#DAVEY. ty ^_^

[daisychainsandbowties]

8, 17, 68

8. i have answered!

17. what do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

usually if i can’t write it’s because i’ve done the autism neglect thing again. a total lack of interoception means that i will sometimes go for too long without performing body-maintainence. so, when i’m struggling to write i go take a nap or i go outside or go get my ass kicked in karate.

i (for better or worse) have many different ideas on the go at any given time, so if one won’t happen for me i just switch to another, tap out little bits. usually doing that will let me trick myself into working on a story properly.

and of course sometimes i’m just not ready to write a scene. i think i’ve not been ready to write ligaments for a few months just because of what specifically i have to write, and also second-person being both addictive and difficult to transition too, with a totally different structure (in terms of how i have to think about composing sentences) than close third. sometimes a scene is too personal, or i don’t really understand the emotions in it enough to describe them, so i need to spend time dipping my hands in the blood of a scene to figure out what it’s made of.

mostly i do just need a nap

68. what, if anything, do you do for inspiration?

oh well my favourite form of inspiration is to just go and do some research. today it’s numismatics, dental science, king louis XIV. but sometimes that doesn’t work, or more often it’s useful when i’ve already got ideas.

i simply cannot plot anything out while i’m sitting still, so for that flavour of inspiration i go out walking in the plains, where you can stare all the way to the horizon or go visit the tower my dad used to abseil down the side of when he was sixteen. there, i’m under no pressure to think about anything at all, save not accidentally chasing sheep out into oncoming traffic (they are so stupid and so scared).

oh but probably the greatest source of inspiration itself comes from my friends and from communities i’m a part of. writing in isolation is something i find quite difficult, though i’ve done it before. it is by and large much more fun to write in a space where you can go on endlessly about your ideas to other people. inspiration from love or something i suppose.

[milky-way-stimss]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ.ᐟ Gwen stimboard

with trad goth, paint mixing and art stims

Requested by @puffpal7 !

🎨 | 🖤 | 💙

🎨 | 🖤 | 💙

🎨 | 🖤 | 💙

[cannibalindsm]

Liberty and Davey outfits from the store today

[we-are-inevitable]

For the ask game: 7, 23?

7. Rare headcanons you hate?

racetrack higgins wouldn’t wear rainbow-washed outfits in modern era. i genuinely can’t think of anymore rare headcanons LMAO

23. Share a piece of a WIP.

from my new eldritch au!! a bit of exposition:

He learned to hunch his shoulders and keep his voice quiet and soft. The clothing he wore was too big, to hide what he could from the world. He sat in the back of classrooms so he wasn’t in anyone’s way- being a 5’8” sixth grader was difficult. It was hard to keep himself small.

But his dreams? They were big. The biggest thing about him, the thing he refused to shrink.

Like his dream to work on rocket ships, even though he knew there was a lot of math involved in that, and he’s not all too good at math. Numbers– they never meshed well with him. He didn’t understand them the way he could understand words. That led to his next dream: being a writer, an author, a storyteller. At seven years old, he wrote his first book, one about a kitten stuck in a tree and overcoming a fear of humans to accept help, and touch, and love. His mother liked it so much that she kept that book– one made of printer paper with shaky pencil handwriting and misspelled words and crooked staples– on their coffee table in the living room for years. She would boast about how her son was going to be a writer one day. His father thought it was cute and a fun hobby, until writing replaced any interest in sports, or cars, or hunting.

His third dream was a bit loftier. Make his father proud of him.

[mabsamillion]

I love your comic, Can you inform me of some miscellaneous facts about the main three characters? :3

why yes of course!

wade:

wade is a smoker and uses seashells as ashtrays

he has a daughter who’s no longer in his life, which pushed him to pseudo-adopt marley and rocky

inherited the treasure trove from his parents, who hated him, but died before they could chang their will

doesn’t vote, says he doesn’t really “get” politics

no one knows how old he is, not because he’s really old but because he’s so wrinkled and burnt from the sun+not eating or living well that they can’t tell if he’s 40 or 60

rocky:

the reason he has a t-shirt that says ‘wrong way’ is because i made his character design up while listening to the song wrong way by sublime.

he has a fear of dogs, which marley makes fun of at every chance

he is the only one of the three who’s wardrobe i’m considering changing every comic, the other two just buy extras of the same outfit

marley and wade once caught him whispering “he’s so me” under his breath while watching shinji from evangelion, they banned him from tv for the rest of the month

marley:

despite hating school, marley is a math wizard and is always working at the register

her blonde hair is dyed, she’s a natural brunette

her real name isn’t marley

terrible chef, can burn even the simplest of recipes

marley + rocky make the jewelry sold in the shop

fell to her knees sobbing when mcr broke up, even though she pretended she never listened to them

misc:

wade never realized that they needed a food permit to sell ice cream, so they nearly get put out of business by the inspectors

the business next door is a similar souvenir shop, but only sells mermaid themed items, the owner is friends with wade

all of them use 3-in-1, just different scents

ik it’s long but i had a lot of thoughts! hope u like it!!

[jasperscringepit]

UNO REVERSE !! [music note]

HI HI DAVEY!!!!

You got Novels by Rusty Clanton!!!

It’s not exactly a line but this specific section is just <333

[angry-kid-with-no-money]

newsies abandoned house au for wip Wednesday :o

“Oh don’t be like that, it’s not dangerous. Maybe it’ll be a good hangout spot. Maybe we’ll find something cool!”

“What cool thing do you think we’re gonna find there Jackie? A dead body?” Davey regretted those words the second they came out of his mouth, he could practically feel Jack’s face lighting up.

[jasperscringepit]

Hello newsies tumblr, I’m so back.

I heard punk au, I activated like a sleeper agent

Shitty background ver. here as well :)

hey anyone who likes punk au newsies can u plz draw this image but as jack and les or david and les plz plz plz im begging you it would heal me

[daveys-tired]

May I please eat ur mcd oc like a sandwich (in a cannibalism way!! ❤️)

OUGHHHHH YES OF COURSE YOU MAY CANNIBALISM FTW

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖 ─

Warnings/MDNI: tying up reader, violence, character deaths //I don't condone such behaviour irl! Syno: ...The cost of keeping you.. ✰ 6K +++ Am i on a writing spree of rdr2? Maybe. Pics by Miranda on Pin

★ Prev I concept m.list

The wind howled as the gang crouched in the underbrush, eyes fixed on the iron beast barreling toward them. The train's whistle cut through the night, a high, keening sound that sent a ripple of tension through the gathered men. Dutch raised a hand, fingers curling in a silent signal. Mac and Davey exchanged grins, itching for the fight. Arthur exhaled, shifting his weight, his grip tightening around his rifle.

Then-

A thunderous boom as Bill's dynamite sent the rail ties flying. The front wheels of the locomotive lurched, sparks spraying in the darkness as the train screamed in protest, grinding to a forced halt. The doors of the passenger cars flung open, and frightened faces peeked out into the night, lanterns swinging. Their light flickered over drawn guns, glinting steel, and the shadows of outlaws moving fast.

Before Dutch could shout another order, a deafening crack split the air. A bullet whizzed past, embedding itself into the wooden frame of the train car just inches from Bill's head.

"Shit, we got company!" Arthur barked, diving behind a stack of cargo as more gunfire erupted.

From the far end of the train, a group of Cornwall's hired guns stormed forward, rifles raised and eyes burning with purpose. These weren't just any guards, these were men paid well to die for their employer, and they weren't about to let a gang of outlaws get away without a fight.

