of times. You smile and do the same. Headbutting is Arthur’s form of affection and reassurance. You’ve come to find it quite cute.
Then he lets your arms go and you continue on with business.
“Who do you think this house belonged to?” you ask as you both do one final sweep in case you missed anything.
“Probably a couple, there’s only one bed.”
“Hey… do you think that body that was in that wagon belonged to…to someone who lived here?”
“Well, knowing the O’Driscolls, I wouldn’t put it past them.”
You shiver and this time it isn’t from the cold. “Those guys suck.”
Arthur nods and heads for the door. “Sure are. Ready?”
You nod, pull your jacket closer to yourself and head back outside, bags a little bit fuller than they were before. Dutch and Micah are outside with your horses and you make your way to yours to stash your goodies and give her a couple of oatcakes.
“Arthur, Micah, you keep looking for stuff,” Dutch orders the two men. “Arthur, go see if there’s anything in that barn. Micah, you search the cabin, see what we missed.”
“Sure,” Arthur nods and trudges his way across to the barn. Micah heads inside the cabin.
You give your steed a nice rub on her nose. You’ve had her for quite a bit and have grown quite attached. She’s a Missouri Fox Trotter you bought a while back named Hazel. She was always very pretty, her coat light and dark brown with tan spots on her body. One of her back legs is partially white and she has pretty black markings around her eyes. She’s a strong and loyal horse and you had quickly grown attached.
As she munches through her food, you shiver and shift on your feet. Now that you’re back outside, you regret ever leaving the cabin.
Dutch walks up alongside you and strokes down Hazel’s neck. “How’re you feeling?”
You shrug and sniffle. “I’m okay.” Then you sneeze again, hard into your elbow.
“Don’t sound okay to me.”
You just wave at him and sneeze again, doubling over with the force. Dutch puts a hand on your back as you rise up, head throbbing now. “Shit.”
“You’re sick,” Dutch says to you, a hand gentle on your face.
“Am not,” you insist but part of you begins to suspect you are. With all the stress as of late and traveling in the freezing cold with little nutrients, you feel weak. You’re cold and sniffly, your head is beginning to pound and your throat hurts when you swallow. “Dutch, I’m fine, I’m just cold.”
Dutch has always been overprotective and you’re not too surprised when he takes a glove off and touches your forehead with the back of his hand. You let him, but roll your eyes, embarrassed. He shakes his head and hastily puts his glove back on. “You need to get back and get warm.”
“I’m not leaving by myself, I’ll get eaten by wolves.”
Dutch just smiles and pushes some hair from your eyes. “Yeah, sure, kid.”
“Dutch, I am a grown ass woman.”
“Not to me.”
“Oh, god, don’t get all sappy.” With a huff, you roll your eyes and shove your hands into your coat. “I’m gonna go check on Arthur.”
As you walk through the snow, you can’t help but wipe your eyes, tears beginning to form. Dutch had been like a father to you since you were in the gang. Your own birth father never acted like a father and instead was a drunken monster that you knew to fear since before you could remember. But Dutch was different. He cared for you deeply. He taught you to read and to write, something neither of your parents ever bothered to do. He taught you how to ride a horse and how to fish. He taught you to give to those who needed it more, he taught you to be selfless but also showed you how to preserve yourself and protect yourself. He taught you to dance for one of your first dates and he was there when that date never happened. Dutch, like Arthur, had been one of the few truly stable people you ever had in your life. Your father was abusive, your mother was never there, and that’s why you left. But you found Dutch and Hosea and Arthur. They stayed with you and you stayed with them. You always would, no matter what.
As you near the barn, you can hear the sounds of a struggle from inside and pick up the pace. The door is wide open and when you reach it, you see Arthur in the middle of a fistfight with an O’Driscoll boy. Arthur is winning, not like it’s surprising.
“What’s going on?” you ask, keeping a hand on your gun to be sure but watching with a mildly amused expression.
“This guy just jumped me,” he answers between punches.
With a smirk, you chuckle. “Oh, yeah?”
Arthur has always been good at fights and brawls and clearly, this kid isn’t too experienced. He doesn’t block his soft spots correctly and every time he tries to take a jab at Arthur, he exposes his weak points.
“Hey, kid!” you shout to him, leaning on the doorway. “Throw with your right, not your left. You’re exposing your sides.”
Arthur lands another blow to the kid’s torso as he does the opposite of what you just told him. “Why you helping him?”
You just shrug. “Just trying to make it even at least.”
After landing a few more hits, Arthur throws the kid to the ground. The O’Driscoll looks up at Arthur with a frightened expression and an arm up, as if that would do anything. “Sneaky little bastard,” Arthur says down to him. “Should I kill him?”
With a tilt of your head, you say, “Ask him what they’re doing here first.”
Arthur grabs the boy by the throat and leans down to him, his fist raised. “Oh, he’ll talk. Where’s Colm O’Driscoll?” he asks him in a low and threatening voice that even gives you chills.
The man is quiet for a moment before he weakly says, “With the others at an old mining camp southwest of here, near the lake.”
“So what are you bastards doing? Why are you up here?” Arthur questions.
“We’re fixing to rob some trains, gonna blow up the tracks,” he answers, shaking with wide eyes. “I don’t know more than that, I swear!”
“Wow, he’s just given’ you everything,” you remark. How can someone give up so much information willingly without even getting punched yet?
The O’Driscoll sniffles like he’s on the brink of tears. “I don’t know anything else, please…please, spare me. I promise you, you won’t see me again, partner. I won’t breathe a word to nobody.”
Arthur seems to debate for a long moment before shoving him roughly onto the ground. “Go on. Get outta here.”
At that, the O’Driscoll quickly scampers away. You back out of his way, hands held up, and watch as he runs into the storm.
“You let him go?” you say, watching as Arthur bends to pick up his gun. You spot his hat and quickly grab it and replace your own hat on your head with his to see if he notices.
“Yeah,” he says, standing now with his gun in his holster. “Won’t get far in this storm anyways.”
You hold out your hat to him and he takes it. But rather than putting it on his head, he takes his hat off of your head and puts it on his own.
“Aw, I thought you wouldn’t notice,” you say with a frown.
He places your hat atop your head and replies, “I ain’t that stupid. Now come on, get that horse and we can be out of here.”
After calming the horse, you both head back towards the cabin.
“What was going on?” asks Dutch as you both approach. “Saw someone running out of the barn.”
“Arthur got into a tussle,” you tell him, head bowed because the wind keeps stinging your eyes.
“That’s a fine horse,” he comments. “Arthur, you should keep him. Y/N, get that horse hitched up.”
You give him a nod but before you can take another step, there’s a scream from inside the cabin. A female scream and a voice that shouts, “Get away from me!”
Your heart drops and the three of you rush inside the cabin to see Micah chasing a frightened blonde woman around the table.
“Ooh, look what I found in the cellar!” he exclaims with a nasty smirk on his face. “Wild thing, ain’tcha?” he questions, holding his arms up to block as she throws a bottle of bourbon at him.
“Leave her alone!” demands Dutch, approaching slowly.
“I wasn’t doing nothing!” Micah says but you know that’s unlikely. “She’s one of them O’Driscolls!”
With a huff, you step up. “No she ain’t, fool, look at her!” The lady now has a knife in her hand and continues to scream, looking hard at the four of you. Cautiously, you hold up your hands and take another small step forward. “Miss, miss, are you–”
Micah pushes the table over in an effort to get closer to her, but in the process he breaks an oil lamp, sending flames scattering over a pool of alcohol. The lady screams more and you grab the back of Micah’s jacket before he can get any closer to her and pull her back with all your might while Dutch holds him back. “You fool, Micah!”
“Hey, hey,” you tell the woman calmly with your hands held up and voice even, acutely aware of the growing fire. “Miss, you’re fine now. We don’t mean you any harm.” You approach her slowly and she attempts to jab at you weakly with the knife but you catch her wrist and hold it back. “Miss, come on, you ain’t gonna stab a fellow lady, now, will you?”
With the other hand, you take your hat off and her face changes. Before, she was staring at you hard and angrily, like you had just killed someone dear to her. But as you drop your hat to the ground, her eyes soften just a bit and her grip on the knife loosens. Her breathing calms and she blinks and looks around.
Gently, you put an arm around her. “Come on, now, you’re going to be okay, we just got to get out of here.” Slowly, you guide her out of the home, an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, now.”
“We’ve got to get out of here, quick,” Dutch says as the fire slowly grows larger. Stupid Micah, burning the nice house down. This is why you don’t like him, you’ll never understand why Dutch keeps him around.
“Are you alright, miss?” you ask the woman as you get outside where Micah is already waiting.
Dutch gives her his coat and you help her wrap it around her shoulders while he grabs your horse.
When she speaks, it is shaky and hoarse. “Th–they came three days ago… and my husband, they–”
She breaks off, her voice strained and you take her hand and lead her to your horse. She gasps and sniffles and you nod. “I understand. I’m sorry. But you’re safe now. And you can’t stay here…”
The gang turns to see that the home is quickly burning now, fire coming from the windows and smoke seeping through the planks.
“Would you like to come with us?” you ask her as Hazel stamps her feet impatiently.
Slowly, she nods. She doesn’t have much choice. “Okay…”
“Alright.”
Arthur appears beside you and hands you back your hat while you mount your steed. “Miss, it’s okay, alright? We’re bad men, but…but we ain’t them, so…”
“Here.” You take one of her hands and help hoist her up onto the back of Hazel so she can ride sidesaddle. Her hands immediately go around your waist.
“We’ll keep you safe,” Dutch promises, his own horse trotting next to yours. “We’ll take care of you until you figure out what you wanna do.”
Once Arthur gets on his new steed, the now five of you ride back in the direction of the temporary camp.
“What’s your name?” you ask the woman behind you. She takes a moment to reply and her grip on your waist gets tighter. “Miss?”
“Adler,” she finally answers.
“Adler?”
“Sadie Adler. Missus. I…he…”
You put a hand over her own and give a gentle squeeze to her fingers.
“He was my husband,” she continues.
The man in the wagon.
Your heart breaks for her. You can’t imagine. “I’m sorry, Missus Adler. I really am.”
She says nothing back.
“I like your hair.”
“...Thank you.”
The ride back to the camp is short, but quiet. So much has happened in such a short while. Dutch takes the lead while you and Arthur ride towards the middle with Micah pulling up the rear, leading the spare horse. It’s likely Sadie’s horse or perhaps her late husband’s. She says nothing about it, but you think about bringing it up to Dutch. The least you all could do is give her her horse.
Lenny is on watch duty when you make it back to camp.
“Hey, somebody’s coming!” The kid hastily pulls up his gun and cocks it before realizing it’s you four. “Looks like it’s Dutch. Hey, everybody, Dutch is back!”
Hosea comes out and asks, “How’d you get on?”
“Micah found a homestead, but…he weren’t the first. Colm O’Driscoll and his scum, they beat us to it.”
You stop your horse as a group approaches and someone carefully helps Missus Sadie off of your horse.
“We found some of them there,” Dutch goes on. “But there is more about apparently scouting a train.”
You dismount Hazel and lead her to the makeshift stable while Dutch relays information to Hosea. You glance at Sadie and in the lantern light, you can just about see the faint smile she gives you. You give her a thumbs-up and continue on your way.
After giving Hazel one more oatcake, you transfer all of the loot from her saddlebag into your own satchel, the first one Hosea bought you for the first birthday you celebrated with them. “Here, girl. You can rest now.”
Hazel whinnies and you make your way back to the group. Sadie is being led to a building with a few of the women and you touch Arthur’s arm to let him know you’re there. He holds onto your hand and gives it a squeeze.
“They turned her into a widow. animals,” Dutch is saying, sounding extremely disdainful. Then he lowers his head. “I need some rest. I haven’t slept in three days.”
Miss Grimshaw steps up. “You’re over here. Miss O’Shea will show you the way. Mister Morgan, Miss L/N, we put you in a couple of rooms over here.”
You give her a kind smile. “Thank you, Susan.”
“Mister Bell, you’re with the fellers over there.”
Micah looks towards the men’s room and asks, “How come Morgan gets a room and I get a bunk bed next to Bill Willamson?”
“Get yourself to bed,” Hosea chides.
You snicker and Arthur gives you a smile. You two part ways when Susan Grimshaw shows you your separate rooms and you give her your thanks when she opens the door to yours. It’s nothing to write home about, but it’s safe from the wind and there’s a bed.
“Are you alright, Miss L/N?” she questions as you discard your bag and weapons onto a desk filled with random papers. “You don’t sound too well…”
“Ah, I’m alright,” you answer her with a scratchy voice. “Just been outside for too long.”
She gives you a wary and unconvinced look, but she nods anyway. “Alright. Get some rest now.”
“Thank you, again,” you say to her just before she leaves.
“Of course.”
She closes the door behind you and it’s finally quiet. It’s heavy, silence isn’t something you were able to run across for a couple of days. The room is dark save for the lit oil lamp on the desk where you discard your supplies. It’s moderately warm, at least warmer than it is outside.
After taking a cigarette and a match from your coat pocket, you discard it and hang it over a chair and place your hat on a crate beside your bed. You sit down on the bed and sigh. Your legs hurt. Your arms hurt. Maybe you are sick.
