#Sir Smelly John

[msclaritea]

I've been watching South Park's Worldwide Privacy Tour on a loop. You have to or you'll miss so much. It's brilliant. 'Sir Smelly John!' 🤣

Hmm...remind me again @gatorfisch who frequently uses Deuxmoi to disperse narratives?

[obi-nob-kenobi]

Like a Lady (Morston one-shot)

Arthur says yes to the deluxe bath in Valentine, but the girl who works the baths at 2AM wasn't who Arthur was expecting. He wants the deluxe bath anyway.

art by @moopzies on tumblr/twitter

(note: This is a repost from my old tumblr that i can no longer access but since someone is hating on morston again how about a reminder of a cross-dressing John fic I wrote~)

ao3 link

or read below:

Racoons were the worst rodent in all the lands, Arthur decided as he rode into Valentine, head down in shame and back irritated beyond reach. If his horse could talk, she’d be giving some sympathy back with a hint of mockery, just as Arthur would to anyone of his gang brothers.

He was just out in the forest trying to grab some meat, unbeknownst that a family of Racoons already took his spot by the pond as their territory. Trying to shoo them away proved fruitless, and soon he had one on his back trying to eat his hat, and another inside his jacket looking for a pack of cigarettes.

Now he was out of smokes, no meat to show for, and tired as all hell. He was not camping out, not with those monsters waiting for him, so he made his way back into town and said he was going to treat himself to a nice hot bath.

The only places open were the saloon and the hotel which advertised their 24 hour bath service. As small and smelly as Valentine was, their hot water all but made up for it.

Hitched his horse and gave her a nice bundle of carrots for the night before making his way inside, slamming two quarters down and demanding a bath. His kindness only went to his horse, as he had no patience for the night clerk’s fret of tracking mud.

The damn racoons pushed him into a puddle. He won’t elaborate further.

Once the clerk confirmed the hot water was ready, Arthur dragged himself into the tub, throwing his dirty clothes aside and stepped in.

The hot water was a shock to his cold skin that quickly subsided into the pleasurable heat he was dreaming of. This is exactly what his body needed, a nice hot bath with the soaps and sponges, not the damn river water most of everyone at camp uses when they can’t afford the bath.

He only got to scrubbing his arms when he sank into the tub, just letting himself soak. If Charles was available, he’d ask to go hunting with him. Maybe he knew how to deal with feral racoons.

Or he could rob some O’Driscolls for a few gold pieces. That’s a faster way to make money and buy butchered food in town.

Arthur had his eyes closed, dreaming of the land he was supposed to be exploring in New Austin when a knock awoke him. “Would you like some assistance?”

He peaked one eye open at the door, still closed but a shadow indicating someone on the other side. She didn’t sound like the usual girl who offered the service, but then again Arthur had ridden in around two in the morning. He also rejected the service last time he was here as he just wanted a moment to himself. This time, though, a bit of company sounded nice, even if he had to pay her.

“Sure.” He said.

The door opened, and not a split second later shut abruptly. “Shit!”

That startled Arthur awake, now recognizing the voice. It was not a woman, but instead John fucking Marston, wearing a petticoat and what looked like a corset similar to Karen’s. The eye shadow and lipstick were just as visible as the wolf scars on his cheek, though Arthur was sure the blush was not make-up, but John’s natural color.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John whispered harshly.

Arthur eyed him up, and under the bubbles pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming…or drowning. “I should be asking you that, Marston.”

“None of you come here at this hour. Haven’t since we’ve been camping.”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort when a knock on the door startled them. John stepped back, rushing over to Arthur’s side at the tub.

“Everything okay in there?” Arthur assumed it was the clerk.

“Just fine.” Arthur answered for them. “Saw…a rat.”

“Oh! We apologize about that sir, and we’ll get that squared away.”

John relaxed once the clerk’s footsteps faded, but then he glared down at him. “Jesus christ why ain’t there another town…”

Suddenly, the last few weeks made sense to Arthur. John was in no shape to hunt or even go on scouting jobs, but he’d been antsy sitting around all day. He complained to Arthur, the night of Sean’s welcome back party, that he was feeling useless to the gang and saw no point in being saved if he was just sitting around all day. Arthur tried to reassure he wasn’t being a burden, considering how some others just lie all day, but John seemed determined to contribute in some way.

Arthur assumed at the time it was just drunk talk, and come morning John would be in his tent resting as he should be. But since then, John looked even more tired in the morning, groggy and sluggish like he had been up all night. Arthur even caught him contributing to the camp funds, but didn’t answer when Dutch asked where he got the money.

“So you’ve been…”

“Not a damn word Morgan.” John said. “If word gets back to camp,” John reached into the bath and pulled his ankle up, “I will skin you alive.”

Arthur snorted. “You wish, boy.”

“I mean it Arthur.” His voice was stern, a tone of a promise and not an empty threat. “I don’t need the rest of y’all treating me like you do the ladies. They get enough shit as it is and I’m not gonna sit by when that ridicule comes to me.”

Arthur raised his hands. “Geez, I won’t. Just surprised is all.”

John let go of his ankle, finally relaxing at the edge of the tub. “Good.”

Arthur laid back, watching John’s body language. As suspected this odd night shift wore him down. He wondered if John walked to Valentine or hitched a ride every time but it was still quite a trek from camp.

And the dress–it was common enough that he maybe took it from one of the gals in camp but even John doesn’t steal from women. His guess is he’s using what the hotel provided.

“So they let you take this job?” Arthur asked, curious.

John shrugged. “Got a few wanting…this kind of service.”

Arthur could see the appeal. Skirts and corsets were always pretty, bringing out the best features of a lady. John was a skinny man, handsome face and long hair that had ladies swooning over him when he was a teenager. And Arthur had eyes, he could see why men would overlook his gender and take him especially in this get up.

“Well, you’re in here.” Arthur said. “Might as well scrub my back.”

John whipped his head. “You fucking serious?”

Arthur reached over for the washcloth and handed it to him, “I’m paying you, aren’t I?”

“Fuck you Morgan,” John said, taking the cloth and pushing Arthur forward. “You lucky this ain’t a knife.”

The fabric against his back was rough and stung at the scratch marks. He’d prefer delicate hands instead, but John was not a delicate person.

“These are fresh, what the hell happened?”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to turn red from embarrassment. He’s still called lead-meat considering how he kills his animals with high caliber bullets, but no way in hell will anyone find out he was bested by forest rodents.

“Wolves.” He said stupidly.

John clicked his tongue. “Try again. No wolf marks are this shallow.”

“Just wash me.”

Arthur leaned forward on the tub’s edge, resting on his arms as he watched John grumble to himself. He was doing a very thorough job, making sure every bit of dirt was off him. No matter how much he made fun of him, John was always a hard worker, no doubt about that.

When John finished his back, he shoved Arthur to rest his back against the tub, and took one of his legs to wash him down.

“You are one hairy man.” John commented. “You have a shaving kit.”

“You’re on to talk. Don’t see you cutting this anytime soon.” He reached out, touching the ends of John’s hair. John, surprisingly, did not pull back.

“Hair on my head is fine. I think you’re growing a forest on your legs.”

He moved to the other side of the tub to scrub his other leg. He paused for a second, observing the fresh scratches on that side. It was the leg the racoons climbed onto to get to his damn cigarettes. “So…wanna explain these?”

Arthur shivered when John’s slender finger traced the red markings. He sunk into the tub, hoping the bubbles would hide his face. “Don’t go out to the Cumberland Forest, think the animals have rabies.”

John pulled his hand back. “...you pulling my leg?”

“We’ll see when I’m foaming at the mouth come morning.”

John pushed his leg back into the water. “Fine, I won’t tell you was ravaged by racoons.”

“And I won’t tell you moonlight as a lovely lady.”

“Just give me the damn money.”

Arthur pointed over to his trousers piled in the corner. John made a face as he picked it up, taking the money while checking out the mud stains. “You got spare clothes, right?”

“Yep, on the horse though.”

John shook his head, mumbling to himself as he left the room, leaving Arthur alone yet again with water now lukewarm.

Some part of him still wondered if this was an elaborate dream, though he questioned why he dreamt of John of all people bathing him when said man returned with his clothes from his horse’s saddle.

“I’ll get these washed up. They’ll be in your tent in the morning.”

Oh, well that was rather kind of him. John at the camp wouldn’t even get him a bowl of stew if Arthur asked politely.

“Boadicea is lookin’ dirty too. You’re gonna wanna brush her.”

His poor horse also got caught up in the raccoon fight when they were trying to escape, rushing through bushes and dust instead of their trail. “Yup, I’ll do that in the morning.”

“Oh Miss Joanna,” The desk clerk knocked on their door, but did not open it. “Mr. Waldorf is asking for you.”

John’s shoulders slumped, back pressing at the wall when he sighed out, “I will be right out.”

Arthur eyed the door. “Whose Mr. Waldorf?”

“My regular.” John said. “Uh, he comes in for a bath among…other things.”

The pink blush on his face said enough to know what John was expected to do tonight.

And something about that burned in Arthur’s chest.

The comments John had growing up, a lovely face with high cheekbones and long hair, had all the wrong men coming onto him. Arthur was always the first to step between anyone who wanted to touch him, and when John grew stronger, had no problem defending himself.

Still, as an adult, abiet it a stupid one, John could make his decisions himself. If he wanted to get sweet with men to help the camp, so be it.

Yet…

Arthur did not want another man touching him.

“How much?”

“Huh?”

“How much, for a night with you.”

If John’s face was pink before, it was as red as a tomato now.

“Y-ou–wha–why do you care?!”

“How. Much.”

“Arthur, just get out before I throw your nice clothes into the bath!”

When Marston was stunned, it was easier to swipe things from him, so Arthur just pulled his clothes from John’s hands and quickly put on his pants. He walked past him and towards the clerk, uncaring that his feet were tracking wet footprints.

“How much for Miss Joanna?”

The clerk pushed up his glasses, confused at the request. “Miss Joanna is already scheduled–”

If he recalled, Abigail said she used to charge thirty in the city. Karen and Tilly said they offer five to ten in small towns like these, but usually come back with more considering they also rob the men before they can even touch them.

So he pulled out ten, which was enough for the clerk to shut up. It worked, as the clerk looked at his profit and handed over a key. “Room 2b is available now.”

Arthur turned back to the bath hallway, smirking at John’s stunned opened mouth. He jingled the keys and walked up to his room, knowing in just a few minutes John would be bursting through the doors, angrily sputtering nonsense about his job and not needing protection as he always did whenever Arthur involved himself in his business.

Arthur laid on the freshly made bed, noting it was big enough for two, hands behind his head and resting on the pillow, whistling softly to himself as the door slammed open.

“Morgan you goddamn bastard!”

“Miss Joanna,” Arthur smiled. “A lady shouldn’t be shoutin’, you could wake everyone up.”

John closed the door behind him, throwing Arthur’s dirty clothes onto the floor. Guess he won’t be getting those washed up anytime soon.

“Why, why are you still foolin’ around with me?” John asked through seething teeth. “You got your bath and a good laugh. Just let me work.”

Arthur kept this gaze tight on John. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“You’re smiling, you’re halfway there.”

“But I’m not.” Arthur said simply. “Even the gals don’t sleep with men anymore for money. Why are you?”

John gestures around him. “Contribute to the group, that’s what Dutch said, didn't he? Well I ain’t doing much sitting and moping all day, having Micah tell me what deadweight I am, Javier bragging about the loot he got. Hell, you and Charles are keeping us fed with all the animals yous been huntin.” John took a moment to breathe, hands on his hips as he paced around the room. “I’m useless.”

The smile on Arthur’s face left. He sat up on the bed, moving his body so that his feet were on the floor. “John, you were in the mountains starving for two days, attacked by wolves. You couldn’t even walk.”

“I’m walkin’ now, aren’t I?”

“It’s okay to rest. You ain’t useless.”

John clicked his tongue. “Tell that to Micah.”

“Micah should have been left in the mountains to die.” Arthur said without hesitation. “Come here.”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t gotta hug me. I ain’t twelve anymore.”

“Clearly.” Arthur said, patting his lap.

At least John’s face was back to red from embarrassment rather than anger. After a second of contemplating he did, walking over so that he was standing between Arthur’s legs.

Arthur reached out to touch his hand. He rubbed soft circles around his knuckles before taking it to his lips, and kissed him.

“Arthur…stop playin– Art!”

In a swift move, Arthur brought John down so that he was seated in his lap, skirt hanging over and covering both their legs. John’s waist was so small in the corset that was beautifully embroidered with flowers.

“Lemme take care of you Johnny.” Arthur soothed, letting his other hand rundown John’s back. The texture of the lace ribbon and metal boning danced on his fingertips. The knot at the bottom was tight enough to keep the piece altogether, but with the perfect tug, he could release John from his confines.

“”M not a kid.” John said suddenly. “Treat me like a man.”

“No.” Arthur said. He took the end of the ribbon and pulled the knot loose. But he didn’t let it slip off his body. Instead Arthur flipped them over, John with his back on the bed while Arthur kneeled between his legs. He hiked up the skirt to John’s waist, hands scrambling to pull down the bloomers and toss them aside.

“Tonight, I’m treatin’ you like a lady.”

He spread John’s legs apart, revealing his half-hard erection underneath all the pretty soft fabric. He began by kissing his inner thighs, noticing that he smelled almost floral. He sunk his teeth into the skin, using his tongue to lick the light wound right after and asked, “Did you clean yourself?”

Arthur couldn’t see John’s face, imagining he must be so flustered. With a shaky breath John replied, “Yeah, we’re all supposed–”

Arthur darted his tongue into his hole, leaving the younger man choking on his own words. Not only did John clean, but he prepared himself in advance, already stretched and lubricated. He supposed John couldn’t get wet as naturally as a woman, but that was okay, that gave Arthur more time to enjoy his body.

“A-Arthur! You don’t hafta–ah..”

John’s hand found Arthur’s hair, pulling at his strands to try and pull him off, but Arthur wouldn’t allow it. He doubted John’s customers ever treated him right, only using him for their pleasure and leaving him nothing else. It was time for John to feel the pleasure of a tongue inside him, fingering for his own lust. A cock that would draw out real screams.

He heard the younger sigh, keeping Arthur’s head in place and squeezed his thighs together. Arthur smiled to himself. John was finally allowing himself to actually feel good, and he was not holding back his sounds.

Unless they were yelling, the walls in this hotel were actually thick enough to mask conversations. The breathy moans and pants from John were just for Arthur to hear, and he took pride knowing he’s able to get these sounds out of him.

Arthur threw one of John’s legs over his shoulder to get a deeper angle. It caused another low whine, John withering in the bed to try and ride Arthur’s face. His cock was leaking now with some of his seed staining the inside of the dress. Arthur took his cock in hand, squeezing the base to stop him from coming so soon.

His own pants tightened at John’s voice, but Arthur ignored it so he could stretch his partner out.

He pulled his tongue out to kiss his thighs and legs, with one finger gently circling John’s puckered hole. “I’m putting one in.”

“Dammit Arthur, just–hng,”

“Impatient.”

John mouthed something that sounded like a “Fuck you”, but his words jumbled into a moan. Of all ways to finally shut John Marston up, it’d be something in his ass.

He started scissoring him with two, knowing John could take it with how slick he already was, and the younger man continued to sing pretty.

With a third to get him out thoroughly, John dug his heels into Arthur’s shoulders. “Arthur– please .”

Arthur kissed the head of his cock. “Never heard you beg like that.”

“ Arthur .”

If they were outside, with no walls or other people to consider, he’d have John begging until the birds in the sky could hear him. For now, John was all for him, in this room, in his lovely dress.

John scooted up the bed, resting between the two pillows. Arthur shoved down his pants, revealing his very hard erection. John’s eyes went down, and he swallowed nervously.

“This is for you, Johnny.” Arthur said, taking his cock and stroking himself. He leaned down, hips between John’s legs and hand tangling in John’s hair. “You made me hard. See what you’ve done?”

“J-just a bath…” John shied away from Arthur’s eyes, but in doing so he leaned into his touch.

“No, more than the bath. You’re beautiful John.”

Kissing his forehead, Arthur aligned himself with John’s opening and slowly sunk himself in. John gasped at the new stretch, and he grabbed Arthur by his shoulders, holding on as the man buried himself deep in him.

Between John’s teary eyes, the corset that just hung off his body, and the skirt now hiked up to his hips, he was a gorgeous sight, and for Arthur’s eyes only. If John would allow him, he’d photograph him with the camera in his bag. Maybe he’ll draw him out from memory, a reminder of this intimate and secret moment.

“Arthur,” John whispered. “Are you going to–”

“Thought I’d be gentle with you, miss.”

He could stay buried inside John forever. He was so warm , and fit him perfectly.

John rolled his eyes, but finally turned to Arthur to give him a proper kiss on the lips. “Fuck me, cowboy.”

