#the boys are still bastards no matter how many times I draw em being almost adjacent to endearing

[monsterbrush]

"I knew I smelled a dwarf."

[meowdymista]

Van der Driscoll Pt 7

Part 6 - Masterlist

Part 8

This is a bit of a filler chapter, which is stupid for the ratio of original wording to in game script ratio. Next one will be more engaging, I promise. Also sorry for the long wait; I took time off from writing last week because it was my birthday, and then England swept into a second lockdown so it’s been poo trying to prepare especially in work because I process somms for small-medium businesses but whatever. No one is getting much for Christmas this year lol

****

You find, much to your relief and Arthur’s annoyance, that Sean’s chaotic charm and energy swallows everyone’s attention over the next few weeks. He’s loud, boastful and brash: The Irish Terrier as Arthur and his adopted fathers call him.

You can’t help but find his totally unapologetic nature comforting. Whilst washing shirts, you overhear him get Molly to admit she considers him no better than a chimney sweep from the local bog - and immediately crucify her for it, calling her “snotty nosed” and a “right little madam”, much to her dismay. After the weeks of dirty looks (despite little to no actual confrontation), Sean brings a breath of fresh air. With him nearby, you know exactly where you stand and whether anyone in the vicinity is plotting against you.

“Please, Y/N,” groans Arthur into his hands one evening. “Please tell me you ain’t makin’ friends with that bastard.”

“Why?” you ask, genuinely surprised. “Isn’t he like a little brother to you?”

“Yeah, but not in a good way.” He moves his hands to give you a look of despair. “What’s wrong with Lenny? Or Tilly? Or Mary Beth?”

“Karen’s fun,” you muse, earning yourself another groan.

“Always with the loud drunkards,” he grumbles.

“Mmhm, and what was it Dutch said? When you go missing he checks the saloon, and if you’re not there he checks the jail?”

“Shurrup.” He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto his body, grinning as you protest, laughing.

“Don’t play innocent - Hosea’s been telling me stories!”

“Ahh, don’t go listening to him. He spins stories for a living, and anyway I was a kid in most of them.”

“And the stories I’ve heard from Lenny?” you smirk, still fighting despite it proving futile with you laughing so much. He growls, peppering your exposed skin with kisses as you wrestle playfully.

You cry out when a flailing limb makes contact with one of your swollen breasts. Arthur immediately releases you, watching you with concern as you try to rub out the punch without swearing.

“Y’alright?”

“Fine,” you huff. “Just sensitive is all.”

“I’m sorry - shouldn’t be playing so rough with you when you’re… in the way tha’ you are.”

“It’s fine, Arthur,” you repeat firmly, staring him down. “I’m fine. You didn’t knock my stomach, so we’re fine. Like I said, I’m just sensitive.”

He hums doubtfully.

Following a shootout with the Pinkertons and the law in the middle of Valentine, Dutch had ordered the camp out of Horseshoe Overlook and ushered you south east into the state of Lemoyne. On the other side of Dewberry Creek, Arthur and Charles had scouted a hideout chistened Clemens Point. Arthur hadn’t been the keenest to tell you that story, but you had weaseled it out of him.

Micah had recommended the dried out river bed, but when Charles and Arthur had arrived to scout it, there was an abandoned camp nearby, complete with a dead body. Whilst trying to assess the location’s risk to a group of outlaws should they move in, Arthur had moved some crates to find a woman with her two children.

“I guess I saw you,” he mumbled sadly, avoiding eye contact. “An’ the mess I might leave you in one day.”

You rubbed his shoulder patiently. “What happened?”

“I told ‘em to go ‘cause we needed the land.”

You were confused by the guilt still plaguing him and told him so. With a heavy sigh, he described how the girl translated her mother - that their father had been kidnapped and how it took Charles insisting otherwise to convince him to go look.

“So it’s really thanks to him we found this place,” he says gesturing at the open space bordered with woodland and lake.

If anything, you prefer this new destination to Horseshoe Overlook, and not just for the absence of bad memories. You love the sense of freedom swimming gives you: how it makes you weightless, how easy it is to tilt your head back and listen to the low rumble of the earth and water. You also enjoy that the road is more than a stone’s throw away here. A wanderer would have to purposely go out of their way to discover the camp, to hear the noise or see the light of the campfires. Clemen’s Point made you feel safe, even with the occasional canoe sailing by with a wave.

The new location lifted everyone’s spirits. So much so, Dutch dragged Arthur and Hosea out fishing. They returned hours later - singing and surprisingly sober - with deputy badges and a boat load of fish. Whilst the shiny badge continues to earn Arthur a lot of gib from you and everyone else in camp, Dutch insists the news is beyond fantastic.

“We are inaugurated in the local law!” he cries during one of his many speeches. “Hiding in plain sight!”

Still tired and snacking throughout your waking hours, you are relieved to find your morning sickness has passed its peak. Whilst you feel like your veins are popping out of your skin, Arthur insists your stomach is beginning to curve. You accuse him of an overzealous imagination until you try (and fail) to button the jeans from your past life as an O’Driscoll and your shirts that still fasten offer little to no breathing room.

“Think a trip to town is in order.” You jut out your bottom lip, demonstrating the distance between the buttons and their corresponding holes as your lover looks on laughing.

“I think you might be right.” You don’t resist as his fingertips tilt your chin up to plant a kiss on your lips. “Let me go see if Pearson’s got a list and we’ll head out. Think they’ll do another couple hours?”

“Don’t really have a choice,” you grumble, stealing Arthur’s worn blue shirt from under the cot. You can hear Sadie and Pearson bickering even from the edge of camp, so it doesn’t surprise you when Arthur’s tone cuts through the noise.

“-ain’t cooking work?”

Looking over, you see Arthur has taken the expostulating Mrs Adler aside. You look away quickly - there’s no reason to ruin an acceptable day by agitating her enough to start shouting at you too. Her and Pearson have been at each other’s necks since she’s pulled herself out of the worst of her depression, almost as though he has become the target of her grief.

You focus your attention on preparing the cart. A trip to town means a trip for supplies, and with so many mouths to feed, horseback wasn’t a viable option.

"How are you, Miss?"

You turn around, surprised at being addressed directly by someone other than Arthur. Seeing Kieran’s familiar pastiness relaxes you a little. As an ex-O’Driscoll himself, you trusted him the most not to stab you after Arthur and the little boy, Jack.

"Fine," you reply flatly, brushing out the tangles of the shire’s mane.

"We ain't really had much time to talk since we was in Tall Trees a few months back, have we?" You hum in response, trying not to flash any amount of flesh by moving too much. The poor boy was skittish enough. He immediately begins to help you, being the horse fan he is.

"I never even suspected a thing, Miss,” he gushes. “So I bet you anything Ol' Colm won't have neither."

"So you two were close, huh?" You barely contain the sarcasm.

He shrugs off the question awkwardly. "Which feller was you again?"

"Well I must’ve been good if you have to ask." You feed the shire a carrot, avoiding eye contact. "I was Thomas," you admit quietly. The following silence is prolonged. Doubtful.

“Thomas Donoghue?” You shrug your shoulders. “So you were friends with Paeder then?”

“Peter?” You respond coolly. “Never knew him.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but Arthur is marching across camp, shouting back over his shoulder to Mrs Adler. Spooked, Kieran bolts to a safe distance, doing nothing but look on as Arthur helps you up onto the back of the cart.

Acknowledging you with a sneer, the other woman takes her place on the bench up front. “So I’ve graduated from choppin’ vegetables to shopping?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth…” grumbles Arthur, reins in hand as the cart moves off. You give Kieran a small, apologetic wave farewell, but it’s difficult to contain the relief of your companions’ timing. Paeder was a private matter, and one which you had no desire to discuss out loud. You’re sure the shaky man meant no harm, but some things were better buried.

“You cooled down then, yet?” Arthur asks the widow, distracting you from your thoughts.

“I guess,” she grumbles. “And I ain’t no scullion! And I sure as hell ain’t takin’ orders from that sweating halfwit!”

You can almost hear his eyes roll. “Well I guess we all gotta do our share, princess.”

“Where’s that letter?”

“Oh, you reading his mail now?”

Sadie throws him a dirty look. “Robbing and killing’s ok, but letter reading’s where we draw the line?”

You stifle a smirk as Arthur pulls it from the inside of his coat, knowing he’s been had. “Here.”

“Dear Aunt Cathy-”

“You are somethin’ else…”

“I haven’t heard from you in some time, so I prayed to the Lord above that your health has not deteriorated further… bla bla bla… s’boring… Oo! Wait a sec, listen to this! Since we last corresponded, I have travelled widely, making no small name for myself.” You all laugh out loud. “Before you ask, I am still yet to take a wife, but I can assure you it is not for lack of suitors.” Arthur barks out laughing again as Sadie giggles. “He ever actually talked to a woman he ain’t paid for?” she asks in disbelief.

“Look, we’re all hiding behind something.” Whilst his tone advises the limit of fun has been reached, the smile is still audible.

“And what’s this? Return to Tacitus Kilgore?”

“Oh that? That’s Dutch’s idea. All mail to be sent to the same alias. Whenever we set up somewhere new, Strauss, he heads into town, tells them to start expecting mail from a Tacitus Kilgore or whatever they changed it to… Here, gimme that back. We got work to do.”

You all sit quietly as the cart rolls into Rhodes. The locals watch you, wary of the unfamiliar faces, but you keep your head high. Strangers smell weakness. It’s better to come off aloof and avoid trouble than to present as vulnerable and be beaten down at every turn.

“Ok, here we are.”

“So what’s the plan?” Mrs Adler points a pistol at the side of the building, squeezing one eye shut as she gauges the iron sights. “I shoot the shopkeeper, while you-?”

“No! You insane?”

“Well I thought we was outlaws…?”

“Outlaws! Not idiots!" he hisses, pushing down the gun as he looks around for any witnesses. "We rob fools that rob other people! These people- they’re just tryna get by! So you head on in there, and you buy us some food to eat. And no guns.”

“Are you sure?”

“This time.” The two of you share a look again as he helps you down. “There’ll be plenty o’ time for killin’ soon enough.”

“What are you doin’?”

“I’m gonna go check the mail, nothin’ exciting.”

Sadie shrugs and saunters off. Arthur sighs and shakes his head, touching your arm. "You gonna be alright?"

"Here's hopin'."

"Any trouble, holler. Stay outta her way best you can though, alright?"

Knowing that his concern lies with your companion's open hatred for anything remotely O'Driscoll rather than your ability to defend yourself, you nod. Blowing him a cheeky kiss, he waves back at you with a grin as you enter the general store.

"-flour, oats, salt, eggs, apples if you have them..."

"Sure, not a problem,” responds the shopkeeper as he begins to gather the goods. “Big family, have you?"

"Somethin' like that." Mrs Adler barely spares you a glance as the titter of the doorbell announces your presence. "And you sell clothes?"

So Arthur had explained to her your purpose for the journey. You're flattered, if a little bewildered at this kind gesture. From the looks she’s been giving you, you’re surprised she has buried the hatchet of your past so quickly.

"We do. Not the widest range of ladies fashion, I'm afraid."

"That's alright. I'll look at everything you got."

"Of course, Mrs…?"

"Kilgore," she smirks, turning to bat her eyelids at you. You realise then that her request is completely unrelated to you. Why wouldn’t it be? You’re not the only person that has been swept into the Van der Linde gang with little more than what you were wearing on your back. From Arthur’s story, she escaped with nothing more than her wedding ring and her nightclothes, so it’s only natural that she is also in need of a new wardrobe. "What? You don't even trust me to handle the shopping by myself?"

"You're not the only one in need of new clothes, Mrs Ad- Kilgore." You force a polite smile at the sales clerk whilst Mrs Adler browses the shelves dully. "What are the biggest sizes you have in stock? Any maternity wear by chance?"

"Ain't many women round here makin' babies," he sighs, pulling out a few options. You can feel Sadie's eyes burning past you at the pile. "You're best tryin' Saint Denis or ordering outta the catalogue. There's a tailor in Blackwater I heard is pretty good for that sorta thing, but it's quite the journey-"

"Too far for me, I fear." You flick through the pages as Mrs Adler leaves to try a few things on from the pile in front of you. Writing a quick list with estimated sizing, you purchase the largest button up shirt and skirt for sale. The trousers will have to wait for another day - you know investing twenty dollars in a pair that you'll breach the waistline of in a matter of weeks is a luxury you can't especially afford right now.

Mrs Adler on the other hand spares little expense with a sturdy pair of jeans. Finally out of the cumbersome skirts, her whole character changes and suddenly you feel the same pit of dread you did when faced with a full camp of spitting Van der Lindes all those weeks ago.

Intimidated, you step outside whilst she settles the bill. You take a short wander up the main road, taking in the familiar buildings with apathy. Who would have thought you would end up here again? Now you’re not so apprehensive about your life span, you can see how rundown this dusty crumbling town is. The few shops that are open have seen better days, and the best kept building is the bank. You feel your skin crawl as you spot the large parlour houses on the horizon. Of course this place is struggling to survive - anywhere that profited from slave labour deserved to rot. Part of you hopes it’s slow perilous march to abandonment continues: it would be disappointingly merciful to see a place be lost to one good shoot out.

“I’ve birthed foals with more strength than you!” Mrs Adler’s cursing sinks your stomach as you navigate your way back to the store where a man is helping her load the cart. “Hell, my sister’s newborn had more strength than you and he came out bright blue!”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!”

Spotting Arthur, who is strolling back himself, fills you with relief. The shopkeeper walks back to the porch, checking the list before walking back. “I think this is everything,” he says, swinging the sack of salt on the cart.

“Thanks… here, take that for yourself, okay.” She flicks a silver coin and he catches it out of the air, scowling.

“Thanks,” he spits.

“Well, give it back then! Jesus! I didn’t ask for his goddamn help..." She pushes the sack on more securely to stop it rolling off when the cart moves. “OK, get on. I’m about done here.”

“Why don’t you drive?” suggests Arthur coolly after making sure you’re sat safely amongst the supplies. “C’mon lady, get a move on.”

She scowls as she takes the reins. “I like Sadie, not lady.”

“I know. So you get everything?”

“I think so.”

“And some… new clothes, I see?”

“Don’t start,” she sighs, the heat returning to her voice. “I can wear what I damn well want. Like I told you, my husband and I shared all the work. I wasn’t some little wife with a flower in her hair baking cherry pies all day.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that. You sure look the part now. Won’t be long before you’re smoking cigars and playin’ the harmonica.”

“I’ll have you know I used to love playing the harmonica before… well… my house and everything I owned got burned to the ground.”

“I know... I’m real sorry. About what you… you know. Maybe I’ll keep my eye out for another one.”

“I don’t want no pity,” she snaps. “Just… treat me equal and know… nobody’s taking nothing from me ever again.”

Arthur hums in comradery. “Just don’t kill the camp cook…”

A horse gallops up alongside you. “Hey there! What are you folks up to?”

“Just heading home,” says Arthur casually, adding a quiet “keep it cool, Sadie”.

“You’re in Lemoyne Raider country. You need to pay a toll to pass through here.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” The hairs on the back of your neck prickle at the anticipation of conflict. You realise with a sinking stomach that you’re completely unarmed. “How about you pull over right now?”

“Pull over?” he repeats incredulously. Your eyes scan the bags and boxes around you. There has to be something here that can double as a weapon of some kind.

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey!” calls Sadie coolly. “How’s about this?”

A pistol cracks and the Lemoyne Raider cries out in pain. She ushers the horses on with a Go, go, go! as Arthur stands up, drawing his revolvers and firing. You duck down as bullets fly over your head, your hands scrambling for anything that could be of use.

“What the hell was that?” cries Arthur furiously.

“They was gonna rob us!”

“A new pair of pants and you think you’re Landon Ricketts!” He curses loudly as more men run out in the road ahead.

