#I need to draw him and arthur together like this now or i will DIE

[pacifymebby]

Christmas Eve

Part of my Christmas/2k celebration!!

Also just a side note for Alfie's, I based this on Christmas/Hanukkah celebrations I've been involved in before, I'm sorry if it's not accurate to other people's personal experiences of like mixed culture it's just how it's worked for us in the past... I didn't want to just ignore Alfie's Jewishness

Tommy

🌿Beneath Tommy's cold exterior is a family man, he's just very good at keeping it hidden beneath all those defensive layers... And he believes Christmas is a precious time, a time that should be spent with family... 

🌿And as much as he grumbles about having to host his whole family every year at Arrow House, Tommy wouldn't have it any other way...

🌿So Christmas Eve at Arrow House is a busy day, a day brimming with anticipation, that buzz in the air, expectancy, waiting for loved ones to arrive, the children excited to see their cousins, uncles, aunts...

🌿 And amid the hustle and bustle, the trickle of arriving guests who have come to stay for the holidays, Tommy will manage to slip away unnoticed for a little while... he'd have business to attend to, things he just has to see through before the new year...

🌿 And whilst in the morning his absence is excusable, and whilst in the afternoon you're far to wrapped up in overseeing the last minute changes to menus, to guest bedrooms, to present wrapping and attending to the needs of your excitable little ones, as the evening draws in Tommy's absence will become unignorable...

🌿 But you're not surprised and neither is Ada, neither are any of the wives, neither is Arthur who is supposed to be dressing up as Santa for the youngens but is waiting for his absent brother to phone through...

🌿 Tommy promised to be home early for the kids so you're getting worried. Ada is all eye rolls and Polly is tutting "that fuckin man and his fuckin business..." but you're getting scared that he isn't coming home at all...

🌿 Now the kids are obviously very excited because its christmas eve, so you haven't been able to settle them at all...

🌿 They're running around the house with their cousins playing at being daddy, pretending to shoot eachother, pretending to die and although usually you'd tell them off, try to tell them that thats not what their daddy does, tonight their laughter is so sweet you just let them carry on playing

🌿And their excitement is catching, it's hard to be too fearful when the tree is sparkling and there's frost in the air outside, when Ada and Polly have mixed up fancy gin cocktails and John keeps catching you beneath the mistletoe teasing you, telling you to take your chance whilst your husband's away...

🌿 There's that joy, that magic, that warmth, the family is together, the children are as innocent and as gleeful as you could possibly hope them to be... And in your heart you know that your stupid husbands coming home to you, that all will be well...

🌿 So even though you should be mad at him for breaking his promise and being late really you're just looking forward to him coming home, to throwing your arms around him, to having him catch you under the mistletoe and brush a chaste kiss over your lips before the kids can see you and start making sick noises.

🌿And when Tommy does finally come home the children nearly knock him over, barrelling into him. Your oldest pretends to shoot him for being late and breaking his promise...

🌿 So Tommy pretends he's shot, drops to his knees all dramatic in the doorway, his 'last words' tell your mother I love her very..." and when he closes his eyes and pretends to die the kids all clamber on him and demand that he wakes up... and he does but only because they're tickling him and he can't resist jumping back to life, snatching them up and making them jump and squeal and laugh.

🌿 finally they and him settle down, he says hes sorry for being late, hugs and kisses the children and then you, saying he's sorry an extra time, just to you, hand cupping your cheek as he looks you deep in the eyes, one of those, melt your heart, don't be angry with me, kind of looks

🌿And you can't be angry at him...

🌿He'd be able to settle the children so fast, getting them ready for bed with you and tucking them in. Telling them to be good or father christmas might change his mind about visiting them

🌿 But then seeing their little faces drop and chuckling, "no, of course he won't forget about you, little angels the lot of you, I reckon you're all right at the top of Father Christmas' list eh?"

🌿 "So we'd better get you up to bed eh? He'll be here soon and you'll want to be fast asleep in your beds when he gets here..."

🌿 As you go to follow the children up to the nursery Tommy catches your hand and tugs you back to the doorway, "and where do you think you're going in such a hurry love?" His fingers link closely with yours as he nods to the doorframe above you both, his smirk a little cheeky as you follow his gaze and see the mistletoe dangling above you...

🌿 When you tell him he isn't the first person to try it on with you under the mistletoe that evening, that if he'd been just one more minute late you'd have kissed his brother instead, he chuckles, "well I suppose I'd better make up for all that lost time eh?"

🌿 Closing your eyes when he kisses you, smiling into his lips as he lets them linger, your hand on his chest, you can feel his body heat warming you, his hold feels like home... When you pull away startled by the sound of the children calling for you Tommy pulls you back for one more kiss...

🌿 "Wait, there we go, just one more moment of peace..." he says quietly kissing you again, holding you close.

🌿 The children love it when he reads them the night before christmas, they're almost always half asleep by the time he's finished, your youngest sitting in his lap, drooling on him...

🌿 Watching him stroke their hair and kiss their heads,whispering to them little good nights and "love you"s before the two of you turn out the light and go back downstairs...

🌿He was late because he'd picked up last minute gifts for you, so he'd be trying to send you up to bed before him "go on angel, warm it up for me eh..."

🌿 He's probably so relieved to get into bed with you that evening, he'd wrap his arms around you and sigh, completely content and happy.

🌿Christmas always leaves him feeling grateful for everything he has, getting into bed with you and holding you close reminds him all the more of everything he has, how important you and the children are... He would still be a little preoccupied thinking about the morning, excited to see the children's faces when they see that father Christmas has been, looking forward to the way you'll kiss him when you open your gifts.

🌿Tommy will be the last one who falls asleep that night, he's too busy making the most of the peace, the bristling excitement in the air, just enjoying the feeling of you in his arms, knowing the whole family is together, safe and sound and full of joy. 

Alfie

🐻 Alfie is only be celebrating christmas because you celebrate christmas, otherwise to him its not really a very important day at all. More than that it's "a fuss about nothing!" And a "tiresome inconvenience if you ask me little ziskeit, don't know why anyone bothers with it all..."

🐻 Every year it's always the same... Alfie promises he won't be grumpy this December, he promises he'll try to embrace the Christmas Spirit and be "merry and bright my little ziskeit, that's me, that's your Alfie ain't it, merry and bloody bright..."

🐻 But every year Alfie seems to be more grumpy than the last, grumbling and stropping about every tiny inconvenience, the market is always busier this time of year and he can't go out without bumping into people, getting jostled in the crowds... and his frustrations lead to some very comical rants about Jesus Christ and how he must have been one narcissistic baby to demand such a fuss...

🐻 By Christmas Eve you've just about had enough of his ranting and raving, all his grumbling and stropping, so just when he's about to go off on one all over again you stop him, arms crossed over your chest, face like thunder, eyes so steely and determined as you scold him for being such a grump that he stops dead in his tracks...

🐻 "Alright that's it, Alfred I've had enough!" Alfie can't keep the stunned smirk off his lips, he can't believe his little ziskeit is standing up to him... "Oh? What's this then are you tellin me off poppet? Are you gonna give your old man a piece of your mind?" He just sits down in his arm chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on top of his cane, looking up at you expectantly...  "Well go on then ziskeit, you give your old man a firm talkin too, tell me what a miserable, rotten old miser I'm being... don't hold back my darlin, don't try to spare my feelings eh, do your worst poppet..." it's like he's challenging you, waiting to see what you'll say but you've really had enough... all you want is a cosy, merry little Christmas...

🐻 "Don't tease me Alfie!" You sniff trying to remain indignant, trying not to get emotional as you hold your chin up high, "all I wanted yeah, was one peaceful little Christmas right and you promised Alfie, you promised youd try and get into the spirit of things this year but all you've done all bloody month is..."

🐻 You trail off when you hear him sigh, when you see that warm teasing glow in his eyes, he's smiling softly, watching you as you try to continue scolding him... Then he pushes himself up and walks slowly to you, takes your hips in his hands and guides you a pace into his body, looking down at you, expectantly, patiently waiting for you to be done with your own ranting and raving... And when you trail off and look at him you understand...

🐻 "Now then? Do you reckon you're finished tellin me off now poppet? Reckon your old man might be allowed to get a word in now yeah? Even if he is a mean old grump?" He's still teasing you and your blush is furious as he takes your cheek in his calloused hand and strokes your face with his thumbs, "my my you don't half get yourself in a tizz about these things do ya ziskeit, all this fuss over one bloody day..."

🐻 "Ain't just any day though is it Alf, s'christmas an it only comes once a year an I wanted it to be perfect... Not just for me but for the kids you know..."

🐻 "And it will be my little ziskeit, it will be... You trust me on this yeah, good old Father fuckin Christmas'll make sure everything's perfect..." he says reaching behind his chair for a tatty brown sack, slinging it over his shoulder and shooting you a wink...

🐻 Because Alfie does this every year too... Kids on that he hates Christmas, that he thinks the whole things a big old waste of time... Pushes you to your absolute limits, waiting for the day your fierce but rare temper bursts only to chuckle and pat you affectionately on the cheek before saying something stupid like "Ho Ho Fucking Ho and all that right..."

🐻Because actually he doesn't dislike Christmas as such, he just dislikes watching you get yourself so flustered about what is essentially just one day... He doesn't see the point in how rushed off your feet you get, how worried, how high your blood pressure must sore.. for just one day... A day you couldn't ruin if you tried.

🐻 He would try to help you with things like wrapping presents for the children but he wouldn't be very good at it at all, so it would be obvious who had wrapped what, his presents will hardly even be in the paper and honestly, sometimes you find yourself having to redo his poor attempts at wrapping.

🐻 Your Christmas traditions are mixed with Hanukkah traditions, you light the Menorah together for each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, you make donuts together (he fusses over you when it comes to frying them fretting about you burning yourself on the oil) he fills the house with joyous and spirited traditional music and teaches you and the children to play Dreidel (often making a grumbling fuss when he ahs to hand his Hanukkah Gelt over to whoever just won it off him)

🐻 He enjoys the irony of the whole Christmas thing, grins and laughs at himself when he sits down to read his children a christmas themed bed time story. He thinks its amusing because by now he knows it by heart...

🐻 Tells the kids that their father christmas doesn't like milk and cookies, he likes a drop of rum and some rugelach instead...

🐻 He will sit with the kids as they're falling asleep, he'll sing them a low, gentle little lullaby and stroke their little heads, Alfie has a calming presence which settles them, he's like a big soft teddy bear watching over them and when he wants them to settle down and drift off he can soothe their excitement in minutes... And on Christmas Eve he wants nothing more than to see them all settled because he knows that when he goes back downstairs looking for you he'll find you still busy, still fussing... And he wants to make sure you relax and enjoy the most important day of the year "allegedly"

🐻 He'll stop in the living room doorway, his body a big shadow blocking out the lamplight... he doesn't have to say anything to let you know he's there... you're sitting on the floor trying to wrap last minute gifts and make sure everything's perfect... he just tuts at you and shakes his head...

🐻 "Tsk tsk little ziskeit, you're breakin your promises this evening ain't ya... see I don't know if you remember right, well.. you can't possibly remember cause if you did then I'm sure you wouldn't just be breakin em willynilly now would you poppet... do you remember what you promised me this time last year?" You do remember what you promised him but you're determined you won't be admitting that tonight... Alfie however has other ideas.

🐻 He'll beckon you up and over to him with his finger, nod for you to come right up close. Then he'll take your hips in his hands and guide you back a pace, settling pulling you down into his arm chair with him, holding you firmly in his lap, "There we go that's better back where you belong right, that's better... now then where were we? Right... yeah, you were going to tell me all about that promise what you made me on Christmas day last year... weren't you ziskeit..." when you remain silent he chuckles and shakes his head, "oh no no no that won't do, nah... it won't... my darlin ziskeit what you seem to be forgettin right is this... only the naughtiest of naughty girls break their promises right... and on this very important evening even the worst yeah, even the most rotten of young ladies will keep her promises right... cause if she don't yeah well she might just find a lump of coal waiting for her in the morning yeah .. what dya reckon my little ziskeit? That what you want is it? A nasty old lump of coal?"

🐻 "One of these days I'll give you a nasty old lump of coal Alfie Solomons" you flower up at him so sulky and sullen he can't keep the grin off his face because he thinks you look adorable like that..

🐻 But although he chuckles and laughs along, lets you tease him too he still makes you promise that you're going to relax and let yourself enjoy the day too...

🐻 "If you're going to get so worked up about it, I'll call the whole bloody day off..." he will literally threaten to cancel Christmas, he's only teasing but it's a joke he never tires of especially when you start threatening him back, "I'll cancel you in a bloody minute Alfred now get over here and help me with this bloody bird!"

🐻 He will spend the rest of the evening hovering around you, telling you to let him take care of everything (you absolutely won't be doing that) but after another hour he's managed to help you with all the finishing touches and he's coaxing you up to bed...

🐻 "Now come on my little ziskeit, what do I have to do to make you see sense... You know how this works you are the angel who taught me all this madness after all... If you don't go to bed and get your beauty sleep old Saint Nick just won't come... Will he? So poppet, this is my suggestion yeah, just a gentle suggestion yeah, come straight from my heart because right, because I care about you very much and because your old man is getting very very tired... Why don't you an me yeah, why don't we go upstairs now and tuck ourselves up nice an snug in bed because I'm not daft yeah, I know how this works by now... In a few hours time those little terrors will be jumpin on our legs to wake us up won't they...."

🐻 And you know he's right so you give in and roll your eyes and let him take you up to bed. Before you go to sleep you make him promise not to be too grumpy in the morning, he makes you promise you'll relax.

Arthur

🍂 Definitely promised you he would come straight home from work, definitely promised he wouldn't stop in the Garrison with his brothers and the lads from the office...

🍂 Definitely does stop in the pub on his way home... Everyone was in such high spirits leaving that evening and Arthur doesn't want to miss out on the celebrations... Besides, he'll only have one.. and he's got all Christmas to spend with you and the little ones...

🍂 And of course this is Arthur so he doesn't only have one... but he doesn't get too drunk either and he doesn't stay out too late because he loves the excitement at home on Christmas Eve and he doesn't want to miss out on all that fun either...

🍂 So he walks home a little merry and he stops in the garden to build a snowman outside the children's bedroom window. You can hear him scuffling about outside and when you catch a glimpse of him through the kitchen window you roll your eyes... why the fuck did you marry such a big kid?

🍂 But you trust your husband's up to something and you don't want to ruin whatever surprise he has planned for the kids so you shut the curtains and go upstairs to check on the little ones who are brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. You know they're dragging it out because they're waiting for their dad to come home...

🍂 You sneek outside to try and coax Arthur indoors out of the freezing cold, wrapping your arms around yourself as you whisper to try and get his attention... "Arthur... Arthur bloody Shelby what the fuck are you doing out here come on it's freezing!" And when he hears you he raises his hands in surrender, promising you he isn't drunk... which doesn't exactly reassure you...

🍂 "Eh love, don't suppose you've got a carrot you can spare me eh? For the kids?" He nods to his snowman and you can't do anything but roll your eyes and pretend not to be amused... you are though, you think he's so silly but you love him for it, love him for how much he loves the kids...

🍂 So you give him the carrot and then you drag him inside out of the cold, kissing him and rubbing his arms to try and get him warm... Of course when the lids hear the door close they come running downstairs overflowing with excitement because dad's home "finallyyy!"

🍂 You can't believe how they've shot from being almost settled, drifting off in the arm chair together, to bright as little stars, fizzing up and bubbling over shouting and jumping and tugging on his sleeves when he does his best father Christmas voice.

🍂 Arthur scooping his little ones up in his arms, getting excited with them, winding them up asking them if they're excited for all their lovely presents, asking them what they've left out for Father Christmas...

🍂 But one look at you and the realisation that you're starting to look a little worn out and like you might need your own bed very soon gets him to settle down, gets him to try and calm the little ones again...

🍂 to save himself from your potential frustration that he'd caused such a commotion he'd be trying to charm you into giving him a smile and softening on him again, stealing a kiss from you under the mistletoe and pinching your cheek, teasing you...

🍂 "lighten up my darlin its Christmas eve... Eh you'd better turn that frown upside down my sweetheart or father christmas won't have any presents for you..."

🍂 To try and get the kids into bed he'd do things like pretend he can hear father christmas on the roof, or he'd tell them that whilst he was out he saw something in the sky that looked just like a sleigh... "so you'd better hurry to bed my darlins cause you know what will happen if father christmas comes and you're still awake... Coal! Coal for the lot of ye little rascals..."

🍂 Remembers his snowman outside and tells the kids to look out of their window, "Now you know who he is don't you you little rotters, he's one of old father Christmas's spies... I mean helpers and he's come to make sure you lot are all tucked up in bed fast asleep... So you'd better get yourselves up them wooden hills hadn't you... Come on my darlins chop chop.."

🍂 He's definitely been out last minute Christmas shopping for gifts for you and has to try and slip them under the christmas tree before you see them... He also had to wrap them last minute and he's not wonderful at gift wrapping when he isn't drunk and in a rush...

🍂 When you gather the kids in bed to read them a bedtime story he wants to listen too and climbs into bed with you all... He definitely gets a little too comfy snuggled under the blankets with you all and falls asleep during the story which the children find highly amusing.

🍂 Perhaps the children should leave a nice glass of water out of father christmas this year?

John

🌼 A huge child about Christmas, really he is just a big kid at heart and he's just as excited about christmas as the children... he's definitely not helping to calm them down or get them settled in bed that's for sure!

🌼 Instead he comes home for his work that evening with pockets full of sweets for them and lets them eat as many as they like... Pinching some for himself too...

🌼 Being too sentimental for his own good he hardly stopped in at the pub with the lads, let them "force" one whiskey down him, one which he downed slammed on the table and then announced to the room that he was off home because unlike the rest of them he's a "highly responsible father"... So he was laughed out of the Garrison naturally...

🌼 When he comes home he throws the sweets into the air letting them rain down over the children who dance and jump at his feet, all of the scrambling to catch and father as many as they can...

