#Hanover Fiste

[lichexe]

[nockergeek]

[tomoleary]

Bernie Wrightson "Hanover Fiste” from Captain Sternn (1981) Source

[3lix13]

#cartoonist #kayfabetober Day 12 prompt: Roid Rage - took the opportunity to analyze some Bernie Wrightson behavior... #RoidRage #kayfabetober2023 #kayfabetober #HeavyMetalMagazine #Dreadstar #CaptainSternn #HanoverFiste #RoidRage #KitchenSinkPress #CopicMultiliner #PenandInk #inking #study #sketch #inkdrawing #berniewrightson #RunningOutofTime @jimruggart @ed_piskor @cartoonist.kayfabe

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Hanover Fist - Hungry Eyes

[myvinylplaylist]

The Wild Life Music From The Original Pictures Soundtrack (1984)

Promotional Copy

MCA Records

[maliktomlinson]

🌿 Take Me Higher Than I've Ever Been by crimsontheory @ireallysawanangel [51k]

Harry is pretty simple. He goes to work everyday, comes home, then watches Netflix with his cat. And if he happens to have a tiny little crush on his coworker, then that’s just his own business.

🌿 Crave** by dimpled_halo @comebackassholes [90k]

All eyes are on Louis Tomlinson to bring new talent to save Hanover Records from the mess the previous executive left behind. His newest artist, Harry Styles, is charismatic and everything Louis needs to revive the label. It’s up to Louis and his team to make Harry the star he was born to be. When Harry and Louis come face to face, it isn’t the first time they’ve met, and their worlds are about to be turned upside down.

🌿 Young Gods by sincewewereeighteen [77k]

“Why don’t you stay?” Harry looked down at him and snorted. “What?”

“You’re not my type, Louis”, the boy rolled his eyes sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his boots.

“Says the man you just had sex with”, Louis pointed feeling smart, but Harry was one step ahead of him, with the answer on the tip of his tongue.

“You see, if you were my type, I wouldn’t have”, Harry winked, cheeky as hell. “I would’ve gotten to know you first.”

“Bullshit”, he accused the boy not letting it show how intrigued he was. “How can you know I’m not your type if you don’t know me?”

“How about I list five things about you to prove I’m right and if any of them are false I’ll lie down again.”

“Ok. Go.”

the one in which Louis is a model and Harry's supposed to be a normal guy... Until he isn't

🌿 School Of Extraordinary Lovers by @stylinsoncity [191k]

harry is a third-year witch and violinist at Laitswold, the only magical academy in the UK, with dreams of taking on the world, and hopefully breaking the centuries-old curse on his family while he's at it. he does not dream of facing off against his childhood rival and duet partner, but louis is back in town after six years abroad, so that's exactly what happens.

🌿 One Last Time by @smittenwithlouis [24k]

“I mean it, Harry, this is the last time,” Louis breathes out as Harry kisses down his neck.

“Sure,” Harry mumbles into his heated skin.

The action makes Louis shudder. He hates how good it feels. He knows he should be revolted. Disgusted. But god does it feel so damn good.

Or: Louis is a werewolf, and Harry is a vampire. They’re supposed to hate each other, but they’re too busy fucking to care.

🌿 Where I Burn To Be by pleasinglouis @pleasing-louis [143k]

“That’s right. I do own the skies. And you wanna know why?” he sneered. Without his boots on, Louis was a fair bit shorter than Harry, his eyes pretty much level with Harry’s chin and his socked toes bumping into the boots of the other man, close enough that Louis could make out the tiny scar on Harry’s brow and the individual shades of emerald in his irises. He was handsome, but that only made Louis hate him more. Heart thumping heavily against his sternum and his hands balled into fists, Louis lifted his chin defiantly and plastered a coldhearted smirk across his lips. “Because I’m the best goddamn pilot here.”

aka the Top Gun AU

🌿 Like A Melody In My Head by sarcasticinfluentry [60k]

A college marching band AU in which Harry is just trying to get through his first semester of college while pining over the hot drum major, Louis is trying to ignore his feelings for a certain curly-haired freshman, Zayn is trying to become less guarded, Liam is trying to be patient, and Niall is trying to make his dad proud.

🌿 Now You Know Me (For Your Eyes Only) by nadinecestmoi [77k]

au where harry and louis are solo artists and they’re not exactly friends per se but they’re friendly, know each other from industry parties and things like that and there’s always been this weird unspoken sexual tension between them and louis’ always kinda confused bc isn’t harry the biggest ladies’ man in the industry?? and one day harry asks louis to collab with him and of course louis says yes even tho he’s kinda surprised and harry plays the song for him and louis is completely blown away by how beautiful it is and it’s a love song and he’s like damn whoever this is about is lucky as fuck bc it’s clearly written from personal experience so they spend all this time together recording and it’s super bittersweet bc they click right away and it takes louis about three seconds to realize he has a huge fucking crush on harry but on the other hand harry clearly had someone in mind when he wrote the song so the last day of recording comes and louis’ like “thanks for having me on the song” and harry just shrugs and is like “well it just seemed fitting bc the song is about you”

🌿 Cold As Ice by larryspillows [76k]

Two famous boys, one passion. Two hearts, one home: the ice.

Or, an ice skating ff where the two most famous skaters in the world are forced to skate at the same rink. The only problem: They hate each other. What could go wrong?

🌿 take my hand (and my heart and soul)** by bananasandboots @anylessreal [45k]

The one where Harry hasn't spoken to his best friend in sixteen months and can't remember why.

Total Fics Read: 10

** rereads

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home Pt 6

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Tension, cursing, smut

Word Count: 6,743

A/N: The long awaited chapter of this! With a new job under my belt it's become easier to write. Have fun my Arthur stans!

Nervous fingers tensed and uncurled endlessly around the worn leather reins, something Arthur had been doing since he left the humidity of Lemoyne behind to the cooler, crisper air of New Hanover once again. The familiar pines and jagged peaks of Ambarino appeared in the distance the closer he and his horse approached. 

He inhaled the fifth cigarette he’s had in the past two hours. The earthy taste long gave way to bitterness and ash, and all it achieved was the burning ache in his lungs. The damn leaf stick did nothing to soothe his nerves. 

The closer he got to your house, the more his heart pounded. The more his stomach roiled. The more his thoughts screamed at him to turn around.  But he kept going, kept moving. Kept along the path he’d become all too familiar with. 

The conversation played in his head. He planned to keep it short and simple; a quick explanation that didn’t give too much away, but enough to hopefully not keep you wondering about him. He tried hard not to think of how you’d react. Would you be disappointed? Sad? Angry?...Maybe relieved? 

He stopped himself short of that thought, knowing he damn well shouldn't even be considering what you'd feel. This visit would be final. Cutting the cord and leaving you to live the life you intended if he'd never intervened. 

But you'd be dead if he hadn't intervened the first time... 

He sighed heavily, flicking the half-finished cigarette to the ground. Strangers came and went all the time in his life, stumbling across them in their endeavors before they requested some odd favor or another. Sometimes there would be a second encounter, maybe even a third. None of which ever led to this point. 

His stallion’s head perked, ears pricked forward as if recognizing where they were, just before Arthur veered off the main path toward the little homestead. The horse nickered in excitement, and Arthur almost smiled. His steed had made a friend of the mare, and a small pang followed knowing they too would no longer be...friends. 

It was only a short moment before the house loomed through the trees. The stallion naturally tried to tug toward the barn in the back, but Arthur kept the reins steady, steering them forward to the front of the house. “Sorry, boy,” he murmured before coming to a halt just before the porch steps. He stared up at the house, his heart suddenly racing beneath his ribs. His hand reached for his satchel, subconsciously wanting another cigarette but instead found purchase on a bottle neck. He pulled it free, uncorking the whiskey and taking a swig, the flavor immediately washing away the remaining taste of the cigarette. 