"Take cover!" Hosea shouted, already raising his pistol as he ducked behind a crate. The first wave of Cornwall's men fired without hesitation, sending bullets ricocheting off the metal rails and tearing through the wooden beams.

Micah was the first to return fire, his revolver flashing as he took one of them down with a well-placed shot to the chest. "You bastards should've stayed in bed!" he hollered.

It took a while to clear them but they did.

"Alright, boys! Get in there!" Dutch roared, revolver drawn.

Arthur and the others surged forward, boots pounding against the ground as they swarmed the train. Mac leapt onto the steps, kicking open the door of the baggage car. Davey was right behind him, rifle raised, eyes gleaming.

"Get on the ground! Now!" Javier barked, waving his pistol at the stunned passengers.

Lenny and Sean moved fast, forcing their way into the private car where the real prize was hidden, Cornwall's strongbox, filled with cash and bonds. Hosea worked swiftly, his practiced hands already picking through valuables as terrified men and women cowered before him.

Everything was going well.

Until the shots rang out.

A deafening crack echoed through the trees, and suddenly, Mac staggered backward, clutching his stomach. Blood bloomed against his shirt like a spreading rose. He didn't even have time to react before another shot took him down.

"Mac!" Davey yelled, spinning around just in time for bullets to slam into his ribs . He crumpled to his knees, coughing violently.

Arthur whipped around, heart pounding. Figures moved in the darkness beyond the train. Rifles flashed. 

Pinkertons.

"Shit! It's a goddamn ambush!" Micah roared, ducking behind a crate as bullets shredded through the wood.

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone fall back! Leave it! MOVE!"

The job was over.

Arthur grabbed Davey, yanking him up as he gritted his teeth through the pain. Mac wasn't moving. His wide-eyed stare told them all they needed to know. Lenny fired off a few shots, covering them as they scrambled away.

The Pinkertons were relentless. Gunfire lit up the night as the gang sprinted for the tree line. Bullets whizzed past Arthur's head. Something hot and sharp seared his shoulder, but he barely felt it through the adrenaline.

The only thing that mattered now was survival.

Dutch fired wildly over his shoulder, cursing between gritted teeth. "Keep running, boys! Get to the horses!"

The gang reached the clearing where their mounts were waiting, restless and spooked from the noise. Arthur swung onto his saddle, breath ragged as he yanked the reins.

"GO!"

The night swallowed them whole as they rode hard, leaving the train and one of their own behind.

The heist was a failure.

And the Pinkertons weren't going to stop now.

❀˖°

"He... didn't make it."

A heavy silence fell over the cabin as the weight of the words settled in. The men let out a collective sigh, their exhaustion and grief palpable in the dim candlelight. Hosea, his expression grim, reached down and gently shut Davey's lifeless eyes.

They were holed up in an abandoned cabin, the walls damp and the wind howling through the cracks. The night had turned against them, and now, they were left licking their wounds.

"I still can't believe it," John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Someone tipped 'em off, right? There ain't no other explanation. It's not like we've looted this Leviticus fella before."

"Mhm," Bill grunted. "Maybe the explosion gave us away."

"Oh come on," Dutch snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. "The nearest town wasn't within earshot. That's why this was supposed to be a golden opportunity." His gaze swung toward Micah, sharp and accusing. "Micah! This was your idea, wasn't it? So tell me, how the fuck did this happen?"

Micah raised his hands, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be seen. "I don't know, boss! I heard about the train, I told you---that's it. My sources? They're loyal, you know 'em."

Dutch exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if he could will away the disaster they'd just endured.

"For now, we stay put. One of us needs to get back to camp, let the others know what happened."

"No, all of us need to go and get others to safety too, there is literally no one back there , only women and Pearson." Hosea interjected.

"And risk getting caught?"

"Dutch trust me , they are gone. They just came to shoo us away like they do when they are in the mood. That's it."

The Mexican was the first to stand , being the less injured out of all of them. "I'll go scout then , if it's clear , we leave." 

Dutch gave him a long look before nodding. "Be careful out there, boy."

With that Javier rushed out while others groaned and readied themselves. Arthur too, who had a bullet pierced on the side of his back limped towards the door. 

"Arthur, you good?"

"Yeah, Hosea. Just a scratch."

Arthur waved him off, his main concern fixed on getting back to camp as soon as possible. Standing watch near the entrance, he kept his eyes on the darkened horizon, waiting for Javier. But even as he scanned the treeline, his ears remained sharp, tuned in to the hushed conversation between the two leaders behind him.

"I just hope they don't start taking this more seriously," Hosea muttered. "It's already in the news, Dutch. The government's pushing this narrative, the hunt for outlaws. They're not taking us lightly anymore, and I fear in the coming years... it'll only get worse for us."

Dutch exhaled, his voice smooth, laced with quiet assurance. "Well... that's why I always think long-term, Hosea. You know that, right?"

The hidden truth drifted between them like the faintest wisp of perfume, undetectable to most, but to those who knew, it was undeniable. A plan, secret and simmering, lay beneath Dutch's words. No one questioned it. No one cared to. Those who did know--Bill and Micah, kept their silence, their faith in Dutch growing stronger with each spoken promise.

"But still," Hosea pressed. "We lost two men today. Today. And this is when things aren't even at their worst yet. Imagine-"

"Hosea, Hosea." Dutch chuckled, shaking his head. "We'll fight when the time comes. We always do. Right, boys?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

"There will always be a tug-of-war. Losses, despair, but don't forget the reward. The rewards."

Arthur's lips curled into a smirk, his spirit reigniting. Then, hooves. The rhythmic pounding of a horse cutting through the stillness. His pulse kicked up, a jolt of strength surging through him. Charles came to his side to look as well.

"CLEAR!"

Javier's voice rang out in the night.

"Let's ride, then." The raven-haired gunslinger announced, and with that, they mounted up, ready to head home while Javier and John stayed behind to bury Davey.

❀˖°

No, no, no---why the fuck is he back? They are back?! Only two casualties?

Why didn't the Pinkertons come to the camp? You gave them this address too-

Please, Uncle Cornwall, you can't possibly be disappointing me too! Fuck you.

Your breath hitched as you listened in horror, heart hammering in your chest while Dutch spoke with the others.

"No, we ain't movin' an inch from here. We lost two men today because of them. We ain't cowards! If we turn back now, it means we're weak. We stay put, it's unlikely they even know where the hell we are."

YES THEY ARE FUCKING SUPPOSED TO KNOW , YOU WROTE ABOUT IT.

Hope? Were you supposed to feel hopeful about this?

Were they even coming?

A hand clasped around your shoulder turning you around and without another word taking you inside the tent.

With an eerie calmness, he settled on the cot and took off his shirt, making you the unfortunate target of witnessing the bullet wound. "Come and fix it up, woman."

Your stomach twisted violently at the sight of the wound, raw, torn flesh marred with dried blood, the bullet still lodged deep inside. The sight alone made your knees weak, your hands clammy as nausea clawed at your throat.

"I-I can't, no. Please." you stammered, voice barely above a breath. The air inside the tent was thick, suffocating, reeking of sweat and iron.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. "You can and you will," he muttered, his grip like iron as he seized your wrist and yanked you forward. Your fingers nearly grazed the open wound, the warmth of his blood sending a sickening shudder through you. "Ain't got time for this."

