#Non-passerines

[inatungulates]

Acapulco white-tailed deer Odocoileus virginianus acapulcensis

With white-throated magpie-jay Calocitta formosa

Observed by rodrigoarrazola, CC BY-NC

[starry-bi-sky]

ty for contributing to the wasteland that is appreciating bruce as a parent and first child danny🙏🙏🙏

It’s a battle out here soldier but I am strong, like winter bear. Also I relate so hard to Bruce in a lot of ways and I think his initial concept is really neat. He tries his damn hardest, and he has so much hope for his city that it’s really admirable.

And as much fun as it is to poke fun at him for his questionable parenting and hypocrisy, there’s always the line of too much that the fandom tends to cross quite often, just as much as they do with the clone and ghost king stuff. Bruce is just as much of a good parent (or at least a trying one) as he is a bad one, and people tend to ignore his good qualities for the sake of a joke. His character is centered around the fact that he cares, he’s just truly shit at communicating it — which, cheers bro, I’ll drink to that.

And there’s already a ton of batfam prompts and aus out there where Danny shows up when the whole colony is already adopted, which means most of the attention goes to Danny bonding with the other siblings and having very little to do with Bruce. He’s kinda just. There. Whether that be as a prop or an antagonist or someone to point and laugh at. Which, I can’t blame people too much for — the cast is so big it’s hard to keep track of relationships and stuff.

However, I think it’s important for Danny to have some form of relationship with Bruce too and not them just be strangers, especially in a familial/platonic setting where Danny is joining the family.

They share a handful of qualities that I think would mesh well together — Danny’s canonically a pessimist while Bruce is a diehard optimist (you kinda have to be to be a hero in a place like Gotham, and he wouldn’t be Batman if he wasn’t) and they both believe in giving people second chances and have wells of compassion to tap into. Danny’s clever and resourceful, and one of his main character traits is that he’s got an iron will.

All in all, good dad bruce go brrrrr and oldest son danny is the perfect, underutilized concept to explore exactly that without distractions. I think they could get along like a house on fire, if given the opportunity.

[twola]

Passerine - Chapter 6 [Finale]

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Wading through blood, you must confront the reality of where the road has taken you.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

chapter cw: graphic childbirth, smut, violence, blood, illness, graphic rape, death.

This is it, folks. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Please, I'd love your feedback after all is now said and done. Feel free to leave a comment or hit up my inbox. See you in the New Year.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous 

The wagon roughly bounces on the path, your teeth sink into your lower lip to stifle a groan. You cannot stop the tears from streaming down your face, not anymore.

One of your hands lies upon your distended abdomen, the child's movements having grown frantic and agitated.

Jack looks at you, fearfully, as he’s clutched in his mother’s arms. Another jostle of the wagon and the boy buries his face into Abigail’s bosom. 

Sadie drives the wagon, cursing each time it hits a rough patch in the road, which is often this north in Roanoke. 

From the ride to Copperhead and then turning around and piling into a suspiciously procured wagon, the last two days have been hellish. One hiding in plain sight along the river and the marshes, and the second was riding by night north again, trying to at least get past Annesburg. Ambarino -it would be safe there -

A horse pulls up next to the wagon, and a dirty and disheveled John Marston looks down at you, then down the bed of the wagon with a grimace, clutching at his bloodied arm. “How is he?”

Tears spill from your eyes anew as you look down. 

Arthur, bloodied, bruised, and barely breathing, lies in the wagon bed, his head perched upon your thigh, your hand lightly draped over his collarbone.

You can’t respond.

John realizes this, looking up the trail again as the horse plods forward next to the wagon. “We need to keep moving, get to Ambarino.”

Abigail, who has been quiet for most of the ride, pipes up. “John. We need to find somewhere to hunker down. Soon.”

“I know-”

“No, I mean now. She ain't gonna give birth in the back of a wagon.”

John’s eyes dart back to you, wide and fearful. “Shit, shit, alright,” he looks up the road again, then looks behind them.

He figures they are just north of Annesburg, he chews his lip before remembering,  “Arthur told me of a widow that lives up at Willard’s Rest. Kind woman. We can see if she’ll take us in.”

Abigail reaches over and places a hand on your belly, frowning when she feels how hard it is. She looks up at you, “Don’t you worry, we’ll get you settled.”

Another burst of tears overflow from your eyes. Your hand clutches at Arthur’s shirt, but your lover does not respond.

-

God bless Missus Balfour. She missed not even a step when a wagon and rider full of women and bloodied men appeared at Willard’s Rest, this safe haven hidden away off the road, far, far north of civilization. 

“Here, here, you can put him in that room there. Let me get this room ready for her. I’ll boil some water.” 

John and Sadie half-carry, and half-drag an unconscious Arthur up the stairs as Charlotte slowly walks you into the house, her arm under your shoulder. Abigail follows with the little shadow of her son directly behind her and rubs at her brow tiredly when they reach the kitchen.

Jack tries to bury himself in his mother’s skirts. She frowns down at him for a moment, and when John reappears from the other bedroom, she leans down and kisses Jack on the forehead. “Jack, I’m gonna need you to go with your father. You gotta stay with him and help him, alright?”

John looks as if he is about to say something, but wisely closes his mouth as Jack leaves his mother’s side to tuck himself against his father.

Abigail gives John a tired look, her brow furrowed and serious, “Please, take him a bit away from here. For a while.”

“What, wh-”

“So he don’t hear the screaming. John, please.” Abigail takes John’s hand and squeezes it, whispering low in an attempt for her son not to hear.

John blanches when he realizes what she’s talking about. He steels his jaw and nods, his other hand falling on his son’s head. He nods to Abigail, taking her hand and pulling it up to his lips quickly. “I hope everythin’ goes alright.”

Abigail’s brow falters, and she leans forward and catches him quickly on the lips, surprising him. He quickly recovers and kisses her back, and they both pull back slightly and lean their foreheads against each other, “Me too, John, me too.”

Your groan from the bedroom takes them from the moment and John’s mouth falls into a straight, hard line. “I’ll take him over by the waterfall. Far enough not to hear, but we’re close if you need anythin’.”

Abigail nods a quick thank you and darts into the bedroom.

John looks down at his son, the son for so long he had ignored, “C’mon now, let's get to see if we can get some fish for dinner. That’ll make everyone happy.”

-

Abigail leans over and undoes your boots as you sit in the bed, and after she works them off your feet, she helps you swing your legs up and sit atop the bed, as you breathe heavily. The tightening sensation in your abdomen comes again, and you hiss in pain.

“Breathe through it, that’s it.” Abigail takes your hand and lets you squeeze it. When the pain subsides, you let out a deep breath.

“I’ll be gettin’ everything together. You’re safe, and you’re gonna have the most beautiful baby.” Abigail cups your cheek gently, lovingly. Assuringly. You nod and her hand squeezes yours again before she leaves the room.

You close your eyes, the aching in your hips is near unbearable, and the pain that comes every few minutes is like a bolt of lightning strikes you at your core.

“You must be his wife.”

The dark-haired homeowner steps through the door, carrying folded linens and a large bowl of water, steam wafting upward as she sets it on the dresser.

You're genuinely surprised at the statement, unable to respond at first, “I-….”

“He’s a wonderful man, your husband Arthur. Probably saved me from starving. He couldn’t stop talking about you, his wonderful wife, how you were back home about to have your first child together, how he couldn't wait. He is smitten with you, dear.”

Oh god, your Arthur, your wonderful, sweet… dying Arthur.

“He’s, he’s…. agh-!”

You double over in the bed, clutching your belly and wincing, yelling out in pain as your belly tightens and hardens. Charlotte takes one of your hands in her own and lets you hold it through the contracting of your body.

Abigail bursts through the door, followed by Sadie. Grimacing, she rolls up her sleeves, muttering to Charlotte and Sadie to lay you back from your sitting position. Your head falls back on the pillow as you gasp in pain, clutching at your belly. Abigail pulls up your skirts, folding them at your hips. A warm liquid trickles against your inner thighs as Abigail mutters to Sadie, and the two women manipulate your legs to slide your bloomers off. 

Another pain, and this time you cannot help the moan escaping your throat as your abdomen tightens. It's like your body is collapsing in on itself, and you are barely cognizant of the women in the room. Charlotte steps in and helps as well, and by the time the pain lets up, they have stripped you down to your petticoat shift, have propped your legs up, and your knees falling open.

You're in so much pain that you don't think about decency at all, Abigail propping herself between your legs, your entire lower half on display. Another strangled cry claws its way out of you as you throw your head back.

“Arthur-” you call out in vain, “I need Arthur-”

“I know, honey. He’s just in the other room.” Sadie pats your hair back as she holds your hand.

“H-how am I supposed to do this without him?” You weep, squeezing your eyes shut against the waves of pain.

Sadie frowns, looking across the room at Charlotte. The women share a knowing, pained glance between them - a look of familiarity, of pain, of uncertainty.

Of losing one’s other half.

-

The shitty, ramshackle cabin smells of unwashed men and rotting food. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going on -why is he here, what is this place?

Two men sit at a table, playing cards and drinking from open bottles of whiskey.

Their vests are green. Arthur seethes and goes to pull his gun from his belt, to find that there is none. There’s no gun, no belt. He looks down, and frankly, there is no him. He is not… really there.

His confusion is interrupted as a half-dressed man bursts through a door from another room, hoisting his pants up as he steps in.

“Donal, you rat bastard - how’d you pick up a thing like that?”

The dark-haired man laughs as he places his h cards down. “Enjoy it while she lasts - I’m sure she won’t be so tight when we take ‘er back to Hanging Dog.”

The returning man rebuttons his pants before sitting down in an empty chair, “‘er cunt is still real nice.”

“Wait till you fuck her ass, talk about real nice.” The third chuckles, taking his bottle of whiskey and taking a long drag.

“Ain’t you worried about Van der Linde?” 

“Naw, ain’t no one comin’ for her. She ain’t anyone important.” Dark-haired man takes a large swig of whiskey before slamming the bottle on the table. He takes his gunbelt off and places it on the table as well as he stands up.

“Now if you excuse me, think I’ll fuck that tight little hole again.”

Why couldn’t do anything, why couldn’t he kill them? What was this all?

The door swings open. That old, dirty, ratty bed where he found you, it’s there. Lantern light spills out, casting shadows through the room. Arthur is able to follow, somehow, in this incorporeal form.

You’re curled on the bed in a fetal position, nude and unbound. Your skin is peppered with bruises and your hair disheveled and dirty.

Arthur has never felt so helpless, like he was on the outside, looking in. 

“Come on now, get on your back f’r me. Been thinkin’ bout you all day.”

The terrible clicking sound of a belt being undone pierces the stillness. You don’t move on the bed. The O’Driscoll starts to work at his trousers as he approaches your battered form. His pants drop to the ground as he reaches the bed. He manhandles you onto your back with no resistance, no fight in you.

He climbs atop you, parts your legs, and settles himself between them. The O’Driscoll spits in his hand slathers it over his hard cock, and without any preamble or gentleness, he pushes himself inside your abused cunt.

