#Godless land

[handhelld]

Some chibis i did for me friends :]

@silverops @peach-bombz

[labalambp]

[izel-scribbles]

I heard you were asking for sketch requests, and this wouldn’t leave my head

Malevolent Cowboy AU, Arthur and John are on the same horse, maybe they were running from something and Arthur saddled up first, but Arthur is driving, and John is like, “Wait a minute…,” and maybe he’s just quietly nudging Arthur’s arms to adjust their path, cause Arthur is stubborn, and refuses to switch, cause he can drive a horse JUST FINE, Akke is on John’s side with much skepticism

@ananxiousgenz (hii!!,) also asked for cowboy au so here goes :3

i can't fucking draw horses im sorry

:3333

and a scene from lea and @percymawce-arts's latest installment in their cowboy au!! go read it, it's so coolll

[ananxiousgenz]

HEY YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????? JARTHUR COWBOY AU TIME!!!!!

this one also comes with a bit of info for the beginning:

@percymawce-arts and I have finally given this monster child of ours a name!! from here on out, this fic shall be known as "When the Land was Godless and Free" (a lyric from the song foreigner's god by hozier)!

the chapters we are posting are like. severely out of order. we've just been going crazy behind the scenes (we keep getting good ideas and then discussing/writing them for literal hours, it's a great time). percy basically wrote all of this and i just did some minor edits and left all caps comments screaming about how fucking GOOD this is, so any and all compliments should be directed at him <3

and some trigger warnings: this chapter contains alcohol and some suggestive themes!!

@izel-reblogs and @ellamenop (if you guys want me to stop tagging you please lmk)

“Here’s to John and Arthur! Arthur and John!” Noel shouted, stepping up onto the bar and raising his beer, some of it sloshing over the side of the cup with the motion. “Freaky-ass, sharpshooting, vigilante crime-fighting extraordinaires! Without you two, those gangsters would still be shooting up this charming little town.” He flashed a wink and a gaggle of girls seated behind John giggled. John rolled his eyes. “To John and Arthur!”

“To John and Arthur!” the bar echoed, jovial sounds of conversation and rowdy drinking soon filling the space again. John smiled into his drink, only to choke and nearly fall out of his chair when Noel clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Get ready for a lot of free drinks,” he said, hopping down to the floor. “This town’s full of generous rich folks just waiting for a chance to throw some money around.” 

John groaned. “Does that mean I have to talk to people?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’,” Noel said, all easy charm and swagger as he leaned up against the bar next to John. “Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there’s one coming up behind you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath as a young blonde woman in a pink (and startlingly revealing) dress came up to the bar beside him. “That was fast,” he whispered to Noel, who barely managed to hide a snigger.

“Hi!” the woman squealed, her pitch akin to metal nails on glass. John winced. Voice aside, her general disposition was the near equivalent to staring straight into the afternoon sun, and the neon pink of her dress didn’t help matters.

“Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?” she crooned, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder as she smiled far too brightly (the whole blind sharpshooter gig tended to work better when only one of them was blind). 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I don’t-”

“It’s on the house for you, sweetheart. I’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. So, how about that drink?” She moved in closer beside him, her hand drifting up his neck and along his jawline. John was only beginning to think of how to politely decline when he felt a looming presence over his shoulder.

“Only if you buy for all of us,” Arthur said, not unkindly. But John had been traveling with him for long enough to recognize the hint of something else beneath the politeness. Not what it was, just that it was there. The woman giggled.

“Well, of course! Anything for our dashing heroes!” John glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. His face was set in stone, watching the woman like a hawk on a rabbit as she slipped a few coins into the bartender’s hand and waited for drinks in return. He looked… tense. Like he was a piece of rope, stretched to the verge of snapping, and if that annoying woman made one wrong move, he would.

Noel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “You must be a real hit with the ladies,” he murmured into his glass, looking Arthur up and down as he did so. Arthur paid him no mind.