Who was Arthur to deny a request like that?

He smashed their lips together, moving his hips in quick succession and thrusted in and out of his body just like he asked. The bed squeaked under them, headboard hitting the wall and Arthur was so glad this was the room at the end of the hall.

John’s moans were swallowed by Arthur, but what he would give to hear him out loud. John wrapped his legs around Arthur, trying to keep him in place as Arthur built his own pleasure with his body.

John’s neglected cock bounced between them. With his thumb, he rubbed at the tip, smearing his precum all over. That alone was enough to make John throw his head back, and covering his mouth, came between their bodies.

He tightened up after that, and Arthur hid his face in his shoulder. “John, fuck , I’m close. Where–”

“Inside.” John said, meeting Arthur’s movements. “Come inside me, Arthur.”

It didn’t take long for Arthur to follow, with one last hard thrust he buried himself deep, and filled John.

They came down from their high through lazy and breathless kisses. Arthur started on his lips, and when John grew tired, slumping into the bed, Arthur kissed his forehead, his cheek with his scars, and to his collarbone, wishing he could leave a mark if not for the fact John wore open necked shirts.

The night air of Valentine cooled their sweat and fluids, something that John quickly grew uncomfortable as his own spend was on his skirt and thighs. Arthur had not pulled out, but he could feel him leaking .

“Off,” John said after a moment. “Ugh, I think I need a bath.”

“Need some assistance?” Arthur asked shamelessly, and John lightly hit his arm.

“Ass. Just…wash cloth? There should be one by the drawer.

And that there was, as well as a set of clean sheets. For a small town hotel, they were ready for this type of clean up.

He wiped John’s body thoroughly, kissing every part of his skin until he was cleaned of the sweat and fluids. His lower half, however, Arthur watched in full arousal as his seed leaked out of him, dripping down to his thighs. Without warning he hitched John’s leg over his shoulder again, licking the rest of him clean.

John whimpered, holding in his moans as Arthur’s mouth got closer to his hole. He wasn’t hard yet so fast, but his cute cock was trying. It made Arthur smile.

When he was done teasing John, Arthur finally stood to take a nice look at his debauched and thoroughly fucked body. John was still breathing hard, face flushed and long legs spread out, ready for him again if Arthur pleased.

John looked absolutely stunning.

He joined him back on the bed, pulling John to his chest to kiss his forehead. The fireplace crackled as the logs broke under the heat, and the Valentine night noises filled the otherwise silent room, that was until a man two doors down groaned in pain.

Arthur shot up immediately, looking for his pistol when John tapped his chest to have him rest. “Ignore him, some poor fella with a stomach problem.”

“Oh.”

Under his chin, John’s hair smelled floral. He always called him a pile of grease because he just looked so oily, but running his hands through it, Arthur found his hair was very soft.

“So, how the hell is this going to work?” John asked after a while.

“What d’ya mean?”

“You just paid me and that money’s going back to the gang. Kinda weird when you can just put it in the box yourself.”

Arthur pulled John closer. “That money is yours with however you want it. I can contribute another way.”

John shrugged. “I don’t know, doesn’t feel right to take your money.”

“But it was okay to take my hat, my clothes, my saddle? ”

“I was fifteen!”

Arthur laughed. “John, I mean it. Do what you want with the money. Just stop doing this for other men.”

He could feel John tense. “How am I supposed to contribute–”

“Start by doing chores around the camp. Clean the horses, I don’t know. Nothing that would hurt you.” Arthur said. “I know you wanna be out here but…”

Arthur rolled them over, John now on his back so Arthur could look at him. As gently as he could, Arthur cupped John’s scarred cheek. “Take it easy. I’m not losing you again because you went off and got attacked.”

“They were just wolves.” John reminded him, leaning into his touch. “Better than O'Driscolls.”

They knew what the O’Driscolls were capable of. Arthur didn’t like that thought either.

Arthur laid next to John.“ Just…be there when I return to camp.”

The room grew quiet, just the sounds of the fireplace and the crickets from the outside. Then, in a small but earnest voice, John said. “Okay.” As he snuggled closer to Arthur.

Satisfied, Arthur stroked through John’s hair until he fell asleep, and soon enough Arthur did the same, holding the man like he was the most precious thing on earth. Because John Marston really was.

Arthur awoke to the roosters. Groaning, he covered his ears with a pillow and turned over, expecting to meet with another body only to find himself alone. He sighed, remembering that John probably snuck out earlier to make it back to camp, but it still disappointed him no less to wake up alone.

The room looked as if only one occupant stayed. The dirty clothes and wash cloth were gone. On top of his clean clothes, folded, was a note, definitely left by John based on his chicken scratch handwriting.

Saw some O’Driscolls hanging outside the hotel. Be careful on your way back. They was wearing some shiny new belts.

Arthur smiled, tucking the note away in his journal as he got ready for the day.

Picking off the O’Driscolls was easy, leading them far enough from town to take them out and steal any valuables on them. His luck turned around right after when a herd of deer trotted by, and Arthur managed to kill one cleanly and take the carcass back to the camp.

It was noon by the time he returned, valuables for the camp box and meat for Pearson’s stew.

Heading over to the girl’s wagon to pick up the coffee sacks for Pearson, Arthur saw John with a bucket between his legs, scrubbing away at some clothes. Despite working, he looked well rested, his first night with proper sleep.

The girls were folding the dry clothes and sewing ripped fabric. When Arthur said hello, the girls welcomed him back, while John grumbled.

“Get all them stains out, Marston.” Arthur teased.

“Fuck off.”

There were no heat in his words, judging by the way Tilly and Mary-Beth giggled.

“At least one of yous is helping us.” Karen said aloud, eyes glaring daggers at Sean sleeping by a rock.

“Don’t strain yourself too much ladies, Marston.” Arthur said, taking the sack over his shoulder.

“Arthur.” John called out, eyes still on the washboard. “I left your clothes hanging by your tent.”

Arthur took a quick glance over at his side of camp, seeing his clothes from the night before freshly washed and hanging to dry on a clothesline, just as John said. When he looked back, he noticed a faint blush on his face.

“Thanks. Can you come by later? My blanket ripped, I need help sewing it.”

The blush on his face deepened, but John just replied. “Sure.”

“John! I didn’t know you can sew.” Mary-Beth said, surprised.

“Me neither…” Was what John mumbled.

“Hey Marston, can you wash my long johns?”

“Do it yourself Williamson!”

“You do Arthur’s but not mine?!”

Arthur laughed, finally separating himself from them to give Pearson his sack. The rest of their afternoon would be filled with finishing chores, then sitting around the campfire listening to Javier sing or Uncle’s dubious escapades.

But in the night, John would be back in his tent, the man in his arms. Arthur just got a taste in Valentine, and he wasn’t going to stop just because John wasn’t in a skirt.

He wondered if he paid Karen or Mary-Beth, if they’d let Arthur keep one of their skirts.

[enkisstories]

Oh, Daniel...

So far Connor and Gavin had taken naps, drank coffee and helped themselves to leftovers in the Spilph residence. But I knew they'd get hit with the "you mustn't do that here, yadda, yadda" sooner or later. It happened when Connor was about to take a shower.

Daniel closed in, yelled "We don't tolerate that here, Sir!" and dragged the naked (and probably covered in soap) Connor out of the shower stall. That was basically an invitation to get force-lightning'ed... only in his smelly state Connor's spell fizzled.

John: "What's going on here?"

Daniel: "You tell me! This knight here generated black smoke with his hands and when he was done smoking, he electrocuted himself. I don't get it, but who are we to question a Knight of Ren?"

John: "So he had a smoke without a smokestick... How fancy! Did anything happen that made this man nervous to the point of needing to calm himself down?"

Daniel: "No, nothing I can think of. Maybe something happened before I tossed him out of the bathroom?"

John: "You did WHAT?!"

At this point Connor had the opportunity to "Thank host for hospitality". What hospitality, game? We just got grounded from your bathroom, what's next? Sleeping on the floor?

Connor: "You! VERMIN! Who are you?"

John: "That's my household slave, Sire. His name is Dan..."

Connor: "I'm not interested in his name. He's coming outside with me now. I need some elbow room for his punishment."

John: "Lord Connor, please, I beg of you! Don't kill Dan... this man!"

Daniel: “Yes, please! Please don’t do anything that would make John and Caroline sad!”

[pinkargylesweater]

Ok the app doesn’t seem to let me put my opinions under a read more.

So with that in mind:

LESGOOO

This is actually like how the actual queens funeral was.

Poor Ike. It’s heartbreaking when he cries even when it’s over something stupid.

SIR SMELLY JOHN

Poor Kyle I know that feeling when I can’t show up for something and I miss out, but I thought they had their own computers. I guess they needed to change that for the plot.

The idea that Canada is just a fart and queef country 😂

I love “Meghan’s” accent.

Haha “waaagh”.

The irony that the real H&M left the UK to escape criticism and now one of the most popular US shows is mocking them.

Also I used to love magical mystery tour movie as a kid.

I love those new shots of the town. Animation has really evolved.

Cartmans old house, naturally.

I wish I could tell Kyle that In a few years, he won’t gaf what people think of him.

I do get sad when they ditch him at the table

This is Matt complaining 100%.

Haha blue penis.

I bought the book because I was hoping for some tea on the royal family but he just talked about his penis. I got bored and stopped reading half way through.

What song is this when Kyle is walking through the school after being rebranded is that Katy Perry?

Haha yes Bebe. Queen.

Some good Andrew Tate shade.

And yessss my boy making a speech.

I love this boy.

They came back for him because they love him no matter what.

Aww that was nice and sweet. An episode where Kyle deals with conflict but it is resolved.

Very good episode again. Agree with the commentary about this being good character development for him. I doubt I will see this much Kyle throughout the rest of the season. Two eps in a row was already too good to be true.

Also liked the M&H commentary but I will talk about that more in another post.

[thenewdeadseascrolls]

Judges 14: 10-14. "The Tinsmith."

Advancing our discussion of the evolution that takes place when Samson "the bringer of light" is planted within a Jewish boy's body and Jewish biology begins to take effect. As we know this involves transition between the natures of the bull, the sheep, the goat, ram, and dove, with the occasional smelly ox mixed in for the health of the lawn.

As with the Torah itself, the human lifespan must be visualized up until its end point in order for the beginning to hold water. The God and gods of Israel state the ends of the religion of Judaism is something called Shabbat.

Other faiths call Shabbat "liberation", "samadhi", "Nirvana", "satori", Muslims call it Medina. Except this does not explain what an adolescent should do or how he should feel and from the soles of his ruddy footsteps emerges the path of an adult, so in some way he must know what Shabbat is in order to know how to dream of it and aim himself correctly.

The entirety of Islam, the younger sibling of Judaism, which direction one turns in life is of the essence. Islam itself is a "the Path for the Rightly Guided." We know it terminates in a refuge that protects all of mankind from greed, corruption, violence, starvation, and disaster.

In Judaism it is not so well defined. Jesus defined it the Gospels exhaustively. His explanation of it is simple and lovely:

From John 4:

19 “Sir,” the woman said, “I can see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.” 21 “Woman,” Jesus replied, “believe me, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. 24 God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.”

SO God and Jesus are depending on the discovery of the Spirit of Jewish Truth and we know from the Talmud and the Shoftim this is a process that culminates one Jew at a time all at once.

Every Jew on the planet needs to be studying the Torah and the Mishnah in order to understand how to unzip it and zip it together again. Humanity will not follow an inexperienced inept Jewish community for any reason. It will follow it as the Christ said if it possesses truth and that truth makes them feel less at odds with history than it ever has.

The Shoftim continues with a discussion of thirty garments for thirty men. Thirty is the age immaturity in men ends and then, somehow it happens all over again as a man becomes afraid of the proximity of the end of his life. Then the acting out starts all over again. Age thirty is the age of "hurry up and wait."

In Hebrew it means "hurry up and make life count." Samson tells his friends a riddle that takes three days to solve. By the Third Day all the animal instincts except the one to reproduce should be gone. Once desire in the pants begins to surge there is no going back. Surpassing Day Three in a man's body with a man's mind is critical for the survival and success of the human race. Which we are obviously not interested in.

We have started a Third World War, there is violence, corruption, mayhem, ruin, and disaster all around this world, so we are all back at the beginning, at Day Zero. God is fighting for His life against the blackness of oblivion alongside us, trying to reach us and gain our allegiance against it.

The Torah says the difference between oblivion and the Eternal is the belief God can teach us what is right and what is wrong. That it is possible to separate the two and live in an ethical way. Day Two is rules based, Day Three is freedom from the consequences of rules, Day Four is the beginning of the Sentient Self, a human being that knows right from wrong, respects others and the law and has deemed himself ready for life's most meaningful experiences. The higher on the spectrum one goes, the more ethereal the outcome.

Finally on Day Six, God and man part ways, like a high school graduation and householding with a nice beau honey in a nice place with other nice people follows that.

But first, we all humanity must forsake corruption and violence. This includes all the adultery, the cheating, lying, the fake news, all the men who make claims. If the claims are not valid, mankind has the right to ask for payment on its investments and put them in prison or to death.

The Father is Abraham, the conscience, and this comes from faith. The woman is the community which is defined by rule of law. The Bringer of Light as their offspring illuminates the importance of both.

10 Now his father went down to see the woman. And there Samson held a feast, as was customary for young men. 11 When the people saw him, they chose thirty men to be his companions.

12 “Let me tell you a riddle,” Samson said to them. “If you can give me the answer within the seven days of the feast, I will give you thirty linen garments and thirty sets of clothes.

 13 If you can’t tell me the answer, you must give me thirty linen garments and thirty sets of clothes.”

“Tell us your riddle,” they said. “Let’s hear it.”

14 He replied,

“Out of the eater, something to eat;     out of the strong, something sweet.”

For three days they could not give the answer.

Linen is a luxury fabric. It is very difficult to grow and turn into garments and bacteria love it, so it wears out. Linen is likened unto the human body in the prime of life. It can only be worn tastefully for so long.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 10-11: Samson held a feast. No young man thinks he is going to own a big honker, grow a hairy chest, develop and muscles and feel so helpless because of it. No one can explain what to do about this. Persons who demonstrate ease with their equipment are quite enviable, so what is their secret?

The Value in Gematria is 12830, יבחגאֶפֶס‎, "Will stumble."

In the only mention of stumbling in the Torah, Yah becomes quite a cunt about men who do not do as He asked.

From Betukochai:

21 “‘If you remain hostile toward me and refuse to listen to me, I will multiply your afflictions seven times over, as your sins deserve. 22 I will send wild animals against you, and they will rob you of your children, destroy your cattle and make you so few in number that your roads will be deserted. 23 “‘If in spite of these things you do not accept my correction but continue to be hostile toward me, 24 I myself will be hostile toward you and will afflict you for your sins seven times over. 25 And I will bring the sword on you to avenge the breaking of the covenant. When you withdraw into your cities, I will send a plague among you, and you will be given into enemy hands. 26 When I cut off your supply of bread, ten women will be able to bake your bread in one oven, and they will dole out the bread by weight. You will eat, but you will not be satisfied. 27 “‘If in spite of this you still do not listen to me but continue to be hostile toward me, 28 then in my anger I will be hostile toward you, and I myself will punish you for your sins seven times over. 29 You will eat the flesh of your sons and the flesh of your daughters. 30 I will destroy your high places, cut down your incense altars and pile your dead bodies[b] on the lifeless forms of your idols, and I will abhor you. 31 I will turn your cities into ruins and lay waste your sanctuaries, and I will take no delight in the pleasing aroma of your offerings. 32 I myself will lay waste the land, so that your enemies who live there will be appalled. 33 I will scatter you among the nations and will draw out my sword and pursue you. Your land will be laid waste, and your cities will lie in ruins. 34 Then the land will enjoy its sabbath years all the time that it lies desolate and you are in the country of your enemies; then the land will rest and enjoy its sabbaths. 35 All the time that it lies desolate, the land will have the rest it did not have during the sabbaths you lived in it. 36 “‘As for those of you who are left, I will make their hearts so fearful in the lands of their enemies that the sound of a windblown leaf will put them to flight. They will run as though fleeing from the sword, and they will fall, even though no one is pursuing them. 37 They will stumble over one another as though fleeing from the sword, even though no one is pursuing them. So you will not be able to stand before your enemies. 38 You will perish among the nations; the land of your enemies will devour you. 39 Those of you who are left will waste away in the lands of their enemies because of their sins; also because of their ancestors’ sins they will waste away.

As one ages, one's sins must become fewer in number and one's virtues must multiply. Among the virtuous are those who know how to enjoy getting laid, it doesn't matter how you enjoy it so long as there is no sin.

v. 12: Let me tell you a riddle. To Riddle is to be high but not to be arrogant. The metaphor comes from the Jewish ideas about the pomegranate. An Ace Pomegranate of the Fountain has a brain that is positively packed with kernels of wisdom and experience. If he be of the kind of an asshole, then we consider the fruit to be riddled, as in riddled with maggots.