What was wrong with him? Needing courage to simply talk to you was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. He put the alcohol away and dismounted, slowly trudging up the steps to the front door. It occurred to him that he didn't even know if you were home or not, and he probably ought to have checked the barn for the mare beforehand. 

He hesitated with the thought of what if your husband was home too? That would be beyond awkward. 

He pulled the screen door away, raised his fist and knocked once, twice, three times, and waited, his ears straining for any movement on the opposite side. It was quiet, and for some reason that made his anxiety worse. He was about to turn around when the door creaked open. Arthur stood rooted, his eyes snapping to your figure in the threshold. 

His breath caught, suddenly forgetting everything he meant to say. Since his realization last night, you had been in his thoughts whether he wanted you to or not, it was just hard to push away. 

But as soon as his eyes met yours, a rock settled in his stomach. There was a stoic, cool expression on your face, lips pressed in a thin line as your gaze shifted slightly to break away from his. There was a subtle change to your expression, one that reminded him of...apprehension. 

“Hello, Arthur,” you said in a tone void of all familiarity. “May I help you with something?” 

The reaction caught him off guard. “Uh,” he huffed out, eyes briefly sliding to his feet. “I...wanna talk to ya about somethin’. May I?” 

There was a brief hesitation, but you gave a small nod and stepped aside, gesturing for entrance. He released a small breath and stepped through the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the familiar interior. He'd gotten so used to the warmth and the air filled with a savory scent, that it surprised him it was absent this time around. The door closed, and his attention moved to you. 

The way you moved was both stiff and swift, gliding over to the window overlooking the sink. The counters were bare, no pot simmering on the stove. The air, as cold as it was, felt thick with tension. Or was that his imagination? 

The silence grew, and Arthur couldn't muster up the words. He stared at your back, your shoulders hiked up as you pressed your hands against the edge of the sink. Every inch of your body was tense, as if you were just expecting bad news. Have you somehow figured out his intention for this visit? He highly doubted it, but he had to wonder... 

No, no more wayward thoughts. He mentally scolded himself. Just get over it, you idiot. 

Taking a breath, he said your name. “I wanna tell you something...” he started out. 

The speed of which you whipped around to face him caught him by surprise, your face alight with anger. “Have you come to tell me that you're a criminal on the run from the law?!” 

His breath punched out from his chest. His first instinct was to deflect, but from the look on your face, this wasn't a speculation. You'd somehow found out the truth.  

A fleeting memory brushed his mind. A man of the name Jimmy Brooks in Valentine who recognized him simply because they were both in Blackwater during the failed heist. Arthur chased him down, nearly pushed him off a cliff and helped him back up at the last second, but not without leaving a permanent impression of his character. 

He couldn't do that to you. Hell, he couldn't even fathom having an inkling of a harmful thought toward you. 

What could he do? Nothing. Nothing rational, really. There was no talking his way out of this, no threat to hang over you for holding a heavy truth. With the looming pressure of the Pinkertons on their heels is what drove them further east, how likely would it be that everyone would have to up and move AGAIN? 

Would you turn him in? 

You stared him down expectantly, as if waiting for the defense. Instead, he took a deep breath and finally responded. “So, you know.” 

“I know,” you repeated, your glare sharpening. 

“How?” He asked. 

“I was just in Blackwater, with my cousin. I saw your wanted poster,” every word slid out heated. “I can't believe I let you into my house, multiple times! Were you planning to rob me, kill my husband or—” 

“No,” his answer was sharp, but his posture remained still. “I...” he trailed off, wondering exactly how to even defend his actions for his repeated visits. 

Your eyes narrowed. “I don't believe you,” you hissed, hands gripping the edge of a nearby chair. “Your poster said you committed some heinous crimes, how am I to believe you just came around for—for stew?!” 

More than stew, he wanted to say. But that was pointless to even bring up. His gaze kept steady on you, observing the anger that was nearly tangible, rolling off you in waves. It churned his stomach the way you stared daggers at him, and he inwardly scolded himself. It shouldn't matter. Hell, this process might've just made it easier for him to cut it off now between the two of you, before it got more painful for either side. 

“Y’ gonna get the Pinkertons?” He asked before the question even fully formed in his mind. “Turn me in? I'm sure that $5,000 reward would be more than enough for you n’ Frederick.” 

Now it was your turn to be caught off guard. You reeled back on your heels as if his words slapped you, your eyes widening for a fraction of a second before returning to that cold hard scowl. “I should,” you growled. “From what I've heard, you and your...gang caused a lot of mayhem and death.” 

Arthur gave a half shrug. “Never said I was a Saint,” he chuckled darkly. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

“Disappoint? More like horrify!” You exclaimed. “All this time I've had a wanted man in my home,” you shook your head. “I should've known after that day...with the O’Driscolls...” 

The memory of the bloody massacre that occurred just outside of Valentine flickered to life. The shock on your face when you’d learned he killed at least a dozen of them and got away with non life-threatening injuries. 

“Only to find out you’re no different!” 

That caused Arthur to jolt. “I ain't nothin’ like those Irish bastards!” He exclaimed. “They kidnap n’ kill for fun, n’ a lot worse if they get the goddamned chance!” 

“And you don't?!” You demanded. 

“Course not,” he growled. “I'm mean, nasty, an ugly sunova bitch, but I don't kill for fun. I don't take pleasure in none of that.” 

Your brow furrowed, and there was a second of hesitation before you spoke, “But you've hurt people. Killed. Robbed! How does that make you better than them?!” 

Arthur scoffed. “I never said it did,” his arm snapped in the air with an exasperated flourish. “But I don't tolerate the O’Driscolls. I got no hard feelings about killin’ them that day.” 

You said nothing then, your mouth set in a hard line as you stared hotly at him, body tensed like a bowstring. “And why do you keep coming back here?” You demanded. “Trying to make friends and rob me in the night?!” 

“I said no already!” Arthur snapped incredulously. “If that were my plan, I would've done it weeks ago!” 

“Then what reason, Arthur?” You repeated. “What about me captures the interest of a notorious outlaw?!” 

Arthur took a deep breath. “Nothin’ with ill intent,” he grumbled. 

“So, what? I'm to assume your intentions were noble, then?” You sarcastically quip. 

Arthur’s gaze locked to yours. “I ever gave you a reason I was here to take advantage of your kindness?” 

The tension in your body loosened a touch. “No,” you admit, your brow furrowing with thought. “No...y-you've been nothing but kind.” 

Kind was not a word he'd ever use to describe himself. And he wondered again what was the purpose of continuing this argument, to convince you despite his background, his intentions were nothing nefarious. 

The glimmer of common sense once again touched his mind. He should've left with the first accusation; to leave you believing he was just another monster to make the severed connection sting less. But that thought bothered him more than he'd like to admit. 

“But how do I know you're not fooling me?” You asked, the tone in your voice softer now but your face was still tense. “You said you're mean and nasty, but...you've never acted that way toward me.” 

Arthur folded his arms across his chest, his eyes shifting to the worn floorboards. The answer burned in his throat, with every thought and realization that appeared in the last twenty-four hours, but he kept it clamped tight. 

The silence stretched between the two of you. He knew you waited for him to answer, but his response would be the second most illogical part of this day. Lord, why didn't he just leave it be and stayed put in Lemoyne? This trip was a bad idea, not only risking sight by the Pinkertons, but also further involving himself with you when he meant to just end it? 

He was stupid, an utter imbecile. 