You jerked back instinctively, a whimper caught in your throat. "Arthur, please, I-"

"Do it," he growled, shoving a knife into your trembling hands.

The cold metal burned against your palm, foreign and wrong, like it didn't belong there, because it didn't. You weren't meant for this. You weren't meant to carve into another person's flesh, to dig inside and pull something out. The very thought sent a wave of dizziness crashing over you.

"I don't know how-"

"You'll learn."

Your breath hitched as you looked down at the wound again, bile rising in your throat. Your body refused to move, every instinct screaming at you to run, to turn away and never look back.

Arthur let out a strained chuckle, humorless and low. "Ain't the time to go all delicate on me now." His voice was tight, his breathing uneven, but there was no mercy in his tone. Only steel. Only demand. "Do it."

Your fingers curled around the handle of the knife, the weight of it unnatural in your grasp. The tremor in your hands made the blade shake as you pressed it to his skin, hesitating, just for a second.

Arthur's entire body tensed. "Now."

You inhaled sharply before pushing the blade in. His muscles coiled, a sharp hiss slipping through his gritted teeth, but he didn't stop you. He didn't flinch. You, on the other hand, felt like you were going to throw up. The resistance of flesh against metal, the way blood welled up instantly, it was too much.

Your vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges of your sight. Your stomach churned violently, but Arthur's voice cut through the haze like a blade.

"Get it out."

You swallowed down a sob, fighting against the nausea threatening to spill over, and forced the blade deeper. Arthur's breath hitched, but he didn't make a sound. He just waited, still as stone, as you dug through muscle, through warmth, through something you shouldn't be touching.

The bullet came loose with a sickening scrape. Your breath hitched, your entire body trembling as you finally pulled it free.

Arthur exhaled, slow and deep, before tilting his head slightly, his voice rough but laced with something almost amused. "See? That wasn't so bad."

You barely heard him over the ringing in your ears. The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the ground, and you stumbled back, bile burning the back of your throat. Your hand quickly pushed a cloth on the wound to stop the bleeding.

Arthur simply leaned back, exhaling as if the agony of the last few minutes was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Meanwhile, you were struggling to keep your stomach from turning inside out.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Told you you'd learn."

Arthur let out a sharp breath, shifting on the cot before reaching for the small tin of ointment from the box. He pried it open with one hand, the scent of herbs and alcohol filling the space between you. Without a word, he dipped his fingers in, scooping out just enough before thrusting it toward you.

"Put it on."

You recoiled at the texture and smell. "Damn, it's gross-"

He shot you a glare, jaw tightening. "Don't make me repeat shit right now." His voice was edged with something raw, pain, frustration, or maybe just exhaustion.

Your hands trembled as you took the tin from him, the cool salve smearing onto your fingertips. The wound was worse up close, an angry gash torn into his skin, still oozing where the bullet had been. You swallowed against the nausea creeping up your throat.

Arthur exhaled sharply as your fingers brushed against the raw skin, his shoulders going rigid. He didn't make a sound beyond that, though, just clenched his jaw, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

"Faster," he muttered.

You forced yourself to spread the ointment rolling you eyes and looking away once again, your hands hesitant, careful. But when you pulled away too soon, he grabbed your wrist and guided it back. "You gotta press it in, make sure it sticks."

What the fuck is even going on? You weren't cut out--even prepared for this part of the day. You were supposed to be in the middle of being saved by the agency right now.

"Don't just sit there, bandage it up." You blinked at him, barely processing the words.  

You didn't move. Your body refused to function.

Where. Are. The. Damn. Pinkertons-

Arthur sighed, and before you knew it, his large hand was gripping yours, steadying the tremor in your fingers. He guided them toward  the roll of bandages nearby, his touch warm despite the cold sweat clinging to your skin.

"Here," he muttered, taking the cloth from your grasp when you fumbled with it. He pressed it into your palm, his fingers curling over yours, grounding you. "Just wrap it around. Like this."

This time it wasn't the whole ordeal that made your eyes prickle with fresh tears. 

It was memories.

Memories of him, the innocent friendship you both had. When he taught you how to use a gun, how to brush a horse properly... that same tone, that same patience. But now, it sounded so... foreign.

Still reeling, you let him move your hands, let him show you how to tighten the fabric around his wound. His body flinched beneath your touch, muscles tensing, but he didn't complain. If anything, he was helping you do it, his hands firm but patient as they guided yours.

When you hesitated again, Arthur took over, fingers brushing against yours as he secured the bandage himself, tying it with practiced ease. He finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if testing the tightness of the wrap. "See?" he said, his voice raspier now, exhaustion creeping in. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He always used to say this in the end....

This time you just couldn't digest the fact that he was the same boy...the nice caring boy all grown up , now a calamity in your life, the causer of all the other calamities. Grown into a selfish bastard.

You swallowed thickly, unable to speak. The sight of your stained hands, the scent of blood thick in the air, it was all too much.

Arthur must have noticed the way your body trembled because his hand, still slick with his own blood, reached out to grasp your wrist. "You did good," he murmured, voice lower now, almost gentle. "Y'can breathe now."

You didn't realize you'd been holding your breath. Fuck my life honestly. 

Today was a waste of breath. For fucking nothing.

 Arthur just leaned back on the cot, closing his eyes for a brief moment before smirking, exhaustion etched into every inch of his face.

"Not bad for your first time."

You turned away before he could see the bile rising in your throat. "W-we're not leaving, then?"

"Dutch said no."

"Wouldn't it be... worse if they come here? Abigail's conditio-"

"Nothin' for you to worry your head about."

Damn it---it fucking is!

On one side, you have to keep up this innocent act, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your body stiff with fear. The frustration on the men's faces, the anger in their voices, the sheer conviction in their words, it's enough to make you tremble to the bone. And then this, this fucking operation-

Your gaze flickers to him, his eyes shut, his face unreadable.

What... will he do if he finds out?

The aftermath of this plan might be more nerve-wracking than the actual act itself.

If even one person starts suspecting, if one seed of doubt is sown that it was you-

You'll be fucking dead.

Right? Would that even be worse than this?

Yeah. 

What the hell are you scared for? As if you have anything left to lose.

"Bring me something to eat... and a painkiller."

You don't argue and hesitate. You just exited, washed your hands, and hurried off toward Hosea, who's busy tending to the others. As you hurried back, food and med in hand, you kept your eyes down, avoiding the scattered looks, the hushed conversations, the growing tension that sat like a storm cloud over camp. Arthur was where you left him, eyes open now, watching you as you approached. 

If he ever found out-

You swallowed hard and forced a small, obedient nudge of a head as you set the food and pills beside him.

"Good girl," he muttered, taking them without another word.

You sat there, silent, hands curled into fists in your lap.

And you waited.

Did all your effort go to waste? There's no way you'll be able to pull off a stunt like that again. The perfect chance, gone, wasted. And for what? A half-assed result?

Why is he still here? Why are Dutch and Micah still standing?

"-Huh?"

Your head snapped toward his voice, your throat tightening. "What?"

"Where's Suki?"

As if on cue, she padded in, drawn by the scent of food, her tail flicking as she eyed the bowl in his hands. Before she could leap onto his lap, you scooped her up, holding her close.

"Always hungry, huh? You little sweetheart ." The so called sweetheart meowed to his words making you pissed. Don't respond to his ass- Arthur chuckled, the low sound so casual it sent a jolt of frustration through you. How the hell is he laughing, amidst all this? The least you could've hoped for was some distress, some flicker of fear in his eyes. Something--anything--to reflect the way he makes you feel.