The sunshine woman was not the last to buy them a round of drinks, not by a long shot. Plenty of flirtatious ladies (and a few flirtatious men), thankful patrons and impressed watchmen approached them, hoping to show their gratitude by buying them a shot or a glass of whiskey. Arthur didn’t leave John’s side the whole night, quick to shut down any attempts at seduction by feigning ignorance to the intentions of anyone who approached them. But John knew better. John could see the hard set of his jaw, how he gripped his glass too tightly whenever a scantily clad lady twirled her hair around her finger, or a rambunctious young cowboy leaned too far into John’s personal space. It made John’s heart flutter wildly in his chest. 

The drinks only slowed as the saloon emptied out, leaving Noel, Arthur and John three sheets to the wind, laughing uproariously at something stupid as the morning sun came over the horizon (Oscar had retired hours before, drunker than anyone at the bar much, much faster. Arthur had squeezed his shoulder and bid him goodnight with an expression of concern that made John’s heart clench).

Noel wiped tears from his eyes and looked over John’s shoulder, out the window behind him. When he saw the beginnings of daylight creeping over the horizon, he sighed. (He watched them, Arthur and John, engaged in a quiet but passionate discussion about something he couldn’t parse. They were both flushed and leaning in too close, chuckling at every other word that passed between them, oblivious to the rising sun or the empty saloon or Noel’s hands on their arms, steering them towards their room at the inn upstairs).

John chuckled (he did not giggle, he chuckled) as Noel tossed him into their rented room, with Arthur following soon after. He tripped over a trunk near the foot of the bed on his way in, falling forward onto the mattress with a gentle oof. Arthur laughed at him much too loudly for whatever time it was. 

“Alright, you two,” Noel said, trying to hold back a laugh, “wash up and go to bed. God, I should’ve never given that toast, you’re both insufferable drunks.”

“Oh, shhhhhhh,” Arthur hushed, pulling John out of bed by his wrist. John leaned fully against Arthur in an effort to stay upright. It mostly worked. “You loooooove us,” he laughed. Noel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the fond expression off his face. “You keep telling yourselves that.” He wiped his nose and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight, you two.” Then he closed the door, and it was just them. John and Arthur, Arthur and John. 

“Okay, come on,” John said after a long stretch of silence, inelegantly turning Arthur in the direction of their shared washbasin and mirror. Arthur giggled a bit as John tried to move him forward, mumbling some drinking song under his breath that John didn’t recognize (maybe it’s a British one, John thought lamely). They tripped over each other's feet a few times, but ultimately made it to the edge of the sink without completely falling over. 

When they did, John braced his hands on either side of it with a tired sigh, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and a flush to his cheeks from the alcohol, but otherwise he seemed in decent condition. A few cuts and scrapes, some new and some old, and his braid was a little out of sorts, but nothing really concerning–

Then all the haziness of the alcohol and the late night was gone because Arthur’s full weight was at his back, his warmth permeating the fabric of John’s shirt and vest. His hot breath fanned across John’s ear and jaw, his eyes fluttering closed with the weight of inebriation. John inhaled shakily, suddenly brought back to shifting bodies and whiskey and fireworks with such vivid clarity it could have been real.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. John was drunk. Arthur was drunk, he could barely stand up straight, for fucks sake. He was just using John for support, falling asleep on his shoulder, and… 

And pressing his nose behind John’s ear, ghosting his lips over the back of his jaw. Breathing his name with a pained expression. John’s own expression matched, half lidded eyes never leaving the mirror, tense and pained and wanting, oh-so deeply, for the one thing he knew he couldn’t have.

Despite himself, John’s eyes slipped closed. His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving his body as Arthur hands came up to rest on his hips. His head tilted, granting Arthur access to more of his jaw and neck. And Arthur took it. He didn’t kiss, but he skimmed. Barely there, almost not real, deniable. Like a spirit. Like a gut feeling. Like instinct.