The creak of the floorboards caught his attention, and he looked to see you take one step closer, an inquisitive look on your face. “Why, Arthur?” You pressed. 

He gritted his teeth, looking away again. His heart began to pound, and his fingers itched toward the satchel for another cigarette, or a gulp of whiskey, whatever found its way into his grasp first. 

“Arthur, will you please answer me?” You took another step, your figure appearing in his peripheral. 

His breath shuddered. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he finally said. “Or you'd hate me even more.” 

Without waiting for your response, he turned away to face the door. But before his hand rested on the knob, a soft and warm grasp wrapped around his forearm. 

“Do not walk away without finishing this,” you said with a fierce growl that surprised him. He flicked his gaze over his shoulder to you, noting the determination on your features. “I called you my friend and friends don't do that to one another.” 

“Friend?” He expelled a harsh, humorless laugh. “After all that you found out about me, you'd still call me that?” 

“Answer the damn question, Arthur Morgan! Why would I not believe you?” you countered. 

Arthur flinched for a split second, and his heart began to hammer. You uttering his last name when he’d only revealed his first just confirmed the revelation of his truth. Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone? Why couldn't you just let him go? 

Physically, you had no true hold on him. Not that he'd make an attempt to hurt you, but he could easily rip himself from your grasp and hurry out without a second glance despite what you'd say or do to pry an answer. 

Emotionally? It was like that hand on his arm gripped his heart. The silent plea that lingered behind your hard, impatient gaze. The hard line of your mouth as you stared him down. It was as if you were somehow compelling him to stay without even saying a word. 

God damn it. 

It was like his walls slowly crumbled as his body turned to face you again. But he couldn't look in your eyes to even admit this to you, because he didn't deserve to. 

“Maybe...” he began, staring at your feet from beneath the brim of his hat. “Because I'm a damn fool in thinkin’ you'd remain nothin’ but a stranger to me.” 

There was a second of silence. “What?” You asked, confusion coloring your tone. 

His chest heaved, the lingering effect of those cigarettes still tainting his airways. Or maybe that was the nervousness that made it suddenly harder to breathe. “At some point, I...fell...for you.” He finally admitted quietly. 

The silence stretched for more than a few heartbeats now. Blood roared in his ears at a rhythmic rate as he waited for a response. But there was none. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, traveling up your body until his eyes were level with yours again. 

You looked absolutely dumbfounded. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted as if whatever words you were trying to say were snatched away. He waited for your response. The denial, the disbelief. The reminder that you were married. The demand to get out of the house so he would never have to even shadow your doorstep again. 

The silence once again stretched, becoming heavier by each passing second. The more he waited, the more turbulent his stomach became. He wasn't sure what was worse; his admittance or our absolute silence. He'd much rather you explode on him in anger than this. 

“Comin’ here today was a mistake,” he finally murmured, once again attempting to turn towards the door. Your grip tightened. 

“Arthur...” your voice was barely audible. 

“I know you ain't deaf,” he said. “Cause there ain't no way you wanna speak to me after that.” 

“Arthur, hang on,” you said again, louder this time. 

His head swung to look at you. “Why?” He demanded. “If you had any sense, you'd be tellin’ me to leave!” 

That hard stare returned as you pursed your lips for a moment. “Was that the reason why you showed up today?” You asked thickly. “To tell me...that?” 

“No, I came here to tell you I was leavin’,” he clarified, finally able to give the reason. 

“Leaving?” you repeated, the tone in your voice seemed...offended? That confused him. 

“Yes,” he gritted out, mentally shaking clear of the brief bewilderment. 

“Why?” 

The sigh he emitted may as well echo around the entire damn state. “Why d’ you think?” he asked flatly. “Can’t stay in one place too long, or else risk gettin’ caught. ‘Sides, it ain’t worth the trouble stayin’ when...” he trailed off as the next words halted just behind his lips. When the realization of his feelings toward you would end in nothing but a quickly dashed dream. 

You sucked in a breath then. From the look on your face, it was clear you knew what he meant, and he wasn’t even sure how to feel about it anymore. He’d done the deed, and now it was time to move on. Leave this God-forsaken state behind and return to that little peninsula he wasn’t sure if it were marginally better. 

No, not by any means was Clemens Point any better than...than here. 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur turned again, reaching out to pull the door open. The handle felt too cold even in his gloved hand, and it seemed like the damn thing stuck for a second before finally giving way. 

“Wait,” 

For whatever reason he paused, looking over his shoulder at you. At that moment you took a few steps closer. The anger had since melted away from your features, but a look of...something else...replaced it. It was a familiar look, but he couldn’t place the emotion. 

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, the door creaking open further. 

“I...” you audibly swallowed, eyes closing for a moment before opening again. Your voice dropped low and rough, as if you were on the verge of tears. “I don’t want you to leave.” 

Those words froze him in place. He recognized it now, what was traversing through your mind. Shit, he’d seen too often over the years, but had become numb to it when it wasn’t relevant to him. When love and romance no longer held a place in his life. A look of longing. 

Hosea’s words echoed in his mind. I know that look of longing. He spun around. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand why all over again, when you drew closer, only a mere half-foot between the two of you. Your eyes were wide and shining with a penetrating stare. A jolt shot through his heart when he was suddenly reminded of the early morning he found you crying by the fireplace. 

And it occurred to him then, he never wanted to see you cry over another man again. 

His hands, his damned hands, acting as if detached from his mind, rose and slowly settled on your hips. You didn’t move from his touch, your own hands appearing to rest lightly on his chest. 

The silence weighed like the thick morning mist in Lemoyne. His skin tingled pleasantly from your touch, as if awakening a sense that had long since lay dormant. A single tear slid down your cheek, and his right hand automatically raised to wipe it away, his palm lingering against your soft, warm cheek. 

“Arthur...” you sighed thickly, your face leaning into his touch. “Please...” 

Don’t leave. 

The unsaid phrase rung in his head as if spoken out loud. His lips pursed and the internal war raged again. He may not be a good man, but pursuing you would certainly tip the scales more against him than they already were. He didn’t deserve you, and you didn’t deserve an unruly outlaw to steal you away from an honest working man. 

But the way you stared at him spoke legions.  

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and you inched closer, the unspoken plea growing more intense on your face. His breath caught. 

“Y' need to tell me to leave,” Arthur whispered roughly, the hand on your hip flexing. Beneath the pounding of his heart, he hoped you’d take that one last chance to banish him from your life entirely. 

“No,” you said firmly despite the glassy sheen in your eyes. “I want you to stay.” 

He took a deep, stuttering breath. Morals be damned, he couldn’t just walk away now. Not when you had him like this... 

Arthur dipped his head at the same time you stretched up. Lips met, warm and soft, foreign and familiar. The last of the brooding thoughts all but shriveled away the moment the kiss began, but others crashed over him like a wave. It’d been too long without another in his arms, too long since he sought the comfort of another body. 

But you weren’t a body. 

His mouth moved, slowly and gently against yours. It was a tentative, almost nervous move, as if waiting for your refusal. None came though as you reciprocated, matching his movement with your own. Breaths were exchanged between slightly parted mouths with each passing second, the kiss deepening with a slow, heady ascension. The hand on your cheek slid to the back of your neck, tangling into your tresses. 

Every nerve in his body sparked to life in a way he’d forgotten. A rush of excitement and anticipation flooding his senses. He parted from you with just mere inches, his forehead resting against yours. It seemed both of you were out of breath. 

Your hands still fisted in his shirt, but your body was pressed to his in the most pleasant way. 

There were no words, not a single phrase to even describe how he was feeling that moment. His lips tingled, his mind buzzed. All he wanted to do was to hold you, to kiss you, to... 