The Value in Gematria is 12207, יב‎באֶפֶסז‎, "the Twelve will take you from zero to Ephesus."

The Ephod which contains all the noble skills of a grown up are the way to solve the Riddle.

v. 13: “Tell us your riddle,” they said. “Let’s hear it.” The Value in Gematria is 8889, ףחחט‎ , fahhat, "the tinsmith." A Jewish man does not need anything but his skin.

Tin although smithed by God is 149, עדת, is also the prey or the booty of the other. A man is vulnerable to the ones he hates and the ones he loves all his life.

In addition, the Rab says while tin is acceptable, the Law says a man must, in the best of times must make himself out of gold. Gold is malleable, he can still be himself, except doing so will not be cheap.

If one purchases a tin man one will not likely find oneself in possession of one made of gold, not even after long and long. So the answer to the Riddle has to do with what a man makes of himself.

v. 14: He replied. The Value in Gematria is 7585, ז‎החה‎ , "This is it." Unless this process of goldsmithing is learned, Three Days are all we get.

[issdisgrace]

GOOD BOY

WARNINGS: Smut, sir kink, pup play, scent kink, praise, multiple orgasms, cum drinking, some other stuff I'm too lazy to add

A/N: I love this so much and I thank myself for being unbelievably horny while I wrote this because this turned out really good.

It had been a hard couple of days, so I made my way to my husband’s office and gently knocked. I waited until I heard him say come in. When I heard that, I opened the door and went in, closing the door behind me. 

“What do you need?” His eyes were still on his paperwork, not paying attention.

“I want to be nestled between those thighs of yours, my head shoved into your bush and maybe permission to jerk off while I’m at it.” John’s head perked up, and he stared at me.

“Ok pup. I let you do all of it, but you’re gonna have to jerk off into a cup because I don’t want any of it on the rug. I just got it done.”

“Deal.”

“Come here, pup.” He says and motions me over as he pushes out his chair. I do as I’m told and I go over to him. Once in his grasp, I melt right there in front of him. He gives me a warm smile that definitely isn’t helping my thoughts or boner.

“Can I take my clothes off, sir?”

“Yes, I want you naked and while you do that, I’ll get you a cup.” I strip quickly, almost falling over, but I saved myself before I did. Once stripped and I wait for the next order.

I watch curiously as John gets a whisky glass and a nice one at that. He comes back, gives it to me, and pulls down his trousers and boxers. He then sits in his chair and spreads his legs. 

“Alright pup you’re gonna come sniff daddy’s bush and while your doing that I’m gonna finish up my paperwork and by the time I’m done I want that cup full and if it isn’t, then you’ll just have to continue jerking that cute little cock of yours until it’s full.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, and for some extra motivation, I have Gaz coming here in 25 minutes for a briefing.”

“Alright sir.”

I get down on my knees and I stuff my face into his bush. I take a deep breath inhaling all of his musk. Fuck, he smelt so fucking good. If I wasn’t hard already, I would surely be now. As I take his lovely scent in, I jerk myself off at a medium pace. My orgasm is already in the distance. I couldn’t help myself and I sped up my paste. As I continue sniffing and licking Price. He was like my safe place, my heaven on earth. God, did I love him. I could stay like this for days if I was given the chance. I get a little giddy as John pushes my head flush against him. 

“You’re such a good pup. Sniffing me like the good pup you are. Yeah, you’re such a good pup.”

I whimper at his words and fall over the edge, dumping my big load into the cup. 

“Aww, did my puppy just cum from daddy praising him?” I whimper a yes in response.  

“Alright pup come I think it’s time you come up here and sniff daddy’s pits.”

“Ok.” I got up from my spot and sat on Price’s lap. He gives me the go ahead and I take off his shirt. I smile at him before I push my face into his big, hairy pit. I sigh as I take him in. He must’ve gone on a run or something because he was really nice and smelly. His scent was so intoxicating, and that’s why I love finding myself in these situations. “Puppy, you’re going to have to hurry because Gaz is coming in 5 minutes.”

“Ok, daddy.” I stick my face deeper into his pit and start to hump Price. I just couldn’t help it anymore.  

“Aww, pup is so horny that he’s humping his daddy.” I nod yes before I say,

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please jerk me off, daddy.” Price swiftly changes our position so my back is to his chest. He forces me to watch as he jerks me off. When I get to my breaking point, Price teases me and slows down and speeds up quickly, messing with my orgasm a little. But ultimately I cum into the cup. At this point, half of the glass is full. 

“Alright pup, I got to get fixed up, but you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay under the desk while I talk to Gaz.”

“What if he suspects me?”

“I’ll deal with it if that happens. Oh, and you’re going to fill the rest of that cup up.”

“What if he hears me?”

“Well then, you just got to be quiet.”

“Ok daddy.” 

“Good pup.” I got under the desk and spread myself out so Price would be facing directly at me so he could see what I was doing. I watched and jerk myself off to the sight of Price getting himself fixed up. Just as Price sat down, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in.” Gaz comes in and sits down and they begin to chat. The thrill of everything made me reach my climax within seconds. I put my hand over my mouth as I cum into the cup once against. 

I take a deep breath and let myself come down fully. Price brings his chair in more and places his boot on my cock. The action itself got me hard again. I began to hump upwards to meet his boot more. I didn’t know I was into this before now and god was I happy to find this out about myself. Before I cum, I manage to push Price’s boot off me and cum into the cup, filling it up. I was floating on air, and it was one of the best feelings in the world. Soon the meet was over and Gaz left. Price pushed his chair away from the desk and looked down at me.

“You fill it.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hand him the glass, and he inspects it. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He took the glass to his lips, then threw back the whole thing like it was nothing. The sight was something else. It spawned so many dirty thoughts, but the only thing I was able to get out was.

“Fuck, that was hot.”

“Hmm, you taste good. Maybe I’ll have to milk you more often.”

“Please do.”

[thedemonconstantine]

thecursedhellblazer​:

“I dun bloody cares if I gots worse. It’s th’ bloody principle, lad,” John grumbled, pocketing the dirty handkerchief and shooting another long, venomous look at Yoyo.

That was all he said on the subject, however, because the large, loud crowd they found in the lobby of the building stole away his attention. His face slacked into a stunned expression before hardening in another frown.

“…Yeh gots to be kiddin’ me.”

That whole trip was starting to feel like one big joke played at his expenses, from all the walking and the stairs climbing down to the endless wait ahead of them.

“Bollocks! No way in bloody ‘Ell,” and wasn’t that ironic?, “I’m fuckin’ waitin’ in line wit’ dis riffraff.”

There were no seats available, of course, and inside the actual waiting area the air was heavy and stiff. The stench of rotten flesh, blood, stomach acid and piss was stronger than it had been in the open lands of Pandemonium. It was almost revolting, even for someone who was used to breathe in big whiffs of the Pit’s very distinctive fragrance.

With a growl, John marched through the crowd and made his way towards the closest counter.

One the way, he tripped in a few hoofs, got his coat caught on a few claws, accidentally knocked over a short horned demon, who, of course, erupted in a stream of expletives, and stepped in a pool of piss, splashing the imp who was standing nearby with it.

Useless to say, by the time he had made it to his destination, he had pissed off every single demon he had passed.

And the crowd just got more irritated when he grabbed the scaled, four-legs creature who had been rummaging around several papers, desperately trying to the the additional ones they hadn’t been told to bring. 

A shove and the already miserable demon landed on the floor with an angry hiss, all his scrolls scattered around.

“Oi, listen up, yeh tosser,” John started, leaning forward as much as the glass that separated him from the bored clerk allowed him too. “We gots a bloody appointment n’ I ain’t waitin’ a bloody decade in line to gots me business done. So jus’ tell me where to find Dahak n’ we can all get on wit’ our day.”

“Sir, you have to wait in line or you will be removed from the premise,” the lemur recited, in the same blank tone of the one that had made the announcement. “Please, go stand in a free spot and avoid making a scene.”

The magician opened his to protest more, but a growl stopped him before he could say another syllable. He turned his head to see a pair of bull-like demons, mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth, slowly approaching. One of them still had the paw of the latest disrupted hanging from the corner of his mouth.

Thus John was left no choice if not backing off and returning to Tim and Yoyo.

“…Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell.” He ran a hand over his face. “Alrite, lad. I guess we’re cuttin’ th’ fuckin’ line n’ sneakin’ in from th’ back. I gots a bloody proposal to make n’ I wants to get it out dis year.”

“You do know that they’d really toss you out and then you’d have to come back in again to take another queue number. That’s part of the gag,” Tim said the obvious just to get it out of the way. He pried Yoyo off his shoulder to fit the owl into the front of his hoodie. The cosier the bird got, the less irate it would be at John.

Smelly Smoke Man die... Timmy warm and cosy Timmy. Cosy and warm Timmy...

“Yes, Yoyo, now be good and stay there whilst we figure out how to move this along. Why actually...” “S67003426B to Counter 5,” Said the speaker overhead.

A simple prestidigitation spell should do the trick. Tim swapped their ticket with the one demon who was making his way towards Counter 5, took John’s arm and dragged the man along.

“Ahem,” Said Tim who waved the swapped ticket at the imp seated at Counter 5, having cut in front of the demon. The poor creature blinked and squinted at the ticket in his claws and groaned, threw both hands in the air and shuffled back to wait with the rest.

“I believe it’s our turn to be escorted to Dahak’s offices?” 

“State your name and business,” The imp leered over his scrolls and books and tried his very best to look important.

“I’ll have to announce you, you know.”

[cabezadeperro]

so uh if you're still doing the ask thing? Can't post links, so... "Karborn aka John Karborn aka John Leigh (English-Belgian, b. 1985, based London, England) - Evidence of Time Travel, Digital Art" or "meet cute: it’s raining and I see your battered bleeding body lying in the mud and I kick it slightly to see if you’re dead" with Echo in basically any configuration, I'll ship that dude with a particularly cuddly rock if Rex isn't available >>

hello! i went with the second prompt and rex/echo! i hope you like it <3

kind of canon compliant, clone wars era, 629w

Rex can hear the commander cackling somewhere over his head, her laughter young and free and breathless. He blinks upwards at the cloudy sky, and watches the heavy storm clouds roll onwards to the west.

It’s raining—it’s been raining for days, a nonstop, overwhelming downpour that started out as an annoyance and is now an actual problem, that gets inside their tents and makes the roads and the trenches they’ve dug out around them impossible to navigate.

The ground’s turned into slippery, smelly, thick mud, and the commander told him to be careful, and Rex—Rex was busy, and the commander’s the size of an ordinance shell, and he told her that he knew what he was doing.

Everything hurts. Rex’s been awake and on the job for three days; Rex’s also helmetless until he can find what he needs to fix his bucket, and that means the rain hits him in the face, that the liquid muck he’s lying on has found a way inside his black, inside his armour.

Rex closes his eyes. He can hear his men working and walking and talking among themselves all around him—and the commander, still laughing but softer and closer. She must have jumped from up the cliff, and she’ll be coming closer to him, gleeful and young and so pale.

No one’s asked Rex, and he wouldn’t say so even if someone did, but he knows—he believes—that the front’s no place for Commander Tano.

Even if she’s good with her ‘sabers, even if sometimes it seems like she’s thriving and learning and outpacing them all despite her lack of experience and what’s left of her innocence.

“Sir?”

That’s not the commander.

Rex opens his eyes. Echo, one of the kids he and Cody met in Rishi. He’s looking at Rex upside down, bucket tilted, half-leaning on his rifle. His armour isn’t so shiny anymore—there’s paint now, and the paint’s scratched and scuffed. One of his greaves is cracked, and he’s missing a patch of his blacks close to his right armpit, the skin underneath red and raw-looking.

Shab. Rex scowls: he can feel his ears turning red. Echo’s patient silence is perfectly polite and also full of shit.

“Would you like a hand, captain?”

Rex would like the day to end. He accepts Echo’s hand anyway, and ignores the commander, who’s peering up at him from under the hood of her robe, still snickering.

There’s very little of the terrified kid Rex took from Rishi in the trooper in front of him. He takes Rex’s weight without issue, and the way he stares at him through his visor is—mocking. He’s laughing at Rex: it’s all in the way he holds himself, in his quiet deference.

Echo’s changed: he’s grown. Fives has, as well, and Rex has been keeping tabs on both of them, couldn’t help it if he tried, but Echo’s the one who’s surprised him the most.

“Hiya, Echo,” the commander says cheerfully. “How’re things?”

“Ma’am,” Echo replies, all bland politeness. “Fine, thank you.”

The commander grins—her fangs shine in the day’s grey light.

“Did you see Rexter here just fall down?” she asks him, already laughing again. Rex can’t help the sigh.

There’s mud in his fucking asscrack. He really doesn’t have the patience or the time to deal with this. He opens his mouth, about to interrupt, but Echo’s quicker.

“Oh, I think the whole camp did, ma’am,” he tells her, perfectly serious, and Rex doesn’t doubt they did, but Echo was the one to approach him.

Echo’s methodical and careful and deliberate. He never does anything without a reason. Rex cuts a glance at him, curious despite himself: he thought he knew Echo well, but suddenly he feels like he is seeing him for the first time.

[scotianostra]

On June 7th 1811 Sir James Young Simpson, pioneer of anaesthetics and chloroform, born.

I don’t really have to say how much Simpson is regarded in the medical world for his work, and of course by countless women in childbirth.

The story begins in an elegant dining room in Edinburgh, with  obstetrician Sir James Young Simpson running a series of experiments to find inhaled painkillers that would be less smelly and flammable than ether and have fewer side effects. In an unusual twist on the standard gentleman’s routine of after-dinner drinks, Simpson and his assistants, George Keith and Matthew Duncan, gathered on Thursday evenings to sniff different chemical compounds and determine their effects, a logical, if dangerous method of drug testing in an age before clinical trials.

  Simpson did not choose his chemicals randomly; he focused on substances with “a more fragrant or agreeable odour” than ether and on volatile compounds that would evaporate at room temperature, thus becoming absorbed into the bloodstream through the lungs.

On the evening of November 4th it was chloroform’s turn. This organic chlorine-based compound had been synthesized in the 1830s by three men working in different countries: John Guthrie, a physician in upstate New York; French chemist Eugène Soubeiran; and famed German chemist Justus von Liebig.

 Though Guthrie’s “sweet whiskey” had enjoyed a brief vogue as a sipping tonic in his town of Sackets Harbor on Lake Ontario, the clear, heavy liquid seemed to have little practical use. Still, it fitted in with Simpson’s guidelines.

  The three Edinburgh doctors poured out the chloroform, raised their glasses to their noses, and breathed in deeply. A sweet smell filled the air, and the younger physicians became lively and talkative.

“This is far better and stronger than ether,” Simpson thought. The next he knew, he was looking up at the ceiling, with noise and confusion all around. Duncan had collapsed under a chair, snoring loudly, and Keith lay on his back under the table, kicking it violently despite his unconsciousness. After gradually waking up and struggling back into their seats, the doctors were eager to experiment again—though more cautiously this time.

  Other family members watched these remarkable events. After inhaling the chloroform herself, Simpson’s niece-in-law called out, “I’m an angel! Oh, I’m an angel!” before folding her arms and falling asleep at the table. The group continued to sniff the chloroform until it all evaporated.

It must have been some party!

  The experiment was a grand success, and Simpson and his colleagues lost no time in having large supplies of chloroform manufactured to use on their patients. Its use spread rapidly, as it was easy to obtain and administer and less harsh in its effects than ether.

  Simpson wrote extensively in defence of the substance, countering doctors and clergymen who argued that pain was necessary for the body and ordained by the Bible. He delivered one of his pithiest ripostes in an 1848 exchange with “an Irish lady.” She chastised him by saying “how unnatural it is for you doctors in Edinburgh to take away the pains of your patients when in labour.” He responded, “How unnatural … is it for you to have swam over from Ireland to Scotland against wind and tide in a steamboat.” For Simpson and his supporters relieving pain was as great an innovation as steam power. Both inventions seemed to prove 19th-century ideas about boundless technological progress and the perfectibility of humankind.

Nevertheless, objections to anaesthesia—especially when used for women in labour—continued.

  Soon, however, chloroform received an unexpected supporter. Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert requested the compound for the birth of their eighth child, Prince Leopold, in 1853. John Snow administered the drug, using a few drops on a simple handkerchief rather than the inhalers and masks then on the market.

  The queen, who remained conscious throughout the procedure, recorded in her journal that the effect was “soothing, quieting, delightful beyond measure.” She received the drug again in 1857 for the birth of Princess Beatrice, her ninth and last child. When her oldest daughter Princess Victoria had her own first child in 1859, the queen rejoiced, “What a blessing she had chloroform.”