Arthur is stuck - he can’t look away, he can’t do anything. You don’t scream, or cry, or fight. You simply squeeze your eyes shut for that moment of penetration, completely resigned. Is this… is he seeing what happened to you? This, this heinous violation that happened because he wasn’t able to keep you safe.

The O’Driscoll moans in pleasure and Arthur wants to tear the world apart. Your body moves back and forth on the bed with each heinous thrust of the man on top of you. He grabs one of your legs and pulls it to rest on his shoulder. You don't react at all, staring at the wall.

“P-pretty miss.”

You need him, you need him, and again, he cannot keep you safe. 

Arthur sees red, unable to do anything but watch.

You turn your head, catching Arthur’s gaze. Your eyes are dull, worn, dead. You can see him, the first acknowledgment from anyone all night.

You open your mouth and the most blood-curdling scream he has ever heard fills his ears.

-

Arthur’s eyes open;  his vision blurred for several moments before being able to focus on the ceiling.

The screaming - it's not from his dream, it’s real, it’s happening right now - you need him-

He blearily awakens, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood as he pants. He struggles to sit up, but finally does so, his head spinning. He feels so weak. Another pained scream from down the hall. Wheezing, he clutches at his chest as he sits up in the bed. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, blood staining the fabric. 

He hears Abigail through the wall, some sort of murmured affirmation that he can’t understand.

The baby-

Arthur slides from the bed onto unsteady feet, nearly falling as he stumbles forward and grasps onto a dresser to stay upright, loudly panting. 

Another scream. The baby, you’re having his baby-

He wipes his mouth again as he looks around, recognizing the bedroom as one he’s seen before - he’s up at Willard’s Rest, Charlotte must have taken them in.

Arthur musters the little strength he has and takes step after unsteady step, leaning against dressers and the wall as he exits the bedroom and slowly drags himself down the hall.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, breathe through it.” 

God bless, Sadie Adler is here too.

Arthur sucks in a loud breath as he leans against the frame of the open door, quickly exhausted by the exertion he has already gone through. It takes moments for his vision to correct and his lightheadedness to subside a little. Only then is he able to take in what is happening in this other bedroom.

You recline against Sadie, who rubs at your biceps gently as Abigail sits between your spread legs, arms bloodstained up to her elbows. Her brow is furrowed in concentration. Charlotte Balfour leans over and places a wet cloth against your forehead, wiping away the sweat.

He must be dead, he must be. There’s no way on god’s green earth he’s seeing this. He’s completely unnoticed by the women, all rightfully focused on birth and life and not on a dying man.

“There we go. Alright, come on now honey.” Sadie coos gently. You grab at one of her hands and she holds it with the strength that Sadie is known for.

Abigail looks up to see Arthur leaning against the doorframe. Heaving breath, trying to keep himself upright. For an instant, she wants to go to him, but another scream escapes your throat and she immediately turns back to you. She mutters something to Sadie that Arthur cannot hear, and Sadie moves to let you lay down in the bed as a racking sob shudders out of your body.

“Couple good pushes left, you can do it-” Abigail places one of her hands below your knee and pushes your thigh back to round your belly. Sadie does the same with the opposite thigh, one hand free to brush back sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. Abigail nods to Charlotte and the latter takes Abigail’s place at the side of the bed, taking your thigh in her hands, holding it back the same as Sadie.

You scream again, head craning back on the pillow. Your hands clutch at the bedding beneath you with an unmatched strength. 

“Yes - yes, there we go, here we are-” Abigail mutters, her free hand disappearing between your legs.

Your voice, rough and abused, suddenly changes tone. From fearful and pained to something fierce. The scream from your lungs is one of determination - of strength and power and by god, he’s never been so in awe of you.

Arthur’s heart stops beating at this moment, and he nearly forgets the weight in his chest that makes it nigh impossible to breathe.

“Now push-” Abigail orders.

A fresh burst of tears works its way down your face as you suck in a breath and clench your teeth as you follow Abigail’s instructions. A defiant yell claws out of your throat. Arthur’s hand squeezes the doorframe with a strength that nearly escapes him, all from you. He wheezes, trying to keep quiet as the birth unfurls.

Fitting, a dying man witnessing this space of women delivering life. Fitting, that he's at the very least able to see this feat of strength from you, after everything you’ve been through. 

But in this moment, you didn’t need saving. Not by him.

Your screams are of strength, not fear nor pain.

You didn’t need him. 

You’d be fine, even after he’s gone.

One last strangled cry from your throat and you grit your teeth, pushing with every fiber of your being. Sadie leans forward and pushes your thigh apart just a bit more, Charlotte following suit on her side of the bed.

“Yes, yes, that's it!” Abigail exclaims.

The world slows, collapsing in on itself, he wasn't just watching the labor of a woman, he was staring at the birth of stardust, creation, and holiness incarnate. He, the sinner that he is, does not deserve to bear witness to such a thing.

From his vantage point leaning against the doorframe, he sees the baby’s head appear between your legs, cradled by Abigail’s waiting hands. 

He can’t hear the women’s exclamations, a tinny sound having taken over his hearing. Arthur watches you suck in another breath and bear down once again.

In a rush of blood and fluid, Abigail catches the child as you deliver. 

Arthur has never seen something so beautiful in his life. All the riches in the world, he’d have traded for this moment. The three women murmur joyful praises at you as Abigail rubs at the newborn roughly swaddled in the clean linen. 

The tinny noise goes away when the babe wails, a high-pitched screech that fills the room, over your panting, over the beating of Arthur’s heart, the crackling of his lungs. 

“Oh honey, y’ did perfect.” Sadie grins, letting your thigh down gently as she leans over toward the table and picks up her hunting knife. Abigail coos at the baby and undoes the linen enough to make that pulsing blue-white cord, the last connection between you and the child, accessible for Sadie to cut above the child’s stomach. Charlotte blots your forehead again with a wet cloth, holding your hand as you try to crane your neck to see your baby.

Abigail smiles as she places the newborn on the bed and wraps it tightly in linen with practiced ease. Once satisfied, she nods up to Sadie, who with Charlotte, slowly and carefully adjust the pillows behind you and help to pull you into a reclining position.

Abigail places the child into your waiting arms.

The baby wails and it’s the most beautiful goddamn sound that he’s ever heard. This sight is the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen. You, in all of your glory, settling in on the other side of childbirth.

And then reality crushes back in.

Arthur can taste the coppery blood in his mouth, and he slumps down the doorframe as he coughs, losing his breath as the back of his hand is covered with blood. Through his fading vision, he makes eye contact with you, hazy, but perfect lying there on that bed, holding his healthy child. You look horrified as you try to get out of bed, crying out in pain as Abigail and Sadie try to push you to lie down gently again, the baby wailing against your breast. Charlotte begins to round the bed to reach toward him as he collapses.

Crumbling to the floor, blood bubbles across Arthur’s lips as he wheezes, drowning in the weight of his own sins.

-

Your head pounds as you awaken, being jostled roughly and uncaringly. It takes you a moment to realize you are gagged, something tied across your jaw. Your eyes dart back and forth as they get used to the light in the room.

You know this room. The pit of your stomach opens up as you are roughly placed against an old bed, and you can see your companion.

Dark, greasy hair. Dark, ruthless eyes. A green scarf tied around his neck.

Companion, captor, rapist.

‘Ello there love, time for us to get to know each other.

You try to claw at him, but he proves to be too strong - and the both of you tumble onto the dirty old bed. He is able to hold you down as he stands up, one elbow across your back and his hand encircles your neck, pushing your face into the mattress.

You’re just gonna make this worse for yourself.

You scream against the gag, in rage then in pain when he pulls your arms backward and tucks them behind your back. Rolling you over, he keeps weight and one on your shoulder, your arms scream in pain as he holds you down.

He snarls as he catches his breath, pulling his knife from his belt.

You goddamn witch, I should kill you instead of fuck you. But it’s been so goddamn long since I’ve gotten my cock wet-

He draws the knife’s blade slowly across your collarbone. You stop fighting, afraid that the blade is going to pierce your skin. Instead, he starts drawing it down the front of your blouse, and buttons start popping and flying as he drags the blade against the fabric. He reaches the last button before your blouse gets tucked into your shirt and places the knife on the bedside table. 

This is takin’ too long. He smiles, and your stomach drops as he takes a fistful of your blouse and rips. 

You scream into the gag again as he continues, tearing the blouse off of you, the sleeves falling down your biceps, disconnected from the rest of the fabric.

His arm moves from where he holds you down to land on your chemise’s neckline and you immediately take advantage of his weight being gone, trying to sit up and throw an elbow. He is wise to your moves, however, and catches your arm as you swing it.

Fuckin’ Van der Linde whore-

The O’Driscoll backhands you across the face, leaving you smarting and gasping out in pain, falling back to the bed.

Another rip. Your chemise is torn at the neckline, between his two hands, and he continues to tear the cotton in half, your breasts uncovered as he looms over you. You can taste blood in your mouth as your eyes water over, dizziness taking over your being.

You can feel the cool knife blade against the curve of your waist as he slides it against the ties of your skirt, pulling the blade up and slicing through the strings, placing it back on the table side as he starts to pull your skirts off, his grubby fingers digging into your skin, gathering your bloomers as well as he works them down your hips, thighs, and legs. Your knee-high stockings get pulled from your feet.

You begin to weep as the O’Driscoll strips you naked on that shitty bed, every scrap of clothing gone. A rough, dirty hand squeezes a breast, grabs your hip, smacks your ass. Fingers reach to toy with the dark curls hiding your cunt.

He leans over you and pulls the gag down, smirking evilly.

Your man isn’t here to save you. He’s not coming. It’s just you and me like it always has been.

Like it always has been. 

Like it always has been.

You know how this ends. You know what happens next. You know the pain, and the shame, and the pity and hurt in Arthur’s eyes when he finds you. 

You cannot keep letting him do this. He’s right, Arthur is not coming.

The O’Driscoll stands to full height and begins to undo his gunbelt, a sickening grin still on his face. He looks down, starting to unbutton his pants and you see the glint of the knife on the side table as the lantern light flickers. With his eyes off of you, you swing your arm up, grasping the knife and immediately turn it on him before he has a chance to react, jumping up from the bed.

You sink the knife into the O’Driscoll’s neck. He sputters in surprise for a moment as he rears back, his blood spraying out between your bodies. 

You grit your teeth and pull the knife out of his neck and immediately plunge it in at a different angle. Warm lifeblood splatters all over your chest, your naked breasts, your neck, your face. The man makes a gurgling sound as he begins to slump forward on top of you. You let go of the knife and push him with all of your might, and he rolls to the side off of you, off the bed, crumbling into a jumble of limbs on the floor, blood seeping out of the holes in his body.

You lean over and pull the knife from his neck.

You stand above him as he dies, his blood dripping down your naked form. For so long, this man has controlled you, taken your body as his own, and held you down in fear and nightmares, long after his death. But now, now you stand above him, knife in hand, like a warrior queen. 

You are unashamed of your nakedness - you needed no armor to vanquish him. You are unashamed of the blood - it is not smeared between your thighs as evidence of violation, it is splattered across your face, your breasts, trailing in rivulets down your belly and your legs.

