#very much in their oc playlist but also i think half of this playlist is deco*27 songs pff

[cyellolemon]

Two breaths walking illust redraw with Olive and Ambrose :) (reloaded and og!)

[arolesbianism]

Mental health shit is kicking my ass but at least I have my silly guys

[dykeserket]

..

[atinylittlepain]

Chapter One

no-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

warnings: dark themes surrounding history of domestic violence, references to physical injury, heavy emotions (hope can also be heavy)

a/n | thank you to everyone who has expressed interest in this piece. I can't stress enough that while this work does deal with very dark, difficult subject matter, I always strive to speak to these things with as much care and respect as I can. I'd love to talk, if you'd like to share your thoughts on this one. thank you for reading.

.................................

Well the devil has been known to chase angels from their homes

And I know I got some angel left inside me

But my halo's hanging low

My halo's hanging low

And I'm nine hundred miles from my home

Angel Ballad as performed by Hurray for the Riffraff

................................

Quiet. It’s what he likes best about this job. The night comes on close and cool, even in the slow simmering slump of the summer. And nobody is ever out here at this time. No thrum and thrush of cars passing by on the highway. Just the jittery yips of coyotes, and maybe the growl of something bigger and meaner from time to time. Nights like this, he settles down in the drivers seat, letting the radio fizzle and thread through the quiet, whispered pasts and mournful words that he can hum along to. 

But tonight is different. 

He hears different before he sees it. That low murmur of an engine, and then the slow flood of headlights rounding the bend. Too fast, impossibly fast, there and gone. He fumbles, flicking on the siren and the lights before peeling onto the road, his car whimpering under the heavy demand of his foot on the gas pedal. 

His whole body is a closed fist curled around the wheel, waiting for this person to give up, surrender in the flash of their brake lights. But they hold on for a while, long enough for his jaw to start to ache with the way his teeth grit and grind. But eventually, the slow give in. 

Never gotten a taste for this, never liked this, the slow saunter up to the car, palm on the hood and the lean down, the spiel. He prefers the coyotes. 

But tonight is different.

Different stops his words in his throat. Wide eyes, unblinking and unmoving from his. A quick glance to hands still on the wheel, knuckles tensing over and over again, ready to bolt. The strap of her tank top has fallen down the slope of her pallid shoulder. He blinks, twice, hard, half-expecting an apparition to dissolve into gossamer breath before his eyes. But she just stares at him, lips parted in breath that catches somewhere in her sternum.

“Do you know how fast you were driving?” 

“I’m sorry, officer.”

“Probably a hundred and ten in a sixty-five. Where are you going this time of night anyways?” 

“Do I have to answer that?” Said meek, a little warble, though her boldness still surprises him, a clip of laughter getting stuck in his throat, disbelief bubbling up.

“License and registration, please.” Her brow pinches and falls, eyes darting out along the highway like she’s looking for an answer. Knee bouncing, a jolted wire of a woman. Drugs, he thinks, maybe. Though he’s seen drugs, and drugs don’t look like this exactly. Fear, pure and simple. 

“I can’t do that, officer.” 

“Why not?” It startles him, fingers instinctively jumping to his holster when she suddenly jerks her hand off the steering wheel. But it’s only to draw her curled fingers to her mouth, worrying at split and sore-looking skin between her teeth. 

“I just can’t.” 

“If you don’t, then I’ll have no choice but to take you in.” She doesn’t respond to that, just continues to stare at him. Part of him wants to let her go, catch and release, a quiet warning to slow down. Harmless enough, he thinks, shivering like a beaten dog under his stare. But he knows he can’t do that.

“Please step out of the car, ma’am.” Relief when she complies, her eyes staying turned down to her sneakers as she shuts the car door behind her. He keeps his eyes on hers as he clicks on the radio on his shoulder.

“I need to get a plate checked, H-W-G–” Before he can read out the rest of her license plate number, her whole body jolts, a stuttered step toward him, her hands stretched out, palms stark white with the splay.

“No! No, please don’t do that. Please.” For some reason, he listens, clicking off his radio as he squints at her. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” She’s washed out wan in the headlights of his car, her frown slanting in harsh shadows. No answer, he moves to speak into his radio again.

“It’s my husband’s– my husband’s car.” No ring on her finger, her eyes follow his in their quick sweep of her hand.

“It’s complicated.” He huffs, a tilt of his head toward his car. She takes two steps forward before stopping, considering him.

“You’re not going to cuff me?” “Ain’t got a reason to.” Not yet, at least. Still unsure just what this is, still trying to figure it out. He opens the door to the back of the car for her, not missing the wary flit of her eyes before she ducks into the backseat. Reluctant but willing to settle her anxious plumage in this cage. 

They leave her car, or her husband’s car, on the shoulder of the highway, the station not too far away. He finds himself stealing glances at her, her expression unreadable in the bare glow of the few lone streetlights they pass. 

And then, somehow, he finds himself pulling into the parking lot of somewhere other than the station, catching her confused look in the rear view mirror. There’s nobody else at the diner this time of night, the only building for another few miles before the small town comes into focus. A blinking, chipped beacon in the night.

“Are you hungry?” No answer, though he thinks that she presses herself back into the seat, a small shrinking. He sighs, getting out of the car and opening her door, somewhere between leaning down and hovering over her in what he hopes is a less intimidating posture.

“Just wanna talk, get the whole story from you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what all this is about.”

“Help me?” Said like it’s foreign to her, a concept she can’t even imagine. 

“You like pancakes?” She does, he discovers, with blueberries and a thick swirl of syrup. She eats like she’s getting away with something, hurried, her eyes sweeping around the diner every so often. Hunger, a deep kind, like she hasn’t had a full meal in a while. He tries not to watch her too closely, taking cursory bites of his own meal.  But his eyes get caught on the fragile flex and flick of muscle in her forearms. Elbows on the table, the fluorescent lighting shocks into focus a dark bloom of bruises running up both her arms. Half moons of pain, waning gibbous and gruesome. Like fingerprints. He pushes his plate away from himself, swallowing hard.

“You can have the rest of mine too, if you want. Or we can get you something else?” Her eyes go wide again, freezing mid-chew before she swallows with a shaky gulp, setting fork and knife down, hands tangling in a close fist in her lap, ashamed. He wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“Where are you from?” 

“Nebraska.” He’s a little surprised when she so quickly responds, though he nods, trying to school any expression from his face.

“And that’s where you’re coming from?” She nods, one palm absent-mindedly coming to curl behind her neck, her elbow resting in her hand that’s crossed over her stomach, a small defense, or at least the posture of it.

“You said that’s your husband’s car. Does he know you have his car?” 

“I imagine he has an idea by now.” 

“Does he know where you are?”

“I hope not.” She says it with a weak laugh, though her lashes stay dropped to her cheeks, not looking at him as she says it. He’s starting to feel a sick curl in his stomach, getting tangled up in something that he shouldn’t be, and he hasn’t the slightest idea why.

What he should do. What he should do is take her to the station and let someone else handle this. Someone who knows how to handle this. What he should do is let work be work, and what he should do is not get involved any further than the meal he bought for her.

“My name’s Joel.” He holds his hand out across the table, though she doesn’t take it, just works her fingers a little harder into the nape of her neck.

“I’m Dolores.” How fitting, he thinks. Our lady of sorrow, and she certainly looks every bit of it.

“May I ask what you were planning to do with a stolen car, going a hundred and ten in a sixty-five, Dolores?” She sniffs back the swim in her eyes, chin tucking up, a pantomime of conviction.

“I was getting away.”

What he should do, he doesn’t. What he does do, he shouldn’t. 

“You understand that if you keep driving that car, eventually you’re gonna get tracked down one way or another?” 

“I was gonna get rid of it once I got into Utah.”

“You got any money?”

“No.” 

“You got family in Utah?”

“No.” He almost doesn’t want to ask anymore questions, seeing the way she starts to wilt with each no, her shoulders curling in like a despondent cage. 

“So, what exactly was the plan?” He tries to ask it quiet, trying to temper his doubt, though she still winces.

“I already told you.”

“Getting away?” 

“Yes.”

“You’ve already done that. What, eight hours worth or thereabout?” She nods.

“I think you need a better plan, Dolores.” Her lips collapse in an instant frown, and he regrets the words, digging the knuckles of his fist into his thigh to keep anything else from coming out of his mouth. 

“I don’t know any more.” Like a child, like a hopeless child. Before he can respond, the waitress comes back around, filling up their coffee cups, a friendly, familiar word to him and an uncertain look to Dolores who keeps her eyes down on an invisible spot on the table. Just enough time for him to think over what he shouldn’t do. 

“Do you want my help?” 

…

When Sarah went off to college, and when Austin got to be too much, and when the work got to be too much as well, he decided he needed a change. Sold his half of the business to Tommy and used that money to buy a palmful of land. Small town, strange town, right in the curve of a mountain, just a few hours outside of Boulder. Sarah calls, and comes home for the holidays. Tommy not so much, a sour spat that has lingered between them ever since Joel left. Both of them too prideful to be the first to break, little brother that wanted more and wanted it fast, and big brother that was ready for everything to slow down and get silent.

He has enough money saved for his job at the station to be something that keeps him busy a few nights a week more than anything else. And in the meantime.

“Do you have animals?” She sits in the passenger seat now, pointing out to the dark outline of the barn and coop as they pass it.

“Got sheep, and chickens. But between you and me, I don’t care much for the chickens.” An attempt at lightness, he bites down on his own smile when he catches the small curve of her mouth in his periphery. 

Small house, sleeping house in a thick flare of brush and trees. He lets her do it on her terms, leaves the front door wide open and tries not to watch as she steps through the threshold, busying himself with linens and towels for her. Part of him is surprised that she agreed to come with him at all. But the other part of him knows why she did. It was this, or going back, and she wasn’t about to do that. 

“There’s a guest room down the hall. My daughter stays there when she visits so it shouldn’t be too bad.” She just nods, hands held loosely in front of her, quick sweeps of her eyes when he turns on a lamp, warm shadows and light. It takes her a beat to follow him down the hall, leaving a wide swath of space between them even when she steps into the room, watching him set the sheets down on the bed and flick on the light, her back pressed against the wall. 

“Bathroom is the first door on the left. And I’m upstairs if you need anything.” She still doesn’t move, only offering him another nod.

“We can go into town tomorrow. Get you some clean clothes and see about some work for you.” 

“Okay.” He doesn’t miss it, the way she takes two shuffled steps back when he moves closer, even though it’s only so he can get to the doorway. 

“Try to get some sleep.” He doesn’t think he’ll get a response from her, already making his way out of the room, but.

“Thank you, Joel.” He stops in his tracks, turning over his shoulder to look at her, though he doesn’t say anything, just a puff of breath that’s loud enough to sound like an answer before he shuts the door to her room behind him.

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. Repeats to himself what a bad idea this is with each step up the stairs to his room. He shouldn’t, but he did.

What he offered her was time. And place. Time and place for her to find a better plan for herself. Make some money, stop the shake in her limbs, unbothered and unnoticed in a quiet town like this.

The husband’s car is a problem he hasn’t worked out yet, though he has some ideas. Pop off the plates and squirrel them away, let the car get found by some other patrolman, let it be a mystery. Or just leave the car as is, abandoned on the side of the highway, and let the husband wonder where his wife ran off to in the middle of nowhere. Not a fitting punishment, he thinks, but something nonetheless. 

For now though, there’s a stranger sleeping downstairs. A stranger that he has decided to help. He has been so careful at alone. At keeping people and place at arm’s length. And tonight, he has ruined that in one maybe, probably, stupid choice. But he’s never been one to change his mind, stubborn to a fault. So he lets one more shouldn’t fizzle out in his thoughts, and then resolves himself to this reality. A stranger sleeping downstairs who he is going to help. And not really a stranger now. Her name is Dolores. An old-fashioned name, he thinks. A weeping name, a wailing name. A name that demands it be said on a sigh. He wonders if she would like a new name, if she will need a new name. A problem for later, already getting ahead of himself. 

…

She’s sitting on the couch in the living room when he comes downstairs, her legs tucked up under her, head propped in the cup of her palm, looking out the window. Part of him half-expected her to be gone. A finely threaded figment slipped through his fingers. But she’s there, and she doesn’t notice him at first. 

“Morning.” It startles her, that close curl in on herself as she finally looks at him, and he again finds himself wishing he hadn’t said anything, had just let her be in that quiet moment.

“Hi.” 

“Get some sleep?”

“Yeah.” Said from behind her palm, he’s pretty sure it isn’t honest. Dark, drooping eyes and a heavy pull in her frame, truth without telling. 

He’s not sure if he should ask, so he doesn’t. He hides a smile when she follows him anyways, out onto the front porch and toward the coop. 

“Do they have names?” Her eyes brighten when the first of the ladies strut out of the coop, dipping and bobbing their heads with self-righteous clucks and chirps. 

“No, I can barely tell who’s who.” Her brow furrows, mouth screwing to the side as she watches the chickens, already bowing beaks to the dirt to pluck fresh crawling things for their breakfast. 

“Still, they should have names.” It seems to be an absent-minded thought that happens to come out in words, her eyes still focused on the fuss and flutter of the birds as she says it.

“Well if you come up with any, let me know.” He says it halfway over his shoulder as he ducks into the coop, swallowing down how strange this is. But we are so good at reconfiguring around strange, aren’t we? Fitting strange into our lives as if it was always meant to be there. So, he collects the eggs from the coop, listening to the faint sound of what he thinks is her quietly murmuring to the chickens, though she’s quiet again when he joins her. 

Two for her and two for him, he gets no answer when he asks her how she likes her eggs, a ghost lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, like she’s surprised when he acknowledges her presence. Fried, fizzled fat around the edges, he hopes it will do, setting two plates down at the table.

“Coffee?”

“Please.” His back turned as he pours two cups, his ears prick to the sound of the chair scraping out, and then a long sigh, a settling. She waits for him to sit down before she lets her hands stray from her lap. A careful bite of her eggs, yolk splitting and spilling gold against the edge of her fork. 

“Thank you.” 

“Not a problem.” Quiet, he keeps his eyes on his plate and his mug, only quick flickers up to see that she’s doing much the same. 

“There’s a drugstore in town, and a secondhand shop. We can head in after breakfast to get you, uh, situated.” Situated, because he’s certain she’s been wearing that same tank top and jean shorts for a few days now, rumpled around the edges. 

“Okay, I’ll pay you back for it, all of it. Soon as I get some money saved. Just– just hold onto the receipts?” Question more than command, he just nods. 

It used to be a mining town, way, way back. Then it went dormant for a while, picked back up and polished over by the commune movement in the seventies, the vestiges of flower power and free love still evident in some of the older residents. Long hair and bluejeans and leather sandals and skin. But mostly, it’s quiet folk. Ranchers and farmers, the occasional dirtbag blowing through, looking to climb something he has no business climbing, wary looks passed at the prospect of a large backpack trundling down the main, and only, drag of town. Newcomers are spectacle, something Joel learned when he moved here four years ago. But the novelty is fast to wear off, everything and everyone blending together in the thin mountain air. Jobs to do and seasons to plan for, after all.

Dolores is new though, and especially unexpected walking through town with him. Eyes lingering hot on the back of his neck, he can only imagine how she’s starting to feel, a small mercy that they’re already stepping inside the secondhand shop. It smells like cedar and damp. He only comes in here when he absolutely needs a new something after something else finally wore itself out, but he knows the owner well enough.

“Patty?” 

“In the back, give me a minute!” She doesn’t take a minute, already blustering out from the back of the shop, a crooked grin when she sees him.

“Joel Miller, been a while since you’ve been in here. Did those jeans of yours finally–” Patty stops mid-sentence, mid-stride, her eyes stuttered stuck on Dolores, who looks about ready to dissolve, hands clasped across her waist like she might cave in on herself. 

“Patty, this is a friend of mine. She’s gonna be staying with me a while and needs some clothes.” Patty looks perplexed, clearly waiting for him to explain the rest, though she doesn’t press when he stays silent, her attention settling back on Dolores.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you then. I’m Patty, but you already knew that.” Surprise when Patty holds her hand out for a shake and Dolores easily reciprocates, though he supposes the terms they’re meeting on are a little less jarring than what happened last night. 

“I’m Dolores, nice to meet you.”

“Huh, you don’t hear that name too often these days.” Patty has always been something of a force, and now is no different, Joel barely getting in a low murmur that he’ll meet Dolores outside of the store when she’s finished. Patty nods absent-mindedly when he tells her to put the cost on his tab, too busy coaxing Dolores further into the store, something about jeans and sweaters for the soon to come snap of fall the last thing he hears as he steps outside. 

…

“Is Sarah visiting soon?” Joel pauses in placing the items on the checkout counter, at first confused by Rod’s question. But then he realizes that yes, this haul looks much like what he picks up when his daughter comes to visit. Toothbrush and toothpaste, because she always manages to forget them, and feminine products that he’s been buying long enough for her that he doesn’t feel the least bit bashful about putting them in his basket. His best guess for what Dolores might need. This time, not for Sarah.

“Uh, no, no. Just have a friend staying with me for a while.” He knows that everyone in town is going to run with the word friend. In his mid-forties, he’s one of the youngest members of the community, and there’s been plenty of times when one of his well-meaning neighbors has tried to set him up with their daughter who’s just visiting, but it could be more than just visiting, you know. Yeah, right. He prefers the coyotes. 

