#faro table;

[aventvrina]

Blessed Day - featuring Aventurine

summary: aventurine is witness to the beginning of a new era on his birthday

"I want to tell you this story without having to confess to anything, I want to tell you this story without having to be in it."

When- first day of the year in Avgin calendar "Kakava" - 2158 AE (beginning of a new era)

Where- Pier Point

"The stardust are simply insignificant dust to the Amber Lord, but to us, every speck of it contains the essence of Preservation."

Pier Point's sky feels dull in comparison to Sigonia. It was hard to accept that he had come to associate the blinding lights below as the only stars he'll see from his apartment. In the vastness of black there's only one thing that can be perceptible midst the void, the sole motive for the existence of this place, the reminder of their purpose, the eternal mission of the Amber Lord, the subspace barrier. Aventurine can understand the near blinding faith the IPC has to it's Aeon. It's hard to deny what is tangible, hard to dismiss the noble act of protection and even harder to ignore THEIR numerous blessings.

Every time the hammer strikes Point Pier rejoices with the shattering tremble, awaiting eagerly for whatever parts their aeon has chipped from themselves with the action. It's parasitic behavior, like ants collecting crumbles of sugar from the leftovers. How grateful they are for sustenance, how benevolent this god is to have given all they could ever ask for. How cathartic to be trembled by their foot, a worthy death dictated merely cause their god chose to move.

He leans against the cool railing taking in the dullness of the lightscape. On the few nights work has left him too restless to sleep he finds himself on his balcony overseeing the city, letting the murmurs of life drown his existence in such a way that he feels part of the song. Tonight though, it's not work that keeps him awake but the notion that it has been another year breathing. Before he had felt lonely. Sigonia-IV has lovely skies, from dusk till dawn, the spectacle of colors and stars move across the canvas in slow swirls. Later he would come to understand the phenomenon was due to it being in the middle of three star clusters, this also being responsible for the fact that his planet was too barren to be able to sustain life. Yet Sigonia still breathed, it's people grew in the impossible and with it, came the understanding that it was due to one being. Gaiathra's body is a vast desert but once, she had been proper, the lands were brimming, the hills alive and her voice echoed through the vales. Now there's only silence, the silence that only the dead can offer.

Aventurine can still remember the night after the rain. The sky had cleared after what felt like a lifetime, the night was still high, boundless stars slowly moving through the colorful tapestry as if nothing had happened. He remembers falling to the wet sand, too weak to move, exhausted despite his racing heart. He remembers the cold, his shivering body, stomach cramping as he oozed out all and nothing at once. But above all, he remembers the stars. The stars were there and they were quiet. Silent. Indifferent to his broken wailing as reality cruelly sunk. He was alone, truly alone. And nothing would ever change that. Sigonia proved itself worthy of it's title, it was unclaimed, but irrefutably, desolation.

In that moment a wave is felt throughout the cosmos and Aventurine clutches hard on the railing before he can fall. His eyes are on the wall, perplexed at what just happened. Qlipoth has moved their hammer. It's the beginning of a new amber age. From the sky he sees it. The fall of stardust, the amber rain. It's a beautiful sight to witness, it expands in the dark, a trickle of beautiful gold slowly filling the void. Raining down on Pier Point like blessed rain.

He had just witnessed a miracle. Something made the Amber Lord use their hammer, something drew their indifferent gaze enough to have them shatter for the zealots bellow. It takes a few minutes before the feeling of the starquake is over and the station to come alive. Aventurine stands where he is. Too stunned to move, just watching. He can't help but to think of his sister.

Like her, the people in Pier Point are also hearing a call from the rain. They rush to the outside in hopes of getting to the nearest vehicle that'll get them closest to the wall. A frenzy of dots move rapidly within the lights bellow and once again he finds that he hears nothing. Perhaps their noise is too loud for him to hear the aeons voice. Perhaps he is once again excluded of whatever higher plane everyone but him seems to be.

He gazes at the wall. Behind it there should be a massive monolith, there should be the indifferent gaze of Qlipoth, unconcerned with the motion THEY created with a simple swing of the hammer. Unaware that THEY dictated that a new Amber Era has started. That THEY announced change for the universe and made humanity tremble with it's quake.

Aventurine scoffs. It is truly a blessed day.

[nukuome]

I've been working on redesigns <3

[lothiriel84]

Cards on the Table (pt. 2)

A series of post-canon vignettes, each from a different character's point of view. [Part 2/2]

A Faro’s Daughter one-shot collection. Deborah Grantham/Max Ravenscar, with a side of Phoebe Laxton/Adrian Mablethorpe.  

[go back to part 1]

6. Lady Mablethorpe

Augusta Laxton surely was the most insufferable woman on earth, Lady Mablethorpe decided as her son finally bundled his affronted mother-in-law into her carriage. Not that she blamed Phoebe, of course – with a mother like that, anyone would sooner take to their bed than receive any visitors, and there was the poor girl’s condition to be considered. If there was one thing Lady Mablethorpe was not willing to tolerate, it was risking the health of her future grandchild – and prospective heir to Mablethorpe, as she cherished the hope – for the sake of such a selfish creature’s greediness and insensitivity.

“I thought she would never leave,” murmured Arabella at her side, heaving a not-precisely-ladylike sigh of relief. As she couldn’t help but agree on the sentiment, if not her niece’s manners, Lady Mablethorpe simply nodded her assent, and turned her attention to her cup of tea.

“I for one am glad to see Adrian standing up for his wife,” Deborah Ravenscar declared, not unreasonably, and if her ladyship hadn’t heard it with her own ears, she would have called anyone a fool who dared to suggest that her nephew was in fact capable of anything as undignified as a snigger. Marriage was doing Max a world of good, she had to admit, and for all that she still congratulated herself on being spared such a dubious connection, she privately had to acknowledge that, gaming house or not, Lady Bellingham’s niece displayed more respectability and sense than many a duke’s daughter.

“I’m terribly sorry you had to bear witness to such a scene,” Adrian apologised presently, and all but collapsed into the nearest chair. “Lady Laxton is – well, you’ve seen. Truth be told, we’re planning to remove to Mablethorpe as soon as Phoebe is well enough to face the trip.”

“I agree that is probably the wisest course of action,” Max considered thoughtfully, relieving his wife of her empty teacup. The new Mrs Ravenscar offered him a quick, warm smile for his troubles, and let him fuss with her shawl with a look of barely concealed amusement.

“Adrian, dear, do you think Phoebe would be willing to receive me, if only for a few moments? I would very much like to offer her my congratulations in person.”

“Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind seeing you, Deb,” was the prompt reply. “She’s ever so fond of you, and with good reason, as you well know.”

If her ladyship had to suppress a wince at this overly familiar form of address between the pair, she was too well-bred to let it show. And as her nephew appeared more than willing to tolerate such liberties from both parties, it was hardly her place to intervene.

“Give our cousin my love,” Arabella prompted sweetly, even as Max stood offering his arm and escorted his wife out of the room in a most attentive manner. Well, this is beyond everything, she thought to herself, and it took her a full minute to finally register the peculiar way her niece-in-law’s dress – sporting a much more conservative cut than she was normally wont to wear – hugged her figure.

“Max, you impossible creature!” she gasped as her nephew resumed his previous place on the settee. “Are you to tell us we ought to congratulate you as well?”

Had the sudden smile gracing his customarily severe countenance not been indication enough, the air of contrived innocence assumed by her niece would have been her answer. It was plain that Arabella was in on her brother’s secret, just as Adrian had been kept in the dark until that very moment.

“You mean – oh Max, and you never said anything! When are we to expect...?”

“Late summer, we believe.”

As her ladyship’s grandchild wasn’t due until early autumn, she was forced to hold back an irrational twinge of resentment – which promptly turned into a gleam of excitement as the full possibilities started to dawn upon her. So absorbed was she in the contemplation of a much desirable closer alliance between their two families that she all but missed her son’s heartfelt congratulations, and was only brought back to the present day by the sardonic look in her nephew’s eye.

“I fear it is incumbent upon me to warn you, ma’am, that I am determined to see any son or daughter of mine married out of choice rather than duty, or any relation’s wishes.”

“Don’t be absurd, Max,” she chided him, deeply irritated that her secret hopes should be so openly addressed, and just as callously dismissed.

“No child of mine will be induced into matrimony by anything but the deepest of loves,” Adrian declared with an air of affronted dignity, eliciting a startled giggle from his young cousin – who was well enough informed of the circumstances accompanying the sudden transferral of his affections from one lady to another, her aunt reflected gloomily.

Still, Lady Mablethorpe consoled herself reflecting that nothing prevented one of her future grandchildren from falling in love with one among her nephew’s offspring, and she would be there to help things along if she had any say in the matter.

7. Christopher Grantham

“Mr Grantham, what a pleasant surprise! Have you come to visit your sister?”

The gentleman in question shut his eyes briefly, and valiantly set out to ignore the small pang of longing in his chest. Arabella Ravenscar was as lovely a vision as ever in her walking dress and bonnet, and he was faced with the sudden impulse to run up the stairs and gather her in his arms. Only the painful memories of the lady’s inconstancy in her affections stopped him from acting on such an impulse, and he remembered himself in time to bow deeply as she passed him by.

“Indeed I am, Miss Ravenscar,” he replied politely, quickly averting his gaze. “Permit me to wish you a very good day.”

When he was finally admitted to his sister’s presence, Kit Grantham was still so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he didn’t immediately notice the hustle and bustle of servants, as if they were in the middle of packing their mistress’ belongings for an imminent journey.

“Are you going out of town?” he ventured to enquire at length, and was met with a tinkle of laughter from his dearest sister.

“I’m sure I explained it all to you in my last letter, Kit,” she shook her head, apparently amused. “Max and I agreed that Chamfreys would be a great deal more comfortable for my confinement.”

That finally prompted his gaze to drop to her stomach, and he couldn’t refrain from widening his eyes at the sight he was met with. His sister was – huge, there were no two ways about it, and for the first time in his life he actually stopped to consider such an uncomfortable topic as childbearing, and how it might affect any and all females of his acquaintance.

“And are you – I mean to say, is everything – oh, don’t make me say it, Deb, I beg of you.”

His sister took pity on him, and offered him a sympathetic smile. “We are both as well as can be expected, and I’m positive your nephew or niece is eager to meet you, when the time comes.”

“I’m sure I have no idea how ladies are so willing to put themselves through any of this,” he blurted out, immediately blushing at his own forwardness. “Oh, forget I said anything, I’m all out of sorts this morning.”

Deb considered him for a long moment. “Did you by any chance happen to run into my dear sister as she was preparing to go out for her walk in the park?”

He let out a rueful sigh, twisting his gloves in his hands. “I was so sure of her, Deb, I still cannot conceive how she had it in herself to deceive me so.”

“Oh, Kit, I know for a fact she didn’t mean to, but she’s so very young, and more than a little spoilt besides. I hope with time to have more of a good influence on her, and I’m so very sorry you had to suffer because of this – but let me be blunt and assure you that the two of you would not have suited in the slightest, and it is much wiser to take the time to get better acquainted with your prospective partner for life before setting your heart irrevocably on them.”

Kit Grantham turned a mildly reproachful gaze on his elder sister. “Deb, by your own admission you and Ravenscar had only been acquainted for two weeks before he proposed, and you weren’t even in town for one of those same weeks.”

Deborah laughed. “That’s true, but I would hardly call ours an ordinary courtship, and you said yourself that we must have been both out of our senses to even consider marriage after I had him locked in our cellar.”

“Utterly and completely mad,” he nodded with conviction, though deep down he was quite in awe of how noticeably happy his sister had been since becoming Mrs Ravenscar. Perhaps there was still hope for him after his disappointment, after all.

Once he’d kissed his sister goodbye and presented her with his most sincere wishes for a smooth confinement, he left the house in Grosvenor Square with a spring in his step, and the first glimmer of hope that he might, one day, procure the same kind of happiness for himself.