The O’Driscoll shudders in a death throe, his eyes wide as he stops twitching.

You grip the knife tightly in your hand. He’s dead, he’s dead and he can’t hurt you anymore. He can never hurt you again. 

The room begins to fade away.

And for the first time in so very, very long, you wake up in your bed, alone, at peace.

-

The oil lamp flickers, casting a shadow throughout the room. You frown, mentally taking note to get more oil the next time someone goes to town. 

You tiredly wipe the table of crumbs with an old rag, collecting said crumbs in your hand and tossing them in the sink, along with the dirty dishes from dinner. You had no desire to address those dishes tonight, the sun has long gone down. Sighing, you wipe your forehead of dotted sweat with the back of your hand as you clear the rest of the table.

A muffled bang comes from the door, and you hurry toward it before another knock rings through your house. Opening the door, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

John Marston stands in your doorway, holding a large canvas sack over his shoulder. You smile and step out of the way for him to come inside. He does so, stepping immediately toward your newly cleaned table and placing the sack down on the table. You consider scolding him, but hold your tongue as he unrolls the canvas, a large, paper-covered slab of meat as his bounty. Freshly shot, you know, Abigail having mentioned that John was out hunting this morning.

“Guess you were successful?” You laugh as John rolls his shoulder.

“A little bit.” He mutters, rubbing at it.

“Gettin’ old there, cowboy?” You tease, and Marston scowls back at you, his scars across his face always making him look more severe than you know he is. But the scowl does not remain long.

“Shaddup.” He laughs in that rough voice that brings you such comfort.

You laugh as well, placing your hand on his bicep, “Thank you, John, this means a lot.”

“You sure you’re alright out here? You know Abigail would rather you stay with us.”

“John, I’m fine. Besides,” You motion over to the wrapped flank of meat that he has placed on the table, “You provide enough as is.”

He rolls his eyes, “You do know I’m gonna get an earful from Abby when I get back to the house.”

“John Marston, both you and I know that you was gonna get an earful from her no matter what my answer was.” 

He smirks, looking at his feet. Still bashful, after all these years. He looks up again, that half smile across his face, the silvered lines of his scars visible through the beard that doesn’t grow along them.

His gloved hand reaches toward you.

“You let me know if you need anything. Seriously. You know I watch out f’r you.” John squeezes your shoulder in a comforting manner. 

You smile, brushing his hand from your shoulder, and reach around his shoulders to bring him into a hug, “Thank you, John.”

“You’re family to us.” You can feel him nod, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing gently.

“You tryin’ to butter me up to watch the baby?” You smirk as you unwind yourself from him, laughing.

John scratches the back of his head sheepishly, tilting his hat for a moment before resettling it, “I mean… an extra pair of womanly hands carin’ for a baby is always welcomed.”

“Think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

“Abigail thinks it’s a girl. Says she’s feelin’ different this time around.”

“And you?”

“I don’t do a lot of thinkin’… you know that.”

“You’re a silly man. Now go back up that hill and take care of your pregnant wife.”

-

“Mama.”

You crack one eye open. The sun has risen in the east, and the door to your bedroom is open wide, and a small shadow appears at your bedside.

“Susannah.”

“Mama please-”

You sigh, yawning before giving in, knowing you can’t win this fight, “C’mon now, come get into the bed.”

The girl giggles and dives under the blanket that you hold open. You wheeze as she climbs over you, a knee to your belly, a hand squishing your breast, and finally her small body curls in against you under the warm covers, and you blow away a few strands of sand-colored hair from your face as she tucks her head upon your breast. You close your eyes again as you wrap your arm around her, hoping she will fall back asleep with you.

Blessed silence.

“Mamaaaaa-”

Interrupted.

“Yes, dearest?” You sigh, but you can’t help but to smile as the small body next to yours squirms under the blanket.

“Tell me about the house by the waterfall again.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you about it four times this week.”

“But I wanna hear it again.”

You sigh, looking up at the ceiling, but start the story anyway,  “You were born on a bright, sunny day… like today.”

She crawls up to look you in the face, “And everyone was there.”

“Yes, everyone was there. Abigail and Sadie and Missus Charlotte helped me bring you into the world, just like how I’m gonna help Abigail bring the new baby into the world in just a few days.”

You kiss her forehead, brushing the mess of her honeyed hair back. “And when you came, and you cried and cried, but it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.”

“Before you were born, your papa said he loved the name Susannah. That’s why you’ve got that name,” You poke her little nose and she giggles, just like every time you tell the story. What joy simple things bring to a child.

The songbird that perches outside your window chirps gaily. It sits outside most mornings, and you have grown accustomed to its song, greeting you in bed. A horse whinnies from outside and your daughter bolts upright, throwing the blanket off her body and half off of yours. In a jumble of limbs, she bolts out of the bedroom, “Mama, mama!”

“Susannah, mind your shoes!” you call as you climb out of the bed, but secretly you want to run as fast as your daughter as you find a robe and throw it over your nightgown. You know you just scolded her to put on her shoes, but you also forego anything on your feet as you hurry toward the thrown-open front door, where Susannah bounds out as fast as her little legs can take her.

“There she is!”

Oh, your heart. Oh, your world. You have to hold onto the doorframe as you watch your daughter dart from the front door across the grass to the hitching post, several strides away. The large horse, tied to the post, swings its head toward the joyful shouts of the child. From behind the horse’s rump, a figure strolls around, tall and strong and bursting with excitement.

He stoops down on one knee and catches Susannah as she throws herself into his embrace.

“How is my favorite girl?” He easily swings the child up into his arms, holding her out and twirling her in a circle before gathering her into his chest. 

“I missed you so much, Papa.” She buries her head into his shoulder. 

“I missed ya somethin’ awful, sweetpea.”

The man looks up at where you stand in the door and smiles. His dark beard is long, his hair unruly underneath that old gambler’s hat.

He marches toward the door, and when he’s a step away from you, he lets your daughter down, who immediately latches herself to his pants leg.

“Susannah, Go on and get dressed. Give your father a moment to wash up.”

She scrunches her little nose in mock irritation, but dutifully does so, scooting past you and into the house, leaving you and him alone in the threshold of the door.

“Missed you somethin’ awful too, darlin’.” 

You smile as his hands find your hips, “You owe me, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts, and his lips press gently at your exposed neck, “For what, leavin’ you with the little one while I rode a cattle train all the way to Denver ‘nd back? Sounds like you got the better end of the deal.”

You lean forward in his embrace as he rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Think you should stay closer to home next time.” You muse as you close your eyes.

Arthur’s hand creeps up from your waist and cups one of your breasts, squeezing firmly. You squirm in his embrace, gasping. 

“Stop - Susannah is right there, you-” You push his hand away from your chest but he only chuckles in your ear as he unwinds himself from you.

“I’m bringing her up to Abigail’s. She can watch ‘er for an hour or two.”

“You just got back-” You are cut off when his hand darts forward and grabs your rear through your robe and nightgown. You can barely keep yourself from squealing.

“Yeah, and I need to make love to my wife ‘til she can’t take it no more.” Arthur rumbles roughly into your ear with a tone of voice that goes straight to your cunt. You are unable to find the words to respond as he pulls back and nods, a smirk painted across his face.

“Gimme fifteen minutes. You better be naked in that bed when I get back, woman.”

You frown as he rights his hat back on his head.

“You know how obvious that is going to be?”

Arthur waves his hand dismissively, “You didn’t notice me takin’ Jack out on so many rides nine months ago?”

“Mama, can Jack take me for a ride on the pony?” Susannah darts past you, having changed into a cotton dress and thrown little boots on, her hair a disheveled mess.

“Ah, ah, come back here missy. Go get a ribbon and let me tie your hair up.” You scold, and your daughter scowls back at you with a nearly identical look before stomping back to her room.

Arthur chuckles, and your finger wags at him, “Don’t think I don’t know where she gets that from.”

“Her mother, exactly.”

“You son of a -”

Your daughter reappears and you close your mouth before cursing. She holds a ribbon out as she marches to you, turning around right in front of you so that you can reach her hair.

“Mind your mother, Miss Susannah.”

“Papa-”

“Or there won’t be any pony rides. I’ll tell Jack to have you clean out the pony’s stall today.” Arthur laughs, completely unable to be serious.

“Ew!” She shrieks, her hand darting upward to give you the ribbon. You laugh to yourself, taking the ribbon and gathering her hair into a ponytail, tying it up and over her head. Once secured to your liking, you gently tap her shoulder and she bounds toward Arthur, who immediately scoops her up into his arms again.

Arthur juggles the five-year-old onto his hip, to her joyous, shrieking laughter, “C’mon, let’s go up and save Jack from his daddy’s chores.”

As he opens the door to the cabin, Arthur glances back at you, his eyes darkening, “You best be ready when I get back.”

You roll your eyes, but secretly, a shiver goes down your spine at his implication. He gets like this - ravenous, hungry, passionate whenever he comes back from a cattle drive. As much as you hate the weeks alone, the amount of money Arthur brings home makes the ranch nearly abundant. Last year both John and Arthur went, and kept the families fed throughout the winter comfortably.

Of course, this year Abigail threatened to castrate John if he left her alone for six weeks at the end of her pregnancy… so this drive, Arthur went alone.

You pick up his mud-speckled leather coat, laying it over the wash bin. The sack of clothing Arthur left outside the door was sure to smell of a cattle herd - he was smart enough to leave it on the porch this time.

You make your way back to your bedroom, sighing as you idly rub your back. Your gaze catches the mirror above your bureau and you slowly walk toward it.

You stand in front of that mirror, pulling your nightgown up, up and over your knees, your thighs, your hips, your belly. You pull the fabric over your breasts and finally your head, holding it in one hand as you look at yourself.

There are no scars, just like that night standing in front of the fire in Valentine. There are no outward signs of what happened to you those years ago. Placing the nightgown atop your dresser, you glance in the mirror one last time. You see fuller hips, silvered lines at your belly, your breasts flatter against your chest.

A half smile comes across your face. No, the scars on your body were not from the O’Driscoll that raped you - they are from growing and birthing the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You look away from the mirror and let a breath out through your nose as you climb back into bed. Flopping back against the pillows, you smile to yourself as you wait for your husband’s return, naked in the marital bed as requested.

It is not several minutes more before you hear the front door slam and smile to yourself as you hear Arthur’s heavy gait beeline toward the bedroom.

The bedroom door swings open as Arthur barges in, and his hungry eyes immediately devour you whole as you recline into the pillows.

“Jesus Christ.” Arthur huffs, unable to move for a moment, staring at you. He pulls his hat from his head and chucks it to the floor.

“C’mon, ain’t known you to be one to keep your lady waitin,” you smirk, some of that old flirtation that you had at the beginning of your relationship shining through. You open your legs to bare your cunt, the dark hair parting as you spread your thighs further.

You’ve never seen him strip himself down faster. Boots tossed across the floor, his shirt thrown over the dresser haphazardly. He steps out of his pants and leaves them in a pile on the rug.