“I’m gonna run this son of a bitch down!” she shouts, pulling the wagon over one raider and off the road.

“Well you wanted to see some action, lady, now you got your wish!” Arthur slings his longarm from his back and shoves it in your direction as he continues to fire. You can see more men coming out from between the trees and you take aim, knocking them down one by one as Arthur clips off any extras over your head.

“You alright there, Sadie?” you shout over the gunfire. Arthur is still firing behind you, but she’s out of your line of sight from where you’re crouched behind sacks of grain.

“Of course! You think I can’t handle these fools?” You don’t retaliate and you can almost hear her voice aim at Arthur. “Told you I could shoot a gun, didn’t I?”

“I don’t remember asking you to prove it,” he grunts, tossing you extra ammo just in case. The last bastard is fleeing south down the dirt track. You take aim, but he’s out of range.

“Yeah you run, you goddamn coward!” screams Sadie before taking a steadying breath. “I think we’re good here. Nice shooting. I’ll drive us back-”

“No! Pass those reins here!”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve caused enough trouble already.”

She doesn’t find grounds to argue, instead looking back at you, her face straight and unreadable. “We showed those bastards, huh?”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Arthur scowls.

“They was clearly plannin’ to bushwhack us!” she argues, facing forward again.

“You did good, but that’s a lotta mess to make near camp. Hope it don’t bring anyone sniffin’ around.”

“Are you gonna tell Dutch?” she asks mockingly.

“Maybe… if he asks. But, maybe not.”

“So who did they say they were? Lemoyne Raiders?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Who knows… Anyway, don’t you go ribbing Pearson about that letter.”

“How dare you? I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Riiight, you wouldn’t…”

“I have travelled widely, making no small name of myself…”

Arthur laughs. “I won’t be giving you no mail to post any time soon, that’s for sure.”

She chuckles too. “I just wanna peak in that journal of yours. The mind boggles.”

“Not a chance…”

“You didn’t get yourself killed then, Miss Adler?” calls Pearson, strolling over smugly as Arthur pulls up near the horse station.

“Not quite,” she responds truthfully.

“Well, I’d like to say I missed your refined conversations, but I’d be lying.”

She accepts the box shoved into her chest without complaint. “I… I enjoyed myself out there.”

“Yes, we err… Mrs Adler did ok!” He holds up his arms and lifts you down gently by your waist.

“At shopping?”

“Yes, at shoppin’...”

The double meaning doesn’t go unrecognised by Sadie who thanks him with genuine gratitude.

“Don’t mention it. I would ride with you again, Mrs Adler, if you will ride with me.”

“Maybe,” she laughs. “If you prove you can handle yourself.”

“Well, they say I lack finesse, but I ain’t afraid of gun smoke.”

“We got this, Arthur. You’ve already done me a big favour today.” Turning to you with a smile, Arthur accepts the repeater you proffer. It’s best to remain unarmed for now - there’s no need to risk one of your lesser fans finding an excuse to regard you as a threat. “Okay, Miss High and Mighty. And… nice pants by the way.”

“You okay there, Y/N?” He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in close to his side. “You manage to find something too?”

“Just about,” you admit. “Had to put in an order. How long do you think we’ll be around here for?”

“Until we can’t most likely. Everything alright? They didn’t catch you or nothin’, did they?”

“Of course not, Arthur.” Your weak smile is genuine and heartfelt at his concern. “I’m not above shouting when I’m shot.”

“‘Course not.” He rubs your back, leading you back to your shared tent. “You gonna try them on, or what?”

“Nah, I figure I might as well make the most of still being able to fit in this stuff, even if it’s only for a few more days.”

He laughs, pulling you into a big hug. “Fair enough.”

From under his arm, you spot the rousing attention of Herr Strauss nearby. You nudge him in warning, but it’s too late.

“Ah, Herr Morgan! How are you enjoying yourself out here?”

“Well enough, I guess,” he replies gruffly. “And you?”

“Well, it turns out the pursuit of freedom is not a cheap business. Not for us, and not for some of the locals.”

“Sharking, already?”

“I prefer to call it banking.”

“You ain’t the one handing out the beatings,” snarls Arthur.

“No, but I am the one feeding the women and children in the camp,” he retorts. “What choice do we have, Mr Morgan?”

Arthur sighs. “Ah, I don’t know. Well, come on then! Tell me who…”

You stop listening as Strauss reads off a list of names, and only tune back in to hear Arthur ask how many he expects to be able to pay.

“With enough encouragement, both of them!” he chuckles, his black eyes twinkling from behind the round spectacles.

Sighing, Arthur returns to where you’re sat on the camp bed. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’d best be gettin’ on.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You stand up to kiss him. “The gang comes first.”

He grimaces at that, but doesn’t dispute it. You give him another kiss for good luck and wave him out camp before dropping the flaps, not missing the glare of bitterness from Sadie across camp.

[decorativedust]

HNK chapter 80 thoughts + analysis

I’ve been marinating on this chapter for a few days, and I have some things in mind for it that I’d like to talk about. 

This is just my take on things, and how I’ve interpreted them: mostly phos, aechmea, cairngorm, a tad bit of dia, and my thoughts on the fate of the series. 

Warning for: talk of suicide, spoilers. 

so I have a few very specific things I want to cover: Phos, Aechmea, Cairngorm, Dia, and the fate of the series. 

We’ll start with Phos. 

Personally, one of the biggest draws and attachments for hnk was phos’s transition from a sweet, naive gem to a depressed, anxious, horrifically warped individual. There’s not a lot of series out there where you can actually see a character become changed so drastically in such an intricate manner. I find character development, as a whole, to be extremely interesting. 

Phos’s transition has been building up for the entire series. They kept growing stronger, learned more- but continued to fail over and over again. They tried to make an encyclopedia, and failed. They tried to find a job for shinsa, and failed. They tried to help bring Ventricosus home and got betrayed and lost their legs. They tried to save antarc, and failed. Ghost was abducted trying to save them. They lost nearly all of their body. They couldn’t bring back the ground up gems. Their night raid was a failure and might’ve killed padpa. 

They’ve had a few triumphs- becoming stronger (although I’m ultimately not sure how much good this led to), giving the gems on the moon potentially happier lives (?), and help uncover more of the truth of their world. The gem abductions have seemed to stop entirely. And cinnabar seems to have finally reintegrated back into gem society through their efforts. 

Ultimately though, phos’s life has become full of constant efforts sustained on hope and bravery that almost always end in failure. At the end of the day, how could you not snap? How could you not become a self-doubting, depressed mess? In a world where everyone has given up on you in your efforts to stop the cycle of suffering, how could you not become the despair-filled person that Phos now is? 

I hope they get a satisfying ending. Phos has been fucked over from the beginning. They’re far from perfect, but I believe the things that ultimately drive them are kindness and a desire to end this cycle of pain for everyone- and I think that’s important to keep in mind. 

Now let’s go to Aechmea. 

This man really is an absolute lying bastard, huh? 

There’s no doubt about it- Aechmea straight up lied to EVERYONE about the fate of the other two societies (admirabilis and gems). Honestly, I’m not even sure the lunarians knew about it. I don’t think they did- he genuinely ran lunarian society on the operation that the gems and admirabilis would be around after they disappeared. 

Aechmea gives no indication that the fact that adamant will pray away all remnants of humanity is new information. It serves in Aechmea’s favor that he doesn’t tell anyone, either. While there’s certainly a few gems who likely don’t mind this fate (yellow), i imagine the bulk of admirabilis and gems wouldn’t desire such a fate. And how would the lunarians feel, if they found out the gems and the admirabilis would go with them, especially now that gems and admirabilis have all been on the moon for at least several hundred years at this point? 

Aechmea didn’t care if they took all the gem dust on the moon and tried to reform the gems. Aechmea didn’t harm any of the gems on the moon. He stopped abducting gems. He listened to their demands. Because ultimately, it didn’t matter! None of it mattered, because they’d all die alongside the lunarians anyways! 

I suppose I can find sympathy in their reasons for wanting to cross over to the nothingness. But at the cost of two entire other species? At the cost of killing so many other living things who likely don’t want to die- who don’t even know the fate they’re getting? Is there really nothing else that can be done? You got any lunarian therapy up there? 

Its a hard thing to discuss. Obviously I’ll never know the feeling of being given the ability to live for eternity. Could they have not chosen to build some sort of positive relationship with the admirabilis and the gems, rather than terrorize and use both of them for their own purposes? 

It feels so selfish. I suppose that’s not surprising, given how selfishness is just part of being human- or the personality and essence of humanity, at least. While selflessness is good, we all need a little selfishness sometimes. We need to take time to ourselves and do things for our own goods, rather than contribute ourselves 100% to others and completely burn ourselves out. It seems lunarians (or at least Aechmea) have selfishness in spades, to the point of being utterly apathetic to the fate of gems and admirabilis. 

Now onto Cairngorm. 

They look terrified and horrified the entire chapter. 

Cairngorm is certainly no stranger to the concept of death. They had suicidal thoughts during phos’s first 200 year coma (right after they’d lost their head), they brushed by death when their outer shell (Ghost) was ripped away from their body. They’ve outwardly expressed before how they want to go with Aechmea into the nothingness, and yet- here they are. Not excited, not happy, not anything near positive. 

There’s a giant difference between saying “i will die with you/i want to die” and actually, genuinely embracing death. Its so easy to say something, but so much harder to actually do it, and I think this is when cairngorm is actually, fully realizing this. 

I don’t know whether or not they’re suicidal anymore, but I imagine not. This is probably the happiest they have been in their entire life. Imagine finally overcoming the desire to die, to find a place that makes you so happy - and then to realize that you’re about to lose it all and become nothing. 

If there was ever a time for cairngorm to go against aechmea, its now. If we ever have a moment where cairngorm realizes aechmea lied to them, where cairngorm is finally going to become their own person without being under the rule and command of anyone else, it is now. 

Personally, I’m hoping they’ll somehow attempt to interfere and try and stop Phos, but I’ll cover this more when I talk about the fate of the series. 

Now onto Dia! This is probably the most lighthearted part of the whole chapter. 

They’ve finally shined under their own light. 

This is going back waaaaaaay far into the manga (like chapter 3), but we’re finally seeing some sort of resolution to Dia’s desire to become good at their own thing, without always being second best to Bort. 

I feel like Dia and Phos, at this point, had very similar feelings. Both felt insignificant and useless as a result of not being as good as a fighter as their societal expectations hold them to- leading to feelings of self doubt, and the desire to become better. 

A lot of people have called Dia selfish, for wanting to go somewhere where there is no Bort. Perhaps, a little bit. However, I don’t think Bort was purposefully trying to ‘show off’ and show how much better than Dia they are. They seemed to just be doing it out of the desire to protect Dia. But ultimately, Dia still felt very second-best to them, despite the fact that Dia should’ve been one of the best themselves. Yet their partnership was suffocating for Dia, constantly under the shadow of Bort. It just simply wasn’t healthy. 

But now Dia has found a thing where they’re able to shine under their own light- an idol!!! They seem really happy doing it. They have a whole crowd of adoring fans, too. (blows a kiss to the moon) this is for u dia u fuckin get em 

Finally, onto the last point: The fate of houseki no kuni. 

This really feels like we’re so close to the end, doesn’t it? But how close to that end are we?  As most of us are aware, chapter 80 is just the first chapter in volume 10. So, I find it very hard to believe that Phos is going to be successful in this particular attempt to get sensei to pray. A maximum of 21 minutes is certainly not enough time to tie up all the loose plotlines. What happened to Yellow? To Padpa? How are the earth gems? What about all the stuff that was happening between Cinnabar and Phos? What about the professor? etc etc im probably missing a few things, but you get my point. 

Personally, I think there’s either going to be a gem that wanders out and sees phos going apeshit, and manages to stop them. Or, we’re going to get interference from Cairngorm. Right now Cairngorm seems the most likely candidate, despite the fact that they aren’t physically there. (Boy, if they do that though, I’m afraid to see how aechmea will react.) But I don’t really find it hard to believe that one of the earth gems will wander out, unable or unwilling to sleep. 

Phos, obviously, won’t stop. They haven’t stopped trying for hundreds of years, why would they stop now, unless somehow they also bypassed whatever was preventing sensei from telling them “hey, you’re gonna kill everyone so maybe chill out”. I find it unlikely Sensei would do anything, however. He’s seemed extremely passive towards the gems lately (the most violent he’s ever been towards them was when he yelled at original goshe and morganite and accidentally shattered phos in like.. chapter 1) and aechmea said it himself- he doesn’t seem to be resisting. 

Ending it here feels so.. messy. I like to have a little bit more faith in Ichikawa as a writer. I’ve decided to trust her because she’s written a lot of other things extremely well. Maybe I’ll be putting on my clown wig in a few chapters, but we’ll see. 

[comradeocean]

I haven't read Arya x Gendry in like ... 6 years. I caught up a bit this week. Here are some I really like! 

[30 some fic recs after the jump]

post 8x01 Arya keeps looking for reasons to visit Gendry in the forge. - mmh post episode askbox fic

Somewhere to Begin, MissAtomicBomb (mrs_nerimon) The Stark sisters share a moment in the wake of some impactful reunions. - lmao my most frequently used GoT tag was "westeROS" (remember Ros???) followed by "Stark famly dynamics." So Stark sisters hashing things out... my kryptonite

Beautiful & Deadly Sharp, vlaurie17 Learning to fight with a sword were some of Arya's best memories. Sansa, however, was hesitant. “What do I do with it?” “Stick ‘em with the pointy end,” Arya smirked. Sansa just rolled her eyes, “Obviously." - also Stark sisters revisiting being Vengeance-made-girls together and practising to knife someone

I'll sing for you, Ravenclawpride06 Set post 8x1. Gendry wants it bad. Arya wants it worse. Was going to more explicit but I left it vague, felt it fit better in the end. All the pining! - I’m soft for the pining

This is my wish, crazychipmink "As he studied the drawing she had given him, he slowly began to let himself believe that she was real and alive and well. He had thought about Arya so many times that the memory of her was worn in his mind. Fragile and faded, like a piece of parchment that had been read too many times. To tell the truth, sometimes, he couldn’t even remember what she looked like, only that she was the only thing he ever wanted, ever wished for.” - season 8 episode companion fic series - ao3 tag: weapons design processes are long and require many iterations - “Davos assumed he was waiting to play his part in the great war to come, but in reality, Gendry was waiting for the next remarkable thing to happen to him. Perhaps if enough remarkable things happened to him, he would finally let himself believe that the most remarkable thing that had ever happened to him had happened.” wow ok

Who are you waiting for? crazychipmink [incomplete] "She had Arya’s face and Arya’s voice and even Arya’s smile. But despite all that, he felt like he had just spoken to a ghost. An unnatural ghost of Arya, pretending to be the girl he was in love with. Gendry had traveled to the end of the world to find her, but now that he finally had, she was gone." - the angst universe evil twin version of the fic above - we will take it bc we love to suffer - and also bc the author promises "fluff" and "eventual romance" ok sounds real but ok

the thing with feathers, yanak324 If anyone is capable of bringing the old Arya back, it’s this man in front of her, which is precisely why she must walk away. - a more (immediately) optimistic read of how Arya's in episode enactments of being No One might have gone

and in the end, jeeno2 [incomplete] Five times Gendry Waters is an idiot and the one time he figures things out. - Gendry being dumb is kind of a thing and I'm not always the biggest fan of how it plays out in fanon but this is sweet!

 The She-Wolves of Winterfell, vixleonard The pack survived. So has the Stark habit of keeping secrets. - 2nd generation Stark girls. Arya's daughter matter-of-factly saying "Stark women don't get married" - a whole ass mood.