Rod finishes ringing him up, a nod and another comment about the oncoming fall that Joel agrees with, friendly enough, always speaking in terms of seasons out here. For now though, the mid-day sun is still unforgiving, burning the tips of his ears as he sits down on the bench outside the secondhand shop. A few people pass, all greeting him by name, and he does the same. It’s easy in a town like this, not too many to remember anyways. 

Eventually, Dolores comes out with a thick stack of folded clothes in her arms, a pair of worn-looking work boots settled on top. 

“All set?” 

“Yeah, thank you.” 

“I think I did okay at the drugstore, just let me know if you need anything else.” He rests the brown paper bag on his hip, stepping into stride beside her as they walk back to his car, reminding him of that mistake he needs to set right.

“Gotta get this car back to the station and pick up my truck. We’ll stop there on the way back.” She stiffens and stops instantly, her shoulders hiking up high and hackled as she frowns at him, making no move to get into the car now.

“That’s not– not like that. You can wait in the truck, I just have to go in for a minute, okay?” Cagey, a broken bird getting ready to attempt lift-off. He feels himself holding his breath for her response. It doesn’t come in words, another nod as she ducks into the passenger seat, her bundle of clothes settling in her lap, palms smoothing over fabric again and again and again. 

The thought occurs to him again as they drive toward the station. What the fuck is he doing? This jagged woman, all skittish and sharp around her worn-away edges. Though not much time to consider it as they pull into the lot, a new problem presenting itself.

“You go wait in the truck, alright? Don’t worry about this.” She scoffs, a broken piece of a laugh in the back of her throat as her eyes stay trained on the tow in the station’s lot, her husband’s car still hooked to its cable. He doesn’t give her time to question it, just nestles his truck’s keys on top of her pile of clothes and reaches across her to open her door, mindful to keep plenty of space between his arm and her. Wordlessly, she acquiesces, shuffling over to the truck Joel had jerked his head toward. 

“Morning, Miller.”

“Morning, what’s going on out there?” John sighs behind a swig of coffee, leaning against the front desk in the office of the station. Big man, amicable man, lived in this town his whole life, wife and two kids still in elementary school that they have to ride the bus a half hour to get to. He was who offered Joel this job about a year after he moved to town, something about not minding an extra pair of hands and eyes on the team.

“Someone reported an abandoned car on the side of the interstate early this morning. Just ran the plates, turns out it was called in stolen in Lincoln, Nebraska two days ago.” A longer than eight hour drive, he thinks, though he keeps his face unmoving, just a hum of acknowledgement to what John tells him. 

“Well that’s something else.”

“That isn’t all. Apparently, the guy is pretty sure it was his wife who stole it, because she went missing the same day. If you ask me, a woman’s gotta have a real good reason to just pick up and run away like that.” That sick feeling starts to slurry in his stomach again, though he tamps it down with a hard clear of his throat. 

“It’s quite the story, John. But where’s the wife then?”

“That’s the thing. The car was abandoned, not a sign of anyone around. All we found inside was a ratty-looking book in the passenger’s seat.” 

“Huh.” He glances back out into the lot over his shoulder, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s still thinking through what John just told him. What he’s really doing is checking on Dolores, still in the passenger’s seat of his truck, worrying at her thumbnail between her teeth. 

“Anyways, if you see a lost-looking woman wandering around, bring her in. Though I reckon she’s long gone by now, God bless her.” Joel nods, talking numbly through all the requisite things he must, shifts and schedules, relief in his ringing ears when he steps back outside into the hard bake of the sun. He takes one more look at the tow from over the hood of his car, a shake of his head, a sigh, a conclusion, and then the slam of his car door.

…

“Can I help?” He nearly drops the pail of water he was carrying she startles him so bad. All cleaned up, in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, already fitting into the landscape, squinting at him through the late-afternoon glare. 

“If you want, you can grab that other pail and come help me top up their water.” A little unsteady with the slosh of it, she still manages just fine, following him out into the pasture, the flock already nosing closer to their water troughs. 

“Are they all girls?” Something like wonder laces through her question, taking a tentative step closer to one of the sheep, too domestic for Joel’s taste, though Dolores just laughs when the animal noses at her open palm.

“There’s two rams, they’re always a little late to the party, but you can just see them over that hill. The one on the left is Casper, and the one on the right is Lloyd.” 

“So you can tell your sheep apart, but not your chickens?” That’s new, a crackle to her words that makes him laugh as he finishes filling the water trough. But she’s still focused on the lady who is now demanding her full attention, snuffling at the hem of her shirt as she scratches between her ears. 

“Does this girl have a name?” 

“That’s Avril. My, uh, my daughter named her when I first got her.” She smiles, a little laugh when the sheep starts to jaw at the fabric of her shirt.

“Like that pop singer?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. She was a big fan as a teen.”

“My little sister was too.” Her face falls the instant the words leave her mouth, the bitter flavor of the past turning her quiet all over again. Another piece that he tucks away somewhere in his mind, still quick to change the subject, to keep her in the present.

“Forgot to mention, I talked with Sal in town– he owns that diner. Said he was looking for a new waitress to work day shifts. I know it ain’t much but–”

“No, that’s– anything is good, perfect.” The sheep is starting to pull at the bottom of her shirt, Dolores too polite to do anything more than pat her lightly on the head, a small sound of protest when the fabric starts to get rucked up her stomach by the animal’s continued mouthing. 

“You know better than that, c’mon now, get.” He gives the sheep a gentle shove, earning himself a dejected bleat, though she finally gives up Dolores’ shirt, joining the rest of the flock in their huddle around the trough. For her part, Dolores doesn’t take two steps back to his two steps closer. For his part, Joel tries not to pay too much attention to this fact.

“So, should I go talk to Sal tomorrow?” He has to resist the urge to reach out and smooth the crumpled hem of her shirt, settling for stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Yeah, I’ll take you over there tomorrow morning, if that’s alright with you?” 

“Mmhmm, uh, yeah, thank you.” She seems to be holding words back beneath the pinch of her brow and the tight frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Joel waits, watching her rub her palms down the front of her jeans, like a little quick heat will coax more voice out. Finally, she lets out a breath that clips itself like a laugh, shaking her head.

“Sorry, I guess I’m waiting.”

“Waiting?” 

“Yeah, you know, like, for the catch?” She says it squinting, her arms crossed over her chest, bottom lip pulled between her teeth when she finishes.

“I– that’s not– there’s no catch. You seem like you need some help, and, well, I can.” Help, still a word she’s not familiar with, something falling in her face when he says it. 

This woman who is a stranger to help. This woman who is still a stranger to him, if he’s being honest. What he knows, she has a little sister. What he knows, the bruises painted dark and dull along her arms make him sick with the want to do something for her. What he knows, the small slip of delight that slackens her frown as she watches the sheep nudge and nuzzle against each other makes him giddy with the want to do something for her. 

Stranger or not, help, because he can. Care, because he can.

...........................

taglist (lmk if you want added or dropped) : @casssiopeia @eleganthottubfun @anoverwhelmingdin @sscorpiiio @joeldjarin @casa-boiardi @suzmagine @syakhairi @spookyxsam @northernbluess @hier--soir @darkroastjoel @wannab-urs @tieronecrush @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @softlyspector

[slightly-warmer-hibiscus-tea]

CW: OC talk + Rambling / Blood / Gore / Censored Nudity (character sheet) / Mentions of Drugging

(idk why these warnings are so intense, but I swear it's all just silly OC talk T^T)

I’m kinda sorta working on more (comprehensible) TS OC stuff in between studying right now… I wanna hurry and talk about them but without info dumping (if given the opportunity I will without hesitation 😔…) because in terms of the best stories I have conjured up for OCs in general Naudedel and Noble are surprisingly good and I’m very excited to share how deranged they are together…

Right now it’s just about making Naudy readable and working on extra fun stuff… like monsters!

I’m trying to work out his “monster” form…. The concept is there, but the execution is just not ticking the right boxes for me right now… also, the line art at the end is old and probably will go unused, but thought it was something to add here because like hehe look at my deranged son :)

When it comes to the writing I'm going to split it into two chapters. The first half will be a summary+ of his upbringing, and the second on how he fucked up his arm and why. Just enough info to get a read on what his deal is pretty much. I just need to edit the first chapter and rewrite some parts then it's ready to annoy the world!

I'm trying to think of a good design for his original mother... I'm thinking dark hair and milf (¬‿¬)･ﾟ✧ ... honestly I need to start drawing out the designs for all the other TS OCs I've accumulated over the year (?) here's a fun list-

Hickery (bloodhound OC... dilf oc...I've already been made fun of for his name, but it stuck to me so I'm keeping it!)

Maya (another bloodhound OC)

Cove (Hound's ex-husband)

Cetcher's gf + informant, who still needs a good name...

and that one guy! (doesn't have a name yet... but is important in Hound's part of the story... she bashed some of his guys in the back of head with a hammer... it was a whole thing... Leander got involved... gang war stuff, don't worry about it...)

There are technically more OCs, like that Hightown lady Noble befriended during their first few weeks in town. However, I'm not sure if I'm including her in the final plot meeting. But yeah, anyway I'm rambling so on to Noble news!

For Noble, everything is plotted out in advance surprisingly…character playlist and all... just need to find the words to explain their story other than “parasite with a weird God complex feels guilty” I do have some old memes and art of them though!

Noble curse stuff...

Childhood cult stuff...

Current reality...

Poor person masquerade dress censored for tumblr...

Noble folks!

I actually wrote out a whole little thing for the black dress in a what-if scenario of...

"Oh! ,,,What if there is a masquerade in Hightown and Noble sneaks in to get some information on a certain individual who might know a thing or two about curses, but turns out the whole event if devious and their all eating babies or some fucked up shit,,,, and what if while sneaking around they see Leander and are like 'what's he doing here?' and they lock eyes but he ignores them as he ducks into a closed off area with some important looking people,,, once he comes out he walks past them and they lock eyes again as he leaves,,, Noble chases after him and once they catch up they get to see his cold and detached side right before he hides them from the other guest,,, after they talk for a bit, or more like Leander talking over them and their worries as he slowly wipes their memories while they protest that it's not fair only to wake up the next day back in their room,,, thankfully their curse is good for more then just silly bouts of insanity so they have a hunch on what happened, everyone around them who knew where they went the night before were obviously worried and the general consensus is that they might have been drugged and should go check in with Kuras just in case (wow this is getting long...) but on their way to the clinic they run into Leander and of course discusses their current problem with him ,,, words are exchanged,,, a kabedon may occur,,, as he whispers in their ear,,, all fun till he erases their memories again, or at least tires before receiving a little gift that makes him look at this whole curse thing from a different angle." DEEP BREATH! ...Anyways... yeah.

But it was taking so long to write out that I ended up losing motivation so yeah... like everything else we will pray the motivation comes back so I can finish that... plus who knows, I might make an x reader version of it if I can. (don't hold your breath... I'm extremely slow)

Anyway, I'm gonna to shut up now because I've yapped enough. I'mma make some hibiscus tea (ironic) and head to bed... Night night, if you made it this far, thank you for listening to my craziness <3

[sarahsmi13s]

Two Ladders

pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x sarah grant (fem!oc)

characters: sarah grant, jake seresin

warnings: language, pregnancy, pregnancy hormones, crying, loss of appetite, hiding feelings from significant others, light mentions of jake's PTSD, mentions of throwing up, all from jake's p.o.v, family issues, if i missed any let me know

word count: ~2.2k

a/n: this story is inspired by ‘His Little Girl’ (bradley bradshaw x reader) by the lovely @roosterscockpit​​  ( @milesdickpic​ ) also, yes, the oc is based on me lol (well a fantasy version lol) this is heavily inspired by my own feelings towards my actual brother and sister not getting along very well and the worries sarah has here are worries i've actually had when it concerns this topic

this is a backstory piece! you can find the other parts to j and s -> here

summary: jake notices a change in his fiance's behavior. at first he thinks it's caused by the pregnancy and sarah's hormones being out of wack. but when he comes home to find her crying on their bed does he finally voice his concerns and lets her vent to him.

When Jake first noticed something was wrong with Sarah, he thought it was just her pregnancy hormones making her a little emotional. He’d catch her crying or appearing a little out of focus, but she was an emotionally sensitive person, so he attributed it all to that and her hormones. 

Of course, he still held her when he found her crying, he’s her comforter, and he took that job very seriously. He knew her tears could be nothing, a result of simply reading something or seeing a video. Maybe she just needed his shoulder to cry on, and he was happy to provide it. If she wanted to talk about it, he was there to listen, and if she just wanted to curl in his lap, that was fine too.

If it was something really really bothering her, he hoped she knew she could come to him about it. 

He noticed that her appetite seemed to be shot too. She usually jumped at the chance to have him make one of his mother’s enchilada recipes, but she just shook her head and said a burger would be enough and then she only ate half.

But again, Jake blamed that on the pregnancy too. Sarah had morning sickness and was sick throughout the day, especially if something disagreed with her. So he thought that she was just trying not to irritate her stomach and never commented on it.

But he made note of it all. 

Jake was making sure not a thing went unnoticed. Because nothing can turn out to be something…

Jake sighed as he got in his truck, inhaling the perfume he sprayed on the back of his hand. Storms were rolling in, and he could feel the anxiety peaking in his chest, but the familiar all encompassing smell of his fiancèe helped keep him calm as he prepared himself to go home.

Before he started out of the parking lot, he pulled his phone out and sent Sarah a text. She was working right now, but she would text him back since it was her free hour, so she wasn’t doing much other than planning or putting grades in. 

After sending the text, he pulled up his playlist and started it before putting his phone face down and leaving the parking lot to go straight home.

When Jake parked in their driveway, he noticed Sarah’s vehicle also in the driveway. 

Tilting his head, Jake checked his phone. Had she called him earlier in the day to let him know that she was going to be home and he just didn’t realize? No.... and she hadn’t responded to his text from earlier either. 

Jake took a deep breath and got out of his truck, grabbed his things and went inside.

He was trying to rationalize it in his head, telling himself that she was okay and that the babies were okay. He needed to tell himself that, or he would spiral with the storm brewing above him.

Maybe the morning sickness was too much, and she didn’t want to stay at the school and “power through it” like she normally tried to. She came home to rest and was actually asleep when he sent that message, and she’s still asleep.

But she was okay, everything was okay.

Jake took a deep breath and went to the kitchen to get two bottles of water before going upstairs to the bedroom.

When he opened the door, he found Sarah on her side of the bed with her back to the door and curled up with a half-drunk bottle of water on her nightstand. At first, it appeared to be like she was just sleeping, so Jake decided to quietly just change into his sweatpants and get in bed next to her and try to sleep as well.

He wasn’t about to wake her up just because he wanted to be held. Sarah needed her rest, and just being next to her would help ease the anxiety the storm was riling up in him.

But as he slipped his shirt off, tossing it on the pile of khakis that he made a note of to fold later, he thought he heard a sniffle come from the bed.

He furrowed his brow but just slipped the black sweats on before turning to join her on the bed.

As he stepped towards the bed, he watched her subtly try to wipe her face as she sniffled. But when she cut off her own sob with her hand and buried her face in her pillow, his heart dropped.

He immediately rounded the bed to her side and knelt down, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Sarah kept her head down, buried in the pillow, muffling her cries as Jake watched her chest jerk with sobs. He frowned and reached up to gently push her hair out of her face, “Sugar… please, talk to me, what’s going on?” 

Sarah unburied half of her face, and Jake’s thumb is quick to wipe the tears slipping down her cheek, “What are you doing home?” He frowned a little at her attempt to change the subject, but he sighed softly and answered her. “Storm grounded us, got to come home early.”

Her head quickly turned to him, her red-rimmed eyes wide.

“Oh my goodness, Jake. I’m so sorry, I forgot about that,” she said, sitting up and wiping her eyes. “Are-are you okay?” 

Jake felt his heart break just a little that she was worried more about him than she was about the fact he just caught her crying.

“I’m fine, Sugar. Better now that I’m home.” He reached up and cupped her cheek, “But you’re not fine, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, Darlin, just-” 

In the middle of her sentence, Sarah’s phone lit up with a notification, and her breath hitched.

Jake eyed her and then looked at her phone seeing that it was an email from one of her players about the practice schedule for the day. Another email dinged right after with her assistant coach's reply.

He placed it face down and looked up at her. “Did something happen at school? Is something going on between teachers that is making you so upset?”

Sarah’s mouth dropped a little, “Wh-what?” 

“Sarah… you have been crying nearly everyday. And-and your appetite is completely shot,” he said gently as moved to sit on the bed. “That’s just pregnancy hormones and not wanting to upset my stomach too much…”

Jake nodded before taking her hands in his, his thumb immediately playing with the ring on her finger, “That’s what I thought it was at first. But the fact a notification from your phone made you tense up is telling me that something else is going on. Please, tell me what it is.”

Sarah sniffled, taking in a shaky breath as she tried to collect her thoughts.

“It’s not school related… It’s um… it’s Shawn and Selena,” she said quietly as her voice began to clog with emotion. “S-something happened, and now they’re not talking. And I just… I don’t fucking know Jake…” 

Jake immediately wrapped her in a hug, not caring that she was sobbing directly into his ear.

“Shhh shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” 

He held her until she calmed down, rocking her gently as her tears dripped down his back.