8. Miss Ravenscar

“Arabella, my dear, how can you forget your manners so?” her mother complained weakly after her as she rushed up the stairs, and all but barged into her brother’s study unannounced.

“Good day to you, Belle,” Max greeted her with intolerable composure, gathering the documents spread in front of him into a neat pile. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

“Max, how could you be so unbearably reticent in that note of yours? You must tell me everything, at once!”

“Why, I thought I had been perfectly clear,” he demurred, yet she could clearly see the corners of his lips trembling into the beginnings of a smile. “Both mother and child are perfectly well, and they are currently resting – or at least, they were doing so when I left them, not half an hour ago.”

“Max!” she glared at him in frustration. “Am I the aunt to a little boy, or a girl?”

“Always so impatient,” he shook his head, and stood up. “You are aware, I’m sure, that the proper thing for us to do is to go downstairs, and share the announcement with your affectionate mother.”

“You know very well you don’t care a fig for propriety, and as for Mama, I’m positive she will survive. It’s not as if she’s the child’s grandmother – not really, anyway.”

“And thank heavens for that,” she heard him murmur under his breath, and gave him a hard pinch in retaliation. “Now, if you think you can behave yourself for longer than two minutes at a time, it would be my pleasure to introduce you to the new addition to our family party.”

Mollified by the prospect, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and offered him a most demure smile. “I will be on my best behaviour, I promise.”

In short order, she was introduced into her sister-in-law’s bedchamber, greeted her with a kiss on her exceptionally pale cheek, and couldn’t refrain from taking hold of both of her hands and questioning her at length about her ordeal.

“Do not fret yourself so, my dear,” Deborah reassured her warmly, patting her on the arm. “It is not so very bad, and you will see for yourself how the blessing that comes of is well worth the pain.”

Arabella cast an extremely dubious glance at her pallid complexion and the look of utter exhaustion about her countenance. Still, Deborah’s eyes were sparkling with barely restrained joy, and she could hardly miss the brightness of her smile when the nurse strode in with her charge in her arms.

“My dearest sister, I would like you to meet your new nephew, Adrian,” Max announced, with no small amount of pride in his voice. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the delicate features of the sleeping infant’s face, his miniature hands curled in small fists around a corner of his blanket.

“He’s so tiny,” she breathed out in wonderment, extending a finger to trace the contours of one diminutive fist. “Did you say his name is – Adrian? Does our cousin know?”

“Not at present, though it will be our pleasure to inform him as soon as he visits, like he promised,” her brother smiled, his eyes searching for Deborah’s. “He is after all the reason why we met in the first place, and I cannot think of a better way to honour his – most unwitting – role in bringing us together.”

“Oh, but you must prepare yourselves, Mama will be most disappointed that you didn’t choose our late father’s name for the child,” Arabella said ruefully. “I wish I could talk her out of it, I really do, but you know her, Max.”

“I do,” Max nodded with a great deal of forbearance, and took hold of his infant son with such an air of practiced ease that had his sister most surprised. “Now, we shall go downstairs and introduce the little one to Olivia, thus sparing my darling wife the trial of being faced with my stepmother’s complaints until she’s well on her way to recovery.”

“That’s most considerate of you, dear husband,” Deborah laughed, her gaze lingering on the child with such undisguised tenderness that Arabella found herself wondering what it would be like, one day, to hold her own son or daughter in her arms.

9. Phoebe Mablethorpe (née Laxton)

Young Lady Mablethorpe quietly studied her husband as he leaned over the bassinet with an expression of pure rapture on his handsome face. He looked ever so pleased with their newborn daughter, and yet, she couldn’t seem to put her mother’s rather uncomplimentary speech out of her mind.

“Oh, Adrian,” she whispered timidly, walking up to his side. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do my duty and provide you with an heir. I promise it will be a son next time.”

The sudden, horrified look on her husband’s face gave her pause, and she didn’t even think to resist when he gathered her in his arms quite abruptly.

“Phoebe, how can you speak so! I find I have no words to express how much I love our little Deb, and I wouldn’t want to trade her for anything in the world, do you hear me?”

“I do,” she nodded meekly, hiding her face into his waistcoat. “It’s just, Mama says that – ”

His arms tightened around her, and she felt him press a fierce kiss on top of her head. “Dearest, I hate to speak ill of your mother, you know I do, but the truth is, you ought not listen to a word she says when it comes to such matters.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologised at once, nestling further into his embrace. “And I do love our daughter so, I hate to think she will be looked down by our families until I can bear you a son.”

Adrian chuckled, and placed a gentle finger under her chin. “Well, my mother for one is positively delighted with her granddaughter, if only because she’s already forming some serious designs for her to marry into the Ravenscar fortune. And you know how pleased our cousins are that we named her after Deborah.”

“I will never allow my daughter to be forced into matrimony against her will,” Phoebe declared with unshakable conviction, all but suppressing a shudder at the horrific memories of her parents explaining in no uncertain terms how it was her precise duty to accept, and even encourage, Sir James Filey’s suit. “Oh, Adrian, I don’t know what would have become of me, if you and Deborah hadn’t come to my rescue at Vauxhall Gardens.”

Her husband kissed her very tenderly, his fingers coming to rest at her cheek. “You don’t need to worry about that anymore. And I thank my lucky star that I found the most delightful companion for my life that night.”

Her heart swelling with joy, she found she had no room left to tie herself in knots over the past. And if their daughter chose to break the moment by making her presence known quite forcefully, that was surely her prerogative; as a new mother, she found she could hardly begrudge her child anything, let alone this.

10. Lucius Kennet

Strolling into the house in Berkley Square after an urgent summoning from Lady Bellingham, Mr Kennet was more than a little surprised to be welcomed by her ladyship rather than one of the servants.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Lucius,” Lady Bellingham proclaimed in a most agitated manner, clutching at her vinaigrette. “My poor nerves are in such a state, I swear I don’t know what to do with myself. Oh, to think that I should live to see the day – but I daresay I won’t, I can feel my spasms coming already.”

“Calm yourself, ma’am,” he urged her, not particularly moved by such a declaration. “And start from the beginning, if you please.”

“Foolish, headstrong girl! She says she shall never see him again, and he’s such a proud creature he will undoubtedly divorce her – we shall all be ruined, and there’s that poor child to be considered, it doesn’t even bear thinking!”

“I’m willing to bet any sum of your choosing that it won’t come to that, ma’am,” he replied with a considerable deal of amusement, earning a reproachful look from the respectable matron.

“I wish you would take this seriously, Lucius. You know very well how Deb is – she refuses to be reasoned with, and now she’s locked herself in one of the rooms upstairs, and she declares she won’t leave even if her husband comes here on his knees all the way from Grosvenor Square and begs for her forgiveness.”

Mr Kennet looked out of the window just in time to spot a carriage bearing the Ravenscar crest stopping in front of the house, and grinned in anticipation of a most diverting scene. “As to that, we shall have to wait and see,” he winked at her ladyship, and went to answer the door himself.

Ravenscar looked momentarily startled at his presence, but was quick to regain his composure, and barely deigned him with a contemptuous glance as he pushed past him and went straight for Lady Bellingham.

“I need to see my wife most urgently, ma’am,” the man gritted out between his teeth, his hat half crushed in his grip. “I beg you to give me leave to seek her out for myself.”

“And what makes you believe she’s here, hmm?” Lucius drawled from the entrance, his arms crossed in open defiance of Ravenscar’s wishes. If he knew his gentleman, he had more than half an idea of where all this was going, and he was determined to have his fun in the meantime.

“I would advise you to stay out of this, Kennet, or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Gentlemen, if you please,” cried out Lady Bellingham, reaching with trembling fingers for her smelling salts. “My niece is indeed upstairs, Sir, and I would lead you to her myself if I thought that would answer. I’m afraid nothing will serve while she’s in one of her tantrums, and I do declare she will be the death of me one day, but what can one do?”

As her ladyship looked perilously close to drop in a dead faint, Mr Kennet stepped forward to help her to the nearest chaise. The two gentlemen exchanged a tense look across the room, until Lucius eventually relented and nodded in the direction of the stairs.

“I’ll take care of the lady, you go upstairs and set our darling Deb to rights,” he smirked, feeling quite sure that, had Ravenscar not had way more pressing matters to attend, he would have happily knocked half the teeth out of his mouth.

It was nigh on half an hour later when Lady Bellingham came back fully to her senses, helped along by a glass of good Burgundy, and promptly resumed her gloomy predictions about the future.

“Think of the scandal, Lucius! I dismissed the servants as soon as I figured what Deb was up to, but I fear by then it was too late. And it can’t be helped anyway, if they’re set to have a breach, which looks more and more inevitable, and – oh, Lucius, they’re fully capable of murdering one another when they’re both in a rage, and where will that leave us?”

“If you have a little more patience, ma’am, you will see for yourself how everything will turn out for the best,” he hastened to reassure her, and indeed, he was soon proven right by the abrupt reappearance of Mr and Mrs Ravenscar, both of them looking oddly flushed, and more than a little sheepish besides.

“Not one word,” Deborah warned him as he took in their rumpled appearances, from his hastily rearranged cravat to the way her curls tumbled freely around her shoulders.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grinned, and poured himself a glass of wine. “I shall drink to your future happiness, my darling.”

Deborah blushed most endearingly, and turned her attention to the afflicted matron. “Dearest Aunt Lizzie, we’re very sorry for causing you such an unreasonable amount of trouble. With your permission, we shall be on our way presently.”

“Oh, go away, you impossible creature,” her aunt waved her off feebly. “Both of you.”

Ravenscar looked as embarrassed as he ever was, which was in itself most diverting. “My apologies, ma’am,” he bowed, somewhat uncomfortably, and offered his arm to his wife.

“Faith, if young Master Adrian doesn’t get a new playfellow within the next twelvemonth, then I’m not Lucius Kennet,” he laughed under his breath, and tossed off his wine.

[archangeldyke-all]

Sev showing off her card shuffling tricks to reader? (And yes, we can tell you’re ovulating lmao)

AHHAHAHWH

men and minors dni

"...and i can shuffle one handed..." sevika mumbles, a proud little smile on her lips, her eyes focused on her hands as she demonstrates all her card tricks to you.

she's just won a round in her little booth, and she's waiting for a new challenger to approach her. she's tipsy, relaxed, a hundred coins richer than when she entered the bar, and best of all, she's got you in her lap, scratching her scalp as she entertains you.

you're fucking enchanted with her, hypnotized with her skilled hands, loving the sweet, childlike look in her eye as she shows off.

"this is the classic riffle..." she says, "and then from here you can go into your fancier shuffles; bridges..." she shows off the move, "waterfalls... the faro... this one's banned in some clubs 'cause you can use it to cheat."

"oh, yeah?" you ask, not caring at all, but absolutely loving the sparkle in sevika's eye when you ask the question.

"yeah! 'cause it's a perfect interwoven shuffle-- so if you do it properly enough times you re-set the deck."

"'s it banned here?" you ask. she nods.

"yeah, but the idiots i play against are too stupid to realize when i use it." she whispers. you cackle, and sevika smirks. "this one's called the tenor..." she continues.

you have to bite your lip a little as you watch her big, strong hands, metal and flesh alike, dexterously and delicately fling the cards around, not dropping a single card or fumbling once.

sevika's none the wiser to how fucking hot she's making you-- she's lost in her nerdy rambling.

"then you got your table shuffling variations--" sevika drops the deck down onto the table top to demonstrate, but you reach out and grab her hand before she can start.

"sevika..." you whisper. sevika pulls her eyes up from her cards to look at you. "you've got sexy fucking hands." you say. sevika blushes, and you grin, reaching up to swipe your finger over her pink cheeks. "and a pretty face, too."