Fully nude, he climbs onto the bed, his hulking muscles undiminished by the years. Maybe, at first, in those months when he was bedridden at Willard’s Rest, where he slowly recovered from tuberculosis and you recovered from the ordeal of childbirth - was he a lesser man. But now? Now he was the Arthur you knew and loved - the Arthur who could tear men apart.

But you feel nothing but safe. You giggle as one of his hands immediately cups your cunt.

“Wife.”

You smile, your hands brushing down his shoulders to his biceps to his forearms.

“Husband.”

He parts your folds gently, rumbling as his other hand encircles his blood-hardened cock. He looms over you, and there is a secret sweet part of you that feels safe and protected underneath all of him.

“Sweetheart.”

He presses that trigger-worn finger inside you.

“Arthur-”

Your husband leans down and presses his lips against yours, his coarse beard tickling your chin as he begins to swirl and thrust that finger inside your cunt.  You moan into his mouth as you begin to cant your hips, wanting more, more.

Arthur lets go of his cock to steady himself against your bucking, groaning at your desperation. His hard shaft smacks against your inner thigh and you mewl and gasp as he slides a second finger into your cunt. He begins to rut himself against the jointure of your thigh and hip, his cock settling in there as he prepares you, eases the way, ensures that he would never, ever hurt you.

God, you love this man so much.

He pulls his fingers from your body and immediately smears your slick on his shaft, the head of his cock already weeping. His eyes trail from his cock up your body to lock with yours.

You raise your arms, open wide, inviting him into your embrace and he smiles, knowing he is home. Arthur takes that hefty cock of his and lines it up with your cunt. 

He grunts as he pushes into you, his head slipping inside as you whine; throwing your head back onto the pillow. He lowers himself down on top of you, plastering his entire body against you, and the two of you wind arms around each other’s boulders and your angles hook behind his back.

It’s slow, and full, as that first press inside always is. A strangled noise claws out of your throat as you dig your fingers into his back as those girthy inches stretch you. He rumbles against your neck as he works his way inside, his breath warm on your skin until he is hilted completely within you. He raises his head and kisses you headily.

Your bed is far more spacious than the small tent in Big Valley that saw your first coupling. 

“Don’t know - how many times,” his breathless voice is interrupted by the frenzied kisses he gives you, “...I had to fist m’cock at night - thinkin’ of you and this perfect little cunt.”

Arthur begins to thrust his hips against yours, finding that rhythm perfected by years of experience together, “My perfect little wife-“

“Missed you so much, Arthur.” You throw your head back against the pillow as he continues to roll his hips against you, his cock dragging in and out, in and out of the vice grip of your cunt, “I love you so much -”

A particularly deep thrust makes you gasp and Arthur groans into your hair, panting as he continues his pace, “God, oh darlin’ -my darlin’ girl… I love you-”

He grabs your hand, pressing it down on the bed next to your head, interlacing your fingers as his pace slows, becomes more measured, deeper. The gold bands around your ring fingers make a soft clink against each other, nearly unheard among the sounds of lovemaking. 

You cry out as he hits that spot within you again and again, sending you careening toward completion, the sensitivity of your channel making your legs shake and your breath hasten even more. 

“Ar-Arthur- oh… I’m gonna-“ you whine breathlessly, squeezing your eyes shut as your husband groans in recognition. 

“Come fer me, that’s it, come for me-” Arthur orders, throwing his hips roughly into yours in desperation, wanting, needing you to fall off the edge for him.

You cry out loudly as you throw your head back on the pillow, your hand squeezing his as the other claws into his back as you come, your entire body clenching as your arousal gushes around his cock. 

“Yes, yes - oh, my perfect girl, oh-” Arthur praises you as you ride out your release, and gives three more heady strokes before he finds his own. You come down from your high just in time to dig your heels into his tailbone, the sign for him not to pull himself from your velvet heat.

His hips stutter, and he lets out a long breath as he stills, cock twitching as he comes inside you. You whine as you feel the warmth bloom in your core. He cuts off the sound from your throat by kissing you, hard and fast, needy and desperate.

“My…” he pants between kisses, “pretty little wife-”

You smile breathily against his lips, “My strong, handsome husband-”

The wet sound of lips meeting lips takes over for several moments before Arthur slides himself from your body, settling on his side next to you before laying his head upon your breast. 

“Don’t go away for so long anymore. You gotta stay closer to home.” You muse as you run your fingers through his hair. The honey-blonde strands by his temple are peppered with grey- along with his too-long beard. Weeks in the saddle left your husband looking like a rugged mountain man whenever he returns. You’ll have to cut it later; it is growing longer than you like it.

He snorts playfully as he rolls off of you, sitting up on his elbow, facing you in the bed. With his other hand, he grabs the sheet that had been kicked away in the haste of lovemaking, pulling it up to pool around both of your waists.

You cannot help the smile that cracks across your face. You grasp his hand, his callused, rough hands that have built your home and provided for your family. The hands that rocked your daughter to sleep when she was a baby. The hands that keep you safe, warm, fed. 

The hands that pulled you from your pit of misery those years ago. Maybe if that hadn’t happened - maybe - maybe that tawny-haired girl running around the house wouldn’t be here. Maybe Arthur would still be robbing and stealing and ushering himself to an early grave. Maybe he would have bled out on that mountain in Roanoke instead of being dragged out by John.

It hurts, still. Every so often on quiet nights, you awaken sweating and fearful and an O’Driscroll’s laugh echoes in your mind. But then - you turn into Arthur on those nights and he holds you through ‘til the morning. He whispers sweet nothings until you drift off again. He reminds you of his love for you, through words and touches and enveloping you in the most intimate of embraces. The circle of gold around his left ring finger, though tarnished as he never takes it off even when he works, still glints in the morning light. 

And those nights that he’s out on the cattle trail? You pull yourself from your bed and pad quietly over to the other bedroom in the cabin, gazing through the sliver of the door partway open to see your daughter, born of struggle and the razor’s edge of that pain. How perfect she is. What joy she brings.

There will always be a part of you that O’Driscoll scarred you that night.

But maybe, just maybe - it fades, little by little over time. 

Arthur playfully squeezes your hand in return, “Them weeks too long f’r my girl? Miss me that much, huh?”

You bring his hand up from where he holds yours to spread flat across your belly, and you lean toward him with a smile on your face and lightness in your heart.

Arthur Morgan’s eyebrow arches with confusion.

The songbird’s luted melody softly echoes through the window of your bedroom, the mid-morning light spilling out over your sheets, over your bodies in your warm, well-loved marital bed.

“No, silly man. I’m pregnant.”

[jaythes1mp]

Are you considering any other alternative animals? Because I think that Gotham would be more suitable, for example, an opossum hybrid Reader, if it means a pure law-abiding civilian or a raccoon/fox, for a more morally gray, but peaceful one (just ife is hard), or a badger and it would be a villain or antihero. Can you imagine the degree of comicality if someone catches Bats or Wayne with a real live badger, which they squeeze like a puppy, and meanwhile he behaves completely wildly and tries to bite off their hand? (except for Damien/Robin, he obviously and notoriously loves all non-human animals with unconditional love). Or a situation where the raccoon Reader helps Alfred wash the dishes? Or how the possum in a human body leaves some of its instincts and pretends to be dead when attacked by some villain (ideally, probably the Joker), that is, it really convincingly pretends like a real animal and deceives others, at least until it considers the situation safe, and the rest of the hostages are not so lucky (because it's a Joker)? (I think this would be the first meeting) If you need birds/flying/non-mammalian animals, I think of a pigeon, a crow and… I do not know what large birds of prey should be found in the geography of Gotham (and I did not name hybrid bats, because it is too obvious and it has already been mentioned in a couple of posts on this topic). And I would be a rat, whoever kept them as pets knows that they are just mini dogs. Of course, wild rats or passerines can be more aggressive than decorative ones, but this is rather due to their forced female survival. I use a translator because I don't know English so well and I don't have much free time for thoughtful translation. And I also had an anonymous smiley face, but I forgot it —.^,—

Thank you for the ask, anon!

I definitely have thought through some other animals, and will for sure write some one-shots and hc in the future if anyone asks for them. 

I’m open to making any and all kinds of hybrid readers.

So far I have a robin reader, a cat reader, and a puppy reader. 

I've been staying on the more common pet side of things, but the thought of a possum, opossum, badger, or raccoon reader is definitely an interesting concept. This is due to their wild and untamable nature in contrast to domesticated pets.

However I know jack shit about those animals so it wouldn’t be as detailed. Though I’d for sure attempt it. 

Because the idea of The Bruce Wayne, the wealthy philanthropist and Gotham City's golden boy, standing up at some random podium, trying to give a speech, with a rabid, hissing and scratching badger in his hands would definitely cause a large, hilarious commotion. 

Or even if the family attended one of those many fancy galas that they fund with this enormous, ferocious looking, sharp-taloned eagle perched on one of their shoulders. 

Or perhaps the family are attending a high-brow dinner, with a rat seated in the centre, one of those miniature harnesses wrapped around its form. The entire restaurant's attention drawn to the billionaire family and the rodent they’ve brought with them in a way that borders on being alienated. Because rats are usually chased out of a restaurant, not brought in and treated like royalty. But who's to go against the Wayne family?

Maybe the reader is a villain or anti-hero that the Gotham vigilantes are tasked to capture, in which they end up becoming unhealthily attached to, to the point where they can't have the reader in their human form without the chance of being recognised. So instead the Waynes/vigilantes are always seen with a snake wrapped snugly around their necks, torsos, thighs, or arms. Or a ferret tied safely to their utility belts, folded comfortably in their pockets, or peeking out from inside their shirts. Perhaps the reader can shift into a some form of sea water creature, like a seahorse, jellyfish, or octopus. Where in that case they never even get the chance to ever leave the estate, unlike how they would as a reptile or mammal. Trapped in a large enclosure, in the middle of the manor, designed to accommodate your species perfectly, for life.

[ossidae-passeridae]

4. What’s the worst part of fanon? 😈

Question from here

That'd be the implicit racism thanks for asking!

A non snappy response, aka to explain what I mean by that:

A lot of fanon tropes implicitly reinforce a very white, America-centric POV, and in a universe like the GFFA which lies somewhere between heavily Asian-inspired and gloriously multicultural, that really rubs me the wrong way. (To clarify upfront: it is not racist or whatever to enjoy these tropes or to write them, but it worries me when people don't even seem to realise it)

An obvious, innocuous-seeming example is the tendency to use 'Ben' instead of Obi-Wan's actual name in AUs — especially when others' names (Anakin, Mace, Cody, etc) aren't changed as well. The biggest difference between those names and Obi-Wan's is that Obi-Wan's is obviously Asian inspired, and theirs aren't. It's not something I expect most people even think about! But it always leaves a sinking feeling in my chest.

(Obviously if, like in canon, Obi-Wan is using Ben as a pseudonym while in hiding that's a very different kettle of fish.)

A larger example is how incredibly common it is to cast the Jedi as space-Christians — some common examples being focus on tenets (the Jedi Code, which is a meditation mantra, not a rulebook), the pervasive Catholic Guilt which is very explicitly Christian in nature, the emphasis on worship as ritual rather than a state to work towards, the generalised "all organised religion must be Bad" sentiments that feel very specifically ex-Christian in nature.

