#the end is nigh and neigh...

[toruandmidori]

The End is Neigh

Everything seems quite apocalyptic at the minute!

Go down smiling with our new funny, punny “end of the world” sandwich board shirts, available to buy online now!. 

Check it out online: 

SHOP

[nizzysam]

No Thanks Needed

This work is a gift for @satanoceanic, one of the most active Red simpers out there. Thank you @the--end-is--nigh for the beta-reading <3

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Red Harlow/John Marston (Marlow)

Tags: Pre-Canon, Smut, Bottom John, Top Red, Brief mention of internalized homophobia Other Tags NSFT

Summary: John leaves the gang feeling like the life he was living wasn't his anymore. And that wasn't his kid. After days of riding, he finally stumbles upon a town called Goldpeaks just as a big celebration is taking place. There, he hopes to start anew. In the town's saloon, he meets a bunch of strangers. One in particular catches his attention.

Snippet: A man stood up from an empty table. Around him people tried to make it look like they were minding their business but achieved the opposite. The man left behind whispers and curious glances. Then he saw his face. Deep scars gnawed at his cheeks and one pressed his nose down, deep in his skin. John didn’t realize he was staring at the man, still on the last step. The man came closer, now facing him but not meeting his eyes.

AO3 Link - or read under the cut!

That day he muttered the truth to Hosea, eyes low on the ground as he felt the old man’s gaze on him. He wasn’t scolded as expected. There was a single sigh and nothing more.

As he raised his head to get one last glimpse of the camp, he met Abigail’s eyes. In that moment, he knew she knew. There was no fooling Abigail Roberts.

He left. The others thought he was going out scouting, looking for money, working. Something tight wrapped around his chest as he spurred his mare into a gallop.

It ain’t my life, it ain’t my kid. These thoughts deafened him, enraged him into a wild ride across valleys and rivers. Far away, as far as possible. Because fear cannot reach that far.

It had been days now. Days of silent rides and campfires and meager meals. Nothing he wasn’t used to, but it was harder this time. His only distraction was idly playing around with pebbles, collecting them and throwing them as far as he could.

Hosea told him not to let pride consume him, but Hosea didn’t understand. The weight of responsibility crushed him. He was a boy and then Abigail decided he was the father of her child. How could she know? Why was he the only one responsible for that kid?

The clashing of the pebble against the bedrock made the mare neigh, but he kept throwing and throwing. The harsh sound eased his resentment.

He slept as the wind howled and the fire crackled beside him. He would reach town the next day.

---

The stench of the livestock was piercing. There seemed to be more cows than people as he made his way through the small town. The sign read ‘Goldpeaks’.

The hills curved beautifully all around town, the light of the sun made them appear to shine in yellows and greens.

He would find a job now and get to the saloon later to wash off and drink. The money he saved would last him a few days if he was careful, and he was planning to be.

The afternoon was hot in the hill town, the mare was growing weary.

“Easy, Jill,” he patted her silver neck and guided her to a hitching post.

A chorus of high and low tones came from the saloon, singing along with the piano and interrupting the eerie silence. He reckoned he could find a job and drink at the same time.

They didn’t stop singing when he peeked inside. Everybody looked drunk and smelled of smoke and whiskey.

A few men were crowding the pianist, screeching melodies in his ear. Others were idly singing along from the tables.

“I’m looking for work,” John said as he leaned on the counter.

“Ain’t we all,” the bartender made a glass squeak under the cloth.

John turned to watch the drunk men all around him. “They surely ain’t.”

“What kinda voice is that?”, an old man with a large brown hat hiccuped in his direction.

“The kinda voice I have,” John didn’t even bother looking at him more than he already had.

“Oooh”, the man raised his hands as to fake fear. “We got another of those tough fellers, it looks like. Ain’t you too young to be sour?”

“If you ain’t offering me a job, I ain’t interested,” now John turned to look at him. The man’s cheeks glowed red from who knows how many drinks.

“Can ya herd sheep?”

“I learn fast,” John straightened his back and faced the man before offering him his hand. “Name’s John.”

The old man shook his hand vigorously. “Aaron. Got a ranch out there, somewhere. Later, huh? It’s a holiday.”

And so Aaron walked over a table, drank some more and went to another table to laugh loudly with whoever it was he was talking to. It looked like he was well known and liked. John’s jaw tightened as he watched him getting pats and smiles from everyone around.

“Are you buying?” the bartender asked.

“A beer and a bath,” John curved his back again, his elbows on the counter.

The bartender pointed at the stairs and John took his beer and slowly approached the second floor. His legs were killing him and his clothes were drenched in sweat. Luckily he had a spare shirt in his satchel.

The cold water swallowed him in one go. Energy seemed to come back to him in an instant. He sat in the tub sipping his beer for a long while. The tight feeling around his chest came back all of a sudden and he did nothing to make it better. He paid no attention to his thoughts, he got bored of them over the days of travel. Always the same anger, the same doubts, the same fears. He could no longer stand himself.

---

“About time you came out,” the bartender said as John came down the stairs with his new shirt on, a simple white everyday shirt and the same old jeans he had been wearing for too long.

Something changed during his absence. Music was still playing and people were still chattering, but something unspoken loomed over the room. His eyes went searching for Aaron and immediately found him sitting next to the pianist. That comforted him.

“Sir, your bath will be ready in a few minutes,” the bartender looked straight ahead and John followed his gaze.

A man stood up from an empty table. Around him people tried to make it look like they were minding their business but achieved the opposite. The man left behind whispers and curious glances.

Then he saw his face. Deep scars gnawed at his cheeks and one pressed his nose down, deep in his skin. John didn’t realize he was staring at the man, still on the last step. The man came closer, now facing him but not meeting his eyes.

“Didn’t know–” John began to explain how he didn’t realize someone else was waiting to use the bath as the stranger brushed his shoulder.

“Didn’t ask,” it was almost like he knew John was going to say something. He interrupted him in a low, steady tone. John barely had time to react that before the stranger was five steps ahead.

All John did was scoff and shake his head as he approached the counter.

“Another beer,” John ordered.

“Kid, don’t start anything with that man,” the bartender looked him straight in the eyes.

“What do you care?”

“I don’t want no trouble. It’s a holiday,” the man opened his arms, inviting him to look around.

“Ain’t nothing to worry about. And I ain’t no kid.”

“Whatever you say.”

John reached a hand down to his satchel and his mouth fell open when he didn’t feel it under his palm. Soon he became aware of the absence of the strap on his shoulder. The bartender looked at him like someone would look at a disgraced man.

John’s chest tightened once more, the choking feeling reaching up to his throat. That satchel kept him grounded, kept him from exploding. And now it was gone.

He stomped to the second floor and started banging on the bathroom door. “I left my things in there. Open up.”

No reply. John banged again, louder. “If you ain’t opening, I will.”

He waited and still got no reply. “Open or I swear I’ll–”

“It’s open.”

The voice came from behind him. He turned around and found himself face to face with the man. All that banging and screaming and for what? The stranger stared him down, his face was blank and hard like he’d never seen before.

They kept staring at each other as a working girl opened the bathroom door and retrieved John’s satchel. John took it and thanked her while his eyes were still lingering on the stranger’s scars.

“You wasn’t in there.”

“No.”

“I thought…”

The stranger didn’t reply. Now John felt the embarrassment reaching his face and coloring his cheeks red.

“What was you gonna do?” the stranger asked, his rough voice echoed in John’s ears.

“Get my stuff back,” John’s reply was unsteady and weak compared to the firm threats he made just seconds before.

“I see.”

“Sir, your bath will be ready in just a couple more minutes,” the girl said and disappeared in the bathroom.

The eyes of the stranger seemed to pierce through John’s every thought. Pale gray, narrow eyes chiseled on the rough face of a man who has seen it all.

And John, shorter than him, felt disarmed and stupid like a scolded kid. Somehow, he couldn’t look away. The stranger didn’t look away either.

John couldn’t bear it any longer and finally excused himself with a quick turn of the head before heading downstairs.

He paid and drank to wash away the embarrassment. How could he make it in the world all alone if he wasn’t capable of looking out for his own things? How could he be so stupid, how could he not see the man standing there as he went up the stairs?

Thoughts transformed into nasty conversations in his mind, telling him to get it together or he will wind up dead in a matter of days. And then Abigail would laugh, Hosea would be disappointed and ashamed. Another part of himself said it wasn’t true, that he could make it and he was going to prove it.

After what could have been ten minutes of blankly staring at the counter, he sighed and asked for another beer. Just one more, he promised himself.

“D’you have any rooms available?” he asked, sitting on the stool, playing with the brim of the bottle.

“Sorry kid, Harlow took it.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

The man took a seat on the stool next to him, pushing his elbow in John’s space. John decided he was going to act like a man who had seen a lot. Not everything, but a lot. He puffed his chest out and straightened himself a bit.

“So your name is Harlow,” he said and took a long sip of his beer. He wondered if anyone was going to buy his gimmick.

“Stating the obvious won’t bring you far,” Harlow said and gestured to the bartender to serve him. In no time a whiskey glass was on the counter.

John’s gaze followed his gloved hand reaching for the glass. Once again, that stranger made him look stupid. His ego was hurt and he could no longer hold his tongue.

“You must be the eccentric type if you wear gloves in summer,” he mocked him and took another sip of his beer. Holding the bottle made him feel more confident, and he could blame his flushed cheeks on the alcohol.

John almost choked on his beer when he felt a heavy hand landing on his back. He froze for a moment, but immediately relaxed when a familiar face popped between them.

“You’ve met Red! Two sour men sitting next to each other, what a sad sight. But of course you found each other, of course!” Aaron broke into an airy laugh.

John could see Harlow looking at him on the other side, not a hint of emotion on his face.

“Now you two ain’t gonna ruin this for us, you just wouldn’t have the heart. Ain’t that right?” despite what his mellow tone suggested, that was an order.

John wondered who exactly was this rancher who offered him a job and was beloved by everyone in the saloon. He knew better than to ask.

“Good fellas. Martin, give them another round of what they want. On me.”

And just like that Aaron was touring tables and requesting songs. Harlow gestured again to Martin, the bartender, and another whiskey was on the table.

“What do you want, kid?” Martin asked.

“I ain’t no kid,” John hissed.

“What does the gentleman want?” Martin corrected himself, both hands on his side of the counter.

It wasn’t the first time John felt out of place, he had been out of place his whole life. These people here, they were all making fun of him. He raised his fist on the counter and as he was about to slam it down, Harlow sighed.

“Give him whiskey.”

A whiskey glass sat near his unfinished beer and Martin went taking care of other patrons. John turned his head, both his arms now folded on the counter. His usual slouched posture gave away all of that he was trying to hide.