“John…” Arthur breathed. John felt a shiver work its way down his spine at the sound of Arthur’s voice at the base of his skull, reverberating in his head like it was meant to be there. It took every ounce of will that John had to keep the small moan building in the base of his throat from escaping.

“Arthur,” he answered, voice hoarse and quiet. He wanted to open his eyes. Wanted to see himself in the mirror with Arthur over his shoulder, arms around him, nosing at his neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to press warm kisses into his skin. Or maybe to bite. To draw blood. John had never been shown a difference between violence and love. Maybe they weren’t so different. He hoped so. He wanted… 

He wanted to see the look on Arthur’s face. Would it be like it was that day in the cabin? Shocked and a little confused but mostly needy. Yearning for something. Yearning for John. Or would it be darker? Dark like the clouds before a storm, the kind of storm that drowned you with rain and filled the air with electricity. Would it be dark like he was holding back? Like John was? 

But John didn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wanted to know. If his eyes stayed closed, he could pretend Arthur’s gentle, delicate touch wasn’t there at all. Just a taste of something more, enough to leave John wanting. Enough for him to imagine. Enough for it to stay a pleasant, alcohol induced dream. If he opened his eyes it would be real, and it would have to stop. And John did not want it to stop.

“John,” Arthur murmured, his voice just above a whisper now. “Open your eyes.” The timbre of it was deep, so much deeper than John had heard it before. How could he have possibly known? How could he know John so well in so little time? So completely? The moan John was holding on to finally slipped past his lips when Arthurs grip on his waist tightened, ever so slightly. “John,” Arthur choked. 

“I can’t,” John whispered as Arthur’s fingers moved from his hips, leaving a burning heat behind in the shape of Arthur’s palm. They trailed up and up, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt as they went, making his breath hitch. Up to his open collar, nails dragging across John’s collar bone and hollow of his throat. Until they wrapped ever so gently around his neck, the thumb coming up to guide John’s jaw this way and that. John was breathing hard, now.

“Why?” Arthur asked, pressing himself closer, still, to John. John whined.

“I…” I want to. God, I want to. Make me. “Please, Arthur, don’t make me. Please, just–”

John gasped when he felt Arthur’s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his hand flying up to grip Arthur’s hair, his shoulder, something. To hold Arthur. But he was stopped by a strong grip on his wrist, which guided his hand back down to the edge of the sink, holding it there. Pinning it. 

“John,” Arthur whispered. John’s chest was rising and falling like Akke’s after a long sprint, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s. Arthur’s thumb caressed his knuckles, white with the strength of his grip on the sink.

“Please,” they said at the same time. John’s brow furrowed, his lips hung parted in anticipation. His mind swung wildly from the present, between Arthur and the mirror with a hand around his throat, to the cabin, pressing Arthur to the wooden floor, pinning his wrists above his head. The burning momentum between them suddenly halted by John’s fear, like a landslide on the track before a train. Now the train was out of control again, brakes screeching against wheels that just wouldn’t stop, sparks flying. Sparks like fireworks. Sparks like live wires. Sparks like exploding gunpowder.

But then the warmth at his back was gone. Along with it the hand at his throat and the one  pinning his own to the sink. The teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder and the hot breath on his skin vanished, leaving only a stark coldness where they’d been before. John sighed, whether in relief or disappointment he didn’t know, and opened his eyes.

The flush on his face had migrated down his neck and chest, which was exposed now (when had Arthur done that?) and heaving. The ‘light sheen’ of sweat was beading at his temples and brow now, falling in drops down to his jaw, along the bridge of his nose. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide and his neck was bare. 

And Arthur, leaning drunkenly against the wall behind him, arms crossed, expression chilly. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was red like the first hints of daylight in the sky. But it was the hard set of his mouth and brow that made John shiver.

“We should go to bed, John,” he said, voice still raspy. A needy, sad little sound rose from John’s throat then, and John’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to force the offending sound back in. Arthur swallowed and turned, ready to head back to one of the twin beds awaiting them. Side by side and yet still miles apart. “And don’t worry.”