🌼 All you can do is watch and let yourself get wrapped up in the craziness of it all too... you already know there's no trying to tame your wild little family, especially not when John's talking the lead like this...

🌼 He'll tease them telling him he saw some of father christmas's elves in the garden, that they told him there'll be no toys for the shelby children this year...

🌼 But your children are smart and they know their daddy is just being silly. Which they won't be shy about telling him, pointing at him, giggling and arguing with him, dragging you into the argument too begging you to "tell daddy not to be so stupid!"

🌼 He's really done it now and the children are feral, together they wrestle him down to the ground and threaten him with lots of tickles and other terrors if he doesn't take it back... And of course John lets them win. He can't breath for laughing so hard and neither can you.

🌼 When you finally stop laughing at the mess he's gotten himself into you manage to convince him the children need to go to bed, he'll tell them that actually the elves told him they're waiting for the shelby children to go to sleep so that father christmas can come and deliver all their presents.

🌼 So the children will finally go to bed, they'll leave a wee carrot for the reindeer and a little treat for father christmas too, and they'll leave a little path of destruction for you and John to tidy up once they're tucked up and asleep... One which you inform John he can tidy up by himself... One which you know you'll be tidying up together.

🌼 John, more than the children, will be begging you to read the night before christmas... It's a little family tradition you have been doing since the first Christmas you stayed with the Shelby's and told it to all the Shelby children to settle them when the rest of the family had an emergency meeting. You've always been a little shy to read it in front of John but every year he insists just the same... "Voices and all!"

🌼 When you challenge him and say "why doesnt daddy read it this year?" he just pouts and says "i think mummy does it better what do you think children, doesn't your mummy read it wonderfully..." He has that mischievous twinkle in his eyes, one you can't say no to and wouldn't want to say no to even if you thought you could get away with it...

🌼 So you have to read it and John just gets all cosy with the children, they'd be giggling and whispering with him mischievously the whole time, impossible to settle down until you're kissing them all on the forehead and turning out the lights. Even then you can see them fidgeting and wriggling in the dark, hear them giggling behind the closed nursery door.

🌼 When they're finally asleep and you were ready to go to bed yourselves, John would sneak away to go and make reindeer prints in the snow outside for the children to find the next morning.

🌼 Then he'd come back to find you trying to tidy away his mess... Honestly he'd end up making more mess when he grabs you by the waist and asks to get his hands on his "beautiful, beautiful wife..."

🌼 What can I say the man's got a lot of pent up energy that needs to be used up before he goes to sleep...

Bonnie

🍀 Bonnie's used to a very busy, very family driven Christmas... One which is simple and traditional but chaotic and lively... All the family comes together for Christmas and their little camp practically triples inside as more and more families arrive each day in the weeks running up to Christmas...

🍀 But all the chaos means there's so much extra work to do and even though there's also extra helping hands, between Bonnie being dragged away on hunting expeditions to gather food for Christmas Day and wood for the fires, and you being rushed off your feet with children to mind, presents to make and hide away... Well you and Bonnie have hardly had a second together for days...

🍀 And Bonnie's favourite part of Christmas is getting to spend it with the people he loves - you most of all. He had so many plans for this December with you and so far he hasn't been able to get you alone for long enough to do more than give you a quick kiss on the cheek...

🍀He's longing for Christmas day so that all the fuss will be over and he might sneak you away to give you your presents...

🍀But before that there's Christmas Eve to get through, just one more day and then finally the two of you will get a little peace... And the way you keep shooting him long lingering glances from the steps of your vardo, from by the fire, from where you sit buried beneath your younger siblings and a blanket...Bonnie can tell you're thinking exactly the same as you..

🍀Though he has to admit he does love to watch you playing with the youngens, getting them ready for bed as the sun goes down and they get rosy cheeks by the fire. They're so cute and you're so good with them... It doesn't half make him broody, he can't help but imagine what kind of a mammy you'll be one day...

🍀Every time he tries to come and sit down with you someone steels him away, his dad gives him a job to do, some of the younger lads demand he joins their snowball fight...

🍀And it's that snowball fight that means he finally gets his hands on you... Because when one of the lads clips one of the lassies you've been sitting with on the back of the head with a snowball all he'll breaks loose and all the kids are suddenly picking sides and scrambling to action.

🍀Naturally you're siding with your best friend, against Bonnie and the lads... Which means your competitive streak shines through and challenges Bonnie... Who never backs down from a fight. Its not long before you're tearing through the trees, kicking and throwing snow at him, giggling because you know you can't escape him, and god you don't want to escape him!

🍀So finally he gets his hands on you, wrapping his arms tight around you, pretending he's fighting you to the floor... The chill of the snow as you sink into the drift on your back, the cold prickles all over you but all you can concentrate on is the warmth of his breath on your cheek as he pins you down and locks eyes with you...

🍀 "So this is what I have do to steal a moment with my girl eh?" He teases wasting very little time before he kisses you deep and passionately, that desire to see you become a mammy almost getting the better of him as you giggle and push him off you reminding him it won't be long before the two of you get swarmed by bairns.

🍀So instead he helps you up and walks you back to the fire to get you warmed up, and he uses his own chill as an excuse to sit with you by the fire for awhile, admiring you, falling in love with you a little more as you gather the youngens round you once again to tell them a story as they drink their hot milk before bed.

🍀Later when it's late and most of the littlens are fast asleep, when the musics being played and everyone's merry on hot mulled wine Bonnie finally gets you all to himself, dancing with you by the fire, stealing all the kisses he wants, teasing you asking if you've been good this year an if you reckon father Christmas is gonna visit you.

🍀Cuddling up to you when you're both tucked away in bed, whispering to you about how sweet you looked with the littlens earlier.. boy has baby fever and trust me it gets ten times worse at Christmas.

Isaiah

🐀 Watching the chaos ensuing at the Shelby Manor and listening to John and Ada talking about all the stress of Christmas with the children is making you and Isaiah feel very grateful that you're still young and that this Christmas Eve the only thing you've to worry about is the Garrison running out of drink...

🐀 You've been looking forward to seeing your friends all week having been busy in the shop you work in right until close that very afternoon... Isaiah would meet you at your work to pick you up and in his pocket he's got s gift for you...

🐀 "I was going to wait until tomorrow to give you this but I thought you might like to wear them tonight..." He says kissing your lips and then your neck as he shuts your bedroom door behind you and pushes you back into your room gently. He's being extra charming, the romance of the season getting to both your heads.

🐀He's brought you a pair of divine ruby earrings, they're utterly gorgeous and you can't believe he's giving them to you at all least of all when it's not even technically christmas yet! You gasp, thrilled by the beautiful gift and immediately put them on...

🐀 You're trying to get ready to go out, trying to change into a prettier dress for your evening out but Isaiah has other ideas... he wants to see what you look like when you're only wearing those earrings...

🐀 So you're late to the Garrison and you turn up looking a little less than pristine but neither of you care because youve been sharing a bottle of wine on the walk and you're both ruby cheeked warmed by your drink for the road...

🐀 Spending the night laughing and dancing with all your friends, Finn's managed to sneak away from his demanding nieces and nephews and even Bonnie has managed to come up with an excuse to stay in town a little later than usual rather than heading straight back to the camp to help with the kids...

🐀 You spend all night wrapped up in Isaiah and your love for him... there's something about christmas which still excites you, wakes up your inner child and makes you giddy... all the glowing lights the decorations, the snowfall outside in the street.

🐀 Every time Isaiah catches you under the mistletoe he insists on a kiss, not just a peck but a cheeky, tempting kiss, one which makes your tummy flip and reminds you of what you were getting up to in your bed earlier than evening... one which makes you wish you could sneak off with him again...

🐀 At kicking out time you and your friends all go stumbling out into the snowy street together, all of you feeling drunk and carefree, like big children, Michael and Finn start a snowball fight which sees you all laughing and play fighting in the street, you join Bonnie's team and torment your boyfriend who is only pretending to be jealous... right?

🐀 Somewhere amid the chaos Isaiah snatches you and pulls you into the back of a parked car, it's dark and he's hovering above you in the back seat, your body pushes into the leather seat... when you look up his grin his boyish and ever so cheeky...

🐀 "Oh would you look at that eh... a Christmas miracle..." he teases holding the mistletoe he's stolen from the garrison above your head, pulling you in for an even deeper kiss than the last...

🐀 It's hard not to go too far but after a long while of torturing eachother with tempting kisses you realise you're late for his father's mass and you both go running off hand in hand down the street, finishing the last of the drink he also took from behind the bar at the Garrison.

🐀 You're hand in hand and oh so drunk as you slip into the church and sit in the corner of a pew right at the back, you're giggling quietly to one another, holding hands, propping one another up...

🐀 at different times you both fall asleep and wake one another up and when it comes time for communion you're both giggly, trying very hard to be serious, already knowing that his father is going to know how pissed you are... You're not in trouble though, he just tsks at you both and smirks when he offers your wine, a quiet "not that you need it" and a wink when he sees you practically falling asleep on his sons shoulder.

🐀 Isaiah carries you home through the snow, bundling you up into bed with him, cuddled up under the blankets, unable to stop himself waking you up and stealing a good night kiss from you.. one which becomes so much more than just a kiss...

Michael

☘️ Michael would love nothing more than a quiet Christmas, just you, him and his mum... But that's not how being part of the Shelby family works...

☘️ He spends the run up to Christmas stressing about the journey back to England, he's worried about you meeting his family for the first time... Not because he's worried they won't like you, but because he's worried you will see how fucked up his family is and want to run a mile...

☘️ You arrive at Arrow House on the morning of Christmas Eve, you've travelled through the night through snow and freezing wind, but when your car finally makes it up the long winding drive you're taken back by how beautiful it all is... How grand the house is, how very English it all appears to be...

☘️ You're nervous to meet the family, most of all Polly because you're sure her opinion means more to Michael than anything else in the world. If Polly doesn't like you it's over...

☘️ But everything Michael has warned you about... His cousins schemes and manipulative personality... Well you're surprised to see that you don't see anything like it... All you see is one busy, chaotic house packed full of children and adult men who run around pretending to fight and shoot one another much like children...

☘️ You're completely absorbed into family life from the second the servants take your bags... You're overwhelmed by the Shelby family but you can't say you're not pleased...

☘️ Whilst Michael is jumped upon by his cousin's you're swept up by the women, Ada and Lizzie giggling as they mix you up a gin and tonic and show you their hiding place in the kitchen when they need two seconds peace... Not from their children who are running around feral with excitement for christmas, but from the Peaky men who are apparently more of a handful than the children...

☘️ As the evening draws in Michael wants to steal you away but he can't bring himself to because you're sitting on the floor playing with the children.. Arthur is dressed up as Santa asking them all what they want for Christmas...

☘️ But when he invites you to come up and sit in his lap, asks you if you've been a good girl this year Michael has to intervene and save you from his cousin.

☘️ He coughs and very awkwardly speaks up to save you, asks to borrow you for a minute... Lies and says he needs your help in the kitchen... And this lie is obviously met with smirks and jokes because everyone knows he's just jealous of Arthur's stupid flirting...

☘️ He actually apologises for his cousin, it's just you and him in the kitchen and he looks nervous, like he's worried you're going to run off with Arthur... But when you ask what's wrong he shakes his head, says "nothing... Just promise me they haven't scared you off..." you can't help but laugh at that.

☘️ "What? Don't be daft Michael, I love them and I love you!" And he's very glad to hear that, blushing like a teenage boy because he's gone all out to spoil you this Christmas... There's so many gifts under the tree with your name on them but the gift that's most important is in his back pocket... He was going to save it for tomorrow but now that he's got you alone in the kitchen he realises there's no better time to ask you to be his wife than the present...

☘️ So your Christmas Eve ends in Michael getting down on one knee on the kitchen floor surrounded by carrot peelings...

Taglist

@inalovesrabbits-blog

@cocoaflowers

@zablife

@jomarch-wannabe

@itsghostgirlyo

@marwwfairy

@toddlerbodybag

@everysage

@tommyshelbywhore

@kas3ylovesyou

@kxnnxy

@starrykitn

@call-sign-shark

@only-malala

@galactict3a

@darkcastle167

@liliac-dreamer

@impossibleheartflower

@mollybegger-blog

@vanhelsingsbigtoe

[bracketsoffear]

PART 2 OF MY MR. EATEN PROPAGANDA--THE CANDLES AND THE END:

Let's start with St. Arthur's Candle: "St Arthur's candle is the faith-candle. Propagate your eaten faith like seeds and leeches. Its greedy light will bloom. Track down filthy deadly secrets to unlock the rituals. Betray your friends." To prove your faith to Mr. Eaten, you must betray seven friends and companions. The eligible victims include other players, who will be set on the path of Seeking if they are betrayed. This will give you the candle, which is described as "A candle of a false saint. It stinks of promises roasted like flesh. Betray friends, lovers, innocents."

St. Beau's Candle: you must visit a nightmarish carnival and pay thousands of Moon-Pearls to get the carnival tickets needed to access the House of Mirrors. There, you will give up something of great value--all of your Lodgings, all of your Connections/Favours/Renown, or your health (which means you instantly die and when you come back you're plagued by nightmares, you're in jail, and your reputation in society is so bad you're being sent to the Tomb-Colonies). There is also a section where you're asked why you're doing all of this, which can be attributed to horrible trauma like watching the Comtessa's grim end or the nightmarish Orphanage.

St. Cerise's Candle: "The well still lairs demurely beneath its clinging veil of cave-creeper. Feed it. We will feed it together. We will draw the knife from the Well as I was drawn from the womb of the Earth to". You must give up something precious to the well to get this candle, such as a "work of genius" (a short story you wrote), your sort-of-children (Nearly-Daughter or Noman), or hideously valuable items like an Overgoat or Seven Fluke-Cores. If you try giving the well the Starveling Cat (which is not precious to you) to get rid of it, you will be horribly wounded but not get the candle--the sacrifice must hurt a lot. The item description for the candle reads, "I hope you're proud of yourself. Blood must be spilt."

St. Destin's Candle: there are less-horrible ways to get this one, but without Notability you'll have to hurt yourself. If you haven't acquired a Destiny yet, you can visit an abyssal future and give the Lorn-Flukes The Name, although doing so means you will be destined for TORMENT--a terrible Destiny that worsens your stats, signifying that your future has been ruined. Alternatively, you and another Seeker can obtain St Destin's Candle together during Hallowmas; doing so halves one's stats and lowers the other's by quite a few levels.

St. Erzulie's Candle: To obtain the candle, you must become Obscure, permanently giving up the ability to have Tattoos, Professions, Notability, Ambitions, and a Destiny…well, unless you don't. But the first person to do so did choose to give all that up, and the only reason you don't have to is because the one giving it to you is bending the rules on your behalf. "This candle is red, red, red as hearts." This is what it means to love your god--to throw away your place in the world, your ability to have a normal life, in his name.

St. Fortigan's Candle: To get this one, all you actually have to do is attend services at the Chapel of White. "This candle is innocent of treachery. Long has it been maligned." It represents who Mr. Eaten was and the horror of what was done to him for no good reason.

St. Gawain's Candle: "There's nothing left of me, but I have my Question". "Now we have the wax, which is the streak beneath our skin, and the wick, which is the faith we have skeined, and the tinder, which is the harm we have done to those who loved us, and the flint, which is the name […] one more scar, what is that?" I was admittedly mistaken--you can offer yourself or someone else to become a human candle. Either way, it's fucked up.

Finally, you go North. As the wiki puts it, "Once Embarked on an Expedition to the North. you can never return; you will never be freed from the Name or the ills you suffered Seeking it. Your final destination is the Avid Horizon, the way NORTH. Incidentally, your ship will be destroyed as you arrive. One more precious thing gone forever. What does it matter, any more?" Those who turn back will find themselves home, with a unique item--one that can be used to craft a weapon to take revenge on someone who especially wronged Mr. Eaten--but The Seeking Road is closed to them forever, leaving "only stains and scars and trophies of a voyage that can never be completed."

And those who knock? Their account is rendered permanently unplayable.

To finish Seeking Mr. Eaten's Name is to bring upon yourself the complete and utter destruction of your life one painful piece at a time, dragging your loved ones down with you and annihilating everything you have and are until you sacrifice your very self on the altar of your hateful god. "A reckoning is not to be postponed indefinitely," and all it will cost is a little incalculable suffering from you! What's not to love?

.

[hyenasatanist]

We were talking about Malevolent headcannons in the server today and Human!John ripped my brain out of my head and stomped on it.

[tommyspeakycap]

Pleas we need a continuation of that one cute Arthur x sister reader but please make it a bit angstier by killing of the reader-

I know that sounds weird but i just need some angst rn wnd your writing style is just too perfekt

I accidentally got carried away and kinda went with tommy's grief as the central focus! hope you enjoy!!!

grief

“every time grief steals my breath, i remind myself that love was worth the pain.”

"Tommy," Arthur pokes his head into Tommy's small Heath office, "You’ll have to come out of here eventually."

Tommy wants to roll his eyes and on any normal occasion, he might have. Not today though, not this time. This time his heart aches too much, his eyes are far too dry and above all else, his heart hurts more than he has ever known. For once maybe, Tommy and Arthur are feeling something similar. Of course both men went off to fight in the trenches and both experienced extreme trauma that they've brought home with them as a result, however both felt and dealt with these things really differently.

Tommy drove himself into the ground with work as he attempted to climb a ladder that genuinely had no end point, no last step and no winners trophy so that he doesn't have to face the fact he now has no faith, no belief and an uncertain sense of where his purpose in this world lay. Arthur turned to drinking and fighting and desperately trying to void his mind of the memories of the things he's done or had to do in his past.

This time? This time is just... different.

This time, both brothers shared the exact same experience. They both watched the same tragedy unfold, playing out like the treacherous end of the most horrific movie in front of their very eyes. Like the kind of nightmare you can't wake up from no matter how terrifying.

Since Tommy had to hold the one person he loved most in the world as the life literally bled out of her body while she cried that she didn't want to die, there hadn't been a day where he would spend with anyone else. One might assume the head of the family would turn to those who loved him, those who believed in him when the rest of the world was against him, in order to somehow begin to process this scale of a loss. But to assume that would be to not know Thomas Shelby at all.