Nothing a cigarette can’t solve, you always say. Dragging the match across your boot a couple times, it lights. You place the cigarette between your lips and hold the flame to it until it begins to burn. You stamp the match out with your boot and take a long drag before blowing it out. Yeah. That’s all you needed. You lean back onto the bed and continue to smoke, watching it rise to the ceiling as you get a buzz going.
It had been a hard few days. With running from the law and the storm, you hadn’t found much time to relax, even for a second. Being in a gang is hard, but you still love it. Even if you get sick because of it.
By the time you’re done with your cigarette, there’s a knock on the door. You lift your head up and whisper loud enough for him to hear, “Come in,” because there are people trying to sleep.
Arthur opens the door and a flash of orange runs in before jumping on you onto the bed. Harold knocks the wind out of your lungs but you still find it in yourself to laugh and scratch his neck as he purrs.
“I brought a friend,” Arthur says, closing the door.
You sit up and hold the cat up to your friend. “Just means more body heat.”
Arthur smiles in the firelight. He looks more relaxed, his own hat off and dressed out of his coat and boots. He props one leg up next to you and pets the cat’s head. “I still can’t believe Dutch let you keep the thing.”
With a shrug, you set Hector down on the floor momentarily. “What’s he going to do, tell me no? Besides, I’m a grown woman. I can have a cat if I want.”
Arthur nods and lays down, groaning lowly and long in the way he always does after being on the move for a few days. You just laugh and flop down next to him, repeating it in a mocking way. He’s not completely wrong, though, as the bed certainly is comfortable. It has a mattress and that’s all you care about.
“Quit mocking me,” Arthur mumbles with his eyes closed.
“I ain’t mocking you,” you argue. “You’re just sensitive.”
Arthur pokes your side and you yelp, slapping his hand away as he laughs.
“Now who’s sensitive?”
“Asshole.”
“You’re the one who invited me.”
“You wanna leave?”
He quickly grabs hold of you and pulls you to him. “No.”
You snicker. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But move, I wanna roll over so I don’t have to wake up to your ugly face in the morning.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Y/N,” Arthur teases and releases you.
The two of you get comfortable. You take off your boots and throw them down on the ground and roll on your side as Arthur pulls a blanket over the both of you. Then he scoots closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you and squeezing you close to his body. Your stomach flips while he rests his head on yours even though your hair probably tickles his nose. His hands come to rest around your stomach and you place yours over his, grabbing his fingers.
“Are you cold now?” he asks quietly like he’s afraid someone else will hear him.
You smile, staring at the dark wall. “No. You?”
“Never.”
Harold jumps onto the bed and comes to rest at your feet.
The room is quiet and dark and you’re warm beside Arthur. And yet you can’t sleep just yet. So, after a long and stretched moment of silence, you quietly say, “Arthur?”
“Y/N?”
“You think we’re…gonna be okay?”
He nods against your hair. “I think so. We always end up being, don’t we?”
You laugh a little. “Yeah.” Then you pause and ask again. “Arthur?”
“Y/N?”
“Do you think John is okay?”
He doesn’t answer as quickly but after a moment he nods again. “He is. That kid always ends out fine.”
“Yeah.”
“Y/N?”
“Arthur?”
“Are you sick?”
Okay, now it’s getting annoying. You huff and snap, “Just because I have a scratchy throat and I sneeze means I’m sick now.”
“Was jus’ a question…”
“Sure.”
“Are ya?”
“...Probably.”
Arthur gives you a long and affectionate squeeze. “Get better, dummy.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it works like that,” you answer sarcastically.
He chuckles, the action rumbling against his back and he presses his lips against the back of your head. “Go to sleep, girl.”
“No.”
Arthur curls his legs under yours and moves his hands up just a little bit to rest in the middle of your torso. “Go to sleep,” he repeats in a quiet voice.
But your eyes are already closed and not long later, he hears you begin to snore softly. Arthur laughs under his breath and presses his lips to your head once again before he himself passes out to the sound of the wind and your deep breaths.
y’all if i were to have hypothetically made a streamer oc in the sims and i were to hypothetically want to write a piece with here which streamer would y’all possibly hypothetically want me to pair her with?
or i may just use her aesthetic for an x reader (prolly that one)
guys wait i'm really enjoying this, i forgot how much i loved lotr!! hope yall are enjoying it too. feel free to check out my other things as well! also feel free to leave some comments, i want to hear what yall like about this so far x.
legolas greenleaf x female!reader (dw he finally shows up)
summary: after finally arriving in rivendell, y/n is allowed one day of peace and relaxation before quickly having to jump into action the next during a council lord elrond has constructed between all races of middle earth
word count: ~5.8k
warnings: cursing, mentions of violence/weapons, mentions of death and fear-inducing things (lmk if there's anything i missed)
<previous next>
The days seem to blur together as the now five of you make your way to Rivendell. It's much further than you thought, though you're not familiar with these parts. Finally, you reach the Elven city on day five, exhausted and smelly.
The entire time, all of you worried of Frodo. You hope he's alright, you hope he's here, in Rivendell, healed and resting. Something says that he is alright, but still, you don't know and that's what worries you.
You've never been in an Elven city. In fact, the first Elf you've ever seen was Arwen a few days ago. Even now, walking through their beautiful city, you're still in awe of them. Immortal, ever-fair beings are all around you, and they're the ones looking at you oddly.
Aragorn has you meet with Elrond. He's just the same as you've heard in descriptions. He looks old, for an elf, but you suppose he is, as he has seen much. Aragorn tells you he plans to talk with him in private, but at least wanted you all to meet him.
You're not sure to kneel before the Elf Lord or bow or what, but Aragorn does none of these. You exchange a look with the Hobbits and shrug.
"Welcome, all, to Rivendell," says the Lord, spreading his arms wide and smiling, one that is oddly comforting. "You all must have had a long and tiresome journey, so I will not keep you long. Just--"
"Where is Frodo?" Sam demands, immediately growing red in the face from his outburst. Hastily, he stammers, "I-- Apologies, your Lordship, b--but where is our friend, Frodo?"
Elrond does not seem mad, merely amused. "Fear not, Samwise. I can assure you, your friend is safe and healthy."
Pippin perks up. "Can we see him?"
Elrond smiles again and holds a hand up. "Soon. He is resting now, we want him to wake on his own. And I assume you're hungry?"
The Hobbits exchange looks and nods. Elrond nods and waves an arm, and another Elf with blonde hair appears. "Gaelin, show these young men to their rooms. Have food prepared and baths drawn."
Quickly, the Hobbits are ushered off, now seeming in much better spirits. They talk together excitedly and seem to be buzzing with joy.
You yourself feel similar. Frodo is alright, he's here and he's resting and he's fine. And now you are here. You've completed your quest.
"I assume you would like the same, Lady Khaya?" Elrond's voice pulls your attention. He's speaking to you.
But before you can think, your say, "It's Y/N, my Lord. Khaya is an allias. I'm from the small village of Enmond in the Tergue Woods in Rohan." Then your eyes widen and you look at Aragorn. He's smiling just a little, seeming far more at ease here. "I... I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry, I just blurted that out--"
Elrond laughs lightly and holds a hand up. "Worry not, Y/N. Your secret will be safe with me. Now, I expect you request food and a bath?"
A bath sounds amazing. And fresh clothes. And strawberries. Those are your favorites. What wouldn't give to sink your teeth into one in a hot bath. "Yes, my Lord, if you would be so kind."
"Anything for Aragorn's friend. Come, Leilia will lead you." He gestures to a sweet-looking elf with braided red hair and green eyes. She smiles at you and curtsies.
You bow to Elrond just slightly at the waist. "Thank you. However, I do have a quick question?"
"Yes?"
"Do you perhaps have a raven I could use? I wish to send a message to my father, letting him know I am here. He hasn't heard from me in several days, and I do not wish for him to worry."
Elrond nods. "Yes, of course."
Aragorn says, "I'll take it."
You only trust him with it. Elrond seems kind and respectable enough, but you know Aragorn more. Reaching into your bag, you hand him a piece of paper rolled and tied with a black string. "Thank you."
He nods and you are led off by Leilia. She says nothing as she leads you around the city, to an ornate stone building. She takes you up the stairs and leads you into a large room.
Slowly, your weapons clanking, you step into the room. It's large and airy and smells of fresh grass and rainfall. The floors are made of light wood and the walls are slightly darker. There's a bed in the middle and off to one side is an entire open wall with a balcony, and silky curtains flowing in the breeze. There's another room off to the side with a chamberpot and a bath already drawn, the warm water steaming.
"What would you like to eat, my lady?"
You turn to Leilia and ask, "Do you have any strawberries?"
~*~
Not long later, you're in the bath chewing on a strawberry with your eyes shut in delight. You can't remember the last time you've felt this relaxed. A few Elf ladies asked if you needed help washing, but you politely declined. You're a grown woman, you don't want to bother them with something you could do yourself. Besides, you needed the alone time. Being around Aragorn and four Hobbits was draining.
Now, your hair is washed and so is your body. You're determined to sit in the bath until it's cold and you're all pruney. There's a plate full of fruit beside you on the rim of the bath and you've never been more grateful to eat it in your life. Strawberries, both blackberries and raspberries, grapes, melon cubes, oranges, and a few olives. By now, you've devoured most of the plate, not realizing how much you craved the fruit.
The wind blows lightly outside and you toss another blackberry into your mouth, catching it with ease.
Finally, what feels like hours later, the water is finally cold enough to encourage you to get out. Drying yourself off with a soft white cloth, you wrap it around your body and walk back into the rest of the room where Leilia told you clothes would be waiting.
And there are. On the bed, laid out is a fresh set of clothes. A light green flowy dress is before you, with long, loose sleeves and a pair of simple flat shoes.
You put them on a do a little twirl, remembering how much you like dresses. They're so breezy and they made you look so pretty.
There's a knock on your closed door, and you turn. Who could that be? You open the door to see Aragorn standing there, looking clean and rested up as well.
"Oh," is all that he says, looking you up and down.
You grin. "'Oh'? Is that all?"
"I've never seen you in a dress before."
It occurs to you that he's right. In all the times you've been with him, you always wore pants, a shirt, and boots. You were always somewhat grimy and your hair was always a mess of tangles.
"You look good, though," he adds quickly.
Smiling just a little, you say, "Thank you," and curtsy. "You clean up nicely, too." Playfully, you pull at his tunic.
He just smiles and shakes his head. The two of you have always been like this. Playful with each other. Sometimes, people thought you were flirting, but both of you quickly denied it. He was already betrothed to a beautiful Elven lady and Aragorn wasn't your type. You like blonds.
"Anyway, why'd you come to bother me?" you ask him.
"I was wondering if you'd like me to show you around? If you're not too tired, that is."
He's always been such a gentleman, too. And while you are tired, you're not too exhausted that you would pass up on the opportunity to look around this beautiful place with your friend. You quickly nod and soon the two of you are on your way out.
The sun is beginning to sink to the horizon as you walk around, but that seems to make the journey better. The sun's beams bounce off of the glass and bronze of the kingdom, making everything glitter and shine.
Aragorn leads you through gardens and around fountains, pointing out what buildings are what. There's a smithery, several gazebos for sitting or eating, and a giant library filled with history and texts of old.
"Can we go there?" you ask him excitedly. You've always loved history. In your home, you didn't get to read much, only having oral tales.
Aragorn smiles. "Later tonight."
He keeps true to his word. After checking in on Frodo and thanking the gods for his healing, you both head over there.
"I'm happy Frodo is well," you say as you walk down the steps. "I've grown fond of the Hobbit."
"As have I," Aragorn agrees.
As you walk through a courtyard, you see two small men. For a moment, you think they're Hobbits, but these men have long, rough beards and they're dressed in armor.
They are dwarves.
What are dwarves doing in Rivendell?
Before you can ask Aragorn, he leads you down to the library you were obsessing about. The moment you walk down the steps, you forget what you were going to ask. The room is beautiful, the most fantastic place you've seen. It's large and decorated with ornate and silver pieces of furniture. The room is filled with books. To one side of the room is a balcony with a telescope pointed towards the side. There are other astronomy and mathematical devices that you can't name.
Walking up another set of stairs, your eyes land on a fresco painting on the wall. With a small gasp, you slowly cross the way, your shoes tapping against the stone flooring.
A mural of Isildur versus Sauron is before you, looking well-preserved and well-crafted. There's so much intricate detail, you wonder how one could have possibly had the patience to create it. Isildur, a once great king, is laying on the ground before Sauron the Dark Lord, his sword raised in defiance. Something about that image makes a feeling of great pride rise in you, knowing that you share similar blood to that man, to that hero. Perhaps you could be like him one day?
Aragorn stands beside you and you say, "It's beautiful."
"Yes," he agrees, seeming fixed on Isildur. A look crosses his face, of shame? You cannot tell and you wonder.
But something else catches your eye. You turn and spot something glinting on a cloth-covered plinth. You step up and see the shards of a sword. Narsil, the broken blade of Elendil. It was rumored that though Sauron shattered the blade, Isildur picked up the hilt and cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, both banishing the Dark Lord and taking the Ring for himself.