"sevika!" old billy calls from the front of the bar where he stumbles in. she blinks rapidly, biting her lip in embarrassment before turning to face her friend. "i'm gonna kick your ass tonight, young lady!" he teases, approaching your booth.

sevika gulps, and you giggle, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "better get your game face on, baby... seems like the man means business." you tease.

billy approaches the booth, smacking sevika's shoulder in a greeting, then bending down to kiss your cheek. "evening ladies." he greets.

"hi billy." you greet as he crawls into his booth.

"fuck's wrong with your face, sevika?" billy asks.

sevika squeaks and passes the cards to billy to let him shuffle, her hands clawing at your hips as she hides her embarrassment behind your shoulder.

you cackle, wave billy's concern away with your hand and pass him a cigarette as sevika tries to get her flustered blush under control.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re

@raphaellearp @iamastar @sevikitty @claude999

[hauntedparkinglot]

This probably isn’t gonna come up in the show but i feel like Arthur has a massive problem with women, lol. Not in a chauvinistic sense obviously, but the entire show is haunted by women who died around him, or died inadvertently by him. Bella, Sarah, Faroe etc. The lack of women with speaking roles makes sense of course but I feel that Arthur carries a shattered saviour complex around with him.

He’s always saying he “failed”. I wonder how motivated he is by the sensibilities of his time, if he believes he “failed” as a man, as a protector. I feel like he might unconsciously have avoided forming any type of connection with women after Faroe.

Idk, I’ve been thinking about Malevolent’s relationship with gender recently. It doesn’t overtly explore anything, but there’s so many major female players, weighing heavily down on the story, but never fully emerging. I think it’s interesting that all of Arthur’s female loved ones died young, and the only women who are able to appear ‘onscreen’ are undead, or elderly. When women show up, he’s either forced to reflect on the deaths he feels guilt over. Or, he has to confront reality, he’s not a saviour or a massive failure. Here’s a woman who didn’t die young, who he can’t save, who doesn’t need him too.

And LILITH. Unknown being who might be the most powerful thing in the multiverse. Who could be running the whole fucking thing. Protecting Arthur, shielding him from death. How the tables turn.

Also the show is voiced by a single guy so, y’know.

[transthadymacdermot]

Hatsune Miku gambles away the family fortune at the faro table as an eighteenth century Anglo-Irish aristocrat in Cork or perhaps Tipperary. ft The Obelisk

[spahhzy]

Jaune: Trivia, light of my life, mind explaining to me how our daughter started a Faro table in the 3rd grade?

Trivia, innocently: 'I don't know, and it's not Faro, it's highstakes UNO, but nonetheless I'm supremely proud of her! look at all she's brought in!'

Trivia opens her daughters pack back to see cookies, some trading cards, an assortment of hall passes, and one credit card that belonged to one Yang Xiao Long.

Jaune: Not going to lie, that's impressive, but let's return at least the credit card. The last thing we need is a Xiao-Long bursting in our home.

Trivia: 'Fine, but I will at least flaunt my daughters victory in her face first, it will be hilarious!'

Jaune smiles and laughs before nodding.

Trivia hugs her husband before going off to find her daughter and help her with homework (and give her some more tips in her little UNO scam)

[a-mossy-amethyst]

Hi! I saw your post about needing writing prompts. Maybe one of Faroe and Arthur going to the park and Faroe making flower crowns for the both of them? Or something similar :-]

Family fluff!! We love to see it <3 I swapped it to Arthur making the flower crowns, hope that's alright

The park is rich with life, children playing and parents watching and chatting with each other. Arthur wasn't good at all the small talk, dreading the question of where his wife was. He'd rather spend time with Faroe.

The two of them walk along a wide path lined with the occaisional bench. The grass surrounding is a vibrant green and littered with white and yellow flowers, a collage of nature. Trees sprinkled around the park outstretch their branches, drinking in the afternoon sun. Leaves shake with the wind, alive with the breeze. It's a sunny day, the sky a clear blue and the summer sun blinding.

It'd been a struggle to convince Faroe to wait after lunch, the noon heat to strong for her to run around in.

Arthur crouches down, whispering in a conspiratorial voice, “Look at all those flowers, Faroe!”

Faroe giggles. “I wan',” she says, still struggling with saying ‘t’. She tugs Arthur's hand towards the field, so small within his own.

“Do you want to look at them?” he asks, knowing full well they'll be going home with a handful of handpicked flowers. They have a cup of water on the dining room table full of small flowers Faroe collects. It’s endearing, but convincing her to let him throw out flowers that have wilted is a lesson in patience and comforting tears.

She nods eagerly, slipping her hand out of his and running off the path into the soft grass. Arthur watches her inspect each flower, overwhelmed by the amount. He follows at a leisurely pace.

Faroe sits down, falling into the grass with her legs sticking out. She grabs fistfuls of grass, waiting for her father's approval on the flower patch she chose. He joins her, folding his knees underneath him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and leans in to get a proper look at the flowers.

It's a patch of daisies with dandelions scattered about, sticking out from the grass.

“They're very pretty,” he observes, hooking a daisy between his fingers and tilting the flowerhead to face them better.

Approval obtained, Faroe begins picking the bigger flowers. She grabs them in fistfuls, the grass blades surrounding victims of her picking. Arthur plucks a long daisy and tucks it behind her ear, pushing her thick hair out of the way for it to stick out.

Faroe's eyes go wide, and she reaches for the flower. Arthur gently pulls her hand away. “Leave it,” he says, “it suits you.”

She frowns, and he chuckles. “I'll lift you up in front of the mirror at home so you can see it.”

That seems to satisfy her. She returns to collecting flowers.

Arthur brushes his hand through Faroe’s hair, gently avoiding tugging on knots. He tries his best to brush them out in the mornings, but anything save of completely soaking her hair makes it difficult. Faroe inherited Bella's hair, thick waves that got frizzy in the humid air unless she put enough product to tame it.

Her hair, his eyes. Blue and clear, a piercing gaze even from a child.

Faroe stuffs a handful of flowers into his hand. “Crown,” she demands.

“What's the magic word?”

Her cheeks puff up. “Crown, p’ease.”

Arthur grins, biting down his laugh. “Of course, darling.”

Tess taught him how to make flowers crowns. She made them a few times when taking Faroe to the park, and she absolutely loved them. Arthur is grateful she took the time to teach him– the struggle is worth seeing Faroe light up.

He takes the pile of small flowers from her and lays them out in front of him. He grabs two daisies and a dandelion, noting with gratitude Faroe had been careful enough to keep the stems on the longer side. He lines them up and begins braiding, twisting the flowers together with clumsy hands.

Faroe watches him at first, leaning in and poking at the flowers braided into place. He explains the process to her in a soft voice until she gets bored and returns to playing with the grass.

The sun bears down on them, coming in waves. It isn't as bad as it was earlier, but Arthur can still feel sweat collecting at the back of his neck. He quickens his pace on finishing the crown, tucking the ends into the beginning braid.

“All done! Look, Faroe, do you like it?” Arthur says, presenting the crown to her in open palms.

Faroe smiles and claps her hands, her lips curling in and revealing a row of tiny teeth. He slips the flower crown onto her head gently. She raises her hands to her head and pats at the crown.

“Careful,” Arthur warns her, worried about the crown’s fragility. He's gotten better over the past few attempts, but he's no expert.

Faroe complies, lowering her hands. She learned her lesson after she had messed with it too much the first time and it had fallen apart. The tears had left Arthur with a bleeding heart. And a headache.

Arthur looks around and spots an empty oak tree nearby. “Let's go to the shade, okay?”

Faroe looks up at him with wide eyes. He stands and picks her up, collecting the extra flowers with one hand and holding her in the other, careful to not let the crown fall. She wraps her arms around his neck, leaning into his chest.

Arthur dreads the day she'll be too big to be carried.

He strides over to the tree, setting her down at its base where the shade is best. He settles beside her, leaning his head back against the trunk.

“Baba,” Faroe says, patting his thigh.

Arthur looks down. “Yes, darling?”

“Crown.”

He smiles. “You already have one. See?” he asks, pointing to the flowers settled neatly on her head.

She shakes her head, frowning. “Crown,” she repeats, pointing at Arthur.

He blinks. “Me?”

She nods.

“I don't need a crown, that's for you.”

This does not satisfy her, and her lips start trembling. “Crown!”

“Wh– okay, okay, a crown for me, too,” Arthur assures, holding up the remaining flowers. He huffs. “You're quite the negotiator, aren't you?”

Faroe responds with a beaming grin, knowing she's won. Her eyes turn into little cresents, nearly closed. It's the most endearing sight.

He sighs, heart melting. “Well, you're adorable, so I’ll let it slide.”

He begins to twist the flowers into a second crown, but quickly finds he doesn't have enough. “Faroe, darling, won't you fetch me more flowers?”

Faroe looks up from her massacred grass patch. Arthur decidedly ignores the pulled out blades of grass strewn all over her legs and pats her back encouragingly. “C’mon, there’s a patch over there,” he says, pointing at a collection of dandelions a few feet away, just outside of the tree’s shadow. Faroe stands up and hobbles over to them, picking the flowers and inspecting them to make sure they suit her liking. Arthur twists a few strands while he waits.

She returns with another handful, dumping them into his lap.

“Very good, Faroe! These are perfect,” he praises, patting her shoulder instead of her head to avoid damaging her flower crown.

Faroe squeals and begins tapping his arm. “Crown! Crown!” She babbles.

“Yes,” Arthur laughs, “I'm working on it. Sit down beside me, you can watch.” He picks her up and sets her down beside him, tucked into his side.

Restless, she continues tapping his arm and outer thigh while he finishes working.

“There we go!” Arthur announces. This crown is much more yellow than Faroes, only the first few flowers from the original patch daisies. The rest are large dandelions, a warm bloom of liquid gold.

Faroe cheers. She grabs the crown and tries to place it on Arthur's head. He ducks down so she can reach better, adjusting it to sit steady.

“Thank you, my lady,” he says in a posh British accent.

Faroe giggles, patting his cheek. Arthur grabs her hand, giving a kiss to the back it.

It's a beautiful day, the sun shining, the sky clear, butterflies fluttering about. Arthur sits with Faroe and enjoys the summer from the shade of an oak tree, wearing matching flower crowns.

A few boys will laugh at his accessory and a mother with her two children will compliment it and coo over Faroe. Arthur barely registers them in his memory, the moment focused fully on his daughter.

[doingthingsthewriteway]

Daisy

summary: doc and his the trials of his love with his daisy

Tombstone burnt under the fire of the afternoon sun. Sweat beaded out of every pore, clothes clung tightly to aching chests, and buzzards circled in anticipation. Death was inevitably close in this heat.

Y/N had experienced the wet heat of the south her whole life but this heat was new. It passed through her chest without so much as a cough, hardly any plant could survive for her to be allergic to. If she escape the allergies of home, then she reckoned the heat of Tombstone was worth it.

Town appeared to be busy despite the heat. No one paused here to sit on porches, fanning themselves and sipping sweet tea. People ran about, some literally in a scurry to get away from the echoing gunshots that caused her to jump.

Traveling by herself, Y/N felt relatively safe. Her benefactor sent her along in the nicest car on the most modern line. The train wasn’t robbed and all her things arrived safely. Bandits seemed to be nothing more than a myth to frighten little boys and girls into staying home back east. People simply weren’t like that, or at least they weren’t until Tombstone.

Dashing young men with matching red sashes lingered like the hyenas she read about in the library. Cackling smiles and shrill whistles greeted her was she stepped off the train. Some dirty, some disgusting, and some downright devilishly handsome all circled around her as she collected her luggage.

Keeping her eyes down, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and readied herself to carry the chest to the hotel.

“Need some help miss?” A gravely young voice called, boots crunching rocks to dust under each step.