Did you underestimate these men?....They really are the worst of mankind. But what are you supposed to do now?....

A gentle knock on the tent flap interrupted the tense silence, followed by a familiar voice. "Can I?"

A subt--not so subtle nudge from his leg pulled you from your thoughts, your eyes snapping up to meet his. There was no need for words, his gaze alone was enough to tell you what he wanted. Compose yourself. Hide the fact that you looked like someone barely holding it together.

Clenching your teeth, you adjusted your shawl, smoothing the fabric as best you could. Your hands instinctively moved to fix your hair and tug your blouse into place, ensuring you looked modest. Only then did he finally give John permission to enter.

"You doin' alright, brother?"

Arthur grunted, barely sparing him a glance. "Peachy."

John exhaled, shifting closer and settling onto the small stool beneath him. "Man... I don't, who the fuck are these sources of his, Arthur?"

His? Who?

"I ain't got a clue, but if Dutch trusts 'em, then-"

"That's what I'm sayin'," John cut in, his frustration simmering beneath his words. "Why does he? Why does he trust some two-day drifter more than us---us, who've been here, who've bled for this gang--"

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"...Been here longer."

Arthur let out a slow exhale, shifting slightly where he sat. "Ain't sayin' you're wrong." His voice was rough, edged with something unreadable. "Just sayin' Dutch don't like bein' questioned."

John scoffed, leaning back on his palms. "Yeah, well, maybe it's about damn time someone did."

"However all that happened but Mac and Davey....they were young, John. And now they’re corpses...jus' cuz we got caught, weren't careful.”

You swallowed with eyes on your lap as Arthur and John shared a mournful silence.

 John's jaw tightened as he shook his head. "Whatever, I'll keep an eye jus' in case and you uh...Take care and...g'night." 

So Micah huh?

John really saved you indirectly today.

"He...talking about Micah?"

Arthur put the bowl on the table beside him. "Hm. Don't say his name right now. I am done with today."

Little did he know, the morning after held much of a surprise for everyone.

❀˖°

The heavy thud of horse hooves stirred the camp like thunder cracking over calm skies. One by one, the gang spilled out of their tents to face the intrusion, Dutch at the front with his hands behind his back, calm as ever.

The only two missing were you and Arthur.

You had barely slept. Eyes wide open in the silence, heart pounding long before the sound of hooves broke the morning. The moment they echoed through the valley, something in you jolted. As if life, a new fucking soul was blown back into your body.

You kicked off the blanket, about to make a run for the tent’s flap, when a strong hand caught your wrist.

"I--um-I need to pee," you mumbled, trying to pull free.

"Wait... who's that-" Arthur stirred fully awake, his voice thick with sleep but already edged in suspicion. He was on his feet before you could say another word, stepping toward the entrance with slow, heavy strides.

Outside, a voice like smoke and mockery cut through the early light.

"Dutch Van der Linde. Ain’t it? And this is your gang? Finally have the pleasure of seein’ y’all’s angelic faces. Just look at you. What a nice, welcoming-lookin’ family."

"Name's Benjamin Kane."

The man grinned from atop a pale horse, clean-shaven and too calm to be friendly. His badge caught the light.

Benjamin dismounted slowly, boots crunching on dirt still stained from last night’s retreat. The air stank faintly of gunpowder and blood, a reminder that the land had not yet healed. He took his time, brushing dust from his coat like he hadn't ridden in on the ashes of their grief.

"You boys sleep well?" he asked, tone syrupy sweet. "Bit quieter here than it was last night, I’d wager."

Dutch stood tall, unreadable, but the men around him bristled. Javier’s jaw was tight. Bill wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye. Charles stood like stone.

"Ah, don’t look at me like that," Benjamin said, feigning a pout. "Wasn’t personal. Just a friendly visit, you understand. Pity about Mac. And Davey. Real shame."

"You smug son of a-" Bill stepped forward, but Hosea caught his arm.

"Let him talk," Hosea murmured, voice low.

Benjamin's eyes gleamed. "There’s the sensible one. Hosea Matthews. Dutch’s leash, right?"

He stepped a little closer, the calm in his voice growing thinner, more frayed.

"You think this is just another failed chase, don't you? Another ambush survived, another campfire lit in another Godforsaken patch of nowhere. But you’re bleeding, Dutch. Whether you see it or not. You’re leaking men, morale, and time. And there ain’t a gang in history that’s survived all three."

Dutch’s eyes didn’t flicker. "You done with your poetry?"

"Not quite," Benjamin said, pacing slowly in front of them like a preacher at a pulpit. "See, I came out here without orders. Just wanted to see the faces of the men who left two corpses in our path and still thought they were winning. And look at you, like ghosts clingin’ to cinders. And not just the gold, the supplies..." Benjamin’s voice dripped with mockery. "Heard you boys been looting women too... still holding onto that tradition, I see. The Word, right? Heard 'bout it."

That was what made Arthur tense. His whole body went rigid, his jaw grinding as his shoulders lifted in a slow, dangerous breath.

You caught those words through the cloth walls of the tent, barely, but clear enough. Something in you twisted, panic rising as you realized Arthur had stopped listening to the conversation outside. He turned to you instead, his shadow cutting the light in two.

You thought, just for a heartbeat, that he might walk out. That he’d let the storm pass. But then you saw his eyes. And you realized he was going to do something unthinkable.

"Arthu-wha--"

Your words barely escaped before, in one brutal motion, he shoved his bandana into your mouth, silencing you with a muffled cry. You thrashed, but his grip was iron, cold and relentless.

He forced you back onto the cot, which was creaking under your struggling body and his calm one. Rough rope bit into your skin as he tied your wrists to the frame, the knots tight and merciless. You kicked wildly, muffling screams never stopping, tears burning in your eyes, but he caught your ankles and bound them too, securing you as if he expected you to fight him forever.

His breathing was ragged now, eyes wide, his movements sharp with something that wasn’t just rage, something darker, more desperate.

He just stood over you, chest rising and falling as he looked down at you bound and trembling.

Dutch snorted, stepping forward. "The Word ain’t just noise, Agent. It’s a man’s bond. An outlaw's vow. Mock that again, and you’ll see what it’s worth."

The sound of rifle clicking behind the leader followed the quiet threat, making Kane roll his eyes.

"Oh yeah, sure," Benjamin said, grinning. "Your men and honor go way back, don’t they? Symbol of bravery, ain’t it? This time a daughter of some prestigious man got taken. (F/N) (L/N). God, poor bastard. That one made the rounds through the agency. But he stopped talkin’. Suspicious, huh?"

Dutch’s voice dropped to a growl. "Why are you here? Wanna finish what you started last night?"

"You could say that." Benjamin shrugged, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. "Look, there are women here."

His gaze flicked lazily across the camp before landing on Abigail, who stood half-shielded behind a barrel, visibly pregnant, her hands protectively resting on her belly.

"And I would hate," he said slowly, "to see young mothers locked in a jail cell, or worse. You know how our prisons treat women... especially ones without names, without men to speak for them."

He stepped forward, tone cooler now, more calculated.

"Look, Dutch... I’m not here because I want to be. Orders came down from above, men with polished shoes and clean hands who wanted this mess cleaned up nice and quiet. The ambush last night? Three agents dead. The headquarters is breathing down my neck for accountability. And not just some half-dead outlaw with a bounty poster no one reads anymore. They want something... symbolic."