And now, it is around the neck of a small, kind, adventurous Hobbit.
Slowly, you grasp the hilt of the broken blade in both hands and hold it up in front of you. It's heavy, even in your hands. What little sunlight there is left in the sky seems to bend towards the sword and refract against it, sending little glimmers across the room. You expect the broken edges to be dull after all this time, but even looking at them tells you they're still just as sharp.
"I can't believe this is still in such good condition," you whisper, gently setting it back down where it was.
"The Elves have taken good care of it," Aragorn says. "Come. Let's find a book."
He doesn't have to tell you twice, and within minutes, you have one chosen. Unsurprisingly, most of them are in Sindarin, but you find one book you're interested in that is in Westron or Common Tongue.
And so you sit at a bench and open the book and begin to read. It's a telling of legends of old and of history. You flip to the page where the talk about when Melkor was captured by the Valar and how Sauron stayed behind. Ever since running into the Nazguls and discovering the Ring, you've realized how little you knew of the history behind it. So, you figured you should read up on it.
Aragorn comes and sits beside you after choosing his own book and, together, the two of you read in silence. Normally you're both in silence when you're not drunk or bored and want to talk. Aragorn is the quieter of you two, so you assume this is lovely for him.
But you enjoy yourself. You enjoy learning the history behind that one tiny piece of Jewelry, and you also find yourself enjoying the silence. Occasionally, an Elf will come in, but they leave soon and don't talk to you or Aragorn. The sun finally sets and the birds outside quiet down and prepare for rest. You turn the thick page and it seems to echo in the hall.
Finally, as your eyes grow heavy, you close the book, and it thuds. Aragorn looks up and sees how exhausted you are. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and says, "Go get some rest, Y/N."
The memory of the dwarf pops into your head out of the blue and you blurt out, "Aragorn, I saw a Dwarf in one of the courtyards earlier."
You meet his eyes and he nods. "Yes, I saw him as well."
"Why are there Dwarves in Rivendell? You and I both know very well how much they hate Elves."
Once, while in a pub in a village, you both had a rather lengthy conversation with an extremely intoxicated Dwarf. Conversation, however, was an exaggeration, as he was the only one doing the talking, and how the only talking he was doing was complaining about the Elves.
Aragorn laughs and nods. "Yes, that is true. Elrond informed me that he sent out word to all races of Middle Earth when Frodo arrived with the Ring. He said something about it being up to all of Middle Earth to decide its fate. He's holding a meeting tomorrow at noon. You should come."
With a small frown, you say, "Aragorn, I need to head home. I've already been gone for too long, my father is sure to be worried. He needs me."
"I understand, Y/N, but this is important. That ring is the most dangerous thing on this earth now, and it's important to discuss what to do with it." He takes your hands in his, something he does from time to time when getting into a deep conversation. "You know just as well as I do what is hunting, searching for the Ring. It is dangerous and I know even now that someone must carry it back to Mordor to destroy it."
"Mordor? The Land of Shadows? That's Sauron's dominion, why would it go there? That sounds like the last place someone would want to take it."
"Elrond believes that the only way to truly destroy it is to throw it back into the fire from whence it was created."
You nod. "Oh, makes sense."
"Yes." Aragorn grips your hands. "Please, at least come to the Council. You could provide insight with me."
You bite your lip in consideration. It is only tomorrow, and you don't necessarily plan on leaving immediately, though your mind does tell you that you should go home soon. Even though you informed your father of your leaving and got his clearing on it, you still felt bad, still felt guilty. You are the heir to your village. And while your father is still in his prime, you still need to be there, both for him and your younger sister. She always needs you.
"For me?"
With a sigh, you cave in. "Alright, fine, I'll come. It is only tomorrow. But." Quickly, you pull your hands away and point your finger at him. "I reserve the right to not join any quest or adventure that may be suggested. If there is a quest to take back the Ring, I cannot and will not go. I have other responsibilities."
With a smile, Aragorn nods. "Understood."
You smile at your friend and stand up. "I'm going to retire," you say and pick the book from the bench. "Can I take this with me?"
Aragorn shrugs. "So long as you return it."
"Of course I will." Tucking it under your arm, you bend down to give your friend a hug. "Goodnight, Aragorn."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
And with that, you make your way out of the library, down the steps, and out the door. The night air is cool outside and fresh, smelling of grass and something sweet. Your path is lit up nicely with torches and you recall your way back to your room, surprisingly.
Your room is a bit dark. The moonlight streaming through the large window really seems to be helping you actually see where things are. On the bed, there is another dress, though this one looks more like a nightgown. It's lighter and is a cream color. Your bones start to ache again and so you quickly change from your dress to the nightgown before quickly getting into bed.
The moment your head touches the pillow, you body melts into the mattress. The last time you slept on a real bed was almost three weeks ago, the night before you left to meet with Aragorn. Since then, you've been sleeping in chairs or on the ground. Neither of those was too terribly comfortable.
But this bed feels like a cloud, it cradles all of your pressure points and it provides great relief for your aching back.
The covers are warm and you curl up into a ball to preserve your heat. You suppose you've been a bit conditioned to do that after sleeping outside for so long.
Between the quiet breeze of the wind, the feathery, downy mattress, and the warm blankets, you quickly fall asleep.
~*~
The next morning, you wake up to the sounds of birds and the sweet voices of Elves. For a moment, you think you're still dreaming but when you sit up, you realize that it is real.
Slowly, you get up, your legs sore and achy. Limping towards the balcony, you lean on the railing, looking down at the Elves going about their day. The sun is slowly rising, and you judge that it's just a few hours until midday.
So you get back into bed and continue reading. You may as well get the most out of the comfy bed while you're here.
When you finally need to pee a couple of hours later, you decide to get up and head down to the meeting Aragorn had told you about. You change back into the dress you wore the day before and slip the shoes back on. You pin your hair up somewhat messily and let some strands fall in front of your face before heading out. Before you leave the door, you stop. After thinking, you go ahead and grab your bow. You leave the arrows, but you feel you need just your bow.
Aragorn mentioned it was being held in a courtyard by the library and you find it much easier than you expected. It appears you're one of the first to arrive and quickly claim a seat beside Aragorn.
"You made it," he says to you, smiling.
You nod and shrug. "I didn't have much better to do."
He laughs.
This council chamber is very lovely, with a tree behind it, and leaves fall down onto the ground. There's a semi-circle of stone chairs with a plinth in the middle and a few chairs at the front where Elrond and two other Elves sit.
Gradually, people begin to trickle in groups and sit down. Gandalf arrives with Frodo, who appears a bit nervous, but still in good health. The color has returned greatly to his face and he has that sparkle in his eyes once more. Gandalf the Grey, the acclaimed wizard, looks the part of a sorcerer very well, with his tall grey hat and matching beard.
Elves trickle in and the same group of dwarves you saw yesterday, looking very displeased and uncomfortable take their seats.
Groups of Men sit down, men of Gondor you immediately know. You recognize Boromir, son of Denethor, the steward and acting leader of Gondor. Though your people, people of Rohan, tend to dislike men of Gondor, you've always liked Boromir. He was fair and kind and very brave, earning many titles over the year.
Your eyes scan the crowd as they tend to do, and your eyes stop of a particular Elf. He is exceptionally fair, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His jawline is sharp and his skin pale. He wears a sage green cloak and his hair appears to be pinned back.
Quickly, you look away when he meets your gaze, leaning your cheek in your hand to hide the blush.
Once everyone appears to have arrived, Lord Elrond stands from his chair. "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You've been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor." Even the mention of the land sends a chill down your spine. "Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall."
At this, you begin to glance at the others seated near you. Unite? Men, Elves, and Dwarves haven't united together in ages. Though there is a greater evil, part of you doesn't expect this meeting to go too well.
"Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom," Elrond continues, looking tall and mighty with his crown on his head. He looks at Frodo and says, "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo," and extends his arm to the plinth in the center.
You watch as the Hobbit stands and approaches the plinth, aware that all eyes are on him. Gently, he sets the Ring in the center and you swear you hear it thud. Frodo walks back to his seat, seeming lighter and more at ease, and Gandalf gives him a reassuring nod.
The Ring looks simple enough. Just a simple golden band. But there's something that makes you want it. It's so shiny, so pretty. It's powerful, too, your mind tells you.
"So it is true," Boromir whispers, literally on the edge of his seat, his eyes fixed on the Ring.
The group is mumbling, whispering among themselves. You look and see that everyone's eyes are fixed on the Ring and for a moment, you swear you hear whispering in your ear. But you lean back in your chair, clasping your hands and squeezing, pulling your eyes away from the Ring and instead staring at the ground, trying your best to resist the urge. You know its true nature, you know this Ring's true master. And it is no one here.
Boromir suddenly stands up and you thank the Valar that you now have something else to focus on. "In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark." He glances at the Ring and swallows. "But in the West, a pale light lingered." He gradually approaches the Ring, staring down at it. "A voice was crying, 'Your doom is near at hand. Isildur's Bane is found.'" He reaches for the Ring and your breath hitches. He wouldn't dare. "Isildur's Bane."
Before he can even touch the Ring, Gandalf stands and begins chanting in a low and echoing voice. The sky darkens and thunder cracks, shaking you in your very seat. Boromir staggers back to his seat as the language you don't recognize resonate in your ears, sending a feeling of dread down your spine. The speech subsides and the sky clears and lightens up again.
Elrond turns to Gandalf, looking angry. "Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris."
Tongue? Then you assume that it's likely Black Speech to which he refers, the dialect of Sauron and his followers. See, you did learn something useful from that book.
Gandalf bows his head but does not seem sorry. "I do not ask for your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West!" He stares a Boromir and declares, "The Ring is altogether evil!" and heads back for his chair.
Boromir shakes his head. "It is a gift." He stands up once more. "A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?" He turns and addresses all races present. "Long has my father, the steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of your people are your lands kept safe."
You sigh and press your tongue into your cheek. Spoken like a true Gondorian, assuming that just because they do their job they are entitled to something.
"Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!"
"You cannot wield it," Aragorn cuts in. "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."
You nod and say, "That is its entire point, really."
Boromir smirks a bit and asks cooly, "And what would two Rangers know of this matter?"
The Elf, who you had been eying earlier, stands and says, "He is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
Son of...? Son of Arathorn? Isildur's heir? No wonder Aragorn kept his past secret. You resist the urge to look at him in shock, but part of you isn't surprised. Somehow, it fits him.
Boromir turns to your friend in shock and amusement. "Aragorn? This is Isildur's Heir?"
"And heir to the throne of Gondor."
Now you're beginning to wish you had some strawberries to eat because this sounded like it was shaping up to be a duel to you.
Aragorn says something to the Elf. Most of it you don't understand but you catch the last part, his name. Legolas. Prince of the Woodland realm. Yeah, you've heard of him before. You still find him pretty.
Boromir looks at Legolas and says, "Gondor has no king." He looks at Aragorn and says, "Gondor needs no king." And he sits back down, glaring at Aragorn.
Maybe, you think, but your ruler right now is kind of a douche.
You gently touch your friend's arm and raise a brow, silently asking if he's alright. He answers by putting his hand over your wrist and leaving it there as Gandalf begins to speak.
"Aragorn is right," says the wizard. "We cannot use it."
"Then you have only one choice," Elrond stands and the words seem difficult for him to get it out. "The Ring must be destroyed."
A heaviness settles across the air, but you know he's right. You've seen what's after it, how undying they are, how fearsome. It's a fact that no one can use it. Sauron's power is linked to the Ring. Destroy the Ring, destroy the wielder.
"What are we waiting for?" asks a wild redhead Dwarf. He stands, grabbing his axe and making his way for the Ring. Before anyone can stop him, he swings his axe down at the Ring. The weapon shatters as if made of wood and the Dwarf falls down, his kin rushing to pick him back up.
Glancing at Frodo, you see that he's clutching his head and slouching in his chair. Your heart aches for him, poor boy. Looking back at the plinth, you see the Ring is, unsurprisingly, unharmed.
"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft we here possess," Elrond says. "The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came! One of you must do this."
For a moment, the room is silent. Of course it is. Walk into Mordor? That's not possible.
Of course, Boromir speaks up. Again. "One does not simply walk into Mordor. It's black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. The Great Eye is ever-watchful."
Yes, you've heard rumors of an eye. A great, fiery orange eye atop a black tower, always watching. That does freak you out, mostly because eyes freak you out.
"It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand Men could you do this. It is folly."
Angrily, you sit up in your chair. What do these Men not understand, this is the only way. "Did you hear nothing Lord Elrond just said? It is the only way, and it must be soon. For something far scarier than any of you is after that Ring." With a jab, you angrily point at the plinth.
Boromir's eyes latch on your, coldly. "And if we fail, woman, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"
Now you stand. "You seemed mighty confident just a minute ago, taking it for your own. Now you're scared of it?"
The room breaks into arguments, Men against Dwarves, Dwarves against Elf, Men against Men. It's loud, but you're angry, so you have no problem approaching high-and-mighty Boromir to chew him out when he steps towards you.
