#aside form arthur

[bruciemilf]

The justice league thinks manbat is Batman in his true form and will ask him to transform if a fight is too hard and Batman would be like:🤨???

Here's the thing; Every Justice League member aside from Clark and Oliver is convinced Bruce has a superpower. They just have different theories on what said superpower Is.

Diana: Shadow manipulation

J'onn: Has a plan for everything and a PowerPoint presentation for any subject. Any. Subject.

Barry: Bottomless cape

Victor: Endless utility belt

Arthur: Indestructibility/abnormal pain tolerance like what the fuck

Billy: Scaring the fuck out of people with a look alone

Hal: Telepathy but with kids only

#bruce wayne #dc #dc comics #the justice league #clark: his superpower is being compassionate and awesome and-- #hal: shut up he punches real hard and hes cool #jla #hal jordan #arthur curry #diana prince #barry allen

[colleendoran]

Misunderstanding

I received a note from someone who was upset I “failed to cite Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics” in my research for my work on Neil Gaiman's Chivalry and the essays I wrote about it. 

I really appreciate that people want to make sure credit goes where it's due, and I have a lot of respect for Scott McCloud's accomplishment with his wonderful book.  

I haven't read it myself in some years, and didn't cite it in my articles because I didn't reference it. I don't even know where my copy is so I don't know what McCloud referenced, either. 

The information in my articles re: illuminated manuscripts and the Bayeux Tapestry, as well as other theories about the development of sequential art from prehistory, not only predate McCloud's work (and in fact, predate McCloud's birth,) but they are so common and so well known in comics circles that asking me to cite them seems as weird to me as asking me to cite the information that George Washington was the first President of the United States.

A part of me wonders if someone is trying to play, "Let's you and him fight." 

No.

But I’m happy to bring to your attention some reading material.

Stephen Becker in his 1959 work Comic Art in America: A Social History of the Funnies, the Political Cartoons, Magazine Humor, Sporting Cartoons, and Animated Cartoons was among the first to discuss the Bayeux Tapestry as comic art. I read that book sometime in the 1980’s. I think a lot of people assume the Bayeux tapestry as comic art was McCloud’s idea, but we don’t all walk around with a reference library in our heads, so there you go. I can’t find my copy of Becker’s work to quote, but I did find an article by Arthur Asa Berger with a mention of the Bayeux Tapestry as comic art in the summer 1978 issue of The Wilson Quarterly.

My first exposure to the idea of comics as descendant of fine art was Maurice Horn’s 1976 The World Encyclopedia of Comics which was my first read re: comics history. I still have my tattered 1976 edition. 

While Horn scorned the idea that tapestries and manuscripts could be comic art (see, it was a matter of discussion way back then, so much so that authors were writing snarky asides to one another about it,) he believed the origin of sequential art was in the Renaissance sketches of Leonardo da Vinci - which I think everyone now agrees is kind of a bonkers idea.

I think Horn was just intent on elevating the comic art form by hooking up with da Vinci.

You go, boi.

Comics as descendant of art on scrolls is a very common theory, the easiest to trace being in Manga! Manga! The World of Japanese Comics by Fred Schodt published in 1983 when I was still a teenager. I can't find my copy to show examples, but this text is still in print and you can go read it for yourself. 

I was introduced to manga by cartoonist Leslie Sternbergh and bought Schodt’s book at Books Kinokuniya on (I think) a trip to New York around the time of first publication of Schodt’s work. And years later took a trip to Japan with Fred Schodt and a group of cartoonists including Jeff Smith and Jules Fieffer, Nicole Hollander, and Denys Cowan as the guests of Tezuka Productions.

Here we all are.

So, I’m familiar with manga, see.

As for comics as descendant of cave paintings, hieroglyphics and ancient art in general, Will Eisner’s 1985 Comics and Sequential Art not only made all of those points, but made those points with comic art examples. Like these.

And this.

And this.

And more than a few words on this:

I find it amusing that someone is questioning why I didn’t cite McCloud when what you should probably be questioning is why more people don’t cite Eisner who produced his book eight years before McCloud published his and who is well known to have influenced McCloud.

Whatever. My book's autographed.

I also danced with Eisner. Eat your heart out.

Understanding Comics is a terrific work with huge advantages over every book (that I know of) about comics that came before: it taught comics entirely in the language of comics. 

But the discussion in it about the origins of comics and my work especially re: illuminated manuscripts/tapestries, did not originate with McCloud. I research illuminated manuscripts because it’s my hobby and it informs my art. 

I encourage everyone to read Understanding Comics because it is an outstanding work.

But it’s not the book that introduced me to the concepts of the development of comic art. It’s not even the point of origin of those concepts. So, there is no reason to cite it.

Also, shocking as it may seem, I occasionally come up with ideas on my own. While I'm younger than McCloud, I've actually been a comics pro longer than he has. So I've had plenty of opportunity to, you know, read things and toss things around, and decide for myself.

When I first read Chivalry and first begged Neil Gaiman to let me adapt it, my head full of the work of Alberto Sangorski and his art for Tennyson’s Le Morte D’Arthur, Understanding Comics hadn’t been published yet.

It's been a good twelve years since I last read McCloud's work, and I don't think I've spoken to him five times in the last three decades. But I'm pretty sure he never mentioned Sangorski.

I hope that clears everything up, and maybe introduces some of you to some works you might not be aware of.

Have a great day.

#understanding comics #comics history #neil gaiman #scott mccloud #chivalry #jules fieffer #tezuka productions #manga #will eisner

[dathen]

Okay jokes aside let’s look at the reality of what the ‘happily married’ line would entail:

When we got home we were talking of the old time—which we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married.

For one, if Art and Jack married random unnamed women, what would that have to do with the first half of the sentence?

But let’s add up a few details!

They they said that despite all their documentation, they didn’t have any actual evidence, but feel no need to prove their experiences to anyone. This means that if Art and Jack married random unnamed women, they didn’t even *attempt* to tell them about their experiences.

Second, while I could see Jack repressing the hell out of his trauma, I can’t see Arthur “happily married” in a relationship where he has to keep the circumstances of the loss of his best friend, his grief over Lucy, and his bizarrely intimate friendship with this random lawyer’s wife a complete secret. And on a more literary level, it would fully contradict the heart of the book’s themes of openness and trust to have someone’s Happily Ever After be about bottling up the most formative experiences of their life, good and bad.

Third, the secrecy option would be a contradiction to the first half of the sentence—why would Jack and Art marrying people they can never confide in lead to “we can all look back on those times without despair”?

THEREFORE. The only possible conclusion—logically, thematically, or emotionally—is that Art and Jack married each other.

#dracula daily #re: dracula #arthur holmwood #jack seward #slams hands on desk ace attorney style #‘but that wasn’t legal—‘ neither was breaking into dracula’s house 😤

[wutheringcaterpillar]

A Bump In The Night: Part 2

find part 1 here Summary: With Arthur overhearing the events from last night, knowing he couldn’t go to Tommy about it, he goes to someone else. Meanwhile you return to school where you meet a new student who has close ties with someone in the family.

warnings: jealousy, incest, sister!reader, talks of arranged relationship/marriage, age gap (Reader is 18)

taglist: @calmingmelody96 @sunflower-tia

The following morning the sun rose quaintly on the horizon, peering in through the curtains delicately waking Tommy from his slumber.

There you were, resting, soundly asleep contently in his arms. He hummed and smiled to himself, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek before rolling out of bed.

Pol was standing in the kitchen, arms crossed with one eyebrow raised, not even attempting to hide her disapproval. Arthur excused himself, saying he was grabbing the post, though it was already laying out blatantly clear on the table.

“Morning Pol. What did I do to upset you now?” He pulled down a mug from the cabinet, filling the glass with just the hot kettle of tea that was steaming and whistling atop the stove.

“You know damn well what you’ve done!” She spoke with a quiet grit, careful not to wake you before smacking Tommy with the rolled up paper. 

She scoffed, her hair flipping on either sides of her head from the anger and outrage she was feeling.

“What in the hell were you thinking! She’s young and I will not let you ruin her life!” He huffed, turning to face his prodding aunt with an annoyed gaze.

He glanced out the window, thinking about how Arthur’s room was right next to his, connecting the dots. His body tensed, lips curling into a sarcastic, devilish smile as he approached Polly, slamming his coffee on the table. Speaking in a threatening, low voice, he pointed his finger degradingly at your aunt, his sapphire eyes boiling with rage.

“What I decide to do with my cock is none of your business or Arthur’s. I’ve always loved her and you know that more than anyone I’d never hurt her Pol, but I solemnly swear if you mention this to her and break her heart in any way, we will have words.” Polly was taken aback by Tommy’s tone but held her ground, not allowing him to influence her decision. Taking his jacket from the coat rack, he opened the door, lighting a cigarette and stopping mid-stride.

“Oh, and Pol? If you bring up this little conversation I will hide the money and withold your cut. May I need not remind you I also know where Mr. Gold lives and there are a lot of people aside from myself that want him dead. With that being said, maybe compromise a little, eh?” Polly’s nose was flaring, she knew her nephew inside and out, Tommy would go to that extent to keep his precious little angel all too himself, so she’d have to combat and end this little romance another way.

Waking up from your deep sleep, the events of last night captured your mind, replaying over and over like a broken record you didn’t want to fix. 

Under the sheets forbiddingly with such a crazed lust. His cozy legs intertwined with yours, the incomprehensible, profound desire just before Tommy had taken you as his own. Those baby blue eyes so sincere yet filled with a sense of animalistic hunger. The way his cock stretch your tight hole, his cum filling you to the brim like a water ballon bursting within your heat. He was so caring, so careful, so mesmerizing, your skin was forming goosebumps as you reminisced the previous night.

Yawning and stretching you turned to the side only to realize Tommy wasn’t there but he had left a note.

“Left for a business meeting Pol made you breakfast, please be sure to eat, I’ll be home later in the evening and Ada will take you to your classes. Until tonight my darling.” Next to the note he had two pills set out in case you were in any pain. You took them knowing if they were still sitting there when Tommy came home he’d be upset.

Walking to your room, ensuring the coast was clear, you carried Tommy’s nightshirt into your room, tucking the thin, delicate fabric beneath your pillow before getting dressed for the day.

Pol and Arthur were sat at the kitchen table, both seeming to be in deep thought and conversation, stopping once you entered the room.

They’d never done that before, but you brushed it off. “How’d you sleep dear?” 

Polly looked at you with skepticism, wanting to know if you’d tell her the truth or if your allegiance still stood grounded with Tommy.

“I slept alright, and you?” She hummed to herself, motioning for Arthur to leave the room, maybe she’d get it out of you if it was a private conversation or perhaps turning the conversation into a minor detour.

“I was talking with Arthur. Lizzie has a cousin who is looking for a wife. I want you to attend on a date with him.” All of a sudden it seemed you forgot how to swallow, nearly choking on your food from her statement.

Before you could answer Ada walked through the door, saving you the trouble and disregarding your aunt. She claimed she would bring this up later, perhaps at a better time and not to inform Tommy of this conversation.

Being the older sister she was, Ada prodded along the drive to your school, inquiring about what had Pol’s panties in a twist. You didn’t have much to answer for as she chatted along, chattering along with possible conclusions, that she believed herself to be true. None of them involving you, some of Tommy since he was known to get under her skin at times but surely it would blow over.

It was your first day of senior year, classes were all over the place, and new students roaming the halls with their unfamiliar faces. Due to holding the Shelby last name it was awfully difficult for you to make friends without your family members scaring them off, or the “rumors” of what they’ve done to people. Your mind was preoccupied nevertheless with an impending hurricane of emotions, wanting nothing more than to just be in your brother’s bed once more in a way a sister never should.

Taking your seat, the bell chimed along, and for the first time in your schooling history a person sat beside you, willingly. 

The hand of another man flexing outward as a greeting. “Hi, my names James. You’re Y/N, aren’t you? My sister brings you up all the time, thinking we’d be a good fit. I suppose we have a date together later this week.” You were taken aback, not expecting the soft shade of brown eyes, and plump lips curling into an exemplary smile that would make any girl’s heart skip a beat. Shaking yourself away from your thoughts, you extended your hand. Why did this feel like a business deal moreso than a greeting? 