His eyes flicked around the camp for just a second. He didn’t need to say your name.

"She’s not just some poor girl. She’s a message. A tidy little offering to calm the waters. A reminder that the Van der Linde gang doesn’t get to take what it wants without consequence."

He smiled like a man making a generous offer.

"So here’s what I’m offering. You give her up, willingly, and I walk. No further raids. No charges filed. The rest of your people get to keep breathing free air. Don’t take it personally, Dutch. This ain’t justice. It’s politics. She's the headline they need. And if I don’t bring her back, someone worse than me is gonna come tearing through here, and they won’t be offering deals."

Dutch’s jaw ticked, his silence stretched thin as his eyes followed Benjamin’s every step.

'Bastard probably gets paid filthy by the government to hunt us, don’t want the money to stop flowin’. Clever snake, livin’ fat off our blood.'

Beside him, Hosea leaned in again, voice low, cautious. "Dutch... it’s not worth it. If we play it right, we buy time. Let her go. We’ll find a way to fix it later."

Dutch didn’t answer right away. 'Mhm, well, we got the land anyway, so what's her use here? Hosea's right. His eyes had dulled into something faraway, calculating.

Benjamin watched them like a man enjoying theatre. "Tick tock, boys. Make it easy. Hand her over, and your family gets to keep breathing."

Then came a voice like thunder.

"Care to repeat that?"

The entire camp turned.

Arthur stood at the edge of the tent flap, shirtless, bandaged, and breathing hard. His eyes burned with something feral, something broken and livid and past the point of reason.

"Arthur--go back," Dutch said through gritted teeth, fearing the worst from the boy. Probably the first time in years he had taken him in. "I said, go inside."

Benjamin’s smile didn’t falter. "Ah, here he is. The symbol of honor, ain't it?. Just striking up a deal, Morgan. Talkin’ about the girl you took-"

Arthur didn’t let him finish.

His revolver was drawn before the next breath left anyone’s throat.

The gunshot cracked through camp, the sound sharp and final. Benjamin’s head snapped back, his body hitting the dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

And then the agents scrambled for their weapons, but Arthur was already moving, quick, brutal, another shot, another man down. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back, as if the weight of his choice had never even grazed him.

The gang erupted into chaos. Bullets tore through the air, the sharp ring of lead and fire filling the morning as Arthur cut through the agents like they were nothing more than brush in his path.

When the last one hit the ground, the silence that followed was louder than the gunfire.

Arthur’s chest heaved as he lowered his revolver, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. His hands were still shaking.

The rest of the gang stared at him, frozen, furious, horrified.

"What the hell have you done, Arthur?!" Javier’s voice was the first to break, sharp with disbelief.

"You just signed our death warrant!" Bill roared, his face twisted in panic.

Dutch said nothing.

Hosea’s gaze was heavy with something between heartbreak and rage.

Arthur finally turned his head, his voice low, venomous.

"They don't get to take her. Ever. No one! It's my wife y'all are talking bout' not some piece of gold that I get to give away for some half ass deal. Bought her 'ere to stay."

Smoke still curled above the bodies. The morning light had turned harsh, casting long shadows across the camp like something had broken.

Dutch stared after Arthur, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

"He's lost his goddamn mind!" he bellowed, slamming his hat to the dirt. "He’s gone crazy, Hosea! THE BOY HAS GONE NUTS! You see what he just did?! That was the Bureau!"

No one answered. Not right away.

Hosea stood rigid, eyes locked on the tent Arthur had disappeared into. Abigail pressed a trembling hand to her mouth as the girls quietly gathered around her, wide-eyed and shaken. Charles lowered his rifle with slow, solemn hands. Even Micah, for once, said nothing, his mouth tight, eyes narrowed in unreadable silence.

Susan stepped forward last, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her mouth was a thin line, and though she said nothing, the way she stared at that tent made it clear, if anyone else had done what Arthur just did, they'd already be six feet under.

Dutch turned and pointed toward the bodies littering the ground. "That there?! That was our death sentence! We had a deal! We had a way out! And now?! Now we’re gonna have the whole damn government crawling up our asses like termites in a coffin!"

He paced like a caged animal, hands in his hair, breathing hard. "Goddammit, Arthur!"

But Arthur didn’t respond.

He was already , into the tent, the flap swaying behind him like it hadn’t just closed on the future of every man still breathing outside.

And you…

You had heard everything. Every word. Every shot. Every scream.

And now, you were seeing everything.

The blood spattered across his bare chest hadn’t come from the wound beneath the bandages, it was fresh. Wet. Still warm. It painted him like war paint, streaked across muscle and skin in violent crimson.

That right there… was your last hope burning to ash.

He loomed over you, gun still in hand, fingers twitching from the kill. His boots stopped inches from your cot, and the air in the tent seemed to disappear with him.

"See that?" he growled, voice dark and shaking with fury. "They don’t get to walk in here and destroy my fuckin’ life."

You could barely breathe.

Your wrists ached from the bindings. Your heart pounded so fast it felt like it might rupture, but somehow, you were still alive. Still conscious. Trapped beneath the man who had just painted the camp red for you.

His eyes bore into yours, unreadable, wild.

"I’d lay a hundred more men down just like them," he hissed. "You hear me? Maybe now they'll shut the hell up about you. Maybe now they'll get the fuckin' message."

The gun tilted slightly in his hand, casual, like it belonged there, like it belonged to him.

And in that moment, you weren’t sure what scared you more.

The violence outside.

Or the man who had brought it in to keep you.

Arthur slid onto the cot, his body half-covering yours, slow and heavy like a storm rolling in with nowhere else to go. His shadow swept over you, blotting out the last flicker of safety.

His gun clattered to the floor, forgotten for now, but the weight of him, the danger, never left.

His fingers found the knot at your wrists, pulling at it, not with urgency, but with a kind of sick patience. Like he was savoring this. Taking in the sight of you trembling, your cheeks slick with tears, your chest heaving beneath him.

The rope loosened, strand by slow strand, dragging across your sore skin as he freed you, never taking his eyes off your face. His gaze burned, hungry, a man who’d tasted violence and decided it wasn’t enough, he needed you to understand why he did it.

He moved to your ankles next, working the knots free with the same torturous slowness, as if the struggle had been a gift, something he would miss.

"Look at you," he breathed, his thumb brushing away one of your tears, though it didn’t seem like he wanted them gone. "Cryin’ for me… or cryin’ for them? Mhm? Don’t matter. You’re here."

Before you could find your voice, strength, and recoil, he grabbed your face in both hands and crashed his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

His kiss was punishing, desperate, his teeth grazing your lip as if he wanted to consume the breath from your lungs. His fingers dug into your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to feel every ounce of his rage, his obsession, his twisted relief that you were still his.

He kissed you like a man clinging to the last thing he hadn’t yet destroyed.

And when he finally pulled back, his breath was hot against your lips.

"I told you darlin'," he whispered, the threat curled sweetly beneath his words. "Ain’t no one takin’ you from me."

─AN: Guys, doesn't it hurt to know that Cornwall at least sent agents and believed one letter he received from reader like literally, as compared to yall's daddy here, who just gave up? 👀 Interactions and ur thoughts bout the fic are always appreciated and a boost, so don't be shy, my pooks. To be added or removed from the tag list, u can always lemme know!