Your hands suddenly left his chest and you stepped free of his grasp. In the moment of loss and confusion, thinking he’d somehow overstepped, you took his hand in yours and began to lead him to...oh. 

His heart shot to his throat as the door next to the guest room opened, revealing a bedroom not too different than the other, but somehow it seemed more personal, more lived in. He didn’t really have time to ponder the similarities when the door shut, and your arms slid around his neck. 

Arthur’s eyes widened, his stomach knotting as he gazed down at you. There didn’t have to be any acknowledgement of what was on your mind. 

You wanted...him? 

That couldn’t be right. 

His eyes flicked to the immaculately made bed, the quilt soft and clean. That’s where you slept every night, alone...mostly. 

And you wanted him to take you in that very same bed. 

His teeth grit, suddenly remembering that damn dream. How you felt on top of him, the way his body responded to your touch and kiss. Would it be the same in real life? 

What should it matter, he was not worthy of your desire. It was a miracle you didn’t push him away after that kiss. 

“I...” he trailed off. 

You smiled sweetly at him; the sort of smile that made his insides knot even more. “I want this, Arthur,” you assured him, arms briefly leaving his neck to grasp his hands, placing them at your hips again. 

Do you? He wanted to ask, but he felt the warmth of your body through the dress you wore. His eyes fluttered shut as the meaning sunk in. You trusted him, even though just minutes ago you were screaming at him about his chosen life. Maybe it was your naivety, or your loneliness, the urge to have company in the absence of your husband, or— 

“Arthur,” 

His eyes shot open again, seeing the smile had softened on your lips. 

“I promise you, I want this,” you repeated sincerely. “But if you don’t, then—” 

He wasn’t sure what possessed him, but he silenced you with another kiss. It was rougher than the first, and the gasp of surprise from you was quickly replaced with a soft moan. Your arms were around his neck again, and he tugged you flush with his body. The knots of anxiety dissipated, replaced by a familiar sense of arousal. He leaned into you, forcing you to back up until the resistance of the bed met the back of your legs. 

His hand tangled in your hair once more, holding you to him as he pushed past your lips, exploring your mouth with a clumsy eagerness. Your leg hitched up as your ass rested on the edge of the bed, your inner thigh resting against his hip and damn if that miniscule movement didn’t excite him. 

What was he, a teenager? 

He stopped, fully aware of how his body was positioned over yours. He pulled back slightly just to say, “I want it, I guess I’m jus’ waitin’ for you to stop me,” he growled, finally admitting his thoughts of turmoil. 

“I won’t stop you,” you said breathlessly, a hand resting in this stubbled cheek. “I... need you.” 

He groaned at your words as arousal swelled in his lower stomach, gathering beneath his slowly tightening pants. His other hand soon busied, resting upon your chest to fiddle with the buttons of the dress. One by one he popped them open, revealing the thinner fabric underneath. A brief, clumsy moment passed as the two of you managed to peel the infuriating thing off, throwing it to the side and leaving you in just your undergarments. 

He paused then, eyes slowly roving over your body. He’d seen women in their undergarments before. Hell, living in a camp with next to no privacy, it was a familiar sight. A sight he never paid any mind to. But you...you were different. 

A memory surfaced, one that brought a myriad of emotions. Last time he had a woman like this was... 

“Arthur?” 

He blinked, bringing his focus to you again. The smile on your face was warm, and your hand reached up to cup his cheek. 

“Touch me where you’d like,” you said. “Anywhere.” 

Arthur let out a shuddering breath, erasing the prior thought from his mind. He lowered his gaze again, down your neck to the stretch of exposed skin between your collarbones and the swells of your breasts outlined by a chemise, the curvature accentuated by the corset on top. 

Anywhere... 

He raised a hand to tentatively cup your cheek for the briefest of moments before he trailed his fingers down, tracing the curve of your jaw, down the line of your neck, to the soft skin of your chest. You were warm, so warm...your heart fluttered beneath his palm. 

The corset was simple; clasps down the front. Slowly and deftly, he popped each clasp open, revealing just how sheer that chemise was. 

Your chest rose in a deep breath, and he couldn’t help but to give a slight smirk. He knew these damn things could be difficult to wear at times, but what lay beneath was a sight to behold. As the restriction fell from your waist completely, your back arched to him, your hips sliding deliciously across his, and he sucked in a breath of his own, momentarily distracted by the sweet friction. 

You smiled up at him encouragingly, but a mischievous glimmer briefly sparked in your eyes. You were playful. 

And that only pushed him further. 

His hands grasped at your hips, sliding his fingertips underneath the chemise to explore more of your curves. The fabric bunched up with the further his hands went, exposing your navel to the underside of your breasts, until your arms raised, and he obliged by sliding it off completely. 

Before he could even admire your top half, your hands reached to shimmy your underwear down, and Arthur could only stare as more skin was exposed to him, until you were completely bare. 

He stopped completely then, a breath caught in his throat to take your body in its entirety. Everything about you looked so beautiful; soft skin and curves, your nipples puckered in anticipation, the shadowed V between your legs a beckoning paradise. 

His eyes slowly met yours and he could see a slight flush to your face, but there was no shyness. You didn’t hide any part of you from him. 

His cock pulsed at the mere sight. 

“Are you just going to stare, Arthur?” you said in a soft but challenging voice. 

Hell no. But God damn if his thoughts didn’t give him pause. He wanted to fuck like he hadn’t in ages, to claim you in such an intimate way that there’d be no doubts who’d be on your mind for weeks to come. 

But he wasn’t that type of person anymore. 

He swallowed silently, searching your eyes one last time for any lingering doubt. But he couldn’t find it. 

And you didn’t give him the chance to consider his own. Your hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him down for a kiss. That mercifully erased anything else out of his mind, as he explored your mouth a second time, his hands going for the softness of your breasts, kneading the flesh and pinching your nipples. A soft cry escaped from your mouth that he swallowed eagerly. 

He almost melted when the heat of your touch found its way to the crotch of his pants. You gripped him through the fabric, and he groaned in response, his hips twitching in search of more friction. 

But he wasn't greedy, not in that sense. 

One hand left your breast to slide down your abdomen, the curls of your center brushing his fingertips. Two fingers parted your outer folds, where he was faintly surprised to find you were soaked. 

Oh, Lord. 

Arthur pulled back just an inch or two, a spike of disbelief springing through the haze of pleasure. You wanted him so damn badly. 

The look you gave him only further confirmed this. Impatience wrinkled your brow as you wiggled underneath his grasp, and your hand slid along his length, still hidden by his jeans. 

He breathed out a low hiss. Fuck, you were making it even harder to not succumb entirely and just fuck you raw and senseless. 

“Easy now,” he rumbled, his pointer finger prodding for that bundle of nerves and found it almost immediately. The tentative swirl he made caused you to moan again. “Jus’ makin’ sure you're ready.” 

He soon picked up a rhythm, and your breath caught in a gasp as he increased his speed. “M-more than,” you stuttered breathlessly. 

A smile tugged on Arthur’s lips, and he swiped his finger through your slit. Yeah, you'd been ready, but he wanted to watch you...watch you release first. 

It was like slipping into a memory, one of a younger Arthur, where lust often controlled the forefront of his mind more nights than he could count. A saloon girl once showed him what it meant to bring pleasure to a woman, in more ways than one. There was a time where he was too impatient to care, but learned really quickly how much of a better experience it was if his partner found hers first. 

It’d been years since that lesson, but the picture was still vivid. And picking up the act was like muscle memory. His slid a finger into your heat, marveling at how wet you were. Your inner walls pulsed as he thrust, slowly at first, but then increased his pace. 

You writhed beneath him, the sweet noises passing your lips were so pretty. His name was a soft whine, one that almost pushed him to drop his pants in that very moment. 