“Ye-yeah. I’m her.” As the day stumbled on, James had many classes with you, staying seated next to you each and every time. He was kind, polite, charming, but your mind was still flustered from your brother, and you knew what he’d think about this, surely scaring him away as he did the rest. He was quite attractive but the only man you had interest in, that should be off limits was outside waiting for you with the car.

Your eyes beamed in the sunlight like a school girl in love, and Tommy attempted to hold back his smile. He had a reputation to maintain after all, but that smile quickly faded when your papers fell from your bag, and another man began to assist you in cleaning up the mess. “Oh, oh you don’t have to do that James I-“

“No, no it’s quite alright, wouldn’t want you to lose your homework. I’ve heard how your family is.” Well what was that supposed to be mean? How would he know anything about your family? Probably Lizzie since she likes to eavesdrop and act like she’s a Shelby. You had always held a profound jealousy for her whenever Tommy gave her attention even though it was to distract his heart from what he really wanted, but it still hurt you. 

Glancing at your brother, his shoulders were stiff, hands folded in front of him as he examined the scene displayed before him, analyzing who this mysterious boy was. But maybe he needed to know how you felt numerous times. The jealousy, the anger, the need to posess.

A strong breeze blew through the atmosphere, but James had caught your last paper just in time. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” His eyes scanned yours before in a bold move, he brushed a wild strand of hair behind your ear, his hand running down your cheek as he took in your beauty on the school steps.

“You have a natural, beautiful glow did you know that?” Your lips pressed together in a fine line as you held back from blushing right then and there. But before you could respond, Tommy was right beside you in an instant, pulling James up from the ground by his coat.

“She’s off limits. If I see or hear about you again, I promise- James is it?” He nodded terrified, not being able to look anywhere else but the cold, invading abyss of Tommy’s stare.

“I promise you, the outcome won’t be very graceful, surely you’ve heard of me, eh?” The boy was shaking in his clothes, as you stood near rolling your eyes from Tommy’s jealousy problems. Though a small part of you couldn’t help but feel an immense light of the flame between your thighs. 

Dropping him to the ground, Tommy held his hand out for you, as he always did like the gentleman he was, also because he enjoyed the feeling of your hands cusped together, the warmth, and closeness.

You didn’t dare turn around to check on James, knowing what the consequences would be. Assisting you into the car, Tommy didn’t hesitate to prod.

“New friend of yours? You know how we feel about strangers. They like to put their noses in places they shouldn’t be.” His crystal eyes scanned your body sitting all too innocently in the passenger seat, and how your skirt was much too short, nearly showing your most treasured area.

When you hadn’t responded he glanced over once more, noticing a singular tear running down your cheek shamelessly.

“Darling, are you alright? I didn’t mean to-“

“Auntie Pol wants me to marry him and set up a date for an evening this week!” Ah, so this is the riddled path she chose to go down. Calming his demeanor from the previous sight at the school, Tommy gazed out the windshield, jaw tightening as he placed the diminishing fire lit on his cigarette into the ashtray. 

“Don’t worry love. Let me handle this, If Pol wants to play with fire, she must forget she is playing with the ring leader.”

#Tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #ranaewrites #peaky blinders #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine

[call-sign-shark]

Day 2: Cut Your Wings || Alfie Solomons x Reader

Requested by a lovely Anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- cut, dubcon, blood, inflected pain, masturbation?, enemies with sexual tension, canonical violence, dirty talk, sexual torture, kidnapping

Words: 2K

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. Also this one ain't as smutty as I thought because I got carried away by the narrative?? Shark please, that ain't the goal of Kinktober??

A grunt escaped from your lips as you desperately tried to free yourself from the heavy shackles imprisoning your wrists. You moved them back and forth, then left and right, turning your hands in every position possible, and yet nothing worked. The handcuffs were too tight for you to slip from them. Another painful moan echoed in the damp and dark room of the distillery in which the jew's henchmen had locked you a few hours ago. The cold metal bit your flesh again. "Fuck". When loud footsteps resounded behind the heavy wooden door of your prison, you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat and prayed to God for a quick and painless death because you knew that Alfie Solomons wasn't a forgiving man. Quite the contrary, his quick temper, and frightening antics only fueled his reputation as one of the most dangerous criminals in London.

"So that's the fucking little rat my men told me about." He stated, standing in the middle of the open door, both of his hands resting on the handle of his cane and a black hat hiding one of his hazel gray eyes.

"Fuck you, fucking cunt! When Tommy will know about this y'all going to regret it!" Words passed your thoughts, spitting their venom at him and yet the man remained silent. You even wondered if he had paid attention to what you just said or if the voices in his head were louder than yours. His gaze, intense and unfathomable, was observing you attentively as if he was trying to decipher the secrets of the most unique precious stone he had even held in his palm. After what seemed to be an eternity, Alfie Solomons pursued his lips, stroked his scruffy beard, and nodded, coming to an agreement with himself.

"See, my mates here told me that Tommy Shelby had sent a few men to London, but here's the problem – He said 'men'. And not 'little girl', which is definitely what you are. A bloody and nosey little girl. Hmhm." He agreed with his own statement before walking to the dusty furniture that was leaning against one of the brick walls. Then, he took off his hat and his long dark coat, and put the cane aside before walking towards you. He stopped in front of you, tattooed arms crossed on his muscular chest. The unusual amount of greenish ink deeply engraved in his skin caught your attention for a short while, you curiously observing the pattern it formed. Of course, both Tommy and Arthur had tattoos, but not as many as the mad baker.

"Would you look at ya. Haven't you something else to do instead of following a Birmingham scumbag's orders? Like finding yourself a man or something like this, y'know. 'Cause I don't see why such a young lass like ya puts her own life into danger for Tommy fucking Shelby." As he talked, Alfie had closed the distance between you and him. He was now leaning above you, so close that his scorching breath was fanning over your skin and the hairs of his beard were almost tickling your face. "So can you tell me why? The only reason I see is that Tommy Shelby sticks his cock in you and it has magically bred some loyalty." The right corner of his full lips curled into a mocking grin when he noticed how his words had lit a fire of rage in your eyes. Bang on, he thought, "No. It's more complex than that, innit? He doesn't want you and yet you remained devoted to him in the hope that one day, maybe, he'd look at you differently. He'd look at you like a woman to fuck senseless and not a pawn of his game."

"Kill me, Solomons. Kill me now or I'll fucking cut you once I'll be out of this shit-stinking place." You hissed, baring your teeth like a cornered animal, the truth hurting you more than a gunwound. For a split second, Alfie swore you would have dug your fangs into his throat, sinking them deep until you tasted blood if you hadn't been restrained by chains and handcuffs.

"Cut me?" The baker repeated these two words, pretending to be surprised while the tone in his voice betrayed how amused he was, "And what kind of tool would you use to cut me? This?" As he said so, Alfie pulled your grey beret out of the large pocket of his trousers, holding it to have a good grip at the base of the razor blades that were sewn to the fabric. "You Peaky girl like to cut people with this right? So come on, threaten me again little bird, I dare you." He said with both of his eyebrows raised in a taunting expression.

"D'ya think you're scaring me? I'm not scared, I'm a Peaky Blinder and I'm going to make things clear again: you better kill me now because if you miss this chance, I'll fucking cut your face the next time we meet–" You didn't finish your sentence, your words replaced by a scream of pain when Alfie, without a single warning, slashed your arm with your peaky cap. Blood soon filled the gash and overflowed from it, soaking the white fabric of your shirt in a crimson stain.

"Go ahead, dove. Say it again." This time you remained silent, staring at him in horror. He had cut deep, deep enough for you to feel the sickening pulse of your own heart in the wound. Your refusal to obey led Alfie to burst into an unexpected rage. His face reddened, and his brows furrowed, casting their shadow eyes. With one strong and brutal movement, Alfie's free hand grabbed your face, his calloused fingers sinking into your cheeks until your jaw hurt. "SAY IT AGAIN AND I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING WINGS!" He barked, a bit of spit spilled in his beard and bloodshot eyes staring at your very soul. "See, you don't stand a chance here my sweet dove. You're just a little girl playing gangsters". In an unsettling mood swing, his temper had gone quiet again.

"I'm not gonna kill you peaky girl, that would be too easy. I see your eyes, and what I see in them is that you ain't afraid of death and I reckon this is a trait I particularly fancy in someone. So what should I do with you? We might..." He made a short pause when he noticed a tiny detail he hadn't spotted before. Alfie's hazel grey eyes abandoned yours and dropped to your bosom where he could see the round shape of your hardened nipples pointing through the fabric of your shirt. Licking his lips, Alfie's iris darkened with mischief and something you never expected to witness in the eyes of an enemy – lust. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine as the baker's smirk suddenly turned into a wicked and threatening smile, "I know, dove. I know what I'm going to do with you. Everything's clear in my mind". A sparkle of pure madness enlightened his face, just like an artist struck by inspiration. With his words followed his hand, that came meeting your trembling body. His strong palm roamed all over you, the friction it created snatching a whimper from your tight throat while you understood his obscene plans.

"No, no! Please! Alfie--" You wanted to scream but you couldn't, petrified from the moment his fingers trailed down your belly and ended their exploration between your legs. The noisy juggling of the chains you produced by struggling sounded like a melody in Alfie's ears, who hummed in satisfaction at your cunt's warmth he could feel through the fabric of your trousers. His fingers pressed a bit more against your core, shooting a wave of forbidden arousal through your entire body and making your legs shake.

"You're in heat, lil' dove." He noted with an amused tone before closing the distance between your ear and his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut at the overwhelming scratching sensation of his gruff beard against your skin and the blazing blast of his breath. The room spun as you found yourself intoxicated by the fragrance of his cologne. Musky, and with a dab of cedarwood. His scent was as raw and wild as him. "I'm pretty sure you're all wet, aren't you?" He cooed in your ear. His rough fingers, applying pressure at the exact spot where your throbbing clit was, started to rub it in slow and circular motions. As much as you hated the thought of it, his skillful caresses lit a fire of desire within you, so much that you felt your own wetness soaking your panties, "How long since a man stretched that lonely pussy?"

"Don't touch me!" You growled, but as convincing as you had tried to sound convincing you still failed judging by how Alfie's brow arched. He let out a dark chuckle. Doing the exact opposite, his fingers kept fondling your sensitive bud but this time his wet and warm tongue licked your neck just like a predator would do to get a first taste of his freshly caught prey.

"Oh I'm not gonna touch you dove." The muffled sound of your cap falling on the concrete ground made you open your eyes again. You had barely lifted your eyelids when your gaze met Alfie's other hand, who was kneading his massive bulge. As afraid as you were, you could not help but let out a soft yet needy moan "I'm not gonna touch you. What I'm going to do cannot be described, no no it can't because I don't want God to hear it. What I can tell you though is that you'll never come back to Birmingham once you'll know the feeling of my cock buried deep inside you." His words' immediate effects upon you had your teased pussy clenching onto nothing and reminding you how desperately empty you were. An emptiness Tommy would never fill, "Are you thinking about him now?"

You weren't.

Alfie didn't need you to answer, for the way you brought your hips closer to his fingers and grind against them was enough. The mad baker's mouth sucked on the sensitive flesh of your neck, pinching it between his lips to leave a bright red mark on you, claiming his newly acquired property. All these sensations soon became unbearable: the friction of your shirt against your erected tits, the cold bite of the handcuffs on your wrists, and the increasingly faster rubbing of your clit destroyed what remained of your will of fighting. Never in your life you had been touched for you had always kept your virginity unspoiled for Thomas. A stupid and fruitless devotion.

You gave in to the pleasure and surprised yourself by thinking about how big Alfie's dick looked, unable to look anywhere else.