“It’ll all feel like a dream, tomorrow.”

[annaofaza]

Hear me out: atheist Rem Saverem.

I get why 98 decided to make Rem Christian. I really do.

However, manga Rem never exactly tells Vash to not kill other people. To not throw his life away? Yes. To not treat lives lightly? Yes. (I guess not killing other people is implied, but hey.)

When she has an issue, she leaps into action, and is not above lying or hacking official government databases. I fully believe if SEEDS tried the Tesla experimentation on the twins, she would have not have hesitated to protect them after making a promise that it wouldn't happen again. If protect means harm, yes.

I find it interesting, then, that manga Rem doesn't seem to really believe in or call in a god for help—even at her most desperate hour, she prays to Alex to give her strength.

And that's evocative of the philosophy she passes on to Vash: to protect and have faith in humanity.

I sometimes hear very religious people wondering how one decides to do "the right thing" without a specific creed. What is your moral compass, then? What guides you?

It's what we owe to each other. It's the people we love. It's getting to that tomorrow.

To be sure, putting your faith in a deity is as much as a toss-up as betting on human race. Rem has seen shit. Vash has seen shit. But they both put their lives on the line, every time, to save humanity because they believe it's worth saving.

[justawrites]

Me when I give Kallamar character growth and let the coward who would've sold out his siblings to save his own skin become the protective/vengeful big brother

(I live for Kallamar and Narinder interactions pls anything angsty or tragic or fluffy with them and you will have me eating out of your palms they mean so much to me-)

This was a quick drawing I was trying a new coloring style don't mind the bg I just threw it together

(Tumblr don't ruin the image quality challenge)

Spoilers/explanation under cut

Anyway this is for God in a Godless Land, and Kallamar is by this point a Bishop of the New Faith. Narinder, on the other hand, converted to the godless' faith- so does not worship any gods at all.

That means for Narinder, death is permanent, and if he dies, the Bishops and Lamb lose him before they really even have a chance to make amends :) after all, the Lamb doesn't have access to the godless After........

[woodlouseonastring]

i just realised val really did get the last word. her soldier ended the first narrator of this story, and ended the narrative of the lives of the people in the old gods world with it

[justarandomlambblog]

mmm thinking about an au where Narinder runs away after being defeated and eventually finds himself being taken in by a kind soul in a distant village beyond the borders of the Old Faith. He begins to learn how to just... be, after a rocky start. Slowly easing into village life, taking over the kind person's role once they get too old to continue working (Narinder quickly realizing he himself isn't aging) and somehow accidentally fitting himself into the role of this person's son.

Years pass by and he's fully settled as a member of this godless village, unaware of the power vacuum left by the crowns and the war the Lamb (& Co, he's unaware that his siblings have been brought back) are fighting, watching the generations being born and aging. Maybe a whole generation has come and gone in the time he's been there, and over those ~100 years he becomes a pseudo-leader/protector for them.

Maybe a stranger comes to the village one day. A stranger from outside. Narinder was once a stranger from outside too, and like the kind soul who took him in he does the same, and something... starts between them. Something warm, something he's never felt before. Painfully aware of his own mortality, yet.... a family sounds nice. He's watched everyone around him start their own, he's even helped widowed parents and orphaned children....

So he starts a family. And they're happy.

Until they're not.

The power struggle from the land of the old faith spills over their borders, wannabe gods looking to expand their power, and in the dead of night Narinder's peaceful little village is attacked.

so much is lost- not a kit, thankfully, Narinder protects them with everything he has, and by now he has discovered he can still use magic so protect them he does. But the village is under attack and Narinder's partner is among those who are lost.

He lashes out with his magic, essentially rotting every heretic in the village alive in his grief, and afterwards they rebuild with a few dozen new graves, well cared for, with Narinder pretty solidly stepping into the role of leader. He doesn't introduce the idea of gods to these people- they're his people now, and they don't need gods. He can take care of them himself, god or not.