“No thank you.” Quick, quiet responses. Only to the point.

“I insist.” A brown hat was tipped her way. She squinted through the blinding sun to meet brown eyes and tough skin. “Johnny Ringo.”

“Mr. Ringo, I sincerely appreciate your offer, but I can carry my belongings to the hotel.”

As Ringo opened his mouth, a second figured approached. Dressed all in black, cigar dangling from his lips, badge shining in the sun. “I think the lady declined your services, Johnny.”

“You can stay out of this, Earp.”

“Let’s not turn this into something.” Earp, who seemed decidedly safer, grabbed the luggage himself. “Wyatt Earp..”

“Y/N Y/L/N”.

“Well Miss Y/L/N, let’s get you checked in.”

The hotel was much more extravagant than she had imagined. A booming town did not mean all the glamour of home, but this hotel rivaled some that she used to pass by.

“Rare thing a woman traveling alone to Tombstone.” Wyatt said, settling the luggage inside the hotel door. “What brings you here?”

“Dry air is supposed to help you breathe better. I can’t hardly breathe back home.”

With an understanding nod, Wyatt tipped his hat and left. He had a faro table to run.

Unpacking was an easy affair. Hardly any of her belongings were packed with her. Her benefactor saw to it that only thing things she would need would make it with her. Anything else was simply sentimental junk of a decidedly unpleasant childhood that could be sold and split between the two.

Opening the window, she sat down on the chaise lounge next to it and took a deep inhale. Yes, this would do.

Yelling broke out in the streets below. Daring a peek outside, she saw Mr. Earp intervening with more of the red sashed men. Another figure strode across the street, black hat sat just askew. His southern drawl rattled in an echo across the street as he joined Mr. Earp.

A warning shot from the new gentleman broke up the ordeal. Earp and company glanced toward the hotel, finding a blushing Y/N staring out the balcony. “Busy town, Miss Y/L/N.” Mr. Earp called.

She nodded, blush still burning her cheeks. “Seems so.”

The other man tipped his hat with a wink and followed Mr. Earp into the saloon. Yes, Tombstone seemed quite busy.

Darkness fell before Y/N ventured out again. The heat of the day, the bittersweet realization that this was her life now all boiled over into an afternoon’s rest. She redressed, thankful that she didn’t have the finer silk dresses that would make the men notice her. Being noticed, especially by a red sash, was not something she was looking for.

Plain yet pretty, she left the security of the hotel and headed down the dusty streets of Tombstone. Dinner would be nice, though she supposed she could get it back in her room if all else failed.

The red embers of cigarettes glowed in the dusk, illuminating the men who leaned on porches waiting for something exciting to happen. As she passed a lively building, The Oriental according to the sign, one such figured called out for her.

“Pardon me, I believe I have not had the pleasure in making your acquaintance.” A deep southern drawl rolled.

Y/N paused briefly, determined to keep walking though manners made her at least stop for the man. “Oh?”

Slow footsteps creaked along the wooden porch and down onto the dirt. A dramatic wave of his hand, removed his hat. The stranger bowed, finger tips reaching out to brush against her hand. “I apologize for so rudely staring at your earlier, but I fear I was too distracted by both your beauty and the rapscallion nature of those cowboys to properly introduce myself.”

“You were with Mr. Earp?”

“Wyatt?” Oh how stretched the vowels were from his tongue. “Why yes, Wyatt Earp is my best friend. Though I would rather not spend my evening discussing him when I could be discussing you. John Henry Holliday, miss.”

She returned her name quietly, cheeks a flutter with pink as he took her hand and brought it to her lips. The hairs of his mustache tickling her skin just slightly. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Holliday.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink?” A devilishly glint flickered in his green eyes.

“You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve never drank.”

A boisterous laugh rattled into a cough. Mr. Holliday wiped at his lips with a handkerchief and quickly tucked it away. “Well darlin’, you’ll find Tombstone is a wonderful place to start.”

Dinner and a nightcap became common place between Y/N and Mr. Holliday. With some effort, she even got to the point of calling him Doc, a sound that when first said made Doc’s eyes roll back with lust. Yes, Doc was sure of it, he was smitten.

She would often talk around the concept of home while they ate and drank. Doc had not forgotten what life was like for a women in the south, though his dear cousin had some wealth to her name. Y/N appeared to have enough, but the scars and freckles that dotted her skin told him her life was far less leisurely than his youth.

Other times she would discuss literature and the little library she had worked at. These conversations especially aroused him. He’d bring novels and read to her as they strolled back to the hotel. Her eyes would shine at him as if he had written the prose himself.

Y/N reminded him of slow kisses under Spanish moss covered trees, of peach juice dribbling out of rosy lips, or warm milky skin he could sink his teeth into. She was a grand home with open windows and billowing curtains, piano music playing and a library of books to read. Yes, Doc was sure of it, he was falling in love. What a horrible thing.

Doc would walk her back to The Grand after a stiff drink (his darlin’ preferred bourbon) and then return to The Oriental to gamble and drink the night away. He never dared enter the hotel, always kissing her hand goodbye on the steps. For if the clerk saw, he knew he would be done for.

While hope and love lingered in his chest, squeezing him tightly, he never fully let himself indulge in that pleasure. After all, he was just a lunger waiting to die. He’d soil the the very name of any respecting woman with his desires and for once he didn’t have it in him.

Y/N finished up her bourbon, eyelashes fluttering up at him. “Will you let me pay tonight?”

“So stubborn for such an angelic face.” Doc grinned while paying her bill. “But no, darlin’. I am but a gentleman.”

The air was easier at night, cool and crisp against their skin. She was wrapped around his arm, head resting against his bicep. “Doc?” He let out a hum. “Do you…” she wasn’t sure what question longed to be asked. Do you like it here? Do you want to come up to my room? Do you like me?

“Nevermind. It’s silly.”

“Silly? From my little daisy? Nonsense.” Doc spun her around in his arms, holding her. The bustle teasing him through the fabric of her dress. Green eyes commanded attention. Calloused fingertips held her soft chin in his hands.

“Do you believe in love?”

Without missing a beat, he smiled his crooked smile. “Why yes, Y/N, yes I surely do.” Tenderly, his lips brushed her forehead. “Now, let’s get you to bed my dear.”

So it continued over several weeks. Touches becoming longer, necklines becoming lower. Guilt gnawed at his chest, thorny vines of shame bubbling out his throat. Pushing that away, Doc focused on hustling, gambling, drinking, and hating Johnny Ringo.

Wyatt puffed on a cigar, frowning as Doc engaged with Ringo. As Doc boasted that he was, “In his prime.” Wyatt reached for a gun under the table. Doc’s favored lover, Kate, stood at his side.

“Yes.” Johnny Ringo nodded, tipping his head toward Kate. “I’m sure your daylight darlin’ would love to know that.”

Doc lunged at Ringo causing a series of tumbling until Ringo was tossed out of the bar. “Fine you lunger, I’ll tell her!”

Fear set in. A cold fear chilled Doc’s bones like when he watched his mother die of the consumption. Death would be a relief in comparison to the heartache of losing his Y/N. Doc spent more of his evenings in her company and less in Kate’s. Once he was sure Ringo was nothing more than a belligerent drunk, (not wholly unlike himself) Doc resumed his usual activities.

Perhaps there was a thrill or he was a glutton for punishment. Doc was never sure. He would swear that he would spend the money he won on Y/N and when she asked what he did for a living hiding behind the badge of Wyatt Earp was a wonderful response.

Still, Y/N longed for more of her Doc. Thoughts and desires consumed her soul so much so the priest at confession was blushing. She wanted Doc in all the ways possible on this earth and beyond. She wanted to care for him, carry his name and his child, be his for whatever time he had left.

She dreamt of him, even on the day that a splitting headache and painful reminder she did not bare his fruit it. Y/N cancelled their usual dinner plans in exchange for a bath. Though the longer she soaked in the lavender (that he bought, the scent almost close to the lilac bushes from his youth), the pain rolled into longing. Deciding on the nicest dress he bought her, she dressed and pinned up her hair.

It was later than usual for their time together, but she couldn’t wait to see his eyes twinkle and his plump lips turn up into a smile. Rushing down the stairs, she made her way to The Oriental.

And, just like it had months ago, the darkness illuminated a man outside. Not her long and lean hero, but his devilish foil. The red sash around Ringo’s waist swayed in the breeze.

“Why Miss Y/L/N, The Oriental at night is no place for a woman of your nature. Perhaps it best I escort you home.”

“I’ll be quite alright, Mr. Ringo. Thank you.”

If Johnny wasn’t weathered by sun and by time, he would have felt remorse. Or perhaps loyalty to Doc. They were not that different and neither man deserved the sweet settling nature of Y/N. So yes, he decided, he was going to break Y/N’s heart.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you darlin’.”

The Oriental bounced with life. Music blared from the piano , whiskey sloshed on the floor, and cards fell on tables. It was very different from the space she was used to with Doc. But the thought of Doc and breathing in his scent was enough to draw her in.

Pausing at the bar for a drink, she surveyed the saloon. Wyatt sat proudly in the dealers spot, smoking. His eyes caught Y/N’s with a wince.

Y/N trailed her eyes in the direction of Wyatt’s. Her chest tightened like the attacks she used to get back home. Doc sparkled with sweat, beads of it drenching his shirt. An empty bottle sat on the table, the only buffer between him and the woman.

Y/N didn’t know the woman, hadn’t really seen her around. Still, not knowing who she was didn’t really lessen the pain of what she was. She was Doc’s. The woman patted the sweat off his forehead and stroked through his hair. And worst of all, only one of Doc’s hands was visible.

A burning rose through Y/N’s throat with the heartache. Her eyes blurred with tears. She desperately wanted to scream at him, to even whisper his name would do. But all she could do was let out a cough to mask the sob and leave.

“I’m walking you home, Miss Y/L/N.” Ringo held out his arm but Y/N pushed by it.

“Jesus woman, don’t you understand that lunger doesn’t care?!” Ringo shouted grabbing her elbow. “He sees her every night.”

He pulled her tight to his chest. Rough hands reached under her skirt grabbing the virgin flesh underneath. “He does?” It sounded pathetic falling from her lips.

“He beds her in that same boarding house you’re in.”

The wail that left het lips was enough for a crowd to rush out. Wyatt, heroic as ever ran out with Doc trailing behind. Johnny released Y/N from his hold but not before letting Doc see the tearful girl covered in Johnny’s hands.

“Nothing to see here,lunger.” Johnny cackled. “Just a broken heart.”

Johnny disappeared into the night as Doc approached. “Darlin’?”

She turned away from him marching back to the boarding house. “Y/N!”

Picking up her skirts she began to run. Tears stinging her skin, she flew up the stairs to her room. The wind blew in from her opened window; tombstone smelled of death.

Doc stood in the dusty streets. Wyatt offered an assuring squeeze to his shoulder. “I fear I may have defiled myself.”

“A young women scorned is not easily fixed.” Wyatt offered a tight smile.

Doc chased her into the hotel, just missing her slam the door. He knocked on her door, “Y/N? Darlin’ please let me in.”

He rattled the doorknob with urgency. “Please.”

The door swung open revealing a teared stained face. A book hit him, followed by another, and then a third and a dress. “Take your shit Mr. Holliday.” She seethed.

The sound of his name brought his first tear. “Now listen to me, you don’t call me that.” A scolding finger pointed in her face.

Smacking it away, she spat at him. “We have no acquaintance. I was a fool to think I could mean anything to you.”

“Stop that.” He begged fear spiraling through his veins. This was it. He had done it. Ruined something good with evil like his family told him he always would.

“I hate you.”

Doc grabbed her wrists and pulled her to his chest. His arms feeling just like the snare of Ringo. Perhaps all men where just as vile.

“Please, Y/N, say whatever you must just never that.” His lips forced their way onto her skin. Kissing her neck and her lips as she struggled again him. “Damn me, curse me, hell shoot me just never say that.”