She pulled back first to wipe her eyes, and Jake took the chance to move to the middle of the bed and pull her into his side.

“Talk to me, let it out, honey,” he urged gently.

Sarah took a deep breath before spilling it all to him. Everything weighing on her heart about the whole situation.

And Jake listened, he didn’t interject unless he had a question, and even then, he felt like he needed to wait to say something at all.

“I just – I feel like I’m on two ladders with all of this… One ladder is Shawn, and the other is Selena, and I’m doing the damn splits. I either need to pick a ladder or get off and leave both. But I can’t, Jake… I can not pick, I will not pick.” 

She harshly wiped at her eyes, “I just I fucking can’t, Jake… But either way, pick or not pick, I’m gonna hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Are they asking you to pick sides?” 

“N-no… I don’t know what happened, I know bits and pieces like I told you… but it’s clear feelings have been hurt, and I feel like it’s gonna come down to me having to pick, and I can’t fucking do that…” 

She pulled back from Jake, “And I’m terrified to like or share anything on Facebook from either of them in case it hurts someone’s feelings. I shouldn’t be fucking scared about that, but I am!”

“And,” she continued as more tears gathered on her lash line. “When they weren’t on speaking terms before, they wouldn’t be seen at the same fucking function together. If one was there, the other wasn’t. If one had no idea the other was gonna show up, they would stay until after dinner and then fucking leave.”

Jake felt his heart break as he gently rubbed her back. This was affecting her deeply. It would have affected her like this before the pregnancy, but it was tenfold with the heightened emotions.

“And… fuck, I feel so selfish for feeling like this…” She wiped her eyes again, “I’m afraid that if they aren’t on speaking terms by October, they’re not gonna be at the wedding.”

“Why do you feel selfish for feeling like that?” 

“Because Jake, I’m worrying about my own feelings over theirs!” Sarah rubbed her face, frustrated, “I’m worried about how this affects me, this isn’t about me! But just – fuck I feel like such a shitty person…”

Jake’s jaw dropped, “Hey, hey, hold on now.” He pulled her hands away from her face, “You are not a shitty person for having your own feelings about a situation. There is nothing wrong with that. You are not selfish for worrying about whether or not your brother and sister will be at your wedding. You’re not, Sugar.” 

He squeezed her hands, “Why didn’t you come to me with this? You know I would have your back…” Sarah sniffled and looked away, “I didn’t want to bother you… I wanted to try and do this all on my own…” 

“But you don’t have to… You deserve to know that you have someone to catch you if you fall off those two ladders. That you’ll have someone to go to if you choose to walk away.” He gently turned her head to look at him as he wiped her tears, “Do you want advice, or do you just want me to hold you?” 

She leaned into his hand, “I could really use your advice… I’m so stuck, and I’m so scared…”

Jake nodded, giving her a gentle smile, “I think that what needs to happen is that you just need to step back from them both. Just be honest with them and tell them that you can’t handle this right now. You are allowed to do that. The stress and anxiety is not good for you or the twins. It is affecting you a lot, Sarah… This whole thing is affecting you, you are literally making yourself sick over it.”

Sarah opened her mouth, but he stopped her.

“Your appetite is almost gone, you eat because you know you have to. I don’t think it’s just the food that irritates your stomach anymore. Yes, you’re pregnant, and you’re gonna be throwing up. But your mental well-being affects your physical well-being, and all of the stress and anxiety is making you sick.”

He pushed some hair behind her ear, “If you want to take a few days before saying anything, that’s fine. But I really think you should consider it. I know they’re family, and you love them both, but you have to think of how this is affecting you. Do not hurt yourself in order to please them, that’s not fair to you.”

She pulled back a little to wipe her eyes before looking at her lap. “I just don’t want them to think I’m mad at them… because I’m not mad at them.” Jake nodded and tilted her head up, “I understand that, and I know that you care about everyone so deeply… but you have to put that care into yourself, too.” 

She nodded, and he pulled her into a hug, “I love you so much, Sugar. I’ve got your back.” “Thank you, Jake. I love you too.” He smiled and kissed the side of her head before she pulled back and kissed his lips.

Jake chuckled, “Now, I can put on a movie, or we can watch MrBallen and cuddle before I go make dinner. Does that sound okay?” “Ooooh, we need to catch up on MrBallen, let’s do that,” Sarah responded, grinning as she turned to get the remote. “And yes, I had a small lunch before I came home, and I have some spare saltines in the drawer. I’ve eaten today.” 

He kissed her head, “Good girl.” She scoffed playfully and layed down next to him, turning on the TV.

After a few minutes, Jake spoke up, “You know, we could also say that your doctor told you to watch your blood pressure–” “Jake, focus on the strange, dark, and mysterious. We can work on it later, okay? I need the distraction.” 

He chuckled and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

i know this is kind of a random, unprompted J and S piece, but my muse was playing off my deep internal feelings and brought this piece to fruition

never the less, i hope you enjoyed

and i will be getting to the twins arrival and the wedding as soon as i can! i'm just working on other series as well, thank you for being so patient with me! 💜

j and s tags <333: @milesdickpic @roosterscockpit @luckyladycreator2 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @sebsxphia @mamachasesmayhem @nobody7102 @djs8891 @kmc1989 @marbledaesthetics @fangirlbang @penguin876 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @bellaireland1981 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @harryigprompt @sky2nd @scarlettwidow19 @showthemwhoyouare-6 @coffeewithcal @whatislovevavy

[brynnmclean]

in the core of everything drums a beat - snippets round up post

Actually, not a bad idea to have some kind of post with all the Hellblade fic fragments I've posted so far. In vague order of how they should fit together chronologically in the fic:

Chapter one

Rough draft of chapter one where Thórgestr is having a lot of fever dreams (there was an earlier post with a small section that I think is still my favorite in the chapter)

Also from chapter one, but I think @eisoj5 asking me for "and" as a word in that WIP meme remains hilarious, so here's that post

Chapter two

Part of chapter two and the introduction of my Irish healer OC Iseult

Thórgestr awake and making a very bad joke about getting stabbed, my beloved

First Senua Giantsbane name drop!

"Is my father dead?" "He's alive. He's an exile."

I'm really fond of Fargrímr and I do think he cares about Thórgestr, so this is a nice little moment for that

Chapter three

Intro to the chapter where half-asleep Thórgestr eavesdrops on a conversation between Senua and Fargrímr

There is so much in the game about Thórgestr's dad so why not feature a dream of his mother, here's her introduction

I gave her some very specific spirit vibes :)

You know, lot of emphasis on being your father's child, but Thórgestr is also his mother's son and I think that's important. Also I know surnames are patronymic, but there was that whole thing in the game about the importance of names, chosen names included, and so I really dig the idea of Thórgestr privately thinking of himself as Eindridson. (Also I like prophecies and love the idea of Eindrid as ghostly fate-spirit predicting how Áleifr will die... Honestly, chapter three is a fave!)

Thórgestr probably forgot what his mother's face looked like, so of course he's afraid to look away from her when she appears in his dreams

You ever write a bunch of fun images and then have a friend brainstorm plot developments with you later when you're at a loss on what kind of object you might need characters to go find, so of course your friend is like, "hey, you already wrote what you need." Just me? (thanks @allatariel <3)

Chapter four (current one I'm working on)

The beginning of the chapter

Part of a midnight conversation between Senua and Thórgestr, early in the chapter

A moment I think is cute at the end of that scene

The beginning of an important conversation between Ástríðr and Thórgestr.

"Your father is gone. So is mine. But I’ll have what I’m owed. Tell me, Thórgestr," Ástríðr says, "what is your regret worth? What of your word?"

UPDATED: This is now Chapter six because I have lost control of my outline again!!!

A funny part of a conversation with another OC, this one a Bjarg skáld who pitches a marriage of convenience between Senua and Thórgestr to his utter bewilderment

Chapter... uh, current outline says eight... JUST KIDDING it's Chapter ten now

One of my favorite parts I've written for the whole damn thing even now -- Thórgestr doing sword drills alone on a beach near Bárðarvik

Thórgestr and Fargrímr conversation snippets one and two that are actually part of a larger scene

Other posts:

My fanmix / fic playlist post

Others Narration transcription posts (6 total)

My video games screenshots tag

The overall tag for this fic is hertan writing tag

Feel free to author subscribe on AO3 if you want to catch the fic drop whenever that happens in the future

[starbeltconstellation]

HEYYYYY!!!

i hope you’re well ❤️! i just wanted to come on here for a second to express how grateful im currently feeling for your story. i found it on ao3 a couple of days ago (wish i would’ve found it earlier but now i got a nice chunk of chapters to read through and hyper fixate over 😄😄) and i have been obsessed ever since. genuinely, you’ve made my august with this story.

this story feels so special to me. i’m so excited and giddy everytime i open the website back up to continue reading it (mannn i never wanna finish it) and it’s like the best part of my day.

i just wanna say that you’re a mf-ing genius. a. genius.

everytime something happens in the story i genuinely GASP. LIKE OH MY GOSH. im going insane over this fic. (the theories are bubbling inside of my brain about melanie and what’s gonna happen later on, i also love reading about people’s theories too man its so nice to see how invested everybody is cuz girl I AM.)

this story, man, it’s GREAT. it’s not only very well written, which im sure everybody appreciates as the flow is so nice, but it is also exciting, intense and beautiful. every single character had been on point, mischaracterising isn’t in your vocabulary. it’s like you know these lot personally. but anyway, it is a pleasure to read, like i said, VERY exciting and entertaining. i love our girl mel so much, she is so relatable and honestly just so real 😭 her reactions to most things are so valid like, girl same! she’s amazing, i don’t think i’ve ever encountered an OC as interesting and cool and well written as her. her whole storyline is just insane, bless her having all of this pressure and stress on her too lol 😭😭😭 but what can she do ahah, i mean?! the scene with the shopkeeper telling her to go back to her world had me absolutely stunned i was SHAKING. but i do think she made the right choice, she’s so strong.

like despite the fact that she knows all the hell she will have to endure there, she DID chose to stay, which is such a sacrifice. man i just wanna hug her and say thanks (i am not in the star wars universe but …)

everybody else too though, like ahsoka, obi-wan, anakin, the clones, mace, etc.. are also really cool to see the OC interact with, this is such a comfort fic for me, genuinely. it feels like i know them personally through this fr 🥲🥲🥲

i love reading the other’s comments on your story, it’s so nice to see this community form😭 like i’ve found my people LOL

thank you for feeding our star wars and anakin obsessions with your lovely story, i can’t get enough of it i swear im making a playlist for melanie as we speak.

anyhoo, just wanted to let you know how much i love this story and how much i appreciate you putting effort into creating something we can all take comfort in <3 i hope to stay and interact a lot more as i go on about reading the story!

Ahhhhh, oh my goshhh. Thank you so, SOOOO much, my dear little commenter. Haha. 🥺🥹❤️ This message was a big surprise when I first received it (which was a while ago, I know. 😭😅 I’m really sorry for the delay in response. Life gets the best of me at times. I’m trying to catch up on my asks), because at that time, I was still stuck struggling on the final bit of my huge whopper of a chapter that is now FINALLY out. ✊😖 Haha. And I just want you to know that your comment was SO helpful and motivating to me. Like… I’m not even joking. 😭 Your comment and a handful of other loyal readers (like my dear @ensomniaa ! 😌😆❤️) are probably the main reason I was able to trudge through my writer’s block and depression to get out the next chapter. So, just… thank you. 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for taking the time out of your day to write out such a long and in depth comment with such gushing words about my work and about how I’ve been writing the Melakin romance dynamic. It makes me feel like my writing isn’t half bad. Haha.

I always like to take my time responding to comments, because I feel I should always take the time and care to write out a detailed response that isn’t just copy pasted. You all take the time out of your day to comment to me, so it’s only fair I do the same! 🥺💕💕💕 So… my point is… I’m SO sorry this response took so long. 😭 I hope the wait time won’t have discouraged you from messaging again in the future. They truly do bring me such a big smile. And while I might not get to asks or comments immediately—ALL of my reader ducklings WILL eventually see a response. 😭💕❤️ I have made that my life’s goal. Lol.

Now, onto the ask! 😁✨💕 I’ll put the rest under a read more.

I’m soooo happy to hear that you’re so obsessed with my story and that it made your August! 😁✨❤️ Haha, it’s always exciting when I see someone new has stumbled over my fic. And I feel you with that hyper fixation. 😭✊ I’m BEGGING for my brain to give the SW hyper fixation back to me so I can churn out chapters at the speed of sound like when I did first starting this massive project. Lol. 🫠 So far… it’s still not working. But don’t worry! I shall NEVER abandon this story. I swearrrr, this thing will be my magnum opus. 😭✊Loool.

The fact my writing makes you giddy??? 😭 The fact it makes you theorize (which I ADORE when my readers do and ramble in the comments so I can muah-ha-ha to them. 😈😈💕😂) and gasp out loud?? 😭😭 The fact that you ENJOY reading through the different comments and seeing other readers’s theories and reactions?? 😭🥹💕❤️❤️❤️ You are what us writers call a rare GEM, dear reader. 🥺🥹❤️ To not only LEAVE a comment, but also just how you seem to genuinely enjoy commenting/reading other commenters’s thoughts because it feels like a fan community?? (And how SWEET to say I’m a big enough writer to have a little community. 🫠 I’m cryingggg. 😭❤️❤️) The fact you think I’m… a genius?? 🫣🥺😭❤️❤️❤️ (Idk about that, but I’ll put aside my anxiety issues. 😌 It is a lying liar who liessss).

Thank you. Thank you from the very BOTTOM of my heart. Idk what else I can say besides that, because rare reader gems like you keep us starving writers chugging along. 😭✊❤️

I’m SOOO glad you feel like everyone is in character. 😭❤️❤️ I worried about that a LOT. Especially for Anakin and the clones. There’s just a certain way about them that you have to get right, or they become 2-dimensional if you don’t write their little quirks and ticks. And I LOVE getting to explore the clones’s and Mel’s sibling-like relationship. 😭 I based most of their personalities on how they act around Mel off my annoying brother (affectionate 😌💕😂). I’m also so happy you feel the Jedi are also in character as well, and that it feels like a comfort to read them, like you’re learning about them along with Mel. 🥺💕 That was actually a lot of the idea with this fic (besides me living vicariously through Mel to romance Anakin, of course 👀😂❤️) over how I would slowly write scenes to SHOW the audience the misconception about the Jedi/their culture/certain characters. I didn’t want to PREACH to them. I wanted to present them with the evidence that maybe the Jedi aren’t “repressive” and “emotionless 🙄🤢” as they might’ve been led to believe by a big chunk of the fandom’s harsh perception. It would be like it was happening in time with Anakin as his thoughts change into something better and less self centered.

And I HAVE actually received a comment on Wattpad from a reader that my fic helped change their minds about Mace and the Council! 🥰🥰❤️ And it was just… such a joy to hear. 😭❤️ That’s the idea with this fic. I hope to reach across the aisle towards EVERYONE—maybe anti Jedi fans will read my work and have their minds changed about their culture. Maybe someone who despises Anakin to the bone will read my fic on a whim and slowly grow to care about him/see the humanity underneath the surface, just like Mel has. And maybe by the END of this fic… I’ll have convinced some people that the Jedi are not at fault for their own genocide by “failing” Anakin—because the truth is that it was HIS choice. Maybe by the end of this fic, there’ll be fans who’ll read the work and grow to see that you can love a character while still criticizing them/knowing they’re in the wrong (ie; Anakin 😔💔), while ALSO still acknowledging that he went through such horrible trauma as a kid while a slave on Tatooine… but it still DOESN’T absolve him or give him the right to hurt others just because he’s hurting himself.

That’s what this fic is all about, after all. GENUINE growth and change. Not placating a man by changing a few moments that he won’t have to go through in the timeline that will suddenly make him all “warm and fuzzy inside” and see the light. TRUE redemption and change means that Anakin will have to grow and ADMIT he was wrong while not becoming defensive when his actions (*cough* the Tuskens *cough*) are brought to light. Essentially, I’m trying to “Zuko-ify” him. (Loool, I know. Pretty high hopes for myself there. 😭😂❤️)

I’m also soooo happy you love and relate to Melanie so much. 🥹❤️❤️ Almost all readers have told me similar things, and it’s so wonderful to know that I’ve made a character that has been accepted by a small portion of the “SW/Anakin fandom”. 😆😁💕❤️ Mel came about when I was one day reading over an isekai story and just… not being able to fully immerse myself, because the OC’s reactions just didn’t seem realistic to me. 😭 And so I remember sitting down and imagining how I would react in such a situation (immediate freak out/think I was dreaming/would run in terror from Anakin’s hot ass at every opportunity 😌❤️‍🔥😂), and then that’s how Melanie Bains came into being! Haha. ❤️😁

So, while Mel IS somewhat of a stand-in for the audience (it IS an isekai fic after all 😭🤷‍♀️), it was still very important to me to make her three dimensional and—while yes, very relatable—also make sure she became her own character who could grow into herself. So a hero’s journey was important, along with giving Mel an antagonist (The Shopkeeper) separate from Anakin’s antagonist (Palpatine), because it was SOOOO important to have Mel have her own character arc/story AWAY from Anakin. It was important that Anakin wasn’t ALL she was about. Mel has friends (Ahsoka/the clones), she has her own plan she’s dealing with to try and save the galaxy while barely giving Anakin a second thought besides terror at first, and most importantly—Melanie is NOT begging Anakin to change. That was soooo important to me. She doesn’t have TIME to beg him to change. There’s too much at stake already, and if Anakin changed FOR Mel, it’s not even true change in the first place. Instead, as you’ve probably guessed from my latest chapter, Mel is INSPIRING him to change himself, because of the qualities about her he is coming to admire which in turn makes him take a look at his own selfish actions. This is always where I think “bad boy/I can fix him” writers get things lost in translation. It’s not true redemption if they change FOR the girl, because—as the Marvel movie Shang-Chi has recently shown us 🥶—if the girl ever dies… then the “bad boy/villain” goes right back to being evil. 😭🤷‍♀️🤦‍♀️ What REAL redemption would be is meeting someone you grow to love who INSPIRES you to become a better version of yourself—not FOR them—but because you want to become someone like them. You want to stand by their side in the light and feel proud.