The former Sergeant Major, the man with the plan and three plans to follow if the first one didn't work - the leader - was out of ideas, drawing blanks. He couldn't find comfort in his family. One way or another, they all looked like you. The manner of Ada's speech, she taught you how to sound like the educated young lady you were. Polly's ferocious determination, John's jokes, Finn's innocence, Michael's smarts, Arthur's temper. You were in everyone, tangled throughout the existence and wrapped up in the lives of the family even though you no longer could be here tangled within their arms. You were firmly knotted into the Shelby clan, so present and yet so far away. Too far to be touched, but never far enough to not be felt.

The only place left in the world that the head of the family can feel any semblance of life is in the woods, under the tree that sheds it's orange autumn leaves around a polished marble headstone with his youngest sisters name carved into it. Kept clean, surrounded by flowers and visited every day. It's the place where he feels you most and not just because it's where you are.

Tommy used to bring you here when you were much smaller, watching Arthur throw you into piles of leaves while Ada climbed the trees in a race with John. It was probably one of the only places in the world that the Shelby family could exist together peacefully, only more so now that they had chosen it as your resting place. There, Tommy can drown out the loud bang, those cries and the last heart wrenching 'I love you' that he ever got to hear from your blood coated lips. Instead, he can hear the chirping of birds and somewhere far off in his mind; he can hear your laughter and your voice speaking through the wind, carrying warmth to the coldest parts of his heart.

Some might say he was losing his marbles, hearing his dead sister, but he knew it wasn't like that. Though, it did feel as though he was losing his mind. Not in the sense of being crazy, but in the manner that his whole world and everything he held so dear had come crumbling down at his feet again. No surprise to the Shelby man, however. That was his life, stuck on a loop of immeasurable tragedy.

Tommy barely acknowledges Arthur’s words, simply standing from his desk chair and throwing on his jacket before making his way to the door where he can push past his elder brother harshly. “Tommy where are you-”

The raven haired man cuts his wife off when he strides past her as well. “Out.” He mutters, “Don’t wait up.”

In front of the marble grey headstone, Tommy isn’t sure what he should say. He knows all the words he has in his vocabulary could never say enough to tell you how much he wishes you were here. There aren’t enough in the world to convey how much he loves you, nor enough to describe the things he would do to bring you back here to him. Thomas Shelby has lived with a weight on his shoulder for all of his life. The man has lived with agony every day of his existence. So far in that existence, he has never once felt pain like this, not felt heaviness on his shoulders so impossible to carry, nor has he ever felt it so impossible to survive, to breathe when there is no physical ailment plaguing him.

This grief feels physical. Your death is killing him from the inside out and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

"Fuck." He breathes, his word turning merely to a cloud of air against his cold winter surrounding as the only evidence any word had ever existed in such a heavy silence. "Fucking hell, (y/n). We're completely lost without you, you know that? We could've survived without me. We would be fine without me. We can't live without you? I am so fucking angry at you and you're not even fucking here to hear about it."

Tommy feels bad for swearing at your gravestone, but he feels worse about resenting you for your avoidable death. Well, suppose he doesn't resent you. He just resents that you died and he resents that you're now not here. He'll never get to see you again, feel that relief he can only feel when you were stood there in front of him cracking jokes or safe and protected right there in his arms. Tommy raised you from a child, and now he's lost you and it truly feels worse than anything he could have ever have imagined.

The man who was already poorly enough mentally before is ruined. He can't seem to catch a wink of sleep. You're in his thoughts constantly and no prayers, no thinking of you's, no sorry for your losses or sympathy cards and rooms full of flowers make anything any lighter. The flowers were actually real. Actually full of grief and people who truly will miss you. Never like Tommy does.

No one will ever miss you like Tommy does.

Because everybody loved you. From the wives of the friends he lost in the war all the way to rival politicians and frenemies he made along the way. You were one of those special ones that everybody reckoned had a scary premonition for good. You were going to do so much good in the world that it scared these bad men, but so many of them recognised you as out of bounds.

Even Alfie Solomons, who Tommy recognises has left a bouquet of flowers down by your stone. He knows it is Alfie who left those flowers because when they spoke on the phone, Alfie expressed that he was sorry for your loss. And this time he actually is sorry. He is sorry because his heart aches every time he thinks about the little Shelby girl you were when he met and the strong, powerful young woman you were when you dove in front of that bullet that was never meant for you. Alfie had nothing to do with any of the events that led to your death and if he could, he would have changed everything about that day. That's how Tommy knows who those flowers are from. They're the flowers that you gifted to Alfie as a child when you first met him with Tommy at a time when there was no one else to watch out for you and leaving you alone was not an option.

You being alone was never an option.

And now here you were. Tommy doesn't know if you're alone now. He thinks you might not be. He thinks you're probably with your mother and John. He reckons that you and your pesky older brother go around haunting the old houses of the enemies your brothers made in their lifetimes. The officers who were never in the trenches and never had to face the things that left John scarred. Tommy had this image in his head of John slamming doors in old houses and knocking vases off of window ledges to torment people while you tidy up after him like you always have done.

Tommy feels you with him here, and always. But mostly here. Here, its like you're right there in front of him if he keeps his eyes closed, he can almost hear your voice sweeping through the wind.

Or maybe he's just going completely insane, eh?

"I remember you every day, sweetheart. Everyday. Everyday I remember you and everyday I love you. But now," Tommy's voice trails off so he can clear his throat and try not to cry as he looks up to the sky coloured in every different shade of grey, just like his entire life since you left it. "Now I have to remember you for long-" He chokes up again, tears sliding down his cheeks with his jaw going slack and his lips trembling. "For longer than I got to know you."

"And I don't know how to do it, my little love I truly do not."

Thomas Shelby used to be the man with the plan who knew it all, now he feels as though there is nothing in the world that he does know.

He truly does know nothing but one single thing now.

He knows that every time grief steals his breath, he will remind himself that loving you? Well, loving you was worth the pain.

[hinotorihime]

so chapter 3/the may 16th entry of dracula is actually one of the pillars of my argument that Dracula Is A Love Story.

the central point of dracula is that humans loving each other matters; that ordinary people can stand against darkness and evil simply by the strength of their connections to each other. dracula is old and powerful, but he is, fundamentally, alone.

dracula cannot love. this is what defeats him in the end.

spoiler-laden and very long discussion under the cut.

we learn some interesting and important things from the scene of dracula and the vampire women. first, dracula’s own peers don’t even like him. the relationship between them is overtly hostile, with the women disobeying dracula’s orders and being restrained only by his superior strength:

I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. ... With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves.

the vampires are equated explicitly with wolves-- not as the family structure we now know wolf packs to be, but rather as a group of vicious and naturally solitary killers who are forced to band together under the power of the strongest one for the sake of acquiring food.

then we get this exchange:

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me." The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

"You yourself never loved; you never love!"

more evidence of the disdain, hatred, and perhaps fear that the other vampires hold for the count; it hints at a history that we never actually get, but can perhaps guess at, especially in the immediate context of the scene (the women attempting to prey on jonathan), which frames a vampiric attack, very very obviously, as a sexual assault. and it expresses, flat-out, in so many words, a core theme of the novel: dracula cannot love as humans do.

dracula tries to refute this claim, in a very unconvincing way:

Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will.”

yes, tumblr, this is the homoerotic cherry on top of the homoerotic ice cream, but like...

consider the parallels between the implications of this statement and this passage from jonathan in chapter XXII, which is incidentally my favorite line in this entire book and has lived in my brain rent-free for ten years:

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

like. okay! okay then!! jesus christ. hang on a second i need a moment.

fundamentally what stoker is doing in chapter III is drawing a distinction between the selfless, self-sacrificing love that the human characters will later demonstrate for each other (jonathan’s for mina, or lucy’s suitors for her--

What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and I shall do it. My life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for her." ... "If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would understand——" [chapter X]

)

and the “love” that dracula expresses for jonathan in this scene, which is no more in the end than a malicious possessiveness over his food. maybe when the count was a mortal man he was capable of loving in a mortal way-- his words to the vampire women seem almost wistful or nostalgic to me. but look at the contrast between lucy’s deep love and playful affection for her boys when she was alive and, well, this:

Lucy's eyes in form and colour; but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. ... With a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said:—

"Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!"

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones—something of the tingling of glass when struck—which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. [chapter XVI]

the revenant that was lucy retains her memories, but none of her human feeling; arthur’s love for her becomes no more than a tool to manipulate him into being her next meal.

vampires are incapable of love.

they are incapable of true community, too; fundamentally outcasts, fundamentally loners, who only group together under duress for the sake of hunger or the threat of violence. and it is due, in the end, to this incapability that they are defeated. for all his power, dracula dies unceremoniously at the hands of a bunch of young men who care deeply for each other and would do anything for jonathan harker’s wife. there’s a hope in that, and a comfort. as samuel vimes once said: it’s better to light a flamethrower than to curse the darkness.

or, in terms stoker would have been more familiar with: the light shines in darkness, and the darkness cannot comprehend it.

a final note: it would be remiss of me to ignore the unfortunate implications of the very queer framing of this assault scene-- other people have talked about the way that the homoeroticism of dracula’s claiming of jonathan, and the implicit feminization of jonathan-as-gothic-ingenue, was in context intended to increase the horror factor, and about the way it probably reflects stoker’s complex feelings about his own sexuality. the idea that homosexuality is “not really love” or, worse, is inherently assault, is still prevalent in today’s society, and my interpretation of this scene unfortunately cannot escape those undercurrents. the incorporation of these themes in the novel is masterful writing, and would also be rightly considered abhorrent if it were published today. ah, the art of literary criticism!

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Another Warlock?

Leon cries a lot, Merlin is protective, and Arthur has to confront the cruelty of his Kingdom’s justice system.

To say that Gaius was surprised when Sir Leon burst into the Physician’s chambers late one evening, pale and sweaty and shaking, one hand shielding his eyes and one hand supporting himself on the door frame, would be a VAST understatement.

He goes to rush forward, not able to recall a single time he’s ever seen the normally incredibly put together man look so shaken, but the way Leon almost falls back in his effort to keep his distance stops him in his tracks.

His breathing is deep and dangerously fast, but before Gaius can call for help or demand the knight tell him what’s wrong, his voice comes out, rushed and cracking and desperate:

“Merlin?? Gaius, where’s Merlin, I... I need Merlin.”

In his shock, both at Leon’s whole terrified demeanour, and the tears he can now see dripping down the other man’s cheeks, he answers without thinking:

“At this time he’ll be in The King’s chambers. My boy are you sure there’s nothing I can-”

Before the physician can finish, Leon bolts from the room, the door swinging shut behind him as he stumbles his way down the corridor as quickly as he can, thinking of nothing but how much he needs Merlin.

His brain fails to make the connection between “The King’s chambers” and “Arthur”, and the knight sprints through the halls, bruising shoulders and elbows on doorframes as his sight is blurred by tears and a shaking hand.

Gaius considers following to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, but the man is very private, the type to never share his troubles. The physician decides to check in on Arthur’s chambers in a candle mark or so, just to make sure that no one needs any treatment or enforced bedrest; he settles back onto the bench, resuming his previous task with half his mind focused on how terrified Sir Leon had looked, and trying not to worry too much.

~

Arthur was sat at his desk, forehead resting on his hand as he tried to force himself into reading just one more page of the month’s food inventory report. It was boring stuff, but he was King, this had to be done. Uther had never bothered, but Arthur’s head had been filled with ideas on how to better redistribute food since long before he became King, so he never gave up an opportunity to double-check the reports.

Merlin was settled at his dining table across the room, carefully polishing each of Arthur’s many blades. His sword was the first to be done, but Arthur had rather pettily demanded that Merlin also see to the various daggers and knives that The King usually kept hidden around his room, despite the fact that none of the had been used in the three months since Merlin had last cleaned them.

Frankly, Arthur had started to find Merlin’s quiet grumbling a pleasant background noise; he always seemed to be able to concentrate better when in the other man’s presence. Despite Arthur’s boredom and headache, and Merlin’s exhaustion and aching hands, there’s nowhere else either of them would rather be.

The King had just about given up on getting anymore work done; it was late, and he had to give in to the idea that his headache was only going to get worse, so he organised the papers into rough piles on the desk and lent back in his chair, hands folded in his lap as he blinks up at the ceiling. He looks down just in time to make eye contact with Merlin, and he returns the man’s soft smile before he can stop himself.

Merlin raises an eyebrow, almost certainly about to say something scathing about Arthur’s Kingly Mask slipping in the evening, but before he can utter even a word, the main door slams open with a crash, bouncing off the wall loudly.

Arthur stands quickly, tensing when he realises that the sword normally hidden under his desk is currently on the other side of the room with Merlin. The servant already has a dagger expertly held in one of his hands as he moves around the table to see who had burst in, and Arthur makes a mental note to make sure Merlin knows how to use it properly at later date.

The King goes to rush around the desk, but a sharp intake of breath from Merlin as he drops the knife on the table and holds a firm hand out to him, undoubtedly telling him to stay where he is, stops him in his tracks. Arthur trusts Merlin, despite not being able to see whoever it was that had practically broken the door down.

Arthur blinks in surprise when he sees an unarmoured Leon stumble round the corner, hand over his eyes and shaking as he calls Merlin’s name, his voice cracking as tears stream down his pale cheeks. Arthur gulps and goes to move towards him, but finds himself frozen when Leon collapses to his knees, both hands now clamped tightly over his eyes as his sobs become audible. Merlin rushes to him, falling to the floor in front of the knight and taking his wrists in soft hands, not even bothering to look to Arthur as he focuses all of his attention on the distraught man.

“Leon? Leon you need to tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Arthur marvels at the way Merlin’s voice wavers only slightly, though quickly reminds himself that the now fully-fledged physician was used to dealing with panicking patients, it’s just Leon that he’s not used to panicking.

Leon’s breathing is deep and uneven, and Merlin moves one of his hands to the back of the knight’s head as he stutters out a frantic:

“Merlin, I... please- I need help... please make it stop, I don’t- I don’t know how to make it stop, please.”

Merlin frowns, trying to calm his own breathing as he runs his desperate gaze over the knight’s body, trying to figure out what was wrong, but it’s Arthur’s sharp gasp and muttered "what the fuck...” that has him look up.

What he sees makes it decidedly harder to keep calm.

The pillow that Arthur had thrown at him that morning was floating a few feet off the ground, as was a vase of flowers by the (thankfully swung shut) door. The flames in the lit hearth were colourful and jumping, filling with odd shapes and seeming to shiver in time with Leon’s panicked wheezing, and the curtains were shaking in a wind that wasn’t there.

Merlin gulps and curses to himself quietly before looking back down to Leon, grabbing his wrists and trying to pry his hands away from his eyes:

“Leon, I need you to look at me. Everything’s going to be ok, but I need you to look at me right now.”

Arthur is still frozen in place, hand twitching by his hip as he subconsciously reaches for his absent sword. 

Merlin still ignores him, rubbing his thumbs over Leon’s wrists softly as he carefully pulls his hands forward. Leon finally gives in, letting Merlin hold his hands close to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly and struggling to draw breath:

“Open your eyes, Leon. I promise that you're safe, ok? I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you, but I need to see.”

Leon shakes his head slightly and whimpers, and Merlin glances over the knight’s shoulder as a loud pop sounds from the fire. The servant moves one of his hands back to Leon’s hair, stroking slightly as he asks him to open his eyes again, trying to keep his voice soft even in his panic. The older man finally complies, and Merlin clenches his jaw to stop himself from gasping at the gold of Leon’s irises.

Merlin glances behind him briefly, but is grateful to see Arthur’s bewildered gaze focused on the floating pillow rather than Leon, and looks back to him with a soft smile on his face, laying the knight’s hand flat over his chest as he speaks:

“I need you to calm down, ok? Everything’s going to be ok, there’s nothing wrong with you, and I won’t let anyone come anywhere near you. We’ll figure it out, but I need you to take deep breaths ok? Can you manage that?-”

Leon nods slightly, leaning forward and pressing his hand into Merlin’s chest as he pushes his forehead into the servant’s shoulder. His breathing slows slightly, and Merlin is grateful to feel the hitches in his breath grow less erratic:

“-That’s it, just one breath after another, ok? You’re absolutely fine, Leon, I’ll keep you safe, just breathe.”

It takes a few minutes of Merlin’s soft words and quiet encouragement, but he’s grateful to see the fire die down to a normal size, the curtains stilling, and everything that had been floating drop to the floor. He’s relieved when the vase lands softly, knowing that a loud crash at this point would probably just set the shaking knight off again.

Though he definitely tenses at Arthur’s outburst:

“What the fuck?!”

Leon falls back onto his hands, scrambling back and staring in terror over Merlin’s shoulder towards the befuddled King. Arthur recoils slightly at the fear on Leon's face, but before he can react, Merlin jumps up, leaping forward to grab Arthur’s sword from the table and twirling it expertly in his hand as he moves in to a defensive position in front of Leon’s still-cowering form:

“I won’t let you hurt him, Arthur. You'd have to kill me before I let you lay a hand on him.”

Leon stands on shaky legs, desperate to stop Merlin from putting himself in any danger, but his fear stops him from doing anything other than grip the back of the servant’s tunic in shivering hands. Arthur just looks even more confused, his wide-eyed stare moving between the terrified knight and angry servant:

“What are you talking about?? Will one of you please tell me what just happened?!”

Leon sniffles quietly, tugging on Merlin’s shirt lightly, but Merlin just holds a hand out to the side, gesturing for Leon to stay behind him and keep quiet as he strengthens the grip on his sword:

“It would seem, Sire, that Leon was born with a touch of magic, and it’s just made its first appearance. Like I said, You’d have to kill me before I let you hurt him just for existing.”

Arthur takes in a sharp breath and Leon whimpers slightly, but Merlin just squares his shoulders even more and adjusts his grip, glancing to the other weapons on the table. He knows he probably couldn’t take Arthur in a swordfight, but he rapidly comes to the conclusion that he would happily out his own magic if it was the only way to protect his friend.