Mid-Battle, Mary_West Sandor has something important to say to Gendry - if only Gendry can live long enough to hear it.

season 8 AU My Lady sanctuary_for_all Gendry and Arya find each other again. (AKA the plotline Gendry deserved in 7X07) - fic convention I am 100% here for: Arya scrabbling around Gendry's face looking for the seam. fic convention I am 100000% here for: Arya throwing off her glove in order to do so and then holding her hands against his cheek

Nights are for You (or Five Times Arya Visits Gendry in the Forge and One Time Gendry Visits Arya in the Castle) ASwornStark She hasn’t visited the forge since Jon returned home with the dragon bitch (the Stark sisters’ favored name for her) and him in tow. - reunion fic

season 7 Before We Jump, MissAtomicBomb (mrs_nerimon) Arya Stark's bastard boys bond on their way to the Wall. - anything for some good rowing references and bastard subjectivity

earlier laughing 'till our ribs get tough (that will never be enough), belasteals "Gendry took one look and laughed so hard that wine came out of his nose, until Harwin gave him a thwack alongside his ear." - A Storm of Swords, Arya IV (or, Gendry's POV on Acorn Hall) - real ones can't get enough of book canon and Acorn Hall.

Butcher, elephant_eyelash Gendry and Arya by the fire, discussing jacket potatoes and thinking murderous things. - perfect meditation on food and hunger and care

Dissimulo, Somnio, jeeno2 She is no one, now. But still the boy with the black hair haunts her dreams. - honestly the showrunners are cowards for not going there. let No One be Vagina Dentata Personified 2kwhenevertheBraavosiseasonsaired

post canon/canon divergent Charcoal, elephant_eyelash All about winter and feeling the cold. - weird how I'm obsessed with self-loathing and wintry alienation and the weight of history and ancestry but also devotion also love. super weird totally unexpected

Five Things Gendry Only Says in the Dark, jeeno2 Where no one else can hear him. - loneliness, shame, self-loathing. the important emotions. oh and spoiler alert some joy.

Like Wenda, Furious_Winter "...she could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs." - my favourite canon AUs are Arya and Gendry with the Brotherhood and my absolute favourites of those are when they are apart (who's ever heard of a marauding smith??) but have some of miserable bittersweet understanding and they glower at each other and make each other jealous and everything is unspoken but this is it this singular love they have for each other that doesn't quite work out. I've just realized that most of these recs are highkey angsty oops. anyway, this fic is like the most complete and perfect distillation of everything I want. - also this is so richly detailed and complete in itself. immensely satisfying. - yeah ok Furious_Winter is actually the master of post canon together but not Arya/Gendry love is not always enough fics. I'm just going to recommend all of them: - The Wolf's Head Helm [The Starks are back in Winterfell and Sansa is Queen in the North. One day, Arya receives a gift from an old friend... - Arya is in Sansas's queensguard.]  - A Means To An End (incomplete) [Arya Stark has returned from Essos and has been staying at the Inn at the Crossroads. Things are not nearly as simple as she sees them. - fuck this one hurts so good] - A Bastard At Heart [Arya and Gendry marry other people for the good of the kingdom 'cause they're self sacrificing like that. the last line took me outtt]

the truth is, baby you're all that I need, belasteals “You were jealous,” he laughed, almost shocked. “Arya Stark of Winterfell, jealous of a whore.” - sirens This One Is Not Angsty sirens

A Girl Meets a Boy, Hotpie A girl takes a face; a girl takes a lover. - possibly my favourite Crossroads Inn fic. love the Faceless Man stuff. love the detail of Needle having a smallest spot of rust, from Braavosi Steel Pox and Arya feeling a ways about it. love picking up the Melisandre thread.

So Easy To Love, Val_Creative She misses Gendry's complaining, too enthralled with staring. "You smell like Dennett's underarms," Arya murmurs, leaning in, going for blunt honesty. Gendry opens his mouth, beginning to laugh, turning uproarious and smiling. She's never seen anything more beautiful than this. More kissable than Gendry's mouth. - the summary makes it seem like it's all kissing when there is actually a big chunk of plot - in service of eventual kissing, yes, - but! spoiler alert! they don't even get to it in this fic! not exactly - maybe why I love it a lot??

With Bells in Her Hair, semicolonlife [incomplete] The further south they travel the more Gendry starts to wonder if he truly knows this woman who wears Arya Stark's face. As he begins to doubt himself more and more, Gendry becomes obsessed with the strange bells she wears in her hair. - ruthless slightly wonky Arya is my favourite Arya.

Wayfaring, Rainfallen An accidental series centered on the same basic headcanon of how Gendry found himself in the North and how Arya found her way back to it. - wolf girl Wolf Girl WOLF GIRL

Seen, sanctuary_for_all Being important matters less than who you're important to. - He wasn't sure what that verdict was, however, until she returned the unfinished sword to rest position with a deeply satisfied expression. "I am going to kill so many people with that sword." It was probably a bad sign for his long-term sanity that Gendry felt deeply complimented by that. "Happy to help." my useless heart: pikachu face - see! I like fluffy HEAs too

Hearts, sanctuary_for_all Arya comes home to her family. (Future flash) - look, I just think it's really important that even married and with children, Arya continues murdering people uwu

other AUs/misc I'll Run (Run To You), belasteals “You would rather marry a lowborn knight than a high lord, then?” She grinned, all bared teeth and sharp eyes. “I’d rather marry no one at all, else I'd not play at this mummer’s farce.” “What about the man who outruns you?” “Nobody outruns me.” (Greek mythology fusion: Arya as Atalanta, Gendry as Hippomenes. Arya vows only to marry the man who can outrun her in a footrace) - Atalanta, Mononoke, Arya. same energy.

[semicolonthefifth]

CROSS Ch4 - You Rascal You

A couple hours had passed since then. The music-player had been cycling through several songs and had eventually settled on “Run’ Em Off” by Lefty Frizzel - a moderately cheery Old Earth Western tune. Charlie recalled hearing Jason groan quite audibly when it played.

Charlie had never seen a man drink seven full, large glasses at a bar in one sitting - especially not without losing control of their higher brain functions.

Yet there he was - the man he’d come to know as Jason Cross. Gunslinger; bounty hunter; one of a two man team, part of a famed group that would take down raiders through skill and knowledge of the land. He was a man he only knew as a wondrous tale of wasteland justice; and there he was, chugging alcohol as if he was competing for the world’s biggest drunkard. Yet at his 8th glass in the man stood. At least that was something worth admiring.

Frankie, meanwhile, was all too busy admiring the book - his nose deep into the pages cataloging the history of Aurora. He gazed with sheer joy in detail of every photo, sometimes turning back a page just to re-admire it some more. He let Charlie and Jason be, all while he was content with catching up on the knowhow of the world.

Charlie coughed a bit before asking politely through some discomfort, “Um, Mr. Cross?”

Jason held a finger up, silencing Charlie while he finishes his latest order. After a few large gulps does he finish, letting out a long and heavy sigh. A quietness comes after, with Jason staring off into space. Charlie almost gets a word in before Jason then speaks up.

“Fuckin’ genetics, I swear to God.” He softly complains. “I should be dead now, or at least hammered. Why am I always drawing the worst luck?”

“Yeah… was about to ask about that.” Charlie wonders aloud with a worried tone. “How are you still talking, or in fact… standing?”

“Call it a curse.” Coldly replies Jason. “Let’s just say my body ain’t built like most others if my height ain’t a strong hint by now. Don’t want to get into it though… way too personal.”

“And what I just learned WASN’T personal already?”

Jason groaned more, head brought down with a thumb squeezing at his temple. His injured hand was deep into a plate of ice, half already melted at this point - all while his free hand tends to the headache. His brain was ringing a bit, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was running deep in his body. Repressed memories kept clawing out, and trying to bury them further was hurting his head more than it was worth. With a strong flavorful exhale, he picks his head back up and looks at Charlie.

“Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Y-... You serious?” Charlie asks, a bit concerned for his own safety as he was for Jason’s.

“More than I’m not.” Jason states, with hints of a tired slurring in his speech. “I’m half thinking of running out of here, but considering how shit my luck has been I don’t want to run the risk of something worse happening out there. So… ask away. Might as well ride this newfound awfulness till it ends.”

“Ok, ok…” Charlie collects himself, doing a couple of deep breaths before taking a professional, presentable angle to speak with Jason. “You are Jason Cross. Brother to Frederick Cross. Member of the Crimson Crosses, one of the most famous militia groups on the Black Road, here on on Aurora. Aaaaaand you’ve druken enough ale in one sitting to knock out a man.”

“Yup, unfortunately yes, absolutely no, and not even close.” Answers Jason with a tired look. “Fred and I haven’t been brothers for about… 5 years now. Not a word said to each other since, that I’m certain of. I’ve also not been a member of that damn group for the same amount of time - all entirely my choice. As for the drinking, I’m not close… not a little. I think I can handle some more.”

“But why?” Charlie asked, genuinely concerned - the wideness of his eyes like a boy hearing that his childhood hero was fake all along. “You two were fantastic. I’ve gotten so many stories collected about you guys. All the adventures you’ve taken, and the good you’ve done.”

He quickly snatches his collection book from Frankie, turning a large chunk of pages to a chapter highlighting the many achievements of the Crimson Crosses. There were stylized posters and photographs, all of them singing praise upon the Crosses and their exploits. Charlie began listing them off, all with a sense of innocent pride in his voice. “Here - this one’s about you guys facing off against a crook known as the Silver Stallion. And look here! ‘The Cross Brothers, and the Attack of the Screaming Mimmies!’, a widely-seen classic. Then there’s this one where you fended off a swarm of Kodvacs from ravaging some farms. You guys were heroes!”

Jason takes a glance at the photos, the memories coming back again. With it comes that tremble behind his eyes, a sharp pinch he tries to ignore before stating coldly, “Yeah, but that was long, long ago. Told you: Fred and I ain’t brothers no more. Those adventures don’t mean anything, not when things are so fucked right now. The Crimson Crosses weren’t meant to last with how they operated.”

“Why’s that?”

With a harsh cough, Jason continues. “All Frederick was concerned about was tradition, that’s it. He wanted to keep everything like it was in the old west days. How we lives; how we operated; how we even talked - if, again, you hadn’t noticed. Meanwhile, I wanted to have us improve and modernize; he thought I was ‘ruining things’, and said I had no respect. Eventually I said ‘fuck it’ and left. Left him and that group to rot.”

“That’s it?” Charlie asked softly, yet still curious. “Couldn’t talk it out?”

“Nope, and I don’t care anymore to ever return to it. I got my own thing, and he’s got his. Out here I’ve been handling myself fine these past years. Sure, there've been some… rough parts.” Jason pauses, out of the alcohol in his system or his own emotions is unclear. “Still, I can survive. Can’t say the same thing about the Crimson Crosses, but that don’t matter.”

“That’s unfortunate to hear…” Charlie said softly, looking rather devastated. Jason noticed, but he didn’t much care for it. Suddenly then, Charlie thought of something and proceeded to ask, “Well, it wouldn’t be so bad to talk to him again, right? Maybe catch up on some things? Make amends?”

“Oh to hell with that noise!” Jason shoots back. “I got better things to do.”

Frankie slides the book back to his reach, getting back into his reading as he chimes in with, “Yeah, Jason’s his own man now. Riding around, bounty hunting for the government. Last I heard he got a lead on some guy for a high price - Sid was it?” He shoots a toothy smile at Jason, exclaiming, “Ain’t that right, Jason?”

His smile suddenly weakens once he’s face to face with the sheer, utter misery emanating from Jason’s sour expression. Frankie moves away, chuckling nervously, “I uh… take it that the job didn’t go so nicely?”

Then, a THUD!

Jason’s head slumps onto the table - his face directed down, all the while he admits to his company, “Nothing’s been going nicely. Killed the bastard, but didn’t mean - then I just embarrass myself and get my fingers fucked over when I turn in the bounty. I didn’t even get a single cred for all that trouble. Seems like my luck has just about run out. Everywhere I turn to, everywhere I go… something goes wrong. Sometimes it feels like the universe is just making me out to be a joke. Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.”

“Now, come on Jason.” Frankie softly replies, lending a comforting hand upon Jason’s shoulder. “You ain’t unlucky. It's just some bad circumstances. You’ll pull through in no time, I’m sure of it.”

Jason tries to feel a little better, though by now it was a feat that felt harder to get over than any mountain along this cursed world. The reassurance does not last though, as a couple new guests come in through the back of the bar to join in for the night.

The two men were broad in shape, and both quite physically intimidating. One man was quite fat, with a big bushy, coal-black beard alongside a long length of hair from his pinkish head, and a slew of tattooed flames along his muscular arms. The other was far more fit and tall in appearance - white skinned and clean shaven, with dark blonde hair shortened to a buzz cut. His lower jaw jutted outward, often times showing a small row of yellowed teeth. Despite their differences, they dressed very similarly: black leather jackets; dark-red colored shirts with white horizontal stripes; brown, dirtied pants that tucked into their black boots. Each man had a knife prominently sheathed at their belts on one side, but the fatter one has a sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

Jason’s company immediately took notice of them, with Charlie quickly collecting his book back into the backpack while Frankie remains mostly still in his seat. Meanwhile, Jason was too mentally exhausted to even see them; he kept one hand one the ice and the other on the table, all the while groaning every now and then.

The Bartender also saw them - doing a table-take before moving himself away. As the two men slowly made their way to the trio, he observed carefully from where he stood.

Once the two men reached the others, the fit one of the pair looked over them with a brutish scowl - all the while his fatter friend circled over in a slow pace so as to flank the group. Frankie, nervous though smiling, tries being civil, “Hey there uh… friends. You needin’ something?”

Charlie wrapped his arms tight around his back, sticking extremely close to Frankie. The fit-bodied brute unclenches his jaw, cracking it as he adjusts it before speaking in a thick drawl, “Name’s Jessup, ‘friend’... and he’s Burk” He adds, nodding to his partner. “We here juss’ to be lookin’. No issue in’at, yeah? Juss’ a couple guys coming in for a drink is all.”

He leans close from where he stands, while his hands are kept to his side - very close to to his knife where it’s plainly seen. His mouth hangs crooked at times,with lips dipping down obnoxiously. Jessup continues, “Have been runnin’ down the road and back all nigh’ long. Going down the ways and makin’ our mark cross the dunes. We juss’ abou’ looking fer’ someone who’s causing us some problems up on ‘dere road. Wen’ in and murdered a friend of ours… and ‘den carried him off.”

A nervous chuckle escapes from Frankie’s lips, which he fails to contain as the goon Burk completes his slow round. The man gets closer to Jason, examining as best he could. Meanwhile Frankie insists, “Hadn’t seen anyone like that, sir. How do you even know your friend was killed anyhow? Maybe he ran off somewhere?”

Jessup doesn’t flinch or change his expression, instead adding, “Oh, we know he killed him. Supposed to come meet us back, and gave us some warning ‘case any problem were to come his way. ‘Course he never came back, so we checked on a bar he said he were goin’ for. ‘Course we found his body by ‘dere road - put away by his killer. Followed on over ‘tword’s dat bars he mentioned, and then soon enuff one of ‘dem squealed about who done it.”

He slowly rises back, cracking his neck and jaw as he towers over everyone. The knife by his belt tapped by his muscular hands, tense and ready. “Roughed up the owner pretty good - probably hurt his friends just as fierce, I reckon. ‘Ventually he gave a name and some general idea on where he gone on and fled. About put us through a good couple’a hours, but we got the run on the man. Man were described as a blonde, big fella - red bandanna ‘round his head, and got a vest ‘longside some goggles. Name were…. Jason Cross. That soundin’ familiar?”

Charlie was fiercely shaking in his seat, while Frankie had lost all the color and optimism in his face. The corners of Jessup’s lips curled up a bit upon seeing their reactions before he slowly turns his gaze right towards Jason. He asks with a soft intimidation, “Him, eh? Am I gettin’ right?”