But he kept going, entranced by how stunning you were. Your hips bucked up as he added another finger. Your hand clamped onto his forearm, as if encouraging him to do even more. 

Arthur sucked air between his teeth, fighting the urge to give completely into his desires. Your nails dug into the skin of his arm, that sweet sting sending a small jolt of grounding. 

“Arthur,” you gasped, “I-I’m almost there!” 

He moved even faster then, swirling his thumb against your clit while his fingers slid through the velvety wetness. You swore out loud, hips snapping up into his palm as your inner walls tensed, followed by a gush of sinful heat. 

As your body slowly relaxed, he withdrew his hand, eyes fixated on how his fingers glistened in the light. He then shifted his attention to your face, flushed and mouth parted in shallow breaths. He waited for that realization of regret, the one that would inevitably come after the post-orgasmic haze faded. 

But he could detect none of that. As your eyes met his, there was that sweet smile again, that indication that you were 100% for this. You beckoned him closer. 

“You sure?” he asked quietly, giving you one last out. 

“Yes,” you said with firm conviction. You sat up, gaze never leaving his as you reached for his shirt, beginning to unbutton. 

God, he knew he was going to Hell, but he might as well enjoy the ride before then. 

He shrugged off his shirt just as you reached the final button, then working on the union suit beneath just as you reached his pants. He was disrobed in just under a minute, baring himself and his arousal for you. 

He held his breath as you eyed him from head to toe, waiting for you to find a flaw, to tell him he was too plain or ugly to be with you. But there wasn’t any sort of comment. You instead reached to wrap your fingers around his length, and your soft skin against him made his hips twitch in search of that sweet friction. You smiled again, sliding your palm from root to tip, and he groaned softly, closing his eyes and reveling in a feeling that had been lost to him for years. His own roughened hand could never replace this. 

“Arthur,” 

He opened his eyes to look at you again. 

“Take me, please.” 

It was just that one simple request that drove him forward, pressing you back down to the bed, caging you between his arms. He held your gaze as he lined himself up, your legs widening to accommodate. 

“I...ain’t done this in a while,” he admitted almost shyly. Hell, it’s been years. “I may not last long.” 

You reached up to touch his cheek. “That’s okay.” 

He breathed in then, spurred by your touch and the absence of judgement. How were you even real? How was this even happening? It had to be a dream. 

A dream be damned, he pushed his hips forward, sliding the head of his manhood through your folds, coating himself in your wetness before finding your entrance. 

He inched forward slowly, feeling you accept him with ease. He bit his lip as he managed to fully sheath himself into your warmth, the pleasure almost dizzying. 

“Fuck,” he hissed out, and your legs hitched up to wrap around his waist. 

That did it. 

He began to move then, thrusting almost hesitantly, watching your face as it twisted with ecstasy. Soon he entered a smooth rhythm, his eyes never leaving you. Your arms wrapped around neck, nails dragging along his back. 

He hissed again, the sting spurring him just a bit faster. Your head kicked back with a breathy moan, exposing the length of your neck. He dipped down and pressed kisses along your damp skin, feeling the vibration of your pleasure against his lips. 

Your hips snapped up to meet his thrust. The motion brought him even deeper; the sensation causing his arms to tremble. This would surely end him, the way you manipulated him with just simple movements. 

“Arthur,” you moaned, so sweetly, breathily dragging his name like a song. 

No, that would end him right then. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would stave off the impending release. As rusty as he was, he'd feel like shit if this was over in the next ten seconds. 

As your hips rolled along, he halted and let out a shuddering breath, one hand flying to grip your flesh. It was partly in control, partly in warning. Any more movement from you and... 

Your eyes met his and you seemed to understand his silent plea, relaxing underneath him, a small smile quirking the corner of your lips. 

His breath was one of relief, refocusing on his rhythm. Slow and deep, every inch such sweet delicious torture. Your body so warm and slick, your voice melodic. God, how was he NOT dreaming? 

But here you were beneath him still, taking him without judgement or hesitation. No inkling of pain or regret. “Faster, please,” you whined, your eyes hooded and fluttering with pleasure. 

Faster. He was doing good enough for you to demand that. He obliged immediately, losing himself in the lust and pleasure, in you. His head bowed, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he drove you deeper into the bed. The scent of your skin, soap and herbal, the gasps of your ecstasy in rhythm with his skin slapping against you, the rake of your nails down his back, all invaded his senses. 

Your breath hitched and your voice heightened, your body arching against his. You didn't have to vocalize your second release, not when your inner walls squeezed around him. 

Arthur groaned out a low curse, lifting his head to watch your face. Beautiful, stunning, absolutely ethereal were the words he could describe you in this moment, and it still wasn’t enough. 

Your hips bucked to meet his again, though he could tell it wasn’t on purpose. The claws of your orgasm caused you to jerk and twitch beneath him. He grit his teeth, caught between so desperately wanting to fight the building release and chasing it to completion. 

But he couldn’t fight it again, not when he’s been out of practice— 

It barreled down his stomach faster than he could process. He let out another curse and with one final slam of his hips against yours, he pulled out of your delicious heat just as he released. He groaned deeply as his seed spurt out in ropes along your belly. 

His heart raced, his breath shallow as he still hovered over you, watching your face as your gaze drifted from below, slowly back to him, your own breathing matching his. 

Silence fell, each breath taken quieting and evening out. Your eyes never left his. 

As the post-orgasmic haze began to clear, Arthur’s mind began to buzz. The mental fortitude he’d constructed in those previous moments began to falter, and he was expecting the inevitable. For you to push him away, to demand he’d leave. Hell, he should get up and leave as if this never happened. 

But you didn’t. 

Maybe this was a dream after all. 

Your hand raised to cup his cheek, a small pucker appearing between your brows. “Arthur, are you okay?” 

His eyes closed at your touch, realizing his face must’ve given away his thoughts. There were a hundred responses to that loaded question, but how could he explain what his deep thoughts and feelings were, just after you shared an amazing moment together? 

“Yes,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “I jus’...I ain’t been with anyone in a long while.” 

It was the truth of it all, with so much more behind it. 

Your eyes softened at this, and a small smile crossed your lips, and you leaned up to place a quick kiss on his other cheek. “You did just fine, if you’re worried about that.” 

He let out a small laugh. You didn’t understand the real meaning behind his words, but he couldn’t blame you. There was so much and so little he shared with you. But damn if your words didn’t inflate the small flicker of pride that swelled in his chest. 

Pride, not the usual self-deprecation that followed a compliment. It was just enough to squander those old feelings, at least for the time being. 

What would these few moments of paradise lead to next, he couldn’t help but to wonder. 

His downfall? 

[scotianostra]

On March 23rd 1848, the Free Church of Scotland settlement at New Edinburgh, New Zealand was founded, it is known today as Dunedin.

It was the poet’s uncle, Rev Thomas Burns, who was among the first settlers to arrive in Dunedin, the Gaelic for Edinburgh, having been appointed by the Free Church to lead a new Presbyterian settlement in the South Pacific

One passenger on the John Wickliffe, the fist ship to carry Scottish settlers to the South Island of New Zealand, wrote in his diary: “All seemed pleased and called it a goodly land – Port Chalmers and around is truly beautiful – rich in scenery – its slopes and shores are fertile, and wooded to the water’s edge.”

Every year in Dunedin, the arrival of these first settlers from Scotland is marked by Otago Anniversary Day, the public holiday falling this year on Monday just gone.

A second boat sent by the Otago Association, founded by the Free Church to broker land sales in South Island for its followers, arrived on April 15th with more than 200 people on board. They had spent 114 days at sea since leaving Greenock.