Thinking about one's own religion and expressing thoughts through fiction/art isn't an issue in and of itself.

The thing is, the Jedi are explicitly based on Asian Buddhists. Not just in set dressing, but from the ground up, from their beliefs and the way they act, to their clothing to the structure of their temple — to strip that away is to remove what makes the Jedi the Jedi. It's to remove the Asian-ness and replace it with something predominantly white. It implies that Asian influence shouldn't or can't exist in the GFFA, or that there's something inferior or wrong about Buddhism that needs to be "fixed".

Again this isn't something where I think that fan authors are sitting there going "muhahaha I'm going to be RACIST today", I know that's not what's happening. But when so much Jedi-centric content being produced minimises the Asian influence and pushes a western one, it starts to say "there's something wrong with this group, we're trying to erase it because there shouldn't be representation at all" — an issue of scale, at its core.

(Then ofc there's all the "the Jedi steal babies" and "the Jedi ban emotions" and "the Jedi need to be destroyed" which, entirely separate from the above, if you replace 'Jedi' with 'Buddhists' I'm kind of starting to wonder why you hate Asian people/Asian religions, you know?)

I won't even get into the fanon surrounding the clones, because that'd require me to talk about KT far more than I'd like to on any day, but especially today 🤣

(All opinions expressed above are solely those of pass e. ridae and do not express the views or opinions of any affiliates or associates, passerine or otherwise)

[flamedraco]

Am I Famous?

So...general question for the TNT Duo community/fandom. My name is FlameDraco, if you don't know, I'm the person who wrote You Were Never Meant to be a Hero, Shadows and Ice, Blood Smeared On My Coffee Cup: Red Like Your Eyes, Arsonist's Waltz, etc etc. I've written over 100 TNT Duo fics since I joined this fandom, mostly oneshots (this is the first fandom I've ever actually written oneshots for, fun fact). And very commonly my friend Em likes to make jokes about how I'm famous. To which I give her a massive side eye because it's not like YWNMTBAH, my most popular fic, ever reached the same kind of popularity as actually famous DSMP fics like Passerine or Heatwaves or Butterfly Reign or Tommyinnit's Clinic For Supervillains or any of those AUs and fics.

Of course, that's probably because TNT Duo isn't as popular as things like SBI or DNF. So people in the general more widespread DSMP fandom aren't going to know the user of a random TNT Duo writer. And they aren't going to know YWNTMBAH because obviously that's not in their wheelhouse.

So I wanted to ask people who interact with, make fanart, or otherwise write/read TNT Duo: Do you think I'm famous?

Because I don't think I am but Em seems to heavily disagree with me and at this point I'm actually curious how often people talk about me or otherwise my fics in TNT Duo circles. Like?? Do y'all mention me by name???

I mean this question as a completely general idea. Famous, in this case, meaning that me/my fics are talked about often in TNT Duo circles and generally in recommendation lists. If you don't know me, or my fics, you'd say no in this case. But if, when the topic of TNT Duo comes up, my user or fics are mentioned often? That would be a yes I guess.

Idk. I don't really know what constitutes as fandom famous.

Just. General question for the TNT Duo fans. Am I famous to you guys?

(Also, general reminder, I do not write the CCs or RPF shit. I write strictly for the characters as they were presented in the DSMP plotline ((and of course my own interpretations of these characters and how they'd behave in different AU settings)). I do not support William Gold nor do I support the Dream Team. Any of the characters I write for are strictly just that. Characters. The CCs are basically non existent in my head, nothing more than glorified voice actors who keep doing terrible shit. Do not bring CC drama to my profile, whether that be here, Ao3, or Wattpad.)

[lunarrosette]

Hey guys I really like bird symbolism

So larks typically symbol daybreak or a new day in traditional mythology and religions in a way summoning the doodler into the world cause a new daybreak and new day it’s also described that larks, as passerine, are the “most evolved of all birds” skylark (which is typically the bird described when ppl just say lark) was a verb used by sailors meaning “play tricks or practical jokes; indulge in horseplay” much like lark oak Garcia as a child

Sparrows are very social birds occurring in flocks even during non breeding season (relying and being dependently close…) they are also one of the few passerine birds that would dust bathe sparrows were associated with love and lust in older religions and mythologies (they were closely related to Aphrodite) pet sparrows also must be raise by hand and are very hard to raise and maintain as pets much like a certain oak-Garcia as a child

I highly doubt this name symbolism was intentional in naming the twins however comma I like looking at it bc I really like bird symbolism and how different birds histories and behaviors can signify things about a piece of work if they’re included

[shalomniscient]

fav kjsr fics?

admittedly i don’t read non reader fics that often and i don’t frequent ao3 as much as i used to, but 2 kjsr fics have stuck with me and 1 genuinely changed me as a person. the first is passerine by qwertyu, it explores sara’s character post-inazuma and addresses her traumas and struggles in a beautifully poignant way. reading it absolutely hurt me but i’m hoping the author is setting up for some really good catharsis 🙏🙏🙏 the second that for real changed my life is kurosawa and lady gaga by pseudowriter. words cannot express how this fic gutted me and then pieced me back together. it’s such an incredible exploration of sexuality, family, and expectation. the conclusion the author leads sara to resonated so deeply within me, as someone who once struggled with self-acceptance because of internalized homophobia. this fic honest to god pulled me out of a dark time in my life and i mean that with every fiber of my being. i don’t normally remember fic titles since i usually use tthe filter function to go back and look for it if i have to, but this one stuck with me. it’s part of me and i cannot recommend it enough.

[c0rpseductor]

i dreamed last night i had a little pet bird that loved me a lot. it was some kind of passerine <- uninformative. it was very pigeon shaped but had a totally non-pigeon coloration and i think i kept calling it a swift or swallow or some dream combination of those. it would land on my hand and let me pet it and go anywhere with me. we went to a museum about coal mines with a bunch of pyrotechnics together and then i helped it go to the bathroom by squeezing it gently over the sink because it kept trying to go potty and just shitting out one single downy feather. really baffling dream.

[inatungulates]

Southern warthog Phacochoerus africanus sundevallii

With red-billed oxpecker Buphagus erythrorhynchus

Observed by morten, CC BY-NC

[starry-bi-sky]

DPxDC Masterpost

Almost all of my DPDC posts have the #Danny Fenton is Not the Ghost King tags, barring perhaps my earliest aus like my Thomas Wayne Au (which will be included in the post). This tag includes art i've made, asks i've answered, and non-fic au posts I've created. This is my main tag!

DPxDC posts under the main tag that don't have their own tag: Danny's Life-Changing Cross-Dimensional Roadtrip with A De-Aged Batman Danny is also Bruce Wayne (Starry goes back to their middle school roots) Danny being the first batkid (if i can get the creative juices flowing I will expand on this. mark my words) There is a Damian clone LOOSE in Amity Park. Oh wait, Danny's got him.

My Biggest DPxDC Aus #Danny Fenton is a Clone: all my posts talking about clone!Danny.

Clone Danny Masterpost: previously my pinned post. A no-powers au where Danny is also a clone of Bruce Wayne, also includes some clone^2

#Clone^2: Clone Damian + Clone Danny au combined, explores themes like identity, found family, and growing into your own as a person. Starting post Here.

#Childhood Friends Au or #Cfau: A childhood friends dead on main au that explores grief, how it may change a person, and how growing up in Crime Alley changed Danny. Contains heavier themes like smoking and mild violence.

#Danyal Al Ghul Au: No longer just my "older brother danyal" au, instead it hosts all of my Danyal Al Ghul aus! An excuse for me to delve into the psychological effects that growing up in the League would have on Danny that I don't really see in other DAG aus. Putting the 'assassin' in 'raised by assassins'. Now with a secondary masterpost listing all of my DAG aus!

My Minor DPxDC Aus Danny Fenton is Thomas Wayne: an oldie but a goodie! An reveal gone wrong au where Danny decides to go by his middle name 'Thomas' shortly after the events of TUE, and leaves Amity Park two years later. He finds out that Vlad cloned him again and finds an infant in the lab. Danny takes the baby, names him Bruce, and ends up adopted by the Waynes.

#Danny Fenton is Jason Todd au: An au where Danny is Jason Todd! He was adopted by the Fentons shortly after the events of the carjacking.

#Older Brother Danny: contains all of my aus where Danny is an Older Brother. This currently includes only my DAG posts but it's not limited to Danyal Al Ghul.

#Changeling Danny: a half-ghost? oh, wait, no. that's a changeling. even worse! Danny's got latent fey blood from a Fenton getting freaky with a faerie some dozen generations ago, and it reactivated with a fervor when he had his accident! Instead of a halfa, he became one of the Fair Folk.

#Blood blossom au: currently the name for the time being. A Nightingale/First Batkid au where Vlad poisons Danny with blood blossom extract, and it results in Danny running to Batman! Currently only one post, but it has a lot of branching pathways in the reblogs. Batdad centered! Now comes with its own fanfic!

#tales of the passerine: the official au name for my "Danny being the first batkid" post! This au is what inspired changeling Danny. It's the idea that Danny was the first to be adopted by Bruce, and features me favoring batdad over "lmfao Danny goes fuck you bruce and adopts the other kids" au. Because I want batdad.

(Nightingale is, so far, the official vigilante name for the Eldest Batkid Danny concept on my blog.)

#mother of monsters danny: specifically its mother of monsters dan but i digress. I was messing around with my fem!Danyal au and boom! Her evil timeline self is Layal, the terrifying Mother of Monsters who raises any manner of monstrous beasts. I love her <3

#martha knight au same song, different dance! This is a fem danny version of my aforementioned "Danny is Thomas Wayne" au. Except this time around, Danny is Martha! Arguably my favorite between the two, I feel like I'm able to do more with her than Thomas. Her au's vibe is After All by Christine Ebersole

Bonus Excerpt: a ficlet I made in response to a DPxDC Dead on Main prompt! It's not under the main tag as I didn't make the post, however it can be found if you search #fem danny fenton on my blog. I actually really love this idea so I may make it its own tag in the future.

[neo-twiny-jam]

Thank You!

And with this post, we mark the end of a very successful Jam event!

Thank you to everyone who submitted an entry to the Neo Twiny Jam! Thank you to everyone who played the games and left comments on those entries! Thank you to everyone who wrote reviews and shared the games with others! Thank you to everyone who shared the posts and the jam to others!

Out of 162 sign-ups, 101 participants submitted at least one entry.

From those 101 participants, 18 submitted at least two entries.

Of those 18, 5 managed to max out their submissions to 3!

We've tried to share as many entries announced on Tumblr, either through tagging us or the post tags. We will be sharing the missing submitted entries in the following weeks!

An extra special thank you to:

@moonless-if [itch] who donated $124.00-

Sarah Wilson (Passerine) who donated $124.00-

onepanda who donated $125.00-

an anonymous user, who donated $25.00-

As announced, I have also matched my donation.

In total, we have raised $523.00- for Equality Florida.

You can find all confirmations under the break). All donors have included the processing fees in their donations.

Autumn and I have greatly enjoyed bringing this jam back to life, and will try to make it happen next year!