The old photo is the unveiling of his statue at the West End of Princes Street,  Simpson is seated in his academic robes while holding a book on his lap

[iworshipkeanureeves]

Red Circle

John Wick x Reader

Summary: One week after meeting John at a night club Y/N shares a very unexpected first date with him.

Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of shooting.

Words: 2K

Request: by @bvbwestfall​​

The reader first meets john at the red circle ( night club ), it’s her first time in New York and she first time going to a night club and she sees he’s hurt after the shooting and he's walking out and she tries to help him but he doesn't pay attention to her and later they meet and she asks how he is and he's confused and so she tells him that she tried to help him a few days, weeks ago or whatever?

It was her first night in New York, first time leaving her small hometown on her own; she finally felt freed. No one knew her, no one controlled her, Y/N was all by herself, ready to begin her new life.

Surrounded by the flashing lights, Y/N was downing her third cocktail in need of more confidence before hitting the dance floor. All she wanted tonight was to let go and dance until her feet could barely keep her up, to meet new people and just simply enjoy the night.

Grooving to the beat, Y/N was looking around, staring at neon faces and searching for someone she would fancy dancing with. Several men had tried getting with her, all of whom she had to push away grossed out by their overly nasty straightforwardness.

The night was beginning to get really disappointing, and Y/N felt lonelier with every song. Taking a look around, she noticed she had nothing in common with these people, the club began to feel atrocious, in fact. Maybe it was the alcohol wearing off, but the music was like knives piercing through her ears and she suddenly felt short of air.

Y/N was on her way to leave, pushing the crowd out of her way, when her eyes caught a mysterious tall guy leaning against the wall with his hand firmly pressed to his side. Y/N wasn’t sure maybe he had a little too much to drink, or maybe it was the lights messing up with his head, but as soon as she saw his white shirt getting drenched in deep red, she knew the man needed help.

She couldn’t see whether he was in pain. He didn’t seem like he was, but the stain getting more prominent on his shirt was telling else.

The man seemed dangerous and Y/N wasn’t sure if she wanted to get involved. Everyone had been warning her that New York could be vicious and she had to protect herself first. Her kind heart was suggesting otherwise.

When she saw the man moving rather fast, she figured he could be in shock. She thought he was probably disoriented, failing to understand what was going on.

Ignoring the burn in her feet, Y/N ran after, trying to catch the man.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you need help?” She inquired rather boldly, tapping on his shoulder, grabbing his wrist and trying to stall his steps.

The man was much stronger though, dragging Y/N behind him, wondering why she was so persistent and unwilling to let go.

“I’m fine.” Y/N heard a raspy voice, as the stranger stopped and turned around to face her. His words were stoic, but eyes however, seemed full of rage. They were dark, making Y/N feel as if she was staring into abyss; she could find no light escaping them. Those eyes were scary, but captivating too.

She was looking up, trying to read the man’s face, but he seemed stone cold, not a single sign of pain or concern. “Sir, I think we should get you an ambulance. You’re bleeding. Maybe you’re in shock, I don’t know but-“

“I said I’m fine.” He cut Y/N off rather strictly this time, moving her clenched palm away from around his wrist.

“But-“ She stuttered, feeling his hefty hands landing on her shoulders, as he was leaning closer to her.

“You have to leave this place. Now.” He commanded, staring into Y/N’s eyes, trying to make her understand. He was extremely convincing, and all Y/N gave him was a speechless nod before disappearing into the street.

---

Today it is exactly a week after Y/N’s encounter at the Red Circle club. Not a day has passed without her remembering the mysterious man, the one who actually saved her life that night.

Moments after leaving, Y/N heard horrible screams coming from inside the club, and soon the police sirens appeared. She was lucky enough to avoid a dreadful shooting that time, but she ended up with a foolish crush constantly nagging her mind.

For the whole week Y/N has been trying to keep herself busy decorating her new home, attending job interviews and reading books. Most of what she does these days is to steer her mind away from shooting at the club and the man that Y/N can’t forget. She has even taken up exercising, hoping it would help. Nonetheless, whatever she does, wherever she goes, all Y/N can think of is those fatal eyes staring at her and his tight grip lingering on her shoulders.    

Now, like every evening for the past week Y/N is going for a quick jog in the park. It is later than usual for her, but the sun is still up, making her feel secure enough.

She is taking her favorite route today, which covers majority of the park and leads to a pond with swans swimming in pairs. Y/N has already reached her goal and is running home. Her steps are in sync with her favorite beat and she’s pushing herself hard today.

Her gaze casually lands on a man walking his dog, wearing jeans and a white top. She watches him from behind, something about him reminds Y/N of that one she met at the Red Circle club; it’s the hair, maybe his bulky frame.

She wishes it was him, but in no world a man like that would be casually walking his dog in a sunset, Y/N thinks. Still, she is running and she knows she can pass him quickly to take a peek at his face.

Y/N doesn’t want to appear creepy, so she keeps a safe distance as she runs past the man, slightly turning her head to make sure it is not the one from the club.

But it is.

And now, left with this information, Y/N has no idea what to do next.

She knows she’s all sweaty, her face is probably tomato red and her hair is messed up. Nonetheless, here walks a man she couldn’t get out of her head ever since she met him. The man she might never have a chance to meet again; it feels like now or never. Really, what does she have to lose?

“Good evening, sir.” She walks to him, all breathy, and God knows maybe even a little smelly too.

“Evening.” The man politely replies. There’s warmth in his eyes, they are amber now, reflecting the setting sun. But that is the same man. Y/N is sure of that.  

“How is your-?“ She points to his stomach where his wound should be, causing a suspicious frown.

“Who hired you?” The stranger becomes dead serious; his muscles tense, and Y/N feels like the man is ready to fight her any second now.

“What do you mean?” She laughs.

Y/N is a little confused, failing to understand what his question meant. “I’m unemployed. I came to New York only a week ago.” She explains, managing to soften his stern face.

Even a slight shade of blush colors the stranger’s cheeks, as he realizes that Y/N is the girl, who tried to help him on the shooting night. She is not a threat; the man has to remind himself.

“You don’t seem too friendly,” she points out, giving him a teasing smile. Y/N believes the man didn’t mean to be rude with her, but she suspects he must be involved in some dangerous business and these are probably his trust issues that she is dealing with here.

“I’m careful.” The man confirms Y/N’s thoughts. He’s still serious, looking strong and tough, but Y/N finds it cute how he kneels down to praise the dog, taking the tennis ball away from the fangs.  

“Can you at least tell me your name?” Y/N insists, watching the man making another throw.  

“John.” He remains brief with his words.

“John? Doesn’t sound like your real name.” Y/N giggles, teasing him even more. She sees there is a true person hiding inside this rugged frame, and she takes on a challenge to get to him.

“Huh?”

“Too generic for a guy like you,” Y/N continues, adorably chuckling, walking side by side with him.

John doesn’t seem to oppose Y/N following him, but he remains silent. He still communicates, even if he uses no words; Y/N believes she hasn’t seen a frown or an arched brow to have as much expression as his does.

“So you really don’t remember me, huh?” She keeps playfully bothering him. “That’s a little hurtful…”

Suddenly John stops, taking a deep look into Y/N’s eyes. “You really don’t want a guy like me to remember you,” he says, and proceeds to walk faster than her.

“Wow so serious.” She teases again in a mocking tone. “What does it even mean ‘a guy like you’?”

“A guy like me is someone you should stay far away from. You’d be better off this way.” He’s direct and maybe even a little strict, but that doesn’t scare Y/N off. In fact, it only intrigues her more.

Y/N feels sort of strange going after a guy, as she is used to things being other way around, but she can’t resist; she is compelled by him, thinking of ways to entice the man.

“Maybe I should decide that myself? When you ask me on a date.” She chooses a slightly pushy approach, halting their promenade, and making John look at her with an extremely confused gaze.

“I don’t do dates.” He is concise again.

“Just one?” Y/N smirks, causing John to sigh. She sees she can break him, she just needs a little more time.

“I’m a busy man, I don’t have time for dates,” John explains kindly, preparing a leash to take the dog home.

“Okay…” They exchange apologetic smiles, which hold the meaning of a sad goodbye. Slowly, John turns around and begins to walk away

But Y/N can’t give up just yet. She decides to take one last try and starts rushing after them.

“What are you doing?” John smiles; he keeps walking, but his steps slow down.

“I’m squeezing our date into your tight schedule,” Y/N looks at him. She is waiting for any sign of affirmation, and surprisingly John smiles again. Two in a row, what an achievement, she is proud of herself. “I’m Y/N, by the way,” she shakes John’s hand. It’s huge, she notices; and very firm.

“Is it too late for coffee?” John asks.

“Yes, but for hot chocolate, it’s never too late!” Y/N gets excited. She can’t believe this is happening for real.

John hands her the leash and commands the dog to sit. Those puppy eyes are hard to resist, and Y/N kneels to scratch the dog behind the ears. She pets him for a while, while John is taking care of drinks.

“I think he likes me,” Y/N grins, welcoming John holding two cups in his sturdy hands.

“You’re easy to like,” he smirks.

They walk for a while, talking about random things, nothing too much. It’s mostly Y/N speaking, of course. But John is more than glad to listen to her. He enjoys getting to know Y/N, to learn how she has recently moved to New York, her ideas about decorating her new home, what pets she would love to have and galleries she would like to visit in town. 

They wander around, Y/N is happily walking the dog, but the sun is almost down, and Y/N knows she should better be going home soon.

“So what is it that you do?” She finally asks before preparing to say her goodbye. She doesn’t really expect for John to give an honest answer, but she can suspect what he does. She thinks she has already seen him at work. It was that night at the Red Circle club.

“It’s not exactly the first date material,” John sighs, it’s like something heavy falls onto his chest.  

“Then you can tell me on the second one. Same time next week?” Y/N knows it’s a bold move, but so far it has been working perfectly fine for her.

And it does again, as she sees John smiling, taking the leash back from her hand. “At the same coffee stand. I’ll see you then. Good night.”

Tag-list: @keandrews​ @rdjloverxxx​​ @danceoftwowolves @greenmanalishi​​ @lilywoood​​ (message me to be added or removed)

>Masterlist<

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter seven: a little death

word count: 11.1k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: gore. so much gore. "a little death”? more like a lotta death. yeah it’s just blood and guts, and then john is kind of a fucker for like .0000005 seconds

notes: hi folks! we've got another big'un, a little more john/elliot centric with some plot threads starting to weave together. i'm really excited with where things are going and how things are shaping up, and i hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!

special thank you to @shallow-gravy​​ for lending me her eyeballs to proof this chapter <3 dani and sylvia both are characters of @starcrier​​'s beautiful talented mind and she was kind of enough to help me fill out the cast for the world i'm working on!

as always, thank you so much to everyone who reads/comments/kudoses/likes; whatever your form of support is, it really means the absolute most to me and it's the whole reason i keep going!

“Well, well, well, Mr. Seed!”

It was Sylvia’s cheerful voice that first put a smile on Elliot’s face. It was the ensuing expression on John’s face when he realized he’d have to slide into boots worn by at least twenty other people that kept it there. He grimaced as he set his own perfectly tidy shoes to the side and pulled the first Wellington on.

John had done the right thing by swapping out the collared shirt he’d been halfway through putting on into a black turtleneck—still, certainly, more expensive than perhaps any item of clothing Elliot herself had ever owned, but less pretentious than a silky button-up.

“Right size?” Via asked.

He forced the grimace into a smile. “Perfect fit.”

With a satisfied nod, the blonde turned back to Elliot and handed her the lead to the horse she was going to brush—a hefty Clydesdale that plodded out of his stall obediently. He nosed her pockets for treats, whuffling against her offered but empty palm before she started tying him to keep him in place for a good brushing.

“You look fit as a fiddle and ready to ride,” Via announced, clapping John on the shoulder once he’d gotten his shoes swapped out. “What do you think? Wanna climb on up?”

“On that?” John asked incredulously when the blonde indicated the bay.

“Yes sir. Hugo’s great for beginners.”

“Hugo’d be great to stomp me to death,” he muttered. “Ah, no thank you, Sylvia—I think I’ll stick with the ground for now.”

“Suit yourself.”

She gave Elliot’s shoulder a quick squeeze before setting off at a brisk pace. At the barn, Via always seemed to operate on a different kind of frequency—she was still quick to smile and quicker to laugh, but there was definitely something more businesslike going on. John watched her go for a minute, mouth downturned in a frown, before his gaze returned to Elliot.

“So,” he said, “what are we doing?”

“I’m brushing Hugo,” she replied primly. “You can...give him a treat, or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to do something?”

Elliot sighed, patting Hugo’s neck and giving him a scratch. The bay turned his head, regarding John for a moment before bumping his muzzle against her hip affectionately.

“Here,” she said, holding out a brush. “You can brush him.”

It was John’s turn to do the regarding, then, eyes darting down to the brush and then back up at Elliot. He did still look a bit ridiculous—walking around in the Wellingtons, brushing loose wisps of hay that had somehow managed to cling to his turtleneck, the normally perfectly-slicked back hair falling loose and unruly. As John weighed the brush in his hand like it was some kind of artifact, he gave Hugo an awkward pat on the nose and one stilted brush along his neck.

“Great,” Elliot chirped. “Just keep doing that, but...better.”

She stepped away, leaving John with the horse and heading down the main hall. She’d taken about five steps before she heard John go, “Wait, where are you going?” and she turned to look at him, brows pulling together in something close to pity.

He looked so uncomfortable. And it was so good.

“To brush another horse, honey,” she replied, voice dripping with sugar. “What, did you think we were going to hold hands while you made yourself useful?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve gotten mouthy,” he said, eyes on her as she clipped a lead onto her usual equine companion, a handsome palomino named Butterscotch.

“I’ve always been mouthy, John.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

A few minutes of silence lapsed between them, filled only by the occasional whuff of horse breath or John muttering a swear. Elliot had just gotten into the rhythm with the palomino, gliding her hands and the brush across his neck in slow, even strokes, when John said, “So, you’ve been coming here a lot then, huh?”

Elliot let out a sigh. “This is supposed to be my quiet time.”

“I’m just curious,” John replied. “What made you want to start spending time around big, smelly animals?”

She dropped the brush in a bucket, fishing out the comb and starting to work on some of the knots. “Doctor’s orders.”

John made a low noise, agreeable even though she thought that he might be burning over there. Back in Hope County, he’d been determined to know her—get inside of her, get in the nitty-gritty, dig his elbows up into her guts and gore and figure out every little thing about her and what it was that she was keeping from him.

It made her wonder if he had read the file Joseph had compiled on her. It had been given to him, after all, like a trophy. Like she was a trophy, a gift from Joseph to him. His reward.

The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe that is what John thought; that all of his ragged attempts at convincing her that what they’d had, those fleeting moments, had been love. But she’d seen the way he’d looked when Joseph had praised him, the way he tiptoed around himself and his true nature, always with a foot on Joseph’s side and one on hers. Now, watching him stand awkwardly to the side of a giant Clydesdale, making an attempt at integrating into her daily life—it was almost sickening, to think that she had been the prize in some weird game for Joseph’s approval.

“Left him all alone with Hugo, huh?” Sylvia asked, jarring her out of her thoughts and reminding her that she’d been brushing the same spot in the palomino’s mane for a while now.

“Ah, yeah,” Elliot replied, clearing her throat and focusing on a different spot. You make me sick, she wanted to tell him, the warmth of the morning evaporating in the wake of her anger. You make me fucking sick, I won’t forget it, I can’t forget it, fuck you fuck you. “He could squirm a little. Builds character.”

Via’s eyes narrowed playfully, squinting at John as he gave the bay a hearty pat on the neck. “Not an animal person, huh?”

She felt her mouth twist wryly, wanting to say something vicious. Something mean. Something—

( I’m glad I didn’t break that wrathful streak out of you, )

“City boy,” is what she ended up supplying, to which Via went ahh, as though that explained a lot. In a lot of ways, it did.

“How’re you holdin’ up over there, buddy?” the blonde called down the hall, Hugo’s ears flicking in her direction. John glanced up and planted a smile on his face that was so canned Elliot thought he couldn’t have seemed like he meant it any less.

“Fine,” John said, like he was on automatic, and then quickly added, “Great, actually. We’re bonding, Hugo and I. The two of us.”

“Yeah?” Via’s head tilted. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Yes. A pair, he and I.”

“Good,” she replied cheerfully. “You can take him on a walk then.”

“Huh?” came the intelligent reply, followed by the unceremonious drop of the brush in the nearby bucket. “What?”

“Take him out, stretch his legs a little,” Via explained, her voice warm. “He’s a nice boy, you two are pals. Should go fine.”

John grimaced. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Elliot had to swallow back a laugh when Via asked, “You don’t know how to walk?”