Those who are capable of magic, he teaches to use it. Those who are not, he teaches to use weapons and runes. He won't let the outside world harm them again.

Fast forward ~15 years, the village is thriving and the people are happy. His kits are teens/young adults now and his people are capable enough to defend themselves, so he's started joining hunting parties and trade groups, interacting with other villages outside of the Old Faith lands (they're spread apart, and Narinder's village is at this point the most prosperous... due to magic reasons, not that Narinder will reveal this). He very, very much refuses to go anywhere near the Old Faith's lands, and has in no uncertain terms forbidden his kits from even approaching the border.

No one knows who he really is. Unfortunately, skeletons don't stay in their graves when the Old Faith is involved.

Narinder is away with a trade group when the Lamb and the Bishops, who are searching for a rogue heretic faith that attacked their cult, stumble upon the village. It's the only one for miles, having been days since they've seen another village (Lamb laments the fact they can't just teleport out here, since there's no warp stones set up out here). The villagers are cautious but friendly- very clearly not warriors, but clearly not about to lie down and let themselves be harmed.

They talk amongst themselves, knowing the people out here don't speak their language, when someone greets them in their language. It's Narinder's oldest kit, a polite thing who definitely plays the rules on their lines; "Father says we cannot go into the Old Faith lands but he said nothing about inviting them to dinner." Ofc this kit has no idea who these people are, and they have no idea who she is, but she greets them nicely and lets them know her father is the village's leader and they cannot offer anything more than water for the road but there is room at their table if they would like to join them.

The Bishops and Lamb are tired and have been on the move for weeks now, trying to hunt down the rogue heretics who managed to escape, and honestly, dinner and a place to safely sit sounds nice, and it's not like any of them can actually be killed if things go south (Lamb would just bring them back and they know it). So they agree to stay.

And then Narinder returns. Impromptu family reunion :)

[tarbuchyloewenthal]

Avowed Tinfoil Hat Time

one tiny lore tidbit that is fairly obscure, and actually might have a lot to do with the story of avowed is that the emperor's scepter has an adra jewel which stores the souls of past aedyran kings and queens.

this comes into play in a couple of lines with sargamis from the barbarian gamescom footage, when the player and the oracle speculate a bit on just why the emperor would send our envoy in particular.

could the ancient souls in the scepter, y'know the major icon of aedyran heraldry

could the ancient souls have communicated to the emperor that our godlike envoy might have some connection to the living lands. and could that connection go all the way back to the godless and the origin of the two major ethnic groups in aedyr? both the meadow folk and wood elves are said to have originated in the far north.

north, vitally, being the direction in which lies the living lands. was there some calamity that caused the godless to flee and become the far distant ancestors to the aedyrans?

i don't quite think the timeline would match up, but if it does. . . oh boy oh boy oh boy

[xxspidercatvaper420xx]

I'm so normal about malevolent cowboy au

[handhelld]

Working on some redesigns of my personal ocs! Lucke finally serving as he deserves

(Design sketches below)

I love my eccentric lil bardbird

[niyayagi]

what do you mean me translating a chapter for 12 hours straight and putting there unnecessery swear words is not art

are you sure you saw my joke about penguins

[izel-scribbles]

For the cowboy AU could you do a redraw of Brokeback Mountain scenes, but with the Malevolent Cowboy AU? (Technically not cowboys but close enough)

on it boss 🫡

(i think @ananxiousgenz and @percymawce-arts are gonna like this lol)

[ananxiousgenz]

MORE MALEVOLENT COWBOY AU GUYS!!!

welcome back to yet another chapter in this glorious little au of ours!! @percymawce-arts and I have been suuuuuper busy behind the scenes writing and like. we have some absolutely killer ideas that we cannot wait to share with you!! so enjoy this sad little scene for now <3

TRIGGER WARNINGS: alcohol consumption/drunkenness, fighting, references to murder, references to child death

and for tagging, @izel-reblogs @ellamenop and @platypus-with-interests I hope yall enjoy this just as much as you have with the rest <3

The moment he entered the cabin’s sitting room, John knew that something wasn’t quite right.