Arthur holds his hands out placatingly, but doesn’t make any moves towards the table or Merlin and Leon, speaking slowly, despite the clear worry and suspicion in his voice:

“Merlin, you can’t be born with magic. So just explain what’s happening, the truth this time. If he’s been cursed or something, then we’ll fix it, no one’s going to hurt him.”

Merlin snarls slightly. Before, when Arthur’s backwards views and misunderstandings about magic had just affected him, it just made him sad. Now they were putting Leon in danger, doing nothing but making his friend even more scared, he found that they made him angry:

“With all due resect, Arthur, are you really going to trust whatever shit Uther told you about magic?? Has it never occurred to you that any and all information on sorcery in this Godforsaken Kingdom is censored, or just straight up wrong? I’m telling you, it is entirely possible to be born with magic.”

Arthur’s expression morphs to one of anger, and Leon pulls on Merlin’s tunic again, trying to get him to step back. The servant just reaches behind him, squeezing Leon’s wrist briefly and holding his position as Arthur grinds out:

“Magic is evil, Merlin, it corrupts.”

Merlin just rolls his eyes harshly, tightening his grip on the sword once again as he argues:

“Yeah? Well this magic has been inside Leon his entire life. Do you think it possible to be born evil? Do you think Leon was born evil? Do you think he’s been evil all his life and just not known it? Or do you think he suddenly, a few minutes ago when his magic first manifested itself, made the switch from good to evil? Look at him, Arthur,-”

Merlin steps to the side slightly, gesturing vaguely at an almost-hyperventilating, still-crying Leon behind him:

“-he’s fucking terrified because his head has been filled with lies and he thinks one of his closest friends is going to strap him to a pyre just for existing. At which point I feel the need to remind you that if you want to burn Leon, you’re going to have to burn me right alongside him.”

Leon’s teary eyes widen and he tugs on Merlin’s shirt again, his voice quiet and cracking:

“Merlin, no, you can’t-”

Merlin shakes his head, not looking away from the shocked King as he strongly says:

“I can, and I will. I promised you I would keep you safe, and that’s what I intend to do. I think it’s time Arthur learns the truth.”

Arthur is taken aback at Merlin’s protectiveness at first, but quickly bristles at his words, tensing and narrowing his eyes as he says:

“And how would you know all about magic, Merlin, you’ve never seemed to take an interest in it before, never bothered correcting me before.”

Merlin looks at The King like he’s an idiot, eyebrows raised and mouth open, freezing like that for a moment of two before he speaks incredulously:

“Are you serious?? I grew up outside of Camelot, where accurate information about magic is far more readily available. I know a hell of a lot more about sorcery than you, I just don’t talk about it because your head is full of lies and you’re a stubborn prat.”

Arthur takes in a deep breath, his face falling into a worrying mix of confusion and sadness. His eyes dart around slightly and his hands twitch as he thinks, obviously trying to come to some sort of conclusion that makes sense in his head.

He looks up suddenly, freezing once again as he stares at Leon, only just now seeming to notice how terrified he looks. How terrified Leon, the only swordsman Arthur has ever met who can consistently beat him, one of his closest friends and most trust advisors, a man seven years his senior who had always supported him and offered advice... how terrified that man looks. Of Arthur.

Merlin relaxes his posture slightly, lowering the sword as he stares at Arthur with a slight suspicious frown on his face. Leon breaks Arthur’s stare, gaze darting to the weapons on the table before he glances briefly to the door.

Arthur’s face falls even further, looking just a tad horrified that Leon thought Arthur was going to attack him, that Leon though he might have to make a run for it. The King finally looks over to Merlin, his eyes wide and tears gathering as he takes a staggered step back, his voice barely above a whisper:

“How... how was my father so....”

His words trail off and Merlin lowers his sword fully, letting out a gentle huff of air as he raises a mournful eyebrow:

“Wrong?”

Arthur nods, and Merlin takes in a deep breath, sighing as he tries to decide just how truthful to be:

“Magic... magic killed his wife. He ignored the warnings, didn’t consider the consequences, and was blinded by fear and hatred and a need for revenge, a need for someone to blame.”

Leon takes in a surprised breath at the same time as Arthur, and The King takes another step back, leaning tiredly against his desk as he stares at the floor, muttering:

“The apparition of my mother was real, then?”

Merlin shakes his head, taking a step towards him but still keeping his distance, hyper aware of Leon still stood behind him:

“I don’t know whether the apparition was real or fake, but it... it was telling the truth, I think.”

Arthur nods absent-mindedly, frowning at his feet for a few moments, the silence heavy and tense on everyone’s shoulders. Merlin can’t help but feel a spark of hope in his chest; was this it?? Was this when things changed?

The King looks up again, hands clenched tightly and tears still gathering in his eyes as he stares at Merlin:

“Merlin... how many- if people can be born with magic, if it isn’t actually evil, if it just... is, how many... how many innocent people have died, have been hunted, burned?-”

Arthur takes a few steps towards his friends, letting out an incredulous, almost manic laugh as he runs his hands through his hair roughly:

“-How many innocent people have I killed, just for existing?”

Merlin sighs and shakes his head, finally dropping the sword back onto the table and closing the gap between the two of them, putting a strong hand on The King’s shoulder:

“You can’t think like that, Arthur, you were just following orders, you didn’t know any better.”

Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze, rapidly blinking away the tears as he mumbles:

“You managed, Leon evidently managed.”

Merlin frowns again and shakes his head, looking back to Leon in confusion:

“Hmm. I grew up outside of Camelot, remember. Leon however... the magic inside Witches and Warlocks tends to manifest in the teen years. I mean, it can happen earlier or later, but you’re, what? Thirty?”

Leon gives him a weak smile and raises an eyebrow:

“Thirty-five.”

Merlin’s frown just deepens as he looks Leon up and down. The knight drops his smile and gulps, not understanding the problem as Arthur sidesteps the servant:

“Witches and Warlocks?”

Merlin hums absent-mindedly, still staring at Leon:

“People with natural, instinctive magic. Sorcerers and sorceresses are people who study it, they’re taught it from scratch, like you were taught how to use a sword. Witches and Warlocks are born with an innate ability.”

Arthur nods, but finally notices Merlin’s confused stare and Leon’s uneasy frown:

“What is it, Merlin? Is Leon... ok?”

Merlin shakes himself out of his stupor, blinking in surprise and looking between the two concerned men:

“Oh! Yeah, I’m just... why now?? For your first outburst, that was pretty weak, especially considering how freaked out you were, so you obviously don’t have all that much natural magic, so why did it take an extra twenty years to make itself known?”

Leon just shrugs his shoulders slightly but Arthur blinks his eyes in surprise and steps away slightly:

“You really do know a lot about magic, don’t you?”

Merlin nods again, looking just a little embarrassed as he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair before turning back to Leon and pushing him to sit at the table. Merlin sits next to him, twisting in his chair slightly to face the still tense knight, and Arthur sits slowly opposite him, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation or... something. 

Merlin continues to stare at Leon, evidently trying to figure something out, and he takes a deep breath before slowly mumbling:

“Something must’ve changed.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely for Merlin to continue:

“I mean... magic has strict rules, even seemingly random instinctive magic works in specific ways. There has to be a reason that yours has suddenly decided to come out and play. So... what changed? Why did your magic stop hiding?”

Leon scoffs slightly and sits back in his chair, all of a sudden realising how tired he is but still being unable to untense:

“I... you talk about... magic, as if it’s sentient.”

Merlin smiles slightly, fondly almost:

“It is, in a way. Not so much for regular sorcerers, but for people with instinctive magic, you don’t... control it, you ask it, you work with it. It will react to your needs and wants and emotions, it’s part of you, but it’s also... separate. It will try and protect you and the people you care about, without you even realising sometimes. Maybe... maybe that’s what happened.”

Leon fiddles with his hands in his lap roughly, picking the skin at his nails as he gulps:

“What do you mean, maybe what happened?”

Merlin smiles, taking Leon’s hands in his own and raising a disapproving eyebrow at the blood just started to seep through old scabs:

“Maybe it was protecting you, keeping you safe. Held itself inside until... I don’t know, it was safer?”

Arthur finally pipes in then, interrupting Merlin’s verbalised stream of thought:

“But it wasn’t. Granted, I haven’t executed many people, but I’ve been King for years, and up until five minutes ago I was still under the impression that magic was evil.”

Merlin shook his head:

“No, not safety from you... safety from Leon.-”

Leon recoils slightly and Arthur frowns in confusion:

“-Something about you changed. Your... views on magic?”

Merlin tilts his head as he says it, obviously asking, and the knight bites his lip, gaze darting between the two men nervously. Arthur just gives him a smile and nods encouragingly. Leon shuffles in his seat uncomfortably, not making eye contact with either of them as he quietly speaks:

“A few months ago I... saw someone do magic, in the castle. I was angry at first, but it seemed so... innocent. It didn’t hurt anyone, it had no consequence, it was just... it looked natural.”

The knight finally looks up again and Merlin nods knowingly, making a mental note to find out who was stupid enough to use magic in the-

...

He notices the pointed way Leon is looking at him, and he scraps that mental note in favour of making a new one, reminding himself to thank Leon later for not immediately killing him.

Merlin bites his lip and Leon rolls his eyes slightly, but before either of them can say anything, Arthur leans across the table, patting Leon on the shoulder comfortingly before sitting back and nodding to himself. He clears his throat and bites his lip as the two of them look to him nervously:

“I’m... curious. Of all people.... why Merlin? You had no idea that he knew so much about magic, you discover that you have magic, and the first person you rush to, you trust, you believe will protect you in a Kingdom that would see you burn... is Merlin. Why?”

Leon gulps, his gaze darting to the young servant, and Merlin widens his eyes slightly before setting his face into well-practiced neutrality and looking back to Arthur:

“Well, like I said, I grew up outside of Camelot’s propaganda.”

Arthur tilts his head and furrows his brows:

“Yes... but so did Percival and Gwaine and Lancelot. And he grew up with Elyan and Gwen, so...”

Merlin clenches his jaw, his brain running through all the possible lies he could tell. Depending on how the rest of this conversation goes, now may or may not be the time to out his own magic:

“Well... look at me-”

He throws his arms up loosely:

“-I’m one of the only people he knows who couldn’t actually do much damage to him if I turned on him. He’s a Camelot Noble Arthur, pretty much all of his friends and family would run him through in an instant if they found out what was happening to him.”

Arthur frowns mournfully, but his nod is understanding as he stares at the table for a few moments. He squares his shoulders and looks up again, his voice strong and Kingly:

“We have some laws to revise. Tomorrow, the three of us are going to visit the Druids, we can leave Leon there for a little while so he can learn to control it at least. I’m sure we can come up with some sort of excuse.”

Leon nods, but Merlin takes a deep breath before shaking his head:

“That... that won’t be necessary.”

Arthur just frowns at him in confusion, but Leon’s eyes go wide as he stares at the servant, taking his wrist in a tight grip; a clear warning. Merlin just gives him a weak smile before sitting up straight and looking to Arthur, his face blank:

“I can teach him.”

Arthur just looks even more confused, before he huffs and rolls his eyes:

“Merlin you may have an odd amount of knowledge in that big head of yours, but it would still be better for someone who was born with magic like him to help.”

Merlin doesn’t even hesitate in his response:

“Exactly.”

Arthur looks up at him sharply, taking in a deep breath and straightening his back when he notices the gold of Merlin’s eyes. It takes him a few moments to respond, and Merlin’s eyes have faded back to their bright blue before Arthur sighs and nods, not looking away as he mumbles:

“I think... that somehow I should’ve expected that.-”

The King leans forwards and puts his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table; he lets out a short, humourless laugh, and Merlin and Leon share a worried glance. Before they can say anything, he looks up again, a disbelieving smile on his face:

“-I’m desperate to be angry, furious, even. But after everything I’ve said, done, directly to you and in general, I really don’t think I have the right.”

Merlin shakes his head, anxiety and guilt swelling in his stomach:

“No Arthur, I lied to you for over ten years, you’re allowed to be angry.”

Arthur shakes his head again, but before he can say anything, Leon pipes up, his voice strong and no longer cracking and shaking, despite his obvious nervousness:

“That... No. With all due respect, Sire, you’re right.-”

He turns to a dumbfounded Merlin:

“-You lied because it was the only way to protect yourself. By Camelot’s laws, you- both of us, should have had death sentences from the moment we were born. Lying to save yourself torture by pyre... that isn’t selfish, or cruel, it’s... justice.”

Merlin looks like he wants to argue, but Arthur just shrugs his shoulders and nods, giving his servant a pointed glare before going back to looking curiously confused, and settling an assessing gaze on Leon:

“Can you... feel it? The magic?”

Leon shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, and squeezes Merlin’s hand in his subconscious search for comfort:

“Uh... yeah sort of. Honestly, I’m trying not to, it... it scares me.”

Merlin squeezes back before swivelling in his seat and pulling Leon to do the same, so they’re sat facing each other; Arthur leans forward so he can see what Merlin was fiddling with. The servant cups his hands and rests them under Leon’s own cupped hands, looking up to the older man with a smile:

“It’s not something to be afraid of, Leon, it’s a gift. Let go, feel it. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen. Just... feel it.”

Leon gulps, but lets out a breath and relaxes as he closes his eyes. Merlin’s grin grows, and Arthur stares in wonder at the golden glow of his eyes, his gaze darting to Leon’s face when the man begins to softly smile. Merlin’s next words come out as barely a whisper:

“Open your eyes, look.”

Leon takes another deep breath before opening his golden eyes and looking down at his hands, letting out a surprised laugh when he sees a miniature blue flame, floating a few inches above his palms. He can feel it’s warmth, feel the new odd sensation in his chest feeding it, sparking down his arms and into the flame, mixing with something that feels so very... Merlin. He looks up at the grinning servant, not able to persuade himself to look towards the King even when he hears the other man mutter, his voice quiet and full of wonder:

“A gift indeed.”

~

THE END!!!

Ok so I might write a part 2 to this, basically about Merlin teaching Leon in secret (with Gwaine and Lancelot getting jealous because how the fuck did boring, rule following, 8 years older than him Leon end up becoming Merlin’s best friend??) and a visit to the Druids and a ban repeal and a proper reveal.

BUT it isn’t a definite, and if it does happen it won’t be any time soon, so I guess just consider this done?

I hope y’all enjoyed it!! Same as always, you wanna write it up, let me know and credit and tag me!! :D

[cloudberry-sims]

A Decade Through Time: The Alderberg Legacy: Year 1603

The dice is cursed 😭

From the Beginning I Currently 

At the beginning of 1603 , the tragic news of their gracious monarch and queens death reached the village of Outland. After 45 long years , it was the end of a golden age. 

 Yet when others mourned the death of their queen , Avigail Friswell alongside her beloved husband Garitt quietly rejoiced , not in the death of their monarch , oh no , but in the birth of a healthy daughter , which was given the prettiest name her mother could thing- Annabelle. 

It was not only them who had luck with healthy daughters , as 3 months later Griffyn and Priscilla welcomed not one but two little girls of their own- Lettice & Lucy. Twins ran in Griffyn’s bloodline , so it was not that surprising for him to have a set of his very own twins.He just hopes they stay healthy and happy as they grow. 

Returning to the Friswell household , the family of now 5 sat together in the drawing room after finishing a birthday dinner for both Stephen and Charles. 

The boys were extremely good with one and other , with how Stephen was friendly and easy going young man. Yet , his mother noticed , he seem to have sticky fingers. 

Avigail & Garitt hopes he will outgrow that trait before someone notice him taking something he’s not suppose to have.  

While his sister was having a blissful life he always hope for her to have , Abel Horthall took a break from his duties as leading merchant in Outland with a bottle of nectar. Even if he had tried to do better for his family's sake , he was still a slave to the bottle , as Barbara would often say. 

Indeed , he was a slave to the sweet taste of nectar and booze. Abel had started drinking after losing his first wife Clarice and their son at the age of 20 , a decade ago. His drinking caused his poor mother so much hurt that she died of a broken heart. It caused his current wife to feel immanence distaste for him , no matter how hard he tried to get better, then again , did he really want to? 

In the end , it didn’t matter , for his drinking will cause him to lose his very own life. After 10 years of heavy drinking , his body finally gave up. Abel was barely 30 years old...    

The death of her husband made Barbara confused and somewhat numb. She had sometimes wished for him to die , but when it finally happened it didn't feel right to her. 

The now Widow Horthall started to view her husband differently now that he was gone , from a narcissistic , egocentric  drunk , to a damaged , cowardly boy... 

But Barbara couldn't think about it any longer , as it was her duty and responsibility to take care of her son's financial interests until they come of age. 

Jasper , Francis and little Arthur are the loves of her life ,  and she would do anything for them , even vowing to never remarry so that no man can try and steal their grandfathers and fathers well earned fortune to squander. It was Jasper’s to do as he pleased as he was the oldest , hopefully he would be gracious enough to share with his brothers. 

But it was not only Barbara who became a widow that year... In fact , someone lost so much more... 

Sybil Stanwix had always turned to the watcher for answers and prayers in times of need. Yet , this time she could not understand why the watchers dice was so cruel. 

Somehow , both her husband Isaac and darling son Nathaniel contracted the dreadful smallpox. No matter how hard she tried , it would be in vain as they both past away from the disease. Sybil was now a widower and 6 months pregnant with her long yearned child... 

Thankfully , she was not alone. Her mother Anne was going to stay with her and take care of her until the baby is born , even perhaps longer. Mark could take care of Mary and Geoffrey for a few months and Anne would visit , but her priority right now is Sybil and her unborn grandchild. 

It was sadly not only the Horthall and Stanwix that lost someone during the third quarter of 1603. 

Although she seemed like a healthy baby , little Lettice died after 3 months of life , seemingly at random. It broke her parent’s hearts to say goodbye to such a sweet baby. 

With Lettice gone , Priscilla poured extra love and care to Lucy’s care. She would cuddle , coo at and be the sweetest as she can be to hide the sadness she felt in her heart... 