★ tag list: @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @replaythatrayrae @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @meheheasasa @sensitivegamergirl @jbrownta @mandalover2023 @ceza-141 @httpskuri @abigatorchomp @nalitali

[mushr00m-te4]

Springtrap coloring test!!+pride pt2 from Vincent/Davey :p

Just some member posting as usual but ty guys for being into these we love posting our silly doodles on here bhbxb :')<33

I colored some things for onceee- you proud of me? Jk anyway the pallet is free 2 use ofc ^^ first time rlly making one so might need a bit of tweaking but ya!! I🫀U guyss<33

[we-are-inevitable]

EHEHEHAHAAHHAHEHE PIDGE THIS IS DELICIOUS

👀👀

- @we-are-inevitable ✨

ok im gonna be real this took SO long because there were just so many ways i could've gone with it, but i think i finally got it - truth be told i'm not really sure where to send it plot wise, but i have an idea and i definitely have a snippet, so hopefully that's enough :)

summary: i kiiiind of wanted this to be canon-era but unfortunately blood banks weren't a common thing until like. after WW1. so it's sort of a modern era, but kind of in the way brennan lee mulligan describes the past in mentopolis - it's a vague, grimey present-like present with some grungey noir vibes. the existence of monsters are known but not normalized - they're considered scourges in need of removal, but due to the nature of monsters (most of them being very difficult to kill and very little being known about them) monster-hunters are in high demand. the best way i can describe it is like a modern witcher gig - they're considered DEEPLY taboo, as their trade involves interacting and disposing of monsters, so there are many rumours of them being cursed, of them picking up diseases, of them being so exposed to monsters that they might turn, etc etc. so then there's davey, sweet little boy next door davey, who tells his parents he's taking night classes when really he's gathering up stakes and silver bullets to go kill monsters (listen. the pay is GOOD).

jack in this au... he's gonna have issues. that's kind of a given. he's gonna really resent his vampirism. he's gonna have a lot of issues around control, around needing to be somewhere he can't hurt anyone, around absolutely refusing to harm another person even if it means he dies. obviously in this au monsters are not what people think they are - they're human beings, they're capable of thought, and as jack clearly demonstrates, they're capable of restraint. but since there's no research on them, no knowledge about them, and probably a lot of yellow-journalism on people like pulitzer's part, they're so feared that they have to live in hiding, constantly fearing the day they'll be killed. jack is desperate to escape new york and find himself a place where he won't be a threat to anyone (i think he's gonna have some tragic backstory about hurting a loved one and trying his damnedest to never do so again) and no one will be a threat to him - but due to him vampirically starving himself for so long, he's gotten sloppy. hence why davey was able to track him.

now i do like the idea of 'davey would do anything for his family' being taken to its absolute limit (read 'i pull the trigger (with my eyes closed)' by jac btw), so maybe he DID kill monsters for a bit, viewing them along the lines of animals rather than people, but i think maybe some Tragic Backstory Stuff led to him refusing to kill any more. but also. davey needs money. and no one really knows anything about monsters besides other monster hunters so uh. haha. well i'll just show you the snippet-

The blood-bag lands between them with a wet slap.

“Drink up.”

The steeliness of the vampire’s visage sloughs away as soon as the bag hits the floor. He stares, eyes wide and mouth dropped open – not out of hunger, but just sheer surprise. He glances from the bag to David, David to the bag, eyes narrowing as his sense overpowers his hunger.

“Oh, come on,” David huffs, yanking the stake from his belt and stalking forward. The vampire skitters backwards, fangs bared – until David crouches, stabbing one small hole in the plastic. The bag breaks with a burbly pop, and the blood oozes, dark and thick, onto the grimy floor. The vampire’s pupils go wide. “See? Hundred-percent real blood, fresh from the Port Authority Donor Centre. It’s O-positive, though, so don’t be picky.”

The vampire blinks slowly, entranced, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood – and then he winces, covering his face with his elbow and forcing himself to breathe through his shirtsleeve.

“What’s your game?” He snarls. David tips his head back and groans.

“God, I do not have time for this,” he mutters, rifling through his pack – if the vamp wants to starve, he’s welcome to it, but David’s on the clock. From the corner of his eye, he can see the vamp lean forward, his body arched and feline. “Ah-ah!” David snaps, raising his stake – the vampire shoots backwards, hissing with his fangs bared. “No closer. You show me your teeth, I show you my stake, got it?”

The vampire growls, his eyes turning venomous.

“So you are a hunter.”

“By trade,” David says absently as he pulls out a small urn – the vampire grimaces at the foul smell – and begins to sprinkle the ashes through the room. Wiesel hadn’t struck him as the kind of man smart enough to understand dust patterns, but David still puts in the effort to make it look as though a fight had taken place, as though the vampire had burst and scattered across the room mid-brawl. It never hurt to be thorough.

The vampire’s eyes widen.

“You’re a scammer!” He crows, sounding downright delighted, and David’s ears turn red.

“I’m working!” He snaps. “Just – drink your blood.”

The vampire still moves with caution, his body still wire-tight – but this time, he doesn’t talk back.

[kinderchaos]

KINDERGARTEN 3 FINAL(ish) OVERVIEW— MAJOR SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT⬇️⬇️⬇️

Okay to start off— I haven’t collected all the monstermon plushies yet, so the secret ending ( assuming there is one) is not a part of this review! ALSO. THIS IS ALL MY OPINION. YALL CAN AND WILL DISAGREE WITH ME.!! My words here are in no way the absolute truth and if you don’t agree then that’s great!! Anyways, now for the actual part…

Starting off with the positives:

The quality of this game is PHENOMENAL. The new art style, the animations, and generally just. Everything. It was SO good. You can really tell how much effort Sean put into the art.

The dialogue is off the chain funny . One of my favorite bits was when the Janitor beats up Monty and Stevie cutting in to reassure him. That and us stealing Stevie’s crutch and selling it back to Monty. Actually Stevie and Monty were a really funny duo in general. AND THE BANGKOK BIT GOT ME SO BAD

I LOVED the callbacks so much. It shows the fact that it’s a series and not a standalone game— the mentions of Penny, the old principal(s), the mentions of “underground tunnels” tying back to lore from the FIRST game (though I’m sure it wasn’t intentional from the start, lol)

Gameplay wise, the puzzles were fun— not hard enough to be annoying, but not easy enough to be boring. Also, thank GOD they added the Q to skip dialogue feature. Goodness GRACIOUS we needed that.

There’s definitely more. But I’m genuinely stuck. So down to the negatives:

Out of all the games, this one is my least favorite by FAR. I think I’m just not messing with the new characters the way I did in the past games? Speaking of which.