The shadows were all wrong. At this time of day, the sun usually cast soft shadows into the sitting room that left the table and couch awash in warmth and golden light. But the shadows were harsh, stark, cutting through the couch and leaving the table shrouded in darkness. As if the world itself knew that something was wrong. And something was wrong.

For one, Arthur was slumped over the table in the far corner, shoulders racked with either laughter or sobs, John couldn’t tell. For another, there was a bottle of whiskey clutched in his right hand, more than half empty. There was no glass in sight.

John hooked a finger over the bandanna covering his face and pulled it off, hanging it quietly beside his hat on a rack near the door. As he did so, he stared long and hard at Arthur, studying him, debating whether he should approach him. In a relatively short time, John had already seen a great many things from Arthur: bravery, conviction, intelligence, compassion. Drunkenness, however, was a new one, and he had no idea what to expect from Arthur with half a bottle in his system. It didn’t look pleasant.

After a long moment of chewing on his thumbnail, John decided he was more concerned about Arthur than afraid of him (but only by a thin margin, he realized) and took a step in his direction. He tried to step lightly, but the damn floorboards decided right then would be the perfect moment to creak beneath his feet. Arthur’s head snapped up the moment he heard the noise, clearly not drunk enough to lose touch with his instincts. John froze, like a gazelle suddenly caught in the gaze of a lion.

“John? Izzat you?” Arthur slurred, eyes darting sightlessly across the room.

“Yes, Arthur, it’s me,” John replied, forced to exhale in order to speak. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing before that moment, and now that he was he tried to keep it level as he inched closer to the table, little by little.

“Oh,” Arthur sighed, and he sounded almost disappointed. “‘S funny,” he mumbled through tears (there were streaks of them running down his red cheeks and his eyes were puffy, he’d been crying for a while) as he took another swig of whiskey. “Thought you were someone else.” He clutched the bottle to his chest the way one might hold a precious child.

Despite himself (or, perhaps because of the nerves) John chuckled, “Might I ask who?”

“‘S’name was Parker.” Arthur sniffled and then stared solemnly at the tabletop, picking at a loose splinter of wood with shaking hands. “M’old partner.”

“Oh,” said John, halting in his motion towards Arthur. His fists clenched, his hackles rose and he was beginning to suspect he wanted no part in this conversation. He was about to turn tail and leave when Arthur started talking again.

“He was a good man, y’know. Reallll…. tough. Strong. Kind, too. Lot like you.” He nodded emphatically to himself, as though confirming information someone had questioned the truth of. As though he was proving something to himself.

John swallowed. “I’m sure he was.”

“Saved my life, way back when. I was…” Arthur waved away a painful memory with an unsteady hand and made a faint sputtering noise. “Back in Boston. I was jus’ drunk all the time. Made the stupid-ass decision to head out here. Thought it would be easier to die in a cattle stampede or from th’ heat or s’mthing.”

John still wasn’t sure where this was going, but it was the most Arthur had ever willingly shared with him about his past, so maybe he wouldn’t leave just yet. He, slowly, quietly, pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down.

“‘Was drunk and in debt at well near every bar in town,” Arthur continued, a small smile spreading across his face as he had another swig from the bottle clutched in his hand. “Was fixin’ to get myself killed by debt collectors sooner than by the drink, I reckon. Parker found me one night. I was… inna bad way. Real bad. He said I looked like… like I’d hit bedrock, and–,” Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. “‘Course he was right. He was always right.”

Arthur went quiet for a moment as a few more tears escaped his eyes. He wiped them away roughly on his forearm and sniffled again.

“And?” John prompted gently after a long moment.