At the very end of 1603 , Sybil Stanwix ,  gave birth to a healthy little girl... Yet it came with a heavy coast. 

The birth had been complicated and traumatic for the young Widow and she slipped into darkness , joining her husband and son 3 months after their own deaths. Leaving her poor infant daughter orphaned and alone in the world. 

The death of Sybil put little Grace Stanwix into her grandmother and step-grandfathers care , whom both vowed to care for her as long as they could. 

Yet it was hard , for losing a child , no matter how old they were , still would hurt like a thousands of daggers to the heart. So it was good that Geoff, now 13 years old , was there to comfort her when Mark couldn’t. 

Geoffrey Mildmay looked surprisingly much like his mother Audrey , just with his fathers Thomas coloring. He had a compassionate , gently approach to life , very much like his mother , which was a great comfort. 

It was not only Geoff who aged up , Anne’s youngest daughter Mary Kellogg had turned 20 years of age. 

She disliked all this sadness and weeping in the house , after all it was annoying to listen to it everyday since Sybil’s death. In general , she disliked everything here- the filth , the dirty pigs , the rugged clothes she was wearing , the lice and the hunger. 

Mary knew that she deserved the finer things in life , similar to her rich Horthall cousins , and she was determined to get it , no matter what. And she knew where to start. 

A newly married couple ,Hubert and Elisabeth Dagworth had moved to Outland for Hubert's job , as he was a clerk. And they needed a maid to clean and cook for them. 

Mary took the job , and started to observe their dynamic. The couple barely spent any time together except for small talk , as it was a arranged marriage by their parents. 

Hubert seem to only be able to think about money and numbers and had little care for poor Elisabeth. If Mary could put him in a vulnerable position to fall in love with her , she would have everything she ever dreamed of.  

So Mary did what she was paid for - to cook and clean the house for them. 

Just that Elisabeth’s food will have a lovely little surprise. It would take time , perhaps a year or two , but in the end Mary would be the new Mrs. Dagworth... 

On a less murderous note , Marion Alderberg happily and quietly celebrated her 6th birthday. 

The “songbird” of the family was such a lovely child , shy and polite , who could not wait for the dark gloomy winter to end so she can enjoy the sun once more. 

The dice really hated the Stanwix. You see , Nathaniel and Isaac were to age up on the same day. I rolled for Nathaniel first , and he died , then I rolled for Isaac and he died, the next day Sybil went into labor and rolled 1 and SHE DIED! Oh Grace , my poor precious baby!  

I really hope Anne rolls a 20 for her end of life roll , I don’t want Grace to be all alone, or worst , ending up with Mary as her guardian. Speaking of our evil beauty , she is re-schedule to marry in 2 years time because she have to , you know , get in a position to marry Hubert 😈

Honestly I love evil sims! I hope that in the future I will have a evil heir because I can go wild with it! Btw I don’t think I mentioned it but baby Ambrose who died last year was evil too. 

[its-deputy-caleb]

hello !! i have a headcannon request for arthur and a female reader (platonic) of her being Hosea’s daughter, and like a much younger sister figure to him?? like how growing up with arthur would be etc etc :D ty!!

anon this was such a cute ask! thank you <33

Arthur Morgan & Fem!adopted sister

You and Athur have pretty much been inseparable since you were little. Since you’re a lot younger than him, Hosea often asked him to baby sit and watch you while he was on jobs or when he needed to spend hours of his time planning with Dutch.

Arthur pretends to be grouchy about it but when he’s with you he looks after you like you wouldn’t believe and he feels like an older brother to you.

His nickname for you is 'Mini Matthews' because you're basically Hosea but smaller.

It’s Arthur who first teaches you how to fire a revolver, and while Hosea wasn’t very impressed he knew that in growing up with a bunch of outlaws you’d eventually learn and Arthur is nothing but responsible.

By the time you’re a young adult, you and Arthur go on jobs together every single time. It started out as Hosea and Dutch insisting that Arthur had to go with you to protect you but now the two of you could think of no other partner you’d rather have.

Growing up with Arthur, you actually take on a lot of his mature and gentlemen-like traits. Around camp you and Arthur are loved by everyone and the two of you are what hold the camp together.

Charles, Javier, Lenny and even Sean were all friends to you and Arthur would feel almost like a proud dad to see you laughing and having fun with the family.

As the daughter of a con man you have a playful and devilish side where you often played pranks on Arthur. He can be quite grouchy sometimes but you always make him smile with your jokes and tricks.

That doesn’t mean living with the Van Der Linde’s was always fun and games. When John left both you and Arthur were devastated, the two of you helping Abigail whenever she needed a break. John was like a brother to the both of you but especially you since he was closer to your age.

It got even harder as the gang moved east, loosing your father was the hardest for you and you’d never quite recovered from the Saint Denis bank job. However, you and Arthur couldn’t stand to watch any more people die so the two of you as well as Sadie, Charles, John and others all gathered together to get everyone out and to help them.

Even in Arthur’s last moments he’s immensely proud of you and out of everyone you’re the one who means the most to him.

You live with John and Abigail for a few years on their farm, helping them out like Arthur would have wanted and each year you visit his grave with flowers.

Sometimes when you miss him and want to remember all the good times growing up, you read through his journal that he left you.

Inside are drawings of the two of you, some just light sketches and others a little more detailed all with little stories from Arthur recounting his favourite times with you.

On the last page there’s a family picture of you, Arthur, John, Hosea and Dutch smiling with your arms around each other and it’s never fails to make you smile.

[lorata]

in ADUD, post-war, which district 2 victor death do you think hit ronan the hardest? he's always been a fascinating character to me because of how you describe his mindset and it's... so good. i feel like this might be an unfair question in the sense that it's "which of ronan's children does he love most" but i'm curious for your take on it

Ah but that’s an easy one: whichever one he’s reminded of right now.

At the time he didn’t have the ability to feel it, not really. The grief was too vast, too deep, too all-encompassing: like Arthur Dent trying to understand that Earth was gone. Obviously he mourned, but in an awful, hollow way — that ugly, selfish, very real grief that’s for yourself and what you’ve lost, and not really about them at all.

And then of course he stops feeling anything at all for a while, and decides to let himself die, and for a while he very nearly does, but then his dogs come back and he rounds that corner and Misha and her stubbornness slowly, slowly draw him out, and there are apple blossoms in the orchard and a breeze on his skin and your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword and slowly, slowly he comes back to life and the grief button is not being pressed 24 hours of every single day

Of course there are the cyclical hurts, the anniversaries of the bombings or Callista's sacrifice or Odin's shooting, or would-be happy anniversaries that now ring hollow (35, 45, 55 years out), but those are communal hurts, and they still have that sense of shared mourning, everyone together, none of them hold more pain than the other.

example:

A raven will call from the trees and he will think of Odin, nineteen years old and proud and so eager to please, nursing a broken winged fledgling back to health with quiet desperation in the hopes those bloodstained hands could heal, and he thinks of the man who died protecting his children to the end and oh, oh he misses Odin most

Artemisia makes him apple crisp, or tries. All the ingredients are there, but the filling's always a little soupy, the apples a little undercooked and the crumble-top scorched. "I'm getting better," she says with second-week Arena determination and a smile a sword would bounce right off. They ladle ice cream over top to hide the burnt taste as Ronan ignores the tightness at the corner of Artemisia's eyes. "She always made it perfectly," she says. "Every time. I know she told me what I'm doing wrong a hundred times, I just -- I didn't pay attention. I was too busy watching her." Ronan scoops a lump of butter-oats-cinnamon and misses Emory the most

"Do you remember that old cartoon," Luna asked him, a year or so before the end, as Capitol propaganda splashes every screen. "The mouse and his family, telling everyone about -- was it Five? With the funny clothes and buildings." "Three," Ronan says immediately as the memory hits. The little mouse taking off his shoes before entering his house, making tea, studying for exams. "Five was ... a fox, I think. Oh, those were strange, but I loved them." After the trials they unearthed the district education animal cartoons amidst old Capitol propaganda; Ronan thinks I need to show Luna before his chest hurts, sharp and startling, and he misses Luna most

and so it goes with all of them. whether it's a big moment (watching Brutus with his adoptive grandchildren) or a little one (the first snowdrops in late winter, Caius' favourite), who he misses most is the one whose loss hits him right here, right now

[queenxxxsupreme]

In the Lamplight (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

A/N: This has really no plot except I got upset because of what Arthur can say when he looks in a mirror and it makes me just wanna hug him and kiss the sad cowboah away. Also, I’m trying out Arthur calling his S/O pumpkin instead of the usual ‘darlin’. Here’s another Arthur Morgan fluff if you wanna take a look at it:)

Warnings: self image issues, Arthur having issues with himself as a person??? I don’t know the right way to word it, self conscious!Arthur Morgan, shy!Arthur Morgan I think?, sad but fluffy ending, very fluffy 

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Arthur has issues with himself, but you do your best to make sure he knows just exactly why you love him. 

**picture isn’t mine**

The light from the oil lamp flickered, casting ominous shadows across Arthur’s face. 

He stood in front of the mirror in just a pair of jeans, studying his features with a scowl etched into his face. He was in the process of changing when he caught sight of himself on the reflective surface. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t look, but he couldn’t help it. 

He could see more wrinkles by his eyes than he recalled from the last time he had looked into a mirror. For as long as he could remember, he had a few sunspots on his face. It came with years of working outside, of being out in the elements and exposed to the sun. 

Scars littered nearly every inch of his skin. Some were big and nasty looking, while others were small and barely visible. 

A hand on his side made him blink, pulling him from his trance-like state. 

You were peaking around his shoulder, peering up at him with your brows knit together. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Just fine, pumpkin.”

“Then why were you starin’ for so long?” You looked to the mirror, rubbing your hand up and down his side. 

“Just cause.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why’d you get outta bed? Ya aren’t wearin’ any socks. Your feet are gonna get cold.”

“I called your name twice. You didn’t answer.” You kissed his bare shoulder. “Had me worried.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“M’thinkin’ about tomorrow, pumpkin. We gotta long trip ahead of us. Gotta make it to camp before sundown. Don’t wanna be travelin’ after nightfall.”

You nodded and moved to get into bed, pulling up your chemise so you could climb into the bed. 

“How many scars you reckon I get a year?” Arthur asked, unbuckling his belt and shucking off his pants. 

“Just depends on how many reckless and stupid decisions you make in a year.” You pulled the blankets up over your legs. 

He barked out a laugh, but it was short lived. 

You watched Arthur as he sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He let out a heavy breath, running a hand over his face. 

“You ever…. You ever think ‘bout anyone else?”

You drew your brows together, tilting your head to the side.

“What kind of question is that, Arthur?”

He sat back, rubbing his thigh as he locked his jaw for a moment. 

“At the saloon earlier…. That fella that was gettin’ chatty with you…. Who was he?”

You were quiet for a few moments, carefully reading Arthur’s body language. He was rigid and tense, and he sat on the opposite end of the bed from you. It was like he was trying to put space between you two.

You knew how insecure he was about himself, though he rarely vocalized it. He hated how he looked and he hated himself. It hurt you to know how poorly he felt about himself. 

“A rancher. Didn’t catch his name.” You answered, glancing down at your hands. You brushed your fingers over the top quilt, tracing the stitching to keep your hand occupied.

The man he was talking about was some stranger who had tried to get friendly with you at the saloon in town earlier in the evening when you and Arthur stopped in for drinks. Arthur stepped out for a moment and when he returned, there was a man, maybe ten years younger than him, in his seat. You didn’t flirt with him and Arthur knew this, but the voice in his head had been getting louder and louder all evening, demanding that he address the situation. 

“I wasn’t interested in findin’ out.”

“Why not?” Arthur didn’t look at you. He was too busy staring at the floor in front of him. 

“That’s a silly question. Because I have you.”

He cleared his throat, shifting in his spot. 

“Do I-I hold you back?”

“That’s another silly question. Where is this coming from?” You looked up at him. 

“I’m just…. I don’t know. Just thinkin’.”

“Well you better stop all that thinkin’. It’s not doin’ you a lick of good. You don’t hold me back from anything, Arthur.”

He said nothing, keeping his eyes on the floorboards in front of him. 

You wanted to lay down, to tell him that you both needed the sleep, but you knew he just needed time.

You stayed sitting against the headboard, eyes flickering around the room for a while. You didn’t want to fall asleep without him. 

“Be honest with me, pumpkin.” He murmured quietly, his eyes still avoiding yours. He messed with his fingers now, picking at his nails. “Tell me something that you don’t like about me.”

“Arthur-,”

“Don’t go telling me that nonsense ‘bout how you like everything about me. That’s horseshit.” He cut you off, but he never raised his voice. “Be honest with me.”

“You want me to be honest?”

He nodded, eyes closing as if he was  preparing himself to hear the worst. 

You pushed the quilts off of yourself and shifted around to sit on your knees. 

“Come here, Arthur.” You spoke his name softly, patting the space on the bed in front of you. 

He hesitated, blue eyes flickering from your hands to the bed, then up to you. 

He stood up and moved around the bed, coming to sit on the edge next to you. He was being stubborn and not facing you, so you climbed into his lap. 

Instinctually, his hands came up to hold on to your backside. 

You reached up to cup his jaw, fingertips brushing along his scruff. He leaned into your touch for just a moment. You wished he did it more often. 

You let your index and middle finger create an imaginary line along his jaw to his chin. From there, you went down the front of his neck. Your eyes followed your touch, admiring every little scar that tried to hide beneath his growing beard. 

He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your fingers. You smiled a little. His eyes fluttered shut. 

“There is so much to you, Arthur Morgan.” You whispered. “So much to admire and to love about you.”

Your touch traveled down to his collarbone. You found a scar from a knife there. The skin was jagged and much more pale than the rest of him. 

You recalled hearing about how it was from one of the O’Driscolls. He’d run out of bullets and ended up in a knife fight with another man. Lenny recalled there being three O’Driscolls in all, but Arthur never went into detail about it. 

Arthur watched you, the way your eyes examined the scar carefully as if you’d never seen it before. He was just about to open up his mouth and ask you when you leaned forward to kiss it. 

Goosebumps broke out across his skin and a wave of heat rushed through him. 

He expected you to pull away, but you didn’t. You kissed the front of his neck and then nuzzled your nose against chin, gently coaxing him to tilt his head to the side. 

He was a little confused, but he followed your silent instructions, bearing his neck to you. He felt exposed and naked, more so than he did when you two were intimate. You were kissing his neck. Your hand was creeping up his chest, your featherlike touch trailing up along the opposite side of his neck that you were kissing. 

He let out a breathy gasp when your teeth scraped over his pulse. His hands tightened around his hips. 

“Hell are you tryin’ to do to me, Y/N?” He rasped.

“Just lovin’ up on you.” You teased lightly, doing your best to hide the smile on your lips. 

You pulled back, looking up at him. He held your gaze for maybe a split second before looking away. You caught his chin, holding him in your hands, and turned his head to you. 

“My least favorite thing about you, Arthur Morgan, has got to be the way you think so poorly about yourself. How…. how you think that after all we’ve been through, I’d leave you.” 

“‘Cause I know there’s men better suited for ya out there.” He mumbled, pulling your hand from his face. “I know I ain’t the greatest choice-,”

“You are for me, Arthur.” You cut him off. “You are the best choice for me.”

He shook his head, muttering a few incoherent words of disagreement under his breath. 

“Arthur Morgan, you stubborn man.” You sighed. “What makes you think you aren’t the best man suited for me?”

“‘Cause I look like an old sack of shit, goin’ round stealin’ and killin’ and…. And you- You’re just…. You’re fucking…. Can’t even find the words to fit you, pumpkin.” 

“I ain’t no show pony either, Arthur. I’ve done my fair share of sin. Shit, how the hell do you think me and Hosea met?”

He shook his head again. 

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” You leaned forward to kiss his chin. “Even if you have your doubts about us.”

“I don’t doubt us.” His hand slipped around to the small of your back. With ease, he pulled you closer to him. “If I doubted us, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“You doubt me. That I’m going to stay.”

“That’s ‘cause…. ‘Cause everyone always leaves eventually.” His eyes drifted down to your chest, finding a scar where your collarbones met. “No one ever stays. I always push ‘em away. Either with my overly charmin’ personality or the whole career criminal.” He tried to make a joke to lighten the mood but you didn’t laugh. Now wasn’t the time for jokes. “Just tryin’ to prepare myself for when you do leave, pumpkin.”

“The only way I am leavin’ you, Arthur Morgan, is when I die.” You took hold of his jaw with both hands, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet your eyes. “I’m here and I’m not goin’ nowhere.”

His blue eyes watched you carefully, gazing into your own as his hands on the small of your back tightened a little, drawing you closer.

“I happen to like your personality. You’re a kind man with a big heart, and a funny sense of humor that not everyone gets.” You leaned forward to kiss the space between his eyes. His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into you, resting his forehead against your chin. This made talking a little difficult, but you made it work. “And I’ve got a record as long as yours, Mr. Morgan. I don’t think I can use your criminal history against you. Actually, I think mine might be longer than yours….”

His broad shoulders trembled a little as he chuckled. 

“I know you haven’t had good luck in the past, Arthur.” You gently pushed him away so that you could look at him. You wanted to be able to see his eyes. “And I know every time that Linton girl writes a letter to you, it reopens old wounds, but you are more than her. You are more than just the gang. You have a big heart. You’re a good man and she’s an absolute jackass for making you think otherwise.”

“But…. how do you know that?” He asked quietly. 

You brushed your fingers through his hair, letting out a soft breath. 

“Let’s get comfortable in bed.”

You climbed off of him and clambered across the bed to settle underneath the blankets. Arthur followed behind you, getting comfortable too. You scooted as close to him as possible, hooking your leg up over his hip and resting your head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around your back to hold you to him. You put your hand on his chest and began to trace shapes into his skin. 