"Don't s-stop." You muttered under your breath, your climax building as Alfie kept assaulting your sweet bundle of nerves: he was nothing but gentle with it, almost hurting you with how rough he rubbed you. With your mouth parted and your breath quickening, you felt the delightful warmth of an orgasm coming but, all of sudden, Alfie stopped.

"Enough for today. We'll see if you deserve more tomorrow." He said.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

tags: @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @mollybegger-blog @hwangrimi @munson24 @tommyshelbywhore @devotedlyshadowytheorist @stevie75 @brummiereader @triplethreat77 @sebastianstangirl01 1 @izzy10369 @kimvolturicullen @peakyltd

#Peaky blinders #Alfie solomons #Alfie solomons x reader #Tom Hardy smut #Peaky blinders x reader #Alfie solomons smut #Peaky blinders smut #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfic #Tom Hardy #Tom Hardy x reader #Peaky Kinktober #Tommy Shelby

[eyesthatroll]

NOBODY'S LOVE

pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader

summary: your best friend is getting married, this is supposed to be a happy day, right?

warning(s): sad shit, idk

word count: 1.7k

author's note: would first like to give a disclaimer that i am not meaning any ill will toward any blondes who meet the beauty standard, it's just a plot line within the story. secondly, here are the songs that i listened to while writing this, that you could also listen to, to better the experience:

-Nobody's Love by Maroon 5

-Can I Be Him by James Arthur (acoustic version!)

-Everything You Want by Vertical Horizon

really hope you enjoy. sort of ends on a cliffhanger but i kind of like this a lot for the moment. as per usual, reblogs + feedback / constructive criticism are always appreciated. sending my love —mari

You can't help the sour expression that twists your features as your gaze remains fixed on Luke and Lacey. They're entwined in an intimate dance on the crowded floor, more akin to grinding than traditional dancing, with his hands gripping her waist as she moves against him.

Luke, as always, looks gorgeous, his white dress shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal the glimmering silver chain nestled against his neck, and droplets of sweat glistening on his chest. His hair had at last emerged from the clutches of that dreadful mullet, now a lush cascade of curls artfully styled, with their length nearly reaching the nape of his neck.

She looks absolutely stunning, adorned in her sleek, form-fitting, white lace reception dress that gracefully accentuates every curve of her figure. Her blonde hair, meticulously blown out, showers down her back like a silken waterfall, its length elegantly concluding just below her waist. Of course, Luke had to marry a girl who was the epitome of the beauty standard.

You savor another mouthful of your White Russian, the sweet liquid sliding down your throat in a single, indulgent gulp. The empty glass collides with the table, emitting a sharp clink that punctuates your mounting inebriation. The responsible choice at this point, would be to balance it out with some water to regain sobriety. However, the longer you fixate on Luke and Lacey, the more you find yourself making repeated trips to the bar for another round.

Drinking, aside from providing a numbing effect to shield you from the emotional turmoil of observing Luke and Lacey, also effectively distracts you from dwelling on the rather disheartening image you must present: a solitary figure at a table in the back corner, solemnly nursing your drinks amidst the vibrant celebration of your best friend's wedding.

In this moment, regret gnaws at you for not scrounging up a plus one. Granted, you wouldn't have genuinely cared for the guy, but at least it would have spared you the pain and humiliation of sulking alone the entire reception. You could have been dancing with him, providing a buffer against the impending flood of tears as you watched Luke dance with Her.

Finishing off your glass, you stand up from your seat, and begin an unsteady journey back up to the bar, your gaze fixated on the ground in hopes of not having to make conversation with anyone. You slump on one of the barstools, and the bartender sends you a look of pity, shaking his head before you can even open your mouth to ask for another refill.

"Boss man says you're cut off, sorry." He apologizes, his hands efficiently polishing an empty glass.

Your mouth drops open, bewilderment etched across your face. You rub at your eyes, hoping to shake off the daze. "Boss man?"

He nods affirmatively. "Mr. Hughes."

Your face goes blank at his words. The revelation that Luke had noticed your excessive drinking at his wedding and even went as far as instructing the bartender to cut you off, feels like another dagger to your already wounded heart. An overwhelming sense of embarrassment envelops you, clinging to you like a suffocating second skin. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, and with a heavy heart, you make a hasty retreat to the nearest bathroom, craving the solitude it offers for your impending emotional breakdown.

You rush into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a resounding thud. Your back meets the cool, unforgiving surface of the door, and you sink down to the floor in despair. Sobs wrack your body, escaping your quivering lips in a heartbreaking symphony of agony. Your elegant dress, once a symbol of celebration, now clings to you in disarray, its baby blue fabric gathering at your ankles. Unchecked tears stream down your face, creating dark rivulets against the pastel material, as you draw your knees up to your chest, a fragile attempt to find comfort amid the chaos of your sentiments. Snot drips from your nose, and you make no effort to wipe it away, too lost in your own despair to care about appearances.

The pounding music from outside serves as a veil, muffling your cries and offering you a small refuge, shielding you from the judgmental eyes of the reception as you succumb to this moment of pathetic, emotional turmoil.

You shouldn't have come. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest the moment Luke's voice choked out his vows to Lacey. It was in that poignant moment that you understood that attending this wedding had been a grave mistake. A searing pang of bitterness and longing seized your chest, an agonizing blend of emotions that consumed you entirely.

Luke poured his heart out to Lacey, and your own heart burned with a fiery jealousy you couldn't extinguish. You wished desperately that it was you standing at the altar, facing Luke with the warmth of family and friends as witnesses. You yearned for the opportunity to exchange vows with him, to profess your love openly and honestly, but it was a privilege that belonged to Lacey. Beautiful, intelligent, and sweet Lacey.

You searched relentlessly for a rational reason to despise her, an explanation that could somehow justify your feelings towards her, but she remained an enigma of kindness and grace. Lacey always went out of her way to strike up conversations with you, treating you with unwavering honor and consideration. She respected the cherished traditions you shared with Luke as best friends, even went as far as asking you to be a bridesmaid in the wedding. She truly was the epitome of an angel in human form, embodying virtues and qualities you felt outperformed your own shortcomings by a mile. Even so, you hated her. You didn't show it, but you felt it in your chest every time she was around, or Luke mentioned her.

You're unsure how much time passed as you sat there, silently weeping. A soft knock on the bathroom door, however, jolts you back to reality, and you unsteadily scramble to your feet, trying to compose yourself in a quick manner. As you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, a bitter, mirthless laugh escapes your lips. The person staring back at you is hardly recognizable.

Your once-radiant makeup is now a smudged mess. Black mascara and eyeliner have streaked down your cheeks, giving you the appearance of a disheveled raccoon. Your eyes are swollen and red from crying, and your foundation is ruined, marred by tear stains that have traveled all the way down to your neck. The reflection staring back at you is a stark contrast to the composed, put-together version of yourself you had intended to be at Luke's wedding.

You hastily tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the dispenser, letting them soak under a stream of warm water for a few moments before setting to work. The damp paper towel becomes a weapon against the lingering evidence of your emotional breakdown as you scrub mercilessly at your skin, each harsh stroke a testament to your turmoil. You ignored the stinging pain that accompanied it, and only when the paper towel had become a shredded, saturated mess, rendering it unusable, did you finally cease your relentless efforts.

Exhaling a series of deep breaths, you wipe at your eyes one last time, a sudden exhaustion mixed with the overwhelming desire to be alone, washing over you.

The night was far from over, and the lively atmosphere of the party still pulsed through hall. Family members of both Luke and Lacey, along with a scattering of friends and NHL players, mingled and celebrated. Your eyes scanned the crowded space, contemplating the possibility of making a discreet exit through the back door, escaping without notice.

As you inch closer to the side exit, your heart skips a beat when a sudden hand lands firmly on your shoulder. Startled, you instinctively clutch your chest, the adrenaline from the surprise coursing through your veins. You turn around, your breath slowing at the relief of seeing it's only Jack. His intense gaze locks onto yours, his hand still resting on your shoulder as he asks, "Leaving without saying goodbye?"

Your voice quivered, barely rising above a harsh whisper, as if the music's deafening volume could somehow amplify your confession. "I can't be here."

Jack's gaze softens with a deep understanding as he witnessed the raw emotion you could no longer conceal. His gentle touch finds its way to the small of your back, effortlessly drawing you into his comforting embrace. Your body quivers with dejection, and you give in to your overwhelming afflictions, sobbing uncontrollably into his collar.

"I shouldn't have come, Jack. It hurts too much," you stutter, your sobs punctuating each word like an unwelcome intruder within a happy home. He stays silent, his hands tenderly massaging your back in a desperate attempt to offer solace. Though it's a mutual understanding that the one person who could truly comfort you in the situation, could never know the reason behind your pain.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he says, his apology carrying the weight of an unspoken truth. Jack shouldn't be apologizing for his brother, but he can't help it. He was there throughout the entirety of you realizing your newfound feelings for Luke. He truly believed that the two of you were destined to be together, especially after you had confided in the him about what happened between you and Luke that one night.

He was there when the light dimmed in your eyes, the day when Luke introduced everyone to Lacey just a week after meeting her, claiming immediate love at first sight. You are like the little sister he never had, and he found himself standing at a crossroads, torn between the pain his little brother had caused you and his desire for both of you to find happiness. But the realization that it might not be with each other changed the dynamic within everything.

"What's going on here?"

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfiction

[gorjee-art]

In light of your most recent colt art, I wanted to ask if they rule in the same/similar way as the old bishops?

Are the bishops and Nari long gone by then or are they a witness to the lamb’s change?

And does your lamb have a name/are you gonna give them a separate name?

Ok! This is a super interesting question, let's go one by one. Regarding Lamb's Name: I've thought about it, and I'm not sure! I'm leaning in the direction that after their beheading they just ...forgot their true name! So many followers, including the one who waits, called them "Lamb" or "Leader" that they just began responding to it as their name. Maybe in the future, I'll give them a real name. How does the "Shepherd of Souls" Rule? : Lamb in their Elder God form is, beyond what even a bishop is... bishops only claim they have authority over a certain title, deluding themselves into claiming their godhood but they were never true prophets of their crown. Like Narinder, they became paranoid and tyrannical with their power, mortals having a taste of godhood rarely goes well. Lamb however is different, for they are a true prophet, the true "royal" that claims the crown, as Arthur pulling the Sword from the Stone made him a King, The One Who Waits failed to realize that. What they become is essentially the legendary story of the Echo, no longer even resembling a human, just...a part of nature! There's no decision or thought at play, there's just instinct, a response, it is but fate. They do not speak, they do not answer, they do not play, they do not pass time with fun, they do what they must, and guide souls into their rightful place. Lamb is not just a god, they are now just a part of nature, and many mourn what they used to be... But theatrics aside, a good reference is the "Forest Spirit" from "Princess Mononoke" that'll give you a good idea of how they rule. Does Nari/The Bishops See the Change?: Unfortunately, they do! The Bishops are still tainted with the powers of their respective crowns, thus making them live twice...even thrice as long as other mortals, seeing the physical and mental changes of Lamb, as their silly personality starts to disappear into a mist. Narinder however takes it the hardest, a mixture of confusing feelings, friendship, and perhaps even unrequited love. Lamb despite their early dislike and hatred of Narinder, over these years of caring for the now..."village" they're in. They've grown wise, patient, and sickly sweet, passing on their leadership to the poor heartbroken animal, as they walk into the lush forests, bells tolling, echoing the chiming, jingling, now omen of everlasting sleep.

#ascension of mercy - cotl au

[muiitoloko]

JEALOUS HARRY HART - KINGSMAN

Author's notes: Hey, guys! Just letting you know that in this one shot your character, you, uses the code name Bedivere. Any spelling errors please let me know as English is not my first language.

Summary: Harry Hart, the epitome of composure and chivalry, finds himself consumed by jealousy as he observes you gracefully dancing with Agent Tequila.

Pairing: Harry Hart ( Kingsman ) × Fem!Reader

Warnings: Jealousy, Possessiveness, and Bad Language (maybe?)