Wriggling out of his grasp, chest heaving, Y/N broke down to the floor. “What else is there to say?”

Doc sat with her between his knees, clinging tightly. “I can only apologize for weakness.”

“Every night you bed her down the hall. You’re no gentleman. I am but an object to amuse you. You neither respect nor love me and it’s horrifying that I wanted to bare everything you could give me.”

Everything? Had she shared in his lustful fantasies? Did she fully return his affection? “I sincerely want everything with you, daisy.”

“No.”

Doc stayed until she fell asleep in a pitiful puddle in his arms. He carried her to bed, earning a wheeze from his lungs.

The cough was worse the next day. His handkerchief blood soaked by midday. It was no surprise to Wyatt when he rushed Doc back to his room, the doctor in tow.

As blood bubbles from his lips, he begged for Y/N. She did not come nor respond when Wyatt pounded on the door. The second day of Doc’s fever, Y/N quietly pleaded at Wyatt to go away.

It was on the third day that the door opened to Wyatt. Dressed plain, no longer donning the silky dresses Doc had bought her, Y/N emerged. Eyes sunken in and skin marked with tracks of tears, she headed to Doc.

“How is he?”

Wyatt offered a sad smile. “Sorry.”

“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Earp.”

A frown crossed his lips as his stomach lurched. “Please, Miss Y/N, don’t shut me out. You’re my friend.” Wyatt sighed. “He’s a dying man unless someone can settle him down. His fever comes and goes.”

There was a stillness in the room that made her stomach churn. Windows were open, letting in better air. The room was filled with the things she’d thrown at him. The dress crumbled up next to him in bed, the books scattered around with pages marked or weighted down.

Y/N watched the slow nature of his chest rise and fall with breathe. Ignoring the sudden numbness in her throat, crossed the room to his bedside. Removing the cloth from his forehead, she wrung it out and refilled in the water basin.

Tenderly, she washed his face, neck, and bare chest. She fluffed up the pillows and pulled the sweat stained sheets down. “Ask for more sheets when you leave. I’ll stay with him today.”

Wyatt merely nodded, waiting to smile until he was out of sight. Doc might just be a lucky bastard yet again.

She cleaned up the room and refilled water while Doc slept. Lunch was delivered just before A coughing fit roused him from a fitful sleep. “Drink.” She held a cool glass to his lips.

Doc merely nodded, revealing in the relief of water on this throat. He opened his mouth to speak but her finger tapped his lips. “No. Even if I wanted to hear what you had to say, you need to rest your throat.”

She sat the glass down. “I’m going to change the the top sheet if that’s alright.” Glazed eyes focused on her and he nodded.

As she peeled back the sheets she did her best not to stare at him. His lean body shimmering with sweat. Muscles rippled beneath curls of hair that trailed down his chest to something she had only dreamed about.

Tucking him into the new sheets, her chest hurt with the thought that someone else had seen him and touched him. Someone who wasn’t here while he lay dying. Pleasure would not be here to give.

A clammy hand grabbed her wrist and led her hand over his stomach. Whines left his throat.her cool hands were a relief and he needed that in more ways that just one.

“No.” Things were different. Just three days before she would have slipped into the delirium of his touch. But now, bile crawled up her throat.

She left his side momentarily to grab soup and a spoon. “It’s cooled enough so it shouldn’t hurt. You must eat and rest.”

Doc might have been delirious with fever, but he was hopeful. None of his escapades had ever valued his life the way she seemed too. His very soul lay between gentle hands that fed him. Flashbacks of himself at his mothers side broke through bought of fever and he was certain that this was love.

It was late that night when Doc awoke with a start. Pain no longer resonated with each breath. Sweat did not fall over him.

Pushing himself up against the headboard, he rolled his shoulders. Adjusting to the candle lit room, he knew he was not alone. Linen pants and a cotton tie front shirt were folded at the foot of the bed. He grabbed them, they didn’t smell of sweat or liquor, they were new. Water was running in his bathroom.

Leaning on his cane, thighs trembling with each step. Nudging the door open, he finds Y/N on her knees filling the claw foot tub. A minty smell tickles his nose and swirls into his chest. He breathes without much pain.

The cotton of her slip is all she wears under a corset. Lace flowers and ivory fabric that he had not yet gotten to see taunt him. “Why I do believe this is heaven.”

If Doc squinted, he was sure he saw a crinkle of a smile. “Let me help you in.”

“Why yes I’m sure of it now, this is heaven. I fear have been wrongly placed I am a sinner of the worst kind.” A hum of acknowledgment told him enough.

Gentle hands held his as she trembled into the bath. Easing himself in, his lungs cleared momentarily. “I can breathe.”

“Eucalyptus. Group of travelers were selling it when I went to buy your clothes. Said it helped.”

“My modern woman.” A blissful sigh let his lips at another deep inhale. “How long did the doctors give me?”

A sharp glare chilled the steaming bathroom. “You could live if you changed.” Y/N snapped. “But you choose to drink and smoke and bed whores every night. Perhaps I wasted my time on a dead man.”

He’s convinced his heart breaks again then. Watching green eyes trail with tears, his own reflecting the same. “Please do not think of me as time ill spent.”

“I will not think of you at all.”

“Daisy, that is even worse.” He reached for her hand once more, finding nothing. “Please?”

Fingers brushed his. “I’m leaving.”

For the first time since his raising from the dead, Doc coughed. Eyelashes fluttering rapidly. “I beg your pardon?” Doc imagined a lot of things with Y/N and none of those were leaving Tombstone (or at least not without their family and Wyatt).

“I have no prospects here. My benefactor provided plenty of funds. I’ve heard Denver has nice mountain air.”

“No prospects? What ever do you mean? My intentions were not clear to you?” Calloused fingers stroked her jaw.

“I’m as good as used.” She forced her bruised wrists to him. Pulling up her shift, he saw purple finger tips scattered on precious skin. “He touched me Doc, like you touched her. No one will marry me now.”

Like you touched her. Envy, rage, regret, and list churned in his stomach. A Pitiful series of “No’s” left his lips as he pulled her towards him by her skirt. He tried to stand but she eased him back in. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” It was small, barely a whisper. Water splashed over the tub and onto her giving peeks of sweet skin underneath.

“I do not deserve the luxury of you.” His finger trailed over her collar bone and up her neck. “I have not felt happiness like this since I was a foolish young man. Still foolish now.” Tracing the rose of her lips, he tapped her plump bottom lip forcing his finger just between. “I’m deviant Y/N, I’m a vile sinner who thinks unspeakable things about you daily and wanted to ruin it. Why live when you could not possibly want me to tarnish you?”

“What about your intentions you just spoke of?”

“Well my daisy I am selfish as well. I want To keep you as my wife. I just have these vices I wish to shield you from. I love you more than life. I would die to keep you happy.”

“Oh doc please don’t say such things!” She flung herself around his shoulders hugging him close.

Slowly, due to his healing and uncertainty of their relationship, he peeled her into the tub. Still clothed in now sheer cotton, Y/N dared a peek out from the crook of his neck. “Doc?” Breathy, she hardly recognized her own voice.

“May I have the pleasure of loving you?” He trailed finger along her clavicle. “Of keeping you as mine?”

“Yes.”

“Forever Mrs. Holliday?”

Daring a kiss to his lips, she hummed. “Forever.”

[contentment-of-cats]

Fun and Games

This has been kicking around in drafts for a few months. I was cleaning it out and...

With thanks to @shards-of-silver for getting me off my ass.

Upon promotion to senior lieutenants, there are perks.

Ensigns sleep a dozen to a barracks, junior lieutenants share a four-rack of bunks around a common area and share sanitary facilities. Senior officers of lieutenant commander or higher have their own private quarters increasing in size and amenities, and at flag rank a suite of rooms. But nothing beats the heady rush of getting your own room with a door that closes. Despite what the contractors say, those bunk partitions don't do squat to stop you from hearing every snore, fart, or wet dream from your fellow juniors. There's a corresponding increase in cubic storage along with the bigger room and one may trust the newly-minted senior loots to go a little crazy.

Thrawn as a new commodore aboard rearranged officers' quarters by duty station, so now all bridge officers are housed a literal thirty second run to the bridge or assigned six-man lifepod. Faro has always run a looser ship in terms of culture, and there are times when bridge officers' country is decorated for various holidays and observances. For example, observances of Longnight see small dishes of food and lanterns set out to guide and appease the spirits of those lost in the vastness of space. But today there is something new outside of Agral and Pyro's twofer.

A sign-up.

It's a datapad on a sticky at reading level with a stylus on a cord.

"Sign up for tabletop games night - Quests & Quarries, Pirates & Privateers, Hyperspace Hellscape, Ancient Lands Archaic Warfare, and other RP games coming to a horizontal surface near you!"

The list is growing fast.

A note above the hatch control says, "Game in progress. ENTER QUIETLY."

"Already the social hub," Faro mutters and then jumps out of her skin when Thrawn agrees with her. Even in boots, he moves almost silently. "Let a lass know, sir! You almost scared it out of me!"

Thrawn's shadow - Vanto - is not here or otherwise she'd have stood a better chance of hearing the approach. He is looking at the sign-up sheet and then at the door sign, then turns to her.

"These are not like Scrabble?"

Pyro's love of table games is legend. She even collects them.

"No, Commodore. These are, well, a kind of strategy game." Thrawn visibly brightens. His skin changes color, his pupils disappear as the nictitating membrane crosses them in a three-part blink. "Players create characters and ascend levels in different scenarios called dungeons. It's kind of like academy war-gaming, but more flexible and personalized."

"They will not mind if we enter and observe?"

"They'll snap to attention for a flag officer on deck or I'll have them cleaning the stormtroopers' urinals with ear swabs, but I do not think they'll object."

Faro taps the hatch open and as they step in Vanto barks, "Commodore on deck!"

The response is satisfyingly swift.

"Officers, as you were," Thrawn nods. "I do not wish to disturb the game in progress, only to observe."

Of course, the furniture is bolted to the deck, but there are an additional folding couch and two additional folding chairs added to the room and-

"Pyrondi, where did you get the holotop?" Karyn hasn't seen one in probably twenty years. This one replaces the low table normally issued to this accommodation, bolted down as per regs. "It's got to be a month's pay."

"I bought it at an antiquities shop on Coruscant. Lomar did the new innards, and then all of us wrote code." Us being - apparently - herself, Lomar, Hammerly, Barlin, Agral, Yve, and Carvia.

"Major Carvia, what is your part in this madhouse?" The man budges loots up the couch to make room for their captain and commodore in the armchairs. "Surely you're not a player?"

"I helped Pyro carry this up here and did the coding for groundpounder dungeons. No offense, but this bunch is all Navy." The major wags his finger at Pyro. "I will thank you, youngster, not to refer to items as 'antiquities' that I am old enough to have owned brand new."

"Everyone do a stretch, get some snacks, and we'll come back into it in fifteen?" Pyro asks and everyone agrees, getting up a little stiffly after hours gaming. "Sync and go."

Thrawn looks over the table, at first studying the current dungeon, but then with more interest at the leather-bound manuals of flimsi, and beautifully made sets of dice and other paraphernalia.

"Please, Lieutenant, explain." Thrawn settles in one of the armchairs, accepting one of Pyro's fruit teas and a packet of sweets.

"Well, first these are the handbooks for players and dungeon masters. These others are for aspects - beings, arms, character classes." Pyrondi takes a small bag and empties it into her hand. "These are my dice."

"Is a gambling chip counted as dice?" Thrawn looks intently. "These are thystine and aurum leaf, correct?"

"If a binary decision is needed, yes, it counts. They are thystine, but as you can see, every player has their set and aside from the chip they can have sets of seven to fifteen, it depends what games they play."