The brunette sucked his teeth. A little smile was on his face, but it was the same kind of smile he’d given Elliot when she said something particularly mean-spirited—and though Sylvia West was clearly not a mean-spirited person, she had yet to find John very charming at all. Jury was still out, after all. Elliot was sure that bothered him.

“I’ll show you,” Elliot sighed, after a few seconds of Via waiting patiently for John to explain himself. “Just unclip the—”

“Don’t stress it, Freckles,” Via interjected gently. “You’re busy with Butterscotch. I’ll help John.”

She hesitated, feeling a sudden jolt of panic. Via was saying, take care of yourself. She was saying, put yourself first. She was saying, you don’t have to jump to do the stuff all the time. But it had been so long—so long of trying to prioritize herself and choosing other people.

You don’t have to Atlas this thing yourself, deputy, Jerome had said, like she wanted to let someone else handle it, like she wanted to be alone with herself.

But before Elliot could convince herself that it was more important that she show John how to do something fairly self-explanatory, before she could protest that Via was too busy, the blonde picked up the brush, put it back in her hand and crossed the hall to John with great purpose.

“Don’t worry, bud, I’ll make sure you don’t get trampled,” Sylvia chirped at John, unclipping the lead from the hook in the wall and setting it in his hand.

“Thanks, Sylvia.”

“No sweat, that’s what they pay me the big bucks for.”

“Lot of money, having people walk horses around?”

She flashed a smile that was all teeth. “Tons. I fill my pool up with hundred-dollar bills just for fun. Swim around in it and everythin’.”

John’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. He glanced back at Elliot, their eyes meeting for a moment—and maybe it did make her regret, a little, all of the poison she’d been thinking about him; maybe seeing him standing there and jesting with Sylvia and giving her that boyish smile made her regret thinking about how much she hated that he wanted to know her, all of her, all of the yucky, nasty bits of her that she wished didn’t exist.

Watching him walk out the front of the barn in the rubber boots, Hugo plodding along amicably behind him while Sylvia chattered, made Elliot wonder what it would have been like if he’d kept his word; if he’d meant it when he’d said that they would leave Hope County. There had been a time where she’d thought maybe she and John were meant for each other like he’d claimed. There had been a time where she’d thought maybe she didn’t want anyone else, maybe she wanted someone who kissed her when she was still covered in another man’s blood, who didn’t mind when her fingers itched and burned for acts of violence.

Yours must surely be the sin of Wrath.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he was it for her, Elliot thought while John and Sylvia walked the Clydesdale in a big loop around the snowy parking lot. Maybe she never would find someone who loved her, all of her grit and gore and venom, the way that John did.

The way that he’d looked at her scar, then a wound, with adoration, his hands red with her blood. The way he’d said, It’s going to look so good on you.

“That’s okay,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone, feeling the palomino’s velvety muzzle bump her hand impatiently for her attention. “I’m—”

Not ‘I’m’. It wasn’t ‘I’m’ anymore. It’s not just about you, anymore.

“We’re,” Elliot amended, swallowing thickly, “just fine being alone.”

If she said it enough times, maybe she would learn to believe it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You really never walked a horse before, huh?”

John glanced up, his gaze darting to the blonde that had been walking alongside him as they circled the parking lot. This is not what he wanted to be doing. When he’d said he was coming with Elliot to the barn, what he’d anticipated had been something closer to getting time with her—out of the house, away from the dog and her mother, and in a situation that was more comfortable for her. She clearly liked coming here, or she wouldn’t have strongly considered objecting to his tagging along.

Hm, something inside of him said, doesn’t that say something, that she doesn’t want you in a place she feels happy and safe?

No. Not really. Not in the least.

“I haven’t,” John replied after a moment, realizing that Sylvia was waiting very patiently for his answer, without rushing or prompting him. That was probably why Elliot liked her. “It’s funny, I grew up in Georgia and never seemed to be around a horse my entire life.”

“That is funny,” Sylvia agreed, without laughing or cracking much more than a polite smile.

His eyes narrowed. He pushed a smile onto his face, the rope hung loosely in his hand as Hugo trailed along beside him, content to brush at the ground with his nose once in a while. John thought, there’s got to be a way to figure you out. There’s got to be something. What did Elliot say to you about me, Sylvia? What did she tell you that’s making you this obstinate?

Just as John opened his mouth to say something, the blonde said, “You know, I don’t like you much, Mr. Seed.”

He closed his mouth, stopping at the far end of the parking lot. Sylvia turned to look at him, her gaze scrutinizing, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what I did to disenchant you, Sylvia, but—”

“I spend a lot of time with troubled people,” she interjected, and infuriatingly she did it so kindly that it almost lost its insulting edge.

Swallowing, John’s brain scrambled rapidly, looking for some kind of footing before he began as amenably as possible, “I hear equine therapy is beneficial to plenty of people—”

“Doctors and therapists send folks here all the time to try and get some kinda relief. I don’t always know what it is, but I’ll tell you one thing: that girl in there—she came in looking more haunted than a cemetery, and the way she looked when I first saw her is the same way she looked when I caught y’all on the street.”

The polite smile dropped from her face. “I don’t like that she got that look back.”

John bit back his venom and said, “To be frank, you don’t know anything about our relationship.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Sylvia replied lightly. She turned to him, and reiterated with pointed firmness, “All the same, I don’t like it, and I don’t like you, John Seed.”

“You’re awful polite,” he said tartly, “for a woman who doesn’t like me.”

Sylvia sucked her teeth in a gesture that was reminiscent of going come on, shaking her head again and huffing out a sigh. “You strike me as a man that hasn’t ever been just plain old disliked before,” she said, planting a hand on his shoulder even though he easily had two or three inches on her. “Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I think you’re hopeless, John. Jesus Christ, people been givin’ up on you that fast, huh?”

John blinked rapidly. That was not the answer he had anticipated. The words rattled around in his head, clanging painfully loud, foreign and unfamiliar and scary in how it felt to have someone, Sylvia, look at him and say, people been givin’ up on you that fast?

Mentally scrabbling, he brushed her hand from his shoulder and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m perfectly fine. I just don’t understand putting yourself through the trouble of being nice to someone if you don’t like them, that’s all.”

“People can change,” Sylvia told him plainly. “After all, you said you’ve never been around a horse before, right?”

“Well—”

“And now here you are, walking a horse around an empty parking lot in Nowhere, Georgia. I’d say that’s changing, wouldn’t you?”

John snapped his mouth shut. There was something unsettling about the way Sylvia was looking at him; like she was seeing him, really, right then and there, after knowing her for so little time. It was the same—

It was the same way Joseph looked at people. Seeing them, for exactly as they were, with everything they brought to the table. So why did it feel different when Sylvia looked at him? Why did it feel different from Joseph when she looked at him and said, I’d say that’s changing, wouldn’t you? Why did it feel more real?

“You’d probably best head back in,” Sylvia continued after a minute, smiling at him brightly. “Hugo’s an old man, he doesn’t like to be out that long. Much rather prefer to be inside and warm.”

“Yeah,” John said after a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I’d better.”

He didn’t like this, not at all. He especially didn’t like the feeling of Sylvia, a woman who blatantly did not like him, seeing him.

Turning, John started back across the parking lot to the barn, the hefty Clydesdale trailing obediently behind. It wasn’t until he was nearly to the doorway that he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket; pulling it out with his free hand, John brought the horse to a stop and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, John.”

It was Joseph. Speak of the devil, something in him whispered as he glanced back over his shoulder at Sylvia beginning to trek down into one of the riding yards.

“Joseph,” John said, clearing his throat, “I’m so happy you called.”

“How are things going?” His brother’s voice maintained its typical serenity, but there was a strange idleness to it, like he wasn’t fully invested in their conversation. It was unlike him, to sound like this—to sound absent, or troubled.

“They’re good,” he began cautiously. He wondered if Isolde had told Joseph about him hanging up on her. It would be just like her. “Really good. There was a doctor’s appointment yesterday—” That Elliot didn’t let me go to, he thought, as Joseph made an agreeable noise to show he was listening, “—and the baby is healthy. Really healthy, and good, and next week we’re going to find out the gender. Elliot’s been going to these stables because the doctor thinks it’s good for her stress—”

Joseph’s voice cut in over him, sharp and impatient. “Do you know what’s going to be really good for the deputy’s stress?”

He shifted on his feet. “It’s just, she’s been talking to the doctor about it—”

“There will be bombs dropping, John.”

“I—know that,” he replied quickly, glancing back at the barn and seeing Elliot dusting her hands off on the top of her jeans, having put the palomino away. “I know that, Joseph, I promise, I—”

“There will be no baby to be worried about,” his brother continued, “if you and our sister are not here when they fall on us.”

Joseph bit the word out, sister, like it was a cyanide pill crushed between his canines. Just hearing his brother’s voice change like that made John’s throat feel tight. The anxiety of hearing Joseph’s displeasure was rising up high and hot in his throat, and Elliot was walking towards him, head cocked to the side curiously, and if she knew he was talking to Joseph she was going to go ballistic. She would, and he would be back to square one—and he’d only just gotten a little bit closer; the feeling of the soft skin of her throat beneath his fingers from earlier that morning still lingered, burned in his memory.

“I understand,” John said automatically, pitching his voice low. “I do, I’ll—”

“You have a week left. I won’t wait for you.”

“Joseph—”

“I’ve given you great freedom to fetch your wife and child, when I have every reason to have left her to Hell.”

His stomach wrenched. He knew it. He knew Joseph was angry about it. Regret flooded him; he should have stayed back in Hope County a little while longer, until Joseph was done in his solitude, to talk to him first. “I know, please, if you would—”

“The next life is something that has to be earned,” came his brother’s voice, sharpening as he spoke, “and your wife has done nothing but reject the absolution that I—” He paused. “—we offered her, at every turn.”

I know, John wanted to say, but could not; what would be the point? What would it matter? He’d said it a handful of times already, but Joseph was angry, he was so mad, so mad, and all that time spent back in Hope County felt very suddenly like it had amounted to nothing.

“The gates will be closed to you.” And then, his voice harder now: “Tell me you understand, John.”

He gripped the horse’s lead tight. For a second in time, the comedy of it all—trailing after Elliot into a stable, joining her and her friends that didn’t like him at a bar, listening to her mother expertly sliding in barbs—had been overwhelming. His life had temporarily become a rom-com, and by the season finale they’d make amends and everything would be fine.

This was a reminder that was not how things were going to go. He didn’t have the leniency to just take however long he wanted; there would be no time to make friends, even ones that looked at him and said, just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I think you’re hopeless.

Get Elliot and baby. Bring them home.

“John.”

“I do,” he whispered. “I understand, Joseph.”

“Good.” Joseph paused, and then after a moment: “And no secrets, John. I’ll know if you’re keeping something from me.”

The words washed a strange, cold sense of dread over him. For a second, John thought, have I been keeping a secret from him? Have I been lying to him about something?

Elliot had stopped a few feet away, her head tilted inquisitively. She was far enough that John thought she might not be able to hear him, but still he turned his head like he’d seen something interesting back in the parking lot when he said, “I would never do that.”

There was a little exhale on the other end of the call. “I know. You’ve always been good.”

Something frantically pleased lit up inside of him, rapidly firing the neurons in his brain. Good, they said, chanting, we’re good, we’re good, he said we’re good, Joseph thinks we’re good.

Just as John opened his mouth to reply, Joseph said, “We’ll talk soon,” and the line clicked. Call Ended, said the screen when he pulled the phone away from his ear and turned back to Elliot, who’d started making her way over to him again. Something in his chest sank a little; he quickly tucked it away, focusing his attention back on the task at hand.

You’ve always been good.

“Who was that?” Elliot asked as she came up, rubbing her hands together in the cold absently. John gestured for her to head back inside, and she did, letting him fall into step between her and the horse.

“Just a wrong number,” he replied with a little smile. “It’s a new phone. I’ve been getting them a lot.”

“Ah.” She didn’t sound convinced, but he supposed he never expected her to. “And how was your walk with Hugo and Sylvia?”

“You would be surprised to know I feel much the same as before I walked.”

Elliot’s mouth quirked up at the corners, tugged into a smile. It wasn’t the first time that he’d seen that little smile on her face, but it was the first time that it didn’t feel forced, or driven by something sour or venomous.

John offered, “Sylvia has confessed she’s not fond of me.”

The redhead next to him made an inquisitive noise, though she didn’t remark on it. He imagined this was not news to her, given the way they’d been chatting when he’d come back from warming up the car the other night. He’d be lying if he said that it didn’t spike a little bit of jealousy in him; that Elliot found it so easy to connect with Sylvia, even though they had history, even farther back than Eden’s Gate, if he was going to be a stickler about it. And he was. He wanted to be.

A little, he thought, maybe he was jealous that despite everything, Elliot still found some way to make a friend that defended her so fiercely.

Stupid, he thought, letting Elliot take the lead from him. It’s stupid. I have people who will protect me too. Jacob, and Joseph—

“But you already knew that,” he added after a moment, watching her. The redhead moved with a kind of surety around the horses; there were no darting eyes, no furtive glances out into the distance, searching for an invisible threat that only she could see.

“Well,” Elliot replied, “you didn’t really endear yourself to her. She met us in the middle of an argument, and then you proceeded to try and use your snake charms—”

“My what?”

“—on her, and that’s just not really her style,” she finished plainly, working to take the halter off and then sliding the stable door shut. “You don’t have all of your little cultists here to chant ‘yes’ at you whenever you please. You have to make a real effort with people.”

“I am,” John snipped out, “making a real effort.”

“Mm,” came the reply as Elliot slung the halter over her shoulder and started heading off down the hall without waiting for him.

“Elliot—”

“John,” she replied amicably. “I’m not going back and forth with you about this.”

He closed his mouth. Every single nerve-ending felt violently frayed from the onslaught; first Sylvia, then Joseph, and now Elliot. John could feel the headache blooming behind his eyes. Even though he’d felt that rush of adrenaline the second Joseph had praised him, there was still a knot in the pit of his stomach; just there, rolling tight and painful, reminding him that he still would have preferred that Jacob called instead.

Elliot returned, picking a loose piece of hay off of his shoulder and dropping it to the ground. “We going or what?”

Regarding her carefully, John said, “Only if you’re done. We’re staying however long you want.”

“Oh, are we? It’s all about what I want now?”

“It was always about what you want.”

She gave him a look. As she shrugged the heavier coat back on her shoulders, and he tugged the boots off, Elliot said, “You know how you’re always saying I need to find a new catchphrase?”

John pulled one of his shoes on. “Uh-huh.”

“I think you should take your own advice,” Elliot continued. “The whole ‘I’ll give you anything you want, Elliot’ bit just doesn’t hit the same when you spent the whole time lying to me.”

“I—” He let out a frustrated breath, pulling his other shoe on. “I meant it when I said it, Elliot.”

“Fucking me,” Elliot replied, “does not amount to giving me anything I want.”

“But it is what you wanted,” John retorted.

“Among other things.”

“Among other things,” he agreed.

They stood like that for a minute, regarding each other with tight expressions and the sourness of their exchange still lingering in his mouth. John exhaled through his nose and passed a hand over his face. It was one thing to be on edge because Sylvia had come right out and said she didn’t like him; another to then follow-up with a conversation that reminded him of his existential dread; yet another to be putting up with Elliot’s vitriol.

“When I said,” he began, “that I l—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“When I said it, I meant it,” he amended tartly. “I said a lot of things that I didn’t mean, too, but I meant that.”

“Yeah?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “You didn’t mean to tell me that I’m never going to find someone that’s going to love me and all of my ugly too, is that what you’re trying to say? That whole ‘no one’s going to love you with all that red in your ledger’ bit was just a fun little jab—”

“No,” John replied evenly, feeling that petty little spike in his chest, “I meant that.”

His words seemed to catch her off-guard, immediately unseating her. The expression that crossed her face was bewildered; the animosity had fled it, and instead what replaced it was hurt—bright and blooming across her features, flushed under her skin in a gorgeous high color. It wasn’t unlike the flush in her cheeks from when she’d been frenzied by the killing of Kian, and it looked just as beautiful now, too.

John thought, I love her, just like this. Wretched and wicked and furious with me. Hurt and needing.

He had seen her in fury, in grief. Watched the remains of what happened when she sank her teeth in down to the bone, whether it was to kill or to howl in her sorrow. And he had loved her then, too.

I meant it, he thought, because no one is good enough to love you except for me.

“Well, it doesn’t fucking matter,” Elliot replied after a minute. Though her words carried with them the same cadence any other angry response would have, her voice sounded small, like he’d sucked the wind right out of her sails. “What you think, it doesn’t matter. You don’t know fuck all about me or what kind of person could love me, and—” Her lashes fluttered. “And fuck you, John.”

John watched her expression for any giveaway that he’d gotten where he wanted: inside. Before, he’d known her quite well—could gauge her anger and her grief and catch it before it exploded. Now, with the baby, things had changed a little.