Anyway, I feel like I’ve ranted a lot. 😭😂❤️ But I just wanted to thank you soooo much again for your beautiful words that were so kind and truly brought a ray of light to my dreary days! 😭😭❤️❤️❤️ I only hope my long response time doesn’t discourage you from writing me messages in the future. 😅😓😭🫠 I’m so sorry again for the long wait.

But I have ADORED rereading your comment these past few days while I’ve been writing out my response. It’s so thoughtful and long and in depth and I lovveeee itttt. 😭❤️❤️❤️ THIS is what feeds our writer brains. Haha.

A playlist sounds awesome! 💕💕💕💕💕 I already made one for Anakin and Mel and the Melakin romance, as you can see from my last response. But I would still ADORE getting to know songs that you think fit with my fic and Mel and Anakin’s journey! 😭❤️❤️ If you ever do make it, please hit me up and send a linkkk! 👀👀🙏

Thank you so much again for letting me know my writing brought you such comfort. 😭💕 I hope you’ll stay and interact more as well! 😭❤️ I always love hearing theories or getting a comment to see a reader is rereading or that two readers are discussing something about my fic together. Haha. 😄✨❤️

And so, I suppose I’ll leave it here! I ADORE you and love you so much, dear reader. I am picking you up and hugging you like a stuffed animal. (Glomp!) 🤗🫂

I hope to hear from you again soon! 🥺💕 I’m so sorry again for the wait. 😭

And now… off to reply to four more asks. Lol. ✊

Gotta blast! 🏃‍♀️💨✍️👩‍💻

-

To any readers that stumble across this and are curious enough to check out my fic:

-

Tags:

@ensomniaa

@heartfairy

@fangirlteallie

@lemons-2-limes

@shoniwake

@silverwoodj

@lexskiss

@selenaftmarvel

[gabriellerudessa]

Compass (Norm Maclean x OC) - XII

Return…

Supposing their Pip-Boys were still operational and allowed to open the door… Why would they? They would at least be punished in some way, just for the leaving and risking the Vault part. And then there were all the lies regarding Vault-Tec and Vault 31 that he now knew and Lucy would know.

He didn’t even know if he would be able to face his father again – if he was still alive. And if he did, what he would do? What he would say?

AO3 | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI | Part XVII | Part XVIII | Part XIX | Part XX | Part XXI (Smut) | Part XXII | Part XXIII | Part XXIV | Part XXV | Part XXVI (Smut) | Part XXVII | Part XXVIII | Part XXIX | Part XXX | Part XXXI | Part XXXII | Part XXXIII | Part XXXIV (Smut) | Part XXXV | Part XXXVI (END)

PLAYLIST ON YOUTUBE

Words: 3.472

Warnings: None

XII

Norm had to force himself to actually verify his sidebag, his hand going over Marigold’s hair every time he felt her starting to stir too much, doing his best to not stare at her the whole time.

Goose’s notes were more crumpled than before, but none seemed to be missing. However, a bunch of the plants he had collected were missing, most of them poisonous. More than ever he hoped to not find James again. His last stimpak was also missing, and while his first canteen had been dried out, the other one was still full and smelled okay.

He hoped James hadn’t eaten through all of Marigold’s food supplies nor gone through her water. Sure, she could hunt and together they could forage some edible plants and so on, but it would slow them down. And unless they reached soon that place with water in the map, he wasn’t sure how long his canteen would last.

Remembering the knife, he took it out. Specks of dried blood stained his Vault-Suit and boots, but the blade was clean and seemed to be sharpened. He threw a look at Marigold as he sheathed it again. Norm barely remembered putting the knife away, so Marigold should have took care of it.

After, he just paid attention to the sounds outside, keeping an eye on his Pip-Boy’s clock and noticing when slivers of sunlight streamed in through the gaps around the metal doors, the fire slowly dying.

“Marigold.” He poked her shoulder and she was immediately awake, sitting in a burst and in silence for long seconds.

“I ain’t hearing anything outside. You?”

“Nothing too.” She nodded at his answer and turned. “Did James take a lot of your things?”

She grimaced and pulled the backpack.

“Not as much as I feared, but enough to make me worried.” She cut a piece of dried meat in two and gave him one half. “Motherfucker ate all my dried radstag. Some cans of cooked ant and bloatfly are missing too, he stole all my rad-x, but at least I didn’t have radway for him to steal. He didn’t touch the healing powder, however, so that’s that. He also did whatever the fuck with the unpurified water I use for cleaning, the bottle is fucking dry, and drank half of the purified water I had.”

“So we really need water. How much food do you actually have?”

“Some cans of cooked radroach, bloatfly and ant, and dried molerat, what we’re eating. I don’t think he even found the molerat, the packet was very deep and it wasn’t disturbed.”

“How long it will last?”

Marigold grimaced, finishing her dried meat.

“If we’re careful and we don’t have any more mishaps like this, it should be enough to last us to Catarina’s cabin.”

“I can hear your ‘but’.” Norm crossed his arms over his knees and she sighed.

“I don’t like it. It’s cutting too close. Either I hunt anytime we can, or we stumble into a trader.” A shrug.

“We have enough caps for it?”

That actually made Marigold smile.

“I keep just some caps on my backpack. Most of it is hidden with me, so yeah, we have. The problem will be to actually find a trader around here.”

Norm almost asked where exactly she kept it all hidden – her boots would be a good option, but where they the only hiding place? It didn’t seem practical – but in the end just nodded.

“Low odds of finding a trader?”

“Before we leave the ruins, yeah. I saw enough at the camp to assume here is… Was Nip-Nip’s territory, but outside I think we have a better chance.”

“Then let’s hope we get out of here today.”

---------

By his Pip-Boy’s map, they hadn’t deviated much from their path. They still found numerous rubble walls, but unlike the previous day, the tracks left by Nip-Nip and his crew were recent and numerous, and Marigold used those to guide them. Sometimes it led to buildings whose entrances were more or less whole, but most of the times they easily lead around any blockage in the streets.

They turned, and an actual avenue that went endlessly towards the desert became visible, building only to the sides and no rubble wall blocking the path.

“Oh fucking finally.” Marigold sighed, hand relaxing against her rifle and steps speeding up.

Norm did the same, throwing a look at his Pip-Boy. Barely past the middle of the morning. He hoped it was a good sign.

He looked behind them; he had been tense, remembering James still up and about, since the moment they had left the basement, and fearing the man would appear at any moment.

“Think James will come for us?” Norm looked ahead again, and Marigold laughed.

“Oh, if that dipshit is alive, without a doubt. Even if there was no bounty, your words made his whole operation with Nip-Nip blow-up.”

“Not one to let things slide, then.”

“Nope.”

That made him think, of Ma June’s words. Of Lucy escorting someone with a Bounty over his head, the Brotherhood and a Bounty Hunter trying to find the Bounty…

Was she alive? He had no way of knowing. And in this world, so vast, there was no way of knowing. Her body could be just over a corner they hadn’t turned or behind a rock, lost forever, killed by everyone vying for the scientist.

He had seen the Brotherhood of Steel. They looked militaristic. After the previous day… If they were as ruthless as Marigold made them sound, he could only fear for his sister, if she got between the scientist and them.

Besides, while they had a lead for where she was going, not even Ma June knew if she had arrived.

The broken asphalt started to become sand under their feet, muffling his steps, both resisting and sinking under his weight.

Lucy could be already covered in sand, and he would never know.

The wind’s strength and sound increased, and Norm noticed Marigold’s shoulders drop slightly as she breathed deeply, and it mercifully distracted his thoughts.

“Back at home?” they passed another building, the whistling noise intensifying, the sounds of dry leaves and twigs against each other reaching his ears.

“You have no idea, Norm-Boy.” She gave the extra-trouble grin, no signs of lipstick that day. “Finally able to see danger coming from miles ahead again.”

They passed the last building, desert, hills, faraway ruins, rocks and plants trying to survive to wherever they looked, soon only sand under their feet, the constant noise welcomed against his ears.

He could understand why Marigold felt that way. Somehow, he didn’t felt that alone or in danger in the desert, not as the ruins and their eerie silence had done.

---------

Marigold noticed something in the horizon, and fumbled in her backpack for the binoculars – James had scratched one of the lenses, but thankfully hadn’t taken it – without stopping walking.

An attempt at a shed became visible. Two wooden posts up and a bunch of broken wooden planks going from them to the ground, positioned to protect from the worst of the sun. She looked around, and at least through the binoculars, there were only dried plants and rocks. Hopefully she wouldn’t find tracks once close enough, and it all looked improvised and empty enough that she doubted there would be any traps around.

She stored the binoculars again and threw a look at the sky. The sun was way past the middle of the sky.

Another look towards Norm, and it was clear he was doing his best to not drag his feet, blinking and looking around, but with slightly glassy and tired eyes. He hadn’t even asked or said anything in the last few hours.

“Cheer up, Norm-boy, I just spotted a good place for a lunch stop.”

Norm looked at her, blinked and nodded, his steps steady besides her.

---------

It didn’t take long for them to reach the place, her thoughts of no traps and no tracks confirmed. They sat under the improvised shed, and Marigold didn’t lose time in giving him a strip of dried molerat meat.

“Thank-” a yawn interrupted him. “-you. Damn it.”

“Yesterday was stressful.” She shrugged, and he half closed his eyes at her, frustration in his face. “What? It’s the truth. And your whole life changed these last days. Tiredness makes sense.” She bit into her own meat.

He looked at her for some more moments and started chewing on the meat, shoulders slumping.

“It’s a hassle.”

“A normal and expected hassle.”

She kept her attention on their whereabouts, eyes never too long at a single place, hearing the wind and the distant chittering of multiple animals it brought her.

“Will it be enough?”

Norm’s voice interrupted her scanning of the horizon, and she looked to see his thoughtful eyes, not seeming to focus on anything. He had barely eaten half of the meat.

“What? The food?”

He shook his head.

“Our speed. Find your sister. Mine.” He pressed his lips in a line, eyebrows frowning. “We have a fixed location where Catarina is supposed to be, but we don’t really know if Lucy reached the Observatory with the Bounty.”

Oh motherfucker. Marigold sighed, turning fully to face Norm, frowning back.

Last day had truly made him think and confront any fear not admitted regarding his sister’s current state of “alive or dead”.

She didn’t blame him. Lucy had been escorting a Bounty, after all.

Marigold also knew he needed reassurance, and not a “oh, yeah, that sucks, I get it”, even if she did. She knew it was better for her to try not to think of the possibility of arriving and finding the cabin destroyed and a shallow, common grave holding Catarina and Sarah; she would go crazy with worry, would stop paying attention to their surroundings, and that could not happen. It wasn’t only her life at stake, his was too.

“First: if Catarina and Sarah are alive and well, I’ll send them on their way to the ranch. They’ll know the path better than I. If something happened, and the Brotherhood is responsible...”

Marigold pressed her lips and dry-swallowed, noticing how he looked up at her. She wanted to say ‘I’ll make them lament it’, but she knew she was only one person with no real, big connections, and the Brotherhood was vast and old. She had no way of making them pay if they hurt her family.

“… I’ll mourn. And make sure the news reach my family. Second, about your sister… I’ll remain long enough to at least help you find a lead on her. At the Observatory or anywhere close.”

“And then?” There was a weird look in his eyes.

“It will depend.”

“From?”

“Where the lead takes you. Around here, the Wasteland between the ranch and the Observatory? I’ll keep helping you, until we have a definitive answer. It’s… Not easy, but not that hard to find people to keep my family informed and so on around here. But if it takes you far away…” She didn’t want to say it. She liked him, wanted to keep him close and see if she still could make him blush, to make sure he would remain alive and find his sister so the both of them could…

She never had asked what he intended to do once he found Lucy. Return to the Vault?

Build a life on the surface?

“You will return to your family.” He completed, voice soft, and Marigold winced.

“Yeah. I have responsibilities with them, Norm-boy… Sorry.” Her answer was equally soft, and he shook his head.

“Don’t be, Marigold. I understand.” He smiled at her, something in it forced, and looked down at his own piece of meat.

It gnawed at her. Fuck fucking it all. Fucking hell. She knew him just for a few days, and already that attached. She had spectacularly failed in reassuring him, that was clear. Fucking sappiness. Fucking lack of something actually good to say.

“But hey.” He looked up. “I’ll make sure to teach you as much about the Wasteland as I can before anything, got it?” Marigold tried, and the smile it got was a little better. Still not as she was used from him.

“Got it. Thank you, Marigold.”

---------

Norm felt worse as the sun crossed the sky and the afternoon kept going.

Not only he was worried about Lucy, he had to actually deal with the notion that eventually the both of them would go separate ways. The thought had been easy, before the both of them had a common goal and destination, but at that moment, after the last few days, after the feral ghouls, Nip-Nip and James…

He didn’t know if he was ready to cross and survive alone in the Wasteland. Even if he learned whatever Marigold taught him. Being all alone up here…

He hated the idea. Specially with how well the both of them had been working together.

“Hey, Norm-boy.”

He looked at Marigold, noticing how the sky was already starting to darken in the horizon. Had she seen a place for them to hole up for the night?

“Yes?”

“What you pretend to do once you find your sister?” Marigold took the binoculars as she talked, looking around them and slowing her steps, and Norm frowned, looking ahead.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… Will the two of you return to your Vault? Would that even be allowed?”

Norm grimaced and chuckled at the same time. He hadn’t thought about it all, actually. Not a single thought. He had to find Lucy. That had been his only focus.

Return…

Supposing their Pip-Boys were still operational and allowed to open the door… Why would they? They would at least be punished in some way, just for the leaving and risking the Vault part. And then there were all the lies regarding Vault-Tec and Vault 31 that he now knew and Lucy would know.

He didn’t even know if he would be able to face his father again – if he was still alive. And if he did, what he would do? What he would say?

“Norm-boy?” a hand touched his shoulder and he looked up. Marigold was frowning at him.

“I… Hadn’t thought about that. But I don’t think Lucy and I will be able to return, not with how we broke rules to leave.” He almost told about Vault 31, his father being pre-war, but the words seemed stuck inside his throat.

He still didn’t know how to talk about that.

Marigold nodded, hand still at his shoulder and guiding him along the path, and he noticed how she was steering them towards a specific direction.

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you the whistles we use.”

“You mean that one with the fingers when we were reaching the ranch? Why?”

She smiled. The pretty, soft one. The same thought from last night – beautiful – hit him in the chest like a kick.

It was easier to forget the thought when they spent most of the time in silence, focusing on keeping one foot in front of the other.

“Yes, that one. And it’s just so you can properly warn us when arriving with your sister.”

He tried to smile without showing how her own smile affected him – at least she wasn’t using the lipstick. Damn it, these thoughts plus everything else… What was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like in the Vault, where people most of the time just went ‘want to have sex?’ with barely a thought or whatever that was.

“So I’m invited to the ranch with Lucy once I find her?”

“Absolutely. As my guests, Ma can fight me if she doesn’t like it. Fuck, she’ll probably try and rope the two of you into working in the ranch the rest of your lives if you really decide to not return to the Vault. Honorary Bears or whatever.” Marigold shrugged, and Norm laughed. Despite how briefly he had known Guadalupe, he could see that.

And… He liked that idea, more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t even know how exactly both him and Lucy would fit into all that, but it sounded better than to be another rat in an experiment. It sounded easier and more… Not exciting, exactly, but not as dull and boring as the Vault.

Besides, he had already killed to protect the Bears, hadn’t he? And Guadalupe had said she liked him.

Maybe he was already an Honorary Bear, with Marigold offering to teach that way they had to communicate.

“… I’m glad you found me and took me to meet your family, Marigold.”

“Awwwn.” She half-hugged him, hard, and he felt her face press against his hair as he chuckled and patted her back. “I’m glad too, Norm-boy. Fuck, I’m feeling all mushy now, I’ll have to give you a proper hug once we stop.”

---------

That night, they managed to find another Red Rocket Truck Stop. The garage had collapsed, and they ended in a small room in the back, an old half-broken chair propping the door closed against the wind. It miraculously had a bed frame with a thin mattress over it, a thick layer of dust over it.

They ate cooked ant while sitting in the bed, back against the wall and eyes on the door, her oil lamp bathing it all in a warm light.

“Another watch night.” He commented as he finished the almost-melting meat inside the can.

“Yeah. But first, come here, Norm-boy.”