A cruel laugh tore its way out of Arthur’s throat, making John flinch. “And you killed him.”

Arthur’s gaze rose from the table to look John dead in the eye. There was a vicious fire burning in that dark and stormy expression, like a bonfire, barely contained. It left John frozen in place again, his breath caught in his throat and any words in his defense stuck along with it.

“You shot him, f’r nothin’.” More laughter bubbled out of Arthur, along with tears. “F’r a mission that didn’t even exist! Just bam–,” Arthur mimicked shooting himself in the head–, “gone. Dropped like a… like a fucking ragdoll!” Arthur doubled over suddenly, dropping his head into his free hand as giggles made it impossible for him to speak properly. “You, you killed the man who saved my life! Made it worth living again!”

John got up out of his chair and slowly began backing away. “Arthur, I-”

“You killed him!” Arthur yelled, lifting his head from his hand. The laughter was gone, now, and had been replaced by fire in Arthur’s voice that matched his expression, fueled by the whiskey and grief he had already thrown onto it. John opened his mouth to say something else, but abandoned that plan to duck instead as a half-full bottle of whiskey was hurled at his head. He managed to dodge it in the nick of time, watching as it sailed over his head and shattered against the cabin wall behind him with a crash. Glass fell in pieces to the floor and whiskey stained the wall dark, dripping and slowly soaking into the wood like blood into fabric.

Arthur’s eyes were wide and wild as he stumbled out from behind the table towards John, who was beginning to wish he had never even returned to the cabin in the first place as he continued backing away, nearly tripping over what little furniture they had as he went.

“You… you fucking… He’s dead, he– she’s dead. Gone, just like him. They’re dead, and it’s all because of you! It’s all… your fault…” And for a moment, John could have sworn Arthur wasn’t talking to him, the way he whispered it, his voice laced with a pain that John had never heard from him before. “All your fault…” he said again. But then the anger was back, the expression burning like fire in his eyes as he scowled at John. “All your fucking fault! Fuck you, John!” Arthur shouted, spitting the words out like snake venom as John felt a wall begin to close in behind him.

Behind the panicked, animal fear of the moment, John’s mind caught on something in Arthur’s drunken rambling. She. Gone just like him. They’re dead. He was no longer just talking about Parker. A woman, perhaps? An old love, a young flame put out too soon? Or… or a girl. A child re-emerging from the fog of Arthur’s mysterious past. Someone who had died… because of John? Or someone else? It didn’t make sense. John didn’t hurt women or children as a personal rule, a piece of his early life that the cruelty and anger of boarding school and Larson had never been able to fully scrub away. So then who was Arthur blaming for her loss if not him?

“Arthur, who the fuck is she?!” John finally snapped, words finally coming unstuck in his throat as his back was pressed against the wall. Arthur stumbled forward and furiously grabbed a fistful of his shirt, the sour smell of whiskey on his breath completely overwhelming this close.

“She deserved better than this, you selfish–,”

“Arthur, please. I don’t even know who you’re talking about, would you just tell me-”

“You killed her too!” More tears were sliding down Arthur’s face now. At such a close distance, John could see them glinting in the dim light as he was yanked forward by his shirt.

“Who, Arthur? Who did I kill?!”

“FAROE!”

“ARTHUR, WHO THE HELL IS FAROE?!”

It was like a gun had gone off in a crowded saloon. Arthur’s mouth closed so quickly that John almost swore he heard a tooth crack with the motion. Both of them were breathing heavily, and Arthur stared at John with an expression that melted from one emotion to the next like wax off a candle. From confusion to recognition to a look of such agonizing horror and grief that John’s heart broke at the sight of it. Arthur released John's shirt like it was a hot iron burning his hand and took an unsteady step backward, mumbling an apology about alcohol and short tempers, and John could see the beginnings of a fresh wave of tears bubbling up in Arthur’s eyes.