Vanto's set is doonium, which makes Thrawn smile fleetingly. Carvia's is some kind of bone or ivory. Agral's is synthetic fireopal. All sets are as individual as the player.

Oh, no. ART.

"And what about the crystal ball?" Karyn asks. It's a perfect sphere set on an elaborate base.

"Oh, that's a toy I picked up from a junk dealer. He said it didn't work, but when you ask it a yes-or-no question it gives you a nonsensical answer. Watch. Is the mess going to serve hash for firstmeal again?"

The sphere roils with smoke and then shows a wavering answer in its center.

Better not tell you now.

"See? It gives positive, negative, or non-committal answers. To be fair, I don't want to know if we're having hash again."

The players filter back in and take their places as Thrawn is given a rough crash course in play. Pyrondi looks around, sets up a triptych screen to hide her materials and plans, and then asks if everyone is ready. Snacks and drinks to hand, all affirm and the game resumes. Karyn watches her superior as he watches the game with eyes bright. Pyro is a force of chaos and order, handling players firmly but also throwing wild situations at them. The dice can't be rigged or fooled on a dice pad, holding them firm.

Thrawn reminds his officers that night phase is coming, and they have watch coming up. The party breaks up with others putting the room back to order and bidding good rest.

"If you do not mind, Lieutenant, Captain Faro and I will join for the next game."

"Please do, sir. The more the merrier."

Karyn almost groans but holds it in.

"As I remember, you said the same thing before you wiped the walls with me at Scrabble."

Pyro only grins. "Good rest, sirs."

[podcast-song-showdown]

Let's hear from our friends at the table:

"1. The title is baller 2. Lo-fi beats to plot a heist at god's house to 3. Watch this animatic to see it in context: https://youtube.com/watch?v=MOXZ7ZQcndo"

"A beautiful piano melody that the main character composed for his (now deceased) daughter. Plays at a few key points in the show (and also whenever Arthur gets his hands on a piano). Makes me feel emotions."

[aventvrina]

your future never existed- featuring Kakavasha & Aventurine

summary: to seize fate by the throat, we have no choice but to stake everything and kakavasha will reap for every chance (tw: descriptions of death & blood)

What's done can't be undone. All we can do is play the cards we're dealt with, and rake in as much time as possible.

When: 2157/8 amber era - ??? / ??? / ??? year

Where: [redacted] . [redacted] . Pier Point

"If I come back alive, you'll give me thirty Tanbas. Deal?" "Sorry, but that won't do. Don't forget your place, slave. You're not qualified to be at the table." "You're just a chip, a life thrown away in someone else's hands." "It's all or nothing. Don't embarrass me my lucky hound."

What toll does survival take?

Famine-boned hands clench dripping metal, the other lays flat where his body fell. It is still not a corpse, there is still breath, struggled, gurgling, weak, a pathetic show of desperation to cling onto something taken for granted. A life cut short is always a tragedy, but this is catharsis. Kakavasha takes great pleasure watching agony petrify over the slave master's face. A few system hours ago he had witnessed the same expression upon another, the last innocent who also fell by his hands, someone who had not deserved it but in the end it didn't matter. Out of thirty-five, he was the lucky winner, a feat he's forced to acknowledge for it was this victory that granted him this very moment.

He didn't do it to avenge them, corpses do not beg for retribution. He didn't do it for himself, his odds have been stacked since he first drew breath, misery written by others as a trial he must go through for a mission higher than him. He didn't do it for honor, that he never had, could never have again after all he's been put through at the hands of those who pass the chips. In the end, he did it for the seat. To steal the place at the table, to force himself upon it. To take by force the chance he was denied.

The moment feels infinite. Like a candle in the wind, life leaves the body, blood languidly spreading through the carpet much like smoke thins in the air, the only reminder that there was once a life. He can tell the exact moment it happens, there's a specific stillness to the dead, one he has grown accustomed to witness. Despite the brutality, death is a peaceful thing, it pauses time, forces it to a momentary stop, as it grants the soul a respite. Then, the eyes dull, the breath fades, and the dead is left in the quiet solace of whatever last thought crossed their mind.

His hands are cold, looking down he can see red turn copper as it dries, he wonders where he can wash it off. As it is now, there's still time before he has to move. No alarms have rang, he's smart enough to make himself scarce before the body is discovered.

But first, he must clean his hands if he's to play the game.

Death leaves a mark. It's invisible and tangible all at once, an irksome feeling that sticks to the skin no matter how many times it's washed. It's a parasite that plagues the host with it's presence. Irremovable, weighted, unseen, the subtle torment of a feasting leech.

Still, as he stands accused, unable to hide his hands, left fist shaking with the strength he clenches the chain, he cannot fail. The confidence of gambler masks even the guilt of a murderer.

The purpose was not to have him sentenced to begin with. This is, after all, where he'll finally partake in the game. All the suffering, all those corpses, all the people who pushed him forward, it was for this moment. The chip eyes the dealer in challenge. All he needs is thirty Tanbas, all he needs is that one chance that'll have him climb higher than ever. For that, the serpent must be fed. And he's willing give everything.

"Thirty Tanbas, I'll give you that, and much more than that. Wealth, status, power... the IPC will give you whatever you want, even what you don't want."

He smiles.

His name is buried. His chains are are bathed in gold. In an absurd turn, death leeches but does not kill. Still, it is felt. Aventurine's first gift to himself are gloves. Though unseen, they hide enough for him to feel that his hands won't stain the chips, at least not the innocent ones.

Aventurine is a sight. There's nothing in him that would make others question whether he's fit for the game. He's fuller, soft cheeks with color, hair clean and styled, adorned high brand clothes, expensive watches and heavy rings. He's everything he could ever hope to be. Were it not for his eyes he could almost divorce their image from one another.

He already lies so much about himself, to himself, what harm would it do to lie about his origins. But his eyes betray, the past, even buried, lingers in them. And with them comes the reputation, followed by the scorn. Still, he can work with that. If anything it's something he prefers. Were he to choose, he'd rather they hate him. At least then he can be sure there is no real interest in him. Eyes won't linger, hands won't seize what they shouldn't. He'll be free to act without giving and use them without remorse.

He straightens his jacket, the mirror reflects. Despite it all, he's still there. The blessed eyes, the exploited body, the broken soul, they're all still there. That's all he is, all he'll ever be. But it's enough. The miserable lying chip is enough to get him exactly where he needs to go.

However the destiny of the victor is that the rest are to lose. Only one player can win in the end.

"The Avgins in Sigonia... what happened to them afterward?"

"Unfortunately, there are no more Avgins in Sigonia. You're the last lucky dog."

"What about those people who helped me on planet ██? Now I can finally repay their kindness."

"They are no more, either."

The aventurine shines. They say the stones reflect their users and with that he must agree. In it's silver encase the cornerstone looks almost regal, were it not for it's natural dull shine, it could almost pass as precious. Just like him, this stone pretends to be higher, dresses for what it'll never be, yet deep down, it stays the same.

But if the stone is the same as him, then it's completely worthless. In the end, it'll be shattered beyond recognition, it's value diminish, it's color dull, abandoned, replaced. There's several fates for the mocking glint and it's aeonic power. Still, the stone's fate should not be his. It may reflect his heart but it's delusional if it thinks that he cannot live without it. The void it tries to fill is far more bigger than a cornerstone. So he lets it shine it's mockery, lets it whisper what he has always thought of himself. It doesn't matter.

He already buried Kakavasha, he can bury Aventurine too.

It was a success. In the end, Aventurine lives while the cornerstone is but dust. And even if that in itself would frighten even the higher ups, the sacrilege of erasing a part of Qlipoth's power themselves, he could really care less. He's back exactly where it started and his end hasn't changed. He cannot be afraid of what he has always known. As he did all those years ago, he'll wager for his place again.

There's a certain thrill that satisfies that hollowness, the leech feasts in delight with every gamble he takes. In the game of unexpected hanging, he wins by expecting death at every hour. Diamond won't sentence him, and even if he does, there's always a chance.

He has made it this far and he can go further. There's no bigger pleasure than testing the boundaries of his destined death.

And what toll does survival take?

The past? The future? Others? Himself?

At least he survives. At least he can say that.

Whatever he killed to survive, within or without, at least there’s enough left of him to say it.

At least he's still sitting at the table, he's still playing.

[deadboyfriendd]

Cochise V: Fin

Summary: A dinner party turns into forever.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone!AU, drug use, drug overdose (apparent suicide), death of minor character by hanging, period-appropriate death and violence, angst, fluff, smut

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 869

“You figure we should get married?” He’d asked, turning his head to look at you. 

A gilded light streams steady through heavy canvas drapery and spills on to the floor in an abundant, golden puddle. The heat of the sun is already beginning to warm the floor in which it shines. A wide smile beams up at you, from the daguerreotype daughter of southwest Arkansas. She sits, hand and hand, still in a dance alongside Wilhelm. Tight-lipped smile wrapping itself around a wireframe structure– just the way you had left him. 

Your thumb traces the indent of twine over your ring finger, where the gold of your wedding band once sat. It rolls over itself, now worn and soft over your skin. You know that, later today, a string from the same expanse would be passed over the same way by chips and cards in a game of Faro. You recount the memory of moments past;

“No. Do you?” You’d replied, truthfully. 

“You don’t think about it?” He asked again, turning over onto his side. 

You flipped over in synchrony, eyes meeting his, “We’ve both done this before.” 

We both know how it ends.

“But not with each other.” 

You wouldn’t meet his eye. Instead, you turned, willing back the tears that always came too late. Eddie had habituated the upstairs home in coexistence with the hollowness of Wilhelm’s presence. 

His boots sat in the same place by the front door, though, one sat toppled over in the remnant memory of a sloppy, chaste dance from the night before, chair at the table left out turned sideways from bearing the same sloppy weight moments after. 

You think back to that smile. The glimmer of it is drowned by the refraction of light off of the remnants of your wedding band– blinding. The silt of violence stirs within you at the thought of these things in their place, placating sadness and the same hollowness of a second dead husband– how the world was cruel in that nature, to rob you of this peace twice. 

You thought to distrust it, though, you would still marry Wilhelm again knowing the way it ended. 

There would be no white dress, no poppies in spring covering the vast expanse of the wildflower west. There would be no veil to cover a face gleaming with innocence. No, this land was too harsh for that. 

Your brain settles on a place far off in the dissonance. A table that resembled your own with four chairs. Christine is charming, you’d decided. She was funny in a way that was almost mean. She was hardened– but not as much as you. You imagined yourself as friends. 

Your brain etches in the details of Wilhelm’s face. Kind eyes that you would never forget, laugh lines that you filled in after the fact. You’d swore you’d never forget, though, as it seems, time had cast a vignette around him. He would clap Eddie on the shoulder, whisper things for men’s ears only to Eddie– in which Eddie would fill you in after dinner. Wilhelm would know this, as well. 

You think of bidding them farewell. Of a hug and a promise of more dinner plans to come. But for now, it was goodbye. They would retreat back to their home past where the sun set. You would stay alight in its blaze. 

“I’m not promising you forever.”

“Is this for better or for worse?”

“We’ve already lived through the worst. Just us. Don’t give me your covenants,” He’d bartered quietly. He hesitated to touch you, “Please, honey, just a promise.” 

“A promise?” You’d asked, finally, turning back over your shoulder to look at him. “I can make a promise.” 

He’d nodded, sifting through your sewing box until he settled upon it. A thin leather twine. No covenant. No superstition. 

The west would be won, but not by him. Not now. 

Eddie settles in that same place, though, it is after dinner. He waits beneath the softness of your sheets. They no longer smell foreign.

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He allowed himself to free-float into the stagnant desert air. 

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“What did Wilhelm say to you? After dinner?” 