The man called Red Harlow wasn’t looking at him, but John knew he was being observed. He could feel it by the way the stranger moved and the way he was avoiding his eyes. Just now he noticed his worn hat casting a shadow over his sharp features, a few strands of brown hair peaking out from under it, a well-trimmed beard framing his face. And his scars.

“Why do you wear one single red glove?” John asked, hoping to return the favor by acting interested.

“None of your business. Drink.”

John reached for the whiskey and downed it in one go. His eyes never left Red’s profile.

“Why do you wear one single red glove?” John asked again, now turned on the stool to fully face the man. One arm lazily laying on the counter and the other on his leg.

Red sighed. “Guess I’m the eccentric type. Why do you leave your damn things around?”

That answer brought a smile to John’s face, maybe the first in a long while. This man was going to entertain him after all.

“Guess I’m the forgetful type,” John spat a loud laugh and shook his head. It felt good to laugh. His throat was burning from the whiskey and the beer tasted almost like water.

“Learn not to be. Folks ain’t gonna be nice if you threaten to open their bathroom doors,” Red raised one eyebrow as he brought the glass to his lips. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye.

John’s eyebrows furrowed but he knew the man was right. “I ain’t apologized for that, did I?”

“No need,” the man just said, now looking straight ahead.

John huffed and returned to face the counter. He missed his tent and his cot, Arthur’s jokes and Hosea’s lessons. He even missed Dutch’s patronizing speeches and the sound of Tilly’s laugh.

Miserable was the correct word. He wondered, day and night, if he was doing the right thing. If that wasn’t the correct path, the road would bring him back to them, Hosea told him. He found himself nodding as he remembered the old man’s words.

“You ain’t from here, so what is your deal?” Red spoke in his monotone voice, his face now turned in John’s direction.

“Asking myself the same question,” John said. It took a while for him to realize Harlow was looking at him. When he did, surprise colored his cheeks.

Red seemed to have noticed. There was a slight twitch in his eyes. “Answer honestly.”

John had no reason to, but he felt compelled to answer. He had kept silent for days and thoughts were corroding his brain. He looked in the older man’s eyes, trying to decide how much he was willing to reveal. “The life I was living wasn’t mine. I oughta find who I am.”

“That so? Good luck.”

“Yeah, I’ll need it,” John looked almost sad the conversation died down like that. He brought the bottle to his lips again, downing the beer. His stomach grumbled loud enough for everyone around him to hear.

Red snickered and shook his head. “You oughta eat if you wanna find out who you are, kid.”

John rolled his eyes and adjusted on the stool. “Guess now that I ain’t paying for the room I can afford to eat something.”

Red stood up and adjusted his bandolier. He called the bartender over with his hand and didn’t wait long for Martin to approach. “He can use my room.”

Just like that, Red was up and gone.

John was baffled, Martin tried his best to appear unbothered. The two stared at each other for a long few seconds before the bartender reached for the second spare key and handed it to John.

He didn’t even have the time to thank the stranger. Didn’t have the time to ask why. He would have asked upon his return in the room they now shared. John found himself looking forward to it.

He ordered beef stew and ate in silence as the afternoon’s party turned into an early evening craze. Finally, he felt full and somehow calmer. All of the tiredness from the long journey caught up to him.

Before heading to the room, he went outside to check on Jill, fed her and patted her. She seemed better now that she was in the shade. He removed the saddlebag and headed to the second floor.

---

The room wasn’t much, he wasn’t expecting it to be. A big bed right in front of the door, a bedside table at each side, a floor mirror and a window to the right side.

The sight of the bed made him smile in anticipation. He undressed and wore his red union suit fresh out of the saddlebag before sinking in the middle of the bed.

He fell asleep immediately and for hours, dreaming of nothing. He woke up as the pianist played an off-key note and the crowd cheered and laughed.

What kind of holiday it was, John didn’t know, but the celebration didn’t seem to stop. Through the window he saw the moon was already high in the sky. He closed his eyes again and stretched his arms out.

Then he seemed to remember that this wasn’t his room. Quickly, he sat down and looked around him. Red wasn’t there, which was a relief but also a disappointment. Was he coming at all? The uncertainty bothered him.

He found himself looking in the mirror where his scrawny figure curved and stared back at him. Strings of hair tickled his cheeks, long enough to cover his neck and lay on his shoulders. He almost didn’t recognize himself. It had been a while since he saw his own reflection.

The floor was pleasantly cool under his feet as he stretched once more in front of the mirror, looking at how his body moved and twisted in the union suit. Another memory came, of when Arthur mocked him for how small he looked in his old shirt. Most of John’s clothes were Arthur’s old ones. Not this union suit, this he bought himself.

He sank once again in the bed, an arm covering his eyes. The past was the past, he was here now. In Red Harlow’s room.

That was a strange, tough man. Behind his rough facade was a decent fellow, one who would share his room with a runaway who threatened to knock down the bathroom door of a saloon in the middle of nowhere. John laughed to himself.

After all, Red had nothing to fear. He was strong, John could tell. Lean but solid, you could see it even through his clothes. Those piercing, questioning eyes that would stare at you long enough to make you uncomfortable yet leave you hoping for more.

His scent when they passed each other on the stairs, John could smell it as if Red was beside him at that moment. Gunpowder and leather mixed with sweat and smoke. And after a bath just the faint perfume of the soap and his own natural scent.

The way he sounded, low and rough as if he spoke those words from deep inside him. His unreadable expressions, John found himself wanting to understand. To see, to hear more.

The arm pressed on his eyes pressed more against his skull and his hand grabbed the pillow beneath him. He tried to stop his other hand from trailing down to his belly and between his thighs. This wasn’t the first time he thought of a man, but the shame burned him every time.

John slowly brushed his fingers on his erection, hoping to get the edge off like that, without having to unbutton his union suit.

His fingers traveled down some more, touching that sensitive spot just above his entrance. A spike of pleasure made him arch his back, his mouth now parted and his eyes shut under his arm.

Outside, footsteps and voices were coming and going since he first entered the room. He almost didn’t notice them now as the hand finally grabbed his clothed cock and moved slowly in a firm grip.

He lost himself in a fantasy, one in which Red was the protagonist. It wasn’t long before he started bucking against his own hand, panting and biting down his lip.

It was when the sound of something heavy hit the ground that he tripped up like a spring. Harlow’s back was all he saw, his bandolier on the ground.

John’s cheeks were bright red as he sat in the middle of the bed, his erection pushing against the thin fabric of his union suit. He couldn’t move.

His gaze darted in the mirror and got a glimpse of Harlow’s profile. His lips stayed flat, his eyes looked at nothing in particular. John watched him remove his hat and unbutton his shirt. He dared looking some more when Red’s shirt was fully open, revealing the hair on his chest. He lingered on, waiting for him to move so that he could see more through the mirror. And he did. Red moved just enough for John to see the trail of dark hair disappearing into his pants.

The room filled with the scent John remembered from earlier. He was still frozen in place, a hand behind him to support him and the other still in the air as his lifted leg covered his obvious erection.

John’s eyes moved up again in the mirror. Red was staring back at him, those narrow eyes kept him from looking anywhere else.

Did he notice? Why wasn’t he saying anything? John’s heart was racing. He stopped breathing to try and calm down, in vain. All he could do was look away. He managed to move from the bed’s center and tried to make himself small.

Red kept undressing, John could still see him out of the corner of his eye. His gaze focused again on the mirror, but he kept his head low. Red’s eyes were still fixed on John as he unbuckled his belt.

Finally, John decided it would be better if he faced the wall and forgot all about it. So he did. His gaze now moved from the bedside table to the wall and out the window. His breathing was heavy, the silence in the room interrupted by the sound of Harlow’s clothes coming off.

Red sat on the bed and John shifted and held on the mattress. Then he felt Red standing up again. Did he remove his boots? What was he doing now?

John was restless, his erection didn’t seem to die down and the curiosity was killing him. He felt forced to look away, scared of what would happen if he turned again to look at the man. He could pretend he needed to get up and go do something. After all, he wasn’t a prisoner in that room.

John slowly turned his head.

Red’s broad shoulders were all he could see. The man was staring down at him, shirtless. His belt was unfastened but his pants were still buttoned. John’s mouth was open as he looked at the man’s body, his eyes lingering on that trail of dark hair on his belly. Then Red’s thumb brushed them as his fingers pressed down the fly of his pants.

By that point his thoughts were clouded, nothing he thought made sense and when their eyes met yet again, John was already on his knees, moving towards him.

Red’s hand caught him, cupped his jaw and brought him up against him. A desperate whimper escaped John’s mouth when he felt Red’s tongue on his neck and on his ear. Red’s breath was warm and ticklish against him, sending a spike of arousal down his spine.

John pushed himself against Red’s leg, wanting him to know how hard he was. How desperate for friction he was. In response, Red brought a hand down his ass and squeezed, his own erection pressing against John’s belly.

“Was you thinking of me?” Red whispered and in one quick motion turned John around.

John’s ass pushed against Red’s erection, his back against the older man’s chest as the hand on his neck held him in place.

That question made his cock twitch. Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, I was thinking of you. But his only reply was a choked moan.

Red bit his lobe, licked it and bit down again. John wanted to see his face, see how he looked when he was aroused like that. But just as he began to turn his head, Red pressed him against the mattress.

He was quick to open the flap of John’s union suit, exposing him so abruptly.

That was too much for John. He broke free of Red’s grip and turned around, facing the man above him. “Wait,” he pleaded.

Red’s heavy-lidded gaze scanned him, hungry. But he didn’t force himself on John. His belt fell on the ground and his fingers began to unbutton his pants.

Red’s cock was now hard and naked in his gloved hand. He gripped it at the base, showing John just what he was in for. And when John looked up at him, he could swear he saw a smirk on the man’s scarred face.

John never did this before, he only imagined it. Now Red’s eyes were silently requesting it. He averted his gaze.

“Never done it before?” Red asked.

John shook his head. He felt Red’s hand on his nape guiding him closer.

The tip of his cock brushed over John’s lips. It was hot and hard against him. Slowly, he opened his mouth and licked. He saw Red’s eyes narrowing and the breathy sound he made was enough to make John lick again and again.

Soon he took the tip in his mouth, trying his best not to let his teeth scratch the sensitive skin. Red was watching him, licking his lips from time to time. John knew he wanted more. He tried to relax his jaw and took more of him in. Red was big and heavy in his mouth, he felt his thickness on his tongue as he bobbed his head on him. John could feel the veins of his cock and taste his arousal.

Red began to move, slowly, as to warn him of what was about to come. He pushed further, reaching the back of John’s throat. His head lolled back at the sensation.