Before either could answer, Jessup starts moving over. Frankie attempts to stop him by getting in front, but is quickly stopped when Jessup snatches his arms and slams the man against the table. Pinned, Frankie struggles as Jessup steals the man’s sidearm, keeping it away while his friend Burk makes his move. The Bartender can’t do anything to help, as Jessup aims the stolen gun right at the owner.

“Don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas, fella.” Jessup growls through gritted teeth. “We only wantin’ one dead man today, so don’t push us to make room for four. Keep yo’self out of our business if you know what’s good for ya’.”

All the while Burk holds up his shotgun, tapping Jason on the shoulder with a free hand while the gun was aimed. Jason stirs, looking lazily at the two as his mind starts to catch up on things. When he finally puts two and two together, he winces and groans, letting out a slow, tired, “Oh, damn it. It’s me, right? Of-fucking-course it’s me… it always got to be me.”

“Get up!” Shouts Burk, striking the butt of his shotgun at Jason’s back. Jason barely reacts, not even out of pain. His head is giving him all sorts of ringings and fog. It’s like an ongoing fireworks event is bouncing around in his head, and it ain’t letting up anytime soon. There’s enough awareness to get him to hold his hands up slowly, though he still groans in doing so.

“I’m coming, I’m coming… just give me a second ok?” Jason slurs in his remark. “My head’s a bit fuzzy.” He lightly shakes his head, not so much to push the intruders into making the problem any worse than it should. Afterwards, he suggests, “Mind we take this outside? I’d rather not die in a bar, personally speaking. I think that’s not gonna do me any favors for me after I’m dead.”

“No chance there, friend.” Jessup chimes in. “Boss wantin’ you dead. Right here, so nobody be goin’ and messin’ with us again.”

“Yeah!” Adds Burk, “So pipe down! Else, we make this a slow one.”

Jason blinked, his expression a mix of confusion, intoxication, and grumpiness. Some of it brought by the situation, part of it by the music. Just as his whole world was turning upside down; just when it seemed he was about to be done in at the worst possible way - the universe throws another wrench at the burning tractor that was Jason’s life.

Blaring from the radio like an insane bastard was about the worst song that could play at that moment: “Paraylized” by the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. It screeched with a mix of unintelligible lyrics screamed aloud, alongside a set of banging drums and cymbals. All that noise turned the fireworks in Jason’s head into a lineup of air horns playing simultaneously. It woke Jason’s sense quick, but at the cost of knowing that this song would be what followed him into the afterlife. If disappointment could kill, it would’ve done him away three times by now.

He held a finger up as he stared back between the music-player and the two goons. Then he begged, meaning it when he says, “Listen… if I’m dying, can I make one last request?”

Jessup pursed his lips, sighing gravely, “Yeah?”

“Please.” Jason pleaded aggressively, “Can I please change the song? I’ll die, alright, but it shouldn’t be to this. It can’t be to this. Anything but that piece of crap.”

All of them glanced towards the music player, to which even Jessup and his partner looked troubled at. Eye-twitching, it almost seemed heartless to make THAT the last thing for someone to hear before they die. After a moment he stepped aside, nodding to Burk to let Jason move ahead - though to keep his gun aimed still.

Slowly, on the death mark, Jason Cross makes his way to the player. He twitched and frowned at every incomprehensible shout from the singer, but prayed and gave thanks to the universe that - at the very least - he could change it before he died. For a moment he thought how easy it would be to run out through the hallway at this point, then out the back - but he knows that was his fear talking; were he to leave, it would only put his friends in danger in his stead. After a long, slow walk he made it to the music-player, studying it for a moment.

It was a neat little invention, inspired by the more modern techs made in the 21st century of the Old Earth. The player was a small rectangular box with a screen monitor that, when touched, would respond to the users action. It had a series of wires going into the walls, likely into the several speakers hidden throughout the saloon. The box was a brown color, to better match the area, but also dusted with age. The screen lit up past the dust, a sign that few ever come to change the music themselves. When Jason scrolled through the selection, he found it to be near infinite, thanks in part to the incredible storage this little box held. As he scrolled, he cycled through what music was available - as he couldn’t afford the time to be picky.

There were all sorts of songs, most of which had a country feel. There were variations of grunge, rock, and easy listening throughout the pre-selected library. Jason recognized some names: Eddie Arnold, the Larks, Dick Dale, along with some Van Morrison. He felt the clock ticking - he had to find something, anything.

If Jason Cross were to die today, he ought to die to something different.

He hovered his fingers to the monitor, closed his eyes, and picked a song at random.

Then, silence.

Nothing.

Soon, a screech - Jason’s ears perk and he cringes.

A guitar strums. The drums follow. There’s a beat that hits hard.

Jason’s eyes slowly open, and then his body eases. He turns away from the music player, and right there simply lets the music hit him. The lyrics come, sung by a dry voice that speaks of a rascal to be made dead. The song hits Jason in the way he needed, as if it woke him up - and pointed him on a path right back to those men.

For the first time in a long while, though he cannot say how, Jason felt good. A sensation crawls up his spine, and a light breathless chuckle erupts out softly.

The two men look confused, but Jessup is quick to shout in a pissed off tone, “Alright ‘den! Get on back ‘ere, Cross! It’s about time you died!”

Jason looks at them, and after a look around he slowly makes his way back. Being careful, he grabs something off the hallway wall and keeps it right close.

He moves further towards the two, stopping just right before them. Jason’s friends are unable to do much at this time, and the Bartender is just as stuck. His attention is immediately drawn to Jessup, whose lip twists into a grin - his bottom lip still sagging, enough to show his browned gums. Burk’s shotgun is aimed at the ready, and Jessup asks,

“Any final words?”

Jason doesn’t nod or shift for that moment, instead staring intensely right back at Jessup as he answers back, “Yeah…”

“...Draw.”

Quick as a flash! Jason flips his hands and produces a revolver, aimed right at Jessup’s throat. Both men were taken by surprise - the gun was too quick to register before it had already pinned close to his jugular. Jessup chokes a bit out of reflex, but he keeps his cool. He looks at Jason, right into his eyes - through the goggles he can see pure anger daggered right back with an odd greenish spark.

Rob is left surprised, holding the shotgun as he tries to get what had just happened. For a moment his eyes concentrate on the gun Jason’s holding.

“You be goin’ and making a big mistake.” Jessup scowls, spitting at his t’s and k’s.

Jason doesn’t give. He returns in kind, fierly. “I’ll be the fucking judge of that.”

Rob looks closer at the gun. He squints, and thinks aloud, “Is that a--”

SMASH! Shards of white porcelain and half-melted ice fall everywhere. Frankie is risen off his seat, holding a broken plate while all the other pieces are spread about or wedges into Burk’s head. The fat brute recoils in pain; the shotgun is lowered before it’s finally dropped.

Jason takes the opportunity, smacking the revolver upside the brutes head. Hard. Jessup falls to the side, also dropping the gun he’d stolen from Frankie before it slides far away.

Angry, Burk gets up and charges at Jason - he tackles him against the bar table and begins to lay down a series of heavy strikes against Jason’s face and body. Pinned down, Jason tries to fight back against the blows, by kicking against his fatter opponent. All the while the Bartender finally gets the chance to join in and tries to push Burk off Jason - as well, Frankie and Charlie try their best to smack at the man.

Not content with just punching, Burk ignored everything before pulling his knife from off his belt and goes for the stab.

The blade swings wildly, causing everybody around the two to step back to dodge. Burk’s hand raises high for the moment and he strikes down, landing a deep stab into the table - near Jason’s neck.

Jason keeps moving, but the man pulls and goes again for the kill - close enough to nick him on the cheek.

After a couple more swings, and a hefty shove to push everyone away, Burk slams the knife down. A hard scream is heard! Blood shoots up as the knife pierces Jason’s left shoulder!

It twists, and suddenly Jason’s adrenaline hikes up enough for him to launch the man away with a fierce kick - pushing him off and onto the floor.

Jason gets up, breathing harshly as his pained growls start to sound like a pained beast. He doesn’t have time to register the knife stuck on him, but instead his attention is immediately directed at the goon that put it there. Through the tinted goggles, all Jason could see was red.

Before Burk could even move an inch or utter a word, he’s quickly overcome by Jason - who starts to beat him with the gun he picked off the wall. Fierce blow after blow is unleashed upon the man, fueled by pure, unadulterated anger.

The others are frozen in terror. Jason goes mad with his beatings. With Burk on his ass and against the wall, there was nowhere to turn to to escape Jason’s pummeling. He’s beaten down by the gun; slammed in the face by Jason’s knee; his head kicked in by a downward stomp. In between the pain he could only catch a glimpse of how bull mad Jason was, and nothing more. Even when Jason loses his grip of the gun through the blood, he still keeps at it with his fist.

Blood splatters, against walls, tables, and chairs. The bar echoes with violent thuds and hectic breathing. Frankie, Charlie, and the Bartender watch Jason beat the man down - too shocked to get in the way. It’s hard, at this point, to even recognize the intruder’s face… or to know if he was even still alive at this point.

Meanwhile, as Jason keeps hitting, Jessup recovers and wakes from his blow. He spits some blood and a couple teeth onto the floor, before noticing the bloodied revolver that Jason struck him with - on the floor and within his reach. Struggling, he makes the grab and picks it up before aiming it right at Jason.

Jason finally notices, as does everyone else who all stare down at the grinning Jessup. Breathing hotly, and with his arms exhausted and blood-stained, Jason doesn’t do much, nor does he react strongly. All he does is look down at the injured brute aiming the gun.

Jessup lets out a pained laugh, with blood dripping off his lip. “All ya’ll are so dead. Every las’ fucking one of ya! Ain’t gonna be a soul alive once Boss Lars is done with you.”

He cackles and bleeds before pulling the trigger!

Nothing.

Not even a click.

His expression instantly sours into utter shock as he then turns the revolver - it is a replica. A fake.

Then he hears something getting picked off the floor. Looking up, he sees Jason holding Rob’s shotgun with one hand - aimed right at Jessup’s face.

Jason glares down at him, then, with barely restrained rage, states, 

“I’d like to see you try.”

Click.

BANG! Ca-click, BANG!

The bar is showered by a large mist of blood. From where Jessup’s head once was, there is now only a mess of gore splattered all over the floor. Two walls are covered in blood and brain matter, and much of the bar table is colored in similar red. Trickles of it hit everyone, but not as much as it hits Jason.

Frankie, after a long pause of shock, lays against the table as he pants and wipes the blood off his face. He tries to look for his gun, but mentally puts that off for later.

Charlie stares on like a deer in headlights. He stands completely straight, as he looks on. Frightened, shocked… amazed, though he doesn’t say.

The Bartender is the least emotional or reactionary of them all. He takes a deep breath before slowly making his way to the back closet at the end of the bar.

Then there was Jason, standing there. A shotgun in one hand, and a knife wedged deep into his shoulder. He stands tough, breathing heavily as he finally has time to register all the wounds inflicted upon his face and body. It hurts, and it’s going to hurt even more.

As if on auto-pilot, Jason starts walking out of the saloon’s front door and doesn’t say a word. His friends take notice and start moving after him.

Right outside, the people of Blondie gather around the bar. They’ve since been woken up from the commotion in the saloon, and everyone from the craftsman, the traders, the local priest, the carers and the watchmen come to see what had happened. Even the Mayor has come out, dressed in his nightly finest, as he stands front and center along his people - men and women, young and elderly alike.

They had just come once the gunfire caught their attention, and were debating amongst themselves on who would be first to enter before they see Jason exit out from the building. They stand, shocked in seeing the bloodied Jason Cross walk out from the saloon - sporting a shotgun in one hand, and a knife jutting out his shoulder. Then, coming right after him was Frankie and Charlie, who both start to stare with uncertainty in what to do now. Frankie’s first instinct is to calm everyone, but he isn’t able to get a word in… not before Jason.

Crazed thoughts run through Jason’s mind alongside a constant ringing - a ringing that felt like it never left him, and he can’t remember a time where it wasn’t following alongside him to begin with. The pain is too strong, it’s catching up to his brain now. The drinking has finally come to the station, and it’s not kind to let the pain have its way on his senses. There’s nothing but noise, and through it Jason can only think sparse thoughts.

‘Can’t say my name.’

‘All I get is trouble.’

‘All my name brings is trouble.’

‘Have to say something.’

‘Have to say something now.’

‘Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.’

Jason drops the shotgun, and with that he then holds both his arms up as best he could. Then, with a crooked grin, he announces aloud, “People of Blondie. My name… is Frederick Cross… and I just saved the day.”

The crowd murmurs, and some look outright shocked. Shocked… and excited. The Mayor looks outright pleased.

Jason grins some more and chuckles, all before proceeding to fall backwards onto the unforgiving ground.

The last thing he sees before blacking out are the crowd of people coming to his body. As well, the concerned looks on both Frankie and Charlie’s faces.

The people of Blondie never stopped talking that night: of the man who saved their town from a couple of gun-toting hooligans, and the very name he bore.

Frederick Cross.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 25

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

Author’s note: ***Small spoilers about Arthur’s past in this chapter!***

From Arthur’s POV

THE NEXT MORNING

Sliding the pencil across the paper, I drew a simple sketch of Eddie while he continued to sleep, his entire body submerged under the thick layers of blankets as he got some well-deserved rest. The boy looked perfectly content at the moment and didn’t have a single hint of worry clouding his expression. Instead, he simply drifted away in whatever dream was floatin’ around his head at the moment and held onto the pillow as if it was another person, squishin’ his face into the cushion.

I chuckled softly at the sight and added some details to his portrait, tryin’ to make it more than just a mess of scrawls and doodles like I normally did.

It had been a long time since I last sat down and drew something. With all the mayhem goin’ on recently, I almost forgot what it felt like to lose myself in my journal. But being back in Saint Denis, and preparing for this riverboat robbery -- it all got me itchin’ to sketch something again. And, I figured, who better to draw than the person I enjoyed being around the most?

Lightly scratching the pencil’s tip in a series of short strokes, I scribbled down Eddie’s ruffled hair and added some shadows around the sliver of sunlight runnin’ across his face, trying to make it as gentle as possible. He appeared to be in a complete state of solace right now, and I wanted to capture it as best I could. After all, I doubted it’d be a long while before he’d be this calm again, considerin’ what was coming up in the near-future...and I couldn’t deny that I was scared, too.

I mean, with the direction Dutch was headed in and the way our gang was slowly fallin’ apart, it made me question just how much longer this whole thing was actually gonna last. Civilization was storming through the country at a rate we couldn’t keep up with, and the more we ran from it, the more it seemed to close its walls around us.

We was only delaying the inevitable, s’far as I was concerned. Sooner or later, America was gonna throw us out like it did everything else, and we’d have to be ready for it. Whether we wanted to or not.

Catchin’ my attention with the soft sound of rustling, a gentle sniff reached my ears as I stopped drawing for a second and put down my journal, only to find Eddie sleepily looking back at me from the bed. His eyes were half-open just as I expected, and a lazy smile radiated on his face as he rose from slumber.

I smirked at him, placin’ the journal on my lap.

“There he is,” I teased. “Thought you was never gonna wake up.”

Eddie chuckled at that and glanced at my journal, causin’ him to raise a brow outta curiosity.

“...Are you drawing me?” He asked.

I nodded and carefully began to tear the sketch out, handing it to him.

“You mentioned Rodrick burned the other portrait. I, ah...figured I could make a replacement.”

The pianist sat up and took the sketch in his grasp, admiring it in a fond manner before beaming at me.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, his expression dimming with sadness. “I mean it. ...I truly thought I’d never see you again when I was stuck in that cellar with Rodrick. I know I wasn’t there for very long, but...he certainly made it feel like an eternity. I’m just glad you showed up before anything else could happen. If you hadn’t...I...I don’t even want to think about that.”

I let out a guilt-ridden sigh, starin’ at the numerous scars Rodrick had left on Eddie’s body.

“You and me both. I’m just sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

Eddie’s sorrowful mood was quickly replaced with a sense of vengeance and he firmly shook his head in response, starin’ outside the window.