“You don’t kill for fun, Arthur. You try to save as many people as you can when we do jobs. You go out of your way to help others when we’re out. You remember that mom who lost her son outside of Strawberry? You helped lead the search and even after everyone gave up, you kept looking for him. And you were the one to bring him home. Or how about how when we pass someone on the street who needs money, you give them enough for food? Arthur, you would give the clothes off of your back to a complete stranger in a blizzard to keep them warm if they needed it.”

“I guess so.” He muttered.

“You’re a stubborn man, Arthur.” You kissed his chest. “I guess it’s a good thing I get to spend the rest of our lives reminding you why you’re a good man.”

“The rest of our lives?” He repeated, looking down at you with raised brows. 

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.” He groaned, though you knew he was just teasing you. 

“Don’t worry, cowboy. With our lifestyle, we never know how long it’ll be. That’s the thrill of it all.” You smiled a little and closed your eyes.

Silence fell between you two for a little bit and just as you were about to fall asleep, you felt Arthur kiss the top of your head.

“Good night, pumpkin.”

“Night, Arthur.”

If you want to be on my taglist, just go here :)

[shootybangbang]

In which peaches are eaten in more ways than one

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Prompt]: Arthur watches you seductively eat a juicy peach (from @outtricking)

[Ao3 Link]

———

The abandoned manor’s peach orchard is overgrown with tall grass and small white clusters of wild carrot blossoms. Most of its trees stand bare, choked with ivy, the vastness of their skeletons the only testament of their former grandeur. But here and there are straggled survivors, the majority of which have long since been picked clean by other travelers and passing wildlife. The only fruit left is strung up high in the topmost branches, hanging down golden-edged and plump. Ripe enough to make your mouth water.

“I don’t think climbing’s an option,” you say, pressing down on a tree’s lower branches to check its give. “We could get a big stick and try to knock ‘em off, or maybe you could just… uh… y’know… ”

You mime picking up an object and placing it on your shoulders.

Arthur sighs. “You want me to carry you.”

“It’s quicker and easier than anything else.”

“You ain’t paid me to be your horse.”

“That’s true,” you admit. At this point, the number of things you’ve had him do out-of-contract would probably fill a book. A decent person would concede his point and apologize. Instead, you try out a more oblique method. “And I’m probably too heavy for you, anyway.”

He gives you an irritated glance and shakes his head. “You tryin’ to bait me into provin’ you wrong?”

“Figured it was at least worth a shot,” you say, shrugging.

Arthur looks up at the top branches of the fruit tree, then at you, and works out a rough height comparison in his head. He sighs again and kneels down. “Alright then. Get on.”

“What — really?’

“Don’t wanna hear you complainin’ about this later is all.” He looks back in your direction expectantly. “C’mon. You want them peaches or not?”

You place a tentative hand on his right shoulder, leaning against him for support as you swing one leg over his left. “Then do I just… um… like this?”

“Yeah. Just like that. And now the other — yeah, there we go.”

Arthur steadies you by holding down your knees. He grips you firm but gentle, like a man trying to keep something frail and flighty from slipping between his fingers, and stands up.

The sudden shift in balance is startling. Your hands frantically search for something to hold onto for support, and you end up grabbing at his wrists as you reorient yourself. He stiffens at the contact, but says nothing.

When you’ve straightened your back enough to survey your surroundings from your new vantage point, you take a moment to appreciate the new perspective. “So this is what it’s like to be tall. Bet you run into a lot of spiderwebs.”

Arthur ignores this. “Can you reach ‘em?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You twist off a particularly large peach from a nearby branch and take off your hat to use as a makeshift basket, then swivel your hip to reach towards another that’s just barely within your grasp. “Too bad we’re not close to town”, you say, thinking already of possible desserts. “Sophia told me that over in Georgia they eat peaches with cream and sugar, and…”

For a while, you ruminate dreamily about peach cobblers and preserves, about the luxury of vanilla ice cream melting on latticed peach pie. And all the while Arthur clenches his jaw and tries as hard as he can to concentrate on what you’re saying in an attempt to divert his focus from the weight and warmth of your thighs atop his shoulders.

It’s something that he’ll carry with him for some time, he recognizes with a heavy pang of guilt. Something he’ll almost certainly keep carefully tucked away for later, when he’s alone in his own bedroll.

———

Late afternoon, you help him set up camp along the Kamassa River. After the horses have been watered and the kindling gathered, you both sit sprawled and weary against the ruined hull of an old boat half-sunk in the sand.

Resting his head against the sun bleached boards, Arthur briefly closes his eyes.

Through the woods comes the sound of cicadas, deafening in their multitude, ringing like an omnipresent hum, insistent and rhythmic in its cadence. Like a chant, a soft murmur of chitinous voices. Alongside it, the quick, clear notes of riverwater running through the rocks and the rustle of leaves overhead, the sway of branches arching from the wind in slow, lazy waves that merge overhead like a green sea.

And the distinctive scratch of graphite across paper. He drowsily cracks an eyelid open and angles his gaze downwards.

The battered notebook in your lap looks like it’s seen its fair share of miles. It’s tattered and dog-eared, with smeared ink at its edges. The leather cover is scuffed and stained, and the pages don’t quite sit flat, due to the occasional pressed flowers trapped between them.

He watches you scrawl out what looks like a brief itinerary of the day’s route, listing off landmarks passed along the road and detailing what flora and fauna you’re able to remember. Then little snippets of description that you cross out and rewrite with increasing frustration, disjointed but pretty little phrases littering the margins…

Your pencil stills. “You’re reading over my shoulder.”

“Trying to.” Arthur points to the corner of the page, where you’ve drawn a wobbly line with little stick trees atop it. Under it is a crude half-circle labelled boat. “This supposed to be where we’re at now?”

You bristle. “Yes.”

He gropes for something inoffensive to say, then opts for silence.

“Well, you’re the artist,” you say, offering him your pencil. “You draw it.”

“Sure,” he says, taking both notebook and pencil in hand. He flips to a clean page. “Not like I can do worse.”

Brushing sand off the seat of your pants, you stand up and stretch, raising your arms high and fitting your fingers together like interlocking gears. “I’m gonna go check on the peaches.”

———

The Kamassa runs cold, even in the dog days of summer. Earlier, you’d wrapped the peaches in sackcloth and submerged them in its waters, then ringed them tight with rocks to hold them in place. Now, you cut an inelegant figure as you crouch at the river’s edge and fish one out, cupping it thoughtfully against your palm to check whether it still holds the fading glow of afternoon heat.

You pick out the two biggest peaches in the pile before resecuring the rest, then seat yourself back beside him and proffer one to him.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s in the middle of sketching the sandbar in the middle of the river, drawing the shapes of shrubs and other assorted vegetation out from the blank paper expanse. “Don’t wanna get the page dirty.”

“Make sure you eat one later then,” you tell him. “So you don’t die in a ditch before I can hire you out again.”

He snorts. “Didn’t realize peaches could make a man bulletproof.”

“Ah, well… it’s more of a superstitious thing, really. Like knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulder.” A hint of embarrassment creeps into your voice. For a moment you seem almost shy — but then you toss a peach up in the air and catch it again, like a performance of the world’s worst juggling act, and it passes. “You give people peaches for good health and a long life. Considering your line of work, I figure you need all the help you can get.”

“Figure a decent gun’ll do me more good than any peach ever will,” he says wryly. “You eat ‘em both. God knows you need the luck just as much as I do.”

———

The rippled light reflected in the water is only just beginning to tint gold. The horizon edges pale, shifting slow to the soft, warm shades of early evening. But only the faint suggestion of it, a subtle gradation filtering in imperceptibly at the present, but that he knows will flood in all at once with the inevitable trajectory of the sun.

Golden hour, Mason had called it. Goes quick, but it’s worth it. I’ve known some photographers to set up camp and wait all day for just that little window of time.

The landscape itself feels soft and heavy, almost drunk from its own perfect interplay of light and dark. The clarity of day dims to a suggestion of itself, and everything is briefly gilded, momentarily transfigured into something striking and achingly pretty, and you no exception.

A sliver of sunset settles over your skin. A veil of amber, a veil of rose, both colors folding in on themselves like silk. The glint of light that reflects across your irises makes visible the ridged corona circling your pupils, the tiny crenellations and impurities of color. Bright and sharp as cut glass.

He watches you bite into a peach, and its dusk-pink skin breaks beneath your teeth with a wet, crisp noise as you tear through to the soft and yielding flesh beneath. Then you bite down again, and your lips are shiny with nectar now, dripping with it.

A clear rivulet of peach juice runs down your wrist like blood. You raise your arm to your mouth to catch it, then trace it back to its source with your tongue, and he can’t help but wonder at the taste — the sweetness of fruit mixed with the salt of your skin.

“Oh, these are really good,” you say with pleasant surprise. “Sure you don’t want one?”

Arthur tries to suppress the sudden twinge of arousal running through his body by staring very hard at a tree. “I’m sure.”

When he’s finally able to settle himself to a manageable level of sexual frustration, he forces his attention back to sketching. He lays out the wash of sand and silt that lies liminal between woods and water, then the ridge of grass that marks the river’s reach when swollen with rain and spring melt. The twinned, twisted alders on each shore whose roots hold fast to the ground as their boughs reach over the water and towards each other, like doomed lovers. The gaptoothed boat hull half-buried and long abandoned.

By the time he’s finished, both peaches have been reduced to their pits, and the light has begun its transition to a deepening red. A last brief cry of sunlight before it’s stifled by the cold blue of evening.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, when he hands the notebook back over. “If you finally get tired of robbing stagecoaches, you should do this for a living instead.”

He makes a dismissive noise, but there’s a clear look of satisfaction on his face. “You flatterin’ me because you want another favor?”

“No, I’m serious. This is pretty enough to belong in a book.” You touch your fingers to the page with the kind of care he’s only seen you lavish on the things he’s known you to hold very dear: the faded red hair ribbon, the well-thumbed guide to wildflowers, the thin jade pendant you sometimes wear tucked under your shirt… and now this — just an offhand scribble of his of no particular effort.

“I, uh… it’s a real rough sketch.” A flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that for him, compliments are a gift as rare as they are precious. “Next time you hire me out, I’ll sit down and draw you something proper.”

“I’d like that,” you say, and nod. “I’ll hold you to it.”

———

A few hours later, Arthur sits by the fire and tries to measure the exact depth of the idiocy he’s plunged himself into.

You’d gone to bed first, citing exhaustion. And he’d taken the time spent alone to jot down a few thoughts in his journal, attempt a handful of sketches, then inadvertently kindle in himself a desperate, hopeless need for intimacy so intense that, were he truly on his own, he’d not have hesitated to take himself in hand for relief.

It’s a foolish thing to do, encouraging his own infatuation like this. But the images are fresh in his head still and his hand itches to put them to paper, wanting to keep them somewhere beyond the whim of memory.

And so he traces with his pencil the soft, indulgent cast of your eyes as you’d cupped the peach in your hand, bringing it to your mouth with the simple decadence of Eve and her apple: the innocent gesture embodying something intensely sinful. Each bite near tangible in his blood, as though it were his heart in your teeth, its every painful beat an ache of barely suppressed impulse.

Then the drip of nectar down your wrist, the pink flick of your tongue lapping it up with a quick, smooth glide across your skin. Peach juice glistening on your lips like honey. And his own base reinterpretations of it all, distorting reality to innuendo and bringing to the surface things he’s only let himself imagine in the confines of his cot, with the tent flaps drawn tightly shut.

The weight of your thighs on his shoulders comes to mind again, and if he shuts his eyes he can nearly place himself into that oft-used fantasy of his — you, sat on the edge of a hotel bed with him knelt before you, whispering hoarse and breathless praise as he licks into you. Your fingers running through his dark blond hair as you speak to him like a favored pet.

The flat of his tongue running against your clit with slow, careful strokes. Your desperate whimpers as he draws the nub between his lips and sucks, the tremble of your body, the taste of your slick. The sound of his name on your lips, the syllables of it faint and shivery with pleasure.

And afterwards, the sight of you sprawled across the sheets, eyes dreamy and soft as you beckon him towards you. Take out your cock, you’d say. Show me just how much you liked doing that to me.

Arthur closes the notebook and walks down to the river. He dips his hands through its surface, the reflected moonlight there rippling into a bright mosaic of broken glass in his wake, then cups the cold water between his fingers and splashes it over his face.

“Dirty old man,” he mutters to himself. “Oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

When he reaches down to repeat the action, he brushes against sackcloth and automatically pulls the bundle of submerged peaches from the water.

Long life and good health, you’d said. He scoffs at the very notion of it. It’s a foreign concept for someone who’s taken so many lives that he’s all but guaranteed his own to be nasty, brutish and short.

And truth be told, it’s been a long time since he’s even bothered to think about any future for himself outside of the immediate. Not much to look forward to save the small, petty pleasures afforded to him, most of which have been bought with the blood of other men. Not much to work for, save the next big score. The promise of stability — it’s not a luxury afforded to the likes of him. Nor should it be, if a man’s fate really is weighed by his deeds.

He’s made his peace with it by now. Kept his expectations low and steered clear of personal commitments. So it’s really very stupid then, that he’s spent so much time nursing the seeds of his own wretched affection that they’ve already begun to sprout.

More and more these days, he’s caught himself marking down points of interest whenever he’s out wandering. Setting up the skeletons of future excursions in his head. And with each new meeting, the possibility of the next looms in him eager and expectant.

Arthur unwraps a peach from the sackcloth and brings it to his mouth. It’s sweet — sweeter than it has any right to be, growing as it has unattended and abandoned in that red Lemoyne dirt.

The cicada song has quieted to a whisper. Fireflies spiral in arcane patterns over the grass, blinking their silent messages through the dark. Night birds are calling, their sounds strange and strident over the rush of river water.

In the midst of all this, Dutch Van der Linde and all his talk of savage utopia seem further away than ever. More past than present.

He bites into the peach again and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. Long life and good health. Probably no more unfeasible than any other thing he’s had preached to him for the last twenty years. And not an unpleasant prospect, if the days spent are anything like this one.

No, he thinks to himself, pulling another peach from the bundle. Not a bad prospect at all.

[davidmann95]

Sooo… Superman and the Authority?

magnus-king123 asked: Your thoughts on Superman & the authority Give it to me...lol

Anonymous asked: Seeing Bezos take his little trip into space the same day Morrison puts out a Superman comic that touches on how far we’ve fallen from the days when we dreamed of utopian futures where everyone explored the stars was a big gut punch. Not used to Superman being topical in that way.

Anonymous asked: What'd you think of Superman and the Authority#1?

This is far beyond what I can fit in the normal weekly reviews, so taking this as my notes on the first six pages, with this and this as my major lead-in thoughts:

* Janin's such a perfect fit for Morrison - the scale, the power, the facial expressions selling the character work, the screwing around with the panel formatting as necessary to sell the effect, the numinous sense of things going on larger than you can fully perceive amidst the beauty and chaos. It's a shame he wasn't around 25 years ago to draw JLA, but I'll take him going with Morrison onto other future projects.

* His intro action sequence is such a great demonstration of why Black actually does have something to offer, and also how he's such a dumbass desperately needing Superman to save him from himself.

* While Jordie Bellaire didn't legit go with an entirely monochromatic palate the way early previews suggested, it's still an effect frequently and excellently deployed here. And glad to see Steve Wands carry into this from Blackstars since there's such an obvious carryover from its work with Superman.

* "Gentlemen. Ladies. Others." Great both because of the obvious - hey, Superman's nodding at me! - and because it's a phrasing that reinforces that this take on him (and let's be real Morrison) is old as hell.

* I'm mostly past caring about whether this is an alt-Earth Superman until it becomes indisputable one way or another, this and Action both rule so what does it really matter? But while there are still a couple signs in play suggesting some kind of division (the Action Comics #1036 cover, Midnighter up to time-travel shenanigans) the "lost in time" quote clearly thrown in after the fact to explain how he could have met Kennedy outside of 5G that wouldn't be necessary for an Elseworlds, the assorted gestures towards Superman's current status quo, the Kingdom Come symbol appearing in Action, and that Morrison would have had to completely rewrite the ending if this wasn't supposed to be 'the' version of Clark Kent going forward as was the intent when they first planned it all say to me that no, no fooling around, this is our guy going forward one way or another.

* Janin and Bellaire making the first version of the crystal Fortress ever that actually looks as cool as you want it to.

Anonymous asked: I like that Superman and The Authority is basically the anti-All-Star; instead of the laid back, immortal Superman who is supercharged, we have a stressed, ageing Superman whose tremendous powers are fading. The former will always be there to save us, but the latter is running out of time and needs to pull off a Hail Mary. Also, he mentions in his monologue to Black that he was "lost in time" when he met JFK, so maybe he is the main continuity Clark. Or he's the t-shirt Supes from Sideways.

* You're absolutely right - the power reversal is obvious and the ticking clock in play seemingly isn't for his own survival but everyone around him as he wakes up and realizes all the old icons grew complacent with the gains they'd made and he's not leaving behind the world he meant to. Both, however, are built on the idea of preparing the world to not need them anymore - it'll still have a Superman in his son, but that'll only work because of the others he empowers and inspires. The question is what happens to Clark if he's not going to live in the sun for 83000 years.

* Clark's 'exercise' here does more to sell me on the idea of Old Man Superman as a cool idea than however many decades of Earth 2 stuff.

* Intergang being noted alongside Darkseid and Doomsday speaks to how much Kirby informed Morrison's conception of Superman.

* This isn't exactly the most progressive in its disability politics but at least it makes clear Black's being a piece of shit about it.

* It's startling how much Clark can get away with saying stuff in here you'd never expect to come out of Superman's mouth. "I made an executive decision" "Privacy, really...?" "You have nowhere to go, Black. Nothing to live for." "There are few people in my life who I instinctively and viscerally dislike, and you've always been one of them." It only works because there's zero aggression behind it, he's just past the point of niceties and being totally frank while making clear none of these assessments preclude that he cares and is going to unconditionally do the right thing every time. He is absolutely, per Morrison, humanity's dad picking us up when we're too drunk to drive ourselves home.

* The story doesn't put a big flashing light over it, but it's not even a little bit subtle having the material threat of the issue be a ticking timebomb left by the carelessness and hubris of generations past.