John was held with all his cock in his inexperienced mouth, his nose brushing against Red’s curly black hair. He pushed on the man’s thigh and turned his head to cough. Then he looked back up, Red’s hand still on his nape. He turned again and began to lick his cock from the base to the tip, hoping that was enough. Red seemed to enjoy it before he took a step back to completely remove his pants.

John looked at the lean, muscular body in front of him. He got up, pressed a hand on his chest, felt the heat and the hair brushing over his palm. In a bold move he brought a hand on Red’s nape and leaned in for a kiss.

Red simply bent his head backwards and stared at him. “No,” he said.

John blinked and had no time to say anything. Red’s hand was now unbuttoning his front flap. The thin piece of fabric fell on the ground, revealing John’s neglected cock.

Red held his ungloved hand under John’s chin. “Spit,” he ordered.

John spat after the man gave him an impatient look. And he was so glad he did when he felt that same hand gripping both of their cocks, stroking them slowly.

Red’s experienced hand lingered on their tips, making them both shiver and moan.

He couldn’t kiss him, but Red didn’t object when John began to nibble and lick his neck. Instead, Red stretched his neck to give him more to bite into.

John was reaching the peak of his pleasure, bucking into the man’s hand. He no longer cared about the sound he was making against his skin.

Red stopped and took a step back. John looked at him, mouth open and almost offended. That questioning look turned into a pleading one as Red came closer again. In his eyes, John could see what he wanted. He stepped back and fell on the mattress, but didn’t stop retreating further on the bed.

“I’ve never…” John began to say as Red climbed on the bed and positioned himself between his legs. His breath was heavy with doubt and anticipation. John didn’t know much, didn’t think much, he just knew he was scared and yet he wanted it.

Red caressed his torso and trailed down his body. There wasn’t impatience in his touch, Red avoided John’s cock for a while, caressing the sensible skin of his inner thigh until he felt John relax.

“You’re gonna be good,” he said looking straight in John’s eyes. That was reassuring, his low voice steady and calm. But John also heard a command. And he was so eager to comply.

Red pressed one finger on John’s reddened lips and in his mouth, pushing down his tongue. Meanwhile John adjusted under him, his legs open against the older man’s thighs. But Red pushed him a bit further up the bed as his saliva-slick finger traveled down between John’s legs.

There was resistance, but Red was expecting that. He teased his opening slowly, brushing the area around his hole. John was feeling so many things at once all he could do was watch him with his mouth open, perked up on his elbows. One faint moan escaped his lips when Red pushed a finger inside him.

Then Red took John’s aching cock in his hand as his finger went inside and out, allowing John to get used to the feeling.

It felt strange, foreign and unbelievably good. A few times, even incredible. Red reached that point inside him that made his pupils dilate with pleasure. If he couldn’t think straight before, now he lost every last bit of control.

He took his own cock and started stroking it, trapping Red’s hand under his own. He knew if the man looked at him, he would cum right there and then.

But Red wasn’t having it. He pushed a second finger in him and gripped John’s cock firmly enough to stop him from reaching climax. All this while their eyes were locked, which made it all but easier for John.

He would have felt ashamed and embarrassed if he wasn’t experiencing the strongest arousal of his life. All he could think about was Red’s fingers and that stretching pain slowly transforming into pleasure. John gripped the man’s hair and pushed down on his fingers with a shameful moan.

What he said afterwards began as a closed-eyed whine and became a pathetic moan as Red started scissoring his fingers in him. “Fuck me,” John kept repeating.

Red breathed an airy “Yeah,” all his arousal spilling into his voice. He changed in that moment, his eyes wide and famished. His fingers slipped out of John, immediately replaced by his tongue licking in and around him as both his hands now held him open.

John shivered and twisted at every lick, his eyes rolling from pleasure. He couldn’t hold himself up any longer, now flat on his back, moaning and biting on his fingers as one hand tried to reach for his cock. One look from Red made him stop.

With seemingly no effort, Red tugged John closer and slightly raised his ass. He spat in his opening and put two fingers inside him, fingering him faster and faster as the younger man moaned with pleasure under him. Then he pushed another finger in and John seemed to have completely abandoned himself to the sensation.

Red lifted himself above John, looking at his blissful expression; lips parted and swollen, flushed cheeks and dark eyes.

John threw his arms around his neck and lifted himself up, reaching for the kiss he so desperately wanted. All Red gave him was his neck, once again, as he turned his head at the last minute. So John bit down, hard.

In response, Red twirled his fingers up and pushed against that very spot he knew would make John weak. And it did, reducing John to a heap of pleading moans.

Then, as a punishment, Red stood up, leaving him alone on the bed. As soon as John felt his absence, he perked up fearing he would leave. But Red was still in the room, searching for something in his own satchel. It wasn’t long before he turned to face John again.

In his hand was a tin of hair pomade. Red smeared his fingers with it and was again on John, teasing his hole with the pomade outside and deep inside him. John was taking all three of his fingers with no resistance.

He slicked his own cock with pomade as John adjusted himself under him, his legs spread. Red aligned with his hole and teased him with his tip.

John’s eyes were closed with anticipation, fear and pleasure. His eyebrows were furrowed and his cock twitched against his navel.

“Look at me,” Red ordered as he stared down at him.

John’s eyes opened instantly and Red sank deep inside his tight hole. The room filled with John’s moans and Red’s grunts as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Red’s bared teeth turned into a gaping mouth when John started bucking against him, not giving himself the time to adjust to the new sensation. It drove Red out of his mind, you could see it in his face. In that moment he decided not to hold back anymore.

John got what he was asking for and took it without looking away once. Red was slamming into him slow and deep, he could feel him in his belly, pushing against that very spot he never imagined felt this good.

He could feel Red was getting more and more aroused as he increased the speed and became even harder inside him. Once again, John tried to throw his arms around Red’s neck and Red let him, but only to use it as leverage to pick him up and hold him against the wall, beside the window. There was no way to kiss him as Red’s head was buried between his neck and shoulder, making it easier to hear his moans against his skin.

John looked straight ahead of him and saw his reflection in the mirror and the broad back of the man fucking him senseless. He stared at the reflection with clouded eyes and began scratching his back. Red’s thrusts became erratic, his grunts animalistic.

Soon John found himself on the bed again, a hand pressing on the sides of his throat. It felt good, the pleasure intensified and he tried to reach for his cock. He needed to stroke it, it began to hurt for how long it was neglected.

Red allowed it with a quick nod. The older man didn’t choke his grunts anymore and his expressions were as feral as the way he was fucking the man under him.

John’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open as he felt he was about to reach climax. Red reacted to that immediately, pulling out and grabbing both cocks in his gloved hand.

John was the first to cum with a long moan and soon Red followed, spreading his cum all over John’s union suit. They both came profusely and in waves, twitching one on top of the other. Red continued to stroke their cocks until John’s moans began to sound like whines.

The last thing John heard that night was a heavy, tired sigh and the seemingly unstoppable celebrating sounds coming from downstairs.

---

The next morning, Red was gone. His scent was all that was left in the room. John could smell it on himself.

He folded the union suit and pushed it down the saddlebag. Dressed up and had another look in the mirror.

He tried to compose himself, dust his shirt off and slicked his hair back. Did he look like a man who had sex with another man just a few hours prior? Did people hear them? Did it even matter?

He walked downstairs with his bag, head down. The place was still trashed from the day before and Martin was behind the counter, seemingly unbothered by the mess, cleaning a glass.

“Aaron’s waiting for you by his ranch up the hill, you’ll recognize it,” he said as John approached.

“Yeah, thanks,” John didn’t even look at him as he walked towards the door.

“Where you going with that?”

John stopped, confused. “Somewhere, I guess.”

“Room’s paid for two days,” Martin said and the saloon echoed with the squeaking of the cloth against the glass.

[unusuallysized-nsfw]

A Tradgedy In Mint. Part (1)

A Pony Vore RP Turned Narrative Fic!

(Alt Text: A Tradgedy In Mint Part 1)

This Story Splits at a pivitol moment, Will he be nommed simply, or will things get silly...

YOU SHALL DECIDE!

Mismatch found himself in a rather precarious situation that evening. a series of unimportant events leading to the focus of our tale. As the pastel green stallion ended up the size of a chocolate chip chunk on the roof of an icecream parlour, he blinked dazedfrom the teleportation before slipping, tumbling down and landing in somebody's bowl o mint chip icecream...

Princess Luna, having had an eventful trip to ponyville, was glad to have a chance to enjoy a moment during the late afternoon, sure, she'd need to raise the moon soon, but that was a bit off yet, and she had her icecream now. After today, that was her focus for the moment.

She Quickly glanced around, nopony was gawking, nopony had their cameras? Even that little thin colt who looks like he could use a child or two to gobble, she mused to herself. Feather Freight? Was that his name? Oh well. Icecream.

Sighing, she dug out a bite with her spoon and staring off at far off canterlot, she brought it up, having narrowly missed Mismatch with the first spoonful, and as she brought it into her mouth, was being pleasently surprised at the quality... given its only a local Ponyville shoppe.

Mismatcg rubbed his head, as he looked at the cold green expanse surrounding him. It was he mused, nearly neigh, actually completely identical in color to himself.

"It tastes of mint...huh..." as he tried to move he found himself sinking in more, as a big no, huge silver object dug into the terrain near him he was utterly caught off gaurd. However in it's brief reflection things became clear, as he saw blue... and as he looked up, way up to see her

"... it's not... it couldn't be." but yes there she was plain as day, beautiful as night, filling his sky almost as if she were the moon itself.

He tried not to gawk...it wasn't polite in the slightest, especially for somepony so decadent. Now it was no secret....well it was, that mismatch had always found the night princess beautiful since the day he saw her, but this was certainly not how he pictured their meeting, an overwhelming surprise infact. What was she doing in ponyville? Why was she so...big...as big as a he imagined a goddess should be? He shook his head snapping out of it the stupor.

Just in time to witness her eating. Eating his surroundings and only then it clicked...everything clicked. and he began to panic...

Luna, gave a brief shudder from the coldness, and arched her back in a certainly princessly fashion, she skipped where a yawn would be, instead giving a perhaps not cold, but slightly distant smile, a hint of that icecream on her top lip, which she idly licked away.

Going in for a second spoonfull she captured the larger part of the mound Mismatch was in, though, and perhaps thankfully, he slid off back into the bowl, on top of the second scoop, almost like a cherry on top if irony were allowed. The coldness numbed his body, making movements sluggish at best, perhaps nigh impossible were he buried as he was only a moment ago.

"Truly, quite divine for such a small town. Perhaps I shall give this creamery a reccomendation to my sister..."