Marigold turned halfway and hugged him, arms around his shoulders, tightly pulling him in, and Norm chuckled as he returned it, arms around her waist and his head propped sideways against her chest. The leather cape was soft under his cheek, and he could both hear her heartbeat, strongly beating, and feel her slight soft humming. She still smelled of gunpowder, sand and blood.

After how she had curled around him during the shot out, he was starting to associate the smell with safety.

A proper hug, indeed. Even better than the half-hug from last night. He felt both of them relaxing into it, heard her heartbeat slowing. Marigold breathed against him, slowly, and he barely noticed when he closed his eyes, a small smile on his face.

Norm could get used to this. He wanted to.

But what he would do if – when – they went their separate ways? If he never found Lucy… Or he did, but then there was his father – alive? Dead? He didn’t know. But he knew how close Hank and Lucy were, how she got inspired by him…

He didn’t know how exactly she would take his words, about the truth behind Vault 31 and everything else. Believe him, believe their father – if he was alive and kicking –, act on it… But she would want to return to the Vault. To home. To fix it or just go back to her normal, he didn’t know, but she would return.

Norm didn’t know what he wanted after he found Lucy, not exactly, not yet. But he knew what he didn’t want: to be stuck inside the walls of the Vault, with no possibility of leaving.

Specially after having a taste of the surface, no matter how hard living in it was.

---------

After she had woken, half of Marigold had thought last night had been a dream. How understanding Norm had been, the fact that he had given her a hug, even if only one armed, not a single judgmental word towards her… And, really, his behavior hadn’t changed, not a single bit.

Something always had changed before. Even with the very few men that didn’t call her names or tried for something without her consent; something always changed, always got… Colder. The previous trust missing.

Norm… Was tired. Worried. Head a mile away for most of the day. Clearly affected by the notion of them eventually going their separate ways.

But not different.

That hug was proof of it. Marigold could feel the strength with how he returned it, pulling her in, how he relaxed against her. Still trusting her with his life.

She could feel the tears prickling at her eyes. Fuck, she had never almost-cried so many times for something that not The Lord of the Rings in such a short time. How was Norm able to bring it forth on her… So effortlessly?

Marigold tightened the hug a fraction, her cheek against the back of his head, and breathed him in – he still somehow smelled clean, a hint of sand, and leather.

The last one made her think of home.

God, she hopped so much that he would take on her offer and go to the ranch with his sister once he found her.

[demonicdeadbeat]

𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯

I'm Oliver (he/they interchangable), I'm in my 30s, and I'm a roleplayer and writer who does (sometimes very) lazy literate style roleplay. I'm disabled, trans masculine nonbinary, neurodivergent and I like to think I'm a decent enough RP partner if we click. I have Discord, which is predominantly where I roleplay. I reply usually multiple times a day.

I don't care much about literacy levels or mistakes, as long as you have some grasp of English and we're having fun, why does it matter?

You must be 21+ to RP or interact with me. I have no interest in even SFW RP with minors. I don't care about your IRL gender or what have you though.

𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤

Most of these are m×m as I strongly prefer that. Enby×m is fine also. I do f×m incredibly rarely and only if I can play the guy. Trans and intersex characters are very much welcome. Some of my favourite OCs are trans masc themselves and I sometimes AU my favourite canon characters as trans masc too.

Generally I will play either half of these pairings. I also enjoy occasionally doubling up if there's a plot you really want to play also.

I enjoy writing smut and kink immensely, but do also enjoy plot too. A 50/50 split is good. I have a Kink Garden page I can give out on request to see if our kinks align.

I only use real person or solely descriptive FCs. No anime and no cartoons, sorry. I am not picky about your FC usually. I generally favour FCs over 25 at least, and tend to only play people over 30 myself.

I really like becoming friends outside of the RP, I love making playlists, mood boards, chatting, text message threads if appropriate, etc.

My characters are usually switches and vers, but I can assume a more top or Dom role, or a more bottom or submissive role, if it works with the RP.

I do not generally use Tupperbox or related bots but I could for the right RP partner!

Fandom Based:

Generally I am very open to AUs and love putting my favourite characters into them, so don't be afraid to ask if you have your heart set on an AU for any of the following.

Good Omens (Aziraphale × Crowley)

FFXIV (OC × OC only)

Baldur's Gate 3 (Astarion × Gale, Astarion × Wyll, Astarion × Halsin, Gale x Wyll, Durge × Most Male Canon Characters, Tav × Most Male Canon Characters)

Fandomless:

All of these ideas are deliberately vague, so we can plot together!

Modern with Supernatural Creatures (Vampire × Werewolf, Werewolf × Werewolf, Undead/Immortal race × Human, Monster × Human generally)

Modern with Magic (Any pairing that fits the setting, including AUs)

Dungeons and Dragons-esque/High Medieval Fantasy (Knight × Prince, Prince × Commoner, Adventurer × Adventurer, Monster × Humanoid generally, Pirates, High Society, Forbidden Romance, any other pairing that fits the setting, including AUs)

Modern (Kinky Hedonist × Newbie to the Kink Scene and other kink lifestyle based plots, Sugar Baby x Sugar Daddy, Musician × Techie, Poet × Musician, Writer × Editor, Florist × Artist, Artist × Muse, Soulmates AU, Forbidden Romance pretty much anything)

Omegaverse (Can be added onto any other plot tbh, I usually play Alpha or Beta against an Omega, but could play an Omega too if wanted against your Alpha or Beta.)

Interested? Contact me through this blog and I'll send you my Discord username!

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

ghostbur for the bingo :)

YAYYYY GHOSTBUR!!! :D

I have cried over Ghostbur. I have cried. This probably doesn’t sound like much, but I personally hardly ever cry. It is a Momentous Occasion if I shed a tear—which I have done for my love Ghostbur <3 His story is so unbearably tragic and sad and much of it fills me with anger, and just… he really makes me Feel Things. A lot of things.

At this point I sorta wish Ghostbur was my OC 😭 Because then I could give him a canon happy ending that does not involve Limbo or merging with Wilbur. Like. I dislike Both of those things with quite a passion. I want Ghostbur to be mine I want to give him canon soft blankets and canon soup and canon hugs with Friend and canon happiness & healing :( I also get very easily upset over Ghostbur takes that I don’t like, or when I see people mischaracterizing him, and I just feel so protective lol EVEN THOUGH I know he’s not my character! He is simply… so special and dear and beloved to me. I want to protect him :(

Literally my Ghostbur playlist is like 30 hours long okay I am not even joking. If I listen to a song, there is a High chance that I associate it with Ghostbur—a high chance!!! And this isn’t just with music either; I see sweaters, I see blue flowers, I see sheep, I see red hats, I see many many things, and I think of Him <33 My obsession over this little guy is Boundless and I could probably make anything about Ghostbur if I were to think about it enough. I’m half-convinced that every single AJR song could fit Ghostbur.

IF GHOSTBUR WAS REAL- 😭 IF. IF HE WAS REAL! I WOULD WANNA BE FRIENDS WITH HIM SOOOOO BAD!! I WOULD WANNA HUG HIM!! I WOULD WANNA LISTEN TO HIM RAMBLE!! I WOULD WANNA LISTEN TO HIS BEAUTIFUL STRANGE THOUGHTS!! I WOULD WANNA TALK TO HIM!! I WOULD WANNA GO ON WALKS WITH HIM!! I WOULD WANNA HEAR HIM SING!! I WOULD WANNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!! I seriously want to be friends with him so very badly. I am not joking about this.

I really don’t project onto characters that much, but oh. Ghostbur 😭 He’s already an extremely relatable guy to me (a rarity, I hardly ever find characters I relate to) and he’s also become very important & special to me, and I’ve… really accidentally found myself projecting 😅 I did not mean to do this!!! What do you mean he sneezes when he looks at the sun. What do you mean. I didn’t do that. That’s how he came in the box. I’m telling you. Believe me.

His yellow sweater is soooooo <3 I have been wanting to find and buy a yellow sweater that looks like his but I CAN’T FIND A GOOD ONE!!! MISERY!!!

*clings to the one-and-a-half Ghostbur streams that we ever got* Aksgajsgajsgjafs I know he showed up in a lot of other streams, but we didn’t really get much Ghostbur-centric content. A few good things, a few important things, but mostly he was there to talk to others/be friends with others/etc. I wish we could’ve gotten a few more streams because I want to see what his facial expressions were :((

Oooooh boy, snazzy indeed. Yes.

Ghostbur has an entire section of my brain all to himself lol, that’s what it feels like XD I have Other Parts Of My Brain and then I have Ghostbur. He lives there now. He does not pay rent but I don’t care because I’m happy to have him <3 I love this man.

*points* BEAN!!! He is soooo sweet and adorable I just <333

I cannot even tell you how many awful rancid Ghostbur takes I have seen 😭😭 Like… oh they make me angry. They fill me with so much rage. I will rant about these things. Likeeeee it’s super rare for me to find a Ghostbur fan who actually gets his character; most Ghostbur enjoyers have really strange, incorrect ideas about him. It makes me upset :(

HUGS!!! HUGS!!! GIVE THE MAN HUGS!!! LET HIM HUG HIS SHEEP AND BE LOVED!!!!!!

I have so much Ghostbur Knowledge stored away oh my goodness!! <3 I could go on and on for hours about this man, he Does something to me that cannot be contained. I love Ghostbur.

HE REALLY FREAKING FILLS ME WITH THINGS HE MAKES ME FEEL A LOT OF EMOTIONS HE IS SO BRILLIANT AND BEAUTIFUL I JUST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

But oh my gosh he got so much crap in his canon story and with the fandom oh my gosh. And his ending??! Please. I hate his ending with my whole being it makes me so genuinely upset and I hate it. Very AAAAAAAAH y’know.

[sincerely-sofie]

Do songs that you listen often to ever remind you of characters or events from TPiaG or other stories you've written? It happens to me a lot with stuff from a story with OCs I've been helping my best friend make for years now.

Anyways, I'm asking about it because a song from my playlist reminded me a lot of Twig when I heard it while driving the other day. I had heard the song a million times before, but when I was thinking about the lyrics more they seemed to perfectly fit her internal conflict. The song was Blurt by Mega Mango if you want to take a listen.

The song is definitely just about dealing with mental health issues in general, but my PMD brainrot made it so that this was all I could think about after my epiphany. On that note, I want to offer you a congratulations for writing characters so well that they takes over my brain from time to time. I greatly appreciate it. :D

First up: Thanks so much for your kind words! Second: Oh my goodness. My friend, you are opening up Pandora's Box. 

TPiaG doesn't have as many songs associated with it as my other projects because it hasn't been in development for several years— however, a vital part of my story development process is listening to music and imagining all the animatics of the characters and storyline that I want to make set to them. I do this for every project that sufficiently resonates with the blorbo frequency in my brain, and TPiaG is no exception! 

In terms of songs that embody specific events but aren't connected to a single character, I regularly listen to “Turn the Lights off” by Tally Hall and imagine a sort of extended theme song animation for if TPiaG were an animated series. There's so many lines that mention concepts important to the story!

Another animatic song, this one set in the Dark Future when Twig was human and starting her and Grovyle's quest to save the world, is "Running Out Of Time" by Lin-Manuel Miranda--- specifically the stretch spanning at roughly 1:10 to the end of the song. I have a very vivid image of Twig repeatedly shouting at Grovyle that they need to abscond ASAP as he frantically gathers supplies that spilled out of his bag while they're being pursued by the sableye, and then of Dusknoir being dismissed by a ferryman as he's interrogating him on which way they went.

I also still listen to “Let's Get This Over With” by They Might be Giants and imagine the rest of that one unfinished animatic I posted forever ago. That song isn't as blatantly connected to the events of the game, but there's a few anchor points in the lyrics I really enjoy. 

As for individual characters and songs I associate with them, here’s a selection with links to Spotify for easy listening!

Twig:

"Hey, Doctor Doctor" by Milk in the Microwave

"Monster" by Half Moon Run

"Smile" by Ukuletea

"Feelings Are Fatal" by mxmtoon

... And now, "Blurt" by Mega Mango as well!

Ark:

"Problems" by Mother Mother 

"Rule #21- Momento Mori" by Fish in a Birdcage

"What You Know" by Two Door Cinema Club

Kip:

"I'm Not Fine" by Blixemi

"Don't Throw Out My Legos" by AJR

"Just Take My Wallet" by Jack Stauber’s Micropop

Grovyle:

"The Villain I Appear to Be" covered by Annapantsu

"Surface Pressure" covered by Annapantsu

(I don't know why both of these songs are specifically the versions sung by Annapantsu. Apparently she's Grovyle-coded in my head.)

Celebi:

(Insert any bubblegum pop or kawaii future bass song of your choice here.)

(Celebi has somehow evaded my ability to assign her songs. I’ll get her someday.)

Dusknoir: 

"I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young

"Never Love an Anchor" by The Crane Wives

"I Was Me" by Imagine Dragons

Twig's Aunt:

"Family Jewels" by Marina and the Diamonds

"In Fact (Demo Version)" By Gregory and the Hawk

"Ain't It Fun" by Paramore

Twig's Mother:

"Brother" by Madds Buckley

And for those who'd enjoy some Travailshipping songs...

"You Are The Moon" by The Hush Sound

"Dark Clay" by Levi Weaver

"When the Day Met the Night" by Panic! at the Disco

"Can I Have the Day With You" by Sam Ock

"Tongues & Teeth" by The Crane Wives

[nihiltism]

bumping this thread again mostly to say Look At My Blorbo Boy but also because I thought I should actually link her playlist

also something worth mentioning, I've decided drosera uses she/it now because I considered her using it pronouns once and was hit with such a wave of gender that I could not function for a half an hour. so there's that.

(lies down and dies) okay everyone meet drosera shes my best friend she's my little meow meow she has 97 mental illnesses and is not allowed in most public spaces. most of my ocs have accidental character inspirations and at least 2 of them for her are the ones I want to put under a microscope and then into a blender if that's any indication of what she's like. if u can guess them u get a cookie.

anyway her deal is that she's an exile from Whatever Place She Lived In because she decided to do an Itty Bitty vigilante justice murder and was shocked when her town took that badly. (note: she thinks this murder is justified. she is quite possibly fully incorrect and very out of line either way.) being exiled for doing The Right And Just Thing gives her abandonment issues for days and she abandons her whole past identity in an outburst of (I never needed you all if all you ever do is turn your backs on me) and is now plotting to get revenge on her town in order to be an object lesson on what happens when you betray someone you loved. effectively she's putting herself as an example or, failing that, a martyr, but really her worse and worse actions are only caused by denial and her own lost pride. but she does not see that at all because all she sees Herself as is a disgraced hero

[changeling-fae]

random OC ask: does your OC have a favorite animal, or an animal they feel most akin to? what significance does it hold to them?

I'm finally answering the behemoth list of oc asks I've been wanting to answer for weeks. Thank you for the ask!

Nym:

Nym doesn't really notice animals too much. She likes them but with her violent intrusive thoughts she tends to avoid them. She's also a consummate carnivore, and just loves meat. That being said, she's been compared to sheep and goats by my friends (what with her horns, hair, and hooves) and narratively Raphael refers to her as "little lamb". Her journal title would be Silence of the Lamb too. Mostly tied to innocence, loss of innocence, sacrificial lamb, lamb brought to slaughter, and wolf in sheep's clothing imagery and theming.

Trinket:

Visually, deer but as far as a personal favorite animal, she relates to cunning animals; specifically foxes and corvids. If she were aware of ocean denizens, cuttlefish would definitely be up her alley. Her own cunning and risk taking personality is something she takes pride in so animals tied to deception (whether earned or just stereotyped) she'd feel a measure of kinship to.

Flint:

Well he's definitely as big and as strong as an ox. But he's still acclimatizing to the Material Plane after being born and raised in the hells. I think he'd feel kinship with alligators if he ever met one. A creature with endless patience, strength, and ability to hide within plain sight would definitely appeal to him on a professional level. That being said, I can also see him having a soft spot for pandas or capybaras. Chill animals that are just vibing.

Casira:

Oh nightingales and songbirds for sure. Green Finch and Linnet Bird from Sweeney Todd and Black Bird from The Beatles (specifically from the Across the Universe soundtrack) are both on her playlist, lol. Caged bird imagery is very much part of her aesthetic and by design on my part and she absolutely feels a kinship to pet songbirds.

Iluatria:

So Lua is a unicorn trapped in mortal form and on a mission from Selune, so she's already kinda an animal (albeit a magical sentient animal), and her kinship is to other unicorns and creatures in her category. But quoting from one of my favorite books, The Last Unicorn (the obvious inspo), "She did not look anything like a horned horse, as unicorns are often pictured, being smaller and cloven-hoofed, and possessing that oldest, wildest grace that horses have never had, that deer have only in a shy, thin imitation and goats in dancing mockery."

Victyrr:

Victyrr definitely has a kinship with scorpions. He has a spider animal companion in game but if I could I'd give him a large golden scorpion. He's a half-drow who was raised in isolation in the underdark and so I think his kinship with scorpions would be how they're arachnids but not a spider. As a gloom stalker ranger, he's good at striking and hiding in small cracks and from the dark. His name also means in drow, Abyss Scorpion, or Profound Dagger, or Profound Scorpion, etc.

[nicos-w101-liveblog]

Had too many classes and too much homework today so have some Nico ask game answers because I don't wanna wait for people to ask.