“I swear, Arthur...before all this comes to an end, I’m killing everyone in that bloody gang. Atticus, Rodrick, and anyone else who laid a finger on you or my family. They all deserve to die. They need to be wiped out.”

I suddenly thought back to what Hosea had warned me about and finally decided to bring up the subject, scootin’ my chair closer to the boy as Hosea’s final words rang in my head like a distant bell.

“...Actually, Eddie,” I said lowly, shutting my journal closed, “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about that.”

Eddie perked his head up, softening his tone slightly. “About what?”

I hesitated for a second and leaned forward, tryin’ to get my thoughts straight as the pianist waited for an explanation.

“I know this might sound strange at first, but...if my years as an outlaw have taught me anything, it’s that revenge...ain’t worth the sacrifice.”

The pianist gave me a puzzled look. “...I-I don’t understand. How can wanting to kill Atticus be a bad thing? Don’t you think he deserves death?”

“Of course I think he deserves death,” I replied. “But we may not be the ones to deliver it, and we’d be fools to hunt him down. I mean...just look at Dutch. He’s obsessed with takin’ revenge. It’s the only thing he lives for now. Sadie, too. Their want for revenge has consumed the both of them, and it’s turned ‘em into killers.”

I paused for a second, lookin’ at Eddie with a caring expression. “...But you ain’t no killer, Eddie. And I don’t wanna see you become one. You’re still young. You still have the potential to live a normal life, once all this is over. Atticus has already stolen your past from you. Don’t throw away your future for that bastard, too.”

The boy fell silent at that and thought to himself, clearly experiencing some sorta inner conflict now that I was sayin’ these things. He seemed to see my point and I could tell he knew where I was coming from, but there was still a reluctance to agree.

Tryin’ to make my point more understandable for him, I decided to tell Eddie a story that I hadn’t told anyone else aside from Dutch and Hosea, and took a deep breath, hoping that this would be able to change his mind.

“...Lemme put it this way,” I began, gaining the pianist’s attention. “I was once in the same position as you, Eddie. I know how temptin’ revenge is...and I’ve seen what happens if you give in to it. I lost my family too. Many years ago. Just like you did.”

That piqued his interest. “...Really?”

A mournful breath escaped me. “Yeah. I...I used to have a son, actually. His name was Isaac. He was...such a good kid. And so was his mother, I guess. Just a nineteen-year-old girl named Eliza. They was the closest thing to a real family I ever had. I wasn’t able to stay with them all the time ‘cause of my work with Dutch, but every few months or so, I’d go back home and stay with ‘em for a couple of days. Try to give Isaac some sort of father figure. And for a while, it worked. But...just like everything else, it eventually failed.”

I brought my gaze to the floor, admittedly findin’ this a lot harder to talk about than I first anticipated.

“I came back home one day...and saw two crosses outside. I knew right away what happened. I just didn’t know how. It turned out -- they was robbed. And killed. All for ten bucks.”

I swallowed out of grief and bit my lip, thinking back to that god-awful day as Eddie listened intently.

“Their deaths...” I continued, trying keep it together, “they changed somethin’ inside me. I spent so long tracking down their killers. It was all I cared about for the next few months. I didn’t care about Dutch, or Hosea, or the gang...the only thing I wanted was to find the people who had killed them, and make them pay for it.”

I repainted the killers’ faces in my mind, gesturin’ to an invisible scene as I carried on with the story.

“...One night, I found their camp while I was searching along a river bank.  They were all there, huddled ‘round a campfire and sharin’ drinks. Having a good ol’ time. They almost reminded me of our gang...but that didn’t matter to me. Without saying a word, I stormed in there like an absolute madman and shot the whole lot of them. Set their stuff on fire. Did everything I could to make sure they was sufferin’ in their last moments. And I sure as shit did.”

I glanced down at my hands. “When it was over, though...I felt...strange. I remember I was sittin’ there in the middle of their camp, kneeling on the ground with bodies lying all around me and blood staining my hands. The peace I had been looking for was nowhere to be found. Instead...I just felt empty. Like I no longer had a reason to live now that my family’s killers were dead. I had sacrificed everything for these bastards, and forgotten the man I once was in the process.”

I turned back to Eddie, resting a hand on top of his.

“You’re the only person I’ve found ever since then who’s...who’s made me care again. Who’s made me feel like this ain’t a waste of time. So please, Eddie. Don’t do what I did. Don’t become the man I am. You’ll never find peace otherwise, and there ain’t no goin’ back. Can you promise me you won’t?”

The boy was quiet for a while, evidently taken aback by the story I just told him and surprised about my past while he considered everything I said. There was still a fire in his eyes that told me his desire to kill Atticus hadn’t gone anywhere -- and that it probably wouldn’t anytime soon -- but against all better judgement, Eddie eventually gave in and sighed out of defeat, agreeing to promise this one thing.

“...Okay,” he whispered vehemently. “It’s...going to take me some time to understand all this completely, but if you think this is what’s best for me...then I’ll do it. I promise.”

I nodded in approval. “Thank you, Eddie.”

Having had enough of this melancholic mood, I cleared my throat and stood up from the chair, gettin’ ready to head outside the saloon as I brought my mind back to the robbery at hand.

“Anyways,” I said, “I’ll let you get dressed. Meet me outside when you’re finished cleanin’ up, and then we’ll head back to camp and...let Dutch know what’s what.”

“Alright,” the pianist replied. “You sure we can rob this riverboat?”

I shrugged, makin’ my way out the door.

“I ain’t sure of nothin’ just yet. All I know is there’s money on that boat, and Dutch wants it. So long as he’s got his eyes on that cash, we ain’t going nowhere. The best we can do is be prepared, and keep our eyes peeled. Other than that...” I opened the door, scoffing in an amused tone, “we’ll just pray, I guess. But at this point, pfft...I doubt even God would bother savin’ us.”

[mattzerella-sticks]

I Feel Safe With You (13x22 “Exodus” Dean/Cas Coda) (Ao3)

With nearly everyone back at the Bunker, it might be hard to find some alone time. However, Dean and Cas manage to find just that, and talk about a few things that need to be discussed. Will they say what needs to be said? Or do some things even need to be said? Sometimes the strongest things are those that are left unspoken.

           “I figured you might be here.”

           Dean cranes his head over the back of the chair, smiling at Cas from where he stands in the doorway. The television is the only source of light, highlighting his profile. Dean beckons Cas further in, the angel closing the door behind him. He heads towards the only other seat in Dean’s Cave, perching on the edge of it. Luckily, Dean had already muted the show he was watching, preferring the images to flash on-screen – his mind whirling with too many thoughts to really follow any storyline.

           “How’s everybody settling in?” Dean asks.

           “Fine,” Cas says, “We’ve filled two entire wings of the Bunker… could have used your help with all the sheets and everything.”

           “It was getting to be too much,” Dean admitted, turning away, “All these people… I’m gonna miss being able to just walk around in my robe.”

           “They won’t be here for long,” Cas tells him, “I’m sure there will be a few who may try and start a new life – here, where Michael exists only in The Cage.”

           “Wouldn’t blame ‘em if they did,” Dean chuckles, “Not like we haven’t faced down greater threats with less people…”

           Dean fiddles, playing with the chair’s arms, hoping that by scraping the leather with blunt nails he could dig up more to the conversation than the thoughts rumbling throughout his mind. Cas sits, waiting, watching Dean’s fidgeting. His body, unlike Dean’s, is closed in: knees pressed together, back slumped with his elbows resting on his thighs. Coiled tight, ready to spring forward if given the push.

           “And how’re the rest of ‘em?” Dean asks.

           “Sam decided to head to his room, after I promised to check up on you,” Cas starts, “And Mary… her and Bobby were chatting in the kitchen last I saw. When I asked about his lodgings she assured me that I needn’t worry.” Dean snaps his attention back to his angel, a small upward tic of his brow.

           “Did she?” he leans forward, “What did… what did she say?”

           “He can take my room,” Castiel quotes, squinting as he remembers, “I’ll even show him how to use the mattress.”

           Dean groans, face falling into his hands. “I had a feeling,” he mumbles from between his fingers, “That there was more than just soldier loyalty holding her there.”

           “I don’t quite get what you mean?”

           “Please Cas, think,” Dean turns to him, “So I don’t have to explain it to you.” He sees the gears spinning behind the angel’s eyes and as they light up with understanding.

           “Oh,” he says, “They’re engaging in sex –“

           “Yes!” Dean shouts over him, wringing his hands, “Yes they’re doing – that. Now let’s refrain from ever speaking about well… that, ever again. Okay?” Cas’s nod lessens the embarrassment fluttering within his stomach by a fraction.

           “It’s not a bad thing, Dean,” he adds, “That place was dangerous… scary… it’s nice to see that your mother was able to find some normalcy while she was there…”

           “Well… when you put it that way…”

           “It’s funny… the thing about danger,” Cas continues, gaze distant and far away, “When we’re in it, we have to re-prioritize… well, everything. Have to take control of the situation, make tough calls, and protect what matters. Being in this position for long periods of time… it can be taxing. Living like that without any breaks would force the strongest of people to crumble. We all need to feel safe from time to time.”

           Dean smiles, “Yeah… I get what you mean.” He does, darting his eyes across the room at the cocoon he built for himself and his family. Every few seconds they fall back to Cas, but they never linger. Admitting to certain safeties can unlock even more dangers, in Dean’s world.

           “I’m glad we’re out of there,” Dean says, “I don’t know how Ma did it… how any of ‘em… goes to show that even if you don’t think so – your grass is greener to someone.”

           “It was taxing, all that we went through… all that we brought with us… what we left behind…” Cas’s shoulders hunch even further up to his neck, hands given way to human temptations such as twiddling and twitching.

           “I’m… sorry, we couldn’t get Gabe out of there,” Dean tells him, “I know how much Heaven needed him and… and just getting him back –“

           “It hurts,” Cas admits, staring at his lap, brows drawn in confusion, “Finally Gabriel chose to stay and fight and… I wish that he had run away. Saved himself from…” He looks up, teary-eyed, “We had just gotten him back. He barely had any time between his imprisonment and his death. That world it just… it takes from you.”

           “Yeah… no argument here,” Dean mutters darkly, “Almost took Sam… Jack and Ma were over there for too long…” He sighs, “In a way we also lost you – or… other you. Though I wasn’t as sad to see that bastard go.”

           “It was strange, I’ll admit,” Cas huffs, smiling weakly, “I remember a time where killing myself would have been a welcome thought. But even smiting this… twisted version of me, although necessary, was depressing.”

           “Don’t joke about that, Cas,” Dean says, reaching across the divide to place a hand over his angel’s, “Watching that was tough for me, too. I mean… it was still you. Just a you without humanity… without –“

           “Without meeting you.”

           Dean pauses, cheeks heating under the searching stare. Cas locks eyes with him, like clear blue waves of a lake rocking forward to meet the grass dappled hills of its shore. Fingers tap against fingers, until Cas turns his palm over and slides them together.

           “Cas?”

           “You and Sam, I hope that the Apocalypse world was just an anomaly, and that you two exist on every other plane of existence,” Cas powers forward, squeezing tight, “Winchesters inspire hope… with all of you the world remains safe. With… with you… I feel safe.”

           “Cas…” Dean repeats, reverent, “I… You make me feel safe, too. Like, I don’t know…” He rips his gaze away, scratching at his neck with his free hand, “You look at me, sometimes, and I just feel like the whole world’s a bit brighter. S’why I call you sunshine…”

           “Dean…”

           “Yeah?”

           “What,” he swallows, nervously, shattering any illusion of angelic composure, “What are we?”

           “We’re…” the word hangs on his tongue, waiting for its partner before tumbling into reality. Except every descriptor Dean’s mind comes up with gets rejected, deemed not good enough. ‘Best Friends’ didn’t carry enough of the intent Dean wanted to show. ‘Brothers’ doesn’t feel right – not that it ever did. ‘Family’ was too vague, and just a cheap cop out.

           ‘What are we?’

           He bides his time scanning his angel’s face. Roving over the sharp cheekbones blanketed by eternal stubble. Watches as a pink tongue peeks out to wet chapped – ‘but probably soft’ – lips. Eyes that remind Dean of every motel with a pool they stayed in while growing up. He and Sammy would sneak in, at night, and swim to their heart’s content. Sometimes, not even leaving until the sun was rising over the buildings and their skin hurt from pruning. Pool time was an escape – freedom from expectations and a bleak tomorrow. Feelings he thought would only exist under highly chlorinated water but can be found easily in the warmth of the angel that’s always close but never enough.

           “We’re… we’re us,” Dean says, smiling, “The good and the bad… all of it. There’s no hiding… no putting up fronts… just two guys with,” he stumbles, “with… feelings.”

           “Feelings?” Cas parrots, laughing slightly, “Yes… that is a good word for it. Although,” he rubs a thumb across Dean’s hand, “I might think of better words for it…” He looks up at him through his lashes, tanned skin flushed slightly. Dean roughly swallows around the heart-shaped lump in his throat.

           “Really?” he asks, “What – uh… what words would you use?”

           “Well, one word comes to mind, really,” Cas starts, fisting at his trench coat, “And I… I think you feel the same way.”

           “You’ll never know if you don’t say it, Cas,” Dean urges him on, scooting further and further towards the edge of his seat, ready to jump and fall – trusting Cas will be waiting there to catch him.

           “Dean, I… I lo –“

           “Father? Dean?”

           The moment shatters, lights flickering on overhead and drawing Dean and Cas’s eyes away from each other to the now open door where Jack stands. He shifts on his feet, glancing around at the Cave, taking it all in for the first time.

           “Jack?” Cas asks, voice rough, “Is every thing okay?”

           “I… I don’t know,” Jack steps further into the room, “It’s like… my mind knows I’m back home… but my body still feels tense like – like at any moment Michael will find us.”

           Dean frowns, understanding exactly what Jack is talking about. “C’mere,” he tells the kid, “You’re just…” he waits until Jack is in front of them, “you were over there for a long time – in a war zone. Even with all the power you have, you’re still just a boy. And no boy should ever grow up as a soldier.” Cas squeezes Dean’s hand once more. “It’ll take time, but it’s okay for you to feel this way.”

           “But I don’t want to,” Jack whimpers, “Is there… anything I can do?”

           “Angel grace can do many things,” Cas tells him, reaching out with his other hand for Jack’s, “But this is something we can’t heal.”

           “You’re not alone, though, Jack,” Dean continues, “We’re here, and we’ll always be here when you need us.”

           “I… I need you…” Jack admits, lowly, “I just… I want to be normal – for a little bit.”

           “Well, why don’t we watch a movie?” Dean asks, turning to Cas, “Can’t think of anything more normal than that? What do you say?”

           “I’m sure we can squeeze one in,” Cas nods, smirking at Jack, “But only one. I believe it’s still a school night, and somebody has to be up bright and early.”

           Dean chuckles, playing along with Cas’s scenario, “That’s true. Jack, did you finish your homework?”

           “I… my what?”

           “I don’t think he has,” Dean gasps, “Oh, how can we be such thoughtless parents?”

           “You tell me, Dean,” Cas says, “You’re the one whose supposed to keep tabs on these things.”

           “Well I – wait, what?”

           “I mean, since you’re here keeping house –“

           “Why would I be the stay-at-home parent, Cas?”

           “You’re much more organized than me, and you love to cook –“

           “And you don’t think I deserve a career? Just what ‘job’ do you even have?”

           “I’m a… cop?”

           “Oh macho, macho man, aren’t ya?”

           “Well –“ Cas trails off, both he and Dean glancing towards Jack, dissolved into a fit of giggles. The pair shares a celebratory smile before setting up the movie. Dean works the remote and turns Netflix on, scrolling until he finds something with enough fluff and sugar that would kill an elephant. Jack takes a seat on the floor between the two chairs, Cas shifting from his seat to join him. Dean looks at the two angels, their bright eyes blinking up at him. He puts up a fight, but joins the two on the ground in the end.