The grand hall of the Kingsman headquarters was elegantly adorned, transformed into a setting befitting a formal dinner. High-level agents from Kingsman and Statesman mingled, their conversations blending with the melodic tunes that filled the air. Among the guests, Harry Hart, the newly appointed head of Kingsman, codenamed Arthur, exuded an air of authority, his eyes surveying the room.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the attendees, Harry held a secret—a clandestine relationship with a fellow agent known as Bedivere. Their connection had quietly blossomed behind closed doors, fueled by stolen moments and shared passions. The age difference between them whispered constantly in their hearts, but their love transcended those trivial boundaries.

As the doors swung open, softly announcing the arrival of someone, a few eyes turned to the captivating figure that commanded attention wherever she went. Her entrance was elegantly late, her form exuding confidence, with mischief dancing in her eyes. Bedivere had just returned from a demanding mission, her weariness concealed beneath her seductive charm.

Searching the room for Harry, Bedivere's gaze fell upon Eggsy, known as Galahad, who was engaged in conversation at the bar with a Statesman agent, recognizable by his cowboy hat. A mischievous smile played on her lips as you approached, her steps graceful and magnetic.

"Eggsy," you greeted, your voice carrying a hint of playfulness. "You seem to be enjoying yourself tonight."

Eggsy turned, his eyes widening in surprise as he registered Bedivere's presence. "Well, well, look who's here, Bedivere. Allow me to introduce you to Agent Tequila," he said, gesturing to the Statesman agent.

Tequila's gaze fixed on Bedivere, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand, attempting to mimic an English gentleman. Tequila couldn't help but tease, "Is that how the English do it?"

You chuckled, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, Tequila, you have much to learn about our customs," you replied, your tone laced with playful banter. Eggsy inclined his head slightly at the call through the earpiece of his glasses.

Seizing the opportunity, Eggsy excused himself, leaving Bedivere and Tequila alone. You turned to the bartender, ordering a glass of whiskey. Tequila's curiosity got the better of him, and he remarked, "I didn't know you were a whiskey girl."

Bedivere's smile grew, a touch of mystery coloring her gaze. "Well, there's more to me than meets the eye, Agent Tequila," you said, your voice filled with a mix of amusement and secrecy. Taking a sip, you savored the familiar warmth of the amber liquid.

The playful banter continued, a dance of humor and charm between Bedivere and Tequila. As the music filled the air, Tequila pointed to the dance floor, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "Care to teach me how to dance like a true English gentleman?"

You hesitated for a moment, your thoughts briefly lingering on the fact that you hadn't spoken to Harry yet. But you pushed those concerns aside, assuming he was busy with his duties as Arthur and entertaining Agent Champ, the head of Statesman. With a nod and a smile, you placed your hand in Tequila's, allowing him to lead you to the dance floor.

Near the dance floor, Harry's eyes followed Bedivere with a mix of admiration and unease. Alongside Eggsy and Champ, his attention was divided between their conversation and the captivating sight of Bedivere gracefully swaying on the dance floor with Tequila. There was a twinge of jealousy in Harry's heart, a possessiveness he struggled to suppress.

His grip tightened around his martini glass, the cool glass offering a brief respite from the heat coursing through his veins. Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself, determined to maintain a facade of composure. He couldn't let his emotions get the best of him, not when the future alliance between Kingsman and Statesman was at stake.

Unaware of the internal battle Harry was waging, Champ continued their conversation, discussing the intricacies of their joint operations. Harry nodded and smiled, his responses automatic, his mind elsewhere. He discreetly activated his glasses, sending a private message to Bedivere, urging her to meet him in the serene gardens just beyond the corridor.

With a renewed determination, Harry excused himself from Champ's company, offering polite pleasantries before making his way towards the exit. The air outside was crisp and refreshing, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the party. The moon cast a gentle glow upon the meticulously manicured gardens, providing a serene backdrop for their clandestine rendezvous.

Bedivere's heart raced as she received Harry's message through the glasses. Confusion momentarily took hold of her. What had you done this time to justify such urgency? You had been behaving impeccably, or so you believed. Nevertheless, duty called, and you knew shouldn't keep Harry waiting.

Stopping the dance, Bedivere turned to Tequila, a apologetic smile on her lips. "I'm sorry, duty is calling, and I must go," you explained, your tone sincere. Tequila nodded, lifting his cowboy hat in farewell, understanding the demands of your profession. "Until next time, Bedivere," he said with a tinge of regret.

With a sense of purpose, Bedivere quickly made her way through the crowd, her eyes scanning the room for Harry. The dimly lit corridor that led to the serene gardens beckoned, and you followed the path, hoping to locate him there.

Suddenly, you felt a firm grip on your wrist, and before you could react, you were pulled into a secluded corner. You collided with a solid chest and looked up, meeting Harry's annoyed gaze. Confusion swirled in your mind as he spun you around and pressed you against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, effectively trapping you between his body and the hard surface.

"What are you doing, Harry?" Bedivere questioned, her voice filled with surprise and anticipation. Her heart raced, intrigued by the unknown intensity in his eyes. This was a side of Harry you hadn't witnessed before, and it both thrilled and intrigued her.

Harry's tone was laced with a touch of jealousy as he asked, "Were you enjoying yourself with Agent Tequila?" Bedivere couldn't help but smile mischievously, realizing the source of his agitation. Harry's composed demeanor was slipping, and it was thrilling for you to witness him crumble in your presence.

Toying with the button of his suit jacket, you provocatively replied while undoing his jacket, "Oh, Harry, I must admit, I was having a splendid time." Your words elicited a low growl from him, his hand finding the back of your neck, guiding your gaze to meet his. The intensity in his eyes softened his resolve, and you found yourself melting under his touch.

You reassured him, your voice filled with warmth, "Tequila is just a colleague, nothing more." But Harry retorted, his voice husky with desire, "He wasn't looking at you like he wanted to be just a colleague. He was looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive." Bedivere couldn't resist teasing him further. With a playful smile, you said, "And isn't that how you look at me too, Harry?"

Harry's grip tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His touch sent shivers down your spine as he whispered, "The difference is, I can look at you like that because you belong to me." Bedivere nodded, acknowledging his claim, feeling a sense of belonging and security in his possessiveness.

Their lips crashed together in a passionate kiss, the culmination of their hidden desires and the release of pent-up tension. When they pulled apart, Harry whispered in your ear, his voice filled with desire, "Go home and wait for me in my bed, Bedivere." You played with his tie, your voice teasing as you asked, "What? Are you planning to eat me tonight, Arthur?"

A smile graced Harry's lips as he took a step back, buttoning his jacket. "Count on it," he replied, his eyes filled with promises. With a final glance, he turned and walked away, leaving Bedivere yearning for more.

Watching him disappear back into the Kingsman mansion, Bedivere adjusted his attire, a sense of anticipation coursing through his veins. You walked confidently to where you had parked the car, ready to obey Harry's command and go home, knowing that your passion would ignite again behind closed doors. The night held promises of love, desire and a future intertwined with secrecy and adventure.

As you walked away from the garden, Bedivere couldn't help but smile. No matter what challenges they faced, their love remained unyielding, stronger than ever. And you looked forward to the moment when you would find yourself in Harry's arms, ready to explore the depths of their connection once more.

#kingsman #harry hart x reader #colin firth #colin firth x reader #harry hart #gary unwin #agent tequila #kingsman secret service #galahad x reader #kingsman fanfiction

[anithesunshineoutlaw]

Meeting Angelo Bronte

( Plus Dutch, Arthur and John interactions )

When Jack's safety is at stake, meeting this man is nothing short of complete and utter tension. When you step into the room, no weapons, no escape, he won't even bother to stand in order to learn who you are. His position is relaxed as if you know each other. Leaning back on the red couch as if it is a throne to a king. His eyes study you as if before him is not a human being but an exotic animal within a cage. No smile but no frown either, just a cold stare. There's a hint of annoyance in his voice as if your disturbance to his peace was a felony by itself.

He talks high. Every sentence feels like a stab to your pride and dignity, almost like he purposely forces your perspective into his. A point of view where he looms above and you shrink down. Of course, you wouldn't let him have his way but it's undeniable he puts a lot into it.

The room feels suffocating, he puts such hostility in his mannerisms, you half expect you'll be shot down the moment you make a mistake. But nothing as such happens, he doesn't make one single move and it's not a secret why. Just by his behavior alone, you can tell, he sees himself as untouchable. And in a way, he might be but it sure doesn't stop anger bubbling anytime he practically insults you and everyone by you. 

While at first, he may bring out a defensive perhaps even aggressive side of you, it's quickly dismissed when you receive jarring responses. Laughs, flattery, and perhaps even interest. Whether they are directed to you or not, they create a contrast so big for a moment that you don't even know what to feel. 

Your first impression turns so flued, any second your opinion changes. On one side, it's obvious this is entertainment for him, on the other he makes a reasonable decision to give Jack back yet at the same time he wants a favor to do so. He is cruel, no denying that but he provokes some respect and it creates way too much conflict. Overall he may be described as.. contradicting. 

By the end of it, your brain would feel on fire from so much agitation and confusion. 

It would only be later though you realize he's just toying with you. He toys with everyone. It is not surprising given how rich he is. Money messes with the mind after all. 

Bonus:

Your companions have a similar impression as well. However.. they react differently.

Dutch stays calm, he lets his silver tongue work its magic but stays on guard. His form is stiff, he's ready for a disagreement and the consequences of it. He is stepping on eggshells and he knows it but at the end of the day, when was risk ever something he avoided? Dutch speaks every word precisely, waiting for at least one to hit the target. His eyes often drift to you, studying any thoughts you might let slip onto your face. He is careful with how the environment shifts and he makes sure you know he has this under control. 

John seems one "no" away from shooting down everyone in this room. He barely hides the disdain he has for Bronte but he manages. He often turns his head away or shifts in his seat, struggling to stay calm when he knows his son is so close yet so out of reach. Every mention of his son immediately pulls him back into the conversation. His hand rests next to yours so you notice every twitch. He just wants Jack back. Somewhere during the conversation, you feel John's hand grab yours. Subtly but quickly, you know it's the only thing calming him down right now. He holds your hand so tightly you feel like he might explode if it wasn't for it. He glances at you often, a way of saying thank you. A silent gratitude but it's there. 

Arthur is the calmest out of all. He stares between Dutch and Bronte, assessing the situation in case things get heated. While he's ready to act, he focuses carefully on Bronte's words. Studying the hidden tone underneath. His mind is focused on getting back Jack. Only that alone so some of Bronte's words end up being cast aside as minor. Arthur watches over the three of you. He can tell how you are feeling and so he will give you a slight nod, barely noticeable to the others but between him and you, it's a reassurance he has your back. You will be okay. He's with you.

#red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 headcanons #x reader #angelo bronte #arthur morgan #john marston #dutch van der linde #arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #rdr2 x reader

[duckprintspress]

Did you know? So far this April, Duck Prints Press has put out 10, yes t.e.n., new short stories? Two to our website, and eight to our Patreon! Learn all about them now...

Website Releases

Title: Foundations Author: Johnathan Stern

F/F, Science Fiction, Meet Cute on Mars

Addison is browsing the stacks of the Valles Marineris Coprates Chasma University Memorial Library when she's shocked to find someone looking for the same obscure book about the history of space travel that is.

-

Title: Worlds Apart (but Still Close) Author: Sanne Burg

F/M and M/M to F/M/M, Urban Paranormal, Confessions of Mutual Attraction, When in Doubt Fuck it Out

Flo is consistently frustrated with how her boyfriend Arthur's bodyguard Kacen is always watching her suspiciously. But when she discovers Arthur and Kacen in bed together, it casts a whole new light on the relationships between the three of them, and Flo finds herself considering possibilities that had never dawned on her before.

Patreon Releases

Title: Coffee For My Valentine? Author: Cedar McCafferty-Svec

F/F, Contemporary Romance with a Splash of Magic, Bookshop-slash-Coffee-Shop Meet-Cute, Heat Resistance for the Win

Valentine's day is invariably a disaster for Nissa. And when she starts this Valentine's work day by spilling coffee all over a new customer?