1. what is their song?

I may have to say "The Seed" by AURORA. I've been obsessed with her Sky: Children of the Light concert, recently, and that song goes hard lol.

2. what is their cafe order?

Something simple, like hot chocolate with whipped cream and some peppermint. If it's really hot out, though, they'd go for any sort of lemonade. They really like Blue Raspberry flavor.

3. what is their color palette? or what colors do you associate with them?

Purple and Black, and only when it's those two colors together. Otherwise, as a single color, they are so very red. A burgundy, maybe.

4. do they have a favorite food or drink?

Anything chocolate. Except cake/cupcakes. They don't like the texture. They do love a good muffin, though.

5. name a time of day that reminds you of them.

Dusk. As the moon is rising and the sun is setting.

6. sun, moon, or stars?

Stars. They shine and burn. They are admired, but eternally imploding.

7. what other universes would you like to see them in?

My current hyperfixations, obviously. Stardew Valley, where they could heal. Sky: Children of the Light, where they'd get their childhood back. Gravity Falls, maybe. The Owl House. They can fit into many situations.

8. do you ship your oc with canon characters? why or why not?

No. Not only is Nico a child for a good chunk of their story, but they're also very AroAce.

9. do you like to ship your oc with other ocs? or are you open to it?

Also no. They're AroAce. But if someone else thinks their OC and Nico would click well, they can be friends or in a qpp.

10. does your oc have a scent specific to them?

Autumn. Warm and crisp, pumpkin and spice.

11. name 3-5 things that you associate your oc with.

Heavy rain storms (no lightning/thunder) | A flame that you cannot tell whether it's a Pyre or a Bonfire | A peace-tied rapier or scimitar | The galaxy itself | A flower crown.

12. do you have a playlist for your oc?

Not yet, but I'm gonna get started on one sooner rather than later.

13. is there a saying or quote you associate with your oc?

"An eye for an eye and the world goes blind" -Mahatama Gandhi

14. what would their favorite movie be?

They greatly prefer books over movies, because they can read while they walk. But probably something by Studio Ghibli. Like Kiki's Delivery Service.

15. how long have you had them?

I've only had Nico for a day and a half but if anything happened to them I will kill everybody on this site and then myself /reference (it's me, I make the things happen)

16. do you make memes for or of your oc?

Not yet. I do eventually plan to put Nico's name in an incorrect quotes generator.

17. if they don't have one, would your oc have a pet? if so, what kind of pet?

They already have their Familiar, a Blaze Fox. His name is Remy, after their favorite fandom-named character (it's not the rat). Anyone who guesses who it is gets my approval.

18. is your oc afraid of anything?

Not really. Theyre just tired. Bugs/Spiders give them the creeps, though.

19. does your oc have siblings?

They do! A pair of younger twins, five years younger. They were seven when Nico disappeared. I wonder if they even remember their older sibling?

20. is your oc like you in any way?

I kinda base all OCs around myself, so yeah. I imagine we have the same body type and the same life experience up until Nico was summoned to the Spiral.

21. how many ocs do you got?

One for just about every fandom, if not multiple per. So... a lot. Possibly uncountable.

22. do you have an all-time favorite oc or a current favorite?

Obviously, my current favorite is my son Nico.

23. do you have a mood board or a pinterest board for your oc?

Unfortunately, no. And I likely never will.

24. does your oc have a favorite color?

Purple. After so much time, they still love purple.

25. what is their comfort item?

An old jacket that came to the Spiral with them from home. Its a comforting texture and covers their arms when their robe doesn't.

26. do they have a comfort place?

Mortis and Blossom let Nico rest in their branches. They ask for permission every time even though the trees insist they don't need to. Nico also enjoys sitting on the roof of their House and staring into the stars.

27. do you have any AUs for your oc?

My other Death Wizard, Moira. They're the result of being born earlier, and thus being given more time to find themself. They're a high school graduate when Ambrose summons them to Ravenwood. They're able to shoulder the responsibility of holding the fate of the Spiral in their hands. Not that Nico was incapable. But Nico's a child. They never learned healthy coping mechanisms. Basically, Moira is able to keep smiling, while Nico gave up on it.

28. is there an aesthetic for your oc?

Enderman from Minecraft lol.

But on the pseudo-official list, Dark Academia, Alternative (that is, if they weren't basically a celebrity and created fashion trends), Cryptidcore, and other similar ones.

29. does your oc have a self-care routine?

The only self care they perform is knocking back a potion when they're injured. Other than basic hygiene and some magic tricks they learned to prevent acne, they are the worst at taking care of themself.

The only self-care practice they have is reading a book in Mortis' branches

30. what is your favorite thing about your oc?

I've never written a cynical character before. Theyre always optimistic, chaotic and proud, and ever-smiling. I'm excited to try and write a child's whimsical imagination turn into exhaustion and pessimism lol

Credit: oc asks by @justbeingbuck

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC ‘EM

Chapter 2: Speak

A/N: So sorry y'all, I promised Fia's POV a while back but this chapter was literally longer than Ch 1 by SEVERAL pages by the time I got there, so I figured I'd split it up a bit. There's like no Fia in this one, my sincerest apologies. This one's a very big exciting chunk of content though, I prommy! Side note, this one was posted relatively quickly after the last one only because I'd already had the biggest portion of it done, so I can't promise a consistent posting schedule. Also, I think I'm gonna start adding song recs based on what I listen to while writing each chapter just to give you guys a PB-esque soundtrack for your montage moments, which will be updated over time just like the main playlist. Enjoyyy!

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, mental health issues, animal abuse/injury, internalized homophobia, one (1) singular antiquated homophobic slur

Soundtrack: De Selby (Part 2) - Hozier // The Distance - Cake // D Is for Dangerous - Arctic Monkeys

Summary: As the Grand National approaches, Sam reflects on the time he's spent as the Blinders' spy. New friends are made and old grudges resurface as the Aintree heist progresses. Before the race can begin, a few bumps in the road raise a frightening question: who else has a stake in their game?

It was surprisingly easy to find employment at Aintree Racecourse. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of their in-house farrier, but he knew better than to question Tommy or Paul about the face he was seeing in the papers. In any case, with the rate Aintree was paying him for work in and around the stables he had no motivation to go around blowing his own cover. For the first time since they’d run away, he and Fia had begun to accumulate enough money to do more than just survive. By the end of the summer, he reasoned, they would have enough money that Fia could take care of the baby without having to work herself into the ground on the side.

But of course nothing came without a price. Every few days, he left the racecourse only to find Paul waiting for him just outside the gates, arms crossed as though Sam had somehow already disappointed him. He was difficult to please when it came to discussing business; none of Sam’s observations were ever helpful and no amount of detail was ever enough. For the first week or two, the feedback was crushing. It was bad enough that he had to work with the Peaky Blinders to make it through the year, but to be completely shit at it? Humiliating.

Over many weeks of this routine, though, Paul had eventually started to warm up to him, seeing him as less of an inconvenience to his day and more of a fellow collaborator of the Peaky Blinders. He was a grumpy middle-aged man, not much of a talker, but with a pint or two in him he began to loosen up enough to share a few words about his own life. It had become their routine. Both of them would meet up outside of Aintree after Sam had left the stables, and from there they’d make their way to the Queen’s Arms for a drink and something to eat. They’d make small talk about work and football (Paul was particularly passionate about Liverpool, and had nearly gone into cardiac arrest when Sam shyly expressed his preference for Manchester City), but Paul’s favorite topic hands-down was family. Sam was more than happy to let him dominate the conversation in these cases.

“You know,” he rumbled around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie roughly a week before the Grand National, “I’ve got a wife and kids meself. Second wife, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam was only half listening, distracted by the storm clouds gathering on the other side of the thick, distorted windowpane to his right. Would the vardo hold up? It had been over a month since he’d last patched the roof, and that was only because the cold had shrunk the old wood, revealing little cracks and signs of wear along the frame. Since then it had rained a handful of times, but by the tetchiness this afternoon of the horses stabled early for the race, this storm would be harsh. He wondered if he ought to head home early, see to his own horses’ hooves and make sure they weren’t at risk of any infection-bearing cracks–

“...and yeah, they ain’t all that bright, but they’re me own boys so I’ve no choice but to love ‘em, thick skulls and all.” Paul chuckled at his own anecdote, rubbing his red stubbled chin with one hand.

Guilt lurched at the bottom of Sam’s stomach for ignoring his friend (acquaintance? colleague?) so readily. Paul was nice enough now that he and Sam had begun to establish a rapport, and it was clear that he didn’t have too many friends of his own. Lost most in the Great War, he’d told him grimly. The Somme. Sam didn’t have to ask to know that the pain of loss haunted Paul in those strange gaps between words, the times when Sam had let the silence sit between them. Perhaps that was why he was so eager to fill the space with beer. Sam had never been the type of boy to make many friends as a child, and had a habit of hiding behind his father’s legs around strangers. The Great War had forced him just far enough out of his shell to bond with his fellow soldiers, but many either died or had to return home to different countries. Well-practiced in being alone, Sam had not minded as much as he thought he ought to.

“You look tired, lad.”

The comment startled Sam out of his head. He blinked owlishly at Paul before realizing exactly what it was that he had said, which made him avert his eyes and prod his fork around the modest serving of pie that he’d hardly eaten. “Guess so,” he muttered, shrugging. “It’s been a lot of work, s’all. Not that that’s a bad thing.”

Paul grunted his agreement. “Tommy asks a lot of us, don’t he? Never seems to come around here for himself.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Sam gazed out the window again at the racecourse. “He’s probably just trying to keep things running in Birmingham, is all. Must be tiring.”

Except Sam knew how tiring it was. He’d seen it firsthand. Tommy had come to visit his camp several times over the course of the past month, just to check in and gather information directly on Aintree and its key players. As validating as it felt to have Tommy himself care about the fine details that Paul hadn’t needed, it had been irritating, at first– why couldn’t he leave Sam be and let Paul give him the salient details? Hadn’t he anything better to do back in sooty, stinking Birmingham that didn’t involve bothering him? It seemed like every time he visited, he seemed more worn than the last. The commute couldn’t be helping him. He’d stayed overnight before, the work week being so exhausting that Sam feared he might fall asleep behind the wheel of that noisy automobile of his. As much as Sam hadn’t liked Tommy, he wasn’t a monster. He knew when to insist that Tommy consider his own wellbeing. Fia’d offered him the bed in the vardo out of strained politeness, but he preferred the tent every time. Just feels right to see the stars, he’d said. He didn’t see them as well in Birmingham, apparently. Too much smog.

After about the third of these visits, it became strangely… nice to have Tommy as a guest. He was a good conversationalist, a man of few but carefully chosen words. He was also very polite and apologetic about his visits, and as grating as it was to put up with Tommy’s newfound high-class mask, it was refreshing to have someone treat him as a respectable peer rather than a blue-collar nobody. Better yet, after Tommy had stayed a while, Sam could physically see the charade fall when the night air finally reached that part of his spirit that longed to roam. The north did him well, it seemed.

It was strange, then, that Paul hadn’t seen him so much. Perhaps he was tired of life in the city and just needed a break in the countryside, and Paul was just too far into town to justify the extra few miles. Perhaps– and Sam puffed up with pride at the possibility –his observations weren’t mostly useless, and Tommy preferred to go to the source when the weekly telegram didn’t say enough. Sam and Tommy would talk for long hours when he visited, not just about business but about their lives in general. Something about the topics he spoke about kept his attention far more than Paul did, bless him, and perhaps it was the same for Tommy. Maybe Sam’s curiosity stemmed from their similar upbringing, Tommy being born on a narrowboat and Sam learning how to ride a horse practically as soon as he could walk. They had that interest in common, at least. There had been more than one lighthearted argument over the best way to check the condition of an auction colt’s gut or the ideal feed for a work horse versus a race horse.

Or maybe Sam was just fascinated by the way he spoke, smooth and low with such a quietly commanding presence. He had a brilliant mind, that was for sure. In the late hours, after sharing a meal (Tommy had supplied gamefowl from his own sprawling property more than once, to Fia’s delight but Sam’s slight embarrassment as the supposed breadwinner) they would sit around the fire with whiskey. Fia would retire early, tired as she was from mending garments in nearby Lowton. Conversation without her then usually drifted to those darker topics that Sam liked to keep from troubling her with: war and loss and struggle. Success, sometimes, at a steep price. It didn’t matter so much what exactly their conversations were about; Sam had enough space in his head to ruminate on his fears plenty on his own. What really intrigued him was hearing Tommy talk, that strange Birmingham accent lilting his vowels in a repetitive up-down cadence. He didn’t know why it was so charming, other than the fact that it was so novel.

One such night, after Sam had made the executive decision for Tommy to not wrestle with the winding back roads when the sun had long gone down, Tommy broke their usual pattern of conversation to make an observation: “You don’t have anywhere for the winter, do you, Samuel?”

The question jarred him. In all their time discussing their shared pasts, Tommy had never shown interest in what happened to him past the end of their agreement. “I guess not, no,” he muttered, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he took a moment to gaze up at the night sky. “Figured I’d try my luck in Liverpool.”

Tommy nodded, silent for a moment. Sam had thought that was the end of the conversation when a second question startled him out of his anxious planning. “You could come to Arrow House in Warwickshire.” He took a puff of his cigarette, leaning against the wheel of the vardo at his back to follow Sam’s gaze. “We have plenty of land there. Esme’ll be glad to come visit her sister and the new baby for a season. If it snows, we have more guest rooms than we know what to do with.”

Sam blinked in shock for a second before recovering with a scoff. “What, that big mansion too lonely without a pack of us travelers takin’ up on your lawn?” A clear deflection. The generosity grated on him as much as it warmed something in his chest.

Tommy had just tilted his head, smiling. “Something like that.” He passed his flask of whiskey– the good stuff –back to Sam. “Consider it. My Grace wouldn’t mind. I mean, you’re family, after all. And I know what you’re thinking, so I’ll tell it to you straight now.” He looked back at Sam, sky blue eyes considerably softer with the liquor in his system. “I’d be happy to have you there, Samuel.”

What a strange feeling, to be wanted anywhere.

Paul hummed contemplatively, breaking him from his thoughts. “He’s a mysterious one, ain’t he?”

“Sure is.” Sam took a gulp from his pint, shoveling down a chunk of the pie for good measure. No use in letting a good meal go to waste, especially one that Paul had treated him to since Sam had, according to him, looked about ready to keel over. “Can never guess what he’s gonna say next.”

“By the way,” Paul mirrored a swig of his own beer, wiping the foam off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Sam raised a brow, gesturing with his head for Paul to continue.

Paul glanced around at the few other patrons before leaning in, elbows on the sticky table. “A few of the lads down at the Swan and Gosling have been talking about the betting, an’ I want in on the action. Any clue where Tommy’s favor is gonna go? He usually tells the boys where to lay the smart bet.”

That drew a slight chuckle out of Sam. For all his stone-faced gruffness, Paul was just as prone to games of chance as any of them. “Wish I could tell you for certain,” he said, shaking his head. “Could go many ways. Reigning champion is Senator, but there’s also Pride-o’-Coventry, Grands Honneurs… and the newcomer,” he punctuated the revelation with a point of his finger, “Little Tsarina. She’s sound, I tell you. Her jockey’s starting to get noticed. She’ll likely be the favorite after the Grand National, so you’d better make your large bets early in her career with the rising odds she’s at. I can’t speak for Tommy, but that’s who I’d pick.”

Paul snorted. “That’s just like you, betting on the underdog.”

Sam shook his head, smiling. “What can I say? You stick around the stables long enough, you hear all sorts of things.”

“Cheers to that.”

The morning of the Grand National, Tommy startled awake with the scent of wet earth stuck in his nostrils and the sound of shovels grating at his ears. Not for the first time, he guiltily longed for the days of opium hazes and the lingering headaches the mornings after to keep his mind away from those dark corners. Tommy was no stranger to hiding the tremor that lingered in his hands, nor unskilled at explaining away the sweat beading on his brow. Just anticipation. Just the weather. Just a cold. Despite this, the bumpy ride from Birmingham to Aintree in the oversized delivery vehicle– borrowed from Uncle Charlie, who got it from lord-knows-where –did nothing to quell the queasiness rising in his stomach. This day had been planned and examined from every angle, each possible obstacle picked apart in at least five different ways. It would be perfect, he had told himself a dozen times over. It had to be.

Tommy had chosen a handful of skilled Blinders from various backgrounds to make this all go right. Ed and Albert, a double act, were skilled at sleight of hand. Common pickpockets as children, but made snipers by war, the friends were both sly and disciplined. They would be lookouts, giving signals before the race and stealing licenses when the real fun started. Jim Casey on the other hand was a bit of a simpleton, but he could take a hit and return it twice as hard without hesitation. He would be their muscle, and could be relied upon to take on the biggest threats. Harry Short, his last name being more of a bad pun than anything documented, had contracted influenza as a child and hadn’t grown very tall. That was saying something for the average height in Birmingham, but it had left him just small enough to fit into crawl spaces and tunnels. If it came down to it, Harry could get the jump on just about anyone. Richard “Ol’ Timer” Mooney was older, starting to reach his twilight years of being a Blinder as the last of Arthur Sr.’s generation, but he had an unassuming enough appearance that would make him the perfect getaway driver. With his brothers included, it was a bit of a ragtag team to bring all the way from Birmingham, but it was one that he could rely on to adapt quickly and carefully without taking their main seat of power away from home.