On board were people such as Adam James, 25, a boatbuilder; James Blackie, 21, a school teacher, James Brown, 23, a calico printer and Mary Pollok, 19, a servant.

By the end of the 1850s, around 12,000 Scots had joined them in this new flourishing city, many from the industrial lowlands.

Artisans, small traders and industrial workers were to make up a third of all Scottish migrants to New Zealand with almost 70 % of this group coming from the Edinburgh and Glasgow area.

A number left Paisley in the early 1840s when its weaving industry was in trouble with the south part of the city to become known as “Little Paisley”.

It was George Rennie MP, born in East Lothian, who first proposed a Scottish settlement in 1842 when he declared “We shall found a New Edinburgh at the Antipodes that shall one day rival the old.”

Chief operators of the church-led plan included William Cargill, a former British Army captain who commanded the John Wickliffe and became the first superintendent of Otago.

Edinburgh solicitor John McGlashan, became the Otago scheme’s chief organiser and promoter who commandeered residents for the new colony and organised ships.

His office at 27 South Hanover Street was open 10 hours a day as people turned up at his door to organise their passage.

Conditions were tough on arrival with relentless hard graft required to transform mud and bush into even the most primitive settlement. A number of wattle and daub cottages were constructed with the place dubbed “Mud-edin” given the coarse conditions.

Still, the Free Church, in an 1853 publication, had the highest praise of the new Scots residents who were “mostly of the labouring classes who had the aim of becoming landowners.”

The author noted the “very high character” of the residents and the “very serious regard to their religious duties.”

The extreme piousness of the settlement is made startling clear.

“The silent religious aspect of our Sabbath, the solemn seriousness, the death-like stillness, and the reverential attention in the house of God strike every stranger and are unequalled by anything of my experience,” the account added.

Despite the growth of Dunedin, the Otago Association folded in 1852 after repeatedly failing to meet is sales targets with its assets and liabilities taken over by the British Government.

McGlashan took a ship to join the settlers in Otago. He and Captain Cargill were to become major players in the governance of the region with the moral authority delivered by Rev Burns, a foundation chancellor of the University of Otago who some disliked for his heavy handed puritanical ways. Anglicans were referred to as “Little Enemy” by the Ayrshire-born minister.

As Tom Devine noted in To the Ends of the Earth, one anonymous correspondent to the New Zealand Otago Times, writing under the pseudonym a Staunch Englishman, described the Scots settlers as a “mean, close, bigoted, porridge-eating” lot who were prone to “minding the sixpences.”

The legacy of those first settlers is, however, ample. Otago Boys’ High School was set up in 1864, the University of Otago in 1869 and Otago Girls’ High School, one of the first state-run schools of its type in the world, opened in 1871.

John McGlashan College, Dunedin’s Presbyterian boys’ school, was founded in 1918 from a bequest to the Church by McGlashan’s daughters.

The stiff presbyterian tone of Dunedin is also said to have spurred a “creative rebellion” with works by Dunedin poet James K Baxter considered among the country’s finest.

Today, whisky, pipe band sand the city’s own Haggis Ceremony continue to mark the impact of those first Scottish settlers who arrived.

Shops on the main street stock Dunedin tartan, tweeds and Scottie dog trinkets and signposts point to places such as Leith Valley, Corstorphine, Musselburgh Calton Hill, and of course Princes Street.

Bars pride themselves on their selections of fine malts, churches have an air of architectural familiarity and the municipal chambers looks as if it could have been transported from any Scottish town. A statue of Robbie Burns stands in the main plaza.

Mark Twain, after visiting Dunedin in 1895, wrote of them: “The people are Scotch. They stopped here on their way from home to heaven thinking they had arrived.”

For millions of Scots scattered worldwide, Scotland remains the homeland. It's the place they look towards for inspiration, with affection, or with an air ticket to renew that sense of Scottish identity. The internet has made the world a lot smaller for us all, which is why many enjoy the posts here, it gives them a wee sense of belonging, even if it less than a dram of Scottish blood you have flowing through you.

[ungoliantschilde]

Agreed. No other segment stands out as being so thoroughly enjoyable the whole way thru. It has the exact right mixture of horror, violence, and humor. And the music is great.

It’s been long enough, and I’ve seen the movie enough times that I feel like I can honestly say it’s kind of a mediocre movie. The animation is great, but the stories are a jumbled mess. Seeing the segments broken up into music video format honestly works a lot better.

“Captain Sternn and Hanover Fiste”, from the movie entitled ‘Heavy Metal’.

Characters and artwork designed by Bernie Wrightson.

Music by Cheap Trick.

[creepyblasphemy]

Bem vindo 🐈

Meu nome é Madu, tenho 18, lésbica, sou metalhead/gótica e sou autdah ♾️.

Minhas bandas favoritas são: Slayer, gorefest, death, xentrix, cannibal corpse, dynazty, amaranthe, carcass, kreator, sepultura, sodom, deicide, possessed, suffocation, dying fetus, impetigo, Black sabbath, d.r.i, exodus, Lost society, nuclear assault, municipal waste,pessimist, finntroll, tyr, amon amarth, darkthrone, ulver, immortal, emperor, gehenna, bathory, Metallica, morbid angel, destruction, judas priest, annihilator, skull fist, nervosa, decadence, frantic amber, arch enemy.

E tbm bandas góticas: siouxie and the banchees, Bauhaus, dark, Grizz, dead cool, massive ego, vultos, gangue morcego,darkways, Lost Lenore,sister of mercy, última dança, pink turns blue, she past away, lebanon Hanover, Clan of xymox, lacrimosa, witching hour, Depeche mode, pontagulha.

[nonyayo2]

Heavy Metal (1981) - Captain Sternn & Hanover Fiste

[wakingfromthewater]

Harry Canyon and Hanover Fiste are drag king names if I ever heard any

[vvictuss]

i’ve been on an obscure animated film bender so i watched Heavy Metal (1981) the other day. absolutely belligerent movie.

here are some of my favorite quotes in no particular order.

Gloria: [to the robot] I'm just scared I'll come home one day and find you screwing a toaster. I forgot one thing, are you circumcised?

—

[after sex]

Robot: Earth women who experience sexual ecstasy with mechanical assistance always tend to feel guilty!

———

Hanover Fiste: [about Stern] He never did... anything that was... illegal...

[pauses]

Unless you count all the times he sold dope disguised as a nun.

———

[looking at a beautiful naked woman with huge breasts]

Den: [voiceover] She had the most beautiful eyes.

Katherine: You saved my life. I have no reward to give you, but if any part of me pleases your senses, I will give it to you willingly.

[they lie down on the ground and start to have sex]

———

Den: [voiceover] There was no way I was gonna walk around this place with my dork hanging out!

———

Den: [as the Queen presents her disrobed body to him] Wow! 18 years of nothing, and now twice in one day! What a place!

———

Stern: [repeated line to his lawyer] It's all right, Charlie. I've got an angle.

Lawyer: But the most we can hope for is to get you buried in secrecy so your grave don't get violated!

———

Hanover Fiste: [voiceover] Sucker play or not, I must have turned her on somethin' fierce. 'Cause this dame was goin' for broke. Maybe it was her first time with a New Yorker, I dunno.

Anyway, nothing beats good old American know-how. And I was givin' this broad "The Stars and Stripes Forever".

———

Harry Canyon: The U.N. Building. What a joke. They turned it into low rent housing. It's a dump.

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🌧️ the sun, through it all, abides ☀️

charthur fic - 3152 words - rating: G - arthur healing - read on ao3

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em."