"What would a woman know about these matters?" asks the High Warden of the White Tower. "A Rohirrim one at that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you upset because I'm a woman or because horses like me more than you?" You glare up at the man. You've never taken insults or shit from anyone and though he may be attractive, Boromir is no different. "Though, perhaps it's difficult to tell the difference between a woman and a horse, as you've likely lain with both!"
"I have faced far greater battles than you could ever dream, woman. I see no weapons. Are you truly a Ranger?"
"See, I don't need weapons with men like you, all I need is my knee and good aim, though it is a small target."
As arguments grow louder and more Men begin to doubt your own abilities, you need to step back. You're too hotheaded and you're afraid you'll start a fight. Aragorn takes your hand and pulls you towards him, placing a comforting hand on your face.
"How dare they insult me," you continue to rant to him, anger still bubbling, your skin hot to the touch. "Just because I'm a woman? Like, what the fuck? They're running kingdoms and then insult me just because I'm a girl, like seriously? How old are you?"
"Yes, yes, they're wrong, but you must calm down, Y/N," Aragorn keeps telling you but you can barley hear him over your own voice and Frodo's, which has suddenly picked up.
Wait, Frodo?
You turn to see the little Hobbit standing, his face slightly sweaty, shouting, "I will take it!"
The room quiets down, all eyes turning to the Hobbit in shock. You wonder how many of them knew he existed. "I will take the Ring to Mordor." Then he hesitates, now noticing all eyes are on him. "Though... I do not know the way."
The old wizard, Gandalf, nods, walking towards him. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins," he tells him warmly with a pat on his shoulder, "as long as it is yours to bear."
Then you do something you do not expect. Just last night, you swore to not go on this quest. But something deep down in your heart tells you that you must go, it's your destiny. And so you walk forward and take a knee before the Hobbit, now being eye-level with him. "I pledge to you, Master Baggins. I will help you in your journey. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I will help you destroy the Ring, Master Baggins, for all of Middle Earth."
Frodo smiles at you and you stand to move beside him.
Aragorn is quick to stand next, saying, "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will." Then he kneels before Frodo and says, "You have my sword."
Legolas walks forward. "And you have my bow."
Gimli the Dwarf is next, holding up another one of his axes. "And my axe."
The six of you stand together and you feel pride. This really is shaping up to be a good team to go destroy this Ring.
But the Boromir walks forward. You anger has quickly subsided, as it normally does, but you still feel resentment towards him. Of course, perhaps both of your outbursts was caused by the Ring. That didn't sound so outlandish. But still, you refuse to look at him.
"You carry the fate of us all, little one," he says to Frodo. "If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done."
A voice suddenly shouts, "Here!" from nowhere, nearly causing your heart to jump out of your chest. You turn to see Samwise Gamgee running from the bushes to be at his friend's side. "Mister Frodo's not going anywhere without me," and he crosses his arms defiantly.
You smile as Elrond lightly says, "No, indeed. It is hardly possible to separate you two, even when he is summoned to a secret Council and you are not." He seems to play the part of upset, but his voice lightens near the end and he smiles just slightly.
"Oi! We're coming too!"
Two more Hobbits come running up the steps and you resist the urge to laugh aloud. Frodo's friends sure are loyal to him as they stand bedside his side in front of an Elf lord and over a dozen Men, Elves, and Dwarves.
"You'd have to send us home tied in a sack to stop us," says Merry defiantly.
Pippin nods beside him. "Anyway, you need intelligence on this sort of mission...quest...thing."
Merry stares at him and says in a snarky tone, "Well that rules you out, Pip."
Elrond surveys your group and you can't help but smile with pride. Here you are, on a mission to save the realm. A group of three Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, a wizard, and four Hobbits. Sure, not the likeliest of pairs. Even you could never have dreamed it. But something told you that there was no better group than the one you were with right now.
"Ten companions," muses Elrond. "So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!"
Your chest swells and you exchange a look with Aragorn.
omg not me writing two chapters in one day bc i have nothing better to do??? that's crazy
legolas greenleaf x female!reader
summary: with the ringwraiths on their tails, strider, y/n, and the hobbits trek through the wild, slowly making their way to rivendell with little trouble. but one should never leave hobbits unsupervised with food and firewood
word count: ~4.1k
warnings: violence, hunting, mentions of death, mentions of blood
<previous next>
You can't even have a good sleep, because what feels like minutes later, you're startled awake, nearly falling out of your chair. Screams are coming from across the road, screams that are very akin to a pig squealing before a slaughter. Somehow, though, this one is different. It sends a chill down your spine and makes your hair stand up on end.
They're here.
Aragorn is sitting beside the window, staring outside. The Hobbits are awake as you stand and walk beside him, peering out the fogged-up window.
"What are they?" Frodo asks in a hushed voice as if they could hear him.
The Ringwraiths continue to scream in anger. You did trick them, after all.
"They were once Men," Aragorn answers. "Great kings of Men. But then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question. One by one, falling into darkness. Now, they are slaves to his will."
Looking out the window, you see them. Great tall beings, wrapped in black cloaks, mounting their horses, dark as night, with red eyes that pierce through the darkness. Just looking at them terrifies you.
Aragorn turns back to the Hobbits. "They are the Nazgul. Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times, they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you."
At this, Aragorn says that you all must leave by morning. The Ringwraiths have left Bree, likely to go scout more.
"Rest up," he says to the Hobbits. "We leave in the morning."
As the Hobbits settle back down, you look at Aragorn. "I'll take this watch. You need sleep."
Aragorn sits back in his chair. "I do not."
You roll your eyes and take off your bow from around your torso. "Yes, you do. You haven't slept since last night. The sun rises in a few hours, you need to get it while you can."
Finally, your friend nods reluctantly. "Fine. I can't argue with you." He gives you a sly smile as he takes his scabbard off of his belt.
With a smirk, you sit back down in your own chair. "I am a Lady, after all. My father taught me to negotiate the second I could speak."
~*~
The sun rises much quicker than you would have thought. You had been drawing in your journal and writing a letter to your father, explaining your journeys, leaving out the part about how Sauron might have risen again. You just tell him how you and Aragorn met Hobbits in a bar. He doesn't need to know everything.
Your company is set out soon, hustling out of Bree and in the direction of Rivendell. The walk is long and by your calculations, it would take just over four days, possibly five. You know that you and Aragorn can walk for days, but you're not quite so sure of the Hobbits.
As the sun rises higher in the air and late morning approaches, you finally approach the woods. You've been pulling along a pony, Bill, what one Hobbit told you. The Hobbits seem kind enough, of course, weary of you and your friend. You don't blame them. The horse seems to like you, though.
"Where are you taking us?" Frodo finally asks after jogging for a few hours.
You sniffle, your nose slightly runny. Curse this cold morning air. "Into the wild."
When you enter the woods, you hand off the pony to a Hobbit in the back. This one is slightly bigger with blond hair. Sam? Is that his name?
With all the rain last night, the ground is still wet and slightly muddy. This is the kind of weather you like, especially in the forest. It's where you were raised, after all. The smell of fresh air and pines always brings you home. You know the forest like the back of your hand, knowing which trees are which, the names of all the animals. Though you're less familiar with these woods, they're still just as comforting.
You walk alongside Aragorn as the Hobbits begin to mumble to themselves. You catch a snippet of their conversation.
"...servant of the enemy would look fairer, and feel fouler."
"They're both foul enough."
With your mouth slightly open in faux shock, you whisper to Aragorn, "Are they calling us ugly?"
There's a ghost of a smile on his face and you swear he chuckles under his breath, pushing you forward.
"But where is he leading us?"
"To Rivendell, Master Gamgee," Aragorn answers loud enough for them to hear. "To the house of Elrond."
The Hobbits gasp and murmur. "Did you hear that? Rivendell! We're going to see the elves."
As you keep walking, the air gets colder as you climb the hills. You break through the forest and walk through clearings. Patches of snow litter the ground. You scoop a bit up into your hand, form it into a ball, and throw it at a tree, watching it smash with a small smile.
After a while, you begin to hear the Hobbits mumbling among themselves. You turn to see what the matter is and pause. They're unloading and sitting on the ground. You poke Aragorn's arm to get his attention.
"Gentlemen," you tell them politely. "We don't stop until nightfall. We need to keep moving.
"What about breakfast?" asks one of the Hobbits, Pippin, you recall, his accent thick.
You tilt your head, a hand resting on your knife casually. "We've already had it."
"We've had one, yes," he admits. "But what about second breakfast?""
With a roll of his eyes, Aragorn turns and keeps walking. Second breakfast? What even is that? Slowly, you turn away and continue walking.
"Don't think they know about second breakfast, Pip," says another Hobbit, Merry, slinging his bag over his shoulder to follow.
Pippin follows him, asking, "What about elevensies? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? They know about them, don't they?"
"I wouldn't count on it," answers Merry.
With a small smile, you pull out an apple and toss it to Merry above the bushes. He catches it and hands it to Pippin, patting him on the shoulder. You toss another one and it hits Pippin in the face. With a gasp, you cover your mouth. "Sorry!"
As you continue to walk through the bushlands, the snow begins to melt more and the sky gets cloudier. You don't think it will rain again, but you can never be sure. Eventually, you end up in marshlands, with wet, murky water up to your knees in spots and flying bugs and mosquitos.
You're soaked to the bone and your legs are cold, but you keep going. You've always loved adventure, no matter how gross to messy. Your cloak protects you from the biting bugs, but you shoo them away from your face.
The Hobbits aren't having any more luck. Sam is slowly encouraging the horse to follow along and the other three are slipping and sliding. Probably because they don't have shoes, but then you suppose none could ever fit their feet.
Loudly, you hear one complain, "What do they eat when they can't get Hobbit?"
You persevere through the marshlands until nightfall. The lands are a bit less mucky through here, and Aragorn finds a spot to camp for the night. You're all hungry, only having had breakfast this morning.
"Shall I go hunt?" you ask, already taking your bow from your torso.
Aragorn nods. "If you would. You've always been better at it."
"Yeah, I have." And then you head into the woods. It's almost a full moon, so light should not be a problem.
Another good thing about living in the forest for your entire life is how quickly you learned to hunt as a girl. Your father took you when you were old enough and you immediately found your flow. It was one of your favorite things to do, even if it was a bit boring.
You trudge through the forest quietly, minding the branches and sticks on the ground. You're looking for a deer, only something that big will feed the six of you. A doe will work, but you wouldn't pass up a buck.
When you're looking for a deer, almost everything else seems to pop out. Squirrels run across your path carelessly and birds sing above, getting ready to rest for the night. Finally, you approach a small creek and decide to wait there for something. Even deer get thirsty.
You crouch down behind a bush but still with enough of a view. To be prepared, you draw an arrow and nock it so you're ready when anything pops out.
You wait for a while, longer than you would have thought. The woods are still and quiet down as the moon rises higher and your breath comes out in a fog. Your knees hurt and you shift.
A twig snaps from the other side of the creek and you perk up, peering through the woods. Slowly, a pretty doe approaches the creek and bends down to drink.
Slowly, you draw back your string and aim. You want to aim for the heart or lungs for an easy kill. You never want an animal to suffer.
So you wait until she's done drinking. You'll have a better shot and if you stay low, she won't hear you. So you wait. She takes a while, she must have been thirsty. But finally, she slowly stands extending her neck too look around.
Before she can leave, you release your arrow, and it thunks right into her heart. She falls and quickly stills.
Your feet splash in the creek as you make sure she's dead before hoisting her up over your shoulder to get back to the group. She's heavy and you grunt, but you can manage.
They are still right where you left them, as you expected.
You skin it as Aragorn gets it on the fire and roasts it in chunks. You cook all of it, wrapping up the leftovers for the rest of the journey.
The Hobbits fall back asleep soon and you lay on the ground, hands behind your head as Strider softly sings a tune in Elvish while smoking from his pipe. You're looking up at the stars, knowing they're the same ones as above your village. Maybe your sister is looking up at them right now?
"Who is she?" Frodo asks out of the blue and you nearly shit yourself, clutching a hand over your heart. You sit up and realize he's talking to Aragorn. "This woman you sing of."
Aragorn hesitates to answer, you knew he would. He's always hesitant to speak of her. "'Tis the lady of Luthien. The Elf-maiden who gave her love to Beren, a mortal." He sighs heavily and you feel bad for him.
"What happened to her?" Frodo asks quietly.
Aragorn sighs again and shakes his head. "She died," and he turns away.
You look at Frodo and say, "Get some sleep, Frodo. We still have a long way to go."
He nods and settles back down, pulling his blanket over himself. You look at Aragorn. He's still smoking and you lay back down, counting the constellations once more.
You're not sure when, but eventually, you fall asleep. And, like always, you dream. You always dream. Most of the time, you can't remember them. When you can, however, they're important. And this one seems like it is.
In your dream, you're standing in the dark, the grass wet beneath your feet. You're not wearing shoes because, for some reason, you never do in your dreams. To one side of you is a great black tower you know is the Orthanc, the great tower of Isengard. To your other side are trees, far and as wide as the eye can see. Tall trees, great and old ones.