He sat back at that table. You had been correct. Wilhelm was tall, much taller than him. He was intelligent and not as gruff. In the beginning, he’d wondered why you’d chosen to love him after someone like Wilhelm. Something in the orange told him that they would return home soon. Wilhelm knew this, too. 

His hand was a comfort, clasped against his shoulder, his voice a gilden song. 

“Tell her I said it’s okay.” He’d whispered to Eddie, and he was filled with a sense of knowing. 

His eyes met yours once more, the darkness of night prevailing casted a shadow over your features. 

“It’s okay, Nellie.” 

[lothiriel84]

Cards on the Table (pt. 1)

A series of post-canon vignettes, each from a different character's point of view. [Part 1/2]

A Faro’s Daughter one-shot collection. Deborah Grantham/Max Ravenscar, with a side of Phoebe Laxton/Adrian Mablethorpe.

1. Lord Mablethorpe

When informed of his cousin’s engagement to Miss Grantham, Lord Mablethorpe immediately betook himself to St James’ Square, where he spent the better part of an hour questioning Deb as to what manner of horrible things Max could have done to thus prevail upon her. In the end, it was Deborah’s extravagant blush as she declared herself very much in love with the gentleman in question that eventually set his doubts to rest. As utterly baffled at this unforeseen turn of events as he still was, at least he had the presence of mind to wish her every happiness before taking his leave, and setting out for Grosvenor Square.

To Ravenscar’s credit, he met his cousin’s stern words on the subject of Miss Grantham’s wellbeing with a good deal of amusement, and promptly assured him that nothing could be farther from his intentions than to cause any further inconvenience to his betrothed; Lord Mablethorpe privately wondered at whatever past inconveniences Max might be referring to, but in the end he was too much in awe of his cousin to probe any deeper into the subject.

He didn’t get to see much of either Max or his intended bride after that, as he was planning to fetch Phoebe from Wales and properly introduce her into society as the new Lady Mablethorpe; he was therefore quite bemused upon received a letter from Arabella, in which she informed him she had taken it upon herself to act as chaperone to the loving couple, much to her elder brother’s chagrin. Being as much acquainted with Max’s habitual aloofness as he was with the matter-of-fact way Deb dealt with her suitors, he could hardly imagine the pair engaging in anything that might be deemed even remotely inappropriate; but then again, he couldn’t have imagined anything less likely than his headstrong cousin offering for the likes of Deborah Grantham, never mind her consenting to it, so perhaps he was the one in the wrong after all.

When informed of Miss Grantham’s impending marriage, young Lady Mablethorpe declared herself utterly delighted, and expressed a wish to call on Lady Bellingham’s as soon as they were back in London; she went as far as to timidly suggest she would like nothing better than to be introduced to Lord Mablethorpe’s cousin, as he was to be married to someone she owed so much of her happiness to – along with her dearest husband, of course.

Adrian made a mental note to write to Max, detailing how he desired for his new wife to be received, and assured Phoebe that he would grant her heart’s wish, in this as in all other matters.

2. Mr Ravenscar

With considerable effort, Max Ravenscar tore himself from his betrothed’s embrace, turning his glare upon the downright annoyance that was his younger sister.

“I have told you, Belle,” he warned her, struggling for some semblance of his usual composure. “If you don’t leave this instant – ”

“But my dearest brother, I couldn’t possibly do that,” she countered, all feigned innocence and concern. At that moment, he couldn’t agree more heartily with his stepmother’s wish to have the little minx safely married and out of their care. “You see, I do remember someone lecturing me at length on how gentlemen should never be trusted with a young woman’s reputation, and I’ll have you know I take such an enlightening piece of advice very seriously.”

“Very seriously indeed,” he retorted sarcastically, taking hold of Deb’s hands to prevent her from stepping away in her embarrassment. “If this is about that wretched ball you’ve pestering me about all week, I can tell you now – ”

“That we shall be glad to escort you to it, my dear,” Deborah interjected in a rush, meeting his frown with a determined look of her own. He opened his mouth to contradict her, noticed the telltale blush colouring her cheeks, and thought better of it.

“Oh! You truly are the dearest of creatures, Miss Grantham,” the little minx exclaimed in delight. “I can scarcely wait for the moment when I shall be able to call you my sister.”

You can’t wish for that more heartily than I do, he thought to himself, even as Arabella impulsively kissed their cheek in turn, and bolted for the door. Pausing on the threshold, she turned around, the perfect picture of mischief. “I will be back in half an hour. I trust you both to behave within the bounds of propriety in the meantime.”

“I shall never be able to look her in the eye again,” Deb lamented as her sister-to-be finally took her leave, yet did nothing to resist him when he gathered her back in his arms.

“Nonsense,” Max declared, wasting no time in resuming his previous attentions. Deborah sighed, made a token protest, then willingly surrendered herself to his embrace.

3. Lord Ormskirk

If there was one thing Lord Ormskirk despised more than being worsted, it was having his fiascos bandied about; which was precisely why he took every pain to make a show of civility towards Ravenscar, regardless of how much losing the divine Deborah to such a man stung him.

After all, he reflected somewhat cynically, he could hardly measure up to a man of Ravenscar’s wealth, and fool enough to offer the lady matrimony; at least young Mablethorpe had his youthful impetuosity to excuse him, but a gentleman of Ravenscar’s age and position ought to have displayed more sense. Unfortunately, his own pride prevented him from calling Ravenscar out, as it was more than apparent that – for some reason beyond his understanding – the delightful creature’s affections were irrevocably set on his younger rival, and he cared too much about his reputation as a gentleman to attempt anything about it.

As it was, he resolved to withstand the sight of the newlywed couple flitting about the crowded ballroom with the closest approximation to a bored smile he could manage. Looking as radiant as ever, Deborah never once left Ravenscar’s side, and was conducting herself with the dignity and grace of a gentlewoman; still, as the evening unfolded, Lord Ormskirk became aware of a curious alteration to her countenance, so much that he reluctantly started to pay attention to whatever manner of things were passing between husband and wife.

Ravenscar was doing his utmost to – provoke her, there was no two ways about it. From where he was standing, he had a clear view of Ravenscar’s hand resting at the small of her back, his thumb tracing lazy patterns over the fabric of her dress. Ormskirk could hardly recall any previous occasion in which the beautiful creature had looked this flustered, and by such a simple action at that. Ah, to be young, and in love, he sighed, shook his head, and lazily strolled towards the bowl of punch.

It was much later into the evening when he clapped his eyes again on the pair; Ravenscar was distractedly sipping a glass of port when Deborah sidled up to him, leaning closer to whisper something in his ear that very nearly caused Ravenscar to choke on his wine. After that, he appeared to be making his excuses to the rest of his party, and all but dragged his wife out of the room. Deborah’s musical laugh rang out clearly as they passed him by, blind to everything except one another, and whatever his sentiments towards the gentleman, Lord Ormskirk was forced to acknowledge how Ravenscar’s infamous luck extended much farther than his horses and cards.

4. Deborah Ravenscar (née Grantham)

Deborah woke up to her husband gently shaking her shoulder, and had she not been so impossibly tired, she would have been mortified to find herself in the position of relying entirely upon him to hand her out of the carriage. She even caught Arabella casting a worried look in her direction before wishing them both a good night and retiring to her chambers.

“It would appear I am turning more and more into a frail old matron by the day,” she jested half-heartedly as he dismissed both his valet and her maid, and insisted upon helping her out of her evening gown himself. “I am exceedingly sorry you had to find out only after our marriage.”

“I would hardly have expected this sort of thing to happen before our marriage,” she heard him utter under his breath, glanced up sharply to meet the odd look he was directing at her through the mirror.

“Whatever can you mean, Max?”

She studied his reflection as he reached for the brush and started applying it to her locks. There was something peculiar about his countenance, something she couldn’t quite place, no matter how hard she strived to.

“Had either of us been blessed with sensible female relations reasonably knowledgeable about such matters, I would have suggested you to seek out their advice,” he sighed. “However, I would never ask you to submit to the indignity of broaching such a delicate issue with my stepmother, or – heaven forbid – my aunt.”

“You’re forgetting Aunt Lizzie,” she protested weakly, by now thoroughly puzzled by his oblique remarks. The truth was, she was so very tired, and his gentle ministrations had her well on her way to falling asleep where she was seated.

Max had the decency to look vaguely embarrassed at her objection. “As admirable as your aunt is, I fear she might not be as well informed upon such matters as we might wish, or she would very likely have enlightened you upon your entering the married state.”

As the meaning of his words finally dawned upon her, she was suddenly grateful for the support provided by her chair, and the pair of steadying hands around her shoulders. She was dimly aware of the clatter of the brush hitting the floor as the room spun around her in a most dizzying fashion, and the next thing she knew she was lying on the bed in their shared chamber, her concerned husband dabbing at her temples with a damp cloth.

“I am well,” she hastened to reassure him, yet she had to concede he was probably right in preventing her from sitting up. “I’m just – surprised, that’s all.”

He considered her in that intent manner he occasionally displayed in her presence. “You truly had no reason to suspect that might be the case?”

“I – I did not think too much of it, if I am honest,” she admitted, fighting the blush she felt creeping upon her cheeks. “We’ve been married for scarcely over two months, after all.”

A teasing smile danced on his face. “And we have been nothing but diligent in our marital duties, dearest.”

Her cheeks in flame, she gathered whatever little amount of energy she still possessed to swat at his arm. “Max!”

“No need to sound so scandalised, my darling wife. But I will have the family physician summoned in the morning, so that we might seek further confirmation of your condition.”

Caught between utter bewilderment and bone-deep tiredness, she made no protest when he helped her shift under the bedcovers, tucking her in as if she were little more than an infant. He pressed his lips to her brow and she let out a sigh of contentment, and was only pulled back from the brink of sleep by a sudden thought. “However did you come to be so knowledgeable about such delicate matters, husband?”

He let out a soft chuckle, his fingers coming up to lightly caress her cheek. “You forget I have the misfortune of possessing a sister almost seventeen years my junior. And you should be well enough acquainted with Olivia by now to know that anyone living under the same roof as my esteemed stepmother would have no choice but to be extensively informed about every single one of her ailments, imaginary or otherwise.”

Deborah snorted her laugh into the pillow, and let his soothing caress lull her into a deep, dreamless slumber.

5. Lady Bellingham

Upon entering the house in Grosvenor Square, Lady Bellingham was vaguely surprised to be shown into the library rather than the front parlour where her niece usually received her; still, she thought nothing of it, until the door opened again to reveal none other than her nephew-in-law, who bowed politely and explained that, as his wife was currently indisposed, she was begging her aunt’s permission to come and visit her sometime in the afternoon.

“Of course, if she wishes to,” Lady Bellingham replied somewhat hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want her to overexert herself, knowing that she is unwell.”

The amused look Mr Ravenscar addressed her did nothing to dispel her confusion. “She will be perfectly recovered by the afternoon, I can assure you, ma’am.”

What a strange, strange man, she thought to herself even as she thanked him and took her leave. The truth was, she had been finding Mr Ravenscar’s conduct exceedingly puzzling ever since he had decided to send back the mortgage and those dreadful bills, all of this after being kidnapped and put in a cellar no less. Infatuation or not, she would hardly have expected such a proud man to offer for her Deb, and yet there they were – her niece safely married to the richest man in town, and herself very comfortably set in a respectable house in Berkeley Square.

Mr Ravenscar’s extremely liberal settlement – as well as his generosity in taking upon himself the remainder of her debts – was enough for her ladyship to feel secure for the rest of her days, and not having to worry for her niece and nephew besides. Still, she couldn’t help but occasionally harbour some lingering worries with regards to the potentially disastrous effects of her niece’s headstrongness and quickness of temper, even more so when combined with similar faults of character in her husband.

As it was, Lady Bellingham spent the remainder of the morning in a state of uneasiness, her agitation increasing by the hour, and she was just about to succumb to one of her fits when Silas Wantage showed up announcing that ‘our Miss Deb – Mrs Ravenscar, I should say’ was at the door.