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

Charles convinces Arthur to make it out of Beaver Hollow alive. The arid West Elizabeth air is better for Arthur's lungs, but then a week of rain arrives, leaving Arthur's chest rattling and his mind uneasy. Turns out the slow, unsteady weight of getting better is easier to carry when shared.

fic is below the cut!

"Love, in all its forms, is the most powerful weapon we have, because love is a form of hope. And, like hope, love abides. In the face of everything.” - Vinay Patel, ‘Demons of the Punjab’

Arthur’s world had narrowed significantly since his collapse in Saint Denis. It wasn’t like the possible pathways of his future had been so wide and varied before, but with the rattling in his chest there seemed to be only one path ahead: the fork in the road had come and gone, and he had left the freedom of life’s highway for a steep and rocky mountain trail which ended more abruptly than he’d anticipated. 

He’d told all this to Charles, once, at Beaver Hollow.

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em.”

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles had said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

“The scenic route?”

“Ride with me and ride somewhere slow and warm and dry. Make it easier. Make it out of this chapter of your life alive.”

And when Charles had left, Arthur had followed him, with John following Arthur. 

Now, Arthur’s narrow world is as wide as the views surrounding Beecher’s Hope. Charles and John’s handiwork is impressive even if half-finished, with Charles fixing the ranch up while John runs errands. Arthur does what he can to help out. It’s not much, but it’s more than he was able to do when he was running with the gang, and some days, those burned bridges leading back to a healthier life even seem a little salvageable. The West Elizabeth air is hot, the land is arid, and his lungs are better for it. They have a life here, a real one. It’s good. It’s healing.

It is really, really hard.

When the rain comes to Beecher’s Hope, it comes for a week, and it comes to make Arthur miserable. The humidity of the air combined with the foul weather’s accompanying chill wreaks a wearying havoc on his lungs. John has ridden up to Valentine for a job and gotten caught in a storm in New Hanover, sending word back that he won’t be arriving home until the weather has passed, and so Arthur and Charles are alone in the ranch. In a way it’s nice to have all the time to themselves. But there is so much time, and so little to do with it, and Arthur misses the extra company. With the weather working against his health the way it is, it’s all he can do to make meals on good days, and rest up on bad ones.

It’s weeks like these that Arthur is reminded that climbing this mountain is unrelentingly boring. There are things he simply cannot do, things he used to do often and enjoyed; some things he can do on some days but strictly not others and only at the time will they be made known; a list of things he can do but only if he deems them worth the consequences. 

That is a mighty big part of his job, now. Valuing the worth of something against the consequences. Hardest thing about it is, everything is worth it in the moments before the consequences. But in the gripping fist of a coughing fit, praying he doesn’t bring up blood again, rendered a helpless silvery consciousness in a breaking body, nothing is ever worth it. And knowing that, living through it, how can he make the choice to bring that pain into being again? 

Life has become a constant balancing act, with pros and cons and quantifiable outcomes. There’s a level of mathematics to it which Arthur finds exhausting. He’s always been more for metaphors than mathematics, really. But there aren’t many metaphors for being ill. He can tell Charles he’s climbing a mountain all he likes but that doesn’t stop the fact he’s sore all over in ways nothing can properly fix.

So the amount of things he can do is meager and oftentimes, he finds, pitiful. And very boring.  

“You’re drawing again,” Charles notes as he wanders into their bedroom to check on Arthur. It’s the third day of pouring rain. Charles’ building chores, too, have been held up by the weather, but there’s enough work for him to do on the farm without John here that his dashes to and from the barn are frequent. 

“Hmmf,” Arthur grunts in illustrious reply. 

He’s a far cry from happy, the rain-roused heavy wheezing of his chest making him feel more accordion than human. There’s a dull ache accompanying it. It’s one which threatens more than tortures, but the threat of it is enough to make him uneasy, a fidgety anxiety that combines with the cabin fever to make him feel shit. 

Today, the most he has managed is to drag the rocking chair from its usual corner of the room to face the window. With his journal and charcoal in his hand, he’s sketching the panes of the window and its limited view. Repeatedly, over and over across the page, are little and large visions of the cagey window and the tree just outside of it that blocks most of the light. 

Charles deciphers his cartoons with ease. “You’re restless. Anything I can do?”

“Bring back the damn sun,” Arthur snaps. He bites down on his lip the second the words leave his mouth, disliking the harshness which emanates from them. He hates how he can feel himself being worse to the people he loves over this. He hates that he can’t control his body, and now he can’t even control his tongue. Still, he doesn’t say sorry. 

Charles is gentle as he always is, running a calm hand through the light strands of Arthur’s hair from where he’s leaning against the back of his chair. He is not a man without anger, but he seems to know when Arthur’s isn’t really directed at him. “This tree, it covers almost the whole window,” he muses. “Blocks most of your view.”

“I guess,” Arthur supplies, helpfully. 

“Next time the rain lessens, I’ll chop it down.”

“Charles, you don’t have to do that–”

“I can’t bring back the sun, but I can let a little more light in,” Charles says, like that settles the matter. 

Haltingly, the rain patters to a not-quite stop the next afternoon, the remaining drizzle just bearable enough for Charles to head out in. 

“I’ll chop that tree today, before more rains come,” Charles calls as he makes his way through the front door in lieu of hello. He takes off his hat, holding open the front door and shaking it so that droplets of water roll off the black leather. 

The draft that whistles through the open door is misty and cold. Arthur is glad for the fire burning in the hearth today which wrings the moisture out of the air before the worst of it reaches his lungs. 

He sighs, though, the prospect of another bout of rain settling low and depressed in his gut. “You don’t think this is the end of ‘em?”

“Sorry, Arthur. Clouds still rolling in over Blackwater. It’ll be a few more days, at least. Are the axes in the outhouse?” 

“You know more about that than me, I ain’t got much to do with manual labor ‘round here,” Arthur chuckles, a little sourly. “And I swear, they say tuberculosis is meant to cut your life short but time has never passed more slowly in my life.”

Charles nods, nudges his toes against the fire to stoke it a little. “Keeping a sick body alive is harder than surviving a shootout.” 

“Well, I’d take being shot at any day. Least then I can shoot back. Never once did a job with shootin’ involved that went by so slow.”

Charles huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he makes once more for the door. “How about watching me chop this tree?” he suggests, rolling the sleeves of his navy tunic up his broad forearms as he smiles. His voice is low and rich, like the smoke which rises from a gun barrel after a hunt’s quick kill. “I’ll fell it clean.” 

With that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving the hairs of Arthur’s neck standing. Arthur gets up stiffly and slowly, heading back to the bedroom with the noises of the outhouse doors opening and closing accompanying him. He drags the rocking chair back into view of the window in time to see Charles walking up to the tree with his ax in hand. 

“You sure there ain’t nothing I can do?” Arthur shouts to Charles. He pushes open the window as he does so - some days he can decide something is worth it and the consequences forget to arrive afterwards. Maybe today is one of those days.

Charles hears him, positioning himself at the far side of the tree so Arthur has a clear view of him. Or he has a clear view of Arthur. “Well, you can sit there and look pretty,” he grins.

“I– oh,” Arthur falters, heat rising to his cheeks and likely turning him a bashful pink. “Pretty,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at Charles’ smile.

“You’re getting some color back,” Charles says, quite seriously, but Arthur can hear the tease rolling through his voice. Arthur waves his ribbing away. 

It’s nice to know, at least, that he hasn’t lost the ability to produce a blush. He’s been pale so long now he’s near forgotten what he used to look like. And for Charles to call him pretty through all that - the perpetual pallor, the gauntness, the loss of the fat by his waist he used to know was his – is something. Arthur looks in the mirror now and sees sickness. Charles looks at him and somehow still sees something good. 