* Manchester keeps trying to poke the bear and prove his hot takes about Superman and it's just not working. The front he put up under Kelley is gone after decades of defeats, and as Morrison understands what actually conceptually works about him as a rival to Superman underneath the aging nerd paranoia he's exposed as what he absolutely would be in 2021: a dude with a horrific terminal case of Twitter brainworms. I was PANICKED when I heard there was an 'offensive term' joke in this, I was braced for Morrison at their well-meaning worst, but it's such a goddamn perfect encapsulation of a very specific breed of Twitter leftist who uses their politics first and foremost as a cudgel and justification to label their abrasive, judgmental shittiness as self-righteousness (plus it's a killer payoff to a joke from way back in his original appearance). Cannot believe they pulled that off when they're so very, very open about basically not knowing how the internet works.

* @charlottefinn: Manchester Black using his telekinetic powers to force someone he hates to fave a problematic tweet so that he can screenshot it and start a dogpile

@intergalactic-zoo: “Once they cancel Bibbo, Superman won’t be *anyone’s* fav’rit anymore!”

* Friend noted this issue had to be fully the conversation because the whole premise stands on the house of cards of these two somehow working together, and with three 'silent' inset panels the creative team pulls off that turning point.

* So much of this feels on the surface like Morrison bringing back the All-Star vibes with Clark, but when he drops a "That's all you got?" in a brawl you realize what's underlining that bluntness and confidence in the face of failure is that deep down this is still the Action guy too. This dude ain't gonna get wrecked in his Fortress while the other guy chuckles about him being A SOFT WEE SCIENTIST'S SON!

* Bringing up Jor-El made me realize that Morrison already spelled out that this is the final threat to Superman, what he faces at the end of the road:

"Now it's your turn, Superman."

* A l'il Superman 2000/All-Star reference with the Phantom Zone map!

* There's so much intertextuality going on here even by Morrison standards - Change or Die with the old hero putting together a team of morally nebulous folks out to 'fix' everything, Flex Mentallo with the muscleman trying to redeem the punk, Doomsday Clock with the fate of the world hinging on whether Superman can get through to a meta stand-in for an idea of 'modern' comics cynicism, DKR and New Frontier and Kingdom Come and Multiversity and Seven Soldiers and What's So Funny and All-Star and Action and the last 5 years of monthly Superman comics and Authority and probably Jupiter's Legacy and Tom Strong - but none of that's needed. You could go in with the baseline pop cultural understanding of the character and not care about any of the inside baseball shit and get that this is a story about a leader of a generation that let down the people they made all their grand promises to as inertia and day-to-day demands and complacency let him be satisfied with the accomplishments they'd made long ago, looking at a new era and seeing the ways its own activists are dropping the ball. The only thing that fundamentally matters in a "you have to accept you're reading a superhero story" sense is that because he's Superman he's willing to own up to it and listen to people who might know better about some things and try to set things right while he and those who'll take his place still have a chance. And yes, the oldster looking back on their legacy with a skeptical eye and hoping for better from the next generation, hoping most of all that their little heir apparent can fulfill the promise inside of him instead of being a provocating little shitkicker, is obviously also autobiographical.

* The overlaying Kennedy reprisal is such a great visual of a sudden intrusive thought.

* The Kryptonite secret is the obvious "This is going to matter!" moment, but "He lied about his son" is a bit that doesn't connect to anything going on right now so maybe that's important here too? More significantly, the Justice League can't actually be the villains here but that Ultra-Humanite's crew are in an Earth-orbiting satellite makes pretty clear what's up.

* I've said before that between Superman, OMAC, and a New Gods-affiliated speedster this was going to use all of Morrison's favorite things. King Arthur playing a role isn't exactly dissuading me.

* Love the idea that all the antiheroes have their own community in the same way as the capes and tights crew. They definitely all privately think the rest are posers though and that they alone are Garth Ennis Punisher in a mob of Garth Ennis Wolverines.

* Manchester's fallen so far he's gone from trying to convince Superman to kill to convince him to dunk on people for their bad takes and Clark just doesn't get it. Official prediction of dialogue for upcoming issues:

"According to these bloody Fortress scans, the only thing that can restore your powers is an unfiltered hit of dopamine. Don't worry, Doctor Black has a few ideas."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll plant a nice tree?"

"...fuck you."

* Ok I already talked about how great the Fortress looks in here but LOVE this library.

* A pair of pages this seems like the right spot to discuss from Black's original appearance that underlines both his and Superman's inadequacies up to this point:

Responding to the problem of "the government and penal system are hopelessly corrupt" neither of them has any actual notion of what to do about it in spite of their respective posturing beyond how to handle individual outside actors - each is in their own way every bit as small-minded and reactionary as the other. Clark's coming around though, and he's holding out hope for the other guy.

* Superman: Have a lovely mineral water :) proper hydration is important :)

Manchester Black: *Is a dude who can get so mad he vomits and passes out. At water.*

* That last page is the one to beat for the year, and does more to put over the idea of this as an Authority book than that Midnighter and Apollo are literally going to show up. It also feels like Morrison tacitly acknowledging all the ways the premise could go or at least be received wrong - from Superman saying 'enough is enough' to who he's bringing into the fold to go about it - in the most beautifully on-the-nose fashion imaginable. Maybe they'll save us all! Or maybe they'll drown us in their vomit.

[irons-enough]

June 1881 (Teenage Arthur Morgan)

A short little ficlet inspired by this amazing photo edit by @foundynnel which made me obsessed with the idea of cocky bastard teenage Arthur. Maybe I’ll expand on this one day (Red Dead YA novel, anyone?) but it was fun to write!

Rating: G Tags: Language, teeny bit of blood

Wyoming Territory - June 1881 

Arthur Morgan spat blood into the dirt. His eyes were bright with adrenaline and, just beneath the surface, an unbridled fury. His split lip curled into an arrogant smile as he raised his fists again. "That all you got?" 

His opponent cycled between shock and rage that Arthur had not gone down in one hit. but it was the look in his eyes--the insufferable, cocky stare of a seventeen-year-old drifter with a six-shooter and a foul attitude--that made him swing wide to slam his fist into the little son of a bitch's face. Arthur was ready; waiting, in fact. He raised his arm to bar the swing and with his other hand punched upward into the man's jaw. He heard the crack of bone at the same time the break reverberated through his fist, and the man fell as suddenly and heavily as he had fallen asleep, groaning helplessly as he cradled his broken jaw. 

Arthur shook out his hand, swiped the blood from his lower lip. He smirked in satisfaction at the stunned silence of the onlookers. He made a show of dusting off his shirt and casually picking up his hat from where it lay in the road. “Gentlemen,” he said in farewell, with a polite nod to the assembled crowd.

________________________________________

"Arthur. What the fuck?" 

Arthur smirked at Dutch's greeting as he arrived at their campsite, tried and failed to look innocent. "Well, hey to you, too." 

"You wanna explain why the entire goddamn town is talkin' about some cocky hotshot kid layin' out the local stable hand?" 

"Really? They are?" Arthur exclaimed, his eyes brightening. Dutch whacked him upside the head. "Ow!" 

"Tell me, son, when Hosea and I say 'Don't do anything stupid', what exactly is it that you hear?" Dutch demanded. 

Arthur rubbed the back of his head. "Not much, I guess." 

"Oh, that's evident." Dutch's dark eyes narrowed at Arthur's defiant expression. "You listenin’' to me?" 

"Sure, just not your goddamn sarcasm," Arthur spat. 

"You got some attitude, you--" He bit back the curse that was just shy of forming on his lips. "Susan!" he yelled. "Deal with him. I'm not his goddamn father; not my job to deal with his bullshit." 

"Oh, and so now it’s mine?!" Susan's voice fell like a hatchet even from a distance. Arthur leaned his head on his fist to hide his grin as Susan and Dutch argued over whose problem he was this time. 

Hosea knocked his fist into Arthur’s shoulder, beckoning. “Come on, Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed as he hauled himself to his feet, as though it was a major inconvenience. He followed Hosea over to the front of the abandoned cabin at their campsite, a decrepit old building with a half-collapsed roof. Hosea struck a match against his boot heel and lit a cigarette as he leaned against the side of the cottage.

“Can I get one?” said Arthur.

“No.”

“C’mon, Hosea...” “Shut up. Get over here.”

Arthur slumped against the wall beside Hosea. He took his pistol from its holster and toyed with it: spinning it around his fingers as he drew, looking down the sights as he pointed it at the dirt. Hosea snatched it from him deftly. “What the hell?” Arthur exclaimed.

“Arthur, you wanna live to see twenty?” said Hosea.

“Who cares?” Arthur’s head lolled so that his hat hid his eyes.

“I care. And you should care.” Hosea’s voice was even now, but still severe. “You’re still a goddamn kid, you don’t know anything yet. Suffice it to say if you’re stupid enough to get yourself killed before twenty, you’re better off dead. And that’s not you, Arthur.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Arthur mumbled.

“Me and Dutch have things in the works to get us a score. And if you’re gonna be a goddamn idiot and draw attention to yourself, that’ll be the last time you’re involved in anything we do.”

“It weren’t even so bad,” Arthur complained. “How’m I supposed to know you got plans when you never tell me a goddamn thing? Why be a goddamn criminal if you can’t do what you want? Ain’t no point.”

“The point is to live through it, Arthur. Money’s no good to you if you’re dead. Now when we need to lie low, keep our noses clean, it’s because we got something big in the works, and we can’t risk the plans while we’re still layin’ tracks. You know that. You’re a hell of a lot of things son, but a complete fool ain’t one of ‘em.” Hosea dropped his cigarette and ground it out into the dirt. “Not one of us acts alone, boy. Part of runnin’ together means sacrificing your own selfish desires for the good of the group.”

“I know that,” Arthur grumbled.

“Well, it’s high time you acted like it.” Hosea flipped Arthur’s pistol out of his hand with a flourish, catching it by the barrel. He held out the grip toward Arthur. “Stay here a while,” he said. “Somethin’ tells me I need to talk down Dutch and Susan.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Hosea was already walking away. “I don’t quite care, son. Sit here and do nothing. Be still for once in your life.”

Arthur scowled and sighed, kicked up dust with his boot. For all the stealing and shooting Dutch and Hosea wanted him to do, they sure knew how to treat him like a goddamn idiot sometimes. Maybe the day would come when he could boss them around.

He looked in the direction of the setting sun, toward California where they had come from. There was always new country to explore, new people to rob, more money to be made, more sunsets to see. Every time Arthur leveled his gun at a man and made him act, or freeze, or die--it started a whole new adventure. Some were good. Some were great. Others he wished he could forget, and there were still more that had left him with scars and foul memories that endured well beyond what they should. For the past five years, Arthur Morgan had lived for sunsets like this one, and he couldn’t wait for a lifetime more.

[funkwhistle]

Dutch Van der Linde x reader

Dutch Van Der Linde x pregnant reader

Pairing: Dutch Van der Linde x F!reader

Warnings: A bit of NSFW themes at start, fluff, and pregnancy

A/N: Thank you to anon for requesting this, I had one half written so sorry if this isn’t what you were expecting - might do some headcanons about this in the future. Little disclaimer - I’ve never been pregnant, so anything which is incorrect, just let me know and I can sort it. Otherwise, happy reading! :)

(Photo is mine - don't reupload without tagging me)

“What've you been eating dear?” Dutch asked, his fingers gently ghosting over your breasts as you lay there. When you didn't reply, he continued, “I mean, they're just… nicer I guess?” By this point you were half asleep, but you just shrugged, moving back into him. He hummed contentedly, kissing your shoulder gently as the pair of you fell asleep.

Dutch rolled off you, breathing heavily and kissing you lightly on the head as he lay beside you. Exhausted, you moved closer to him, so he could drape his arm over you and pull you closer to him under the blanket to try and retain some sort of heat between the pair of you.

When you awoke the next day, Dutch had left the tent already, he was chatting to Arthur outside about another job. Quietly, you got dressed as fast as you could, thinking about Dutch's comments last night. Maybe it was the spring weather making you feel like this. Emerging from the tent, Dutch glanced over at you, smiling a little before returning to the conversation as you walked over to Tilly and Mary-Beth who were sewing up one of the shirts.

“Ah, Dutch has some socks which need darning,” Tilly said, pushing the needle she'd been using into the fabric and passing over the socks. The heel had worn through, a simple fix, but it would take a little time, so you sat down beside them and got to work as the warm sunlight filtered through the trees.

After you'd sewn his socks, you stitched a rip in one of Hosea's neckerchiefs before standing up to take a break. However, as you stood up, you began to feel dizzy, and a previously unfelt sickness came flooding over you as the world swam a little. Grasping onto the wagon beside you, you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the feeling to go away, before moving. the dizziness left, but the nausea was still there, gnawing at your insides like you'd forgotten something.

“You alright there?” Mary-Beth asked, glancing up at you. “Did you eat this morning?” Shaking your head, you realised she was correct; you hadn't eaten anything since last night, that would be why you felt like this. thanking Mary-Beth, you walked to Pearson's wagon, grabbing a dry bread roll and biting down on it. Instead of quelling your sickness as you'd expected, the bread only made things worse, making you feel like when you'd eaten some raw meat a few months ago. Swallowing forcefully, you shook off the feeling, although you didn't finish the bread.

The sickness didn't leave for the whole day, and as the night drew in you found yourself in the tent, sitting by the small stove he had in there and massaging your temples. Dutch came into the tent then, and upon seeing you rushed over to you, carefully placing a kiss on your forehead before rubbing circles on your knee as he looked at you.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and you merely nodded, your headache getting painful now; and him speaking wasn't helping. He sighed, coaxing you to sit up fully so he could wrap his arms around you, helping you to stand. You were too exhausted to speak, but you smiled gratefully as he turned you around, making an effort to unlace your corset with care, although the knot at the bottom got him a little confused. After your corset was off, he pulled your skirt off, and pulled you closer to him, now only in your undergarments.

Dutch placed deliberate kisses over your neck and shoulder, making you sigh into him as you stood there together, you nearly falling asleep in his arms. the last thing you could remember before you drifted off was Dutch laying you in the bed beside you and pulling the blanket over you both.

You didn't know how long you'd been asleep for, but that didn't matter now as you felt much more nauseous than yesterday. Pushing yourself away from Dutch as he slept, you wobbled to the edge of the tent before falling onto your knees as you retched on the grass outside. Someone must have heard, as you felt someone pulling your hair from out of your face.

“It'll be alright, no worries. Dutch!” The gruff voice belonged to Arthur, who was calling fruitlessly for Dutch as he hushed you, rubbing your back gently as you shook in the cold grass.

By now you'd stopped retching, pushing yourself up so you were sitting as you pulled a face at the taste in your mouth. The early morning air was cold, biting at your exposed skin now you sat on the floor, dew seeping into your clothes. Arthur offered you his water as he stuck his head into Dutch's tent to wake him. Drinking a little made you feel better, but you couldn't shake the idea you might be pregnant, you remembered from when Abigail was that she would always be sick in the mornings.

Dutch emerged from the tent with Arthur, and when he saw you sat in the grass he shuddered himself, wrapping his arms around you. Out of the corner of your eye you could see Dutch mouthing a thank you to Arthur as he walked away. Feeling less ill now, you buried your head into Dutch's chest, trying to keep your tears at bay as he rocked you soothingly, muttering something calming to you.

The sunrise was visible by the time you felt you could stand up. Dutch supported you as you walked back into the tent, pulling one of your slip-on dresses over your head before letting you sit on the bed to allow him to get dressed. And yet you couldn't shake the idea of your possible pregnancy from your mind, deciding to ask the only person who knew, Abigail.

Dutch was more doting than usual throughout the day, coming over to check on you every few hours and not allowing you to work at all. However, while he was busy talking to Hosea, you caught the eye of Abigail, who you quickly motioned to come over.

“You good?” she sat down opposite you at the table you'd been playing dominoes on earlier. Sighing, you decided you needed to ask someone, so glancing around to check nobody was over hearing, you leant in and whispered;

“I think I might be pregnant?” Surprisingly, Abigail didn't even flinch, instead a grin spread over her face, making you more confused.

“You've finally worked it out? You ain't eaten properly for days and you can see a little bump?” she laughed a little at your face of shock. “Come on, most of the girls have cottoned on now,” you shook your head, disbelievingly, but now she mentioned it; you didn't eat all your dinner the other day, and you noticed you had to loosen your corset. Abigail took your hands in her own, making you look back up at her and you could tell what she was going to say next.

“You gotta tell him,”

“How? He won't want it,” your eyes began to prick with tears as you realised the reality of your situation, that you'd have to raise a child without the father, Dutch could die on any day, with a bounty like that on his head. Sure, you wanted a child at some point, but not now, maybe when you'd settled a little; got a house of your own, with a yard for the kid and… As she was aware your panic had begun to set in, Abigail continued calmly;

“Well, when I had Jack I didn't know if he was John's, so I told Dutch first. When I tell you he was excited about the idea of there being a child in camp-” she stopped at your face, you'd been wondering if Jack was, in fact, Dutch's. As though she could read your mind, Abigail shook her head, continuing. “Don't worry, he is John's, I spoke to Dutch because I didn't know if I had to leave camp,” you smiled at this, maybe she was right about him after all.

After speaking to Abigail, you didn't leave the tent for the rest of the day, with Dutch bringing you a small bit of food in the evening.

“You feeling an-” Dutch started, passing you a bowl of stew which you took from him eagerly, but not eating any yet, you wanted to tell him first.

“Dutch, I need to tell you something,” you interrupted him as he sat down beside you. All of a sudden, all your previous courage had gone, replaced with doubt and worry about his reaction; if he banished you from the gang you had nowhere to go. Cocking his head, Dutch was looking at you expectantly, the stew on one of the crates behind him, long forgotten.

“I think I'm pregnant,”

Dutch didn't move at first, and you were worried he'd take it badly, he was twisting his rings as he processed your information.