           “I’m too old for this,” Dean groans, over-acting, “My back’s gonna be so sore… you might have to leave me here.”

           “Well I might not need a nickel,” Cas starts, creeping a hand behind Jack to rest on Dean’s lower back, “But I do have ‘magic fingers’. Dean relaxes into the touch, letting Cas’s grace trickle into him and ease the aches that have built up from their trek across universes. Dean swings his arm over the two of them, drawing them in closer, before hitting play.

           “Thank you,” Jack whispers under the title sequence, “Really.”

           “Everyone deserves to feel safe, Jack,” Cas tells him, looking at Dean, “Especially when they really are.”

           “I do feel safe with you,” he smiles, “Both of you. With Sam and Mary… I’m glad we’re all together again.”

           “The whole happy family,” Dean says.

           They let the movie take over, enjoying the film alongside one another. Jack snuggles deeper, sandwiching himself between the two men and drawing them closer. Every now and then, the hunter and his angel would peak over, losing interest with the cartoon and instead focusing their attention on the other.

           There was no rush. Both men finally felt a calm, like breaking the tape in a race, and were now running a celebratory lap. They didn’t feel the need to talk. Not when the movie finished up and Jack asked for another. Not when the boy fell asleep, slightly drooling on Dean’s shoulder, the day catching up to him. And especially not come morning, when all came to in a tight bundle.

           Because no word could capture the depth of emotion they were feeling.

           ‘Well, maybe one,’ Dean admits to himself, peering at Cas over the rim of his coffee mug, while Jack tells Sam and Mary and Bobby about their little marathon.

           ‘Love.’

[unharmeddrudge]

Staying Up Late

A short story for an RP I’m writing with a friend. Besides writing well, they’re also an amazing artist. I, being unable to draw, have opted to just write a lot. I also need to write more as practice. Thus, this. Nothing heavy, just a domestic fluff for fun.

For context: The Soyuzi are a race of Russian space lizard people. Vokachaian is a human ethnicity. 

The house is quiet. The TV is off, it’s dark out, and no one has entered or left all day. A faint chill gives the house a temperature that makes blankets quite comfortable. The only significant sound comes from the mechanical clock on the wall.

“Drew, it’s almost eleven o’clock.”

“I know, I know, let me… let me just wrap this up. I’m almost done—you go to bed first.”

The half-Soyuzi eyes the translator carefully from a short distance, across the great peaks and valleys of books and papers surrounding the Vokachaian. He isn’t willing to tread that field just yet. It looks as though a printing shop had exploded, with the boy at its epicenter.

“You say that, but…”

“The longer you talk,” the Vokachaian snaps, refusing to look up from his book, “the longer this will take. Just go already.”

The corner of Sasha’s lips twitch irritably. “Fine. Ten minutes, hurry up,” he says, stomping off to the bedroom in a huff.

Lately, Drew had been pushing their regular ten o’clock schedule to unacceptable limits. He’d been too engrossed in the translation of some damn books, enough to make it feel like he was ignoring Sasha. As much as the half-Soyuzi enjoys watching Drew’s passions stir into a fever (especially at night, in bed), he knows all too well that this sort of behavior is a bad habit that only ends up with a sleep-deprived Vokachaian, and possibly also a sick one.

Sasha falls onto the bed. He can lie there as comfortably as he wants, but in the end, he just can’t fucking sleep. Not without him. The room is cold, as Drew always likes it, but it’s uncomfortable to be alone in. The still and quiet chill is so lonely. He stares at the ceiling for a while, complaining about Drew’s slightly workaholic tendencies, among his other faults. In it, though, he remembers some advice his sister-in-law once gave him.

“When he starts to work instead of sleeping, he’s probably upset about something,” Emily had said one night at the Yodrezhka family household having dinner. Drew had left briefly to buy dessert with his mother. “Trust me, I’ve seen it a thousand times. He did for a few days one time when the kids were bullying him at school, making him buy lunch for them.” She sat back, locking her fingers together and turning them outward to crack her knuckles. “Slept fine soon as I dealt with ‘em, heh.” She smiles, confidently throwing her hair back and examining her fingernails. “He’d done it another time when his last boyfriend broke up with him. He’d lent a book to the guy—never got it back, actually.”

Sasha listened amusedly to the bold young girl. He liked her style. “Huh. Yeah, I think word boy’s done that once or twice, I’m pretty sure. Thought he was just a workaholic.”

“Nah, that boy loves to sleep. There’s always something else. Something’ll be bothering him. Though, I guess work could bother him, too.”

“I see… Good to know, little tiger. But how will I… y’know, fix him?” Sasha grinned, waving a hand in the air.

“Well, look, he’s not one to share his problems so easily. I had my way, and it involved locking the room and playing Jamie Lockensteiner until he fessed up. He hated that stuff,” she smiled back.

“Oh, you’re a cruel sister. His music is terrible.”

“Hey, watch it. He was on the top 20 list in 3284, so obviously, you’re wrong,” she pointed threateningly at him. “Anyway, I suggest a slightly different tactic for you. If he ever gets like that: first, pull him outta work. I mean, really pull him out. Make him forget it exists for a moment. By, heh heh, you know—” She elbows the man suggestively, making a ring in one hand and poking the index finger of the other hand through, “—any means necessary… but just before you get down to the nitty-gritty—deny him! Surprise him with questions, make him talk. Hold your ground, and don’t give him anything until he spits it out.”

“I feel like you been reading too many—what’s it called—’doujinshi’ lately, Emily.”

“No, trust me on this! You just gotta surprise him, and be firm about it. Works one-hundred percent of the time. Promise.”

Sasha takes a moment to pause and thoughtfully reflect on Emily’s advice, formulating a plan. She’s a bit of a perv, but she definitely has some good ideas.

He looks at the clock. It’d been eleven minutes already. Man, he’d been lenient with his time. How nice is that? He gets up and walks down the hall.

The translator hasn’t budged. His brows are deeply furrowed, brown eyes staring into a book, probably puzzling over something esoteric and profound. Maybe.

It won’t be easy to transverse the defensive obstacle course of new and ancient documents surrounding the male. Sasha had once tried to simply trample over them—he’d certainly gotten over, but it left him with a distinct bruise on his face and a pain in his groin, as well as the option of sleeping on the couch. Best to avoid that tonight.

Taking a detour, Sasha enters their small kitchen. Coming up with a plan as he went along, he opens a cabinet, finding a large can of Kharzakyt beans.

Perfect.

Returning to his spot across the paper moat in the living room, the half-Soyuzi squats, facing Drew, who appears to be ignoring him. Shitty brat. Opening the can, Sasha picks a bean out, and tosses it.

Drew doesn’t flinch.

Huh. He’s really committed to this, is he?

Sasha tosses another bean. It hits the side of Drew’s face, then falls onto his book.

Drew blinks, brushes the bean away, and continues reading. He picks up a pen, takes a note on a notebook to his right.

Sasha narrows his eyes at the translator, stubborn with a vain and futile resistance. He’ll break that. He grabs a couple more beans and throws them at his target.

Drew pauses in his notetaking, expressionless, as if physically stunned. He looks up slowly at the offender with a displeasure. “...Are those Kharzakyt beans?” he asks quietly.

Sasha answers with a smug grin. “Yah. Gonna do something about it?”

Drew just looks at him for a long moment. Agitated, likely, under that suppressed exterior. That smug motherfucker has no power over me, he thinks. After a while, he shakes his head slowly, and looks back at his book.

It’s too late, though. Sasha’s got Drew caught like a rabbit in a trap. He tosses another handful of beans.

The translator tries not to react. The Kharzakyt beans are making a mess.

The man tosses another handful. And another.

They’re starting to cover the books. The floor around the boy is almost totally hidden.

Finally, with a maniacal smile, Sasha stands, and fucking spikes a handful.

Holy shit. It stings. At his wit’s end, the Vokachaian stands and lunges across the papers and books, missing the half-Soyuzi as he backpedals.

Joyfully, Sasha continues tossing beans at the other while retreating backwards down the hall to the bedroom while Drew clumsily chases after him.

“Who do you think you are, you scaley bastard? I’ll skin you into a fucking wallet!” Drew growls, continually failing to grab the man as he is lured into the bedroom.

Sasha’s thrill ends as he trips onto the bed, where Drew is finally able to jump and grab him.

Sitting on the Soyuzi’s legs, Drew grabs the man's shirt collar and pulls him up close to his face. “You are an enormous pain in the ass,” he hisses.

In contrast to the incensed raven-haired mess, the brunet is barely managing to contain his laughter. He leans forward, capturing the angry lips with his own. He brings a hand up to stroke those tense cheeks with the back of his knuckles. Drew's hands move down to the other's shoulders. They break, with Drew pouting and Sasha smiling. “Oh, kotyenok, you only have self to blame. You make it so fun to mess with you!”

The translator's grimace never softens, though his face surely reddens. “You're a fuckin’ bully.” He grabs the wrist of the hand touching his face, then proceeds to push Sasha down until he's flat on his back, making out with him along the way.

Sasha lets it happen for a while. He's cute when he's all feisty like this! And it feels good, to boot. He doesn't need to put any work in. Drew's hands run through the brunet's hair and over his chest, while Sasha's hands travel across his partner's back and touch his neck, slyly reminding the boy of the many marks there.

Drew is very intense. Very touchy. Feeling around a lot. Quick to take off clothes, but not willing to part lips for very long. He seems desperate. Frantic, even. Like he's still distracting himself. Just like when he was working.

Damn. He’s just replaced with his books with Sasha. It’s no good.

By now, Drew has managed to remove the half-Soyuzi’s shirt and unbutton his own. It would probably be best to stop him now.

Groaning internally, Sasha pulled Drew’s face off his own, sighing. The Vokachaian tries to continue, but ends up simply furrowing his eyes at the other, confused. Soon enough, the taller man grabs the shorter’s hands before flipping their positions around. Drew gets plopped onto his back, hands caught above his head, with Sasha between his legs, leaning over him.

“Okay, enough of that, Dryushka. Gotta talk,” he grumbles reluctantly. Personally, he’s not too happy about stopping, but he knows it’s the quote-unquote “Right Thing to Do.”

“Hey, what the—let go of me,” the Vokachaian whines, trying fruitlessly to free his hands and reach downwards. He’s way too weak, though.

“Come on, shortstack. Hold still. Let’s use our words, yeah?”

Drew stares in confusion at the other for a moment. “...H-huh? Fuck that, I don’t got anything to say. Take off your pants.”

“Not like that, word boy. “You have been skipping bed-time, and you look like you’re trying to ignore me. Is not okay. If something is the matter, you need to tell me.”

“Fuck you.”

“I think you have this backwards.”

“—Fuck me.”

“Right, but no.”

“I—ugh! Why are you so difficult?!” Drew squirms around a bit in another attempt to get free, before deciding to wrap his legs around Sasha’s hips. If he isn’t going to get free, his making the most of where he is right now. “What do you want from me?”

Oh, this cheeky bastard. He’s got some nerve. This is a rather precarious new adjustment, but Sasha isn’t letting up. “L-like… Like I said. I know something is bothering you—spit it out.”

Even in the cold darkness, the Vokachaian’s deepening flush is pretty obvious. “Wh-what? No, you’re… you’re mistaken. Misinterpreting. I’m fine. Let me go.”

Sasha just laughs. “No way. I don’t believe you. Ever heard of… ah… communication? We’re doing that. Now.” He punctuates himself with a prick on the neck with teeth. “So… How was day?”

Drew sucks in air through his teeth, turning away. He doesn’t have to answer a dumb question like this.

The brunet sighs against his partner’s neck. So much trouble. “I thought we’ already worked this whole ‘talking’ thing out.”

The captive Vokachaian doesn’t even squeak.

“Come on, kotyenok. At least look at me.”

He doesn’t budge.

It’s starting to get frustrating. They should be able to talk now! What could possibly be so troubling? So embarrassing?

“Say something, Drew. Honestly—there is no one else here, so whatever it is… you can tell me,” he coaxes in a firm, slightly impatient, yet reassuring voice. “Just tell me.”

Silence. Cold and hard silence with unhappy lips pressed firmly closed.

Sasha shakes his head. He might just have to give up. Can’t force anything.

“...’s stupid…”

“Huh?” The brunet’s eyes widen. The boy has spoken.

“I said it’s dumb… Don’t worry about it…” Drew still won’t look Sasha in the eye, but he’s certainly finding the blank darkness around them quite entertaining.

Sasha smiles once again, bringing their foreheads close together. “Why are you so embarrassed? If it bothers you so much, I have to care about it.”

“I told you it doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” Sasha exclaims, releasing Drew’s hands to embrace his torso. The freed hands end up on Sasha’s back. "You just don’t want to tell me because you’re afraid I’ll make fun of you.”

“Won’t you?” Drew mutters, looking wistfully out the window.

“I will. But it’ll be good for you.”

They lie like that for a while. It’s warm and comfortable, at least. The cold air lets them enjoy each other’s heat without getting all sweaty, though they still got sweaty for other reasons.

Finally, Drew sighs, looking down at the half-Soyuzi. “Alright, alright…” He looks very cute and flustered from this angle. “There was… a book at the convention last week. I wanted it, but I couldn’t afford it. Someone else took it… and… yeah.”

Sasha laughs quietly running a hand through the other’s messy black hair. “Oh, you poor, entitled brat, you. Now was that so hard?”

“It was, and my life has depreciated because of it,” he mutters, pouting. “This is why I didn’t care to tell you, you piece of shit.”

“Oh, but it meant so much to you! All week long… It’s okay Drew. I guess I feel sorry for you.” Sasha rises once more, giving Drew a kiss as a reward for his honesty and bravery. “And look, see—I’ll make you feel better.”

“As if. I’m not in the mood anymo-more—” Drew says before a shiver from Sasha’s touch cuts him off. “...Oh, h-holy shit, I guess I am.”

[buckyslightsaber]

Paranoid

Request: None

Pairing: King Arthur (The Legend of the Sword) x Reader

Summary: Arthur can’t find you and he get’s extremely anxious. (Happens while Arthur is still in Londinium)

 Warnings: I think I swore somewhere in there.

Word count: 2,650

A/N: I’m debating whether or nor I  should delete this account since I barely even post anything ever, but for now, have this King Arthur: Legend of the Sword imagine because i just rewatched it for like the fifth time today. I swear this was meant to be short and lightweight but you know me wh00ps (honestly don’t even like this one sm, I’m just posting it bc it’s the first thing I’ve written in aaaaaggeesss)

My Masterlist

Paranoid

Arthur let out a deep breath as he felt himself being pulled out of his unconscious state and back into his bed, where the sunlight began to stream in. It flooded the room, illuminating it with a dim glow and slight warmth, something he appreciated deeply. He had yet to open his eyes, but a small smile already invaded his features.

This smile was due to one thing and one thing in particular: you. Arthur’s mind was swamped with memories of last night’s happenings, contently basking in every touch and laugh the two of you shared, not to mention everything else that came after that. His brain recreated your face so beautifully in front of lids, which were shut, that he couldn’t keep himself from thinking of you persistently.

After a while, Arthur’d had enough of imagining your face and felt an urge to see it for himself again. He wanted to be able to study every dip and curve on it, and engrave it into his memory more than it already was, if that was even possible.

Prompted by these desires, Arthur slowly rolled over, gently cracked his eyes open. To his dismay, he was greeted by an empty bed.

How weird; he could’ve sworn you’d stayed the night. Hell, he remembered all the times he’d fallen into fleeting moments of consciousness, looking around only to be met with your angelic features, unbothered as you rested next to him.

It couldn’t have been a dream. No, he was sure of it.

Maybe you’d already gotten up.