Maybe she should have just stayed in bed this morning.

-

Title: Glass Slipper: A Dance Author: Cedar McCafferty-Svec

F/NB, Fantasy, Dating Royalty is Hard Even if Your Stepmother Isn't Evil, Attraction at First Sight, Getting to Know One Another

Going to the ball was Marienne's dream, but it still never occurred to her that she'd catch the eye of the Royal Heir Apparent. Their dance is a dream come true, and their walk around the gardens together helps demonstrate they could have a future together even putting perfect first-dances aside, but that doesn't mean things will be easy.

-

Title: Into the Wyvern's Lair Author: Mikki Madison

F/F (Pre-Relationship), Fantasy, the Inherent Eroticism of Being Competing Mercenaries After the Same Mark (and the Same Pay Day)

Usually, Kella wouldn't take a job from a tiny podunk town in exchange for the risks of facing wyvern, but they're offering 25 gold pieces, and that's too much to resist. She doesn't expect the job to be that hard - it's not her first time facing a wyvern - but she also doesn't expect competition, in the form of a stubborn mage who has been hired by the same town at the same rate. But what she really doesn't expect is the wyvern...

-

Title: Washer Wars: A Laundromat Feud Author: Samantha M. Piper

F/F, Contemporary Romance, Meet-Awkward, Sometimes the Only Difference Between Fighting and Flirting is Point of View

Every Saturday morning, before the crack of dawn, Dee goes to the laundromat to do her laundry alone and in the quiet, with her pick of the available machines.

Until the morning she's not alone anymore.

Truly, she doesn't know what's worse: the loss of her solitude, or that this intruder has taken the biggest washer.

-

Title: Fool's Gold Author: Eliot Lovell

M/M (Pre-Relationship), Fantasy, Dragon Hordes and Lifelong Dreams, Hurt/Comfort

When Tomas sets off to defeat a dragon, he does so despite the aches and pains of growing older and a bum hip. Little does he expect that his attempt to be a valiant hero will be derailed prematurely when he's set upon by wolves. After they leave him unconscious in the woods, the last thing he expects is to be rescued and nursed to help. But he has one burning question: who found him, and why?

-

Title: Escape Author: Sanne Burg

F/M + F/M Established Relationship with Partner Swapping, Contemporary Romance, Middle-Aged Characters, Friends with Benefits to Lovers

Anxiety means that it doesn't take much to push Liam into needing some quiet time to himself, and he's so appreciative of his wife Alice taking the initiative to get him that quiet time.

He's slightly less appreciative when their friends-with-benefits partner-swap married friends Dan and Lola show up, especially considering that it was finding RPF fanart of him and Dan having sex that triggered Liam's anxiety in the first place...

-

Title: Old Kings and New Author: Lyonel Loy

M/M, Fantasy, Omega/Omega, Middle-Aged Characters, Bonding Over Shared Favorite (Rape Fantasy) Books

No one in their right mind would name Isemund king, but he's the only heir left, and so the council names him and then flees before the conqueror Caith can seize the castle.

Isemund is prepared to die at the hands of the invader.

Caith has other plans in mind.

-

Title: Georgia Rain Author: R. L. Houck This is a sequel to the Patreon-exclusive story "Pretty 7 Days a Week"

F/NB, Contemporary Suspense, Reunion after a Long Separation, They Work Hard for the Money, You'll Never Guess How This Sex Romp Gets Interrupted...

Four years after the events of Pretty 7 Days a Week, Tomas, who has changed their name to Aster, has built themself a new, better life no longer working on the streets.

The last thing they expect is for Lydia to come sweeping back into their life. It's also the last thing they want...or so they keep trying to tell themself...

So, Looking for New Queer Short Stories to Read? Visit Our Webstore and Become a Patreon Backer Now!

#duck prints press #new fiction #short stories #queer short stories #queer fiction #r. l. houck #lyonel loy #sanne burg #mikki madison #cedar mccafferty-svec #johnathan stern #samantha m. piper #f/f #f/f/m/m #f/nb #m/m #a/b/o dynamics #omega/omega #f/m/m #eliot lovell

[burningvelvet]

will never get over the fact that mr. heathcliff and mr. arthur huntington are canonically more attractive than mr. rochester.

aside from the fact that they're both described as being handsome, and mr. rochester is described as being not handsome, we can see this play out in the text. while it's a point that mr. rochester's love interests only want him for his money/status, with arthur and heathcliff that's not entirely the case (you could argue that isabella is partly concerned with heathcliff's newfound wealth, but imo if he wasn't handsome as well, she probably wouldn't bother).

like helen I Love My Bible graham sees arthur and immediately starts drawing and painting him to sublimate her very very obvious attraction that everyone (including him) is aware of. even though she's told he's horrible, she says I CAN FIX HIM!!!! JUST LOOK AT HIM!!! and annabella just openly cheats on her husband with him for years. like helen, isabella linton is told that heathcliff is horrible but she's like BUT HOW CAN THAT BE TRUE WHEN HANDSOME? HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? and as soon as mr. lockwood meets heathcliff in the very beginning he becomes obsessed with him. even after heathcliff lets him be attacked by his vicious dogs, mr. lockwood refuses to leave him alone. not to mention that even the initially biased and usually critical nelly agrees that he's handsome, and cathy literally dying because she regrets not marrying him

— although cathy/heathcliff's bond is much more than skin deep / isn't about looks or regular forms of attraction (bc they have an almost twin-like, spiritual bond) i feel like seeing him healthy and handsome and "glowed up" really hurt cathy 10x more than she was hurt before his return, bc back then she could maybe try to delude herself out of missing him as much by remembering him when he was in his slovenly servant role & embarrassing her infront of the lintons — but seeing proof of his potential & that he always did have it in him to accrue & maintain wealth/education/fashion (and yes, good looks too), & that he could've/would've done so if he'd married her, is really what helped to kill her (aside from... y'know, the whole childbirth thing of course - but the narrative does heavily imply that the drama from heathcliff's return decreased her chances of surviving childbirth, so when i refer to her death, i'm looking at the more internal/emotional causes)

#i still love him maybe the best its just funny #also all of charlotte brontë's main love interests being unattractive in general #jane eyre #mr. rochester #mr rochester #arthur huntington #heathcliff #heathcliff wuthering heights #wuthering heights #the tenant of wildfell hall #the brontës #books #victorian literature #literature #english literature #analysis #my analysis #my writing #book thoughts

[finnlongman]

Keep thinking about that one KJ Charles interview where she's talking about the challenges of being a historical romance novelist when you sort of believe the whole aristocracy should've been executed, and the delicate balancing act of writing historically accurate and interesting characters who don't have awful politics and values. And, crucially, she challenged the typical rich love interest idea by asking, "But where does the money come from?"

Once you think about it, you can't stop thinking about it. Every historical romance I read now, I can tell whether the author has thought about it. Sometimes they've thought about it but tried not to deal with it and hoped we wouldn't notice that the rich aristocrat probably owns a plantation. Sometimes they've actually dealt with it. And sometimes they have not considered it and It Shows.

But I also don't want historical novels where characters have modern sensibilities! I want them to feel historical... I just also want the "desirable" characters to not be, you know, involved in the slave trade or whatever, because that seriously undermines everything the book is doing to make them seem attractive. (One does not generally read this flavour of historical romance for morally grey antiheroes, and even if you did, that would be a fairly tasteless way of developing such a character, imo.)

I really enjoyed a detail in one of Cat Sebastian's books where the love interest is a Quaker, and he refuses dessert because he's boycotting sugar. It's a way of signalling to us that this character has particular values, but one that's rooted in the historical context and doesn't feel like a modern character wearing period clothing. His Quakerism also influences a few other details – his use of first names rather than titles, for example – but it's not a major plot point and he's no intense political campaigner. It's just one facet of his character, and one that made me like him more.

This sort of thing becomes a problem, too, with medieval settings and retellings and anything where you start having to deal with kings. A king of some tiny little pseudohistorical country whose major concerns revolve around not getting invaded and ensuring his people survive the winter is a very different prospect from a king intent on conquering his neighbours and expanding his glorious kingdom, of course. Still a king, though. What do you do with that, if you're someone who doesn't approve of kings?

I ran into this problem with a book I was working on a few years back, and it's one of the reasons I shelved it. I was trying to write a book about community and friendship. I was also trying to write an Arthurian retelling. And while a brotherhood of knights is a great starting point for a story about community and friendship, in order to have knights, you need to have a king for them to pledge fealty to. Problematic. My Arthur figure did not believe in hierarchy, but the story demanded that he perpetuated one anyway, because it was baked into the building blocks of story I was using to build mine. Eventually I realised I could not write that story as an Arthurian retelling without stripping it of everything recognisably Arthurian, and set it aside to be remade into something else.

I still think about this, though. I think about my Bisclavret retelling, which by necessity has a king in it. Bisclavret is a story about feudal loyalty, about oaths, about hierarchies. Take that away and you no longer have Bisclavret; it is a story that cannot exist without a king for the knight-wolf to be loyal to. Does that mean that as a story it always inherently supports a monarchist ideal, though? Or is its portrayal of kingship (a relationship that is, crucially, reciprocal) sufficiently detached from colonialist systems of monarchy to be distinct from those?

What systems and ideals form the assumptions a story is rested on? What happens once you start to question them? Can you still tell the same stories once you ask where the money comes from, or why the king is owed loyalty? Or does there come a point where you realise there are ideas woven into the very fabric of those narratives that you can't see past?

I don't have answers. I'm just thinking aloud. Thinking about having written a book with a king who isn't the bad guy, and what that means when I approve of neither kings nor hierarchies in general. Thinking about writing the past with the eyes of the present. Thinking about the unexamined assumptions in so many historical novels I've read, and how it feels as a reader not to be able to stop examining them.

(I have also read a number of contemporary romance novels where, after working my way through half an author's backlist, I've been forced to acknowledge that despite everything, the author does in fact think rich people are inherently attractive. Not sure what the solution to that one is, but it's certainly a different, if related, problem.)

#writing #historical fiction #historical romance #kj charles

[strangelittlestories]

Ever since I rose from the pseudo-dead to find Britain in its time of direst need, I have found myself prone to occasional fits of melancholy.

(Not that I’m bitter. Oh no. I’m thrilled to find myself alone, barring the company of a sentient oversized steak knife, subbing for dear-old-daddy Arthur’s destiny.)

These occasional funks are perhaps to be expected. After all, the experience of being a spirit subsumed by the earth was a dreamlike and peaceful quasi-non-existence. Don’t get me wrong, I kept myself informed of all your drama … but when you’re getting your news by slowly subsuming the brains and bones of the deceased, it kinda comes one step removed.

It was *nice* to have that emotional disconnect. To have a bit of a buffer from the trials and tribulations of inhabiting an organic body with screaming nerves and chemicals rushing about to yell about *feelings*.

Even in the information age - when phone lines and broadband cables began dumping data into the earth - it was a pleasant phantasmagoria of media and gossip.

So waking up in a fresh flesh form, with all that messy live-streamed molecular input … it was a bit of a rollercoaster to readjust. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I ever really got a handle on it the first time.

So … yeah, it came with these intense bouts of listless sadness. They felt like, I dunno, like you wandered into a thick fog, but it’s not really fog. It’s a bruise on the face of reality, all purple and yellow and blotchy and sore … and you’re in the middle of it.

And, sure, that feeling is probably par for the course. The surprising bit - and I blame all the memelords I absorbed through the wires for this - is that when I’m feeling this way, I get weirdly *punny*.

Like, the other day, I was thinking about how annoying it is to be stuck with Excalibur, right? This asshole - aside from being remarkably talkative for a shined-up chunk of ore - is a constant reminder of all the family baggage.

And I was thinking:,isn’t it funny that my dad’s ex-girlfriend, a powerful fae and spirit of literal destiny, gifted him a sword called Excalibur.

As if to say to his future partners: I got him a whole-ass magic sword that proclaimed his fate as the one king to rule them all. That’s the ‘calibre’ of ‘ex’ that you’re dealing with, so suck it Guinevere.