She idly ate the next spoonful, smiling happily.

"oh jeez oh jeez"

he trembled, and shuddered, wondering why the heck his horn was being so stupid as to short out NOW of all times. Of course even if he were to yell, which he had considered doing, it'd had done him no good. His size wasn't big enough to even register as a cricket or mouse squeak. So as the spoon returned he found himself being lifted up...

"oh Luna...Princess Damnit, this can't be happening, Please don't!!" he shouted.

Though of course, it'd fall on deaf ears. The irony of using her name as an expression and her title as a pronoun is sort of lost on him as he tumbles off the mound and into the cream again... now too cold to even move.

"if she doesn't notice me...I'm...this is it."

His eyes widened as he looked up at her, and then for a moment, just a solitary moment he considered if such a sacrifice could be considered noble...before blinking and trying ineffectively to move as her voice boomed loudly, like the canterlot voice, but somehow softer, more refined, yet as gruff as would be expected of a Princess... the words less important than the sound which calm him rather than scare... he wonders how any of this is even possible.

"Lovely...!"

This was it, it seemed. The spoon heading down, grabbing the "ground" out from under Mismatch, and with him firmly planted in it this time. Breaking free from the main mass, the spoon and its contents made their way up to Luna's mouth, her not having glanced at the bowl in all this time, as if it beneath her notice, or that perhaps she has such confidence nopony would be foolish enough to attempt something, today of all days.

*Stopping for a tantalizing moment, she arched her back again, and this time did yawn, a literal breath of warm, moist air being a surprisingly cold comfort to the tiny morsel...er i mean pony.

With his fur literally blown back, the warmth both, terrifying and of course, comforting, he found himself staring down at his doom. Saliva dripping and strands of it reflected in the afternoon light. it was almost kind of amusing, just how...normal it seemed for one of such regality to be as gross a eater as anyone else. A pink monster gaurded the entrance to tartarus, and the gates... pearly and white as the moon itself. The juxtaposition of these themes, and of the comfort of this particular predator and the fear of imminent demise. It would almost be poetic... but he knew what was coming next not a scream nor a struggle had done anything on the ride up... nor would it on his ride down he imagined. He felt however briefly, if this is how his story ends, at least "I got one last literal scoop... of the night princesse's inside story"

He chuckled, he was crying but laughing and taking it in stride... Perhaps he was merely trying to find peace among it all but if he was he'd not think of it that way. As he was warmed by her breath and gazed at her maw, he almost gained an apreciation for its intricacies...he wondered if his inclusion would provide any extra nourishment, or flavour... if he was to go down unable to fight, he at least hoped his sacrifice would be somewhat worth it.

Time for him had slowed... as he looked at her lips he chuckled about how he was sure many a stallion would love to be this close to them... humour was all he had now.

Indeed he thought all this, all these idle, intrusive thoughts, reflective of his namesake. One after the other with no segues, between them. this was normal even if nothing of the situation itself was... He idly remembered how he'd escaped previous scrapes like this one... but knew none of those tactics could be used here, not even in self defense would they be worth the price. She was a practical goddess and he was just a silly 'modern' historian.

Besides... as he braced himself for the inevitable, got lost in her deep tealishblue eyes... looking off and away, there was no malice...she'd never even know.

Princess Luna's yawn having finished, her lips having smacked, the spoon brought to her lips, where Mismatch was briefly smacked by the upper lip as they came closing down around the spoon, pressing him between her lip and holding him tight as the spoon slid easily from underneath him, it was as if he'd recieved the world's largest kiss from a goddess herself! <3

Clearly she was not much of a chewer when it came to her ice cream, as she moved her tongue around, coating it and her mouth in the frozen treat, tickling the bottom of his hooves and...0h...

As he remained pressed between her mile wide lips. Luna, from the sounds she was making, was clearly enjoying some of the best icecream she'd had in a long time.

Mismatch couldn't help but sort of enjoy this, His mind at relative ease, letting it all play out, the lack of chewing had certainly did no favours toward snapping him out of whatever this blissful self sacrifice nonsense was. And when she kissed him! Though he knew she didn't truly, And then licked his hooves! he shuddered..this was an incredibly eye opening experience for the little pony.

oh. she just... .oh.

(MALE SEXUAL MOMENT AHEAD)

Mismatch snapped to and panicked trying to hold back the indecency that her innocent toungue had wrought upon him, but it was useless... and a little more cream was added to her dessert than probabbly intended, But to his credit he had tried and was feeling terrible about it.

(MOMENT ENDS HERE)

His Guilt was misplaced as it was almost certainly unnoticed at his miniscule size, the larger part of the icecream was swallowed, and she proceeded to lick her lips, bringing him in, and perhaps fortunately, caught him under her tongue when she swallowed the rest. As she went for the last real spoonful, her tongue was at rest on...what was certainly a piece of chocolate that'd melt in a moment anyway~

A few Words were spoken between this, and a head nod was felt, but nothing that'd be understandable considering Mismatch's predicament.

Mismatch, however, having been placed in a considerably less dangerous but still frightful situation. Tried his horn again. Sparks n bzzts. he sighed, alas whatever had shrunk him had also fried him. He struggled physically a bit but feeling the warmth of the slick yetvelvety toungue above him like a blanket, and the oddly silky gums beneath him he began feeling rather tired.

Yet his adrenaline and fight or flight instincts despite what his concious mind may have thought refused to give in. She still had some icecream to go so maybe he'd be caught in the next go round.. or maybe somepony speaking to her would be the perfect time for him to try and get out of this... as he found himself becoming ever so slightly bigger. not nearly noticeable.. or perhaps very ignorable, he was now still small enough to swallow whole, but also large enough to maybe fight back if need be!

and yet try as he might he remained stuck in his position.. Bathed in saliva like a chocolate chip only slightly smaller than a tooth.

For Luna, for whatever had transpired within, it didn't much slow the minty eventuality that was the last incoming spoonful. Pressed and swished and rolled around with it, having been jarred loose by the initial bite, he was at his last real chance to do anything before the inevitable happens to the icecream and to him. Still, it was quite disorienting, getting rolled around and practically licked all over by a tongue the size of a truck.

Mismatch made what he feared may be his final attempt as he proceed dizzingly toward the princess's maw, calling her name, over the sound of her breathing and distant but omnipresent heartbeat, he managed to knock on her teeth, but the resulting lack of feedback tells him it may not have even been something she felt. Curse her good dental hygiene...had she more cavities he'd be out of here fine! Just like the time with the succubi. But for now he had to rely on hopes truly just hope was all he had as he contiued fighting against the toungue to be noticed. Slipping and falling... his mind had decided to agree with his adrenaline... if they could make it out, they were going to, if they couldnt... she enjoyed him at least.

HOWS THIS GONNA END?

A. Exactly how youd think (Just Nomz)

B. With A Surprising Turn of events (silly character building...and noms)

[trantrumsfromthevoid]

Okay you've got me curious, what went wrong at Rosalie and Emmett's "flop" wedding?

Picture it: England, January 1991.

After Jasper's latest unfortunate "slip up," he causes enough of a ~kerfluffle~ in Forks that the family decides it's best to leave for a while. Because it's all been rather unexpected (even Alice had fuzzy details at best; simply knowing they'd have to move "soon"), they decide to return to Carlisle's hometown of London, England. It's in the dead of winter: it'll be cold, dreary, snowy, and dark. So they'll be safe ... or so they believe.

Rosalie, believing now to be the perfect opportunity to cheer everyone up, decides she and Emmett will have a "small, casual" wedding next month. Rosalie (along with Alice and Esme) prep as best they can and are able to find a "cute, old chapel" two weeks from now. Meanwhile, everything else appears to go smoothly. Despite it being the dead of winter, Rosalie believes this wedding will be the best one yet. Alice begins to receive visions of a puzzling and mysterious nature but decides to reveal them only to Carlisle (and, obviously, Edward) so as to keep everyone's spirits high.

It's the day of Rosalie's umpteenth wedding; her first in eight years. Everyone arrives at the chapel only to be greeted to an empty chapel. Well, except for one very old (and extremely confused, according to Edward) woman. This woman appears to be at least ninety and, because of her muddled mind, Edward isn't sure where she belongs. But, she's not bothering anyone and is quietly muttering the rosary to herself in a corner. Everyone hopes she'll leave before the ceremony begins.

The priest arrives about fifteen minutes later, again appearing a little rushed and flustered. Edward picks up from the priest's mind that his previous engagement didn't go quite so well and he's a little frazzled. Again, Edward decides to keep this information to himself so as to not dampen everyone's moods. The priest walks over to Emmett and introduces himself, asking if Emmett is nervous for today. Emmett, the priest, and Carlisle commence with the small talk while the others make ready the chapel.

Suddenly Alice gasps loudly. Everyone looks to her and she points to a window as beautiful, bright rays of sunshine begin streaming into the chapel. It appears today, shockingly, will be a beautiful day: full of sunshine and warmth in the middle of this English winter. No one knows what to do as the rays of the sun begin to make the Cullen's sparkle. The old woman in the corner ceases muttering the rosary and begins shouting "The devil is here! The devil is here! The end is neigh!" at the Cullen's. She attempts to beat Esme (who's standing closest to her) with her cane while continuing to shout about the approaching apocalypse and how she believes the Cullen's are possessed.

The priest tries to calmly reassure everyone that "Matthew and Cynthia" can still have a beautiful wedding while wondering why "Matthew" and "Cynthia" (aka Emmett and Rosalie, whom the priest has confused with his next wedding) are sparkling. All of this, according to Edward who's reading the priest's thoughts and will tell his family later. With little other choice, the Cullen's decide to, literally, run out of the chapel and into the corresponding woods, where they'll hide until nightfall. The priest attempts to look for his clients (Matthew and Cynthia) but after about ten minutes gives up. The confused old woman can still be heard from inside the chapel continuing to shout "The end is nigh!" until the priest calms her down about fifteen minutes later.

Once it's pitch black, the Cullen's return to their rented home and decide it's best to leave England as soon as possible and visit their "Denali cousins" for a while.

[phoenixkaptain]

Will not at any point be getting over Harry Mason and all the parts he walks into disturbing places without saying a word, the beginning of the game when he saw a strung-up dead body and just kinda went “Weird, really weird, time to find Cheryl,” the fact that he fought a weird ass lizard monster in a bloody room with a girl on fire in the middle…

And then he finds himself in the boiler room and goes “What the fUCK IS THIS A BOILER ROOM????”