“I think I’m familiar with exactly the kind of person who could love you,” he said after a moment. And then, gesturing ahead of him: “Shall we?”

The tension in her jaw tightened, flattening and flexing the muscle when she clenched her teeth. Those spiteful little eyes; he’d missed them, missed the way she’d looked at him. As of late, she’d gotten too comfortable withholding her attention from him.

Get Elliot and baby. Get home.

It was a mantra now, running its track in his head over and over until it wore a rut into his brain. As Elliot brushed past him to walk to the car, and he fell into step trailing behind her just a foot or so, he let the words sink in. He’d gotten distracted; strayed from the path—but he wouldn’t let that happen again. Joseph was right. He was good, and he would just have to make Elliot see that.

One way or another.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Staci Pratt was doing alright, all things considered.

The Veteran’s Center was empty. Had been for weeks, in fact—after a particularly tense call with Joseph, Jacob had evacuated most all of his Chosen except a select few into the bunker and locked it down. He’d grabbed his keys, looked Pratt dead in the eyes and said, “I want to see you sitting in that chair waiting for me when I get back, Peaches.”

How long was he going to be gone? That was a question that had been sitting on Pratt’s brain for the last two months.

It might have been more than that; it honestly could have been a little less, too. He had no idea. Three days after Jacob had left with his chosen, and left Pratt in the Veteran’s Center, the radio chatter had fuzzed out. Interrupted by something. A day after that, he saw strange convoys along the streets.

Well, he’d thought, Jacob did say to stay put.

So, stay put he did.

There was food, and water, and even though the snow was falling, the place stayed pretty warm. He hadn’t heard Jacob’s voice on the radio for weeks. He’d stopped checking it. He thought that since it had been so long, maybe Jacob and the others were—

“Staci,” came a sweet voice from the other room, “come here, quickly!”

Pratt pulled himself to his feet. His limbs felt heavy, but pleasantly so; like he’d been grounded to the earth, finally, at last. For a second, the floor seemed to stretch out under his feet, as far as he could see; the leaves, having blown in before the snow through then-open windows, folded and melded against his shoes. Like they were trying to be with him. What had he gotten up for again?

“Staci!” The sing-song voice came again. Dani, he thought, taking an unsteady step forward. Shit, Dani’s calling me. That’s what I got up for.

“Coming,” he managed out, taking a few steps and then catching his momentum and carrying himself into the next room over. The glossy-haired brunette was sitting with her legs tucked up at the desk, watching the security monitors avidly. Sheridan had come knocking a few days after the convoys had passed, and at the time, Staci had thought she was some kind of test—after all, Jacob had said to stay put. Sitting in that chair, waiting for me when I get back. That’s what he’d said. Getting up for a pretty girl at the door was directly disobeying him.

But he’d let her in, because she smelled good and smiled at him with pearly teeth and a cute accent he couldn’t place, and asked if he had room for her in the building, and said things like, You can call me Dani, if you want!

That was what—four weeks ago? Maybe more? She’d made herself at home, explained she’d gotten lost from her family and that she’d been worried because she saw strangers with guns running around. She had food, and water, and warm clothes, and—

Drugs. The “herbal” kind. It will open you to the influence, Dani had told him, giggling when he blinked owlishly at her. Brings you closer to the earth, Staci. It feels nice, I promise. Pratt thought it might have been Bliss, at first, but it was different; it didn’t jar him on his way down, the crash felt so much gentler, and Dani offered it to him to use whenever he wanted, and he just wanted to feel. Good. For a little while. That’s all. Just a tiny while.

It wasn’t hard, to feel good around Dani. It was like he’d spent all that time in constant fear and stress, listening to Jacob tallying body counts from Elliot. Sometimes the redhead would suck his teeth and say, what the fuck is my brother doing with that girl? and shake his head, and the idea that Jacob Seed wanted to turn Elliot into a perfect killer had washed him with a cold, ferocious dread.

Then, Jacob had left. No more body counts. No more radio calls, listening to the redhead’s urgent voice from the other side of the door. A tiny while had turned into four weeks, and now he was here: stumbling his way into the security room where she was curled up. Somewhere in the distance, a little alarm bell went off in his head. Jacob would be so mad, that alarm bell said. He would be so mad, so fucking mad, so so so mad.

But the thought was a small voice, easily washed out by Dani’s blinding smile when he got close.

“You remember I was telling you about my family?” she asked. She was tearing tiny bites off of a piece of fruit leather; Pratt reached blindly around in one of the drawers and pulled out a bag of beef jerky.

“Yeah, you said they’d be looking for you,” Pratt replied. That was weeks ago, he thought to add, but did not. “Did you find—?”

His eyes fixed on the screen. It was a stranger there, on the screen—which was to be expected—but she didn’t look like Dani. Not at all. They looked to be the same age only, but the woman on the screen had short-cropped, light-colored hair, and she was swathed in dark fabrics high up to her throat.

“That is my sister,” Dani told him excitedly.

“No way,” Pratt said, blinking at the screen. The woman on the screen was obviously not related to Dani by blood. He watched her move, wraithlike, a ghost skimming along the side path up to the F.A.N.G. center—one of the only places Jacob had left some of his Chosen out and about.

Oh, no, he thought suddenly. Oh fuck, this is bad. Oh fuck, Dani’s gonna watch her sister get killed, holy shit—

“We have to stop her,” he blurted out, starting to fumble around for one of the radio’s batteries—he was sure he could charge it up enough, he was sure, he was sure, slamming the walkie talkie on to the charger he’d conveniently left off because he didn’t want Jacob calling for him—when he saw the flicker of one of the Chosen coming out around one of the building’s corners, suspicious. “Um—that guy, he’s—”

“Shh, shshsh,” Dani said, waving her hand at him and watching the screen. “Do not be so noisy. I am watching.”

“Dani, you don’t understand,” Pratt tried again, more urgently, “that man is going to—”

The brunette made a sharp little noise, a quick tst, and planted a bit of fruit leather in her mouth, knee tucked up against her chest. It was like she was watching a movie. It was like—

Oh, God, Pratt thought, swallowing thickly as the figure of Dani’s “sister” came scooting around the corner behind the Chosen. She was going to get killed. She was going to get fucking murdered, right there on screen, in front of this nice young woman who’d been nothing but kind to him, and he was going to have to explain to her what it was he’d watched Jacob do and—

Something sleek and metal glinted on the video feed. Dani’s sister was not sneaking, anymore, but grabbed the chosen’s shoulder with one hand and drove the point of her blade straight into the junction of his shoulder and neck.

It was hard to make out expressions on the screen, details and nuances, but there was one thing clear from the woman’s body language: she was not troubled, fighting for her life, and she had done this before.

“Dani,” Pratt whispered, feeling his stomach lurch when the knife was pulled out of the Chosen’s neck, arterial spray coloring the ground in black and white on the computer screen. “Dani, what is—”

“You are going to miss it,” Dani told him, shooting him an annoyed look.

“Miss what?” he croaked. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see whatever it was Dani was afraid of him missing. The only thing he wanted was—

But she reached up, snagging his hand and squeezing it absently. She had been doing that sort of thing a lot—touching. She’d bring his hand to her pulse so that they could breathe in tandem, touch their foreheads like she was checking him for a fever, take his hand while she walked through the halls and looked around. Another thing Jacob would be furious about, if he found out.

When he found out.

Dani’s hand offered him little comfort now, though. She leaned in to the screen a little and murmured, something in a thick, rolling language that Pratt couldn’t quite make out, and said, “Oh, how many people do you think are there?”

“I don’t know,” he said, fixing his eyes back on the screen. “I don’t know, a lot, Dani, there’s probably a lot—”

There were a lot. There were a lot of them, crawling around the F.A.N.G. center, and he watched Dani; watched her watching the screen as her sister—“sister”—dispatched each one of them with distinct, violent ease. Like it was a dance. One, two, three, waltzing as she picked up whatever she could find and used it to incur blunt force trauma.

Blood, everywhere. Viscera when she shot both kneecaps of one out. Spray when she pushed yet another’s face into a broken plank of wood, falling off of the side of the building. The picture was in black and white, but even still, Pratt could see it: red, everywhere. Red in the snow. Red on her hands. Red on their faces, on their clothes, on her knife on the gun because she twisted it out of one of their hands and pushed it into his mouth and fired, insides painting the wall of the building behind him.

So. Much. Blood.

“What—” Pratt swallowed, his mouth dry as sandpaper. Suddenly, feeling like the world was a conveyor belt under his feet didn’t sit so well anymore. “What is—?”

“This is the important part,” Dani told him. “You have to watch her. Återfödelse.”

“What does—”

“Shh.”

He watched. He watched, and he wished that he hadn’t, because the woman on the screen shrugged out of her coat, pulled some black latex gloves out of her pocket, and snapped them on.

And then, she gutted them.

Like fish.

Stripped their shirts and jackets off. Cut them from the hollows of their throats down to the tops of their jeans—which she had enough generosity to leave on them—and then scooped their insides out like a butcher at home in her own work shop. Scooped them, dumped them, sat them up against the wall of the building. The woman moved with the unhurried but thorough, single-minded pace of a woman determined to finish her plate and lick it clean.

He was going to be sick. He was going to be fucking sick. He pushed the forgotten bag of beef jerky onto the countertop beside the computer. Dani must have thought he was offering it to her, because though she was fully engrossed in her sister’s work, she said sweetly, “Oh, no thank you. I am vegetarian.”

Pratt pulled away from the computer screen and the chair where Sheridan sat, admiring the bloody gore being laid out before her. The world pushed and pulled in his vision in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat; he stumbled into the next room, reaching blindly out of muscle memory alone before his fingers found the edge of the trash can and he could bend over and throw up whatever was in his stomach.

He was wrong. This was worse than Bliss—Bliss was one kind of trip, and you knew immediately what it was going to be from the start. But this? This was a fucking nightmare. Each time he closed his eyes he kept seeing them, Jacob’s Chosen, entrails scattered in the snow and jaws lax and ribcages split open.

Fuck, he thought, breathing over the trash can as another wave of nausea hit him. Fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuck—

“Oh, Staci,” came Dani’s sugared voice, teeming with pure, unadulterated sympathy, rippling bright pink and blinding in his vision. How long had he been knelt over the trash can like this? “Are you feeling unwell? It can be a lot, you know. The first time you see it.”

“There—” Pratt lifted his head weakly, looking at the girl who’d happened to wander in here, just after he’d seen those glossy gray vans patrolling the area. Separated from my family, she’d said. “It happens more?”

His words came out in a wail, pitching almost into hysterical. Dani clicked her tongue, smoothing the hair back from his forehead in a gesture that was supposed to comfort him.

“Of course it does,” she told him, crouching beside him, bringing his hand up to her cheek. “Återfödelse. Rebirth. It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.”

The last thing he wanted was for that woman—Helmi—to do anything for him. He struggled to keep his eyes open, the exhaustion of his adrenaline and the crash of his high digging straight into his skeleton.

I have to get the fuck out of here, he thought. I have to get out of here and tell—tell the others—tell Jerome and Hudson and Elliot and—

“It is okay,” Dani murmured, planting her hand on the back of his neck and giving it a little squeeze. “She knows I am here. That was good thinking, to get the radio all charged up.”

It took every ounce of his strength not to moan in misery at that. The brunette smiled at him, radiantly and with pearly teeth, and he was suddenly filled with dread at the idea that there may be someone out there worse than the Seeds.

“You should lay down, get some rest,” she suggested gently. Coming to a stand, Dani glanced back at the monitors, and then back at him, lips still quirked in that pleasant little smile.

“You will want to be at full speed when she gets here.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Things in the car were uncomfortable. That is to say, Elliot was still nursing whatever wound his honesty had given her, and regarding him warily out of the corner of her eye every time he attempted to strike up conversation with her.

I’m not going to apologize, John thought resolutely, between the stop at the pharmacy and the house. I meant it. I’m not going to apologize for something I meant. And mean. I know I’m the only one meant for—

“What is going on?” he asked, slowing to a crawl when he came to the turn up the Honeysett’s driveway. It was packed with cars—lining the parking area in a little cluster. The redhead beside him let out a frustrated, agonized little moan, burying her face into her hands.

“It’s Tuesday,” Elliot replied tartly.

“Okay, and?”

“Tuesday’s the day mama has all of her debutante friends over.” She shifted in the passenger seat, gesturing with her hand. “Well, you gonna park or what?”

John’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Great. An audience, a crowd, for the impenetrable, unshakeable tension sitting just there, right between them. But even now, it was a relief; all of those weeks spent without her had reminded him that even when things hadn’t been the most ideal, when they’d been fighting constantly, at least it had been something. As long as she wasn’t acting like he didn’t exist.

“Can’t wait,” is what he said, pulling the Jeep down the long drive and parking it where no one would need to have him move it later. Through the glass, he could see gauzy shapes milling about, drenched in amber light; Southern women, hair curled and faces powdered and the flowy fabrics of their loose-fitted (and yet, somehow still miraculously tailored) clothes, martini glasses in hand.

Elliot said, “Stepford housewife does seem on-brand for you.”

He shot her a dry look. “I prefer my women with a bit more bite to them.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

So, it was going to go great, then.

As he made his way up the steps, Elliot paused, turning and looking at him before they could reach the door. He looked at her expectantly; eyebrows lifted.

“I don’t have to tell you to behave,” she began.

“No, you don’t.”

“But I will anyway.” Elliot’s hand rested on the doorknob. “These women are nicer than mama. They’ll want to know all about you, ask you tons of questions—I need you to give them vanilla answers. The most vanilla. You’ve gotta be as unthreatening as a wafer, John.”

Still recovering from the pleasant swoon of hearing the words I need you come out of Elliot’s mouth, John said, “Scout’s honor, Ell.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Loose wisps of ginger hair tumbled out of the half-pony she’d slung her hair in, and her eyes darted—unsure, wetting her lips, like there was something that she wanted to say to him but she didn’t quite trust herself to.

“I’m—” She stopped.

“They’re going to wonder why we’re standing out here.”

“I’m trusting you,” Elliot bit out. The words were almost as sweet as I need you, he thought. “Trusting you not to...take advantage of the fact that I may or may not have omitted important information about what was going on back home. I would really like it, John, if we could get through this evening without my life coming apart.”

The urge to reach up and brush the hair from her face, cup her cheek—it burned in his fingertips, itching. But he kept his hand at his side and said, mood instantly elated by the idea that Elliot needed something from him, “No nuclear bombs dropping tonight, my love.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Fine. We get in and we get out, no casualties.”

“Just like old times,” John agreed. “Sans the ‘no casualties’ bit, of course.”

Elliot’s mouth twisted. He thought she might have been trying to stop herself from smiling, but the expression was wiped so quickly from her face that he didn’t have any time to dwell on it too long before she opened the front door and he was hit with a blast of heat and floral perfume.

Oh, yeah, he thought, stepping inside after Elliot to the sound of bright, vibrant chatter cascading over soft music playing in the background, that’s debutantes.

“Is that Elliot?” exclaimed one woman, perhaps a few years older than Scarlet, coming to a stand and setting her glass to the side as she hurried over to wrap Elliot in a hug. “My goodness, look at you. You dyed your hair, didn’t you? I love it, it’s beautiful, sugar.”

“You’re home late,” Scarlet remarked as Elliot shrugged out of her jacket, perched on the couch. Boomer had come racing down the stairs at the sound of someone’s arrival, little feet tapping excitedly against the carpet as he begged for Elliot’s attention.

“We had to make a stop, mama. And—thank you,” Ell replied, clearing her throat, returning the embrace for a second before she pulled away. The interaction was an interesting one to watch—and gave him, perhaps, more insight into the dynamic between Scarlet and Elliot than his wife would have wanted. After all, it wasn’t Scarlet getting up to embrace her pregnant daughter after not knowing where she was all day.

Elliot turned and gestured to John with a smile that looked more like a grimace. Her hands had gone to Boomer, though, rubbing his ears—more for her benefit than his, it seemed. “Delia, this is—um, John. John, this is Delia, she’s—kinda like my aunt.”

The woman, Delia, turned bright eyes on him. “Well, um John, isn’t it nice to finally meet you!” she exclaimed, hugging him tight and filling his senses with perfume and chiffon.

“Pleasure,” John replied, beaming, “is all mine, I assure you, kinda Aunt Delia.”

She’d been right, of course. All of the women in the room regarded the two of them with nothing short of warmth, glowing curiosity—certainly, they gossiped, but nothing quite as scathing as Scarlet Honeysett’s own impression of him and even, to an extent, Elliot. For the most part, the matriarch’s disdain of him was carefully bottled, though she made no move to greet him or show him off like a mother-in-law ought to.

“John is Elliot’s husband,” Scarlet said lightly from the couch, where the other women made various noises of feigned excitement and disappointment alike. He could about hear Elliot wanting to crumple in on herself.