(Get it? Ex-calibre?)

Then I wondered: what if dad only dated the Lady for the magic sword?

I guess that’s human men for you. They only want one thing. They’re always just trying to get blade.

…and, inexplicably, wordplay like this makes me feel *better*. And not, y’know, like a monster of the highest order (which, let us not forget, a lot of people think I am).

Wild.

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #puns #feghoot #more mordred fic #ma boi mordred #arthuriana

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:  Whilst in the depths of the Heroes Forge armory, you and your friends come across a peculiar sword that has a mind of its own.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: None, allusions to Jim x Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k

“Vendel really needs to get on organizing all this shit,” you called back to Blinky. Currently you were halfway stuck between a fallen broadsword and a chest of daggers the size of your face. You could barely hold the heavy blade up, as it was just an inch taller than yourself, and you felt the chest dig further into your back as a nervous squeak passed your lips.

A second later you were rescued, Arrgh lifting the sword like a twig and offering you a smile. You sighed, wiping your hair from your eyes. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded.

Blinky appeared at your side, watching as not farther off, Toby struggled to pick up a large warhammer. “Hmm. Yes. I’ll bring it to his attention.”

The pair of you grimaced as a loud clatter came from further into the storage, followed by Jim’s cried out, “I’m fine!”

You let out a small laugh. The Heroes Forge really needed some work. After that last encounter with Bular, Jim decided his friends needed to be able to defend themselves too, which brought you, Claire, and Toby here, into the depths of the Trollmarket armory. 

So far, everything was so... troll sized. If only every sword magically readjusted to its wielder’s height (but not every sword was Daylight). 

You pass down the halls of the armory in a patient stride, trying to find something small enough to actually lift, when a glint from the darkness caught your eye. Pausing, you turned. There weren’t any lanterns or torches lighting the way, but down this hall, you saw a subtle red glow.

Obviously, you went to check it out. “Hey guys?”

Jim was at your shoulder in an instant, somehow, probably some secret power that amulet gave him (honestly, it was annoying that Merlin couldn’t have made a spare that you could conveniently happen upon one day).

“What is that?” he wondered aloud as you both came to stop before the dusty wooden table at the end of the path. Shields and broken blades laid forgotten on the floor, shoved aside by heroes past. A gnome skeleton sat haunting against the corner, hollow eyes sending shivers down your spine.

No one had been down this hallway in a long, long time.

Atop the table lay a shimmering silver cutlass, the blade so stark against the gloomy doom hanging in the air.

“Great Gronka Morka,” a voice sighed behind you. Blinky rushed forth, hands hovering over the weapon, before he stepped back like he was scared to be near it. “We must be very deep in the armory... very deep indeed.”

You, by your nature, stepped up to it, not understanding his hesitation. “What is it?”

All six of Blinky’s eyes zeroed in on you. “Only the most dangerous piece of equipment in this aged place...”

You turned to side eye Jim, brows raised, before you humored Blinky and motioned him on with a hand. “Okay... So what’s up with it?”

Blinky stuck out two arms and guided you away from the sword. Claire, Toby, and Arrgh emerged from the dark, curious eyes taking in the weapon.

“That,” said Blinky, all so serious. “Is the long sought after War Starter... the Coveted Cutlass... the Bane of Arthur--”

“Speed it up. Please.”

“That,” he continued. “Is Mordred’s Dagger.”

Crickets would have fit nicely in the silence, you thought, leaning away from his raised arms like he were telling some kind of ghost story. You pushed his hands down, nodding. “Dagger? That’s a sword, buddy.”

“To you humans, yes.” Blinky once again hovered his two right palms over the weapon. “But to us trolls? A toothpick.”

You just stared at the blade again, quirking a brow. “War Starter, huh? Looks harmless to me.”

“How dorste thou so?”

The sword’s hilt burned a golden light, a deep and foreign voice erupting form the dark. Every one of you jerked back. Jim quick changed faster than Barbie as his armor donned him. Daylight appearing in his hands.

You leaned forward in the following silence, only to jump again when the sword glowed off and on as it seemed to cough hoarsely.

“Seyeth som reward to youre eldre men!” The sword continued to clear its throat (?) whilst the lot of you stood in silence.

You were the first to break it. “You... can talk?”

The sword scoffed. “Of course I kan! Whethir ye han nevere come a blessid blade?”

You raised a hand and blinked dumbly. “Slow down, my guy. Too many words.”

“Hmm,” the sword grunted, seeming to think. “Is... Can ye... understand this?”

Before you could answer, Blinky pulled you back. “Stay back. We don’t know its motivations.”

You just crossed your arms at him. “It? Come on, Blink, we talked about this. Don’t assume. The sword can talk, so the sword can think.” You turned your attention to the sword. “Sword, uhm, do you mind being called it?”

The quiet that followed wasn’t exactly comforting, but the edge of the blade still glittered a dim gold that must have meant the sword was pondering. “I... Well, no one hath ever called me but that.”

“Is that was you want to be called?”

The sword again hesitated, whilst Toby eyed you weirdly. It was a sword, for crying out loud, and he didn’t understand why you were asking. He nudged Jim with the intention of sharing a little laugh with him, only to find Jim watching you with something lovestruck in his eyes. 

Toby glanced at Claire, finding not a hint of mirth in her eyes as she too seemed to wait for the sword’s response. So he dropped it, suddenly also wanting to know if this sword had a preference on pronouns. He paused. That was a thought he’d never, even after everything, thought he’d have. 

“I prefer to be referred to as male,” the sword decided after another few moments.

Blinky pursed his lips and sighed. “Stay away from him.”

“Thank you, troll.”

“Don’t thank me, King Killer.” Blinky eyed the sword warily. “Do not be fooled, friends. That weapon has toppled kingdoms.”

You cast the sword a glance. “Have you?”

“On occasion, aye.”

Oh. That complicated things. “Are you evil?”

“I’m only what my wielder has me be.” The sword sighed. “Lord Mordred was... unkind.”

You looked back at Jim with sorry eyes, feeling your sympathy rise as your friend came to stand at your shoulder again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Blinky was getting antsy, his eyes flickering this way and that. “I do think its time we return to the Forge, don’t you Arrgh?”

“Yes. Time to go.”

“Oh,” said Sword. “I understand.”

You grabbed onto Blinky’s cold stone arm then, and suddenly your usual sass was drained from your face, and all that was left was your vulnerability. “Come on, Blink. We can’t leave him. I bet he’s lonely back here.”

“I am rather lonesome.”

Blinky took you gently by the arms, eyes imploring you to understand. “He is deceiving you, Y/N. Mordred could not have lifted that hilt if the sword had not chosen him. That is what makes him dangerous! No one can lift that sword unless he decides they are worthy.”

“You really think a sword so picky?” 

Again, all eyes fell on the sword. “Truly, I only thought Lord Mordred to be a skillful swordsman. That is all I use to differ those who dare to attempt my hilt. He’d trained since birth. How was I to know he’d use me to kill his father?”

Sword went silent, his words trailing off. “How... how was I to know he’d be so cruel?”

The crack in Sword’s voice sent you over the edge, your eyes boring into Jim, as if he could somehow convince Blinky to change his mind. It wasn’t likely. Blinky was stubborn, but so were you.

Jim just stared back at you, something in him softening for the sword. “Maybe you should start judging people on more than their sword skills.”

“Indeed.”

“Please,” Blinky begged. The rasp in his voice caught you off guard, and now you listened to him with a newfound transparency. “I beg you... both of you. Walk away. I’ve seen what this sword can do of his own accord.”

Claire inched forward, wrapping her hand around your elbow to catch you attention. “Maybe we should go. Blinky could be right. What if he’s tricking us?”

“But I...” Your words fell short, and you found yourself staring at Sword. His hilt gleamed yet his blade looked dulled by age... or perhaps by use. You shuddered despite the warm humidity of the armory.

“Come on,” Claire said softly, tugging you with her as Blinky and Arrgh turned back. Toby eyed you and Sword sorrily, before following after them. Claire gave up, rubbing your shoulder as she left you and Jim alone. 

In the quiet only disturbed by the dewy drops of water somewhere far off and the receding steps of your friends, you stared at that sword. 

“Are you lonely?”

“Dreadfully... Goodbye, my liege.”

Jim took your hand, fleetingly, before squeezing it and letting go. “Come on.”

He turned as well, but you remained. Their footsteps echoed away, banging around in the sides of your head, until you made a decision.

Your hand closed around the hilt of the evil sword, and you pulled with every bit of your power. The rim of the blade glowed a subtle whitish yellow, in contrast from its previous red, and the sound of the sword scraping against the table as you hefted the cutlass up rang through the hall.

You stumbled back from using too much momentum, not having expected to actually have lifted him. The tip of the cutlass hit the ground, and Sword let out a little grunt. You flexed your muscles and marveled at how the sword gradually got lighter, at how the glow grew brighter. 

“Y/N?!”

You turned the blade this way and that, grinning from ear to ear. Something about how Sword was glowing told you he was smiling too.

“Do you have a name?” you asked him as Blinky practically ran toward you with the others in tow.

“Sword.”

You hummed. “That’s a little impersonal, don’t ya think?”

“I do not have a proper name, my liege.”

“Can I give you a name?” you asked. Jim came up beside you, if only to keep Blinky from ripping the blade from your hands.

“Whatever you wish.”

“I wish you’d call me Y/N.”

“As you wish, my--Y/N.” 

A smile grew on your face when Blinky tried to reach past a surprisingly immovable Jim. “How about Cal?”

“... I liketh it.”

“Y/N! Put that down right now!”

a.n. i loved this so much. might do a part two with reader and cal’s shenanigans.

#tales of arcadia #jim lake junior #jim lake jr #jim lake x reader #jim lake junior x reader #jim lake jr x reader #toby domzalski #blinkous galadrigal #claire nuñez #tales of arcadia x reader #guillermo del toro

[cowboydisaster]

The Fire In Your Eyes

part X: Horseshoe Overlook vi

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 12.6k

summary: you face the camp with Arthur, coming home and shocking everyone with his return. Dutch makes it clear that he has a growing problem with you, and Arthur sweeps you away from the drama, taking you on a date.

a/n: hello! Sorry for the long wait. Finals are over, and I can finally breathe again. Therapy!!! Therapy this chapter yay! Everyone talking about their daddy issues! They need it tbh. But that aside, I love this chapter because they're just together. You all voted for a honeymoon phase so here it is! Poll can be found in series extras linked below. Enjoy! <3

beta read by @margowritesthings

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni (skippable smut)

series extras

SERIES MASTERPOST

You trot past Flatneck Station, swallowing thickly at the memories from the last time you’d been past. Hoof prints are stamped into the mud from the chase where you'd leapt from the train, and you keep your eyes off of them as you ride side by side with Arthur. 

“You think they’ll know?” You blush, eyes flickering up to the entrance of camp. You slow Athena down into a walk as you stare into the dark opening in the woods, leading you home. 

“No sweetheart,” Arthur chuckles, “I don’t think they’ll know.” He smiles, regarding your shared night together. 

“What about the girls? Oh god- what about Hosea? He’ll know.” You sigh, anxiety pulling at your chest.

“Well I gotta come back from the dead first.” Arthur chuckles.

“Can we keep this between us just for now? I don’t wanna hide it, but I can’t take the teasin’ from the girls, not yet.” You mumble, looking up to Arthur as he stops Balius, looking back to you. 

“They been teasin’ you?” He asks, eyebrows pulling together lightly. 

“No, well not really, but I just know it’ll be the camp talk and I can’t deal with that now.” 

“Okay… anyone bothers you, just let me know. Well- actually, I know you can handle your own, but still, you need to talk, let me know.” Arthur mumbles, eyes flickering up and down over you bittersweetly before he clicks Balius to trot. 

“Thanks Arthur.”

You continue following Arthur into the woods surrounding Horseshoe. You’re glad to be back, albeit a little nervous. You haven’t seen anyone but John since the train job, and you hope there's no hurt feelings that you declined to return with them. Suddenly a rustling in the bushes pulls your attention, and your head snaps to the left. 