The rain spits down steadily outside the window, Charles’ tunic soon dampening and clinging to his arms. He’s foregone his hat for this, and so his hair, too, is soon stuck against his skin, the strands falling over his face from where he’s tied half his hair back fixed to his forehead. He runs a dark hand through his hair to clear his vision and the moment passes in a pattering heartbeat Arthur wishes he could recapture. 

Charles swings once, twice, brings the tree down on the third slice through the air. It comes down easily, and Arthur watches the world outside his bedroom window be made anew. The sky blooms into being, the gray light of the expansive plains flooding the room. Everything reaches outwards, the fences which had once caged his field of vision now the markers of near distance as the horizon rolls away.  A single patch of blue, once hidden by the branches of the tree, is clear in the sky. 

“That better?” Charles asks.

It’s one tree. It’s a small change. Arthur feels a ray of delight he hasn’t felt in weeks. That’s the one good, desperate thing about a narrow life: the littlest moments of contentment become all-consuming. 

He nods, cheeks dimpling. “Sure is. It sure is.”

**

“Arthur,” a familiar voice whispers softly, lifting him from a dream where he is holding blood-stained money in his hands and can’t put it down, “Arthur, wake up. The rain has dried and the sun is rising. Come outside with me.”

Arthur opens bleary eyes to see Charles lit in dawn’s nectarine light. The curtains are pulled back from the window, leaving its newly clear view to reveal drying ground and open, almost cloudless, sky.  

Finally.

Charles offers his hand and Arthur takes it, gladly, rising from the bed and following him to the front door, slinging on his jacket and boots over his union suit as he goes. He passes from the wooden boughs of the house out into the open air with the deep breath of a wakening yawn in his lungs. There is no dampness to fight against. Just a world which seems to extend from him, the temperature around him at one with that of his skin, the dry air passing through his lungs and out again almost smoothly. Smooth as they can ever manage. There’s no cure. No real healing, not properly. But there’s this. Things in his body aren’t ever okay for long, but they’re okay for the moment, and Arthur has this. 

He sits himself down on the step of the porch. His boots, grown clean without use over the past few weeks, gain a fine coating of dust around where the sole meets the leather again. Charles sits to his right and the morning thrums, quiet around them, with little hints of life. A spider spins its home along the wooden railing of the porch. 

“Thanks for wakin’ me,” Arthur murmurs.

Charles smiles. “It felt important.”

“I’ve been– bad to be around, these past few days,” he manages to say, tugging up a blade of grass from the ground beside him. He flips it between his fingers as he gets the rest out. “Ain’t made things easy for you. I want to do better. Don’t want to be no fair weather friend. Literally.”

“What you’re going through, it’s not easy.”

“Neither is what you’re doin’.”

“Maybe,” Charles nods. “But allow yourself some grace, Arthur.” 

Arthur bumps his elbow roughly into Charles’s side. “Jus’ take the damn apology.”

“Okay,” Charles concedes, and Arthur can feel his shoulders shaking with gentle laughter as they rest against him. 

The mountains in the distance are plummy, ripening in color with the rising sun; in another world Arthur is sinking his teeth into the skin of them and reaching the softness beneath. The light shimmers down in tangible rays. Once, Arthur could’ve traveled far enough to reach out and touch them.

“Mornin’s like this… I used to ride through the night, sometimes, just waiting for the light to stream down through the clouds. Made it worth it.”

Charles hum in agreement. “There are many things you can say about this world, but you can never forsake its beauty.”

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters. Bitterness creeps back into his voice, seeing all this beauty, and knowing it has to be held at arm’s length.

With an intuition saved just for Arthur, Charles hears his discordant tone. “What are you thinking about?”

“I guess– I miss riding how I used to,” Arthur sighs. “Look at ‘em plains, just sprawlin’ outwards. Years ago I could’ve jumped up on a horse and flown over ‘em all, wouldn’t’ve even looked back. Now I’m just– just here. Can’t do anything the way I used to. And it makes me think I won’t ever get it back.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sloping horizon, staunchly away from Charles’ sympathetic gaze. Frankly, he knows that he’s being dramatic about it all, wallowing in self-pity when there’s no need to. The fact he’s living is a goddamn miracle. Problem is, he can’t remember the last time he felt properly alive.

“We can rebuild it, Arthur,” Charles murmurs. His shoulder is warm and sturdy against Arthur’s arm, the muscles thick in a way Arthur’s no longer are. “All is not lost. We can rebuild it all.”

Arthur can’t help it; he turns his head to look at Charles and the desperation in his voice cracks out. “You think?” 

“Yeah,” Charles says simply. No promises; they’ve learned long ago that there is no point making promises. But still, if Charles thinks it, then maybe Arthur can too. 

“Okay,” he agrees, a faint smile flickering across his lips. And then– “sorry for sounding so desperate, makes me feel like a goddamn fool.”

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t sound desperate, Arthur. Even if you did, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You more than anyone has been through hell. You know another word for desperation?”

Arthur scoffs. “I dunno – weakness? Fear?”

“Hope,” Charles says, entirely paradoxically, yet with the steadfast sincerity with which he always speaks.

“I think you need to find a dictionary, friend,” Arthur chuckles. “Those are some very different words.”

“No, I meant what I said. Hope and desperation – both come from wanting a better life. Wanting a better way of being, wanting something to turn out right. I say desperation and you say weakness, maybe because to be desperate about something is to care so strongly about it. Desperation is vulnerable. It’s intimate. It’s hope without belief.”

The sun is risen, now, a fledgling held in tender hands and being released skywards. It floats over the land and cloaks the plains in the celestial mist of dawn. Light lingers close to the ground, and dust kicked up from a rider on the road into Blackwater glows with it. The rains ceased, the darkness receded. The sun, through it all, abides. 

Arthur hums. His throat rattles with the sound of it, though a cough doesn’t catch, and when he speaks his voice is raspy for a different reason. “Do you believe in me, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes meet his and in the dawning light the deep brown of his eyes is spun golden. “Arthur, of course I do.”

“I believe in you. All the time.”

“Then there’s hope in you yet,” Charles smiles. “It’s a thing that builds, I think. Over time. The world will come back to you.”

Arthur lifts Charles’ hand from where it’s resting on his knee and gently turns it so the paler skin of his palms face upwards. Places his own hand over Charles’. 

“Starting with us,” he makes plain. He can make it no plainer than this, his world and all its desperation and hope falls away without Charles by his side. His partner huffs out a fond sigh beside him and Arthur nudges him with his knee, thoughts straying from the philosophical to the more physical. “You were sayin’ something ‘bout being vulnerable. Being intimate,” he begins, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hmm, was I?” Charles laughs coyly. “Seems to have slipped my mind.” 

But he leans right into the kisses Arthur nuzzles into his hairline, grabbing at the hand not already in his to thread his fingers between Arthur’s. His body is warm as the rainless air. And Arthur knows it’s a hard climb up the mountain. Feels it every day, slow and unforgiving, both restless and demanding. But for as long as the sun stays rising, as long as the scenic route lends him moments like this, there is a feathered thing singing an old song within him. Charles takes his narrow world and finds ways to make it wider. The song carries on, and Arthur is starting to believe it’s worth listening.

[firstprince-ao3feed]

The Joys of Mild Narcissism

by cool_fullmetal, MayQueen517 A prince and the son of a president walk into a Waffle House....things go a little sideways after that Words: 3714, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor/Henry Hanover Stuart-Fox Additional Tags: Crack, this is the crackiest thing, off screen negotiations, Rimming, Fisting, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, healthy doses of narcissism, this is the result of chaos nothing to see here, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Mild Degradation, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms via https://ift.tt/Wp9HQhP