Delia left one hand on John’s shoulder, the other affectionately twisting one of Elliot’s coppery curls and letting it fall to the side. “Dyed hair, married—honey, is there somethin’ you haven’t been up to? And what about a weddin’?”

John had never seen Ell turn into such a shrinking violet before. She blinked owlishly at the women—even the one she claimed close enough to be her Aunt—and shifted on her feet.

“We didn’t really think about it,” Ell managed out shyly, cheeks flaring pink. “And no, I haven’t, but—well, except—”

Painful. It was painful, how much she was suffering through this. “It was an unconventional thing,” he supplied easily, flashing a charming smile. “We thought about maybe having a nice reception, but we’re just not in a rush right now. Can’t do anything nice in the middle of winter, after all.”

Instant relief flooded Elliot’s face. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Finally,” Delia hummed, “a man who has some taste. You know, Scarlet, my boy’s been trying to find indoor places to have his weddin’. I asked him, what, does he think folks want to be sweatin’ like a sinner in church the second they step foot in there? It’s no less than—come here, John, honey, you can sit with me—no less than two hundred guests, and...”

John let Delia manhandle him into a chair nearby the fireplace. It had been quite a blow to his ego to have Scarlet regarding him with so much disgust, like he wasn’t even worth her time of day; even now, when his mother-in-law came to a stand, beckoning Elliot into the kitchen with a single elegant hand into the kitchen, she barely spared him a glance. Like he was nothing.

That’s where she gets it from, he thought dryly. Honeysett women.

“John, you ever been to one of Scarlet’s Christmas parties, honey?” Delia asked him, jarring him out of his thoughts. He planted a polite smile on his face.

“Unfortunately, I’ve not had the opportunity,” he replied lightly. This was easy—older women, dying to know more about him? Easy as pie. “Christmas is next week, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” Delia replied, patting his hand. “You’ll have to come. I mean, of course you’ll come—Elliot will be there. Where are you staying? Scarlet didn’t put you up in a motel, did she? I’ll tell you what, I hear the most awful stories about that place. In fact, just the other day, Justine Adler was telling me...”

The woman launched into another bustle of gossip, busying herself with pouring a drink which was then promptly planted in John’s hand. Somewhere close to halfway into that, Scarlet and Elliot returned, the older woman resuming her spot at the center of the couch and Elliot sitting herself on the ground beside him, back to the fireplace.

He leaned over, as the women burst into glittering laughter, and said, “Wanted to sit by me instead of your mother, huh?”

“She told me to pretend like we like each other,” Elliot muttered back. “What are you drinking?”

John flashed her a grin. “Delia made it for me.”

“Elli,” Delia said sweetly from the chair, “do you want somethin’ to drink, too?”

Elliot flushed. “No thank you, ma’am. I’m alright.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

The conversation resumed, and John let a few beats go by before he leaned to the side again; this time, he pitched his voice lower, and he saw Elliot tuck the hair behind her ear. “I like when your accent comes out,” he told her, turning his head to look at her, and she did the same at the same time, putting them almost nose to nose. “It’s cute.”

“You’re on thin ice, buddy,” she replied, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t forgotten what you said.”

“I’m counting on that elephant’s memory of yours, Elli.”

“John, are you fixing to get glassed or what?”

He couldn’t stop the grin from hitting his face again. She had to behave here—she couldn’t kick up a bit fuss about it. But even when she asked him if he was trying to get his face bashed in, a little bit of wry amusement bled into her voice, like muscle memory demanded the jab be more playful than threatening.

“I’ll drink to your health,” John added amenably, “and merciful nature.”

She squinted at him, the corner of her mouth twisting into something close to a smile.

“Sure, John,” she replied. “You’ll need all the help you can get on that front, anyway.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time the last lady had left and the glasses and plates were cleaned up, night had fallen deep and dark over the Graves (Honeysett) home. Elliot thought she’d never been more tired her entire life than she had been sitting through that little gathering, listening to the women ply John with questions about what he did and what he was doing, and how did they meet, and wasn’t he just so happy to be down here in Weyfield? Wasn’t he so pleased to have Scarlet as a mother-in-law?

To his credit, John upheld his promise to behave. He took only one alcoholic drink from Delia and spent the rest of the time sipping it, engaging more freely with the other women than she’d seen him do with her own mother or even Sylvia—likely because they had no reason to dislike him. On a surface level, John Seed was a very charismatic man. Charming. Thoughtful. Perceptive. He laughed and he made the ladies laugh, and even her mother seemed a little pleased; not without her carefully placed jabs, but for a second in time, Elliot felt less like she was going crazy and more like a normal girl. A real girl.

It made her think about the night she’d first met him, almost two years ago now, and the way he’d looked at her and said, a lot can happen in a week, beautiful. She’d been a fucking fool back then, and in a lot of ways, Elliot thought she still was a fool—but at least she was on the defense. At least she felt comfortable with the idea that her baby might never know John, in any capacity.

She was ready to cut and run, if needed.

And why haven’t you? Something inside of her asked, as she moved up the steps and stopped at her bedroom door. Why haven’t you cut and run already?

“Elliot?” John turned to look at her, pausing when she did. His eyes were inquisitive. No, not inquisitive—prying. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in my bed?”

Lonely, another part of her replied. We haven’t cut and run because we’re lonely.

“I’m sure,” she said after a second. “Nice try, though.”

“You’re still mad,” he said, his voice rumbling teasingly. His eyes darted over her, lingering on her mouth before fixing on her eyes. “Didn’t I do good? Just what you asked?”

“You—did,” Elliot allowed after a moment. It was true. “But of course I’m still mad, you fucking idiot. You told me no one was ever going to love me, and that you meant it.”

John sighed. There was a brief moment where he neither said nor did anything, but after a second he reached up and swept the hair from her shoulder. The gesture made her skin prickle; anticipation curled at the base of her spine and began its stretch, luxurious and leisurely, up to her neck. Tight, tingling anticipation, when his fingers brushed the side of her neck.

Push him away, she thought.

“I do mean it,” he said, “because, I don’t think—”

Push his hand off of you.

“—anyone else is going to love you—”

He was closer now, much closer than before, like she’d blinked and suddenly he was there, in her space. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; the smell of his cologne washed over her, drowning out all of the alarm bells in her head, speaking to a creature inside of her that craved comfort.

“—the way that I can love you.”

John’s forehead brushed hers. So close, too close—but she thought about waking up this morning and the way he’d put his hand just there, in the same place, the way he’d murmured concernedly, you said you’ve been sleeping fine.

“Ell.” His voice was pitched soft, low, something safe and warm and just between them, his fingers threading into the hair at the base of her skull, and now their noses brushed, and John had crowded her up gently against the doorframe, just the way that he knew she liked. “I want to kiss you.”

Elliot’s throat felt tight. I want to kiss you too, that wretched, sad little thing inside of her said, but instead she thought of something else—she thought about John, holding her under the water, and John, saying enough of that sad little whimpering, deputy, you’re pulling on my heartstrings, and John, spitting mad, telling her he was never ever going to take her back even though no one was going to love her because of the things she’d done.

“Can’t,” she managed out, her voice hoarse. “You can’t.”

John exhaled through his nose, his eyes shutting like he was trying to stop himself—from saying something, doing something that he wanted to do very much but would regret later. It took a second, but once she gathered herself, she reached up and gripped his wrist with her hand, applying just a little pressure—and that was all it took for him to drop his hand from her neck.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. It sounded more like a way to console himself rather than an answer to her. He passed a hand through his hair.

“We can’t.”

“Okay, alright. No kissing.” He lifted his hands in a show of innocence. “You’re the boss.” The brunette’s eyes glided over her face for a moment, almost ruefully, before he stepped back and started heading down the hall. “Goodnight, Elliot.”

She stayed put, up against the doorframe to her bedroom, fingers curled into fists. Everything in her felt like it was burning—rioting, that she had denied herself something that might give her some temporary relief, some temporary pleasure.

But it wasn’t just about her, anymore.

“John,” she said, waiting until he turned to look at her. “Why are you even here?”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she continued, hating the little tremble in her voice, “did you come here because you wanted to be with the baby and I, or did you come here because you were mad we left?”

Elliot watched the muscle of his jaw tense and tighten, flexing as he tried to come up with an answer. And he was, having to come up with one, because he was doing that thing where he wanted to say something that was true to him and would make her happy.

And she didn’t want that. She just wanted him to be honest.

“Alright, good talk.”

“Elliot, listen,” he started, and she stepped into her bedroom, shaking her head.

“Goodnight, John.”

She closed the door behind her, pleased to not hear any follow-up knocks on her door or John’s voice coming through the wood. It was five minutes of waiting before she finally dragged herself into her pajamas, put a sleeping pill in her mouth, and crawled into bed with Boomer curled into her knees.

That’s okay, Elliot thought tiredly, shifting and closing her eyes. That’s alright. It can be just you and I, baby.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Staci?”

Roused from his sleep, Pratt lifted his head. When had he fallen asleep? How long had he been sleeping? He struggled to a sitting position, clearing his throat and blinked his eyes rapidly to try and get them to focus. It was Dani’s face that came into view, then, her hair slung up in a ponytail and her nose scrunching up in an amused little smile.

“Good morning. You must have been exhausted, you slept for so long,” she teased him, and for a second he felt relief flood over him. It had been a dream. It had all been an awful dream. Now, more than ever, he was sure that he needed to get to the Resistance—take Dani with him and get out of this fucking nightmare of a building. Yeah. Then he’d feel better.

“Yeah, I must have been,” he said a little sheepishly, his voice rough from sleep. “Hey, d’you think we could—”

“Is he finally awake?”

The voice that came from the other room filtered straight into his brain, crisp and sharp and distinctly un-accented. The sound of footsteps echoed across the tile before an unfamiliar woman filled up the doorway, leaning one shoulder against it and regarding him with dark, scrutinizing eyes.

No. Not unfamiliar. Very familiar, painfully familiar, disgustingly, awfully—

“Yes, Helmi,” Dani replied warmly, “he is awake. It was his first time seeing Återfödelse.”

The woman, dark and swathed in fabric up to her throat, swept her eyes over him. “Dani told me you puked.”

“I-I-” Pratt tried to function through the panic in his brain, rioting bells going off nonstop. Helmi had washed herself of any blood, that did nothing to erase the image of her driving a man’s face into a splintered plank until he was skewered on it, or the way she had methodically emptied out Jacob’s own chosen and propped them up.

To get found. To send a message.

“You?” Helmi prompted, her voice flinty. “You what, boy?”

“He is still coming down,” Dani said, pouting her lips. She no longer struck him as affectionate on an equal level, but instead gave him the distinct feeling of a girl fawning over a cute animal. An animal she thought was also stupid.

“Why do you think he’s been holed up in the big one’s base of operations? He’s their lap dog,” the blonde bit out. She took a few steps over, leaning down—she was tall, but dextrous, her mouth curving in a smile that was distinctly threatening. She reached up, and when Pratt felt his body flinch, she grabbed his chin. “Aren’t you, doggy?”

“I-I’m not!” he said quickly, jerking his face out of her grip. “I’m not, I swear, I don’t even like the Seeds, I swear I don’t, Jacob was keeping me here and then he got everyone in the bunker and—”

“Wait,” Helmi said, eyes narrowing. “You know where the bunker is?”

“Yes!” Pratt said quickly. His eyes darted between Helmi and Dani, nervous. “I do, I know where it is, but—but no one can get in without Jacob now. Everyone in there is locked down until h-he gets back.”

“I told you,” Dani said to Helmi eagerly. “I told you he was helpful, Helmi.”

Helmi sucked her teeth, giving him one last scathing once-over before she planted a pleasant smile on her face.

“Come on, doggy,” she said, grabbing Staci’s shirt collar and hauling him to his feet. “You and I are going to make a little trip. And—”

She paused, thoughtful, even as Pratt scrabbled to push her hands off of him. They made his skin crawl—long and elegant, but he had seen what they could do. What they had done. Helmi shoved the walkie into his hands, as well as a heavy coat.

“Why don’t you tell me everything you know about our friends the Seeds on the way there?”

[soniabigcheese]

Saving Christmas

I knew something was up. That wasn't a social visit from the Hood at all. He managed to disrupt everything in the workshop.

Sabotaged the conveyor belt. Argued with Dave, the Head Elf.

And managed to steal my sleigh, crashing it into the park, narrowly missing the fish pond.

He has really put things behind. With the conveyor belt out of action, the elves are stuck. The letters pile up ... Mrs Claus is sick with flu.

I need a hot cocoa with marshmallows on the top.

But then, a cheery voice appears ... one that gave me some hope.

"Hi," he said, his bright shirt almost clashing with my own festive decor, "my name is Gordon Tracy. I'm from International Rescue. You look as if you are in need of some help."

I look bewildered.

"Aren't there supposed to be five of you?"

He shrugs.

"They're all out on rescues themselves," he explains, "but I'm here now. What do you need?"

He whips out his notepad and pencil. I'm impressed, as I haven't seen those for years since everything went digital.

"Okay," I respond stroking my beard, "I need to sort out the conveyor belt so production can restart."

"No problem sir," he whips out a multi tool and a couple of tweaks later, the belt starts moving.

He pauses, seeing the large pile of letters and frowns.

"Um ... I'm better off fixing your sleigh," he backs away, "I might mix them up and send good kids coal."

I had to agree with him there. After all, it's a specialist job and is only suitable for those 'in the know'.

"You can take Rudolph back to the park," I suggest.

He doesn't look convinced.

"Let's say ... he knows the route ... and is faster than Thunderbird One."

I didn't need to tell Gordon Tracy twice. He was already carefully climbing onto the red nosed reindeer.

"Oh, and make sure you are facing forward!"

I get a thumbs up as well as a little wobble as this young man wraps his arms around the neck of my very patient reindeer.

Who gave a rather smelly fart, causing Gordon to let go and waft his hand around.

"That'll be the sprouts," I tell him with a kindly smile, "old Rudy can't get enough of them."

My pocket watch tings, I check it then turn to my newest 'elf'.

"Time's moving forward now. Hold on tight!"

I give the reindeer a slap on his rump and the graceful beast shoots up in the air and vanishes out into the twilight above.

Whilst I corral the rest of the elves to help with the mail, I hear Gordon's voice over my Santa comm. Only had that installed recently, after much nagging from my missus.

He has found my sleigh, told me it's in pieces and managed to get a few people from the town to help gather all the bits together.

Since Virgil still wasn't available - that rescue was taking a lot longer. Heavy storms always do hold things up. Trust me, I should know. I've travelled centuries all over the world and faced many hurricanes, cyclones, volcanic explosions etc.

Gordon said he would put it all back together.

And even assured me that he has the blueprints ... courtesy of his brother John.

The eye in the sky.

So repairing an ancient sleigh would be fairly easy.

A couple of nervous hours later. And many many questions about springs and sprockets. My sleigh was ready to go.

It just needed a little frosty magic to give it a kickstart.

However, nature wasn't playing nicely today and the snow had decided not to make an appearance.

There's plenty here at my workshop. I just needed to get my sleigh back here.

Cue the big green 'Bird and her pilot. Who happily ... and carefully ... put my sleigh into one of his pods and brought her back home.

I insisted that they stay for the celebratory feast, I could see the hunger in their eyes. But they had to refuse. Too much to do.

Besides, they'd have to put up with their grandmother's cooking.

Know how they feel. I tasted her cookies ... and almost needed expensive dental treatment.

So ... I left a note to my beloved wife, to make up a special meal package and send it to Tracy Island as a thank you for helping to save Christmas.

[thelovecore]

To The Races -Tommy Shelby-

Here’s a little quick something for my favorite Blinder boy.  I didn’t really get a chance to proofread it, so I apologize for any grammatical errors!

Masterlist

Part 2

_____________________

“Please! Please don’t do this.” I begged my father as he lead my chestnut pony out of the stables. The pony had a limp in his back end. “He’ll get better, I swear, I’ve seen this before!” I felt hot tears streaming down my face as I tried to grab his arm and take the lead rope out of his hand.

“You heard the vet, he’s not going to get better.” My father said gruffly, pushing me away.

“No! Please, let me take him home! I know he’ll get better.” I said, falling to my knees in the middle of the street in Small Heath. My father had brought my pony to see a vet here.

“Is there a problem here?” I heard a gravelly voice from behind me. I turned around to see piercing blue eyes staring down at me. I stood up and wiped the tears from my face. My father turned around also, knowing the origin of the voice.

“Not at all Mr. Shelby, just a lame pony that I have to take out to the fields. Shame, really, he’s been a good one for years.” My father said, removing his cap and looking at the man.

“It seems she doesn’t think that.” Mr. Shelby said, gesturing to me. “So why would you shoot a pony worth saving?”

“Well...he’s limping in the back end and the vet says he can’t help...” my father started.

“Mr. Shelby, I’ve seen this limp before. He’s bruised his foot you see, I can show you the spot...he just needs rest.” I said. I looked over at the man, who had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it. I swallowed hard as I watching my father scowl at me and then Mr. Shelby cleared his throat.