For a moment, you wonder why you're here. You've never been to Isengard before, you've only heard stories. Suddenly, you hear a crack and a crash and look back toward the forest. A tree has fallen. And then another crack, a creak, and a crash. Another tree has fallen. No. Not fallen. It's been pulled down.
You're too far away to see clearly, and you can't move. You can never move in your dreams. But you swear you can see men beside the great trees, tying ropes around them and pulling them down. You can hear their grunts and shouts from here.
But something about them seems...different. Their voices sound different, not human.
Another tree falls to the ground and you wake up.
~*~
You keep walking all day. Through the marsh a bit more then through the woods again before finally breaking out into open land just to climb up some more hills. You've been through this land a few times, but it's still just as unfamiliar to you.
Part of you considers bringing up your dream to Aragorn. Oftentimes, your dreams have deeper meanings. Sometimes, even, what happens in your dream comes true in real life. One times, you dreamt your cursed mother burned your brother's arm with a hot ember. A few days later she did.
But another part of you decides to wait. Surly it can't be that important. And besides, you all still have much to worry about.
As you travel, you attempt to make conversation with the Hobbits. By now, you've learned their names. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. The pony's name is Bill, something you found amusing.
"What's so funny?" asks Sam, still hesitant to trust despite how many chunks of deer he had the night before.
You still your laughter and say, "Oh, nothing, nothing! I just think it's quite cute, Bill." You rub the horse's ear and he whinnies.
As evening approaches, your feet are killing you. Looking back, you should have gotten a new pair of boots before you left Bree. You knew it.
Aragorn slows and you nearly run into him, stopping just before you run into his back. "Hey."
He's looking at something and you follow your gaze, breath hitching in your throat. "Oh."
Before you is a great ruin on a hill. Nothing too fancy, but you know better. It's the ruins of a watched town, Amon-Sul.
"This was the great watchtower of Amon-Sul," Aragorn says, somewhat forlornly. He turns to the Hobbits and says, "We shall rest here tonight."
After trecking halfway to the top, Aragorn states that it's as good a spot as any. The Hobbits quickly take off their packs and sit down heavily, panting. You sot on the edge, swinging your feet. It's windy up here, and the clouds are moving fast.
Aragorn steps away from the edge and takes off something from his back. You turn to see what's going on to see him handing the Hobbits small swords, four of them. Though you'd call them more like daggers, they're the perfect size for them.
"These are for you," he says. "Keep them close. We're going to have a look around." He looks at you.
You turn your eyes away from the Hobbits googling at their new weapons to look at Aragorn with upturned brows. "Come on, Aragorn, can't I just sit?"
He holds out his hand.
Reluctantly, you take it and haul yourself up, feet immediately hurting again. With a sigh, you leave some of the deer meat with the Hobbits. Aragorn begins to make his way back down. "Stay here," you tell them. "And be quiet and careful." Then you turn to follow your friend back down.
~*~
"How are you doing, Y/N?" Aragorn asks as you both do a perimeter check around the fortress. He said it was to make sure there's nothing around, but part of you feels like he needed to get away from the Hobbits. As sweet as they are, they had never been on a journey like this before, even you knew that. It was hard. And they let you know every second.
You sigh, trudging along. Honestly, you've been better. You haven't bathed in several days, your hair is a mess, and your feet are killing you. So, you answer, "Pretty good, considering. You?"
He just sighs instead of answering. You laugh.
You both walk around in silence like you both normally do. You're both similar in that way. You sometimes prefer silence over the conversation.
In fact, your silence is quite nice until a faint scream ruins it.
It's that same scream you heard two nights before. Your nerves are set on fire again and you exchange an urgent look with Aragorn. They found them.
Quickly, quicker than your feet liked, you both raced back the way you came, dodging branches, and jumping over rocks. Aragorn's sword is drawn and your bow is loaded as you run back up the ruins of Amon-Sul. Above you, the sounds of struggle are steadily getting louder. Clanging of swords and grunts of Hobbits. You pass by the camp, where you note the embers of a fire still smoking. You shake your head and click your teeth. Hobbits.
Finally, you reach the top and you're not prepared for what you see.
Five of the Nazguls, tall and dressed in dark armor are standing, crowded around something. Three of the Hobbits are down, but look unharmed. Merry, Pippin, and Sam. Then where is Frodo?
A scream cuts through the air, this one mortal, nothing that the Wraiths could produce. Your blood runs cold and for a moment, you're frozen. Frodo.
But then Aragorn lets out a cry, he leaps and slices at the Nazguls, a torch in his hand. Where'd he get that from?
After that, your mind jumps into action mode and you let loose an arrow and it flies towards a Nazgul's empty face. Literally, empty, you can see nothing but pitch black beneath his hood. It screams and reaches towards you, but you've already knocked another arrow and it sinks into its face again.
You can't see Frodo still, but you know where he is. The air seems to ripple just a bit behind where you're now standing and part of you knows it's him. You've drawn another arrow while Aragorn waves the torch in front of you. The Ringwraiths don't seem to like that, as they cringe away from it. Is that their one weakness?
Firing another arrow that clangs off of one's armor, you don't let that deter you. You haven't been in too many battles, much less against these things, but your body knows what to do. Stay focused, keep moving, and be aware of everything at all times.
There's a scream of agony behind you and you risk a glance. Frodo has reappeared, but he's much paler now. He's shaking and shivering and his shoulder is bleeding as he cries out.
There's a clang of metal and you turn to let fly another arrow, deflecting against a sword.
Sam is up and rushes to his friend's side as you and Aragorn push them back. You shoot another and it sinks into a Nazgul's hood. They're all screaming so loud you feel like your ears will soon bleed.
Aragorn's torch makes contact with a Nazgul's rope and it lights on fire, the being itself screaming in pain. You laugh and shout, "Nice!"
The Ringwraith on fire now stumbles back into two of his friend, also setting them on fire. Aragorn pushes one back to the edge where it has no other choice but to fall. You, however, are out of arrows. You throw your bow to the side and duck the swing of a blade, stumbling backward. "Aragorn!" you cry, screaming and rolling out of the way as a blade clangs at the stone where you just were.
Something hurdles through the air and the torch lands smack in the center of the thing's face. It screams and falls over the edge. Your friend rushes over and hauls you up, touching your face gently. "Are you alright?"
You look up at him and nod. "Yeah," you say breathlessly.
Frodo cries out again and you both break apart to rush over to him. He's on the ground surrounded by his friends. He's just as pale and still writing in pain.
"Help him, Strider," says Sam, on the brink of tears.
Something glints beside Frodo and you pick it up. It's a dagger and you know what it is just off of stories. "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade." The blade itself disintegrates into the air and you throw the hilt down angrily.
Frodo cries out again.
Hurridly, Aragorn picks him up again, despite Frodo's wails. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine."
Quickly, you pick up your arrows and bow and stow them back on your person, running to catch up with the others. Aragorn has made the Hobbits pick up camp and you assist them before running after Aragorn, who is already halfway down the hill by now.
You make your way into the forest, knowing that the wraiths are still very much out there, very much not dead, and very angry. You're kneeling beside Frodo, hushing him and pushing back his sweaty hair. Yet his skin is cold to the touch. His cries quickly get quieter as he tiers out. He's not bleeding, but with this, he wouldn't. No, he's been poisoned. There's still a shade of the blade inside him.
In the clearing, you're surrounded by stone trolls, but you barely notice. Poor Frodo, you bet he didn't ask to do any of this, he didn't want to get involved in this.
"Look, Frodo," Sam says, sitting beside you. "It's Mister Bilbo's trolls." He touches his friend's face and cries out, "He's going cold!"
"Is he going to die?" asks Pippin, also on the verge of tears. Your heart breaks.
Aragorn turns and says, "He's passing into the Shadow World. He'll soon become a Wraith, just like them."
Frodo gasps and you scowl. "Strider!"
A Ringwraith screeches in the distance and you look around. It's too close for comfort. For a moment, Frodo's gasps match thairs.
"They're close," you say.
"Sam." Aragorn walks towards the Hobbit and touches his arm. "Do you know the Athelas plant?"
Sam nods quickly. "Aye, Kingsfoil, that's a weed."
"It may help to slow the poision." He hands him his torch and says, "Quickly. Khaya, you watch them. Be on guard."
You nod and look back down at Frodo as the two of them run into the woods to look for that plant. "Hang on, Frodo, you'll be fine, I promise."
Frodo closes his eyes, his breathing becoming slower. He's tired, you know that, but he must stay awake.
Gently, you pat at his face. "Come on, Frodo, stay awake. There."
His eyes meet yours and for a moment, you see your brother in them. They were the same color.
The minutes seem to stretch longer. Merry and Pippin sit beside you, but none of you speak. You cradle Frodo's head in your lap, trying not to worry. You all were so close, just a few more days and you would have been at Rivendell.
"Will he be okay, Khaya?" asks Pippin.
For a second, you forget that that's the name Strider gave you to hide your identity. But you nod, hastily. "Yes, he will be. We just have to wait for Strider and Sam, they'll have some medicine. Then we'll get a horse and ride him off to Rivendell."
"What about the Ringwraiths?" asks Merry in a hushed voice as if they would hear him.
You huff and scowl at the ground. "I--I don't know, Master Merry, but Strider will. He always does."
Gently placing Frodo's head on the grass, you stand. You need to move, you need to stand, you need to walk. You wonder what's taking Aragorn and Sam so long as you wander towards a towering stone giant. What did Sam say? Mister Bilbo's trolls? What did that even mean? And what is taking Aragorn so long?
You hear a twin snap in the distance and the gallop of hooves. Your heart drops to your feet and you turn faster than you ever have before, your dagger drawn.
But it is no Ringwraith. No, this is the opposite. A fair lady with dark long hair rides atop a white horse, dressed in a green cloak. She's beautiful, the most beautiful woman you've seen. And you've seen a lot. Immediately, you know she's an Elf, not just from her grace from dismounting a horse or how she seems to float through the air, but by her pointy ears.
You don't even put your knife away, just watch with an open mouth as she kneels beside Frodo and speaks in Elvish, a language so beautiful you nearly cry on the spot. Her voice is light and airy, and you're sure, if it were possible, she'd be radiating white light.
"Who is she?" asks Merry, having come to stand beside you with Pippin.
Aragorn comes from the clearing with Kingsfoil in his hands. You know her name, only by the stories Aragorn had told you.
"Frodo," the Elf says in the common tongue. Aragorn chews up the Kingsfoil in his mouth and Sam appears beside you.
"She's an Elf," he says.
"She is Arwen," you whisper, finally sheathing your dagger. What good would it have been against a Nazgul anyway?
Aragorn lifts Frodo's shirt and places the paste on Frodo's wound. He gasps and his eyes widen.
"He's not going to last," Arwen says. "We must get him to my father."
Hastily, the two of them pick Frodo up and Aragorn carries him to Arwen's horse.
"I've been looking for you for two days," Arwen says.
Merry steps forward quickly. "Where are you taking him?"
"There are five Wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know," she continues on.
Aragorn says something in Elvish, but Arwen counters back at him. They have a conversation while you and the Hobbits watch in curiosity.
"What are they saying?" Pippin asks.
You simply shrug. "I don't know."
Arwen says something that makes Aragon pause. Then, now back in the common tongue, she says, "I do not fear them."
Aragorn gently takes her hand. He says something in Elvish and she smiles before mounting her horse. Frodo moans. "Arwen. Ride hard. Don't look back."
Exchanging one last look, Arwen speaks to her horse in Elvish and they take off into the night.
Sam looks up angrily at Aragorn and shouts, "What are you doing? Those Wraiths are still out there!"
Aragorn hesitates, and for a moment, you see him regretting his choice. But you touch his arm and he looks at you.
"She'll be fine," you tell him and that seems to make him feel better.
He turns to the rest of the Hobbits and says, "Come, we must go. Rivendell is much further and we can waste no time."
here it is. another hyperfixation. see, i would promise ya'll updates for other things, but i promise you all nothing. plus i'm in college and i'm already depressed. BUT lotr always makes me better so i mayyyyy be updating this one as i rewatch the movies. again, no promises. BUT let me know if ya'll want me to continue anything else, and I'll see what i can do!! love you guys! x.
legolas greenleaf x female!reader
summary: y/n is accompanying her friend, aragorn, on some mission given to him by gandalf the grey. she doesn't know what it is and doesn't care as long as she has ale in her hand, but she quickly changes her mind when a little-folk vanishes before her very eyes
word count: ~3.1k
warnings: cursing, weapons drawn but not used, mention of death/killing
next>
Sitting in this dark corner of the Prancing Pony, you try to busy yourself with working on your second pint of mead, ignoring the looks both you and Aragorn are getting. No, it's Strider out here.
"You've been staring at those four Hobbits for almost an hour," you mutter to him, tracing your finger along the rim of your mug. "It's getting a little odd, friend."
Strider just grunts, a pipe in his mouth.
With a roll of your eyes, you drop the subject for the moment. Aragorn has always been a mysterious man, quite broody. It's a surprise you're even friends with him.
Aragorn has been your friend for many years. You first met him in a pub while off venturing away from your secure forest village of Enmond. You had always hated staying in one place and, as heir, you never had much of a chance to leave and explore, always too busy with your duties.