“Upon my word, Aunt Lizzie, you look dreadful,” Deborah greeted her cheerfully, pressing a kiss on each of her cheeks. “What can possibly have happened since I saw you two days ago?”

One quick glance was enough to reassure her ladyship that her niece was indeed in as good health as could be hoped for; unfortunately, it was also enough to make her aware of the glint of barely concealed mirth in her eye, one that long experience had taught her foretold nothing but trouble.

“What was all that nonsense about you being indisposed, that is what I would very much like to know,” Lady Bellingham said with feeling, reaching for her smelling salts. “You are never ill, Deb – and if you’re up to one of your horrible tricks, I must beg you to tell me everything at once, before my poor nerves give way.”

“Nothing of the sort, Aunt,” Deborah assured her with one of her mischievous grins. “Max and I were simply waiting to be sure, and for all that we’d rather delay a public announcement for as long as can be managed, we both agreed that you should be informed presently.”

Lady Bellingham blinked, and promptly dropped the smelling salts. “Deb! You’re telling me – oh, I do declare, I will positively die of joy – and so soon after the wedding, too!”

“I can’t say I expected it to happen this early,” Deborah laughed. “But as Max is utterly delighted at the prospect, I hardly have any complaints for myself.”

“Oh, but we should write to Kit, of course! And Lucius, too – I know you said you have your reasons for refusing to receive him, but he has been extremely kind to us all these years, and – ”

“All in due time, Aunt Lizzie,” her niece forestalled her, shaking her head in amusement. “As I believe I mentioned before, we would rather keep the news for ourselves a little longer.”

“Very well,” Lady Bellingham conceded at length with a long-suffering sigh. “I won’t pretend I understand the point of such secrecy – but as I see you’re determined, it’s not for me to question your reasons, or your husband’s for that matter.”

Deborah offered her a warm smile – she looked positively radiant, now that she thought about it – and gracefully stooped down to retrieve the smelling salts from behind the settee.

[go to part 2]

[lighthouseshepard]

did this jarthur & faroe bit some time ago for my dearest @ferelden-loser and 100% forgot to put it here after i shared it with them. <3 a little ficlet to help us both with chores we weren't doing cjrjjcjrhfjf (also i just enjoy like. aus where everyone is alive and well ok)

"Arthur, can you move please?" 

Without turning his head, Arthur slowly repositions his bare feet off the carpeted floor. Legs clad in the pajama pants he'd been wearing all morning come to rest on top of the coffee table, crossing idly right next to the duster John had placed there minutes prior - a slight he ignores to the best of his ability, lamenting the glass he'd just wiped down.

"I meant," he says through clenched teeth, his voice heard as a mere vibration echoing back to him through the earmuffs he wore. "Can you get up so I can vacuum beside the couch?"

He says something John can't quite make out above the racket of the vacuum cleaner, but he knows if he switches it off, he certainly won't turn it back on again. Squinting, he catches the tail end of I've given you plenty of room formed across his dear, irritably vexing husband's smiling mouth, and he grumbles a long, suffering sigh.

"Fine," he says, angling the blasted contraption between the couch and the table. "I hope I run you over."

"I've already moved once!" Arthur shouts casually over the noise. "It's my day off, can't I relax in peace?"

"What?" John yells right back. "I can't hear you!"

"Possibly because you're wearing ear muffs! Where did you even get those from, anyways?"

"What?"

"Jesus Christ, John-"

Reaching over, Arthur feels about for the switch to the vacuum and flicks it off. The dull roar dissolves into blissful silence, and John exhales his relief.

"Fucking hate this thing," John mutters, gratefully slipping off the earmuffs. "Why did they have to make them so loud?"

"It's honestly not that bad, John," Arthur reassures him as he settles back onto the couch. "Although, I suppose to new ears like yours, it must sound like Niagra Falls."

"It's worse," John complains, glaring down. "We've heard eldritch creatures scream in unimaginable amounts of pain, and yet somehow this doesn't compare."

"I think you're being a little dramatic, darling," Arthur drawls. All the same, he frowns, gazing up from the papers in his hand to stare at a spot just over John's shoulder.

"I could do that for you, you know," he offers. "You and Faroe could take a walk to the park, perhaps? It's a lovely day out for it."

"What happened to I can't vacuum because I can't see what needs to be picked up?" John mutters. "You never volunteer."

"Well, now I feel bad," he admits. "Here, come take a break. You can go over this melody with me."

Arthur pats the spot beside him. The lure of soft fabric against his skin over another round of fighting with some man made horror he still didn't totally understand the functions of seemed much more aptly tantalizing. Thankful for the invitation for a distraction, he takes a seat. Cushions sink back under his weight, all six foot five of his frame folding neatly up beside Arthur. 

"What are you working on?" he asks, relenting to his curiosity in spite of the frustration overloading his senses. Tasks which subjected him to particular types of noise always left him feeling exasperatingly fragile, as though someone had filled his body with shards of glass that shifted each time he moved incorrectly. Even the gleam of overhead lights hurt his vision after a while. They'd taken to one or two windows open during the day and candlelight in the evenings, a welcomed respite. Faroe enjoyed imagining they were camping indoors by the glow of the tiny flames.

"A new piece," Arthur tells him, snuggling up closer. He rests his head against John's arm, holding out the slip of paper for his inspection. 

John eyes it warily. "You realize that makes absolutely no sense to me."

A delighted chuckle answers him. "I know, but I also know you find it interesting regardless. Here, run your hand along the top row."

Studying the inscrutable collection of raised dots against the wrinkled page, John does as requested. To fresh fingertips alive with new nerve endings, each note came across as an individual grain of sand.

"C sharp," Arthur clarifies. "Sounds like this."

He hums the note, mild and clear. Involuntarily John is drawn to hum it back, his tone at a much lower register but no less soft because of it.

"Hey, look at that," Arthur laughs. "We'll make a musician of you yet."

"I don't see why you have to notate new songs," John wonders. "Can't you just memorize them anyway?"

"Well, yes. Eventually. This makes it a little easier in the beginning."

"Is this for the new contract you managed to get?" John takes the paper from him fully now, lost in its puzzle. "Can you... can you play it for us later?"

"Of course, John. You and Faroe always get the initial performance."

"Daddy, John, look!"

From their left they hear the back door clattering open. In she bursts, a bright blue flurry of energetic determination and reddish blonde curls bouncing loose from their tie as she sprints. She skitters to a halt in front of John, one tiny set of fingers already tugging impatiently at his own much larger hand before he has time to think.

"Faroe?" Arthur asks, tilting his head towards her. "What's wrong? You know I can't-"

He trails off unhappily. It lasts for only a split second, and then he's covering it up behind an intrigued smile.

"What is it?"

"I found something," she says gleefully. "John, open your hand."

"Is it alive?" John asks drily, instinctively drawing his hand back. On too many occasions he had been fooled into taking a vast collection of creatures discovered in the backyard into his palm. The slimy ones didn't bother him so much. It was the ones which skittered, all legs and eyes and a resolve to disappear just out of sight.

"No," Faroe mumbles. "Please, just look. It's really neat."

"Alright, fine. Let me see."

Carefully she unfolds her hands, placing whatever lay inside them into John's outstretched palm. He studies it with one raised eyebrow.

"What is it?" Arthur asks, interest getting the better of him as he leans up and over. 

"A grasshopper."

"An orange grasshopper," Faroe clarifies. "I've never seen one like this before! I gave it to John because I know he can describe it to you better than I."

She grins, pleased at the line of her own logic. Arthur sighs, though it's obvious he's trying to force back a smile twitching along the corners of her mouth.

"Faroe, dear," he says patiently, "can you take it back outside, please?"

"But it's orange," she presses. "Did you know they came in orange?"

"Yes, I do. But grasshoppers don't enjoy being inside for too long. He's probably missing his friends."

"Oh." She mulls this over for a moment, shrugging. "Okay! John, can I have him back please?"

"All yours," he says wryly. She takes the unmoving grasshopper back into her own enclosed hands. 

"Thanks!"

Briefly it seems as though she were about to twist and run back out into the warm summer afternoon - but instead she bounces on her heels, and then climbs up onto the couch cushions next to John, pressing a quick peck to his cheek. He barely has time to reach up and touch the spot before she’s indelicately stepping over him to do the same to her father, cautious not to disturb her precious cargo the entire way. 

"Bye!" she shouts over her shoulder as she zips out of view. They hear the door clatter shut, leaving them in an awed silence dotted sporadically by the chirping of birdsong outside.

John glances over, glad Arthur couldn't see his wince at the outlines of dirt Faroe had tracked in all over the freshly vacuumed carpet. Apparently, by her decision, his break was over.

Exhaling more affectionate patience for one single person that he'd ever had in his eons long life, save for Arthur himself, he gets to his feet. Arthur looks in his direction as he rises, lamenting the sturdy press of his body against his. 

"She got dirt everywhere, didn't she?"

"No.

"John."

"She didn't," John lies evenly. "I'm just going to get back to it, alright? Christ, can't I clean in peace?"

"Fine, fine," Arthur says airily, going back to his sheet music. "Don't take too long. I already miss you."

Neither tell the other what they know. Arthur doesn't elaborate on the fact he's distinctly aware of John's lie, but too charmed by his devotion to protecting the one he'd come to care about just as much as him; and John says nothing of the expression on Arthur's face while he stares sightlessly after the whirlwind of his daughter, and the trust Arthur must surely have in him to allow him willingly into their lives. 

Instead, he cleans. This time he leaves the earmuffs off, if only to catch snippets of Arthur's song hummed loudly enough for him to hear, and Faroe’s laughter drifting in from outside.

[archivist-crow]

The Haunted Atlas

Bird Cage Theatre - Tombstone, Arizona, United States

31°42′43″N / 110°3′55″W

Old West theater, gambling hall, saloon, and brothel in Tombstone, Arizona, haunted by numerous ghosts.

History

The Bird Cage Theatre achieved fame and notoriety in the 1880s as the roughest, wildest honky-tonk in the West. It was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In its eight short years of business, 20 gunfights and 26 murders took place there. Some of the most famous personalities of the Wild West were frequent visitors, among them Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Bat Masterson. The Bird Cage was especially famous for its prostitutes, the "soiled doves" and "tainted angels" who entertained men in "cribs" or "cages" —alcoves on the second floor over the main hall. Men paid 20 to 25 dollars for the company of one of the girls. While the entertaining went on in the cribs, exotic dancers took the stage to music played by a live orchestra.

Supposedly, a card game lasted the entire history of the hall—eight years, five months, and three days. Doc Holliday especially liked to play Faro, a popular game in the 19th century. The combination of liquor, gambling, and women was combustible, leading to the gunfights that left 140 bullet holes in the hall and untold bullet holes in victims. The unlucky ones were collected by hearse and carted up to Boot Hill for burial. One of the unfortunate dead was Morgan Earp, brother of Wyatt. Morgan was killed on a pool table that still bears his bloodstains.

The Bird Cage closed in 1889. It is now a museum, in near original condition. Tombstone is much the same as it was in the late 19th century and is a popular tourist draw.

Haunting Activity

Footsteps have been heard on the stairs to the basement where the gambling took place. Poltergeist and ghostly phenomena include lights going on and off, sensations of presences, and problems with cameras and other equipment. Phantom smells of tobacco and whiskey can suddenly permeate the air, and the sounds of shouting, laughter, and gambling are heard. Sounds emanate from the empty cribs on the second floor. The parlor where the long game went on—and where the higher-priced women entertained men in side rooms—is one of the most active areas of the theater.

Apparitions of people dressed in late-19th-century clothing are seen, especially a man wearing a black visor who walks across the stage.

Text from The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, Third Edition by Rosemary Ellen Guiley (Checkmark Books - 2007)