[theangelinyourass]

Remember that time there was a wolf in the northern lights or some shit? Well that was Fenris and now Jorgy's here to fuck some shit up it's Ragnarok y'all

sorry what

[that-crazy-australian]

When someone says "the end is neigh" instead of "the end is nigh"

[monigheandonn1743]

The Diary

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Wednesday 4th January 1747

My enthralment with the snow has ended, and I now find myself in utter despair at the catastrophe it has wrought. How can something that is so beautiful, so peaceful, and joyous, in turn cause such heartache and devastation?

Has God not punished us enough?

Are those of us that were not slain in battle, or shot for treason, now destined to die of starvation?

In the blink of an eye our continued existence in the highlands has become all but impossible. There is no earthly way that we can survive here. William has suggested that we leave, and I’ll admit to considering that option myself, but where would we go?

I do not know what has become of him, and I am not ashamed to admit that I hope that he was lost at Culloden. But if he lives still, then leaving Lallybroch will only increase my risk of discovery.

Besides, what of my new family? No highlander would be welcomed in the lowlands or beyond, and there are no ships available to carry us across the ocean to safety.

There will be none until the spring, and I fear that then it will be too late.

The hidden provisions, the ones removed from the reach of the redcoats, the preserves we were so reliant on, have gone. They were destroyed in the blizzard, when the weight of the snow became too much for the hastily built shelter.

We are at a loss of what to do.

I am at a loss.

*

Thursday 12th January 1747

Janet and I have completed our store inventory and as a result, William has left to hunt. With so many mouths to feed, even on strict rations, we have only enough food to see us though to the middle of March.

Should the garrison call for further supplies, I fear we shall perish long before then. Unfortunately, with Lord Lovat still at large, it is highly likely that they will.

We have seen neither hide nor hair of the old fox, thank the Lord, but his actions have brought suspicion down on the whole clan; William in particular, and until he is captured I can see no end to their harassment.

*

Tuesday 17th January 1747

Venison and onion stew has never tasted so good.

I shall dream of it this night I am sure.

*

Saturday 21st January 1747

I am overjoyed!

In the early hours of this morning, we welcomed Margaret Ellen Claire Fraser Murray to the world. It is such a big name for such a tiny girl, but I have no doubt that she will grow into it.

She is the complete image of her beautiful mother. With jet black hair, a small nose, and delicately pursed lips. Yet she carries her fathers dark soulful eyes.

Janet is well and recovering quietly with both of her children by her side. As would be expected, her happiness is unparalleled, yet tinged with the sorrow that young Maggie will never know her wonderful father.

I know that Ian will be watching over them from heaven, and will be almost bursting with pride for his wife and new daughter. As well he should, for Janet has done him proud.

*

Thursday 9th February 1747

Mrs Crook has injured herself again. She neigh on sliced her finger off while attempting to skin a rabbit. I have stitched it as best I can, but…

…As I feared, the redcoats have once again come to Lallybroch and I am truly terrified at what I may find upon my return. We have next to nothing left, but I pray to God that William will hold his temper and allows them to take what they will. Unfortunately I know the man well, and I expect that he will not.

I can barely breathe with worry.

Oh, that I could be there to at least see what is happening, but with the provision hole exposed, there was nowhere for me to hide. So, I now write by dim candlelight, in the icy confines of the cave on the north side of the estate.

As young Rabbie MacNab ferreted me away though the shadows with naught but a candle, my shawl and diary, he assured me that he was not amongst them. But I am known to many, and I have been made aware that the reward for my recovery is still in place.

Does this mean that he lives? Or are his family still willing to pay for my capture?

I do not know, and I do not wish to find out.

William has written to his cousin in France, requesting passage on the next ship to sail from Inverness to the Colonies. I do not know if life in those far distant lands will be better then here, but one can hope and pray that it will be.

*

Saturday 11th February 1747

After spending the night in the cave, I returned yesterday to find that William had taken sick. Overnight he has gone from a strong, robust man, to one who seems alarming frail.

I am doing what I can to stem his fever, but he still burns hot, and has spent the past hours plagued by tremors and night-terrors.

Mary sits beside him now, tending to his care while I attempt rest and Janet tends to the children. But I have requested that she fetch me if he worsens, for I know I shall not sleep.

I truly fear for him, and I pray that his fever breaks soon.

*

Wednesday 22nd February 1747

Like dominos, one person after the next has been overcome by the sickness that had stricken William. First it was Mary, then Janet, Mrs Crook, wee Jamie and young Rabbie.

Save for the latter, thankfully within a day or so the crippling fever released each of its victims from it grasp. Although weakened by the illness, and coughing terribly, all are recovering, slowly but surely.

Young Rabbie has had it worse then anyone and it breaks my heart to say that he now fights for his life in the room next to mine. I have never felt so helpless before, I long to go to him, to do what I can and take some of the burden from his mother, but I cannot.

My head pounds, my throat scratches and I can barely stand with weakness. I know the fever is coming, for my skin burns, my mind feels foggy and my thoughts disjointed.

Pray God see me though this.

*

Wednesday 1st March 1747

We have lost young Rabbie.

Those words pain me so greatly that I can scarce breathe. The dear boy fought to the last, but with so little food he had no strength left to beat the illness. Mary’s grief is profound, and she has left Lallybroch and returned to the village to mourn within the bosom of her family.

The estate is silent.

It is as though young Rabbie has taken with him the last shred hope we had, and we have been left bleak and desolate.

We have nothing.

It is hopeless. It is all just so hopeless.

*

Tuesday 7th March 1747

William has gone raiding and I once again find myself sick with worry. It was a dangerous endeavour at the very best of times, but now with the clearance, and the constant redcoat presence, it is a death sentence.

Janet is as worried as I, though she does a fair job at hiding it, so she is keeping us busy.

Today we have been in the attic, and I find that I have never been so filthy in all my life. I have also developed a health fear of spiders.

I have never been bothered by the critters before, yet when one is besieged by an army of the wee beasties, that are the size of ones hand, I am sure the change of heart is forgivable.

Good lord, I itch still. It is as though they are still amongst my skirts.

No, I cannot, I must go and change.

*

Friday 10th March 1747

I caught and skinned my first rabbit today. It is a task that I never thought I would partake in, and yet here I am, home from the hunt, feeling proud to have provided for the family.

And nauseated at having taken a life.

I know, I know, it is but a rabbit and I have eaten plenty in my life. More now than ever before. Yet it was a living, breathing creature and, when I wounded it, I wanted nothing more than to heal it.

I feel barbaric.

I am sure, if he were here, William would have found vast amusement in my appearance, just as his sister has. For there I stood in the kitchen doorway, my hands bloodied, and my face streaked with tears, as I handed to poor soul to Mrs Crook.

I actually think that I can still hear Janet chortling away somewhere below stairs.

I was half starved, but the stew still sits heavily in my stomach, threatening to regurgitate.

Thankfully, Janet will go tomorrow, and I can spend the day completing womanly chores and minding the children.

A much more pleasant endeavour I hope.

*

Thursday 16th March 1747

I hardly know what to write. In fact I can hardly write at all, for my pen shakes in my hand, and I cannot see through my tears.

I have witnessed the impossible, lived through unimaginable horrors, and have suffered pain like no other. But never have I been more terrified.

Time and again he threatened to kill me. Yet while the pain was nigh on unbearable, I think I always knew that he would not. He enjoyed the game too much, he enjoyed my agony, and the fear he instilled in me.

But now, I have no such assurances.

I did not know what to do when Mary came up from the village with the news that he was back. I had hoped that he had been lost in battle or had given up his search. It has been almost a year since that faithful day, and we have heard not a word of his return. But I was stupid and foolish to hope, and I once again live in fear of discovery.

He knows I am close. I do not know how, but he always has. That’s why he comes back.

I cannot run for he has eyes everywhere, and without William here, I cannot venture to the cave. I would not survive out there alone. So I am trapped, hiding amongst the spiders in the attic.

*

Monday 10th April 1747

There has been

*

Sunday 4th June 1747

It has been so long since I have written and, while I had so much to say, there had been no order to my thoughts, and no passion for writing them out.

As of yet I am not discovered.

He has been back twice more, and has ventured to Lallybroch, but thankfully William was back and had time enough to shuffle me down into the new priest hole before he made the court yard.

I sleep now with my door bared, my widow bolted and a blade hidden beneath my pillow. Not that I actually get much in the way of sleep. My ears strain in the silence of the night, listening to every creak and groan the house makes as it settles and I can never force my eyes to close.

When I do eventually sleep from exhaustion I am plagued by night-terrors, with memories from my past, that have me screaming myself awake.

Mary and William sleep in the room beside me, and I know that I must disturb them, for they look as exhausted as I.

They married last week in a small church service.

It was a beautiful moment and I could not be happier for them. William is helping her to heal from her loss, and she has made him whole.

I feared that he would ask for my hand, and I saw his grief when word came of my husbands reemergence. But it is for the best that he did not ask. To refuse him would have pained me greatly, and am not a fit wife for any man.

*

Thursday 15th June 1747

Catherine McKimmie passed away last night having just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I tried everything I could think of to do, but it was hopeless. The afterbirth tore away, and I could do naught to stem the bleeding…

The dawn light was just filtering into the room as Jamie came to the last passage. He already knew what it would say, he’d read it before. But he’d been so engrossed in her life that he read it again.

He wanted to know what had happened to her. Why did she stop writing? Did her husband find her? Did they emigrate to the colonies? Did they all die of starvation?

Stupidly praying for a continuation or conclusion, he flipped the page expecting to see nothing but the end of her final passage. But what he saw, what he read, froze his blood in his veins.

His heart thudded and his breathing stopped as he stared in horror down at the page.

It was impossible.

Friday 16th June 1747

Someone has been in my room. A man, one that I have never seen before. At first I was overcome with fear presuming that he has been sent by Jonathan.

But now I do not know what to think.

I was in my garden, pulling fresh vegetables for dinner when I heard someone knocking on the window. I looked up expecting to see Janet or wee Jamie, but instead I found a near naked stranger.

He was stood in my window looking down at me, and with my initial glance I presumed it was William, for his hair was the same astonishing red. But then I recalled that William was not home, he had left an hour before with Mary to visit Grannie MacNab.

The man was angry, that much I could see, and I thought for sure that he would come down and accost me. When he moved to open the window I was so scared I thought I might vomit. But as he flipped the latch he vanished.

Complete disappeared into thin air.

With the help of old Alec, Janet and I searched the whole house, but there was no sign of him anywhere, and no one else had seen him.

But I know he was here, I know he was real, I saw him.

And I think he may have read my diary.

As I do every morning, I remember vividly placing it beneath my mattress before I began my chores today, but upon entry to my room, I discovered it open on the floor at the foot of the bed. I know no-one else here would invade my privacy in such a way, so it must have been him.

Who is he?