You had accidentally bumped into him while taking back a glass of mead to your table. You apologized profusely and quickly steered out of his way, much too afraid of this tall and cloaked character. But you allowed him without hesitation when he kindly asked to sit at your table. In hindsight, it was quite foolish, though how else are you to meet new people?
As time passed and you both went your separate ways, you kept in touch with ravens, occasionally meeting up for a night of drinks and dances. As time passed, he revealed his past to you and yours to him.
He's one of your only friends now.
Yet you're still not quite sure why you're here with him. He had sent you a raven not a fortnight ago explaining this task given to him by a man in a cloak and a tall hat. Gandalf. You knew the name, everyone did. The wizard had instructed he protect these Hobbits in their coming journey, as one of them was carrying something of great importance.
Of course, you went along. You could never say no to an adventure.
Tapping your foot to the tavern songs, you soon found yourself lulling into the comfort of the Prancing Pony. It was no different than any other inn you'd been to, still just as cozy and lively as any. It was your second favorite place to be, probably.
You're not sure how much time has passed and you soon finish your mug. You ask Aragorn if you should have another, but even you know better, as your words are already slurring together.
Aragorn gives you a smile under the hood and puts your empty mug in front of himself. "I think you've had quite enough, Y/N."
You shrug and sink into your seat. "I guess you're right, as usual. You always seem to be right."
Aragorn just laughs lightly and returns his attention to the small-folk. You follow his gaze and see one with curly hair talk to the barkeep. They both turn to you and you tense up slightly. Over the chatter of the bar, you can just make out what they're saying.
"One of them rangers...What his right name is, I don't know. But 'round these parts he's known as Strider."
The barkeep quickly moves away and the Hobbit repeats the name. Aragorn's pipe puffs and you resist asking for it. With your head gently thumping on the stone, you sigh. You're bored. What are you waiting for? Maybe you should order another ale? You're also hungry, maybe you should order the Thieve's Stew? You've seen a few people with it, and it looks quite delicious.
And so you wave over a barmaid, a quite pretty one at that, and ask, "Excuse me, but could I have a bowl of your Thieve's Stew?"
She smiles and nods. "Yes, my lady, that'll be right up."
You thank her and watch as she walks towards the back.
Aragorn gives you a look and you shrug. "What? I'm hungry. I'll let you have some."
He laughs and shakes his head.
Aragorn keeps his eyes on the Hobbit as the lady brings you your stew, setting it down in front of her. With a smile, you hand her a couple of silver coins, winking. She grins, stows them in a pocket, and walks away.
In your bowl is a delicious meal. It smells very meaty and brothy. It looks like it has noodles and beef, two of your favorite things. With a fork, you quickly dive in, relishing the excellent taste. It's yummy and hearty, something different from your village's high-vegetable diet. Not that your father's cooking isn't fantastic, either.
You quickly devour half of the bowl before you look up at Aragorn. "Want some?"
Aragorn doesn't answer you, and he is instead watching something intensely. Following his gaze, as you spoon another bite of stew into your mouth, you see that the Hobbit that was previously talking to the innkeeper is messing with something small in his hands. He's twirling it, and his eyes close.
That's not normal.
"Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins."
The Hobbit's head whips towards the bar, and you follow. There's another Hobbit sitting at the bar, a pint in his hand. He seems a little buzzed, his cheeks all flushed and red in the candlelight. He's talking with a group of men and gesturing in the other Hobbit's direction.
"He's over there," he says. "Frodo Baggins." He gives him a small wave before turning back to the men. "He's my second cousin, once removed on his mother's side. And my third cousin, twice removed..."
You don't hear the rest of his speech, watching Frodo, the Hobbit sitting at the table, stand quickly and make his way toward the bar. He seems...panicked? You slowly lift another spoonful into your mouth. Aragorn's hand drifts down, removing the pipe from his mouth.
"What is he...?" you ask slowly, words muffled from the noodles.
Frodo quickly grabs the Hobbit's arm, but stumbles over a foot, falling towards the ground. As he falls, something drops from his hand. A small object glints up in the air before falling back down. Aragorn sits up straighter. The group of men watches Frodo fall, but as the glint reaches the floor, Frodo lifts his pointer finger up. To catch it?
Then he vanishes.
You gasp, lifting a hand to your mouth as men gasp, pointing at the group where Frodo once was.
"What the hell?" you ask, dropping your spoon. Your eyes must have deceived you, there's no way he just vanished. That's not possible.
Aragorn stands quickly, hood pulled even lower over his face. "Help me find him, Y/N."
You gape at him, standing and grabbing your cloak. Is this what you were waiting for? "Help you find him? He just vanished, Strider!"
Aragorn does not seem to hear you, however, scanning the room quickly. Quick, loud conversations break out, and fingers are being pointed towards the bar where people are scrambling around, shouting.
You scan the bar. You see the three other Hobbits make their way towards each other, whispering, looking anxious. Where is the other one? Frodo. Was that his name?
Finally, you spot him beside a table. He's shaking his head, panting, and looking around. He's sweating, too.
"There," you say to Aragorn, but he's a step ahead of you.
Quickly, he grabs the Hobbit by the shoulder and hauls him up and towards the stairs. Taking this as your queue to follow, you walk back towards the table. Shoveling the last two bites of stew into your mouth and throwing several coins on the table, you grab your bow and quiver, and follow.
Walking up the stairs two at a time, you catch up with Aragorn and see him shove Frodo into an empty room. You catch the door and shut it, keeping your hood over your head.
The Hobbit stands as you latch the door. "What do you want?" he asks apprehensively.
"A little more caution from you," Aragorn tells him rather than answering. "That is no small trinket you carry."
"I carry nothing."
"Indeed."
What is going on? Was that glint the item Gandalf told Aragorn the Hobbit would have? What was it, then? Clearly, it was small and metallic. Not a knife nor a dagger, perhaps a piece of jewelry? A ring, perhaps, or a bracelet.
Aragorn makes his way towards the window, extinguishing the candles. "I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely?" He turns back to the Hobbit and removes his hood. "That is a rare gift."
You stand beside the door, somewhat awkwardly, a hand on your dagger hilt. You remove your own hood, shaking your hair out of your face. The Hobbit, Frodo, looks confused, looking between the two of you.
"Who are you?" he asks. You note that he sounds much less frightened than you would have assumed. After all, he was shoved into a room by two Men. If it were you, you would be at least a bit scared. Though, perhaps Hobbits are different. You don't know much about them, in fact, this is your first time having a conversation with one.
"Are you frightened?" you ask and Frodo turns to you.
Slowly, he nods. "Yes."
Maybe you were wrong.
"Not nearly frightened enough," Aragorn says, keeping his voice low. "I know what hunts you." There's something hunting the Hobbit? Over what? You really should have asked more questions before you joined up with Aragorn. He always does this.
Aragorn glances at you and approaches the Hobbit. You take a step forward. Behind you, on the other side of the door, you hear footsteps, several of them, all heavy. Your nerves light on fire and at the same time Aragorn draws his sword, you pull out your dagger and turn on your heel towards the door. You'd rather it be your bow, but you couldn't pull it out in time.
The door bursts open and the other three Hobbits barge in, each holding a different blunt object. One has a chair, another holding just his fists. One has an entire candle stick.
"Let him go!" shouts the one with just his fists. "Or I'll have you both, Longshanks!"
Smiling just slightly, you sheath your dagger, heart still pumping. "You have a stout heart, but your fists will not save you."
Aragorn steps forward. "You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming."
"Who is?" you ask quietly, more to yourself. You need answers.
"Who are you?" asks one of the Hobbits.
"I am Strider," Aragorn says. "This is Khaya. And you four are in much danger."
The three hobbits look to Frodo and he says, "We can trust them. They know of Gandalf."
"He is the one who sent us," you say, looking at Aragorn with furrowed brows. You two have gotten pretty good at communicating without words, with just looks, and he gets your meaning. You want him to explain what's going on and he nods.
"Come," he says, approaching the door. "You must be tired, and we cannot stay here. Follow me."
He catches your arm as he ushers the confused Hobbits from the door and says, "I'll explain, I swear. But, could you make this room look like the Hobbits are sleeping here? Their pursuers will look here and we must throw them off trail."
You normally do the weird requests Aragorn has without question, and now is no exception, as it seems so urgent. "Of course. Where will you go?"
"The inn across the way. Use Underhill to find us."
"Alright."
"And be careful," he says, seeming impatient. "And fast. Tonight, I will explain."
"You better," you poke him in the chest and then push him. "Go. I'll be fast."
And then he's gone with the four Hobbits and you're alone. Make this room look like Hobbits are occupying it? Easy. There are already two beds, you just need to stuff pillows under the sheets to fool whoever it is that's chasing them. Hopefully, they're stupid enough to fall for it.
Quickly, you get to work, shoving pillows under the sheets and punching and fluffing them to make them look more humanoid in shape. Of course, you hope you got the height right, having to estimate. Maybe you need to add another one just to be safe?
Not long later, you're satisfied with your work. Besides, you should probably leave, Aragorn seemed impatient. So, taking one last look at your work, you leave the room, latching it shut.
Making your way back down the stairs to the main bar, you see it's still buzzing with the news of Frodo's vanishing, literally, but people are beginning to stream out. Silently placing a small pouch of coins on the innkeeper's stand, you leave the warm, bright bar, and enter the dark, cold night. It's no longer raining, that you're grateful for.
You spot the other inn Aragorn was talking about and walk across the muddy street, keeping your head down. Now, you're weary of everyone.
This inn is similar to the one across the way, just much quieter and less busy. The innkeeper is an older woman and she hums at you when you enter.
"Good evening," you greet her with a smile. "I'm looking for an Underhill? My companions were a bit ahead of me in our travels."
The lady smiles at you. "Yes, of course. They checked in not too long ago. Up the stairs, last room on the right."
You bow to her. "Thank you. Safe night."
With that, you head up the stairs and knock on the door before entering. The Hobbits are already in the two beds, passed out, absolutely knocked out. They must have had quite a night.
"Oh, wonderful, they're passed out," you say sarcastically, locking the door behind you. Aragorn is sitting beside the fire, his feet kicked up casually, but his hand is resting on the hilt of his sword. You sit beside him and lean back, the fire warming your legs and making them prickly like they always are near a fire.
"How did it go?" asks your friend.
With your eyes shut, you answer. "Fine. Hope I did a convincing job. Whoever is chasing them best be stupid enough to fall for that trick, though. Stuffing pillows under the blankets." You scoff, mostly at yourself.
The room is silent, save for snores and the fire crackling. Aragorn is the first to speak. "I apologize for not informing you enough of why I asked you to join, of our being here. Everything just happened so fast..."
You open your eyes and shrug. "It's fine. We have time now, though. First of all, let me ask; what is that Hobbit carrying?" You've lowered your voice now, not wanting to wake them.
Aragorn sits up and leans toward you. "The wizard told me he carries a ring. A ring of great importance, an old ring."
"A ring?" you ask with a raised brow. "Okay. Sure. Why is this ring important? Is that what made him vanish into thin air?"
Aragorn nods and you know he's not joking.
Your mouth falls open, but you quickly regaining your composure. "Okay, okay. So, then, who's chasing him?"
Your friend takes a deep breath and looks around the room, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Do you recall the old tale of Sauron and the Rings?"
The fire flickers and a chill runs down your spine. "Yes, my mother told it to me and my siblings to scare us before we went to sleep. Sauron gave the races rings. I think it was three for the elves, seven for the dwarves, and nine for the men. But he also had one for himself."
"Yes. What happened to the men who received the rings?"
"They went mad with power, they eventually died. People said, though, that their souls were tied to the rings and to Sauron, so they didn't die. My mother said they turned into these shadow-men called Ringwraiths and they've been searching for Sauron's lost ring ever since."
As you say it, the pieces fall into piece. Now, everything clicks. With a gasp, you stand, staring at Aragorn. "The Hobbit has the one ring and the Ringwraiths are after him?"
Aragorn nods. "Yes."
"Shit," you say, running a hand through your hair, and sinking back in your seat.
Silently, you stare into the fire, the wood crackling and popping. A spark lands on your boot and you watch it fade and smoke. Your mind is whirling. You knew that Sauron was once real, that was a fact, there were record of the battles in the Second Age. But you thought the rest were stories, of the rings and the men and the Ringwraiths. But Aragorn would never lie to you.
Finally, you look at him and ask, "What now? What do we do? We can never lose them. If what my mother said is true, than they don't eat or sleep. All they'll do is look for the ring and kill anyone who gets in their way."
"Galdalf instructed me to take them to Rivendell," Aragorn answers, his thumb brushing over the hilt of his sword. "From there, we'll let Lord Elrond decide what to do. He'll surly know the right course of action."
He's right, you know that. Rivendell. The realm of the elves. The Last Homely House. Of the First, depending on where you were coming from. You've never been there, but you know Aragorn had been. Over the years and your adventures together, he told you a lot about himself, something he never did with others as far as you knew. He was always a secretive one. Of course, you're sure he didn't tell you everything, but he did explain how he was raised in Rivendell by Elrond himself after his parents died. He also mentioned how he fell in love with Lady Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter, her beauty untold. You've never met her, but now, you might.