And then, of course, Tommy couldn’t have done it without Paul Knight. The Somme veteran was their main contact in the north, and while he wasn’t a Blinder directly, he was invaluable to the effort. He was discreet, tight-lipped, and hesitant to trust just anyone. He gave succinct details to Tommy via coded telegram and did his damnedest to make coordinating this heist easy. It was only fair, he reckoned, that Paul be included day-of in order to reap the benefits and prove himself in action. He knew the racecourse inside and out from the perspective of a frequent gambler, and while he didn’t have the sort of undercover expertise that would make him a veteran of the operation, he was a valuable man to have onsite. Besides, the extra muscle couldn’t hurt, and Tommy knew just from looking at the man that he was no stranger to a fistfight.

The head of the pack, whether he knew it or not, was Samuel. Everything hinged on his observations, from the schedule of the police officers making their rounds to the daily staff whose workplace gossip could prove invaluable. With Paul’s careful coaching, the man had become a more-than-proficient spy. Tommy’s own visits up north only reaffirmed this– late night conversations with Sam, while enjoyable in their own right, had settled his anxieties about his newest recruit’s ability to be trusted. Sam was candid and unguarded, perhaps to a fault if he’d been entrusted with any information beyond what was absolutely essential for him to know. He cared about this operation going well because he cared about Florence-Maria and his unborn child. That, in Tommy’s eyes, was enough to know that Sam would see it through.

So when he and John began to butt heads in the bright, sunny morning just fifteen minutes before Sam was due at the stables, it came as more than a bit of a shock. Hadn’t Sam voiced his concerns about being drawn into violence just a few days ago? Hadn’t he reassured him that he would be protected?

“—And if you so much as open your divvy mouth again about my family, so help me I’ll knock your lights clean out, lad.”

“Family? Mate, your da’s a looney and your mom’s all but fucked off. You’ve got fuckin’ stones to be talking about the Lees like you’re anything close to kin, just because you’re fucking the—“

“Better watch the next fuckin’ words out of your mouth, city boy—“

“Hey. Enough,” Tommy commanded, placing himself between his brother and his newest ally. John was red-faced and scowling, and despite Sam’s ever-present pallor, he wasn’t far behind with the sharpness of his own spectral glare. Tommy felt more like an undersized referee at the weigh-in before a brutal boxing match than the leader of an organized crime operation, a feeling that did not bode well for the cohesion within their little cohort. Tommy prayed to any higher power that might hear him that John knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. Sam’s cooperation, skittish as he was, depended on it.

“Tommy,” John pleaded like a boy twenty years younger, gesturing towards Sam with a broad, sweeping gesture. “He’s been provoking me the whole way here.”

“Was not,” Sam replied, equally petulant. “‘S like the moment you all picked me up from my camp, he’s been breathing down my neck. Jus’ telling him where to shove it.”

Tommy’s quick reflexes intercepted John’s sudden advance with a firm shove, while a sidelong glare admonished Sam’s attitude without having to speak a word. Sam wilted under it, ducking his head like a scolded pup.

“Right, neither of you are getting a fair cut of the pay if this keeps up.” Tommy patted John’s chest roughly, both a comfort and a warning. “Save it for the bookies, eh?”

The threat of losing out quelled their argument for the time being, but Tommy would be a fool if he thought that it was all over and done. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both men seethe as they parted, silently arguing through glares from their distance across the semicircle of men awaiting their instructions.

Arthur was the last to join them from within the black automobile, huffing and snorting with the back of his hand pressed under his nose. Right, of course. As much as he’d wanted Arthur to stay clear-headed and sober for such a high-stakes operation, it wasn’t something he’d specifically prohibited. Snow focused Arthur’s will just as much as it clouded his judgment. When wielded well, he was a one-man army in a fight. When misdirected… well, there was a reason why Tommy had a small fund set up for the mothers and sons of the men who had crossed Arthur at the wrong time. The tremor in Tommy’s hands made lighting his cigarette more difficult than it should’ve been, but that first rush of nicotine was a balm for his scattered mind.

“Alright, men,” his voice rang out, calling the rabble to attention. “You have your assignments, so I won’t waste your time. Few reminders,” he pointed at three men– Harry, Albert, and Ed. “You lot are doing a lot of heavy lifting today. Keep your eyes on the hired security, and keep your ears open for the coppers. John, Jim, and Paul, keep the guns to a minimum. Mooney, be ready to move at a moment’s notice. The goal is quick, quiet, and quit the scene. All the heat oughta be on Sam and Arthur in the bar tent. Yeah?”

John and Jim nodded, Jim elbowing his partners for the day with an exaggerated grin on his face. John wasn’t much a fan of big Jim and his tendency to lose focus after too much talking, but even he couldn’t restrain a smile at the idea that the three of them would be the heavy artillery. Paul couldn’t care less about the glory of a fist fight, but he gave Tommy a stiff, reassuring nod as he cracked the thick knuckles of all nine of his remaining fingers.

“Samuel, remember that your signal is coming from Harry. Anyone that’s not him means it’s meant for me. You’ll meet me under the grandstand to go over any changes this morning, but he’ll keep an eye out for you regardless in case I don’t make it there.” He reached out and patted Arthur’s shoulder, practically vibrating out of his skin as he was already. “And Arthur? I’m trusting you to make a scene, not a mess. No actual boxing with Samuel, eh? Just the song and dance of it. You’re the actor of us Shelbys.”

Arthur honed in on him like a hawk, pupils dilated but unmoving. Good, not too lost in the snow, then. He nodded frantically, an equally confident, broad grin crossing his face behind the spread of his mustache. “Song and dance, Tom, right.”

Sam looked a little queasy at the prospect of an unsupervised Arthur controlling himself while off his gourd. He looked to Tommy for support, but his objections were interrupted with Arthur’s booming voice.

“Naw, it’ll be alright, Sammy-boy. Y’know, me and you go back! You won’t remember, but I minded you, I did, back at Appleby in ‘99.” He laughed, rocking back on his heels like an old man lost in reverie. “Taught you to cuss while your pop was working with the ‘orses!”

With the rumbling chuckles that rose up through the small crowd of men, Sam smirked a bit, some of the nerves visibly leaking from him as his mind worked quickly to find a quip of his own. “And here I thought I learned the concept of doin’ fuckall from Danny Lee and Mack Boswell.”

Arthur laughed uproariously, throwing a lean arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Aw, we’re gonna have a time, lil’ Lovell.”

Sam shook his head fondly. “Song and dance, Arthur. Song and dance.”

Half an hour after Sam was kitted up and beginning his watchful lap of the grounds, the first round of early bird racegoers began to filter through the gates in an array of colorful silks and feathers. The thrumming of Tommy’s pulse beneath his skin urged him to go, but he needed to be patient. They couldn’t enter too early and make their faces known among the sparse crowd, especially with a group as large as theirs.

When the band started up and the crowd truly began to pour in, Tommy thumbed through a stack of brightly decorated entrance tickets. “Ed and Albert, you go on ahead,” he said, handing them each one of the little paper slips. “Bet on Tsarina today. Samuel tells me she’s the right pick. We’ve got inside eyes on the odds, boys.”

The two friends cheered, taking off with excitement towards their biggest pay day of the year. Harry was sent next with instructions to keep to the shadows and be on the lookout for weak points in the security. Mooney and John took their tickets a few minutes later, John grumbling under his breath about Sam and where he can shove his odds. That left him, Arthur, and Paul to bring up the rear.

“We ready, boys?” Arthur cracked his knuckles and stretched his tight jaw, eyes flashing with feverish eagerness.

Tommy took a moment to breathe, forcing his heartbeat to slow and ignoring the sweat prickling the back of his neck, cooling uncomfortably in the light breeze. It would be fine. It would be fine. It was an unseasonably good morning, dry and cloudless. Count the horses, count the men, count the color red in each racegoer’s dress or tie. His latest cigarette burned nearly to his lips before he let it fall to the ground, crushing out the ember with the flat of one polished shoe. Say a prayer, Thomas. Hail Mary full of grace, in the bleak midwinter, in the bleak midwinter, in the bleak midwinter.

“Ready, Arthur. Let’s give ‘em hell.”

Little Tsarina weaved in her stall, speckled nose twitching and shuddering as her grey head bobbed up and down, left and right, round and round. Sam was transfixed by the paleness of her large sclera, whale-eyed and bloodshot with anxiety. Her mouth, flecked with foamy spit, held tense in resolute resistance against the pain seizing her front right leg. She held it just barely aloft, the tip of her hoof grazing the hay beneath her.

“She’s been like this at least since the morning,” the jockey, George something-or-other, worried his lip between his teeth, shifting on his feet in much the same rhythm as his horse. “She’s never thrown a shoe before. Couldn’t find it, neither. And look,” he reached over the box and pointed at her hoof, “the way she’s holding it. Something’s wrong, but I can’t see it.”

Sam felt for the poor young man. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, still pockmarked and pimple-spotted like an adolescent. While his older peers had gone off to war, it was clear that the boy didn’t have the years or temperament to him. Yet according to the papers, he was a prodigy on the horse. He would be a legend, soon enough. Or, at least, could’ve been. It was clear that if Little Tsarina rode today there would be no undoing her lameness. One jump could ruin her, if she even worked up the nerve.

But still… to look into the boy’s eyes and tell him no off the bat would be agony. Perhaps worse than if he’d just let him lose on his own, but Sam would never have done such a thing to such a beautiful animal. “I’ll take a look,” he sighed, resigned. “But I’ll make you no promises, yeah?”

George looked about ready to weep with relief. “Oh, please do!” He swept a hand over his shock of red hair, watching intently as Sam unlatched the lower half of the stall door.

The first thing Sam noticed was the little patch of blood beneath her hoof as she shifted away from him, still crimson and wet. This was something more serious than a loose shoe on race day.

“Hello, love,” he gentled, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Might I have a look? Yeah?”

In a person, the look Little Tsarina shot him could only be described as withering. But with no capacity for human expression, she had no clearer way to convey her message of fuck right off, mate than to point her ears back and huff warningly. Sam approached her with caution, taking a slice of dried apple out of his pocket and offering her some, which she reluctantly sniffed at, having not eaten since the night before to protect her gut. Her defiance was admirable, something that was obnoxious and ill-bred in Meska but proud and stately in a winning horse such as her. Careful not to startle her, Sam took some time to pat her neck and cheeks as she chewed, slowly moving his hands in broader circles so as not to startle her when he reached for her bad leg.

Despite her earlier hesitance, she seemed glad to no longer support her weight on a bleeding hoof, allowing Sam to hold her between his apron-clad knees as she tensed against the pain once more. From this angle, the damage was clear: a missing shoe, with one remaining nail driven far enough into the hoof to have gone way past the start of the quick. On any typical day, Sam might’ve considered this a bad accident. But this was no typical day, and she was no typical horse. And this nail, he noted, was decidedly not hers.

“How long ago was she last shod?” He asked over his shoulder, lightly brushing some of the dirt and hay away from the injury.

“Not long at all, sir. A week at most.” George peered over the side of the box stall, bushy brows knit together in concern.

Sam hummed, inspecting the edge of her hoof. “And she was shod with a broad shoe? Meant for steeplechase?”

“Yeah, I always give her some time to adjust ‘coz it’s heavy,” the boy stammered, wringing his hands.

Sam let her hoof down carefully, so as not to cause Little Tsarina any more pain than she was already in. From just outside the stall, he grabbed his roll of tools, tucking them under his arm before reentering. The mare eyed the bundle cautiously as he sifted through the variety of clippers, hammers, and pliers before he settled on a buffer and a long-handled crease nail puller. Drawing her hoof between his knees once again, Sam wasted no time in prying the stuck nail from within the poor horse’s foot. The buffer slid over the manicured hoof, coming to a halt right at the head of the nail, where he carefully dug it underneath and began to pry it upwards. Predictably, she wrenched her leg forward with a grumble, nearly unseating Sam if it weren’t for the strength of his thighs and the friction of his boots against the flooring. Dropping the buffer behind him (sloppy tool handling, he could hear his father’s disapproving tsk in the back of his mind), he reached for the puller just within reach. Just one good tug, one good pull and the nail would be free. Slowly, as slowly as he could, he clamped around the nail, slippery with the fresh blood bubbling through the hair-thin crack running across the bottom of her hoof. And pulled. And pulled.

“Sir?” The boy spoke up, concern raising his pitch as Little Tsarina began to complain.

The nail popped free, lubricated with the bubbling stream of blood and fluid dripping thickly from the wound. With one hand, he pulled cotton and gauze from his back pocket, packing and wrapping her foot before gently letting the poor girl rest.

Sam grabbed his tools and straightened his strained spine, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re a talented rider, George. Very talented, and with a very good horse.”

George blinked, eyes blown wide. “Uh, thank you… sir?”

Sam met his eyes tiredly. “You wanna know how I know?”

George nodded, and gasped a bit when the bloody nail was thrown at his feet: too long for a thoroughbred, especially one with Little Tsarina’s build, and too lightweight to be used with a heavy shoe.

“Because someone has it out for you.”

George went pale as a sheet, scrambling to pick the nail up from the floor and look it over. “This isn’t the right size…”

“And she didn’t throw that shoe. Someone threw it for her.” Sam stroked Little Tsarina’s neck apologetically, grabbing his tool roll and latching the stall door behind him. “I’m sorry, George. She won’t be racing today. Call the veterinarian over, ask for her to be seen, and pray it’s not gone into the bone.”

George looked on the verge of tears. A yawning pit ached in Sam’s chest, because he knew the pain of seeing his horse suffer, but no amount of sympathy could fix the situation.

“But… I don’t understand?” George hurried after him, casting quick looks back over his shoulder at his horse. “I- I haven’t done anythin’ to anyone, and we’ve only just made it this far…”

Sam eyed the clock atop the grandstand, stomach leaping when he saw the time. He whipped around, grabbing George by the shoulders so that he quieted down, eye-to-eye with Sam’s cold stare. “Listen to me, lad. It doesn’t matter how good you are, or how new. There are people out there– listen,” he shook George lightly to interrupt the quiver of his lip. “There are people out there who see other people as a means to an end. And it’s nothing personal. Right? They’re just looking out for themselves.” In his periphery, he could make out Paul’s hulking silhouette, lurking by the fence near the track entrance. “It’s… it’s just business.”

With that, he turned and marched on towards the meeting point under the stands with long strides. His hands were shaking, clammy and smelling faintly of coppery horse blood. Rubbing them on his apron didn’t help, nor did undoing the belt and wrenching the leather covers from his legs and hands. They flopped uselessly to the ground alongside his Aintree-issued tools with a dull thud, the thud of metal and leather, the thud of something solid. The smell of copper grew stronger, his throat closing tighter, not now not now not now–

“Mate! What the fuck?” Paul’s smoke-roughened voice stopped Sam in his tracks before he could crash into the man headlong. “You dead-set on fuckin’ everyone over today? We’re nearly ten minutes behind.”

Sam nodded wordlessly, mouth opening as if to speak but with no words to follow. What… what was he meant to be doing? All he could smell was mud, blood, infection–

“C’mon, then! Let’s stop playing bloody doctor and get a move on.”

Shaky as he was, Sam’s long strides only just kept him a pace behind Paul as they pushed their way through the steadily growing swarm of racegoers milling around, placing their bets with the first wave of bookies: some legitimate, dressed in pricy suits and chomping on Spanish cigars as they blustered through their pitches, and some Scuttlers weaving their way through the crowds with stolen licenses and forged papers. These didn’t look like a challenge to Sam, mostly youths under the age of twenty who would sheepishly turn over their place at Aintree when faced with a credible threat to call their mothers. Tommy wouldn’t be worried about them, if he was any sort of racketeer worth his salt. The real challenge would be these gentleman bookies, the ones well-used to making great deals of money on the Grand National. They were the types to have police protection far stronger than your average razor gangster. If Sam were to hazard a guess, these were the men Tommy was really targeting.

Paul dragged him by the elbow to a shadowy space behind the grandstand, shoving him roughly against the brick with a hand gripping his shirt front. “Care to explain why the fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, so close to Sam’s face that the sharp consonants flecked his cheek with tobacco-scented spit, “you’re going around talking to the jockeys? Eh? You wanna get found out or something?”

Sam shook his head, breath short from the impact. “Just doing my job. The horse–”

“You have got to watch with who you speak to, Sam, anyone could be–”

“Paul,” a familiar deep voice rang out, “that’s enough.” Tommy patted the large man’s shoulder firmly as he approached from one of the festival tents, the warning clear. Paul stepped back, grumbling under his breath but keeping that menacing glare on Sam.

Tommy gave him a once over, dusting a stray speck of dirt from the collar of Sam’s shirt. With his hand this close, he could smell gunpowder and clean leather from Tommy’s glove. Had there been a fight already? Or was he just always acquainted with the trigger of a gun? He wasn’t sure which answer he preferred more, given Tommy’s proximity to his jumping pulse.

“You doing alright, Samuel? Things going well?” His voice was still just as low, but softer. Like the way Sam spoke to the racehorse he’d just treated.

He nodded, taking a shaky breath. His back hurt from the way Paul had slammed him against the masonry, but that was nothing compared to the tightness lingering from that moment of panic in the stables. Only the worst kind of person would treat an animal like that, and there was no doubt in his mind that someone who’d harm a gentle horse to skew the odds would stop at nothing when it came to other people.