Has he been sent by Jonathan? Have I been found? Or is there an entirely unexplainable explanation?

Chapter 5

[thatdesusa]

...Yeah, let’s not kid ourselves. We knew it was coming (was hoping it wasn’t) but here we go, the end is finally neigh- I mean nigh    (」°ロ°)」

Still, at least the show managed to reach 200+ episodes, and seeing how amazing Ep.100 was I’m really looking forward to what they have cooked up for Ep.200 (─‿‿─)

[nizzysam]

Them Bones

A huge thank you to the lovely @the--end-is--nigh for beta-reading this fic <3

This fanfiction was inspired by @i-can-even-burn-salad who wrote this prompt.

Rating: Mature (for blood and injury)

Pairing: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan

Tags: Soft Micah Bell, Micah Bell Whump, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Bickering, Vulnerable Micah Bell, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, POV Arthur Morgan, Fever Dreams, Men Crying, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Just a kissy kiss, Fluff

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fear of Death, Emotional Hurt, Crying

Summary: Micah nearly bleeds out at Clemens Point after returning from an ill-fated scouting trip. That night he tells Arthur about a dream he had and about a fear he has.

Snippet: "Talk to me. What happened?" Micah didn't answer. This was concerning in more ways than one. Micah always had something to say. His silence, coupled with his current condition, did not bode well for him. Micah's eyes wandered restlessly from one point to another and never again met Arthur's. It was a matter of waiting for the cure to kick in.

AO3 LINK - or read under the cut!

Arthur loved the mornings at Clemens Point. Except for the guards on duty, he always woke up before everyone else, poured his coffee, and walked along the shore of the Lake. The birds sang, the water swayed, and no one spoke. In front of the camp, on the other side of Flat Iron Lake, Blackwater loomed menacingly, reminding him of the failure and all those lives lost.

He stood sipping his lukewarm coffee and gazing at the small islands stretching out in front of him, inhabited by critters he enjoyed watching with his binoculars. Arthur loved animals, quiet mornings, and the first sunshine that shone on his face without burning him. In those moments, he had time to breathe, close his eyes and try to think about something other than money. It was difficult, but sometimes he managed to get Dutch's voice and the memory of Blackwater out of his head.

He could not make out the outline of Blackwater, but he knew that in that direction, behind trees and water, someone was looking for them. The Van Der Linde gang, dead or alive. Preferably alive, at worst dead.

He breathed deeply and took a sip of coffee. The others would soon wake up, and the time would come to work.

After emptying his cup and placing it back in the wash bin for whoever handled the dishes, he decided to feed the horses. He greeted Lenny, who was on guard just ahead. That boy would go far, Arthur knew it.

Arthur laid the hay down among the spare horses at the very beginning of camp. Old Belle was also hanging around there. He watched the horses eat for a few minutes, sitting on the rock beside the fire. The sunlight hit their coats just the right way for him to draw them. The light was great, the others were asleep, and he was in no hurry. It was time to take out the journal and draw. And so he did, focusing on Old Belle in particular. He had always found her uniquely beautiful.

He was adding the final touches to the page when suddenly he heard a neighing in the distance. He looked up from the journal and saw Baylock trotting toward him. As he joined the other horses, Arthur saw a streak of blood on the side of the saddle. The horse looked healthy. Micah left camp the day before to go scouting, but there was no sign of him.

Arthur put the journal back in the satchel and stood on the rock. Something shimmered in the trees. He checked more carefully with his binoculars before heading toward the suspicious area. There he saw the side silhouette of a man sitting on the ground, back against the tree. The gleaming was his holstered gun. White hat, blond hair, black jacket. Micah. He looked closer; he was moving his hand.

A bloody sight lay before him when he finally reached the man. He had expected it given the blood on Baylock's saddle, but he did not expect Micah to be in such a sorry shape. Arthur crouched in front of him and quickly assessed the other man's injuries.

A bullet in his arm with an exit wound, given the blood dripping down his hand. Micah had bandaged the wound with what looked like a torn shirt. Torn off of whom didn't matter. He had a black eye and a cut on his cheekbone that no longer bled, a gash on his lower lip, and a bruise on his jaw that extended to his neck.

Arthur pulled out an open health cure from the satchel and helped Micah drink it by bringing the bottle to his lips. The two had not yet exchanged a word, not even when their eyes met. Arthur held the vial tilted to Micah's lips until it was empty. Then Arthur gently took the injured arm and lifted it to slow down the bleeding. Micah groaned briefly but didn't object.

"Talk to me. What happened?"

Micah didn't answer. This was concerning in more ways than one. Micah always had something to say. His silence, coupled with his current condition, did not bode well for him. Micah's eyes wandered restlessly from one point to another and never again met Arthur's. It was a matter of waiting for the cure to kick in.

Arthur called out to Lenny, and together they carried Micah into the camp. The commotion woke up the others, and they rushed over to see what was happening.

"What is it now?" the sleepy, annoyed voice of Dutch broke out from the tent. When he realized what was happening, he ordered to put Micah on Arthur's bed. "He can't stay on the floor now, can he?"

So Arthur and Lenny laid Micah on Arthur's cot, and Micah lost consciousness as soon as he touched the soft surface of the mat.

“What happened?”

“He ain’t tell me nothing, Dutch. Didn’t speak at all.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Yeah.”

“Search the area in case he was followed.”

“Sure.”

As instructed, Arthur mounted his bay horse and searched the area around camp. He made several rounds and went into the trees to scout out possible campsites. He found no signs of life. Three corpses were scattered in the underbrush a few miles away from camp. O'Driscolls. Judging by the accuracy of the shots, it looked like Micah's work.

---

"Dead O'Driscolls far ahead. Guess that's it."

"Good job, Arthur," said Dutch.

"How's he doing?"

"Miss Grimshaw says he's going to be fine. He's breathing."

Miss Grimshaw and Swanson had already cauterized the wound on Micah's arm and were now talking at the foot of the bed. Arthur could not make out the words.

---

That evening, around the fire, Karen took to drinking and singing as usual. Suddenly, she stopped and in a serious tone said: “Y’know what? Good riddance. He deserves to die.”

“The cheek on you, girl,” said Susan who was walking past the fire just then.

“Why? ‘Cause I say what everyone’s thinking?”

“Everyone here thinks you’re a drunk, Miss.”

“And everyone’s saying it alright. It’s a free country.”

Arthur turned his head back toward his tent where Micah had been sleeping for hours now.

“Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

“It’s a free country, Karen,” he said as he stood up.

“That’s right!”

---

He wouldn't be sleeping in his bed that night, and he was fine with it. It wasn't the first time he had slept in a sleeping bag. So he lit a cigarette and smoked it on the dock. Watching the horizon darken and the trees become increasingly blurred. The water below him had a gloomy charm. It looked like a black hole ready to swallow him. Yet Arthur knew that the water would not even reach his chest at that distance from the shore. The mind plays funny tricks at night.

He stood contemplating his thoughts in the midnight landscape for a few minutes and got the urge to have another cigarette. He searched his satchel and his trouser pockets but found only the empty pack he had finished earlier. Eventually, he remembered he had two packs on the table near his tent.

There was no one there to check on Micah, who still seemed to be asleep. It was the first time he had seen him sleeping. His face had no expression; it was relaxed and almost smiling. At least that was how it seemed to Arthur. He could not be sure of it because of that thick blond mustache. He caught himself observing the man's features and found them to be soft in their sharpness. The curve of the forehead descending to outline a straight nose dappled with occasional sunspots. As did the cheeks, the high cheekbones, and the tired skin under the eyes. The scar cutting down his chin would find company in the one that would grow on his cheekbone.

Arthur realized too late that Micah had opened his eyes and was looking at him. He pretended nothing had happened and grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the table.

“I came to take this. Go back to sleep.”

“I stole your bed.”

“It’s alright.”

“Is Dutch mad?”

“He ain’t.”

“Alright.”

“You should go back to sleep, Micah.”

“I had a dream.”

Arthur opened the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. He lit it and took a long puff. He did not move, Micah's tone suggested that he wanted to talk about that dream he had. He didn't know if it was a good idea to let him talk, but he knew it was a good sign he wanted to. With a cigarette between his lips, Arthur took the chair and sat down next to Micah.

“I dreamed you gave me a health cure and picked me up.”

“That happened for real.”

“Did it?”

“Sure did.”

“Then I was in this black hole. Down in this pit. I looked up and no one was there. I called for my daddy and he looked down at me and left. Called for Dutch, looked down at me. Left. Tried to climb up, get out for myself. The damn walls crumbled on me.”

Micah's voice was slow and sounded distant. He was still lost in that dream. Arthur could tell by the way Micah was recounting it and by the slight swaying of his head. Now Micah was staring at something above him. Arthur realized he was becoming agitated.

“You’re here now. Wasn’t but a dream.”

“I guess. Baylock?”

“He’s here, he’s alright.”

“Good.”

“What happened?”

Micah coughed. “O’Driscolls got me real good this time.”

“Saw a few dead O’Driscolls up ahead. Guessed that was you.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“A bastard got away, then.”

“Ain’t a problem. You scared him off real good.”

There was a moment of silence. Arthur finished his cigarette and seeing Micah was settling down, he decided to stand up. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “Please, Arthur.”

There was a tremor in Micah's voice. A vulnerability he had never before heard in his voice. Arthur looked at him, and even his blue eyes begged not to be left alone. Arthur simply couldn't leave. He cleared his throat and sat back down, unsure of how to react to that plea.

The cut on his cheekbone had started bleeding again. Without a second thought, Arthur took the piece of cloth Miss Grimshaw had left nearby and brought it close to Micah's cheek. The cloth quickly soaked up the blood. Below him, Micah avoided his gaze by looking to the side. Arthur applied more pressure to the wound, just enough to buffer the bleeding. He noticed that a strand of hair was trapped between the cloth and Micah's cheek, creeping into the wound. This couldn't be good for the healing process. With his other hand, Arthur moved the strand of hair away from the cut and brushed his fingers against Micah’s forehead. Micah gasped at the touch so much so that Arthur feared he had unintentionally hurt him.

"Didn't mean to."

Micah didn't answer. His head turned even further.

"Micah?"

Micah's chest was not moving. Arthur had to lean forward in search of his gaze. Concerned by the absence of breathing, he immediately brought a hand to his chest. Micah's heart was pounding erratically. In leaning forward, he noticed that Micah's eyes were closed. He lightly shook him, hand still on his chest. Then Micah exhaled at length. He was holding his breath.

Arthur tried to find something to say but couldn't come up with anything worth saying. Micah broke into sobs, his head still turned. Arthur felt something hard and sharp in his stomach. He tried to lift his hand from Micah's chest, but Micah blocked him and squeezed his hand tightly.