I’m not gonna dock points for the NEW game focusing on the NEW characters. But… the old cast… :( Jerome, Buggs, Billy, Ozzy, Ted… all for what. Davey? ALICE? Sorry I’m hating just to hate. I don’t fw Alice. Anyways. Yeah no I miss my babies.. and sorry babes Emmy isn’t cutting it. I like Austin tho he’s chill

The more lore-based the missions got, the less invested i became. Maybe it’s a me problem, but something about Davey and Alice wasn’t doing it for me. I also heavily dislike Linda. Thats a whole other issue though 🤦‍♂️ dgmw the lore itself was fine! Just about on par with the kg2 lore (kg1 has the best lore and I’ll die on that hill), but I think my main issue is with Alice and Davey themselves. Alice’s whole amnesia thing was giving Petra from mcsm. Actually Alice in general was giving Petra from mcsm no wonder why I don’t like her

Honestly I can’t think of another complaint (the game is GOOD), I just need to get used to this game being added to the existing canon. I’ll grow into it type shit. So I’m gonna use this section to complain about Billy not being in it again. Billy Billy Billy I miss you 💔 this ugly bitch Kevin isn’t cutting it 💔💔/lh

Overall. This game was awesome!!! I really enjoyed spending my entire day playing it, and I’m excited to replay it!! If you’re watching a YouTuber play it, I cannot stress enough to buy the game yourself and play it. I’m almost certain a lot of them will miss the callbacks and references to the last game, and will miss nonessential dialogue options that are worth going through. Also just to support the creators! The amount of care and effort that went into this deserves to be rewarded. Thanks for reading this far! And if you disagree try not to be too harsh I am just stating what I think about it. :3

[ruairisins]

RDR HC ' s : Arthur Morgan ( I ' m sorry )

Content warnings : Death / abuse mentions , nightmares , negative body image , grief , tuburculosis , isolation , etc . . . Themes : Angst , fluff ( ? ). . Character mentions : Arthur Morgan , John Marston , Abigail Roberts , Jack Marston , Hosea Matthews , Dutch Van der Linde , Charles Smith , Sadie Adler . . Extra mentions : Eliza , Isaac , Colm O ' Driscoll , Leviticus Cornwall , Angelo Bronte , Karen Jones , Molly O ' Shea , Sean MacGuire , Susan Grimshaw , Lenny Summers , Kieran Duffy . . etc

Arthur always tries to keep his rifleman gloves on , especially if leaving camp to run an errand , go on a job , or even just roaming . Whenever dirt or muck finds itself under his nails , he has flashbacks to Eliza ' s small cabin atop the valley . It brings back memories of himself , clawing at the soil atop Isaac ' s shallow grave in desperation to hold his boy one more time . -

He finds a certain comfort in wearing his worn out hat , the low waxed felt brim allowing him to shield his face from any prying eyes he doesn ' t need on him . -

( Post Ch. 3 ) He despises going to or being around any form of theatre or opera house as the dulcet melodies of the classical songs only remind him of the phonograph back at camp that now sits silent , gathering dust . -

( Post Saint Denis bank job ) Any form of sleep that isn ' t a quick nap against a tree only results in being plagued with horrifying images of Hosea ' s frail body crumpling to the cold concrete . Waking up in a cold sweat , he instinctively gets out of bed to go and fetch Dutch , only to sit back down in a dull silence as he remembers the man who would once comfort him after a nightmare when he was young was no longer the same man he followed around now . -

His desperation to save John and his family originates from when he lost his mother , father , and soon after , his Eliza and his boy . His fear of losing his brother only worsens after every death he witnesses around him - Jenny , Davey , Mac , Sean , Kieran , Lenny , Hosea , Eagle Flies , Molly , Susan : hell , even Colm , Bronte and Cornwall roots his panic deeper . -

Ever since he was a boy , all Arthur longed for was the sweet relief of death , being able to shut his eyes in peace and let his worries fade away . That was , until his TB diagnosis , which shifted his mind somewhere else . He was not ready to leave until those he cared about got out safe - Mary - Beth , Tilly , Sadie , Abigail , Jack , John , Karen - Hell , even waiting until he knew Jamie and Mary were safe before letting himself succumb to his illness . -

Arthur spent many nights by the fire alone , especially when he was younger , allowing grief to eat at him silently . He would think back on what could ' ve been a family - a way out of this life . He would curse himself for refusing to allow Eliza to handle a gun or teach his boy a thing or two about using a bow . He strongly believes his false hope for their safety and his blind loyalty tying him to the gang was what led them to die - and it consumes him on the rare nights he can let his guard down . -

John never could grasp why Arthur was so hard on him - why he constantly pushed the younger boy to be better , to be stronger , to be a man . Until they stood together atop the mountain only moments before his death . John then realized that when the older man would look at him , he didn ' t see a pitiful excuse for a twenty something year old man the way everyone else did , but that same twelve year old he claimed a brother fourteen years ago . And he knew. He knew Arthur was afraid . Afraid that John would end up like him . -

Loyalty means a lot to him because , when his mother passed away the only person he had was his father . Lyle was a drunken , abusive bastard . But on the nights they played happy family , when he was inebriated enough , a small pat on the shoulder or a grumbled ' good job ' got him through . When his father was hung , he developed a fear of abandonment. Which was why he was so strung up on Mary , refused to leave the gang despite Dutch ' s eventual mental decline and didn ' t allow himself to pass before he knew John , Sadie and Charles would be alright .

[sparkedblaze]

“or maybe they’ll find a body”

don’t mind if i do

under the cut 🫶

sarah, les, and davey holding hands while their parents go to identify him. sarah and les crying, davey clenching his jaw while he holds back the welling tears. forcing himself to ‘be strong’ because he feels it’s his responsibility. davey feeling like he can’t cry. telling himself he has to be the strong one.

he has one outburst when his parents come out, their own tears falling. jack was so young. david calls them a liar. yells at them. runs out. he spends the rest of the day roaming the city. he picks fights. he runs from the cops.

he doesn’t get home until well past dark. his parents hadn’t slept, more worried than usual.

the guilt davey feels when he realizes makes him toss and turn.

the grief doesn’t let him sleep.

jack kelly and rachel amber. “don’t be surprised if, some day, i’m just out of here.” a disappearance and a missing person poster. the hope that he really did make it out of there, ran off to chase his dreams like he always talked about. the hope that someday a postcard or a letter will come, postmarked from new mexico.

or maybe they’ll find a body.

[i-didnt-do-1t]

@drinkin-cherryschnapps Ty for the request :)

Sarah Jacobs delivered lace almost every morning. or. the Sarah and Delancey’s run in goes a little differently

(I wrote something longish? shock horror. Enjoy!)

cw violence

__________

Sarah Jacobs delivered her lace every morning. There was always several piles of it to fix, things that got dirtied or caught in drawers or ripped. No matter how many hours she spent on it, how many times she accidentally stabbed her fingertip with the needle, there was always more.

She supposed she couldn’t complain; it was work and it was bringing money in, even if was very little, but anything helped at the moment with her father’s arm wrecked and David on strike. There was something almost satisfying about being the bread winner, her and her mother, even if neither of them could win an awful lot.

But that morning, basket full of mended lace and doilies, she knew she’d made a mistake by ignoring the looming figure she could feel following her.

The lace was knocked violently from her hands. the basket landing amongst the muck and dirt. It was at least a days pay.

Sarah didn’t feel angry often, it was an unfamiliar stirring in the base of her gut, but it was there.

And the boy that had knocked it from her smiled. Something that would’ve been handsome if it weren’t for how cruel it seemed, sharp at the edges, lazy. He stepped forward and her lace was under his shoes, ground further into the mud. Dirty and ruined and unusable. The backs of her eyes burned. She tipped her chin up. She should’ve know he was trouble when he’d mockingly tipped his cap at her, when he’d called her ma’am in way that felt like an insult.

“What do you want?” Her voice was surprisingly steady, even to herself.

“Just had to get your attention, doll.” He didn’t sound like he was from the city, accent placed somewhere distant and further south. “See I heard you know my pal Davey.”

Sarah could only assume this is one of the boys David had mentioned amongst his ramblings about the strike.

His grin was arrogant. She wanted to hit him.