“Sir, why don’t I buy that pony from you.” Mr. Shelby said, blowing a cloud of smoke. “It will save you the hassle of having to shoot it yourself.”

“Mr. Shelby, I assure you, this pony will be useless to you.” My father said, walking closer to him.

“Well then I’ll consider myself a fool for buying it, but that will be my final decision.” Mr. Shelby said, pulling a fistful of pounds out of his jacket. My eyes went wide. I was so unsure of what was happening. I knew of the Shelby family. My father obviously knew his power. I had never met any of them before, and I was unsure of selling my pony to one of them. But there was something about the way he glanced at me while holding the money out to my father that made me feel like I could trust him. I could tell my father was hesitant on selling a lame horse to the Shelby family, but nonetheless, he took the money and handed over the lead rope to the man with the cold stare.

“If you don’t mind sir, I’d also like to borrow your daughter while I take him to the stables, to get to know the pony.” He said. My eyes went to my father who shot me a glare and then looked back at Mr. Shelby, who was stomping his cigarette out against the ground.

“Of course.” My father said. I turned and followed Mr. Shelby as we walked towards his stables. He handed me the lead rope back and I put a hand in the warm mane of the pony.

“Was he your childhood pony?” Mr. Shelby asked.

“Yes.” I said. “He’s sixteen this year. I got him as a birthday present when I was six.”

“Does he have a name?” Mr. Shelby asked, pulling out another cigarette.

“Toby, sir. Mr. Shelby, I can’t thank you enough...” I started.

“Please, call me Tommy.” He said.

“Tommy...thank you. For this. Will you take good care of him or will you shoot him?” I asked somberly.

“Oh no, you’ll be taking care of him. He’s going to go to my stables. You can keep him there, away from your father.” Tommy said, glancing over at me. I broke out into a huge smile.

“So you won’t shoot him?” I asked happily. “Thank you so much.”

“I have never had it in me to shoot a horse that had a chance.” He said. “You’ll also look after a few of the other horses in my stables, as repayment.”

“Of course, I’ll do whatever you ask, Mr. Shelby.” I said.

“Please, call me Tommy.” He said, turning to face me.

“My apologies, Tommy.” I said. He looked me up and down.

“Have you ever been to a race track before?” He asked. I shook my head.

“We can’t really afford tickets to the track.” I said.

“Would you like to go?” He asked. My jaw went slack in shock.

“I’m afraid I have nothing nice to wear, Tommy.” I said.

“I’ll buy you a nice dress. You can get your hair done.” He said, staring deeply into my eyes with those icy blues.

“I couldn’t possibly, you’ve done so much for me already.” I said, shaking my head and looking at the ground. Tommy took his hand and lifted my chin.

“I’d like to take you to the race track. It’s very refreshing to find someone in this shithole town that cares as much about these animals as I do.” He said. I slowly smiled at him and nodded.

“Let’s get Toby here to a stall and settled in. I’ll have my sister Ada take you shopping and to the salon.” He said.

Tommy lead me to Ada after we had put the pony in a wonderful stall with hay and fresh water. She seemed incredibly friendly compared to her brother. She took me into a nice dress shop, where I settled on a blue dress and matching heels. Ada then took me to the salon where my hair was washed and curled.

“Ada, your brother is so nice for doing this.” I said, looking in the mirror, tears welling up in my eyes.

“Don’t be fooled. My brother is far from a kind man, but to show kindness to someone, he must trust you. Or like you.” She said. We left the shop and she took me to the betting shop, where the men were tying their ties and getting ready to head out. I stood sheepishly behind Ada as she introduced me to John and Arthur, her brothers, and her Aunt Polly. I smiled gently at all of them, unsure of what to say or do. I knew what the Shelbys’ business was, and I knew of the Peaky Blinders. I tread very carefully, not saying a whole lot, until Tommy showed up. He walked in the front door and instantly our eyes met. He had a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. I smiled at him as he approached me.

“You look lovely.” He said quietly, which earned some jeers from his brothers. He shot them a look and guided me out to the car.

The racetrack was full of people and bright colors and I was awestruck. Tommy guided me to where we’d be watching the races with his family.

“Do you want to go meet my horse?” He asked me as we sipped whiskey. I nodded and he guided me towards the stables. I saw a man grooming a tall black stallion, and I was taken aback at the beauty of the horse.

“This is him.” Tommy said, rubbing the horse’s neck. I walked forward and looked the giant in the eye.

“He has soft, kind eyes for a stallion.” I said, reaching up and petting his nose.

“You get out of them what you put in to them.” Tommy said. “When I was in France, I eventually became numb to seeing people get shot on the battlefield, but I could never get over seeing the horses get shot.” He spoke softly, still rubbing the neck of the prized animal. He stared at it with adoration.

“He’s beautiful, Tommy.” I said, still petting his nose. Tommy walked back towards me and put his arm around my waist and his hand rested on my hip. I turned to face him, my heart speeding up as I looked at all of the details of his face.

“I have searched Birmingham all of my life, looking for someone who cared about these creatures as much as me. Most see them as vile, smelly, mostly used as tools. They’re disposable pieces of equipment. When I saw the sadness in your face when your father was going to take your pony and shoot him, that’s the kind of compassion I’ve been searching for.” He whispered to me.

“Mr. Shelby-” I started, before catching myself. “Tommy, I’m not naive to the business that you do. I’ve heard the whispers. I know about the razor blade in your cap. And yet, seeing you with these horses, and the kindness you’ve shown me today, it makes me question everything I’ve ever heard about you.” I said, turning to face him. Tommy looked from my eyes to my lips and I looked at his as a confirmation. Tommy leaned down and kissed me, gently at first, but then more passionate. We broke apart just as the jockeys and grooms were entering to get ready for the race. Tommy put his arm back around me and guided me to the box where his family were. Polly shot us eyes as soon as we returned. She walked over to Tommy and I and handed us each a whiskey.

“Tom, you might want to wipe the lipstick off your face before your brothers see.” She whispered between us. Tommy’s hand flew to his mouth as he wiped it all away. I giggled quietly as he did so. He tightened his arm around me again and we walked out to watch the races.

[harrysoldinstagram]

2012 Masterlist

For all your searching needs. Complete.

May

#1-Deerstagram

#2-Lux and Sophie

#3-Travis Barker

#4-Biafra Falls

#5-Biafra Falls (again)

#6-John Lennon

June

#7-Elvis

#8-Spot of Tee

#9-Asleep

#10-USA

#11-Good Morning Mexico

#12-Banana Face

#13-Spiffing

#14-Masculine Drink

#15-San Diego

#16-Aerosmith CD

#17-Them ones

#18-Need a wee

#19-Interesting sign

#20-Hipsta Please

#21-Coldplay

#22-The Beatles

#23-Ladders

July

#24-Orlando

#25-Good effort

#26-Bum crack

#27-Louis' hair cut

#28-Niall's candy bar

#29-Chilling with the boys

#30-This is England

August

#31-Swim sir

#32-69%

#33-Michael Phelps

#34-Watermelon

#35-Hungry fam?

#36-Unnamed child

#37-Action figure

#38-Flower building

#39-Hu five

September

#40-Surfs up

#41-Father and son

October

#42-Breast milk

#43-Niall is trying

#44-Ritz Crackers

#45-La Paris

#46-Love heart tats

November

#47-The crew

#48-Stockholm

#49-Losing the hair game

#50-Niall looking

#51-Good morning Paris

#52-Ellen stage

#53-Trekstock tshirt

#54-Smelly Stelly

#55-Tumbleweed

#56-NYC

#57-Filmy filmy

#58-Cold at today show

#59-10 rock

#60-Guitar shopping

#61-Dog parking

#62-What a legend

#63-Pool table

#64-Germany

#65-Banana kid

#66-MSG rehersal

#67-Weird Niall face

December

#68-NYC gm

#69-MSG (iconic)

#70-Christmas jumpers

#71-random concert

#72-Beautiful LA

The end!

[homesoutofhuman]

Heal the pain: John Wick/Reader AU

Part 1 

How can I help you? Please let me try to I can heal the pain that you're feeling inside Whenever you want me, you know that I will be Waiting for the day that you say you'll be mine

-Heal the Pain, George Michael

Warnings: swearing, mentions of blood and medical procedures, eventual smut, mentions of an emotionally neglectful relationship (not John)

You like to sing in the shower, and why shouldn’t you? There is no one else at home, and you are feeling cheerful for the first time in days. You soap your body with strawberry shower gel and let the warm water thrum against your skin. It really does feel like it’s washing your worries away.

You attempt a key change in the chorus and your voice cracks, sounding less than operatic echoing against the shower walls and you wince. You soak your hair, letting the water pound against your neck and shoulders which feel stiff with stress. Your hair has been driving you crazy recently, it is long and thick and every shampoo seems designed to give more volume, meaning you end up with a ball of frizz that sticks out in all directions. You’d love to cut it, but you know you’re not allowed.

Just then you realise you’ve left the damn shampoo outside the shower cubicle, and, too lazy to dry off first, you open the door and reach around wildly for the bottle. Your hands close around it and you smile in triumph, just as your foot slips on the soapy tiles. You manage to curse out loud, just before you go flying, hitting your head hard against the bathroom cabinet as you go down.

When you open your eyes you’re lying on the bathroom floor, a wet naked mess. You wonder how long you were out. The shower is still running and you try to stand to shut it off. Your legs buckle under you and you grab the sink to steady yourself. In the steamed up mirror you can see yourself, eyes wide and panicked, blood streaming from your forehead and down your cheek. Your stomach lurches and heat rushes to your head. You hate the sight of blood, and why is there so much?

Down on the floor again you feel your feet have gone numb, but whether from shock or something else you don’t know. You manage to drag yourself along in an undignified manner towards the phone, grabbing a towel and awkwardly covering yourself as you go. You dial one number, but the phone rings out, a charming voicemail message telling you to leave your name and number and you hang up in frustration. You don’t want to be dramatic, but the wound on your head is still bleeding, and you’re sure there is no way you can drive yourself to the hospital like this. You take a deep breath, then dial 911.

Luckily the paramedics have seen it all before and worse. The female one reassures you, tells you her name and even grabs some clothes to take with you. You are so grateful you don’t have the heart to tell her the ensemble would not be approved of, that the slightly worn out pants, although comfy, would be deemed too frumpy, and the t-shirt, baggy and old, doesn’t show enough of your body to be acceptable. If you put no effort in why should I? echoes a sneering voice in your head.

You wrinkle your nose as you lay in the hospital bed, hating the smell of antiseptic and the feel of the rough blanket against your skin. You’ve been cleaned up by a nurse, but told you’ll have to wait to see a doctor, a sure sign they don’t know yet who you are. You try to wait patiently, glancing around at the chaos of the ward. A drunk man wanders through the halls shouting obscenities and the staff dash around looking exhausted.

The reality of it all is amazing to you, kept as you are, away from the normality of the real world, sheltered and protected, but...maybe missing out. After all, this is life, in all its dirty, smelly, noisiness, shouldn’t you take part in it every now and again?

You are lost in thought, and hardly notice the doctor approaching. He stands politely by your side and clears his throat gently until you look up at him, then he smiles.

You stare.

Only one time before in your life did you see a man so handsome you forgot how breathe. This is the second time. The doctor is tall, so tall he has to duck down to look at you, resting his hand on the bed above your head and leaning his broad shoulders towards you in a concerned manner. His dark hair is a little messy and you would guess cheaply cut, his beard is patchy but gives his boyish face a pleasing maturity. His eyes are brown, but the word does nothing to describe their beauty or the way they shine, looking at you now with friendly attentiveness.

He is heartrendingly, unbelievably attractive and you feel your face growing hot as he continues to look you over.

“I’m Dr Wick…” he says, and his voice is low and growly. It sends a thrill along your skin and you shiver.

He frowns, noticing. “Cold? I can get the nurse to bring you another blanket.”

You just shake your head, too stunned to speak.

His frown deepens and he takes a small penlight out of his pocket, shining it into your eyes with a skilled flick of his wrist.

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You nod, causing your temple to throb and you whimper. Dr Wick sits down on the edge of the bed and picks up your hand, taking your pulse manually, checking his watch. You feel your heart beat faster when he touches you, his fingers long and warm against your skin.

He makes a note in his pad and looks you over again. “That wasn’t noted in your file. I want to run some tests…”

“Okay…” you clear your throat, wanting him to see you’re not a complete idiot. “Thank you...Dr Wick…”

He blinks at you, looking surprised about something, but does not share his thoughts, simply shaking himself a bit.

“Can you tell me more about what happened?”

“I just…” you flush a bit, knowing you sound like a complete klutz “I was trying to get a shampoo bottle.” you reach and touch your hair, self-consciously realising it is still dirty and sticking out wildly around your face.

Dr Wick’s eyes flick to your hair and he frowns again, looking away a little too quickly and scribbling on his pad.

Confused, you continue with your story “I lost my balance and ended up on the floor...there was so much blood..”

“That happens when you cut your head” he reassures you gently.  “What on earth are your cabinets made out of...titanium?”

“Marble.” You answer a little ruefully.

“Fancy.” he smirks a bit and you manage an embarrassed smile.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about but I’d rather check just to be sure. You’re in my care now…” he says, his deep voice warm and comforting and you smile for real then, looking into his coffee eyes which hold your gaze for a second just too long.

A loud shouting and banging fills the hospital room and you jump a little. Dr Wick turns towards the noise, putting himself protectively between you and whatever the danger might be.

“I want her in a private room...and get me the best fucking doctor in this place NOW!”

Your doctor crosses his arms over his chest and raises himself up to his full height, looking down intimidatingly at the man who is shouting and gesturing towards you.

“Excuse me...Sir…” the way he says ‘Sir’ drips with sarcasm and you gape at his boldness. “This is a hospital. I’m going to need you to keep your voice down, and also tell me who you are.”

His voice stays calm but holds a silent threat of authority that the other man cannot ignore. He glares at you instead, ducking around your doctor to move to stand over you.

“Well? Are you going to tell him?”

“Dr Wick…” you say, your voice tired and resigned, realising as soon as you speak your next words he will see you differently forever.

“...this is my husband.”

---------------

Shall we do this? I think we are...

[vancouvertrueborns]

Q & A with a South Van Trueborn

P. Nairn McConnachie grew up at Fraser and 51st. That is him peeking above the wood pile in the back yard of his childhood home. And yes, he chopped all those slabs. Nairn graduated from John Oliver High School (J.O.) in 1943. After military service he married Florence Landon and they had three kids. Nairn was a Standard Oil gas jockey before working his way up to petroleum marketing. He left that industry after 25 years and went into real estate sales and development. Today he is 95, lives in Tsawwassen, has 10 grand kids and 21 greats. As you will see from Nairn’s responses, his mind is still as sharp as a tack.

What is your fondest memory of attending Sir Sanford Fleming Elementary in the 1930s?

Two answers: Firstly, getting even with the janitor, Mr. Essary, who did not want us indoors, regardless of the weather. I put calcium carbide into the urinal, which created quite the smelly light show when activated by water. Secondly, not trying very hard to keep Adelaide Armour's lovely long hair out of my inkwell. And when I did try, her locks somehow ended up in my peanut butter sandwich.

Craziest recollection of playing in South Van:

Sweeping the dirt playing field behind Fleming using long branches from the adjacent undeveloped lot. This was the only way we could play ball hockey without inadvertently adding rocks to our slap shots.

Also, on the day King George V and the Queen drove past South Memorial Park, I lay injured in the lacrosse box with a displaced patella. I played for the 1939 provincial champs, the South Hill Tigers midgets and it was lacrosse hall of famer Grumpy Spring who came to my aid.

Which was the most transformative new technology to arrive in South Van when you were a kid?

The superheterodyne radio. Look it up.

Most intimidating moment of being a freshman at J.O.:

Being kept in for talking in class when I had to get to the paper shack at 49th & Main.

[Nairn’s daily delivery route took him all over the South Slope, including right out into the North Arm of the Fraser, on dodgy gang planks that led to floating squatters’ shacks.]

Favourite high school teacher and why:

Nelson Allen because he told us to ask questions.

[Allen arrived at J.O. in 1937 and was a popular math instructor with the students. He served with the RCAF in WW II.]

Favourite classroom at J.O. and why:

Gordon ‘Mushy Mac’ Macdonald's basement lab because we learned all kinds of neat things there. [Macdonald was an engineer who joined the school during WW II and taught science at J.O. for more than thirty years.]

Most embarrassing moment as a J.O. student:

Being suspected of copying another student's exam answers.

Most victorious moment at J.O.:

Principal Jake Palmer publicly apologizing to me after realizing that I had not cheated.

(Fun fact: The kid watching Nairn chop wood was Ed Mackie, who later sired three J.O. Jokers.)