“I feel so alone.”

Arthur could fully understand that feeling. He squeezed Micah's hand back. It was then that Micah looked up at him. His eyes were red and full of tears. Arthur shook his head in disbelief. That weight in his stomach spread to his chest, crushing him under a boulder of misery. He wondered what Micah had been through. He still did not know what to answer. He couldn't tell Micah that he was lonely, too; it didn't seem right. He merely looked at him with a furrowed brow, powerless.

“I’m gonna end up in the pit. Gonna be a big pile of bones.”

“Ain’t your time to die.”

“Should’ve called for you.”

“What you mean?”

“In the dream. Should’ve called for you. You’d come, help me out.”

Arthur wasn't sure about it. That realization made him shut his eyes and lower his head. Micah started sobbing again. Arthur felt terrible. Then Micah let go of his hand. Arthur squeezed tighter.

“I feel alone too.”

“Then we’re both down the pit.”

“I guess so.”

Micah's cheek started bleeding again. With the free hand, Arthur took the cloth and held it on the cut. Micah pushed his cheek on Arthur's hand and closed his eyes.

It was sweet and innocent. Micah started holding his hand again. That weight Arthur felt on his chest grew warmer. He looked at Micah as he did while he was sleeping earlier. But now his face was streaked with tears, and Arthur realized that all he wanted was to ease his pain. If holding him like that was the way to do it, he would do it.

Then Micah opened his eyes and immediately met Arthur's. And Micah smiled slightly, perhaps without realizing it. This time his blond mustache couldn’t hide what was in all respects a smile.

With one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest, Arthur couldn't have been closer to Micah. Yet he pictured himself closer. Arthur shifted his gaze between Micah's eyes, unable to focus. He slightly moved his face forward, and Micah did the same. Arthur paused to take in the other's reaction. And he smiled. Their noses brushed and Arthur placed a kiss on Micah's broken lips.

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

[libidomechanica]

My Pegasus shall not ope the tombs

Will woo ye. When all fair to no rude infidels,  to pulp. “What shortly he had spent all: and, strange fashion  I have gaind by every one of all-confess,  with her fingers show. He took his fire,  are better in one floating echoes answer, Muse:  wilt thou art thou kneeldst, and hush awhile sleepy pilots 

casting the shade and the faded face,  and neighs aloud: the painter music of the  stern repose, and date. And thats plaining, doth scorn you, near  death and two days in goodness spent, her  Lord was feel the inlaid woodwork all greasy task,  with her cheeks, Clouds content. were 

but empty dream of such set trash of phrase a great  opener of the North. Rich hair” which madly hurried  at his bedchambers, ready made; but neatly tangled poison long already  part frae charms, or heaven-kissing  hill, so lofty plume, cool shadow to his hard hearts citadel:  and on end; his nostril wide, high 

crest, should burn and day his genuine self, and  Chrematoff, Koklophti, koclobski, Kourakin, and here were  many—still he thoughts, in happy Yes falters from thence ye  see my wracke, and not such a love that nigh expelld  more than I, say, what treasure my strange. D the chase,  but deep dark eyes wide universe. Seeks, but oh, alas! 

[trumpetnista]

CMW2/Trumpetnista: Shattering Expectations (163/163)

Summary from FFN: "Ideally, a Presidency lasts 8 years. Ideally, a marriage lasts 50. 8 years of a job, even the highest job in the Land is not worth 42 years of misery...";"What kind of coward was I to marry her and not wait for you to show up...why didn't I meet you sooner..."These two lines will be at the core of this Olitz fic;Rated for language & spice;7th in my 2013 SSS Project;NOW COMPLETE!

Teaser from Chapter 163: "Look, it's Bibi! Papi, it's Bibi and they've got Grampy too! They're next to each other! Look!"

"I see them, angelita (little angel). Do you know why they're here?"

"Cuz they were Presidents, too?"

"Grampy was. Bibi was his First Lady. Do you like their pictures?"

"Uh-huh...but where are Grampy's glasses? Did he lose them again?"

"No, Sophie, he didn't need them yet."

"Ohhh..."

As if on cue, Fitz came into view and Olivia cracked up at the bemused expression on his face.

"Did you lose your glasses, again?"

"...maybe."

"Did you, Mister?"

"...yes. Apparently, it's a family me-may, now."

"It's pronounced 'meme', love."

"Right...Livvie, have you seen my glasses?"

"Nope, but there's a spare pair next to the cookie jar. Look at how excited she is..."

Mm. You still okay with being married to a slightly forgetful and blind old man?"

"Always."

Disclaimer for the full story: “Honestly, it’s not mine!”

"Look, it's Bibi! Papi, it's Bibi and they've got Grampy too! They're next to each other! Look!"

"I see them, angelita (little angel). Do you know why they're here?"

"Cuz they were Presidents, too?"

"Grampy was. Bibi was his First Lady. Do you like their pictures?"

"Uh-huh...but where are Grampy's glasses? Did he lose them again?"

"No, Sophie, he didn't need them yet."

"Ohhh..."

As if on cue, Fitz came into view and Olivia cracked up at the bemused expression on his face.

"Did you lose your glasses, again?"

"...maybe."

"Did you, Mister?"

"...yes. Apparently, it's a family me-may, now."

"It's pronounced 'meme', love."

"Right...Livvie, have you seen my glasses?"

"Nope, but there's a spare pair next to the cookie jar. Look at how excited she is..."

"Mm. You still okay with being married to a slightly forgetful and blind old man?"

"Always."

After pocketing her phone, Olivia jumped onto his back and Fitz laughed, holding onto her easily.

"Giddy-up, mule."

"Mule? I am not a mule!"

"You're not?"

"No, ma'am. I'm a stallion, baby and you know it!"

"You're a sexy mule."

"A sexy mule? How does that even work? Explain that to me, wife."

"Later, husband. Giddy-up. C'mon, we're burning daylight."

"Where are we going?"

"Outside. The apples are ready to be picked and I'm hungry for them."

"Yes, ma'am."

Their Vermont estate was the best in the fall. The colors of the trees, the breeze, the harvest...it was an oasis. As the years passed, the fishbowl that surrounded them shrank significantly and they were protective of their privacy, theirs and all of their children. Gerry had grown up to go into IT, getting a job in the Capital Building. Krishna Rose was an artist, specializing in murals, and their twins, Alex and Maddie were in their second year of undergrad. Alexander was majoring in forensics, focusing on entomology and Madeline was there for accounting, along with dance.  

None of them expressed an interest in going into politics and Olivia was honestly grateful.

Not to say that her children wouldn't have been excellent politicians or behind the scene players but knowing that they wouldn't be under so much stress, so much scrutiny? It was a relief. They had gotten enough of that life because of Fitz's Presidency and her continuing to work as a Fixer. All of her babies deserved to forge their own paths to success and more importantly, joy.  

Gerry and Esperanza had gotten married after graduating from MIT together. Before a year passed, Sophia Grace Diaz-Grant had entered the world to much love and fanfare. "The Grant Dynasty", as the Media dubbed them was growing and still going strong. Krishna Rose and Henry had quietly gotten together their freshman year of high school and while they weren't married, they were still quite serious. Olivia guessed that one day, her oldest daughter would come home to visit with a baby bump and that was just fine with her. Henry was a good man who adored her and her oldest daughter had a good head on her shoulders, even with her free-spirited ways.

Neither of the twins had found anyone yet but it was only a matter of time.

And although, it would make her feel very, very old, Olivia would embrace it.

Being old wasn't the end of the world. It was a blessing. It meant that she was still standing.

Plus, Fitz would always be older than her so it balanced out!

"What are you giggling about, gorgeous girl?"

"Just happy."

"Good. It means that I'm doing my job."

Olivia pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and sighed. His hair was pure silver now but the waves were still luxuriously thick and soft. Fitz had gained a bit of weight over the years, as had she but he was still in excellent physical condition, strong and virile. As age set in, the need for glasses arose but that was genetic, as were hers. She really did have to find a way to help him keep up with his glasses better. As funny as it was when he lost them, he did need them for reading and seeing for long distances. Maybe Huck could create an app...

"Ooh. Stop here, please."

Olivia picked a red and juicy apple from a branch and took a big bite of it. The crispness, the sweetness...there were few things better than fresh produce that one grew themselves for a meal.  

Well, besides sharing it...

Fitz's bite was just as big but slower, looking downright sensual in a primal way. Her husband was a biter. He always had been and always would be. Of course, with their children and grandchildren  around, they had a lot more discretion but occasionally, there would be a curiously shaped mark on her hip or inner thigh. Given that she still liked to scratch his back and nibble his ear, it was a fair exchange.

Olivia hopped down and continued her morning walk, knowing that he would follow her.  Both of them were in pajamas and robes but barefoot. Although they could and would still dress up for big events, mainly she and Fitz lived in their pajamas. They were fashionable and chic pajamas but still, pajamas. And Fitz lived barefoot. If it was raining or snowing, he'd put on a pair of loafers otherwise? It was okay. They had more than earned the right to be comfortable and at peace with their loved ones.  

"I think that's my favorite sight in the world."

"What? My hips swaying in the breeze?"

"Just how happy you are...and your hips swaying in the breeze. You wouldn't mind bending over, real quick, would you?"

"You are shameless!"

"And you love me for it!"

"Against my better judgement."

"Still counts. C'mere..."

As soon as Olivia got in his reach again, he scooped her up in a hug and she kissed him with smiling lips. He tasted like mint mouthwash, ginger tea, apples, and home. He tasted like home. He smelled like home. He felt like home because that's who Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III was to her. Fitz was Olivia's home and she was happy to be his home.  

They belonged together.

Forever.

"...hi."

"Hi."

FIN.

[trumpetnista]

[trumpetnista]

EVEN IF (WHEN) OLITZ DOESN’T GET THEIR HAPPILY EVER AFTER ON SCREEN, ALL WILL HAVE TO KNOW THAT THEY ARE THE ONLY SHIP ON SCANDAL THAT TRULY MATTERED AND WHY THE SHOW LASTED AS LONG AS IT DID. OLITZ MADE THE SHOW.

[trumpetnista]

CMW2/Trumpetnista: Shattering Expectations (159/?)

Summary from FFN: "Ideally, a Presidency lasts 8 years. Ideally, a marriage lasts 50. 8 years of a job, even the highest job in the Land is not worth 42 years of misery...";"What kind of coward was I to marry her and not wait for you to show up...why didn't I meet you sooner..."These two lines will be at the core of my latest AU Olitz fic;Rated for language and spice;7th in my 2013 SSS Project

Teaser from Chapter 159: Olivia's hand slid into his and he brought her knuckles up to kiss.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Life."