But Sarah wasn’t stupid, she read the papers and talked to her father and other girls that did shifts in the factory like she picked up occasionally. She knew she wouldn’t be stronger than the boy, the man, in front of her, who didn’t look like he could be older than early twenties at best. He looked strong despite that, a scar cutting the corner of his lip, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

She knew her next best option was to try and run.

She didn’t get far before an arm, big and sturdy, caught around her waist, and Sarah felt her feet just about lifted from the ground and the anger slowly started morphing to fear.

It was enough to have her kick out, to drag her stubbed nails along his forearms and aim the heel of her boots at his shins and legs. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, the bones of his wrists digging in just under her ribs as his grip on her loosened and he swore under his breath, words that had Sarah flinching slightly. Her mother would wash her mouth out with soap if she spoke like that.

But his grip was loose. Nearly nonexistent when she kicked again, a low muttered “fuckin’ bitch” when she struggled harder and the back of her head connected to his face. It was enough to shove away from him, now a second man, hair a little longer, face gaunter, stood just behind him. His jaw gritted and his eyes hard; a glint in them like this was fun.

Her breath was in her throat, she could hear it in her own ears as she shakily inhaled and exhaled, taking a step back, away from them, as the one that had grabbed her pressed a hand to his nose. It came away red.

They weren’t on the main street anymore, he’d had her long enough to roughly turn them to a side alley, dark and desolate and filled with old crates and boxes.

Her jaw was hard, mirroring the tension she could feel twisting through her body, making her feel sick with adrenaline, and she curled her hand into a fist at her side. She knew not to tuck her knuckle. It was stupid, she knew, but her back was to the dead end behind her. There was no one to run, and the two of them, both tall, and strong and terrifying, were filling the mouth of the alley. There was only one way out.

“You stupid ape.” it was low, made the one on the left quirk his lip up before she threw the punch.

It all happened in quick succession. The punch and the crack and the burning pain through her knuckles and up her arm as her fist connected with the rough brick. The way she cried out when there was a hand suddenly in her hair dragging her further into the alley while the other bled, eyes dark as he swiped at his bloody nose with the back of his hand.

Pain radiated across her skull as her hair was tugged again, holding her in place.

“You alright, Oscar?”

The man in front of her scoffed, his teeth were tainted red, a rivulet of blood running past his mouth, just down his chin. She watched the way it blossomed when it dripped onto his off white shirt.

“I’m fine.” It was bitten out. Oscar, apparently, rolled his neck, glanced again at the red on the back of his hand. “Who knew Davey fuckin’ Jacob’s sister could throw a punch. Like a feral fuckin’ alley cat, ain’t you.”

Behind her, the other man snorted. Sarah was sure she was going to throw up.

“What do you think Mo. I know we was fixin’ to find him. But this one is a little more fun ain’t she.”

“What’d Davey call himself. A pacif- a pacifist?” the one behind her said, Mo apparently, speaking over her head, he stumbled over the words slightly. “He ain’t gonna fight back. And Christ it gets borin’ when folk don’t fight back.”

Oscar grinned and his teeth were red. “And he ain’t the one that near broke my nose.”

Her breaths were shaky, like her hands, her knuckles on one hand were scraped and spotting blood, and the grip on her hair just enough to keep her attention sharp and neck forced up at an awkward angle, painful despite the adrenaline

“Y’know last person that broke my nose was my da. And I did his knees in with a bat last week.” It was conversational as he advanced forward and Sarah found herself backed into the chest of the man behind her. “But families complicated, ain’t it? You’re older, right? Oldest kid in your house.”

As he got closer she could see the raised red lines on his forearms, below his shirt sleeves, where she had scratched at him, not bad enough to draw blood, but visible.

She swallowed, tried to keep her voice steady.

“Yes. I’m the oldest.”

His smile was like a sharks, sharp and out for blood.

“Me too.”

His arm shot out fast, before she had the time to react or pull away, and he grabbed her wrist. The other, her free one, was all of a sudden yanked behind her, twisted uncomfortably up her back between her shoulder blades. Oscar grip was hard enough she could already feel the bruises forming, the mess of her knuckles presented in front of her as he held her hand up.

“Jesus. Girls are so fuckin’ dainty.”

His hand was huge on her wrist, his nails dirty and blackened, fingers ink stained.

“Like your lace. You made that, didn’t you. Darned it or some shit.”

“You ruined it.” She was surprised at how bitter her tone was, high pitched and furious and afraid, half hoping someone would hear, but the street itself was loud and bustling and they’d dragged her so far back now. “All of that- it was worth a days pay-“

He laughed, his grip tightened and she winced, her other arm twisted up further behind her when she jerked at the pain.

“If that was a days worth of pay maybe your brothers should think about goin’ back to work.”

“They aren’t strike breakers-“

“Nah, they’re communists.”

His hand move up to her first, thumb digging between her knuckles to wrench it open. She winced again, the rough calluses of his hands against the raw skin of her knuckles.

“Cept you ain’t gonna be makin’ no money if you can’t sew, right? Sounds real hard to do with broken fingers.”

Her blood went cold.

For a second it felt like time stopped as the implication fell over her.

She opened her mouth to yell, hoped that someone would hear her over the bustling of the street but a hand from behind her was slammed over her mouth before she could get the sound out. It was large and callused, and between the panic and the way it effortlessly covered half her face, breathing became near impossible, her lungs felt tight.

She could feel her eyes blown wide despite the way her vision darkened at the edges, a wave of nausea hit her and she jerked again, an attempt to buck off the hand that only cause him to twist her other arm further up her back.

She cried out, it was muffled. Her eyes burned.

“Two or three fingers Mo. How many you gotta use to hold a needle.”

The answer sounded bored, careless. “Save yourself the trouble and do the whole hand.”

She kicked again, and her heel connected with Morris’s shin. His grip did the opposite of loosen, tightening painfully around the lower half of her face with a mutter of “motherfucker,” before he raised his voice.

“Christ Os, just fuckin’ do it before she fuckin’ bites me or some shit.”

There was no warning. She felt the sharp hot pain before she heard the crack, hand numb aside from the throbbing heartbeat in her finger. Everything around her went quiet, a white noise muffling her ears as her visions blinked to black before coming back in a haze of pain. Her cheeks were wet, the hand against her mouth wet with tears.

“Fuckin’ tiny hands.”

She sobbed-

Then the white hot pain again. Like a shot of lightning through her hand.

She didn’t remember fainting but she must’ve, vision turning black and body slumping and arm twisting as Morris moved to try and catch her before she fell bad enough that her shoulder dislocated with the way it was pinned up her back. His hand had to move from her mouth but there was no chance she could make a noise loud enough to get attention if she tried.

“Ah shit. She out?”

Morris adjusted his grip to stop her from falling.

“Christ. Yeah.”

She was only vaguely aware as she was laid against one of the crates, back propped up against the brick. Between her blurring spotted vision, lightheaded and dizzy, she could make out two of her fingers, mottled black and blue. Her hand almost numb with how much it hurt.

Like white heat, so hot it burnt cold.

“What do we do now.”

“Tell Jacobs. Maybe he’ll go back to fuckin’ work. And Kelly’ll fuck off out west.”

Through her blurred vision, and the strands of loose hair in her face, Sarah watched as Oscar nudged at the lace on the ground with his foot till he found a clean one, less mud stained than the rest. He leant down and tucked it in his pocket.

Their voices got quieter as they reached the mouth of the alley.

“…is your nose still bleeding-“

“Shut the fuck up, Morris.”