Until then, we will be running other non-ranked game jams, with other constraints or themes. If you would be interested in that, consider joining our Discord!

Also my receipt:

[dansnaturepictures]

Fishlake Meadows, Romsey: A special place

This nature reserve is equally as uplifting to visit in the spring and summer months when exotic Hobbies dash through the sky and colossal Stag Beetles roam the canal side path as it is in winter when Gadwall, Pintail, Pochard and Teal immerse me in a world of waterfowl.

A magnificent raptor is a star attraction to this reserve in spring and summer, Ospreys (particularly one) standing like grand statues and offering breathtaking moments of natural wonder when they fish. Many raptors adorn the skies here, Marsh Harrier in its prime habitat, ravishing Red Kite, Buzzard and Kestrel. Sparrowhawk also a key species in this oasis of wild in an urban area and a non-bird of prey evolutionary lookalike is a mesmerising sight and sound here on spring days, the Cuckoo. Its similarly in appearance to the predatory Sparrowhawk able to fool the adults of its host species into leaving their nest so it can insert its imposter egg. Other key waterbirds to see here include bight Egyptian Geese and Greylags, Great Crested Grebe, Common Gull, Snipe and dazzling Water Rail always a species to cherish seeing. Another of the main stars of this reserve is an elegant giant which is gripping the south of the country now, Great White Egret. Purple Heron and Glossy Ibis are two rarities I was lucky to see here. I was ecstatic to see a Kingfisher catch a fish along the canal when reaching the reserve as was I when I was so fortunate to see a splendid Cetti’s Warbler after being surrounded by their bright and cherry calls evocative of a reedbed paradise. Sedge and Garden Warbler other amazing warblers I’ve seen here. Other passerines it’s a treat to see here include Wren, Bullfinch, Blackcap, Treecreeper, captivating Nuthatch, vibrant Stonechat and Reed Bunting. A Roe Deer a delight to see.

It's an insect haven too with Hairy Dragonfly one of the first spring dragonflies to see and the gem of Banded Demoiselle another key species with Migrant Hawker enjoyed here too. Speckled Wood and Green-veined White fly the flag for beautiful butterflies and Brimstone moth and Grey Birch are among sensational moths I’ve seen here. Drinker moth caterpillar and vigorous ruby Cardinal beetle are other key insects I’ve seen here. Nursery web spider was another of nature’s fascinating little stars which has thrilled me here. Onto plants and there is an array of colour here throughout the seasons created by stunning species such as wood avens, comfrey, meadowsweet, cuckooflower, forget-me-not, hemp agrimony, bird vetch, yellow iris, water lily, hogweed, traveller’s joy and marsh marigold. A sight of intricate and alluring turkey tail fungi clinging to a stump beside the canal at one time lit up by the glorious winter sun was wonderful.

This brilliant nature reserve with its distinctive dead trees and thriving reedbed, wetland, canal and woodland habitat is a star of a reserve that has risen over the past few years and an exciting vision of how to use land for nature and let a landscape be transformed. A lesson of hope, a place I always come back from inspired.

[twola]

Passerine: Chapter 5

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Things hurtle toward their conclusion - the pregnancy, the gang, and the relationship.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

chapter cw: references to rape, violence, injury, illness, death. canon events have been modified.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Even the songbirds sound sad and gloomy in these hills. Everything is dark, wet, foreboding. A general unease has settled into the gang, or at least, what was left of it. The evening fell far too early, darkness blanketing the valley far earlier than you thought it should. Presently the blazing orange of the sunset already seems to be escaping this land for the west.

If only, if only.

“Can I listen to the baby?”

You shake your head slightly, waking yourself from the brooding thoughts you were having. The scarf you were darning for Abigail lies draped across your lap. You’re sitting against a tree toward the outside of camp, along the hillside where the only sunlight seems to penetrate the tree cover. You secretly are happy for the company, knowing that it would be an embarrassing struggle for you to get back to your feet from the ground, something you should have thought of before sitting down.

You smile, ruffling Jack’s hair. The boy hovers in front of you, waiting for your response, a huge, giddy smile on his face. At least someone here was happy.

“Sure, C’mere.”

Jack stoops down in front of where you are sitting and places his head upon your belly, closing his eyes in concentration. You place your hand back upon his head, running your fingers through his hair as he listens.

“There’s just a bunch of gurgling!” The boy snorts, and you ruffle his hair again with one hand as you take the other and guide it against a spot on the left of your swollen abdomen.

“Cause the baby’s in water….can you feel it? That’s probably a little foot right… there.” You press Jack’s hand against your skin until his eyebrows raise in amazement when he feels a protrusion.

“That’s a foot?” He asks as he scrunches his nose, pulling away from you. 

You smooth over your skirt again, gently rubbing at your belly, as you can feel the child squirm within, having been awakened by Jack’s curiosity. A foot to your kidney, a head against your bladder. The constant discomfort of soon-to-be motherhood.

“Do you think the baby will like my Penny Dreadful books?”

“Some day, Jack, when you’re reading it to them.” You suck in a breath at a well-placed kick seemingly right underneath your rib cage. A hiss escapes your mouth as the child squirms uncomfortably within your body, and Jack immediately frowns at your pained expression, pulling back from you.

“No, no, it's okay,” You try to calm the boy down, placing one of your hands on his shoulder,  “The baby’s just kicking. Almost ready to come out.”

“Jack!”

John Marston’s rough voice cuts through the falling dusk, and Jack scrambles up from his knees.

“Over here, John.” You call out, thankful that at least you weren’t going to be forced to holler for someone to come help you up. 

It's only a few moments before John comes upon the two of you, rubbing his hands on his pants in an attempt to clean them. He nods back over toward the tents.

“Jack, come on now, time to get cleaned up. Go on over to your momma.” 

“Yes, papa.” Jack nods up to his father, smile beaming, before running back toward the camp. A pang hits your heart and almost makes your eyes mist over in your emotional state - to think how, months ago, John could barely even look at his son, and now he’s spending afternoons play fighting with sticks with the boy. 

“Y’ need some help there?” He looks down at you with an amused half-grin, the silvered scars across his cheeks moving as he snorts.

You give a tired half-smile back up to him. “Would you? God only knows I’m going to hear it from Arthur for not being in bed right now.”

He steps in front of you and holds both of his hands out for you to take. You grab them and groan as you let him pull you up, breathing out heavily as you lean forward into him to steady yourself as you’ve gotten to your feet. To his credit, John holds your shoulders patiently as you huff. 

“Y-you’re too skinny these days, Marston.” You pant, trying to break the awkwardness. God, you were pitiful.

John doesn’t seem to mind, “Ain’t like I was fed like a king in Sisika.”

You breathe out another long breath and nod, your hands moving from his biceps as you’ve steadied yourself. He removes his hands from your shoulders and holds out one arm for you to interlace your arm with to walk back.

“C’mon, let’s get you back to the tent. Startin’ to see why Arthur’s gonna be mad as a hornet.”

“Hush, not you too.” You groan, rolling your eyes as John starts to slowly walk you back to your tent. Upon reaching it, you unlace your

“Thank you, John.”

He nods, his eyes lingering on your belly.

“You alright?”

He swallows before responding, “Guess I’m just startin’ to see what everyone else did.”

“About?”

“How much of an ass I was to ‘em. Abigail and Jack.”

You place one hand on his shoulder, giving a small, knowing smile. The other lands on your belly. “Well, now you have the chance to make things right.”

John nods, remaining silent.

You squeeze his shoulder affectionately.

-

The night has fallen in the campsite, and you have shed your dress within the privacy of the tent, clad in your shift with a shawl over your shoulder to stave off the cold. Another night alone, it looks like - you sigh and start to ready yourself to settle into the cot, grunting in discomfort as you reach for and toss random items of clothing that you had worn during the day into the far corner of the tent.

You go to reach for the dirty bandana curled up on the bedside table to add it to the laundry pile.

“Don’t touch that.”

You jolt, surprised to hear the rough voice of your lover as he reties the canvas behind him, having silently stepped into the tent. The orange glow of the oil lamp inside the tent casts shadows, to include across his face before he takes off his hat, placing it on the small shaving table. His shaving kit has not seen much action these days, having grown out his beard fully.

“Arthur,” You pull his hand to rest over your belly, large and taut in your dress. The child within squirms as you press Arthur’s hand against the top of the swell. Abigail said the babe has dropped - and you’re apt to agree, the pressure on your hips is becoming near unbearable these last days.

But, as with the jovial mood of the gang, as with the loss of good men and the move into these cursed hills, gone is Arthur’s joy, a blackness having set in upon him as Dutch seems to be reeling, as

A blackness that mirrors the blackness that has set into his lungs. 

He won’t admit it, but you’re sure that he’s grown out his beard to hide the darkening gauntness of his cheeks as he has lost weight, his muscles no longer straining against his shirt. He came back from that blasted island after that damned bank job and has never been the same. Tuberculosis, the doctor in Saint Denis had said.

Downes, Arthur had muttered darkly, ending the conversation.

Since then, the distance that you had put between you returned, coming from him this time. He slept on the ground - wet and cold, forsaking your bed, no matter how often you pled for him to lie with you. Even simple touch was limited, him refusing to get near to you as his coughing worsened, specks of blood appearing on his handkerchief as time wore on.

Any day now, Abigail had said and started to pack a small bag for you and her to go down to Annesburg - rebuffing Grimshaw’s annoyed statement that you would give birth in camp.

I did that five years ago and no way in hell am I subjecting another woman to that. We’re goin’ to Annesburg, and that’s final. John will take us when it's time. Abigail had forcefully stated, a matronly rage upon her, protective of you and your child.

Arthur remains silent, pulling his satchel from around his shoulders and placing it on the table next to his hat.

Forlorn, despondent, you step forward and press yourself against him, moving to throw your arms around his neck.

“Stop.” Arthur pushes you back, albeit gently, putting distance between himself and you while holding your shoulders.

“Please-” You plead, knocking his hands back, off of you.

Arthur lets out a long breath, the vestiges of a cough yet evident in his rough voice.  You grasp his hands and he makes to yank them away from you, but does not, his brow falling. His large, scarred hands loosely rest in yours.

“You - you’re acting like you’re already gone.” In your late stage, you can’t help but to sob, breath heaving as your tears spill over.

“Honey,” Arthur interrupts, trying to calm you down, taking his hands from yours and placing them on your shoulders, “I’m right here.”

“You’re not, you won’t hold me, you won’t kiss me - I’m about to have our child, Arthur-”

“I ain’t gettin’ you sick.” Arthur raises his voice, loud within the confines of the tent. He realizes only afterward that he snapped at you when you wince in response, “Sweetheart.”

“Sleep with me.”

“Sweetheart-” He clears his throat, “You know we can’t. I ain’t gettin’ you sick. And I sure as hell ain’t touchin’ you this close to you having the baby.”

“Abigail says it's fine.” You whisper softly, your hand resting upon his chest, and you look up to finally catch him.

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I need to protect you. Like I didn’t all those months ago.”

“Ev’rything is falling apart. Can we just… pretend for a moment? That we’re just… we’re just-”

Arthur remains silent. You remove your hand from his chest and place it on your belly. Swallowing, you continue, voice cracking.