“There’s proper bad men here, Tom,” Sam’s voice dropped to a hiss. 

Tommy huffed something close to a laugh. “We’re proper bad men, mate.”

Sam shook his head vehemently. “Worse than crooked cops and sham bookies. Screwing the race, laming horses… it smells rotten.”

A frown creased Tommy’s brow. “Laming horses?”

“Little Tsarina. The mare I told you about. Fuck, she was only just old enough to race. Just a little one.”

Tommy cursed, pacing a few steps away with his hands on his hips as he nodded to himself. He approached Paul, giving him an order too quiet for Sam to hear over the raucous laughter of a gaggle of young ladies having a few too many drinks nearby. Paul looked back and forth between Tommy and Sam, a hint of confusion crossing his face, but nodded and lumbered away towards the Blinders lurking near the track.

Tommy returned to him, expression tight with anger. “What else, Samuel? What did you see?”

Sam stammered through a retelling of his lap around the racecourse, from the cop he’d seen rubbing a bump of Tokyo over his gums in the men’s restroom to the well-paid bookies and their stores of cash. As he was describing the squirrely appearance of a nervous young woman arguing with her man over something about a purse, one of the Blinders– Ed, not Harry like he’d been told to expect –crossed into their line of sight and gave the signal: a pebble kicked at the wall by their feet. He was early. Too early for it to be a miscalculation. Tommy and Sam looked back to each other, the older man’s blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic worry.

“You ought to grab something to drink before they play the first call,” Tommy said, slowly and deliberately. The implication was clear: The bar fight has to get started. Now.

As Sam pushed through the flamboyantly dressed crowd to reach the entrance to the bar tent, he noted a trio of Blinders led by Arthur purposefully making their way towards an unassumingly-dressed older man standing by the other side of the grandstand. But if Arthur won’t be there to start the brawl, Sam thought, then who–

He barely had time to think through the options before the answer was presented to him. Of-fucking-course. Armed with a cheeky smirk, John stood casually leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Looking right at him.

Sam knew immediately where this was headed, but he had his orders. He had promised Tommy that this was something he could do.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sam grumbled, sidling up to the bar next to John and flagging the bartender down for a pint.

“Aw, likewise, mate,” John sneered, tossing down the last gulp of liquor.

“Thought we were told to stick to beers today?” “Yeah, well,” he sniffed, swiping his nose with his thumb. “Rules are different for the men who can handle themselves out here.”

Sam didn’t dignify that with a response, sliding his payment to the bartender and taking a swig of cheap, foamy beer. John noticed, which only made him grin wider.

“You smell godawful, mate,” he remarked, as casually as one might remark on the weather at an event like this. “Blood and horse shit. Had a nice morning?”

“Oh, yeah, real nice,” he muttered into his pint. Where the hell did this guy get off?

“Yeah,” he laughed, “figured as much. Though it’s not like that’s much of a change for you, is it, with all the arse-kissing you do for every fucker with a wallet you meet? You probably can’t even smell yourself.”

An angry flush came to the tips of Sam’s ears, despite trying as he did to restrain himself from giving in to any sort of reaction.

“It’s a wonder your wife can tolerate it. Or… wait, then again, she’s still not your wife, is she?”

Sam couldn’t help himself at that point. He swung around, nose-to-nose with John’s self-satisfied gloat, puffing himself up so that he towered over the smaller man. “The fuck are you trying to say, mate? If you’ve got a problem with me, then take it up with me. For the last fuckin’ time, leave my girl out of it.”

John snorted a laugh, his breath reeking of whiskey. “A problem with you? Fuck, mate, you have no idea what you’ve done, have you? Just for starters, you’re makin’ my wife miserable, not knowing what’s happening with her baby sister. Spirited away by the raving mad son of raving mad Henry Lovell with no warning. You have any idea what that’s done to her?” By then he and John were chest-to-chest, staring one another down like boxers in the ring as John hissed and spat. “And, come to find out from Danny, you’ve knocked the poor girl up? And you have the bloody nerve to ask me what my issue is? My issue is that you’ve no right to even speak to Florence-Maria when her Uncle Ephraim is lyin’ cold in a grave with no justice for what your nutter father’s done! You may have fooled Tommy with that pathetic hangdog face of yours, but I know what right bastards you and your kin are, Sam.”

Sam shoved him. John stumbled heavily into the stool behind him, practically knocking a large man off his seat.

When he regained his footing, John let out a raucous laugh. “Fuck! Well, Tom wanted a fight, didn’t he?” John shook his arms, bringing his hands up into a defensive position. “Might as well make it count. Hit me, Sam. Go on ahead. Fucking try me.”

A murmur had begun to rumble through the crowd, prim ladies drawing their handbags closer to themselves and gentlemen scoffing at the rowdy display. Sam knew he had to act fast, or their faces would be remembered.

“Well? What’re you waiting for? Or are you too much of a nancy to–”

He saw red. Sam’s fist landed square on John’s left cheek, sending him reeling back again into the big man, who by this point was more than bothered by the whole display. John took only a moment to recover, shaking the stars from his sight before rebutting with a swift strike of his own, catching Sam in the bridge of the nose. He felt something pop before a thick, sludgy bleed oozed over his upper lip. The chain reaction as Sam caught himself on the bar was immediate: his elbow knocked a gentleman’s glass of gin onto his tailored trousers, who’d assumed based on the large man’s quick cut into the middle of the disruption that it was his doing. Sam stumbled out of the way before he could get caught in the crossfire, allowing the two men to square off in their own miscommunicated fashion. As they did so, John lunged again, missing and bumping into a table with a young couple. That man stood, obviously having something to prove in front of his lady, and began to march towards John. The Shelby brother, thinking quickly, grabbed the remainder of Sam’s beer and splashed it carelessly on another nearby man, who accosted the blustering youth he’d assumed to be the culprit. Their resulting scuffle disturbed an entire table full of well-dressed and thoroughly drunk Americans, and before long the tent erupted in an all-out brawl. Exactly as planned. Fucking animals, the lot of them, Sam thought as he took in the chaos, all that posturing for nothing. Across the impromptu battleground, Sam locked eyes with a victoriously grinning John.

It didn’t take long for them to meet in the middle again, Sam refusing to let the other man have the last word. His next punch was aimed at John’s gut, doubling him over with a grunt before John caught him around the middle and slammed him against a tent pole. The force and the sudden searing pain in his chest crushed the breath out of him once more, but he managed a few solid hits around John’s head before the other man relented. He staggered back, John panting heavily and Sam struggling around rattling wheezes. John was bleeding from a spot on his brow where Sam had nailed a particularly nasty hit, and Sam’s nose was beginning to leak all the way down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. They looked a mess, all split knuckles and dirty clothes. He nearly spared the time to laugh incredulously about the situation, dreading the fussing-over he’d get at home and the inevitable lecture on maturity and self-control. Before he could dwell on it, John went after him with another wide swing. A swift dodge sent the man’s fist careening into the wood pole behind him, forcing a yelp out of him. Sam spun around, attempting to grab at John’s waistcoat and yank him off balance, but a pink silk purse laying abandoned in the alcohol-soaked earth below caught itself around his shoe and sent them both tumbling to the ground. John took advantage of the situation when Sam choked out a pained gasp, landing atop of him and delivering blow after blow, most missing and hitting the dirt, but several catching him on the cheek, the chin, the jaw. Sam flailed below him, catching him equally well in the mouth, the nose, the forehead.

A well-placed blow to the temple left Sam reeling, black spots dancing around his vision. The chaos around him muted for just a moment, fading into muffled complaints and a handful of shrieks that pierced through the fog clouding his senses. John must have realized at that point that he’d won, because the weight around his midsection disappeared and a vaguely John-shaped figure was offering him a hand up, urgently hurrying him on. The bar tent had descended into pandemonium, and they needed to run. In the not-too-far distance, he could hear police whistles and the shouts of men being apprehended. Sam, regaining his survival instinct, scrambled upright with John’s help (which irritated him to no end, despite the circumstances). John snatched his bladed hat from the ground behind him, throwing it back on his head as Sam untangled the muddy bag from his ankle. Shoving through the crowd, they staggered frantically towards the exit. By now, the Blinders would have given the signal across the racetrack to rush in and handle the scattered bookmakers and their personal security, thrown off-kilter by the chaos of the fight and left without the defense of the coppers. They were almost there. Just a few more meters and they’d be out of the tent, away from the fight and that much closer to safety. Just a few more steps, and he would–

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The unmistakable sound of gunshots nearly drove Sam back to the ground, if not for John’s strong grip on the back of his shirt and his own fist clutching the shoulder of John’s waistcoat. Wails of terror rang out around them, and Sam could swear that he tripped over someone’s leg as they lay motionless on the ground.

“Fucking run, you son of a bitch!” John shouted at him, practically dragging him along as they stumbled into the open festival field. To their left and right, coppers were pulling brawlers apart, shoving men to the dirt and subduing them with cuffs and batons. Through sheer luck and dogged pursuit of their getaway car, the two of them managed to avoid the clutches of the police, throwing themselves into the large loading space of the delivery car and hunkering down to avoid detection until the rest of the crew could return. The ache in Sam’s chest was staggering, outranked only by the sting-thud of the bullet he’d survived in Belgium.

Paul arrived soon after they did, sweating and red-faced as he hauled himself into the back of the van with a grunt and a handful of curses. Ed and Albert joined them soon enough with victorious whoops, and lazy-eyed Jim Casey lumbered in after them, wringing his bruised knuckles. Harry, the little one, hopped in with a bagful of cash, followed soon after by Arthur, who sat next to his younger brother and ruffled his hair, seeming not to notice the state that the two of them were in. Unsurprising, frankly, considering how blown his pupils still were and how rapidly his knee bounced. Mooney hopped into the drivers’ seat not long after, starting up the engine as Thomas Shelby finally found his place in the crowded back of the van.

So many bodies stinking of sweat and horse and cigarette and blood made him queasy, so Sam leaned his head against the cool wall of the automobile and lethargically watched Tommy gesture with his arms as he ran the numbers and got their story straight, a commanding presence even in his disheveled state. A few times, Tommy caught his eyes, and he could swear that there was a glimmer of pride in that gaze behind the steely King-of-Birmingham exterior. It sent a wave of relief washing through him, to know that he hadn’t fucked it up. That he’d done well. He blinked slowly a couple of times, the rocking and rumbling of the vehicle over countryside dirt roads luring him into meditative peace as it had when he was just a boy in his father’s caravan.

He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep until there was a hand frantically batting his bruised cheek, forcing him upright. The car was stopped and empty, just him, Tommy, and Ed remaining.

“Well, good mornin’, princess,” Ed drawled, tipping his hat dramatically. “Thought you were a goner for a second there.”

Sam scoffed on principle, though he couldn’t deny that he certainly felt half-dead. The cotton filling his head made it difficult to blink his surroundings into focus, the light sharp and abrasive against his retinas. Ed playfully saluted Tommy and hopped out of the back of the car, leaving the two of them alone again.

“John did a number on you,” Tommy observed, sitting down against the back wall with him when he realized that Sam was in no rush to go anywhere.

“Sure did,” he grumbled, though his mouth felt like it was full of marbles. He flinched and tensed as the movement of his mouth and jaw sent a dull, throbbing pain up through his temples. “Hell of a right hook on your brother.”

“Hell of a right hook on you,” Tommy countered, grinning slightly. “John complained about his split lip the whole way out here.”

Sam hummed, a slight smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. Served the bastard right, after all. But Tommy’s reference to out here made him curious. “Where are we now?” Adjusting to the brightness of the late afternoon, he could make out a grove of trees and the sparkling surface of dark water.

Tommy followed his gaze to where the men were standing around in a loose circle, smoking and chatting. John sat on a rock by the river, pressing a whiskey-soaked rag to his forehead and as Arthur regaled him with a dramatic reenactment of his own brawl.

“We’re a few miles out of Tern Hill,” Tommy said. “The radiator’s leaking. I’ve sent Mooney and Albert out to find a phone, and hopefully Pol can send some men out here to get us.”

Fia will be worried. Shit, why are we in fucking Tern Hill? He was supposed to be in Haydock–

A broad palm pressed against his bruised sternum, pushing him back into a seated position. When did he try to get up?

“Easy, Samuel,” Tommy reassured, kneeling in front of him. “Easy. It’s okay, just slow down. We need to get you to a doctor, alright? Someone we trust not to rat you out. You aren’t looking well.”

Sam tried to take a deep breath, but his diaphragm hitched against Tommy’s hand when a sharp stab of pain ran through his torso, like his ribs were being squeezed in a vice. The attempt winded him. He gripped instinctually at the back of Tommy’s hand as he leaned his head back against the wall of the car, eyes clenched shut as his shallow, halting breaths evened out.

When he recovered, one eye cracked, Tommy’s typically stony, expressionless face was close to his own, brow tight with concern. “No offense, Tom,” Sam rasped, “but your brother might be the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met.”

Tommy sighed. “John should’ve controlled himself better. Grudges or not, he disobeyed orders and got someone hurt,” he said. “I sent Arthur to sniff out whoever had lamed that poor horse, instead. He was too fucked up to dial it down with you in the tent, and I’d hoped that John would be better. Besides, you seemed…upset. With that mare being your favorite, and all. Needed to right the wrongs. You deserved as much, for your hard work.” He looked sheepish, as though the slightest emotionally-based decision was shameful. A light flush spread over the bridge of Sam’s nose when he realized it was probably the most gallant thing anyone had ever done for him, and all because Sam had mentioned it in passing.

“I’m glad you did,” he said gently. “That was…” Kind? Righteous?

Fuck, please let it be just kind. Righteous. Respectable. Not something to think about later, with his eyes staring unblinkingly at the roof of the vardo and Fia’s long hair soft on his shoulder. A gentle, merciful, divine physical reminder of his shame, shame, shame.

Tommy gave him a weak smile, blinking a few times as his gaze drifted just slightly lower. Sam’s flush spread farther as he realized that he was still holding Tommy’s hand captive against his chest, pressed to his racing pulse. He released him as though the contact burned him, scooting with a wince so that he was better supported by the wall behind him.

The barriers went up very quickly in Tommy’s eyes. Sam had already learned this, and he found himself wishing he could force them down like the crumbling walls of Jericho. Every time he built them back up, that ache was worse. He didn’t want to dwell on why that could be.

“Well,” Tommy cleared his throat. “As soon as Pol can get people up this way, I’ll make sure they pass the message along to your… to Florence-Maria, and they’ll see that she makes it to Birmingham safely. But–” He raised his eyebrows raised and pointing a finger at him as though scolding Sam for chewing up his slippers or chasing the chickens, “–You’ll be seeing our doctor, eh?”

Sam nodded, rubbing a hand under his nose and frowning when it came away tacky with drying blood. He startled when Tommy reached out with his own handkerchief, wiping the blood from his chin.

“You didn’t walk,” Tommy muttered as he worked, gently rubbing at the oxidized blood streak smearing down his throat. Sam gulped against the pressure.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’d walk if I switched things up on you,” he mused. “You didn’t.”

Sam had nothing to say to that. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was already in too deep, or that he’d already developed a habit of giving in to whatever Tommy thought was best. He had that effect on people, Sam noticed. If Tommy Shelby asked the Thames to flow the other direction, the river might just steer itself right around posthaste.

Instead of voicing this, Sam shrugged. “I have a little one on the way,” he said. “Can’t afford to give up with the kind of money you’re offering. Not now.”

Tommy, satisfied with the work he’d done to clean him up, stood up to his full height to withdraw a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He rubbed the filter over his lips, a quirk reminiscent of the older boys he’d watched sneaking a forbidden smoke outside the schoolyard during his short stays in the cities. Did Tommy always smoke like that? Certainly a man like him could afford higher quality cigarettes, ones that wouldn’t stick to the inside of his mouth.

“I’ve got a son myself,” he told Sam, slightly muffled by the cigarette as he lit it. “Just two months old, now.”

Sam blinked. “I didn’t take you for a family man. Other than the present company, of course,” he added, nodding in the direction of John and Arthur, who were locked in a heated argument over the veracity of Arthur’s wild story. Tommy laughed at that. It was barely an exhale, but it nearly crinkled the corners of his eyes, so Sam took it as a victory. Serious as the plague, that one.

“A bit of a surprise, that I’ll admit. You and I aren’t too different in that regard.” He took a long drag of the cigarette, tapping the ash off with his finger. “I’m not married either, you know. Not yet. You could say Grace ran off with me.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, but didn’t comment on it. He figured that any commentary on the irony of his younger brother’s vitriol wouldn’t be appreciated right now. In any case, his head and jaw were beginning to throb, and all he really wanted was to go back to sleep and wait for the ache to go away. His shoulders slumped as the will to keep his eyes open bled out of him.

“Oi, eyes open, my friend,” Tommy nudged his outstretched leg with the side of his foot, jolting Sam back to consciousness. “Need to be able to tell us if something’s going sideways.”

“Other than my whole fucking body hurting?”

“You know what I mean.” Tommy shook his head fondly and turned to leave the back of the delivery van. “Shout if you’re dying, will you?”

Sam chuckled at the price of another hot stab of pain. “Don’t worry, you’ll hear me.”