“Who’s there?” John’s familiar raspy voice calls out, and you smile for it as he steps around some bushes and trees. 

“It's us, dumbass.” Arthur says, with a hint of a smirk on his lips. You watch as John steps out onto the trail, eyes going wide as he slings his rifle over his shoulders.

“Arthur? I’ll be damned,” John looks up to Arthur, extending his hand upwards, and they share a very brotherly handshake, “I’m glad you’re alright, brother.” John sighs, looking back to you with a deep nod in thanks for bringing him home.

“Yeah me too.” Arthur says, letting go of John’s arm and glancing toward the camp. It’s midday, and you can see a few people milling about but none notice you. 

“Everyone’s real worried. You best head on in there.” John says, nodding towards camp. He follows the two of you as you walk your horses in. Arthur makes a note to thank John when you’re not around. John kept you alive, took care of you when Arthur couldn’t. He’ll owe the younger outlaw for that.

“Arthur?!” Marybeth calls. She’s carrying a pail of water across camp, and she drops it at her feet as you walk in, a little behind Arthur. 

“Arthur, Star!” Hosea chuckles, clapping his hands together with a smile. Everyone’s attention directs to Arthur as he rides in, and a crowd forms at the front of camp when everyone realizes he’s alive

“Arthur- you’re alive!” Javier calls out, a big smile on his face. After Arthur dismounts, Javier slaps him on the back. Everyone riddles him with questions, pulling him into the crowd. Arthur glances back at you briefly as they pull him to the campfire, but you only smile, beckoning him to go on. John comes up beside you, sighing. 

“How’d you find him?” He asks, and you huff. 

“He found me, actually.” You chuckle, watching as Arthur sits at the fire next to Charles and Karen. 

��He’s okay?” John asks, looking Arthur over, thinking of the fall.

“He’s saying he’s fine, but I know he’s in a lot of pain… you know how he is.” You respond, hitching the horses. 

“I do.” John says as you pull his tent kit down from Balius. With a small blush, you strap it onto Old Boy.

“Your tent. Thank you by the way.”  You explain, cursing Arthur in your head as you strap down the kit, “I reckon I’m gonna go unpack. I could use a bath.” You chuckle, bidding John goodbye as you walk towards your tent. Arthur’s eyes follow you with concern as you walk past the crowd, but you give him a smile, letting him know not to worry. You just don’t feel like socializing right now. 

You part the white canvas, stepping inside and taking a deep breath. You’ve missed your little space. You run your fingers along your bedside table, stopping at the end and taking your guns off your shoulders, leaving just your holstered weapons on your person. Then reaching into your satchel until you find the familiar cardboard, you pull out a match, strike it against your boot and light two candles to brighten up your tent. 

"Better." You hum. 

You sit down on your cot, tucking one leg under your body as you reach into your satchel again, but this time you pull out your little journal. It's been quite a while since you've written in the ivory pages, and you flip to a fresh entry before pulling out your pen Arthur had given you from that man in Blackwater. 

I thought he was dead. Guess the fear of losing him won over the fear of having him, because when he returned to me safely, having him was all I could manage to do. I poured my heart out to him finally, and he waited for me just as promised. Things are better now. I have hope. 

A single tear drips down onto the page as your pencil hovers over the entry. Your head snaps upwards at the sound of three harsh knocks on the beam of your tent. Quickly you look up, seeing black boots from underneath the tent flaps. You wipe your eyes, quickly standing up. 

"Come in." You call, and Dutch parts the canvas with one hand, stepping into your tent. His stature towers over you menacingly, there's an intention to his gaze, but you only sigh, turning your back to him as you tidy up your bedside table. 

"Dutch." You greet curtly, moving some dried wildflowers and herbs to the top left corner of your table.

"Where have you been?" Dutch asks, jaw set. You turn your head around, looking at him like he's a fool. 

"I've been at the river, looking for Arthur." You huff. Dutch hums deep in his chest, thinking over the information you've just given him. 

"I heard the train was a mess." Dutch adds, eyes looking down at yours. You don't know what he's getting at, or where this is leading but he's really beginning to irritate you, and you grit your teeth. 

"Clearly. Boys came home with three people instead of five. I'd say that's a mess." You bite, slamming a few homemade tonics onto the table a little harsher than necessary as you organize them. Dutch leans over you from behind just enough to grab one of the wildflowers from your table, a violet, and he spins it between his thumb and index finger. 

"Why is that? What went wrong?" He asks. 

"Cause the conductor was dead…? Didn't one of the boys fill you in on this?" You sigh. 

"Yes, but I was hoping for the perspective of someone more… integral to the aftermath." 

You turn around, and Dutch grips the violet tightly. He nearly has you trapped in and you can barely see over his large shoulder as he steps forward threateningly. You don't know what he wants or how to appease him. 

"What do you want, Dutch?" You growl, back pressed tightly against your side table to avoid his touch. You glare daggers at him. 

"I just find it mighty strange that the first real job I put you on, my best man manages to nearly get himself killed. He never misstepped before you came along. He's smart." Dutch growls, and you swear his lip curls. 

"You're losing it Dutch." You huff, shaking your head, realizing that Dutch thinks you messed up the train job. As if what happened was your fault. 

"No. I'm just trying to figure things out. I'm keeping my eyes on you, miss. I don't trust you yet." Dutch says, stepping one more step toward you. He places the violet behind your ear with a sickeningly satisfied smirk, and you shy away from his hands. Then Dutch is leaning down close to your face. 

"Trust has to be earned." He hisses, chuckling deep in his throat. Your knuckles are white from where they grip onto the table behind you, back pressed tightly against the wood. 

"Dutch?" A voice calls from the entrance to the tent. Arthur. You release a breath as Dutch backs away. His threatening glare turns like the flip of a switch into a charismatic smile. He turns around to Arthur then, smiling just the same.

"Arthur! Glad you're home, son. Oh and tomorrow I want you to go and get Micah. The boy has done his time." Dutch says, patting Arthur on the back as he walks through the tent exit. Left reeling, you pull the violet out of your hair and toss it onto the ground angrily. You shudder a breath, watching the purple flower on the ground. 

"You okay? What the hell was that about?" Arthur asks, coming forward and looking you over.

You sigh, anger replacing coyness as you strut towards your bed, shoving your journal back into your satchel.

"He thinks that I- I don't know what he thinks- that I set up the train job? Or that it's my fault you fell somehow?" You huff, slamming the flap to your satchel as you sit down on the bed. 

"He said that?" Arthur asks, stepping forward with his hands on his belt. He sits down on your bed next to you, looking at you with concern. He's not oblivious to the way Dutch seems to be slipping, even though he doesn't want to believe it. 

"He implied it." You say, shaking your head. You can't believe Dutch, what he's blaming you for. What happened on the train was no one's fault, certainly not yours.

You cross your legs on the cot, sighing and leaning your head on Arthur’s shoulder. You've been back five minutes and Dutch has already ridiculed you. 

Arthur leans into your touch, placing his palm on your thigh. 

"Why don't we go into town for the rest of the day. They know I'm alive now. No harm in headin' out, no one expects us to be back runnin' just yet." Arthur suggests, and you look up to him, your head still resting against his warm arm. 

"But we just got back… I don't want people to think we're slackin' off." You point out, leaning back from Arthur as he reaches into his satchel. 

"Let them think, c'mon. We'll take the rest of the day for ourselves." Arthur adds, and your eyes widen as he pulls a thick wad of cash out of his satchel. 

"This is yours. After everything, the boys did get the take." He says, taking your palm in his hand and placing the cash in it. Your eyes boggle as you take the cash, running your eyes over the sum.

"Jesus-" You whisper, counting out two thousand dollars, swallowing thickly. 

"I can't keep this all Arthur, surely some should get spread around the camp." You say, eyes flickering up to him as you grip the money in your hand. Arthur chuckles, looking at the sparkle in your eyes.

"No, that's your piece. Half of the take goes to the camp, that little box behind Dutch's tent. The other half gets divided up between them who worked the job." Arthur explains, and you smile. 

"I ain't never had this much money in my life… what should I buy?" You ask, glancing up to him with a smile that warms his heart. 

"Why don't we get your guns fixed up, engraved to your likin'?" Arthur suggests and your eyes twinkle. 

"And a bath?" You ask. 

"And we'll get you a bath." Arthur chuckles, his hand on the small of your back, "C'mon gather your things. It'll be fun, just the two of us." Arthur helps you up, and walks to the exit of your tent. Just as he parts the canvas, he stops and turns back to you.

"And Star?" He asks.

"Hmm?"

"Pack a bag. We'll rent a room for the night." He winks at you, and then he's gone outside as your breath shudders. A shiver runs up your spine, and you turn to your wardrobe to avoid the distraction. 

You rummage through your things, grabbing a fresh pair of clothes, knowing you won't be needing them until the morning. You grab your carbine, swinging it over your shoulder before heading out. 

When you exit the tent, you scan the area, and find Arthur tightening the straps on Athena's saddle. With a smile, you step forward, but are almost knocked over by Strauss as he scurries in front of you. 

"Asshole." You hiss under your breath, following after him towards Arthur. 

"Herr Morgan!" Strauss calls out, and you see Arthur roll his eyes from behind Athena. 

"Whatchu want?" Arthur grumbles, patting the mare lightly before stepping around her, towards you. 

"I have a debtor for you." Strauss says plainly, and your stomach turns sour. 

"Name?" Arthur asks, and your brows wrinkle as you look up to him. 

"His name is Thomas Downes, a farmer. A failing one at that. He owes us quite a lot. I trust you'll get that money back by whatever means possible?" Strauss asks, hinting to the beating you're sure will fall upon the man, the same beatings your father died from. 

"Arthur…" You whisper, glancing between the two men. You won’t tell him what to do, he’s an adult, but your mind begs him not to go. Your father was a debtor, and you suffered for it. You know nothing good comes from the loaning business. Arthur turns back to you for a moment, biting his cheek. He looks over you quickly, and then turns back to Strauss with a sigh. 

“No. I’m takin’ the lady out for the afternoon. Do your own damn dirty work, or find someone else.” Arthur bites back, harsher than you’d expected. You’re proud of the man for standing up for himself, something he seems to struggle with when the gang comes calling. You’re proud of him for choosing not to beat a man to death over a few odd dollars like they did to your daddy. 

“But Herr Morgan-” Strauss says, walking after you both. Arthur places his hand in your lower back, urging you onto Athena. 

“No, now shut up. Go bother someone else with your loanin’.” Arthur growls, leaving no room for Strauss to argue. Like a wounded animal, he sulks back to his tent. 

“C’mon, I’ve been here an hour and I’m about sick of this place.” Arthur sighs, clambering up into Balius’s saddle.

— — —

You swing Athena’s reins over the hitching post as you dismount, stepping up onto the sidewalk as you wait for Arthur. The saloon is loud for the early hour, and your stomach turns at the sight of it. You’ve hitched the horse’s down in front of Nils’ blacksmithing shop, leaving them closer to the hotel for later. You smile at Arthur as he dismounts, coming up to the sidewalk with you. 

“Whatchu wanna do first? Go to the gunsmith?” Arthur asks, looking down the street. You’re about to open your mouth when a deep, booming voice calls to you from behind. 

“Miss!”

You turn around with a confused look, but it blossoms into a smile when your eyes land upon Mr. Geddes, the man who works with Nils. 

“Mr. Geddes, good to see you again.” You offer as he shakes your hand. 

“I'm afraid I didn’t catch your name, miss.” Mr. Geddes says, and you blush, put on the spot. You tell him your real name, and Arthur glances down at you with some confusion. You never use your real name with strangers, but for some reason you trust Mr. Geddes. 

“And this is Arthur Morgan, my… my- suitor.” You chuckle, put on the spot. You blush at the term, hoping Arthur won’t mind it. What are you supposed to call him? Your friend? The man you’re in love with? You bite back a laugh. 

“Yes, that would be me.” Arthur huffs, shaking Mr. Geddes’ hand. 