“I just want to pretend that none of this happened. That we’re back at Horseshoe before you got sick or….”

Arthur sighs in a defeated manner.

“..o-or when that O’Driscoll took me. I never want to see you look at me like that again.”

His eyes shoot open. “What?”

“I was - I am - I’ll always be afraid that you’ll decide you won’t want me because of what happened. The look in your eyes when you found me in that cabin…” You rub gently at the swell, back swayed and hips aching, “I don’t know why… I just do.”

“That ain’t - there ain’t… Darlin’-” Arthur sputters, “That’s the last reason I don’t want you. Hell, it ain’t that I don’t want you at all. Christ, I want you more than ever. I just don’t want to-”

You reach out and take his hand, “Just be careful. Just be gentle. I gotta be on my side so I won’t be facin’ you, much as I want to kiss you.”

The dark circles under Arthur’s eyes betray him.  He squeezes your hand back.

“I need you.” You look up at him with it plain on your face.

Damn you, damn you and that voice, that look of yours. Much like that night out in West Elizabeth all those months ago, Arthur’s resolve cracks like porcelain. 

“Alrigh’,” Arthur whispers. “You tell me anythin’ don’t feel right.”

You let go of his hand and slowly shrug the shawl draped over your shoulders off and it falls to the ground within the tent with a muted thump.

You’ve gotten too large to wear your old chemises, instead opting for looser cotton petticoats that could be tied over your stomach. You bring Arthur’s hand up to your chest and wait for him with pleading eyes.  Arthur traces his finger along the neckline before pulling it down to uncover your breast. Your breasts are full, and swollen, nipples darkened and sensitive as you close your eyes to the feeling of him ghosting over them. He pulls the petticoat down further, showing more and more of you to his eyes.

Arthur swallows as the cotton falls slowly from your shape. Your belly, large with child, has dropped, centering low above your hips. 

“You’re the prettiest thin’ I’ve ever seen.”

You blush, moving to cover your breast, “I’m huge.”

“You’re growin’ my child,” Arthur says, pulling your hand away from your body. He trails his other hand down your belly, hard and full. “Evr’y day on that island all I could think about was you - how beautiful you’d be when I got back t’you.”

You close your eyes to the feeling of his hands upon you. A gentle squeeze of your swollen breast, a tender caress of your belly. 

“Knowing you were back here, safe, with our child…” Arthur whispers hoarsely as his hands trail over your nude form, “I’d fight through a thousand wars to come back t’you.”

You lay in the cot, settled in on your side, and look over your shoulder as Arthur pulls away from you and strips himself down. Boots get tossed to the side. His gun belt winds itself on the ground. Shirt and pants and union suit follow until he is as bare as you.

He is pale, now that the sunburn from Guarma has finally faded. Not as in he’s returned to his normal coloring, but pallid - his bulk and previously bulging muscles are much subdued. He is still Arthur, of course, but an Arthur stricken. Unwell. You can barely keep yourself from sobbing when you look him over, turning your head quickly as he climbs into the cot. 

His skin is warm behind you as he slides himself into the cot. He settles himself in, his blood-hardened cock pressing against your rear as he drapes one arm over your belly. In this moment of quiet intimacy, he presses his lips against your hair. Your hand covers his over your belly.

Perhaps you can forget, for at least this moment.

His hand moves down from your belly to trace through the hair above your cunt, and you sigh as you open your legs to him, his fingers finding that little nub with practiced ease. A few moments more, and you’re aroused enough for him to withdraw his hand and wrap it around the base of himself as he turns back toward you, stroking himself several times before guiding himself to your core.

You moan, throwing your hand over your mouth as he enters you - the smooth, warm column of him pressing slowly into your cunt.

“Y’okay?”

“Always, always - please move Arthur, please-”

“Christ,” Arthur swears as he slowly rolls his hips against your rear, cock sluicing through your slick - it’s clear your want for him, even diminished as he is.

You clench your hand hard around the edge of the cot, panting high and flighty as Arthur gently, carefully, thrusts in and out of you. His hand spreads out wide over your hip. Arthur continues at his slow, gentle gait. He secretly is thankful for the necessity to be soft and slow - he doesn’t think he’d be able to fuck you the way you two had at the beginning. 

“I love you, sweet girl,” Arthur whispers, holding still for a moment, his cock sheathed completely inside your body. That large, calloused hand of his moves over your belly once more, highlighting the magnetic need for him to touch you there.

You whimper, and your hand joins his. “I l-love you, Arthur.”

The pressure of the child, maybe a week away from coming into the world, and Arthur’s hefty girth stretching your cunt makes tears collect in your eyes. It doesn’t hurt: it’s overwhelming. It’s so much, it’s you giving so much of your body to others. 

Arthur slowly rolls his hips and your tears threaten to spill over. It’s so much.

“Arthur, Arthur -” you coo, trying to be quiet, “I’m gonna come-”

He groans as he slowly slides his cock all the way inside you once again and you shudder, clenching down on him as you stifle a cry. 

“That’s it, come for me, oh- sweetheart-” He murmurs into your hair and clenches his hand on your ass cheek as he lets loose his hot spend within you.

He gasps, far too winded for even the kind of lovemaking that was, his lungs feeling like sandpaper. Arthur goes to pull himself from your body-

“Don’t-” You whine softly, jutting your hips back to try to keep him inside you. He grunts lowly, squeezing your hip, but stops pulling away. Still hard, he sighs as he presses that inch of him that left you back in, staying in your wet warmth.

His hand tracks from your hip to cradle your belly once again, and you cover it with your own. Arthur traces his fingers gently on your belly as he listens to your breathing slow, and finally, your hand falls to the cot beneath you.

He gently extracts himself from your body, gritting his teeth against a hiss that he wants to let out as his softening cock slips from you. Unwinding his limbs from you, he stands up from the cot, quickly collects his clothing, and redresses himself silently.

After he shoves his feet into his boots and rewinds his gun belt around his hips, he grabs at an old blanket in the corner of the tent. The threadbare fabric is rough between his fingers. As calloused and worn as they are, he cannot help but frown when he thinks about how the old wool feels against your skin. You deserve better than that, but for now, this is all you have.

He pulls that blanket over your nude body, over your swollen belly, over your widening hips, your bosom, where your breasts are heavy with milk coming in for the child. Over you, sleeping fitfully.

Christ, he muses, you’re the most beautiful thing alive. If only he could stay and watch over you all night.

Arthur mashes his old gambler's hat onto his head as he ducks out of the tent, closing the canvas behind him. 

He spits on the ground, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, gritting his teeth as blood streaks across the freckled skin. The night has fallen over this miserable camp - there are no thrummed guitar strings, no drunken notes sung. The gang has never been so low, even in Colter. God, he misses Hosea. He misses Lenny. He automatically reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, needing the rush to pull him out of this pit of misery. 

A solitary figure sits on one of the chopped logs next to the fire, his head nodding upward as Arthur approaches. 

Smoke wafts through the night, from the campfire, from the cigarette now placed between Arthur’s teeth, from the match John Marston strikes to light his own cigarette. The song of crickets fills the air, and an owl randomly hoots. Arthur sits down upon the log, his boots crunching leaves softly beneath. This damn forest was too quiet. It was like something, someone was lurking just out of reach at all times. He hates it here.

“Need you to do somethin’ f’r me.”

John looks up from the fire, having been lost in his thoughts. He nods, watching Arthur take the cigarette from his teeth and hold it between his fingers, his other hand clutching that worn gambler’s hat of his father’s that he is never without.

Arthur’s voice is rough and tired. A reflection of his being. Shit, it could be a reflection of everyone’s being after moving to this shithole.

“What you need?” John asks, waiting for Arthur to ask for him to be his second on a robbery.

“Need you to take care of them. Her - the baby,” He nods over to the ramshackle tent, “I need you to keep them safe.”

“Arthur-” 

Arthur stands back up, effectively silencing his foster brother’s bellow. He throws his cigarette to the ground, mashing it under the toe of his boot. His spurs jingle against the movement. He places that black gambler’s back atop his head and glares down at the younger man.

“I ain’t askin’ you, Marston.”

-

One last train, of course, it had to be one last train. Damn well almost killed everyone involved, but Dutch was able to claim the army payroll, for whatever good it was going to do the gang now. People were leaving. Uncle. Pearson. Karen.

Have them packed. I’m having her ready to go. He had told John, to prepare for the finality - prepare to leave the people they had called family for years like thieves in the night.

John got a bullet through the arm during the heist, knocking him to the flatbed of the railcar. Fortunately, that seemed to be the worst off that anyone got in the fiery explosions that ensued, the felling of guards and the train rocketing over the destroyed bridge - but they got the damn money - and that was all Dutch wanted.

Arthur and Sadie had swung to the west when the gang broke up to return to Beaver Hollow. Riding hard, the two of them followed the Kamassa south to the Elysian Pool before crossing the river to head north again.

In the waning afternoon sun, Sadie pulls hard on the reins of her horse to slow him as riders approach from the north. She does not pull her gun, instead guiding her horse to the side of the road and dismounting. The riders pose no threat - women.

“Arthur, Sadie - we, we did as y’said,” Tilly pants, out of breath atop one of the camp’s wagon horses, with you clinging to her waist, also breathing hard. Abigail slows the horse she rides, with Jack firmly planted on the saddle ahead of her. Hastily packed bags are slung over her horse’s rump. Arthur coughs yet again as he brings his horse to a stop as well.

“Where’s John?” Abigail asks, looking past Arthur and Sadie for any sign of her lover, the father of her child.

“He’s comin’ back to the camp from the north.” Sadie gruffly states, motioning for Tilly to slide down from the mount she was on. Tilly nods, doing so as you balance yourself on the horse’s rump. “C’mon now, Tilly, you can handle your own horse. Let me ride with the missus over here.”

Arthur swings down from his own mount as he wheezes for breath. You wish you could swing down and rush to him, but you are uncomfortable enough in your state. Eventually, Arthur makes his way over to you as Sadie mounts up on the saddle ahead of you, whispering something comforting to the horse. 

“Now you go on and stay with Missus Adler here.” Arthur pats your thigh as you lean over and take his shoulders.

“What- you aren’t…?

Arthur solemnly nods and the weak dam holding your tears back bursts. Everything you have come to know is dying in front of you.

“A-Arthur-” you cry, tears pouring from your eyes, pushing against his shoulders as he lifts you gently by the hips to place you on the horse’s rump, “Don’t do this - y-you can’t do this.”

His eyes cannot meet yours, but his hands remain on your waist, gentle and warm, “Missus Adler is gonna take care of ya…”

Your hands move from grasping at his shoulders to his cheeks, hollowed under his beard, tipping his head up to look at you. His bloodshot eyes finally catch yours, dulled blue and glazed over in a sheen of tears unshed.

“Arthur-”

“Darlin’. You go on and be safe. You raise that baby right.”

“You can’t leave us,” you sob, voice cracking loudly.

Arthur takes the half step closer and places his head in your lap, his forehead against your swollen belly. Your sobbing is muted for several moments as your hands card through his short hair. He pulls back a few inches and looks up at you, an inescapable, endless sadness in his darkened eyes. Arthur places his lips upon your belly for a moment before taking your hand in his own, drawing it to his dry and cracked lips.