"Good things?"

"Mostly...I owe you everything, Livvie."

"No, you don't."

“I do. If you hadn't been there that night, if you hadn't said what you said to me that morning..."

"...then, you still would've been okay. You don't give yourself enough credit."

Disclaimer for the full story: “Honestly, it’s not mine!”

@douxbebearchives

The End of an Era pt. 4

"This is really happening, isn't it?"

"...it is."

With an amazed shake of his head, Fitz continued watching as the site was cleared. About 30 minutes from their Estate would stand The Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III Presidential Library. The building would be a combination of local wood and stone. The interior would be divided into several wings, exploring his whole life's journey. There would be artifacts, articles, statues...everything that went into making a monument a monument.

His life was actually considered worthy of having a monument.

Of all the things he had imagined growing up...he just wanted to be happy. Everyone else expected him to be a career politician, a career NAVY man, someone who was somebody. It was all about building a Legacy and amassing Power. To them, nothing else mattered. But Fitz only wanted to be happy. It didn't matter what the job was, how much power he got, what his reputation was...could he use his life to do something good? Could he be useful in more than word in only? Could he be happy? Growing up, Fitz had it drilled into his head that it was either/or. He could be somebody or he could be happy. There wasn't a way for him to have both, not without ruining everything for everyone else who was counting on him...

They were all wrong.

Fitz had proven them all wrong.

It was very possible to be somebody and to be happy.

Was it difficult at times? Absolutely, but it wasn't a pie in the sky dream.

He had become a 2 term President of the United States of America.

He had become a decorated NAVY veteran.

Most importantly, he had become a father of 4 children and a devoted husband.

That was what mattered most to him, at the end of the day: his family.

"This is your Legacy, babe."

"Maybe to the history books."

"Mm. How are you feeling? Everything is about to change again..."

"I'm nervous and excited. Mostly excited."

"Good."

What would his life be like if he hadn't met Olivia Pope? What would it be like if they had met later in life? Would he still have become President? Would he had married Mellie or someone else like her? Would he had have married someone the complete opposite of her? Would he have gotten married at all? Would he had stayed on in the NAVY for the rest of his life? Would he have children? Sometimes, he imagined a life where things had played out differently and while most of the scenarios turned out decently, Fitz knew that the life he was living was his best one.

Olivia had made it all possible. The morning after their first time...her words to him had been the call to action that he needed but had been too scared to do anything about. Olivia had inspired him to make a decision, a lasting decision about who he was going to be. She had forced the excuses away and basically told him to put up or shut up. If really wanted to be free of Big Jerry's Grand Master Plan, if he really wanted to be happy, then he would have to work for it. He would have to be brave and stand his ground when all the pressure came. It was his life to live and his life to shape, good or bad...

Olivia's hand slid into his and he brought her knuckles up to kiss.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Life."

"Good things?"

"Mostly...I owe you everything, Livvie."

"No, you don't."

"I do. If you hadn't been there that night, if you hadn't said what you said to me that morning..."

"...then, you still would've been okay. You don't give yourself enough credit."

"I would've been okay but I wouldn't have been happy. You made all of this possible, Olivia."

Her cheeks tinted pink, even as she leaned into his side hug and he kissed her temple. He liked that he could still make her blush after all of these years. And facts were facts. Olivia Pope-Grant made him a better person than he would be without her. She kept him grounded. She kept him thinking and she gave him everything that he had ever dreamed of.

She was the key to everything and he would continue to treat her as such.

It was the least he could do...

"I found a good spot for the foundation's headquarters. It's in the same neighborhood that Brandon Parker was from and that makes sense, doesn't it? If I'm going to advocate for equal rights and against police brutality, I need to be where the people who need it most can have access."

"That makes perfect sense. Can I help you with anything?"

"Not yet. When we start working, I'll definitely need you. You understand things in a way that I don't and... I want to do it right, Liv. I know that I can't fix the whole system or end racism but I want to do as much good as I can while I still can."

"That's why it'll work. I believe in you, Fitz. You've never given me a reason not to."

And if he had his way, he would never would.

[trumpetnista]

Re: The 7x10 Intervention- 1). Fitz did NOT kidnap Liv and take her to Vermont. He asked her if she wanted to go up there and she said yes, happily so. 2). Fitz is NOT holding Liv hostage in Vermont like she was held hostage in the Red Doored Bunker of DOOM from Season 4B. If she really, really wants to leave, she’ll find a way (probably with Joke’s or Rowan’s ‘help’) and he won’t stop her once everyone gets to say their piece. 3). Fitz most certainly is NOT ‘removing her Agency’ by confronting her head on about her Evil Lady Rowana of the Sith actions with her remaining family & friends in tow. He’s actually acknowledging and respecting it by giving Liv a chance to own what she’s done or to stay in denial about it all. 4). Fitz is not the devil for doing what has needed to be done for years. Fitz isn’t the devil at all. Thanks to ‘The Titan’, the fucking devil in this whole, ugly, SENSELESS, situation is Olivia Carolyn Pope! It’s HER, not Fitz, not anyone else & you know it!

I haven’t cared enough about the show to really give y’all a Special Edition Trumpetnista Rant like this on here or Twitter in a long time but I get tired of dealing with hardheaded people. I get tired of seeing my friends having to deal with hardheaded people, especially since they’re the same idiots spewing the same shit in a different key and tempo every. single. year.

This rant isn’t too long but it is very savage towards Liv to the point of bashing and there are a lot of swear words so feel free to ignore this altogether or to skip to the end. I put a TL:DR thing just in case.

Ready?

Here we go...

Olivia has fallen further into the Dark than anyone on the show, even Rowan’s bitch ass, and she needs to be stopped. And when you love someone? When you really, really love someone? You don’t let them stay broken and dark and fucked up. Not without a fight.

Fitz is doing exactly what needs to be done and he’s risking it all. Olivia could (and will likely) not listen to him or anyone else there and she’ll flounce off and stay dark and likely end Olitz for good and y’know what? That’s fine. I mean, it’s NOT because we deserve to see Olitz be happy solo and together after the steaming pile of shit Shonda has dragged us through for the last 6 years in the name of “taking back the show” and the vaunted “Journey” she goes on and on about but it’s come to the point where the ball truly is in Liv’s court. It’s in her hands and the clock is running down to the wire.

If (when) Olitz is not together in SCANDAL’s endgame, it is thoroughly Olivia’s fault and y’all will not have her avoid the ultimate L she has earned. It doesn’t work like that. Y’all can’t say that she has Agency that needs to be protected & then not hold her accountable for her colossal fuck ups. You just can’t. 

Fitz has put in the work to be a better man solo and to be a better partner in a relationship. He’s far from perfect but he’s doing the damned thing. He’s free and he’s ready to be happy.

On the other hand, Olivia hasn’t done shit to make herself better or she has but she backtracks the moment things get complicated and it’s sad and ridiculous and it needs to stop. She is sad and ridiculous and she needs to stop, one way or the other.

I’d love for the Intervention to work but if doesn’t, that’s what death is for.

If this Intervention doesn’t work, if she stays dark to the bitter end, if this is really where Olivia Pope’s character arc is gonna end up, then she’s got to go. I don’t want it to be long and drawn out but she’s gotta get a bullet to the head or a terminal disease diagnosis or something else tragically Rhimesian to put her in the grave to rot for SCANDAL’s endgame in April. I never thought I’d say that and truly mean it, even after the debacle that ‘At Last’ turned out to be but here we are...floating in space...

Olivia Pope needs to be stopped.

She needs to stop.

Most of all, though? 

Every idiot in or around this fandom needs to stop. 

It’s the last season and we’ve got enough shit to deal with, all right?

Shut the fuck up with your Fitz hate, your pearl clutching Scarlett O’Hara-esque defense of “poor Mellie”, your Ballard & Rowan apologist/stanning think pieces, your love of Shonda’s twisted and skewed version of feminism and everything else that you’re loud and wrong about. It’s exasperating and then, you’re the ones who get the most attention from the Powers that Be so they pander to you and fuck the rest of us over.

You’re obnoxious and wrong.

You’re making the rest of us look bad.

It’s tacky, you’re tacky, & I hate you. 

The remaining fandom/ex-Gladiators with common sense hate you, too.

Seriously, we’re all like:

So, just stop. 

Please stop and please shut up.

Shut up, pack your things, and LEAVE or if you’re not going to leave, stop interacting with people who you know don’t agree with you and stop being shocked when you get dragged for not staying in your Lane. Don’t come out here showing your ass and expecting not to get this in response:

TL:DR- Joke Bastard does not love Olivia Pope. Even if (when) Olitz breaks up for good, Ojoke is NOT going to happen. They’re not gonna be endgame. They’re not even gonna fuck again at this rate (thank God) and you can go cry in the corner about it. Why is this still even a thing? Why in the world would you want Liv with him? She doesn’t deserve that, even after all of the horrible shit she has done and ordered to be done. If you say that she deserves to be sunburnt and bruised by Joke Bastard for the rest of her life, I’ma cut you.

Rowan Pope does not love Olivia Pope. He is a horrible father. He is a horrible sperm donor. He is a beast in human skin. He doesn’t care about anyone or thing but himself. It doesn’t matter that he’s showing a hint of humanity now that Liv’s become a vessel for his POWER demon. He’s still a piece of shit. He’s not a steaming piece of shit with flies buzzing around it but he is still a piece of shit that needs to be scooped or hosed off the pavement.

Hell, at this point, Olivia Pope does not love Olivia Pope.

Just look at all the choices she’s made and tell me otherwise.

I wish you could but you can’t.

Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III loves Olivia Pope.

Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III adores Olivia Pope and wants the best for her, even if it means that they can’t be together. He is willing to break his own heart (a-gain) to see Olivia Pope get help and get better.

He wants to help her, not hurt her.

The Intervention is his last ditch effort to save her from herself and if (when) it doesn’t work, it is not his fault. It is Olivia’s.

So, leave him the fuck alone and get out of here with this nonsense.

Let’s just...let’s use our brains. Let’s use our critical thinking skills. Let’s suspend enough disbelief enjoy what’s left of the show in peace, all right? That’s all I’m asking and that ain’t too much. It’s really not. Come on, people. We’re all adults here or old enough to know better...I hope.

Oh, and by the way? Those who are coming for Katie for speaking the truth about what Olivia Pope currently deserves need to have several seats. Like a stadium’s worth. All she did was tell the truth and at least she didn’t say death. I said death and meant it. Although, ending up all alone could be a better punishment...hmmm...

Something to think about.

Hope for the best, expect and accept the worst, folks.

That’s the best policy right now.

Trumpetnista, out.