“You're sure?” you nodded, mentioning you were going to go into town tomorrow to get the doctor to confirm it. Dutch still didn't say anything, although his hand found it's way to interlocking itself with yours. Slowly, he looked up at you, and you could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes as a smile began to spread over his face, making you smile also.

“You're going to make a wonderful mother Miss Van Der Linde,” he was still beaming, but he pulled you close so he could kiss you instead of you seeing him cry. “We can have a mini Van Der Linde running around camp now,” his reaction prompted tears of relief from you, and the pair of you sat together, you on his lap now, whispering about the good news. Dutch kept drawing patterns on your small bump, and placing kisses on whichever bit of skin he could.

[rachelsteapot]

Hi! 👋😁

Ok, could I please request oneshot with Thomas Shelby and his son Shelby reader (16) where his son gets really badly hurt because he was defending his friends? (maybe from rascists, harassers or homophobic people).

And one readers friend brings him home with cloth over his mouth and it’s soaked in so much blood. Someone pinned him (reader) down, beated him and cutted his cheek (his teeth are visible and the wound is so big it can’t be sewd up together) + they broke his arm (in his view left arm...does it even matter). He won’t die tho.

Please hit me with soft and worried Thomas and other Shelbys and Grays with his son (for once than female or daughter reader). Thank you so much if you write it.

I hope it's not too much. 😙

Love you, have a nice day/night. ❤❤❤

Sticks and Stones: Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Hi! Sorry that this has taken a while, I got a bit stuck on what to write. I’ve tried to stick as close as I could to this request but its not exactly what you asked. I hope you still like it though, I definitely enjoyed writing it. 

Warnings: Homophobic language, gore?

Pairing: Platonic Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Tommy’s children grew up knowing they were Shelbys. The last name in itself was a title, like their father’s OBE, but different. It wasn't awarded, it wasn’t a gift: it was a curse. 

In the sixteen years since Tommy’s wife had given birth to his second son, Y/N, Shelby Company Limited had shifted its sights from the underground world that it used to inhabit, partaking in new, legal, business ventures. While the employees knew this, however, the general public still heard the name Shelby and conjured images of criminals. So, when Y/N began joining his father’s world, he became determined to change the public view of the Shelby family, regardless of the cost. 

It wasn’t unusual to find Y/N Shelby in a public booth at The Garrison, surrounded by a group of his friends. It was even less unusual to hear their rowdy tales and playful banter, especially as they were the youngest in the pub by quite a few years. Young people, especially young Blinders, like to make themselves heard, and generally don’t care who hears it. And just like any young Blinder, Y/N was no exception. 

“One time- one time I swear I saw Uncle Arthur send a granddad flying because he was bad bad mouthing our John!” the boys screeched with laughter as Y/N slurred his way through a tale taller than the stack of bottles behind the bar, slamming his mug down on the table to punctuate his story. Tales like these were common, and fairly widely known. 

“If it aint the Shelby fags, huh?” The insult cut through their joy like a knife, shattering the imaginary worlds that the teenagers had created. Y/N turned his head to find the source of this jab, discovering a sweaty, overweight patron. He scrunched his nose in disgust and turned back to his friends. This man must just be drunk, he thought, attempting to dismiss the sick feeling that was slowly growing in his stomach. 

“Oi, look at me when i’m talking to you.” Y/N felt a hand grip his shoulder. He glanced across the table before exploding from his chair, sending it clattering to the ground. The young Shelby spun around and wrapped his fingers around his assailant’s collar, throwing him back against a pillar. Fire blazed in his eyes as the youngest Shelby leant forwards, his breathing throwing hot air onto the older man’s face. 

“Don’t. call us. fucking. Fags.” each word was punctuated by Y/N sucking air between his gritted teeth. He slowly removed his fingers from the other man’s collar and, giving him one final shove, he returned to his chair. Silence had fallen on the pub; it was time for Y/N and his friends to leave. 

The doors of the Garrison clanged shut behind Y/N as he pressed his flat cap onto his head, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Anyone would have thought he was the famed Tommy Shelby, if it wasn’t for the lack of gently smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. He and his friends left the pub and slowly began their walk home, continuing their rowdy guffaws and occasionally getting into playful fistfights. Eventually, as the lads continued on their way, their numbers dwindled until it was just Y/N and his closest friend, Colin. 

“Mate, are you alright?” Colin’s question roused Y/N from his thoughts. He blinked and raised his head, looking across towards his friend as they walked in unison along the shaded streets. 

“Yeah, just a fucking twat. I don’t get why he just didn’t back off, yanno.” Colin nodded, sighing slightly. 

“My cousin, his dad was like that.” Colin started, “A drunk, constantly trollid an’ all that.” 

Y/N nodded, blowing steam from his nose into the cold night air. 

“I dunno mate, I’ve got a bad feeling about it is all,” 

The pair continued on their way, footsteps echoing along the empty Birmingham cobbles, hardly speaking and instead enjoying a comfortable silence. Colin and Y/N had been friends for as long as they could remember, having done almost everything together since they were in nappies. They thought nothing of it when a third set of footsteps joined them, or the fourth, or perhaps they just didn’t notice. Until it was too late. 

As Y/N and Colin turned the corner towards Y/N’s Small Heath residence, they were confronted by two larger men. Turning to check behind them, Y/N and Colin found that they were boxed in with two larger men behind them too. Suddenly, Colin felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat as he was pulled back against the third man, and released a strangled cry. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Y/N hissed, darting his eyes towards his friend to check he wasn’t being hurt, catching sight of Coling struggling against the trunk like arms of his attacker. 

“Fucking Shelby and his faggot friend,” the man which Y/N assessed to be the ringleader of this excursion snorted. “We want The Garrison and the Blinder territory. You’re all posh bitches now, no need for gang land,” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh sarcastically, setting his jaw and glaring at the assailants. 

“I dunno why you’re asking me,” Y/n rolled his eyes, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It’s me dad you wanna be talking with, but I doubt your chances will be good when he hears about this.” But Y/N was caught off guard when one of the thugs stepped forwards and grabbed his jaw with one hand, twisting his head and pulling the young Shelby’s back against his stomach. Now, both him and Colin were held prone, completely defenceless against anything these thugs would attempt. 

“We tried that,” the supposed ring leader chimed in. “It seems that we were going to need a little more of a bargaining chip.” As Y/N struggled, the final thug stepped forwards and grunted at his companions. 

“Hold Him.” 

Y/N felt his aggressors’ arms tighten around him, pressing down on his throat and causing spots to form in his vision. He didn’t notice the fourth thug swiftly and deftly draw a knife from his pocket, all he felt was a flash of cold followed by a searing pain across his cheek. Warm fluid spilled from the heat and Y/N felt the cold air flood into his mouth. He screamed as the realisation hit: these people meant business if they were going to cut the Shelby heir. 

“We would take your tongue, but that’s for next time, if you don’t comply.” The threat didn’t feel empty, causing Y/N to clamp his mouth shut, ignoring the pain caused by the action. 

Suddenly, Y/N was thrown to the ground, his head colliding heavily against the hard cobbles causing the world to tilt on its axis. He groaned, his ears ringing as he attempted to stand before his body contorted under the kicks of steel capped boots. As three pairs of feet pummeled his young body, Y/N felt his ribs crack and snap, crying out in pain until it was all he could do to keep breathing. When he fell silent, the kicks stopped. 

“I reckon that’ll be enough of a lesson for Tommy Shelby, OBE,” one jeered as the four stomped off into the night. 

It could have been minutes or hours before Y/N felt a hand on his shoulder, gently rolling him onto his back. The movement sent bolts of pain through Y/N’s ribcage and he coughed, globs of black blood landing on the pavement. 

“Y/N? Oh my fucking god, Tommy’s gonna kill me.”  Colin… thank god he was okay. 

“Don’t worry lad, we’ve just gotta get him home.” Uncle Arthur? What the fuck was Uncle Arthur doing here? 

Y/n pried his eyes open, grunting in pain as he was lifted from the ground and cloaked in the smell of his uncle. His head spun as Arthur’s rocking walk sent shockwaves through his bruising limbs. A door opened, then shut, and finally, Y/N felt a hard surface meet his back. He heaved a ragged breath as his body relaxed, and drifted into a pained sleep. 

In his dream, Y/N Shelby was jousting. He was riding a beautiful dapple stallion, charging at full pelt towards an opponent, clothed only in black cloth. As he got closer, Y/N lowered his pole and leant forwards, and missed. His opponent’s pole connected with his face, and then he was falling, off of his horse and into an abyss. His arms flailed as he tried to catch onto something, anything, that would save him. But nothing was there. 

When Y/N awoke, the sky was grey. Not a grey like the horse in his dream, but grey like a storm, like the storm his father would bring on Birmingham when he found out about the incident. The teenager sniffed slightly and tried to shuffle into a seated position, but his attempts were interrupted by a sudden churning in his stomach. Forcing himself to move, Y/N leaned over the side of the bed and emptied his stomach of the minimal contents that remained. His retches caused movement in a darkened corner of his room, but Y/N was too exhausted to notice, all his aches and pains flooding over his slowly awakening limbs. Slowly, tears began to roll down his cheeks as the pain overwhelmed his mind, and the young Shelby succumbed to the pain and exhaustion. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, Daddy’s here now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” a warm hand was placed on his lower back, drawing Y/N back into the present. Wincing as he tried to move, Y/N was able to twist his head until he could see his father seated on the bed beside him. Gently, Tommy moved his hands until he was supporting his son’s weight and slowly eased him into a seated position. 

“Dad?” Y/N croaked, wincing with the pain of his ribs and limbs, his words slurred by the stiffness in his cheek. Tommy turned his head, facing away from his son. He raised a hand to his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes, only moving when Y/N reached his arm forwards and rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. 

“Dad, ‘m okay.” Tommy sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“It’s not about that, Y/N. It’s that it happened at all, that I couldn’t protect you. Your name put you at risk and I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you too.” Y/N blinked slowly, letting his father’s frustrations wash over him. 

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Tommy shuffled into the space beside his son, spreading one arm over the teenager’s shoulder and pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed onto his father’s chest, breathing in the smell of whiskey and cigarettes that had enveloped his childhood. He was safe, and nobody was going to hurt him. Slowly, the youngest Shelby drifted into a dreamless sleep, determined that next time, he would not be so unprepared. 

[sentanixiv]

Tomorrow’s Problem

Something sweet to offset the feels that I attacked y’all with yesterday. John Marston suffering through the poor life choice of drinking more whiskey than his liver and body can tolerate.

-

Birds chirping have no right to sound the way they do this morning, piercing calls penetrating the deep fog of sleep and waking not only John, but also the heavy, aching pain of having indulged too much in liquor and too little in sleep after celebrating the success of their take late into the night. He groans, a sound which in itself is too loud, and drags the thin pillow of the hotel room bed over his face like it’ll smother noise. Or maybe him, because each second spent being dragged into the state of waking has him feeling nothing but regret.

Think you oughta slow up there, Marston. Keep at it and you ain’t gonna be fit for living come morning.

Even the recollection of Arthur teasing him about the pace with which he kept downing shot after shot sounds too loud and he buries his face in the mattress as though peace and quiet’ll be found somewhere between the feathers and springs that separate him from the bedframe and the floor beneath it.

That’s something for tomorrow John to deal with.

The cocky remark’d sounded witty, damn near hilarious when he snapped it out and tossed back the next shot in a line of too many that blurred the hours together, made hazy the hands of poker he’d played, then inspired his running into the alley, leaning a hand on the wall as he emptied his stomach of too much whiskey and too little food out onto the muddy ground. Vaguely, he remembers Arthur coming out to find him, holding back his hair and offering a rare find: Cloth-wrapped ice, a premium in these parts, that he was able to rest on the back of his neck, then against his forehead as the drinks wound down and his stomach knotted up, bringing with it a misery that’s three times worse this morning.

Let’s get you back to the room, Marston. You ain’t in any shape to stick ‘round here.

That explains how he got back here, their small safe haven of a hotel room in a town looking out for two degenerates that robbed a payroll stage late yesterday morning. Hazy memories fling themselves out of the dark void that follows the actions in the alley, then of John stumbling under Arthur’s guided patience up each stair and down the hall, of fumbling off the layers down to his union suit and then getting the brilliant idea of stripping Arthur down to have some fun, of being told to hold off for some time he ain’t drunk, so’s there’s no regrets about it, and then it fogs up into the murky sleep that he’s slowly pulling free of. John knows that any regret he feels would not have been from getting rowdy; every ounce of it relates to the sheer amount of alcohol he packed into his gut before his body stirred a riot against it. Still, he figures Arthur had it right, because he ain’t sure he’d’ve remembered the fun of it with the way he feels right now, ready to roll over and play dead if that’d make the hangover stop.

Only, he can’t. They need to ride out, connect with Dutch and the others a couple towns south, and that means John has to roll off the mattress and piece himself together no matter that he feels worse than shit dragged twice through the pigsty. He is ready to try sitting up when the creaking hinges of the door split open his head anew and he curls up into a ball in the middle of the bed, palms pressing against his temples to force his skull back together and a whimper slipping from him.

Gentler the door is when it closes, but the screech is the same to his sensitive hearing; the low rumble of a chuckle, however, is the first sound since waking that doesn’t make him want to wither and die under the cotton-and-nails chaos inside his head. John moves the heel of one hand to his forehead, pressing against the ache there, and the other peels back the pillow until he catches the blurry sight of Arthur walking soft and quiet across the room, setting a plate of something on the bedside and then nudging a cool tin hug moist with the condensation of cold water against the hand that’s holding back the poor barricade the pillow provides against the world.

“You’s gonna be fine, John,” Arthur tells him, voice pitched low and quiet where it doesn’t drive deeper the spikes of the hangover in his head.

John groans at the sentiment regardless, turning his face back into the mattress. “Don’t feel fine,” he whines, knowing it sure is a whine by the pathetic lilt of it. “Shootin’ me’d be doing me a kindness right now.”

The cold touch of the mug lifts as Arthur sits down on the bed next to him, a sigh let out to vent whatever chiding frustration he wants to bring up about warning him off drinking that much. “C’mon,” is what he says instead and he’s carefully brushing John’s hair back from his face, carding his fingers through it and coaxing him to turn his head towards him. “Got you some water, need you to drink it.”

Broken bones or gunshot wounds and John’d resist the treatment, but he’s feeling miserable and lets Arthur slowly get him up, braces an elbow under himself to hold himself there, half lying down, as Arthur puts the mug to his lips and lets him sip at it slowly. Cool water floods his mouth, dives deep into him and it’s the second soothing thing he’s felt this morning. The first is Arthur being here at all, being gentle over abrasive, and he figures it’s because ain’t no one else around to call him out for being soft on John. They’ve been riding a string of paired off jobs, the two of them, and some of Arthur’s harsh edges start wearing down the longer and further they are from the gang, from the expectations of it, from the work he seems to think falls squarely on his shoulders to bear, the rules he figures his to enforce. Some days it makes John think about not going back, letting Arthur be himself more than this rough jackass he’s been sculpted into, but the thoughts always fade too fast. It’s family, the gang, found and kept; it ain’t something Arthur can leave and even John ain’t fond of the idea to separate from it when he knows the hell that’s life in this country.

“Got you some eggs and beans, bit of bread.” Arthur unknowingly breaks that line of thought before it draws him in with the temptation it, pulling the cup away to set it down.

The smell of food, and the idea of beans after the night he’s had, leaves John wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ain’t hungry,” he says and it’s true, but the look he gets? The borderline aggravation muscled quick under the hold of patience? Tells him he’ll be trying to eat and hunger ain’t got a thing to do with it. There’ve been times when that look ends up with Arthur forcing food into him with a spoon and his fingers prying his mouth open, but that ain’t been a thing since his early teens, back when John knew nothing about trusting anyone but himself. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll try, just… gimme a few minutes here. Then I’ll eat’n we can ride out.”

The thought of riding with the way his stomach churns ain’t a fond one, but Hosea taught him oft enough that you dig the grave, you gotta fill it; sometimes, that means your pride’s what gets buried and sometimes it’s a body, but something needs to go there and he figures his pride will be the victim today. Reluctantly, John goes to push himself to a full sitting position, but Arthur puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down to the mattress. Bewildered, he blinks and looks at him blankly.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere yet,” Arthur says, wiping the moisture of the mug off his hand against the thin blanket of the bed, looking away at the windows that stand vigil over the main street.

Suspicion flares up and John frowns, almost makes the mistake of shaking his head and just barely holds off jarring his hungover brain by it. “We ain’t sticking idle because I drank too much,” he manages, though he’s not yet trying to push the hand away and right himself with any real effort. He’s tired and the water felt good, good enough that he’s starting to think that eating’s got potential too.

“We ain’t,” Arthur tells him flatly, leaving off the gentle press of his hand, a half-hearted pin he’d let keep him there, to stand up. “Heard a couple fellas last night talkin’ about the bank bringing in more money in a couple days, how they’s looking to pull law and security out of town to guard the stage when it comes in.”

Here he’s been thinking his drinking was stupid enough to land him in this state, now Arthur’s talking foolish plans about hitting the stage again? “No way we could pull off the same job twice,” John tells him, feeling odd being the one to point this out. All that added security means bodies and risks that they don’t have the manpower for.

Arthur grins and it ain’t bitter, it ain’t grim; it’s to the challenge, the idea of it being fun to him and that’s rarer the older they both get. “Ain��t never said we’d hit the stage again,” he says, hooking his thumb under his gunbelt. His eyes are bright, something that John ain’t seen since before Mary ended things and tore out what little heart Arthur had left. “All them folk pulled away to protect the stagecoach? Seems to me like we got a good chance of clearing out the bank while they’s all looking the other way.”

Two of them taking on a bank? The idea sits beyond the scope John can currently manage, his head threatening to split anew when he tries to sort the details, and he drops it down back onto the pillow with a grumbled, confused muttering. “How’s that supposed to go?”

There’s a shrug, a pat on his shoulder before Arthur starts towards the door. “I ain’t sure yet. You rest up, John. I’ll case the bank, see if we don’t got an opportunity too damn good to pass up.”