Following this thought process Arthur slowly peeled the fur blanket off his almost naked figure, swinging his legs over the bed as he pulled himself up. Quietly, he padded over to the bathroom. He stood in front of the door. “Y/N?” Arthur called out, not wanting to sneak up on you and scare you. He stayed still, observing the unperturbed wooden door, which he later opened, only to find the bathroom was empty. His frown only deepened at this finding, assuming you must’ve gone downstairs. You always did like having an early breakfast with the girls. Walking back to his room, Arthur snatched up some clothes and got dressed quickly.

Downstairs, the main room was rather full. The girls ate breakfast and chatted as some men hung out with them, striking up conversation, too. As he descended down the stairs, Arthur adjusted his jacket, scanning the room. You were nowhere to be found. He sighed, walking up to WetStick and nudging him, drawing his attention. “‘Haven’t seen Y/N, have you mate?”

WetStick raised an eyebrow. “Thought she was with you.”

Arthur blew out a breath. “Was. I think she left earlier this morning. ”

“You sure? I’ve been up since the wee morning, ‘aven’t seen her.” BackLack chimed in joining the boys. He had a piece of bread in his hands and crumbles falling out of his mouth as he spoke.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. There’s no way you could’ve left without him seeing you. Still, he tried to ignore the uneasy feeling he got. He was probably just being paranoid.

WetStick and BackLack shared a look, which then fell on Arthur, who’s gaze was instead fixated on the floor. WetStick spoke up, stealing the words out of BackLack’s mouth .“Is she alright?”

Arthur didn’t reply immediately, instead nodding. “O’ course”. It wasn’t a lie, was it? Y/N had to be alright, she’d just left early without anyone seeing her. That had to be it, right? Without directing another word to either of them, Arthur simply strolled out of the brothel, calmly closing the door behind him, leaving the two men to wonder what was going on.

Arthur, however, didn’t mind that he’d just left his two pals completely dumbfounded. All he wanted to do was find you and make sure you were alright.

He plotted out a path in his head, the first stop being the market. On his way there he saw Mike, who was selling furs. Instead of pestering him and demanding money from him, he decided to first ask about you instead. “Oi Mike. You know Y/N, yeah?”

Mike, who was busy unloading his furs, merely looked up to answer. “Your girl? Ye.”

“Great. She hasn’t happened to have strolled through here, has she?” He pressed, leaning against Mike’s wagon, calculating how much Mike would owe him for transporting all this fur. Mike shook his head. Fuck.

“Alright then.” As Arthur began to back away, he tried his best not to sound worried. He turned to Mike once more, considering whether or not he’d make Mike pay up. Finally, he decided he had more important matters to attend to, and just let him be for now. He’d have to have another talk with him about paying his damn commission later.

Upon arriving at the market, he noted it was, like the brothel, quite more packed than usual. On a regular day he’d stop and observe amateur pick pockets with WetStick and BackLack, an activity they found rather entertaining when they had the time for it. Other times, he’d work his own thieving magic on passerbys, but today, he had time to do neither.

His eyes stopped on a small figure, wearing a coat he’d seen on you many times before. As relief washed over his system, he moved swiftly, his expert footwork allowing him to sift through the crowd seamlessly. He snaked his arm around your waist, making you jump and instantly turn around to face him. Except it wasn’t you.

The lady staring back at Arthur was a complete stranger. She stared at him as if he were a pervert, and honestly, he couldn’t blame her. “Sorry miss.” He murmured, scurrying away quickly to hide his embarrassment, feeling the nervousness and anxiety regarding your whereabouts settle in again: If you weren’t in the market, where the hell else could you be?

Arthur kept his head down as his feet led him towards the ports, still making sure to be very aware of all the faces moving past him, not wanting to miss yours because he was distracted.

Unlike everywhere else today, the ports were relatively empty. It wasn’t absolutely devoid of people, he realized, it was just because the vikings’ spot was empty.

Shoving his hands into his jacket and pushing down his nerves, Arthur neared a familiar man working at a fruit stand. He’d met and talked to the man before, but his name always seemed to slip Arthur’s mind for some strange reason. The man called Arthur’s name, to which he replied with a nod.

“Where are the vikings?” Arthur asked, glancing back at the spot where the men had been just days ago.

The man merely shrugged, his lips falling into a straight line. “Lord knowns. They left at the crack of dawn. Raided the streets, took some girls wit’ ‘em. One girl was particularly petrified.” Arthur scrunched his nose as he began to get a bad feeling about this story. “Twas sad really. But you know how it is, I wasn’t about to intervene and get me head chopped off.”

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d heard anything the man said after mentioning that ‘one girl’, but he nodded anyway. “What else do you know about the girl. What’d she look like?”

As he heard the man’s description of said girl, Arthur could feel his stomach sinking deeper and deeper inside of him. Apart from how each characteristic he listed sounded peculiarly like you, he couldn’t help but imagine all the things that would happen if that truly was you. He bit down on his lip hard, trying to listen to the rest of the explanation, but the blood pumping fiercely through his veins and behind his ears almost kept him from being able to. Not that he minded, really. That information alone was enough to get his mind going. It killed him to think of you, his beautiful, sweet girl being manhandled by those bastards. Oh the things he’d do if they laid a single, dirty hand on your precious skin.

Arthur felt like he wanted to do multiple things, mostly scream out in anger and beat somebody to a pulp, but for now he just balled his fists at his sides. As soon as the man finished talking, Arthur thanked him and excused himself.

Arthur moved like lightning, marching with heavy footsteps back to the brothel. Even though the menacing frown etched on his face made him look furious on the outside, he felt like he could cry, but he’d save that for later on in the night, when he could be alone with his thoughts. For now he’d have to try his hardest to ignore his dreadful thoughts that were now beginning to eat away at his brain.

“Outta the way.” He called out, shoving people in all directions, moving with fast, abrupt motions. You were his top priority now, it’s not like he’d stop and think about his manners. He almost kicked down the door to the brothel, not bothering to even acknowledge the surprised faces that stared back at him upon entering.

Arthur trudged up to WetStick and BackLack, who were both already conveniently sat together. “The Graybeards took Y/N.” He blurted out, wasting absolutely no time with euphemisms.

Both men looked utterly shocked as they tried to take in Arthur’s words as well his facial expression, a mixture of disgust and genuine anger. They looked like they were about to speak, but Arthur dismissed them with the wave of a hand. “I’ll go upstairs and get my things, then I’ll be back to come up with a plan.” And just like that Arthur was gone again, bolting up the stairs as his mind clouded over with all the different contacts he had that could help him, all the different routes he could take, materials he’d potentially need, and anything else that seemed relevant. He was ready to flip Londinium upside down to get you back safely.

Arthur swung the door to his room open, feeling seconds away from ripping it off its hinges. He took a single step into the room before he froze completely, unable to believe his eyes.

You sat on his bed, nonchalantly looking off somewhere in the distance.  You were right there. One thought swam through his head, jumping out apart from all the others, the most important to him. You were safe.

A couple seconds later you looked up, finally acknowledging his presence. As the weight of a thousand worlds lifted off his shoulders, you began to greet him, but he cut you off as he dove down and hoisted you off the bed in and into the air, his muscular arms nearly knocking the wind out of you. The joy that swelled up inside of him in that second was just indescribable. A section of your clothes was bunched up in one of his hands while the other tangled itself in your hair, pushing you safely into the crook of his neck while he squeezed his eyes shut. He held onto you so tightly that if he pressed even just the tiniest bit harder he’d probably leave an unintentional bruise.

“Arth, you’re hurting me.” Your voice sounded out small and fragile, squeezed through the layers of Arthur’s clothes.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He mumbled into your hair, instantly letting go. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. Arthur pulled you back by your shoulders and took a moment to contemplate your face. Although you were completely confused, to him you looked more beautiful than ever. He didn’t want to waste any time, so he pulled you back into his arms, this time more gently. The hand that was once ferociously gripping onto your clothes was now delicately resting on your waist, while the other stayed on your back. He proceeded to plant a kiss on your forehead, later laying his chin atop your head.

You allowed him to cradle you as you rested your head against his broad chest, listening as his heart beat began to settle down. Both of your hands went under his shirt, rubbing circles on his bare back, something that you’d learned was especially soothing to him.

“My god...” He whispered, thanking every god he could think. He couldn’t be happier to have been wrong. “I was so worried about you, darling.” Arthur mumbled into your hair.

His hands unwrapped themselves from around your figure, letting you stand up straight once again. “What? Why?”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, letting out a troubled sigh. “I didn’t know where you were. I thought something happened to you. I thought the vikings had taken you, I-”

“Shh, calm down Arth. It’s fine. I’m fine.” You assured him as you ran a hand down his arm, all the way to his big hands now encased around yours.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I was just so worried.” He repeated, stopping again to look at your face. “Where were you, anyway?”

“I went to the market to grab some apples to make your favorite apple pie.”

“But I went to the market. I didn’t see you there.” Arthur replied, confused. He even remembered looking specifically at the apple stand and not seeing you at all.

“I was probably there before you. When I came back the boys said you’d just left.” Oh. His mind took him back to few minutes, when he hadn’t given either of his mates a chance to speak because he was so caught up with all the viking stuff. If he’d let them speak he’d probably spared himself a couple minutes of agony.

Arthur chuckled softly, feeling incredibly stupid for making such a big deal out of nothing. He ran a hand down his face, which you must’ve interpreted as him feeling annoyed with you. “I’m sorry I left so early, but you know how it is, if you don’t get there early you won’t get to pick the good ones. Please don’t be mad.”

Instantly, Arthur shook his head. “Oh, no love. I’m not mad. It’s my fault, I was just being paranoid.” He couldn’t be mad at you, not even if he tried.

He reached over to stroke a piece of your hair that’d fallen out of place. He twirled it around his finger, not looking you in the eye at first, but slowly making his way back up to meet your eyes. “You know I love you right, sweetheart. Very, very much. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

You nodded slowly, looking at him with loving eyes. “Yes, and I love you, too.”

A smile spread across Arthur’s face, the smile that only appeared when he was around you. His eyes danced around your features, stopping at your lips. Scooting closer to you, he leaned in as you did the same, your lips willingly parting. His tender lips moved slowly against yours, not pushy, not needy, but loving and caring instead.

He drew back, still letting your foreheads touch as he brought a calloused hand up to your cheek. Arthur’s didn’t allow his eyes to leave yours until he brought his lips up to your forehead, letting his chin place itself on your head again. “I will always protect you, love.”

Running his fingers through your hair, he felt himself let go of all the emotions he was previously harboring. He never wanted to have to feel that way again. Never wanted to have the thought of something being wrong with you even cross his mind.

You were one of the last bits of happiness and love in his life and he didn't know what he’d do with himself if you were gone. Shuddering at the thought, he closed his eyes again, allowing his mind to drift. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” He repeated, more to himself than to you, but still a promise nonetheless.

A promise he very much intended to keep.  

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[laceygreymist]

The Lynx and the Rabbit Pt. 1/2

((This was originally written as part of a Backstory Challenge in March of 2012! It’s hard to believe Lacey’s existed this long, actually! But yes, I figured since I had brought her out of ‘retirement’, I would share some of her old stories. This first two-part tale details some of the earliest events in her life.))

"Like th'lynx stalks th'rabbit, Ylaise," her mother's familiar, airy brogue sang to her as the girl padded quietly down the lavish corridor.  She was again reminded not to take a single misstep, or even to allow the many golden bangles and beaded tassels that decorated her serving clothes to jingle so loudly as to herald her every move.  It was like a game, to be as silent as the sunrise- one she had gotten pretty good at in the last few years.  True to what she'd been taught, with her own brand of childish grace, she pushed the large, wooden cart, overladen with dirty plates and used wine glasses from the evening meal, towards the kitchen in the guards' quarters ahead.  

She was tall for her age, though still mostly flat-chested and possessed of a hint of roundness in her face.  Nonetheless, she had to tilt her head to the side in order to see past the overburdened cart and towards her destination.  So it was that she caught a glimpse of the boy in the corner of her eye as she passed the open door to the armoury.  He had hair the colour of autumn leaves, and that was much the way he looked to her then, crumpled and utterly spent as he fell limply to the floor.

Without thinking, she came to an abrupt halt, and her cargo swayed and clinked painfully loud against itself, sending a surge of panic through her.  She cursed under her breath, the way the older girls did when they tripped during a dance, or accidentally spilled wine while pouring, and she reached a steadying hand out to the tallest stack of dishes.

Voices seemed to be coming closer, and though she had not seen who they belonged to, she knew she should not be caught standing by the door when they got there.  Hastily, she pushed her cart around the corner... and waited.

As the sound of raucous, strangely smug laughter echoed through the hallway, the girl's suspicions were confirmed when she recognized the pair of voices as belonging to two particularly nasty men in their Lord's employ.  She had heard it whispered that they had a cruel streak a mile long, that would make even the neighbouring Amani squirm- and even her mother kept her distance when they settled in for an evening in the lounge.  Too much wine, and too much time leering at the servants, and the girl had been specifically told to avoid them if possible.  They were often found lurking about the armoury, like it was their own private den.

Ducking back behind her corner, she waited until the men's voices grew distant before she chanced a peek.  They were gone at last, and she was free to get on with her duties again.  But she had already seen him, the boy she knew only as Bastard, the ghost of a boy who lived under their Lord's 'care'.  The one he didn't care very much for at all.  She found herself standing in the doorway to the armoury once more.

The sight of him might have frightened other girls- girls who didn't have to live in that fancy house, who didn't have to dance and do tumbling acts, or pour wine and let them pat her head and always have to smile, smile, smile;  Who spent all day cleaning fish with their fathers, or feeling sand between their toes, instead of learning how not to draw too much attention to themselves.  But since her family had been moved into the grand estate to serve only two years before, she had seen enough of people being treated like trinkets to have grown used to frightening things.  The household was their Lord's chest of toys, and they were each his to line up and knock down as he saw fit.  His favourite, it seemed to her, was the boy, Bastard.  The little Ghost Boy.

The ladies in the household had called him that on account of how very pale he was.  "Poor child looks like he's ne'er seen th'light of day," her mother had said once, clicking her tongue upon catching a glimpse of him near the lounge.  It had been fleeting, as it always was, and by the time the girl had turned to look, he'd already disappeared.

And so, as much as the scrawny, battered figure of the boy before her did not frighten her, it did leave her staring.  His pallid frame was littered with ugly, ever-brightening bruises, such that she could almost make out the shape of the guards' boot prints in the boy's side.  Fresh cuts oozed along his broken skin and as he painstakingly lifted his ginger-coloured head, she could see one eye was starting to swell.  She padded quietly forward, glancing over her shoulder once before she swooped down beside him.

He was clad in tattered, dark trousers and a scuffed-up pair of boots.  For a second, she pictured the boy running along the shoreline in those boots, letting the salty earth mar the once shiny leather.  But from where she knelt, she could clearly see the angry lines like rivers on a map criss-crossing his back, and she knew those boots, like their wearer, were worn through other means.  She gingerly reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Don't--!" he hissed, twisting painfully to roll away.  The girl was left gaping at his wildly staring eyes as he edged onto his side, groaning with the effort of it.  Long seconds trickled past like the blood that rolled down his chin from a busted lip, and the girl finally spoke.

"C'mon. You need to get out of here," she said simply, edging towards him again.  She looked over her shoulder once more.  "I don't know when they'll come back, and you're hurt."

The wry response wasn't nearly as startling to her as the voice which uttered it.  Somehow she had been expecting a much smaller voice out of him, much more timid.  "I'm fine. You should see the scuffs I left on their boots, though."  The little Ghost Boy's almost-smile was warped and painted with the evidence of the brutality he'd suffered.  It angered her to see it.

"Don't be an idiot. I'm here to help you," she snapped as she pushed herself abruptly to her feet and proceeded to tug him along with her by the arms.  The sharp intake of breath, as well as the way he seemed to grow impossibly more pale reminded her to be gentle again.  Broken ribs, she thought, glancing again at his side as she helped him steady on his feet.