That name. Faroe. It clearly touched a nerve with Arthur, some old hurt he had never quite healed from, some loss that had never scarred over. It almost seemed to… scare him. John had never seen Arthur Lester so clearly terrified as he’d been in that moment, when the fog had cleared and he’d realized what he’d said. It made the hair at the back of John’s neck stand on end, made his jaw clench and his breath catch in his lungs. Anything that could scare Arthur like this… John couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be.

Arthur swayed back and forth for a moment, a dead, brittle branch rocking in a great wind, until he finally snapped, falling gracelessly to the floor with a broken sob. John reached out, whether to catch him or comfort him he didn’t know, but stopped short. He had never been soft or gentle, never good at providing comfort to people who needed it. Never been comfortable with people crying or being vulnerable, but…

For Arthur, he would do it. He didn’t quite understand why, but it was the fact that it was Arthur Lester, a crumpled, sobbing mess on the floor before him, that convinced him to slowly lower himself to the floor beside him, listening to the choked sounds of his agony with a bleeding heart of his own.

Even then, John still hesitated to reach out. Connections only caused pain, he’d learned that the hard way. But he just couldn’t help himself. As much as he liked to be aloof and mysterious and pretend he was above human connection, he cared far too much for the people around him. For Yellow, Noel, Oscar, even Larson, in some fucked up way. For drunken, angry, grieving Arthur. It was the thing that always ended up getting him in trouble. But for Arthur…

John reached a careful hand around Arthur’s shoulders. “I… I’m so sorry, Arthur.” Even if he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, it was true. He was sorry Arthur had gone through something so painful, sorry that he was hurting now. Sorry he couldn’t fix it. Sorry he’d killed Parker.

To John’s surprise, Arthur leaned his head into his shoulder almost immediately, shivering with the force of his sobs, following the offer of comfort like he’d been starving for it. He smelled like cheap whiskey and salty tears and clung to John like he was an anchor in the white-water rapids of his grief.

It didn’t come naturally, at first, comforting Arthur. John’s spine was ramrod straight and his arms were stiff, his expression schooled carefully into something mildly pained but mostly indifferent. But Arthur took what he could get, clinging and sobbing and squeezing despite John’s stoicism. But the closer Arthur got, the more apparent it became that their bodies would fit together better if John just moved his leg here, held his arm here, shifted Arthur’s leg this way. The longer Arthur stayed, the more courage John’s hands had in moving, gently massaging the back of Arthur’s neck or running his fingers through his hair, stroking a light line up and down his spine. The same soothing motions he used for Akke, the ones he’d probably learned from a mother, somewhere, once upon a time. Some instinct buried deep in his subconscious, an instinct to care. Finally resurfaced by seeing Arthur Lester in need of it.

Eventually, Arthur had ended up halfway in John’s lap, legs thrown across John’s in a tangled sort of side saddle. His eyes were pressed into John’s neck, the last of his shuddering cries fanning across the skin there. John had graduated from soothing touches to soothing sounds, shhs and I knows and you’re alrights whispered into Arthur’s auburn hair. They’d been rocking back and forth, back and forth, slowly for the past long while. Finally, Arthur’s cries became hiccups, became shuddering breaths, until their little cabin was quiet again. There was a bluebird singing outside, somewhere.

“Arthur..?” John whispered, tentatively. Arthur inhaled sharply, his frown deepening. John held him tighter.

“Please don’t ask,” Arthur managed, near silent. “Please don’t–,” he hiccuped, on the verge of tears again, and John resumed his gentle ministrations in his hair, shushing him.

“I won’t, Arthur,” he soothed. He let his lips fall to the crown of Arthur’s head. Not a kiss, but something intentional nonetheless, punctuated by a puff of warm breath against his scalp. “I won’t ask.”

[jaratedeguadalupe]

dukexiety is recognizing remus would probably keep a virgil figurine in a jar in his room

[justawrites]

School notebook doodles :D

Whatever Lamb is saying Narinder dgaf fr