With a nod and a deep breath, you fold your arms. "Aright. How far is Rivendell? A few days travel?"
Aragorn nods. "Yes. Now, rest up. I fear the Ringwraiths will be here soon, and we'll need to flee when they get here."
He doesn't have to ask you twice. Between the ale and the food, you've been tired for a long while. Leaning your head in your hand, you doze off, dreaming of your home village nestled deep in the woods far, far from Bree.
hey 🧍♀️ its me again. did i have this in my drafts for months and forgot abt it until just now? yes. my bad. but will i have the next chapter out soon despite the fact that i work on it? ...maybe.
ANYWAY LOVE YALL COLLEGE HAS MADE ME DEPRESSED BUT MAYBE THIS WILL BRING ME SOME SERATONIN x.
dagur the deranged x female!reader
summary: y/n finally meets dagur the deranged during an annual treaty singing. during the feast, they both learn a lot about each other and how terrifying the other can be
word count: ~5.4k
warnings: swearing, violence, mentions of alcohol
<previous next>
Months passed since your last visit to Berk. It’s the cusp of spring now, the remaining snow from the most recent blizzard finally beginning to melt away. The air was still cold and your elkskin cloak went with you everywhere you went.
A fire crackles in the hearth of the Great Hall. People often come in to warm themselves or to converse with their friends, safe from the briskness of the outside.
You sit at the head table with Ingrid, looking over parchments. In a few days, those from the Berserker tribe will visit for their annual treaty signing, as well as the annual bear hunt that went along with it. It always took place on your island. That was one of the only places in the archipelago where one could find bears. Many tribes had hunted them down and killed them off their islands. But your people kept them at a reasonable number. There were even stories of old chiefs taming bears and keeping them as pets.
You’re looking forward to this. It’s your first time doing this in your father’s stead. You’ll also meet the infamous Dagur the Deranged. You’ve heard a lot of him. How he loved to kill dragons. How he was one of the youngest chiefs after his father’s death. You figured that was one thing you two had in common.
The other being the fact that you were both bat-shit insane.
“This’ll be fun!” you exclaim, smiling. “Me and Dagur, together in the forest, killing bears with our bear hands.” You grinned at the thought, blood rushing through your veins like lightning from Odin himself.
Ingrid looks at you with a raised brow. “Did you mean that pun?”
You just stare at her, confused, your smile gone from your face. “What?”
She just shakes her head. “Nothing. Anyway, they’ll be here before tomorrow night, we know that for sure. Also, we’ll need to hide our dragons. Dagur is notorious for killing dragons.”
“Aren’t most Vikings? We can hold him off. Besides, if he touches them then we can kill all of them.”
Ingrid shrugs. “True. Still, I’d advise we send them off just to be safe.”
You consider her words before you nod in agreement. “Yeah, it’s for the best. Besides, judging by the Berserker’s reputation, I’d rather not have a quarrel with them. We’ll send them off tomorrow morning to the craggy rocks. They’ll be fine there. It’s too dangerous for Vikings to roam to as well.”
Ingrid nods. “Very well. Also, I’ve already got some of the servants making the Berserkers’ beddings for their stay. Those few spare homes shall do them well, no?”
You agree with her. “What else?”
“The farmers will slaughter their pigs, yaks, and chickens for the welcoming feats tomorrow morning and the cooks will get them prepared. We’re lucky we’ve had some time since the last storm.” She places her charcoal pencil down and stands up straight, stretching her arms.
“Yes,” you reply, doing the same as she does. “Alright, if that’s it, then I’m going to head out. Thorhild is giving birth and I cannot miss the birth of my cousin.”
Ingrid gives you a smile. “Very well. What will the baby be named?”
You begin to head out and shrug. “No idea. Shall I suggest Ingrid?”
Your friend laughs and you exit the hall, great spruce doors banging shut behind you.
It’s midday when you reach your cousin’s home and sunset when you leave. You release a breath of relief, free from the hot, sickly smelly home. Your cousin did well. Her son was named Magnus. Strength.
You walk home alone. You enter your home alone. You eat a light dinner of broth alone and practice your reading alone. You’ve been alone almost all your life. Your mother died during a dragon attack and your father died of sickness a year ago. You’ve grown used to being along and you don’t mind it.
The next day, it’s clear and bright. The snow is all melted by late morning and by late afternoon, Ingrid calls to you.
You’ve just returned with Eid after sending the dragons away. There is no trace that any of them even lived in the village. Their saddles are hidden underneath floorboards and their stables can be passed off as sheds or barns.
“What is it, Ingrid?” you ask her, jogging down the hill to the cliff where she’s standing.
She hands your her spyglass and you look where she’s pointing. You spot three ships bearing the Berserker crest on their sails. They’re large, as most ships are. Their prows are decorated with large, exaggerated figureheads of dragons, sharp eyes, and long teeth to match.
You hand the spyglass back to Ingrid and beam, heart thumping with anticipation. “Let’s go welcome them, then!”
By the time the three of you climb down the cliffs and down to the beach, they are close enough to the dock for you to greet them. You search for Dagur but cannot find him yet. You’re fairly sure of how he looks. A bit taller than you, a tall helmet and three blue stripes tattoos over his face. That would stand out for sure, as tattoos were not common among Vikings.
“Welcome, Berserkers,” you say in a loud and proud voice, “to the isle of Fiska, home of the Savage Ax tribe!”
The men drop their anchors and rope their ships to the docks. The wood creaks and water splashes at your feet. Your heart is thrumming in your chest.
Their gangplank falls and one of the men holds up his spear. "Presenting the high chief of the Berserker tribe! Cracker of skulls! Slayer of beasts! The great and fearsome Dagur the Deranged!"
Up steps a boy not older than you, head covered by helmet but eyes shone green as emeralds and as wild as the sea. Immediately, you're drawn to him.
Dagur the Deranged walks down the plank and you notice that he's laughing to himself.
"What's so funny?" you ask him, voice even and a smirk playing at your lips.
"Oh, nothing," he says, shoulders back. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N the Raging. I've heard a lot about you." His eyes narrow and are fixed upon you. A shiver goes down your spine.
"All good things, I hope. But then again, bad things wouldn't be too terrible, either. As long as they're terrible enough."
"I've heard you're one of the most feared women in the archipelago."
A burst of pride blooms in your chest and you urge it down. "Is that so? I wouldn't say that." Cheekily, you look away, feigning humbleness.
"One of the youngest chieftains alive," says Dagur, clearly trying to flatter you, though you know in nothing more than an attempt to be on your good side. "One said to have raided every town from here to the Thunderrock fjords. Killer of dragons, slayer of men." His tone changes. Before, it was flattering and admirable. Now, it's condescending and taunting. "Tell me, how is it one has so many titles yet is this underwhelming in person?"
Your mood is always ready to change at the drop of a coin, but this time, it changed quicker than ever. Heat rushes to your face, embarrassment. Did he just call you underwhelming? In front of his people, in front of your people. Did he know who you were? Did he know what you could do to him? If you called, your dragons would come in an instant and burn him to ash, leaving nothing but that big, obnoxious helmet of his behind.
"Excuse you?" you ask him in a deadly quiet voice. "Cheif Dagur, do you dare insult me on my own shores?" Your hands want to reach for the ax at your hip, but instead, you ball your hands into fists, nails digging into the skin of your palm.
"I do not," he replies, voice and face both calm, neutral. "I only challenge you to prove me wrong." And then he smiles, a crazed smile, a smile of someone who seemed to fool Loki himself.
Never in your life have you turned down a challenge. When you were younger, another child in the village dared you to jump from a cliff on the beach down to the reef below. You did as he said and came out with a broken ankle and toes. Ingrid once challenged you to shoot an apple off of her head when you were young teens. You nearly shot her head off twice before she finally insisted that you stop.
Your father did not raise a corward, he did not raise a chicken. And you would not have this boy, this immature Chief, belive that you were cowardly.
Ingrid and Eid whisper behind you. You can hear some of your people as well as Dagur's men begin to whisper. Your vision turns red and you resist the urge to hold him at axe-point.
"Do not test me, boy." You spit out the last word, glaring at him. "Or you will see that I can be given much more colorful names. Now, tell me. Have you ever witnessed a bear?"
"Can't say that I have," he tells you, smirking still. Oh how you want to wipe that off of his stupid, smug face.
"Oh, you will," you whisper. Stepping back, you straighten up. You took a deep breath to contain your anger and say in a loud, clear voice, "Are you aware of the annual Savage Ax bear hunt?"
"My father mentioned it," he replies, taking a step back as well. The two of you no longer sound hostile towards the other, but the tension is still there, thick and sharp. "After signing the treaty, the chiefs went together."
"It's been a tradition since my great-great-grandfather, Erik, first made the treaty with the Berserkers," you explain. It was something you had heard your father say over and over again. "The chiefs would meet in the morning and set out together to find the biggest brown bear living in the forests." You hold out a hand behind you, towards the great, towering trees, swaying in the late winter wind.
A look crosses over Dagur's face. Pride, perhaps? Excitement? You don't blame him, you're also looking forward to the hunt. Maybe not with him, but still.
"Sounds like quite the challenge."
You smirk. "Oh, it is. But first! You and your men must be starving and exhausted. Come, let us feast!"
Dagur's men cheer and you turn to Ingrid, quickly motioning her forward. "Is the feast ready yet?"
"Not quite, my lady."
Your eyes narrow. Thor, you give those people one simple task and yet they cannot do it. "Tell them to hurry up or I will be cooking their dogs instead, see if that's any quicker."
Ingrid clasps her hands and nods. "I'll go tell them to hurry up, then."
She turns and pushes past the mass of people before running up to the hall.
Dagur appears beside you. "I'm not so sure if dogs cook much faster than pigs," he said in a mildly amused tone.
You shrug and begin to make your way up to the hall, you and Dagur leading both your tribes. You walk slowly in an effort to give Ingrid and the cooks more time. "Yes, well. We all need some form of motivation, do we not?"
He just nods. A beat of silence passes. "I heard about your father. I'm sorry."
You look at him. "Thank you. I'm sorry about the passing of yours. I understand that it's hard to move on, especially run a village after something like that."
"Yeah, well, my father had taught me everything while I was growing up," he says with a shrug. "Preparing me, I'm sure."
You hum. "Mine didn't do so well."
"What do you mean?"
You chuckle lightly and say, "Well, when he died, it was in the middle of a drought. It was a terrible coincidence and I was the one everyone looked to after that. So I was the one who had to fix the problems."
"What did you do?"
"Well, as it turned out, our main well was no longer getting water," you explain. In the distance, you point towards the old well, a simple wooden box with a pole and a bucket beside it. It's faded and rotting, no one has had the chance to tear it down yet. "So we made some new ones. In the meantime, we made a couple smaller ones, but for our new main well, we made it out of cobblestone."
Dagur nods along, maintaining eye contact most of the time and occasionally glancing around. The pair of you lapse into an uncomfortable silence. You're not quite sure what to say after what had just happened. Of course, you're still upset, but you had already threatened him. What else could you do?
Thankfully, halfway through the village, Dagur asks, "So, this bear hunt. Tell me more about it."
"I mean, it's quite self-explanatory. Us two will head out early tomorrow morning with some supplies into the forest. Normally, my father and your father would visit the seeress, Cyrena.”
Dagur looks at you in curiosity. “You have a witch here?”
You simply nod. “Yes. She’s lived her since the reign of my grandfather. She lives off in the distance, far away, back towards the base of the mountains. She has a few girls that live with her, but she is quite nice. Keeps to herself most of the time and she can be helpful in a pinch.”
Witchcraft was a somewhat common thing to Vikings. Freyja was a sorceress herself and able to tell the future. Cyrena was also adept at telling the future. You remember your father telling stories of how when he went to visit her when your mother was pregnant, Cyrena predicated that your mother’s baby would be one of the most powerful chiefs in the archipelago.
It was beginning to seem like she was right.
You finally reach the doors of the great hall and you say a quick prayer to Odin that the food be ready before pushing them open.
The smell of ham and chicken greets your nose, alongside the smell of bread and beets and that sour smell of mead. Cooks and servers are scurrying around in an effort to get every last little thing ready. You spot Ingrid among them, helping, placing down plates and knives.
You turn and address the men and women of both tribes. “Eat as much as you wish, drink as much as you can! Rest, for our stores of food are bottomless and our mead and wine even more so.”
There’s a cheer and you smile before waking towards the back of the hall where the table for chiefs sits. Dagur follows behind you and you watch the rest of his men and your people sit down, pints of mead served and wine poured.
You sit beside Ingrid and Dagur pulls out the chair beside you. Before he sits down, however, he takes his axe from his belt and leans it against the wall before he sits.
A servant girl comes and places three mugs of mead in front of you. Ingrid thanks her but she walks off before anyone else can.
The feast goes well. You, Dagur and Ingrid make small talks, make small jokes and laugh. You watch your people mingle with Dagur’s men. Women and men flirt together occasionally and you spot one or two of them leave together.