This was made all the clearer when he erupted into a terrible fit of coughing- ragged and aching as with every breath drawn, his spindly hand clutching at his side.  "Oh. 'Idiot'..." he wheezed, even as he resigned to her supporting his featherweight.  "So much-- so much better than 'Bastard'."

She simply sighed, impatient, even as she patiently bore him out the door and down the hallway.  A few steps down and he suddenly became resistant.  "No- not that way. More of 'em that way. Here," he all but groaned, abruptly turning them the other way.  The girl frowned as they came to a halt in front of the tall clock that stood near the kitchen...and her annoyance only grew when he gestured towards it.

"What's the matter with you? It's a clock," she whispered, adjusting his arm strewn across her shoulders.

"Yes it's a clock- great schooling you had there.  But- oh here. Just let me..."  The boy's smart response was followed by his reaching for the door that housed the clock's swaying pendulum.  The young girl narrowed her eyes at his teasing remark, but she thankfully held on tightly all the same, for he suddenly doubled over, clutching at his broken torso.  With a quiet grunt, he instructed, "Two pushes to the left, then twist it...", nodding towards the pendulum itself.

Skeptical, she nonetheless complied, hesitant at first to touch the thing, then marveling as it responded to the small ritual she performed.  A series of clicks, then a steady grinding sound as stone slid against stone to reveal a slim passageway just off the side of the old clock.  "Huh. I guess ghosts get to know all kinds of secret things," she breathed, using that word without thinking.  Her delight grew ever more obvious as she peered down the dimly lit channel.

"Something like that..." came his noncommittal grunt in response.  "Especially if they don't want to become real ghosts."  A little sheepish, she nodded and checked her excitement at the entryway, as it slid shut behind them seemingly on its own.  After what felt like hours of shambling through the bare passageway (though in reality was only about a quarter of one), they arrived at a wooden doorway.  Only as she peered closely at it in the enchanted torchlight that lined their passage, she realized it had no handle.

"I guess it just--"  But she didn't get to finish her thought, as already the little Ghost Boy was feeling along the door.  At one point, he curled a finger around the edge, finding purchase on some corner, and with a faint fsssh, the wooden panel slid away to reveal...what appeared to be the inside of a closet, or wardrobe.

[xqr]

LLSIF Things 22: Maki’s Birthday

JP

The Osanpo Rally had mixed reviews on Reddit. Some people hated it, others thought it great. I thought it was alright. There were pros and cons.

Most people complained about the song ranking being down to chance of drawing Step 0 to 1 and then ALSO getting a score up boost. I feel that pain. I’m usually a secure T2, but this time I was just in T2 (I seriously thought I’d be kicked out). 

Others complained that you didn’t receive enough points per song. I have to agree with this one. To reach 60k points I had to spend 5 gems. The only other event type I have had to spend that many gems on (in recent times) is MedFests. Now, seeing as the newest event type before this (the ChaFest) has ensured I never need spend a gem to hit 60k, this seems like a backwards step. I was even considering not getting the 2nd Dia (bc she is a PLer and probably not going to be used in the long term), but I did because it looked like I might slip into T2 and get both Maris.

I didn’t manage that, but looking at my friend here, another gem might have seen me in T2.

Some people said the Rally was too much like a token event. Mate, I’m not even mad. I’ve become a little reliant on those LP multipliers in recent times, so when they’re usable in an event the event is a good one. If it wasn’t for the multiplier I wouldn’t have got the 2nd Dia bc I almost forgot, but bc I was able to crack out 5 gems as 6 songs (rather than 25 songs) I did. 

ChaFest is still best event tho. I look forward to seeing if the Rally develops.

Christ I rambled...

*insert happy birthday to you joke*

Beautiful. Shame she’s gonna die.

Hooo boy. Those slide notes. I like ‘em. I like the long ones. The short ones can fuck off.

i’m a poor man. But I spent for my waifu recently so it doesnt matter

Got the new Maki. And an old leopard print Maki.. Well at least it’s 2SR.

I think this is a new record?? 27 tries for the FC. Man. This Master. Is a bastard. Those double taps. It’s not a question of skill, it’s a question of stamina. It’s about making sure your brain is paying attention at the end of the song and still double tapping. Man, the amount of times I fucked up bc my finger decided to just single tap. 

1 fuckin silver. ONE?!?! u bastards

yeah alright nah it was a good silver not complaining.

Since then I have had another 1 silver chafest and it was not a ticket so i was sad.

EN

As the only UR I am willing to spend skill ups on, this wasn’t hard to save up at all (my only other scorer is thief Eli and we all know she’s a shit tier timer rip).

hoooo boy +1695 i feel like a whale. hoooo that’s gonna help in the Storm in Lover event.

Our latest pure sacrifice on EN. 

EN is my richest server at present.

Well. Guaranteed an SSR sticker right off the bat. Maki completes my initial SSR collection :D

This was a fair draw. Nice new shit.

Very pleased with how these scouts turned out.

Thank u. u are the boost my cool team needs for T1scoring.

forgot I had pulled marine Maki with the sping SR+ ticket (for some reason I thought I’d pulled her on JP).

!!! Klab EN u da real mvp!!

Helix

Helix was only rich enough for 1 Maki scout;

Marine Maki is following me like vday1 Pana did...

Nice. Another card I now own on all my accounts.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 21

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

From Eddie’s POV

THAT NIGHT

FORT BRENNAND

Struggling in my restraints, I made a futile attempt to shake out of the shackles holding me as the harsh metal scraped against my wrists, causing me to hiss in pain as the cuffs gently clinked throughout the lonely cellar.

It didn’t look like anyone above had noticed what I was doing -- or at least trying to do -- but it didn’t matter much anyways. Without someone to help me, or some sort of tool to break free, I wasn’t going anywhere for a long time. There were far too many guards surrounding me -- as well as some loyal hounds they had trained -- and considering my history with Atticus, I doubted the man was just gonna “forget” about me anytime soon.

If there was any hope of me escaping this place, I’d need help to do it.

I let out a disappointed sigh and allowed my arms to slouch in the shackles, thinking to myself as the night carried on.

What the hell was happening...? How did I end up here? It was only this morning that I was robbing a bank with Dutch, and now, not only was Hosea dead, I had also fallen right back into Atticus Rose’s grasp...after so many years of trying to avoid him.

Part of me almost felt that it’d be best if I just took off on my own, and left the gang behind. I didn’t want to leave Arthur alone, and I loved that man more than anything, but I was putting his life in danger simply just by being around him.

Everything we had gone through, all the people we’d killed -- it was because Arthur was trying to protect me. I was the one thing bringing Atticus’ attention to him and his gang, and I was also the reason that Hosea was now gone.

Perhaps they’d be better off without my company. They had enough to worry about aside from Atticus, and it wasn’t as if I had never been on my own before. Maybe leaving Dutch was the best option. Maybe I could just...disappear somewhere in the country, and never come back. But...I also couldn’t just forget about Arthur either. I couldn’t abandon him.

That man had done so much for me, and shown me a sort of love I’d never experienced before. I had no idea how I didn’t realize it sooner, but Arthur was my freedom. He was the only thing separating Theodore from Eddie, and without him, my life would’ve honestly felt pointless.

I mean, my whole family was already gone. My father, my mother, my sister -- none of them were coming back. And my home was nothing but a distant dream now. Arthur was all I had left, and I’d be damned if I ran away from him too.

Breaking my train of thought, the sound of someone opening the cellar’s door suddenly reached my ears as they pushed it open with a firm thud, strolling inside as if they didn’t have a single care in the world. It was Rodrick.

The deranged man brought a cigar up to his mouth and took a drag, making the smoke dancing around his face in an enigmatic manner as he approached me step by step. He let out a cold chuckle.

“There he is...” Rodrick thought aloud. “...The very last Bishop.”

I was silent in response and simply threw a glare at him, causing the man to walk even closer to me as I turned away.

He crouched down.

“Y’know,” Rodrick began, “when I first told Atticus that you was runnin’ around with Dutch goddamn van der Linde, and falling in love with his right-hand man...heh, he didn’t believe me. Looked me square in the eye and said he thought it was bullshit. Told me he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it with his own, two eyes.”

Rodrick paused for a moment and brought the cigar up to his lips again, afterwards letting out a nonchalant sigh before continuing to speak.

“That’s important, you know?” He pointed out. “If you wanna survive in this beautiful country, you can’t just go around believing every damn thing that everyone tells you. Words ain’t nothin’ but a mask, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to dodge a bullet when you can see it coming.”

I disregarded what he was saying and went straight to the point, eager to get out of here.

“Look, what do you want?” I snapped. “Why hasn’t Atticus killed me yet? I thought that was the whole point of bringing me here.”

Rodrick looked disappointed in my lack of interest in his games and shook his head, but answered me nonetheless.

“Because you clearly ain’t the same little boy we last saw in England,” he replied. “You’ve obviously learned a thing or two since our last encounter. And the truth is: Atticus doesn’t need you dead. He just needs you to be under his control. Besides...with your newfound skills, I’m sure Atticus could find a use for you.”

I instantly rejected the idea. “That bastard’s out of his goddamn mind if he thinks I’m doing anything for him--!”

Rodrick suddenly threw a strong fist at my gut, causing me to cough aggressively as a grin stretched on his pale face.

“Haven’t you noticed, pretty boy?” He taunted with a laugh, leaning dangerously close to me. “We’re all out of our minds. But I wouldn’t worry too much. You’ll come around eventually. It’s just gonna take some...persuasion.”

I scoffed, still slightly dazed from the punch. “...And you’re going to be the one doing the persuading, are you?”

Rodrick rose to his feet and spread his arms out in a proud manner, giving me one last smirk before taking his leave.

“Well...somebody’s gotta do it. And who better than the man with so much...charm?” He fell silent for a second. “I won’t lie to you, Theo. It’s gonna be a long road from here on out. So take care of yourself, you hear? Because Atticus certainly won’t.”

From Arthur’s POV

OUTSIDE FORT BRENNAND

Observing the gang’s hideout from a distant gathering of trees, Dutch, John, Charles, and I all hid among the bushes as we scouted the place out, searchin’ for any signs of a covert entrance or clues that coulda told us where Eddie was.

We had managed to follow Atticus’ tracks back to an abandoned fort not too long after he took the boy, but now that I actually knew what we was dealin’ with exactly, I could already tell that getting Eddie outta there was gonna be a completely different story.

So far, all we could see was a shit ton of Atticus’ men along with a decently-sized group of some O’Driscolls, and from our angle, it looked like they had a number of supply wagons goin’ in and out at all times. Probably sending their people out to raid and bring whatever they stole back to the camp. It was an effective process, if a bit blatant, but now I could certainly see why Atticus’ gang was so strong.

I lowered my binoculars, turnin’ to speak to Dutch.

“It’s a goddamn fortress...!” I whispered. “These fools actually got walls to hide behind, and even more men to guard ‘em. Ain’t no way we can just attack a place like this. We’re gonna have to find another way in.”

Dutch continued searching through his own binoculars, his gaze stuck on the main entrance.

“I’m all up for ideas. Any of you boys see a weak point in their walls? Could be a sloppily patched hole somewhere, or a blind spot we can scale.”

Charles shook his head. “No. If anything, it looks like they’ve reinforced the fort’s protections. If we’re gonna scale the walls, we’ll need to draw their attention elsewhere.”

John offered a suggestion. “Wait, what about the supply wagons?”

Dutch quirked a brow. “What about them?”

Marson thought a for a minute. “Well...maybe a few of us could sneak into them. Enter the fort all nice and quiet-like. Maybe sabotage some o’ their supplies while we’re at it. That’ll draw their attention away from the walls. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang could climb up. Take out the guards up top while they ain’t looking. That way, we’ll have men on the inside and outside.”

The older man almost sounded impressed. “...You know what? That idea ain’t half-bad.”

I chuckled softly, returning to my binoculars as I continued to examine the fort. “I’m tellin’ you, Dutch...we oughta let them wolves have a go at this boy more often.”

John’s expression flattened with annoyance. “Shut up, Arthur.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been suspiciously clever ever since they ate half your brain.”

He sighed in irritation. “I’m startin’ to wish you woulda let them eat all of it at this point--”

“--Hush, you two,” Dutch jumped in, grabbin’ our attention. “Look who’s entering the fort right now.”

Focusing our sights on the main gate, the four of us watched with a newfound curiosity as we fell completely silent, lookin’ to see who Atticus’ guest was. They appeared to have arrived with an especially large supply wagon as well as a handful of men to guard it while they trotted up to the entrance, all full of themselves.

There was crates of dynamite, food, moonshine, and weapons sittin’ in the back, and the more I examined their mounts, the more I realized they probably stole them from our camp. The bastards. Was there anything Atticus didn’t take?

Bringing my binoculars back to the guest, I zoomed in a few times before studyin’ their appearance, only to realize it was none other than Colm O’Driscoll himself. Of course.

“The hell is Colm doing here?” Charles questioned. I let out a worried breath.

“He and Atticus have some sort of...partnership going on,” I explained. “They’re teamin’ up against us. Though, I hadn’t seen Colm ever since Eddie broke me outta his camp. And I certainly didn’t expect to see him again after that shitstorm. Makes you wonder why he’s suddenly decidin’ to show up now.”

Dutch recommended an idea. “Well, maybe this is our chance to find out. John and Charles, you two stay here a while longer and keep scoutin’ this place out. Tell me everything you find when you get back. And be discreet. Arthur, you and I’ll go back to camp and think of a plan to assault this fort. Maybe we can build off of John’s suggestion. Either way, we need to move quick. Atticus has proven himself to be a man who doesn’t waste time, and we can’t let him get away with Mister Ryan. Lord knows what they’re doin’ to him now.”

I sighed in nervousness. “...If it’s anything like what they did to me, it ain’t good.”

Dutch switched to a more reassuring tone. “Have faith, Arthur. We will get Eddie out of there before it’s too late. Tell him, John.”

Marston gave me a sincere look. “Eddie gave himself up to save Jack. Me and Abigail will do whatever we can to help. That boy’ll be fine.”

I tried to hide how much this situation was truly scarin’ me and kept a straight face, simply staring blankly at the grass below.

“I sure hope so.”

Dutch packed his binoculars and began walking towards his horse, signaling me to follow.

“Anyway, we should get moving. Not only do we have a man to rescue, we also gotta figure out where to move our camp next. Shady Belle ain’t safe for us no more, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened this morning. We’ve got to leave.”

I climbed on top of my own mount which I had switched out with Bullet and gave the big boy a pat on the neck, lightly kicking my spurs into his sides as I rode alongside Dutch.

“And what about...Hosea?” I asked, my voice a bit softer than I intended. “What’re we gonna do about him?”

Dutch’s face sank with sorrow at the thought. “I...I sent Bill and Lenny out to bury him somewhere proper. Somewhere peaceful, and away from this horrible swamp. I’m thinkin’ of paying him a visit later, once we get things settled.”

I nodded in agreement. “I might come with you.”

The older man’s melancholy was suddenly replaced with a sense of anger, and he gazed at me through the night’s darkness, giving me a determined glare.

“He’s the last one, Arthur. No more. We ain’t losing anyone else. Especially not to Mister Rose, or to those goddamned Pinkertons! We are survivors, for God’s sake. We fight to live free, and I will not allow these...sheep to think they can simply kick us around! Hosea said it himself: people like Eddie are the reason we do what we do. People like him are the reason we’re more than just common outlaws and criminals. Because unlike Atticus, and unlike Colm, we have got something to live for. And I’ll be damned if I let them take that from us.”

I picked up my pace and broke into a gallop as Dutch and I entered the more open fields, the two of us ridin’ underneath the moonlight while we headed back home.

“Well, whatever we do next, Dutch...” I said, “I’m with you.”

He glanced over at me, his brown eyes filled with a sense of protection.

“I know, son,” he replied gently. “I know.”