“I love you, sweet girl. Always r’member that.” 

Your brow furrows again as you push his hand away and cup his cheek, gaunt and hollowed under your touch.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur kisses the palm of your hand again, turning toward it. 

“Susannah.”

“What?”

“If it’s a girl, name ‘er Susannah. I’ve always loved that name.”

You smile, the track of tears down your face sparkling in the sunset. “If it’s a boy, he’s Arthur.”

Arthur snorts softly, “It’s a girl. She’s gon’ be as beautiful as you.”

Your hands hold his jaw with a gentleness that he does not deserve. His eyes slide shut with a weariness that he has not allowed himself to feel until now. He cannot help the furrow that forms between his brows. He cannot help the sudden pain behind his eyes, the desperate need to bury his face into your lap and shudder and let his strength down, whatever little left there is.

No. No. He cannot do that to you. He has failed you enough. He didn’t keep you safe. He got a child upon you when he was supposed to be comforting you. He wouldn’t be around to raise said child.

The teardrop escapes his eye before he can do anything about it.

He can feel your thumb tense, your wrist shifting to allow your skin to brush against his- 

Arthur pulls away before your thumb can wipe the tear from his cheek, and it disappears into his beard. He turns away from you, severing touch like an open wound.

“Missus Adler.”

You cry out like a wounded animal, “No. No, Arthur-!”

Sadie nods, “I’ll take care of ‘em, Arthur.”

Arthur turns to the other horses to nod to Tilly and Abigail. Abigail, clutching at her son, returns the gesture solemnly, unable to speak.

“Now all of y’ get outta here, go get somewhere safe.” Arthur stalks toward his horse, wheezing before spitting a glob of bloody phlegm out on the ground.

He hoists himself up into the saddle without looking back. He cannot, he cannot bring himself to know he will never touch you again, never see you again.

“Arthur,” you weep out from atop Sadie’s horse one final time, one hand over your belly and one around Sadie’s waist, “Our baby-”

He digs his spurs into his horse’s side. He cannot, he cannot look back at you, swollen with his child, days away from bringing that sweet life into the world.

“Arthur-!”

His horse rears and starts off up the road, leaving the women behind. Giving them a chance. Giving you a chance.

He grinds his teeth, trying to keep the sting of tears behind his eyes as your wailing fades away with distance.

Arthur wonders, for one fleeting moment, what color the baby’s eyes are going to be. He spurs the horse on faster as he reaches into his satchel, taking his father’s hat out and placing it back on his head.

At least, the very least, he would spare the child the torture of a terrible man as a father. 

-

So this is how it goes. This is how it ends. After all them years, Dutch, his foster father sides with that snake who hisses falsehoods in his ear.

He was never really the same after Hosea died.

Arthur is drowning in his own skin, sucking breath in vain to power himself forward, but everything is so heavy. He is heaving- stumbling, failing, dying-

“Come on, Arthur… keep pushing. Goddamn it! They’re everywhere, we need to get outta here-”

John Marston’s voice cuts through the night. For so long, it was grating, infuriating, annoying to him. Now? Now it is the greatest comfort in this time. The gang was done, Pinkertons descended on the camp - they were fleeing for their very lives-

“Y-You go…” Arthur wheezes, his feet dragging on the ground.

John stops, several steps ahead of him, his arm hanging limply as he clutches his revolver in one hand, “Keep pushing, Arthur.”

“No…I think I’ve pushed all I can.” Arthur pulls his hat from his head and starts to swing his satchel’s strap over his head and shoulder.

John shakes his head furiously as he walks the few steps back to Arthur, “Come on. We ain’t got time for this, not now.”

“Go to your family-” Arthur shoves his satchel against John’s good arm.

“And yours? Your woman, about to give birth, any day now. Your child?” John interjects, raising his voice.

“I’m dying, even if it's the Pinkertons or Dutch or anyone else that gets me first. This…this is why I..I… you, you gotta keep them safe,” Arthur coughs again, wet, wheezing. “Go to your family, John.” 

Arthur reaches up and places that old gambler’s hat on John’s head. His father’s hat, that he had kept for so long…

John’s voice gets small. “You’re my brother…”

“I know. Now go. Please.” Arthur stares at the ground, another volley of gunfire going off in the distance.

John frowns once again but heeds Arthur’s demand. He nods shortly before limping off in the other direction, down the steep mountain path to the north. Arthur gazes at the valley below, flashes of light from approaching gunfire sprouting from behind trees. The blazing fire from what was left of camp glowing in the distance. 

He takes a long breath in, knowing it will be one of his last. The exhale is shaky, devolving into a hacking cough where blood spittles out through his teeth.

He does not bother to wipe his face. 

Shooting his revolver in the air, he curses loudly before stumbling in the other direction, further up the mountain.

Ambarino lies quiet in the distance.

As he lumbers forward on unsteady legs, his blood is fresh in his mouth as he thinks of you.

You’ll be even more beautiful as a mother.

Damn, and he won’t be able to see it.

-

John’s damn arm is on fire. Freely bleeding against his hand, he can barely move it as he clutches his revolver in his good hand. Getting shot, the fall from the train, limping back to camp only to have the gang finally implode, and now Arthur sending him away, staying behind, sacrificing himself for the others, damn him.

He curses, batting the hat Arthur had placed on his head upwards slightly, so he could see better from under the rim.

The gunshots in the ravine below echo through the night, dark as all now, in the moments before dawn.

Abigail and Jack. Abigail and Jack. He pushes the pain to the back of his mind. Abigail and Jack.

Be a goddamn man.

Arthur’s words echo in John’s head as he slides down a rockfall ledge on the north side of the mountain. 

Ambarino lies quiet in the distance. 

Head north and hide out. Slink down the Kamassa by night. Find Abigail, find Jack. Copperhead Landing, Arthur said. 

Find his family. Save his family, his woman and his boy-

Save-

You let down Jack from your horse at Clemens. You read him a book under the covered porch at Shady Belle. You attempt to teach him dominoes at Beaver Hollow.

Jack asks if he can touch your belly. You smile and let him, urging him to put his ear up to your abdomen. He squeals with delight when your belly moves against his cheek and begins to babble about all the things he is gonna teach the baby. Abigail says they’re gonna be cousins, Uncle Arthur’s baby and him.

Save his family.

He stops; the echo of gunshots through the valley getting louder. The Pinkertons were likely closing in. Micah and Dutch were lurking about. Arthur on his last leg.

You’re my brother.

You’re my brother.

You’re my brother.

John Marston grits his teeth against the pain in his arm and turns back at the first hints of the sunrise on the horizon.

[rwby-necromancer-au]

OK BECAUSE AT LEAST ONE PERSON SHOWED INTEREST

I’ve been thinking about songbirds a LOT lately

I have such a vivid image in my mind of how these guys would look and how it’d look to be on one of these stolen ships taking people out of Atlas to save them. How they’d care for these people and try to keep them safe.

I’ve also toyed with the idea of giving them a uniform of some kind. Instead of them looking like ordinary people.

I think them being dressed in all black would be a cool counterpart to Atlas’s Pursuers wearing only white.

In this hypothetical uniform, they’d wear masks. (specifically plague doctor masks bc I’m predictable and they offer a lot of versatility in design considering they’re called songBIRDS)

And also I’ve always imagined them with black captain hats or black chauffeur hats:

LOTS of layers, like a LOT.

They go everywhere, so they need to be prepared for any kind of weather. The hottest of the hot and the coldest of the cold.

I figure these guys may also just use dark colors, not necessarily black

Like brown, dark green, or whatever matches their mask, which will entirely depend on what role they have on the ship. Role = what kind of bird you are.

Here are the roles and their associated birds:

- Captains are Crows or Ravens

- Second in Commands would be Passerines

- Healers/Medics are Hummingbirds or Kinglets

- General songbirds without a specific role are Blackbirds

- Caretaker songbirds (ones that care for orphaned children or the elderly) are Cardinals

- Psychiatric Songbirds are Starlings

- Chef/Cafeteria Songbirds are Swallows (see what I did there? Hehe)

I imagine they wear trench coats, which I think would be a nice callback to where Oz got the idea for his own trench coat and why he likes them so much.

Another fun callback is how Qrow has his own plague doctor/songbird mask.

And how Glynda wears similar boots to the songbirds.

They probably wear cargo pants with lots of pockets, and bodysuits that go all the way up over the head (apart from the face), these can be swapped out for short sleeve version too. Work gloves and steel toed work boots are a must, so are lots of bags and holsters. I imagine they also have a harness that has some bags on it too.

All hidden beneath a heavy trench coat, that also has pockets.

I imagine these holsters and pockets are used to hold guns, flash bangs, other forms of weapon that can temporarily disable an enemy, knives, etc.

And most of these holsters and bags have a cover to go over them, to keep the things inside in place.

Can’t have anything too restricting, they need to be able to jump, run, roll, etc.

I imagine that they whistle, sing, hum, and that every song means something different.

Rarely do they ever actually speak to each other when they’re working, only use non verbal or musical communication. The only time you’ll see them converse is when they’re on the ship itself and not in danger.

They have to give up their entire identities to do this job, only being referred to by “Songbird” or their title of songbird (I.e “Blackbird” or otherwise)

They are covered head to toe. No skin is allowed to show really.

Those with long hair must either tie their hair up in a way that their hat and bodysuit will cover it, or cut it (Most usually cut their hair).

All songbirds must know how to speak in sign language.

All the boats that are used to take people out of Atlas/Mistral must be stolen from Atlas/Mistral or made to look identical to their ships. That way they can avoid detection

But yeah, those are some of my thoughts about them!!!

I really love thinking about these guys!

[thedaemonarchivist]

Would you be interested in doing an analysis of ravens?

The common raven or northern raven (Corvus corax) is a large all-black passerine bird. Some characteristics of a common raven daemon might be:

Loyal, dedicated [1]

Vigilant, aware, paranoid [2]

Bold, assertive, loud [3]

Adaptable, hardy [4,9]

Serious

Smart, sly, savvy [5]

Playful, cheeky [6]

Affectionate

Intuitive [7]

Expressive, manipulative [8]

Common ravens usually travel in mated pairs, although young birds may form flocks.

Ravens are quite vigorous at defending their young and are usually successful at driving off perceived threats.

Common ravens attack potential predators by flying at them and lunging with their large bills.

Common ravens are omnivorous and highly opportunistic: their diet may vary widely with location, season and serendipity.

The brain of the common raven is among the largest of any bird species.

Juvenile common ravens are among the most playful of bird species. They have been observed to slide down snowbanks, apparently purely for fun. They even engage in games with other species, such as playing catch-me-if-you-can with wolves, otters and dogs.

Common ravens are one of only a few wild animals who make their own toys. They have been observed breaking off twigs to play with socially.

Like other corvids, the common raven can mimic sounds from their environment, including human speech. Non-vocal sounds produced by the common raven include wing whistles and bill snapping.

Common ravens live in a wide array of environments but prefer heavily contoured landscapes.