People eat, laugh, drink together. As the night wears on, you stop drinking, already feeling the effects. If you didn’t have anything to do in the morning, you would keep going, but you’d rather not deal with the massive headache you always get the morning after.
Ingrid nudges your arm and you look at her. “What?”
She points her knife towards the side of the room and you follow her gaze. Two men, one Dagur’s and one yours, look to be in a heated argument. From what you can tell, it doesn’t look violent, but everyone around them is watching.
You nudge Dagur’s arm with your elbow and lazily point a finger towards them, leaning back in your chair. “Should I be worried?”
Dagur takes a moment to respond, probably judging the situation. “Maybe. That’s Vestar, he’s….well, he’s got some issues.”
Your man, Boe, also had his own issues. Anger issues, he tended to think with his hands rather than his head. You stand, watching the argument heat up. Vestar and Boe stand up and you watch Boe’s hand form a fist. Before you can yell and order him to stop, it's too late. Boe’s hand collides with Vestar’s face and soon enough, the two of them are on the ground, throwing fists.
You groan and walk around the table, throwing your chair down in your haste. “For the love of fucking Thor!”
Dagur is right behind you, but you don’t even notice. Your vision is red as you make your way towards Boe, who is currently beating the absolute shit out of Vestar. Though it looks like he’s putting up a fair fight, blocking, getting a few kicks in and even managing to push Boe off of him for a moment.
“Boe!” you shout, voice booming. People, Beserkers and Fiskans alike, scramble out of your way.
You reach a hand and grab the back of Boe’s tunic, taking the material into your fist. Boe is a large man and he’s renowned for his strength. But when he’s in the middle of a fight, he gets sloppy. So you have no trouble hauling him off of Vestar and onto the hard stone floors.
He shouts something and stands, but you backhand him. It echos through the quiet hall and bounces off the walls. Boe falls to his knees and glares up at you. He makes a move to stand and you raise your fist.
“You want another mark?” you demand, giving him a challenging look. He backs down and leans on his heels. A wave of satisfaction rolls through you. “Now. What in Odin’s great name is going on?”
Dagur’s man is also standing back. Dagur himself is holding an arm up on his man’s chest as if to hold him back. Dagur is staring at you with an expression you’ve grown to become accustomed to. A mixture of fear and respect.
“Well?” You look between the two of them, impatiently waiting for an answer.
Boe is the first to speak. “He insulted my mother.”
Pushing your tongue into your cheek, you try to keep your blood from boiling over. “What did he say?”
“He called her a whore.”
You roll your eyes. “She was a whore, Boe, Odin rest her soul.” You throw a hand up. “Do you know how many people in this room are related to you?”
“I still won’t have him disrespect my mother’s name!” he exclaims, standing, but making no move to strike again. “Not to mention that he disgraced my entire family name. Do you even know what the House of Sigmond has done?”
“From what you’ve told me, sounds like you’re all cowards!” snaps Dagur’s man.
“Cowards?” roars Boe and lurches forward. You punch him in the jaw and send him sprawled in the floor. Then you turn to Vestar, standing there with a smug look on his face.
“Wipe that smirk off your face,” growls Dagur. Though he’s shorter than his man, it doesn’t make Vestar cower any less.
“Dagur,” you say in an unnervingly calm voice. You’re heaving, trying to keep yourself steady. The last thing you want to do is lash out at the chief of the Berserker tribe before you have a chance to renew the treaty. “Take your man out of here. I will have no tolerance for name-calling in my hall.”
Dagur nods and shoved Vestar forward. “Take him away. You and I are going to have a long conversation about this later that I know you aren’t going to enjoy.”
You motion for a servant girl to take him to one of the buildings that has been prepared. In the meantime, you haul Boe back on his feet. There’s a red mark on his cheek and a bruise forming on his jaw. Regardless, you brush of his shoulders and the fur of his cape.
“Now, Boe?” You look up at him. “If you pull something like that again? I’ll feed you to Solveig myself. Hm? Does that sound preferable?“
When Boe does not reply, only looks at you in fright, you laugh and smile sweetly. “That’s what I thought. Now, I suggest you go home. Alright?”
“Y—yes, Chief,” he stammers before quickly leaving the hall, followed close by his wife and his cousin, who you’re fairly sure is his brother.
His mother was quite the whore, though you would never say that to his face. You’re not stupid.
With a deep sigh, you turn and head back to your table, Dagur not fall behind you. Ingrid hasn’t moved and is eating another piece of cod silently, picking out the bones.
“You know,” she says between bites, “your slaps are getting louder.”
“Oh, well thanks,” you say with a smile and sit back down. You’re not hungry anymore, but you can’t leave quite yet. It’s not late enough, the sun has just set outside and the moonlight mingels with the fires and torches inside the hall.
Dagur takes his seat beside you and says, “That was interesting.”
“I’m sorry about that,” you apologize. “Boe is just extremely sensitive about his mother.”
“No, it’s fine. Vestar shouldn’t have called her a whore.”
You shrug. “Well, she was.”
Dagur laughs.
The night continues to wear on. People come and go. You watch children run between tables, chasing each other in helmets too big for them and dulled down axes and swords, screaming and laughing.
You’ve always been fond of children. They seemed so innocent and pure. You remembered when you were a child, you never got that. Always following your father around, hearing his tales of raids and bloodshed. You remember fleeing from dragons as a small girl during the almost nightly attacks, screaming for your faðir.
Those werent your most pleasant memories. But now, when you finally had control over Rhys and ran the rest of the dragons off of your island, you didn’t have to worry about that. The kids didn’t have to worry about that.
“Y/N!” calls a small girl. Tove was her name. Meaning dove. She scrambles up to the front of your table and pushes her hands down on it, her blonde hair hanging in front of her face. “Can I borrow your helmet? We’re playing a game and I’m gonna be you!”
Ingrid bites her lip, smiling. “Oh, be sure to be real mean to… who’s playing me?”
Tove points towards another girl with black hair. You recalled her name was Ase.
“Be real mean to Ase if you’re gonna be Y/N,” whispers Ingrid in a loud voice, not really intending to be quiet. “‘Cause she’s mean to me all the time.”
You shove her arm and almost knock her over. Tove giggles. Then you take off your helmet and motion your hand forward. “C’mere.”
She leans forward and when she realizes she’s still too far, she run over to your side. On the way, she trips over Dagur’s axe handle, falling to her stomach. At the same time, the axe spins on the handle and falls, exactly towards Tove’s hand.
You’re fast, but Dagur is faster. He grabs the axe before it can fall onto the poor girl’s hand.
Tove stands and looks at Dagur. She knows who he is, who doesn’t? Quietly, and slightly stuttering, she thanks him, pulling at her fingers. Then she quickly turns around and stands in front of you.
Gently, you place your helmet on top of her hair and adjust it so it rests on her head in a way that it won’t slip too far over her eyes. You smooth your own hair down and tighten your braids at the top of your head.
“There,” you tell her, securing it once again. “Wow, you look just like me.”
The girl smiles wide and doesn’t bother to thank you before running off to rejoin her group of friends.
“She was sweet,” Dagur says as the three of you watch the group of five children run off together around the hall, Tove in the lead.
“She is,” you agree, drinking the rest of the mead you had been nursing for the last hour. “All of these kids are pretty sweet. I mean, up until they have to start training that is.”
“We Beserkers usually start training when we’re about their age.”
“They should start within a couple years,” says Ingrid, drinking more wine. You can smell her breath from here, but she’s not even showing a hint of drunkenness. She could always beat you in a liquor drinking contest. “Usually they start when they’re about ten or so. That’s when they come of age.”
“What training do they do?” asks Dagur, sounding truly interested.
You try to recall the training you went through. The training your father taught you and Ingrid and all of the other kids you grew up with.
That included dragon killing. But you figured they wouldn’t need that now. Instead, they would have dragon training classes, learn how to control one.
“Sword fighting,” you answer, pulling your boots onto the table cleared of plates and mugs. You cross your ankles over the other and lean back with your arms crossed. “Archery, axe training. The usual things.”
“What about dragon killing?”
You turn to the chief next to you and notice a faint glimmer in those moss green eyes of his. You’re not quite sure what it is, but you don’t like it.
“We haven’t had dragons on this island for a year,” you lie seamlessly. “They may not have need for it. However,” you add with a shrug. “We may touch upon the subject.”
“That reminds me,” Dagur begins and you notice and undertone of cunning in his tone. “What happened to the dragons?”
“Have you not heard the stories?” asks Ingrid. “We killed them. Chased them off.”
“I’ve heard different.”
You turn to him and lazily raise a brow. “Have you?” You drag your feet from the table and turn in your seat to face him, placing your chin in your fist. “Tell me. What have you heard, great Chief of the Berserkers?”
His brows furrow and his eyes flick around your face. You keep him fixed with your stare, waiting. “I’ve heard that you tamed a Monstrous Nightmare. That you ride it like a horse and keep it here on the island. That the rest of you have dragons as well and you ride them as well.” Something in his voice sends a chill in your veins. His tone is soft, menacing.
You scoff, turning away. “You really think that?”
“I do.”
You look back at him and narrow your eyes. "Are you calling me a liar?"
Dagur doesn't flinch and stares back at you. "Am I wrong?"
Your blood thumps in your veins and you sneer at him. "You're mistaken, Dagur. We do not ride dragons here. We kill any that come near us."
Dagur nods, but you can tell he isn't convinced. Still, he doesn't want to start anything and drops the subject.
You turn away and look back at the children running around and laughing. They weave through tables and you think that they're in a pretend battle.
You sigh gently and lean back in your chair, feet lazily propped up on the table. One of your favorite things to do after a feast is just to see people interact. You enjoy watching your people, learning how they act. Especially at times like these when they're all relaxed and having fun.
Thunder rumbles outside and you turn your head, craning to look out the tall window just across from you. It's gotten darker outside. You can no longer see the moon and the wind has picked up. If you focus, you can smell rain on the horizon.
People begin to thin out and children are taken to their homes, also sensing the storm. You hope it's not too much of a storm. Of course, you won't hold off the hunt, but doing so in the rain will make it a lot more difficult.
Dagur stands, watching many of his men take their leave. "I should get going."
You stand as well. Ingrid makes a move to do the same, but falls back down in her chair, swaying. It seems like the alcohol has finally caught up to her.
"Yeah," you agree, holding onto your friend's arm. "We should do the same. Tomorrow, we meet here at dawn. We'll grab provisions before we leave."
Dagur smiles at you and nods. "I'm looking forward to killing a bear."
"I as well," you tell him and take Ingrid by the shoulder, throwing one of her arm's around your shoulder to hold her up.
"I'm fine," she slurs, head lolling.
Her breath reeks and you jolt your head back. "Sure you are. Come on, you can stay with me tonight."
She slurs some more words that make no sense as you carry her through the hall. The servents have begun to clean and you spot Dagur beside the door, walking out with one of his men, his axe over his shoulder.
You find yourself watching him as he goes. There's something...intriguing about him, something that draws you to him that you can't quite place your finger on. He definitely didn't seem too deranged tonight, though you weren't exactly on your game either.
But still. You're excited to hunt with him tomorrow, see how crazy he really is while on the hunt.
"Chief Y/N?"
Tove's soft, sweet voice draws your attention away from the long-gone man and to your feet, where she holds your helmet up to you.
"Thank you for letting us borrow it," she says with a grin.
You take it from her hands and place it on your head, smiling at her. "Sure. Now go home, it's going to rain soon."
She nods and runs off to catch up with her mother and her older brother.
You haul Ingrid down the steps of the hall and by the time you reach your home, it's raining and you're drenched. You push the door open and the pair of you stumble inside, gasping for air on the floor of your home.
Rain pelts the roof while you try to sober Ingrid up, giving her water and some slightly stale bread you left out from earlier in the morning. It seems to work and by the time she's drank two cups of water and half of a slice of bread, her vision has cleared and she can form somewhat coherent sentences.
"You can really hold your liquor," you tell her with a smile, taking your helmet and boots off by the fireside. "How much did you drink? Five pints? Six?"
"Six and a half," she answers with a small groan, taking her jacket off. The two of you undress by the fire you made when you entered and hang your clothes to dry before changing into another pair of slightly dryer clothes. Ingrid, being your best friend, has stayed with you at your home often enough she basically has her own drawers.
After drinking some more water and exchanging small talk, the two of you head upstairs. Lighting another fire, you crawl into bed beside her. There's a perfectly good bed downstairs, but since it gets so cold at night, you and Ingrid prefer to share body heat.
Of course, she never tells anyone.
"I've wanted to," she says when you mention the subject of how out of character this may seem to you. "You know, telling the entire village how the great Chief of Fiska likes to push her cold feet against my back."
You shove her. "If you tell anyone that, I'll shove them up your ass."
Ingrid just laughs and pulls the fur blanket closer around the pair of you. The fire flickers across the room and throws shadows on the walls. When you were a girl, you were afraid of the dark. You outgrew that a long time ago.
Ingrid rolls over to your side and you throw an arm over her shoulder, your legs tangling together with hers. It's nothing romantic, purely platonic. You two had been doing this for years.
After a while of staying up and making a game plan for tomorrow, you fall asleep, Ingrid's hot alcoholic breath warming your body up.