“Ah, I see you’re the lucky recipient, it’s a fine piece. Handmade.” Mr. Geddes points to the decoration on Arthur’s hat, and Arthur nods.

“I just wanted to say hello, you two have a fine afternoon.” Mr. Geddes says, tipping his hat. 

“Thank you Mr. Geddes.” You offer as he raises a hand, stepping back towards his shop. With that, you start walking towards the gunsmith, leaving Arthur catching up. 

“Who in the hell was that?” Arthur asks, walking quickly to keep up with you. 

“Mr. Geddes, he works with the blacksmith, got a bunch of land I guess, sells a lot of tools.” You shrug, explaining all you know about the man. 

“Seemed awful excited to see you.” Arthur points out and you smirk. Is he… jealous?

“Most are, Arthur.” You smile at your sarcasm, “He’s a kind fella. Helped me out when I got your hat ornament.” You explain, and Arthur hums.

“Quit bein’ so sour, we’re on a date.” You say, falling into step with him. 

“Well I hope I’m doin’ good, y'know, since I’m your suitor and all.” Arthur chuckles and you roll your eyes.

“I was put on the spot, what else was I supposed to say?” You laugh, pushing open the door to the gunsmith. 

“I don’t know.” Arthur admits, voice getting quieter now that you’re inside. 

“What can I do for you fine folks?” The gunsmith asks, a middle aged, dark haired man. 

“Gettin’ the lady’s guns cleaned and engraved to her likin.” Arthur says for you, and you pull your carbine over your shoulder, placing it on the table. You blush at the state of it. It’s a fine gun, but it’s never been upgraded and you don’t clean it like you should. 

“She gets a lot of use, huh?” The gunsmith asks regarding your weapon and you nod.

“Mounted shooting, bit of a hobby.” You lie with a smile, and Arthur raises an eyebrow at the way your lie slips through so naturally. You make a fine outlaw. 

“Really?” The gunsmith asks, in awe, “Bet you have a good nag for that.” He chuckles, and you nod. 

“Yes, the best.” 

He flips your gun around, looking at the barrel. 

“Okay I can do a lot with this. I’ll give it a proper cleanin’ and if you want we can improve the stocks and barrel. Anything you like, really. On the matter of the engravin, we have a few styles and colors to choose from. If you get an engravin’ on the grip, you can put somethin’ big like an animal. I got a real fine artist, he can do whatever you like.” The gunsmith explains as you place your revolver on the counter as well. 

“Here’s some samples, go ahead n’ look through them and let me know about any upgrades.” The gunsmith says, stepping back. He grabs a case of gun oil from his counter and gets to work taking your carbine apart. 

“There’s so many options…” You whisper to Arthur, looking through colors of leather for stock wraps, and examples of engravings. Arthur nods, looking at the table over your shoulder. 

“Take your time, find somethin’ you like.” Arthur says. 

You flip through the samples for a while, but eventually you pick a dark, walnut colored leather stock wrap, and you pick some engravings. 

“I want this leather, but..” You put the engraving samples aside, “You said your engraver can do anything?” You ask. 

“Sure.” 

“Can I get constellations?” You ask, biting your lip, hoping that he’ll be able to.

“Of course! I think old William will find it to be a nice change of pace. Anything else?” The gunsmith asks, and you tap your foot, looking down to your revolver. 

“Do all the improvements on both guns, and can I get the constellations on this one too?” You ask, sliding the revolver across the counter. 

“Course!” He says, taking your weapon and unloading it. 

“Oh! And a wolf.” You add, and Arthur smirks behind you, “That’s all, I swear it.” 

“No problem at all, miss. I reckon you’ll be able to pick these up in the morning. William should be done by then.” The gunsmith says, brushing down the interior of your carbine’s barrel. 

“Thank you, mister.” You smile brightly, looking at Arthur then. It feels damn good to have enough money to buy yourself something nice for once, something more than the bare minimum. You have nice clothes, a nice horse, nice weapons. It feels good. Arthur leads you out of the gunsmith then, and starts walking across the street towards the Keane’s saloon, avoiding Smithfield’s like the plague. 

“Hungry?” Arthur asks. 

“A little.” You admit, walking side by side. A wagon rolls passed, and you wait, letting them go on before continuing across.

“C’mon, let's get somethin’ to eat.” Arthur says, hand on the small of your back as you cross the street. 

Keane’s saloon is smaller than Smithfield’s. It was the original town saloon, and when Smithfield’s opened, it took all the business away, leaving Keane’s in the dust. When you enter, there are only two patrons in the entire bar, a finely dressed man sitting at the bar with no drink in hand, and a clearly wasted man, armed to the teeth with iron, throwing up in the can. You wrinkle your nose, walking up to the bar with Arthur. 

There is a little menu on the counter that reads: Beer, Whiskey, Lamb fry, Oatmeal. 

“I’ll have a lamb’s fry, the lady can get what she wants, it's on my tab.” Arthur says, pulling out a handful of dollars. 

“The oatmeal.” You hum, curiously side-eyeing the man at your side. He’s staring at Arthur, specifically the guns strapped to his hips, and some sweat collects on your forehead with anxiety.

“N’ a beer and a whiskey.” Arthur finishes up, handing over enough cash to cover the current tab. His hand reaches to hold your elbow, but you don’t let him pull you away from the bar. Instead, you turn to the well dressed man, a little fella with too much pomade in his balding hair. 

“Can I help you?” You ask, sounding irritated. If there’s a problem, you’ll handle it. There’s no reason for the man to be openly staring at his weapons, unless he recognizes you both, or wants trouble. 

The man is shaken out of his trance, looking up at you from his seat at the bar. He looks mighty nervous when he sees the irritated look on your face.

“I was wondering if you could, actually. That man over there, he’s a fine gunslinger- Jim Boy Calloway. Im writin’ a book about his adventures, getting the first hand account of his old gang. I have one person left to interview, but I can’t go after her. Surely, she’ll kill me!” He says, getting awfully worked up. You glance across the room to the throwing up man. He's scrawny and weak, old, and the revolvers on his hips are nothing more than rust. 

“Sorry, he’s a famous gunslinger?” You chuckle, pointing to the inebriated fool in the corner. 

“Yes! Best draw in the west! – Oh! How rude of me not to introduce myself, Theodore Levin, pleased to meet you.” He says, and you nod, taking his offered hand. Arthur is watching the scene play out carefully from behind you, leaning on the bar while drinking his beer. You don’t introduce yourself. 

“Now I see those holsters, miss. You haven’t gotten me fooled so easily! Are you a gunslinger too? And a lady! How perfect, you must go after the Black Belle!” 

“A gunslinger?” You chuckle, “Nothin’ of the sort.” You say, taking the whiskey as the tender sets it down on the bar. 

“Who’s the Black Belle, anyway?” You ask, bringing the drink to your lips. Levin’s eyes light up. 

“She’s a gunslinger- she's incredible. A woman outlaw– who would have thought a woman capable?” He says, amazed. You squint at him, quelling the rage in your stomach. The man’s clearly a fool, you don’t hold it against him. 

“Oh– I didn’t mean a thing by it!” He quickly recovers. Arthur puts his beer down on the table a little harsher than necessary, coming up behind you. He stands at your back, one hand on your waist as he addresses the man.

“We’re actually on a date of sorts, so if you could kindly leave us be, I’d appreciate it, friend.” Arthur hisses, and you smirk at his coin ‘friend.’ You love when he does this. 

“I’ll pay you! Handsomely!” Levin stumbles over his words, pulling out a few pieces of paper and a pen. You sigh, rolling your eyes lightly before looking to the back of the saloon to see if your food is nearly done. 

“Whatchu want?” Arthur asks, encouraged to continue by the offer of money. 

“Find Black Belle and ask her about Jim Boy Calloway.” Levin says, emphasizing the annunciation of the ‘gunslinger’s’ name. 

“Why?” Arthur asks, leaning back on the bar. Levin sighs, already having answered this question. 

“I'm writing a book about him and I need her accounts!” He explains again, and you nod. 

"Here's her picture and some important information including her last known location and my P.O. box. If you find her, I'll need a quote and a picture! Do you have a camera mister?" Levin explains and asks, handing you a small envelope with a few items in it. You take it, tucking it away neatly in your satchel. 

"Yeah, I got a camera." Arthur replies, sounding frustrated. 

"Thank you, we'll think on it." You smile. Jim boy Calloway stumbles from the can, slurring his words and cursing as he stumbles out the front door. 

"Oh my… I uh- Best of luck to you now!" Levin smiles, worriedly rushing towards the door, yelling after the old gunslinger. 

You turn to Arthur with a chuckle and a raised eyebrow. 

"What an odd man." You huff. 

"Very odd- now, go find a seat. I'll bring your food over." Arthur says, and you nod.

You take your drink and walk towards the window, hearing Arthur mutter something about having you to himself for five goddamn minutes. You can't help but laugh. Besides, he'll have you to himself plenty come nightfall, you're sure. 

At the thought, you glance out the window, taking a seat at a table beside it. Wagons roll by, and orange light filters through the glass from the sun resting behind the tops of the mountains. It's beautiful. 

Arthur watches from across the room, an uptick of a smile on his lips, the kind that makes his crow's feet wrinkle lightly. The light covers you like a halo as you watch the people go by, looking out the window with curiosity. 

"Oatmeal n' lamb." The barkeep hollers, placing the two dishes on the countertop. Arthur balances the plate and bowl, all while holding his beer and silverware as he comes over to you. 

"Good spot." He says, placing everything on the table. 

You take your spoon, watching carefully as he sits down with a groan and a wince. 

"You hurting?" You ask, concerned. Arthur shakes his head, brushing it off as he grabs his fork. 

"Nah, nothin' I can't handle." He mumbles, and you bite your cheek, making a note to keep an eye on it. Maybe you can stop at the general store on the way to the hotel, get him something for the pain. You're sure it's bad. 

"I worry about you, y'know." You say, poking at your oatmeal with your spoon. Arthur eats his lamb, taking big bites. 

"There's nothin' to worry about, Star. I'm alright, just a little sore." He reassures you. 

"I'll get you something for the pain on the way to the hotel." You say, and he nods. He'll let you take care of him, he knows it'll ease your worries. 

"You actually wanna go find that woman? The Black Belle or something?" Arthur asks, taking a bite of his food. 

"Maybe. The money's good, I doubt old Levin wants to swindle us, but we should wait till we're out of Valentine first." You sigh, bouncing your knee as you push your oatmeal around your bowl. You're itching to get out of Valentine. As much as you love Horseshoe Overlook and its good memories, new and old, you don't like how close the law is. They're nearly breathing down your neck.

"What's wrong? You're barely pickin." Arthur points out. He's finished nearly half his plate, and you've done nothing but push yours around. You sigh, placing your spoon down on the table. A hundred things run through your mind. 

"Just worried is all. Dutch, you gettin' Micah, the Pinkertons, we should have left already, Arthur. Then we hit that train and there's a lot of noise. What if they find us?" You whisper, voice quiet. 

Arthur puts his fork down and takes your hand in his across the table. He looks right in your eyes, swearing to you. 

"They won't find us. We're leavin' soon, I promise you. But tonight, don't worry about all that. It's a problem for tomorrow, todays about you and me." Arthur offers, squeezing your hand lightly. You nod quietly, picking your spoon up as you start to eat. The oatmeal is good and warm, and it fills you up quickly.

You and Arthur chat, eating together until your plates are both empty. When your bowl touches the wood, you squint, noticing the scuff marks and imprints on the table. You pick your bowl up, inspect underneath it, and smile. It's clear the table has been used for games. Games involving losing some fingers and earning some money.

“You wanna play five finger filet?” You smile devilishly, placing your bowl off to the side before pulling your knife out. Arthur looks down at the table, then up to you and immediately shakes his head. 

“No- No.” Arthur argues, and you huff, rolling your eyes. 

“Star–” Arthur begins before you interject him. 

“What? Can’t handle it, cowboy?” You joke, scooching your chair back before stabbing your knife into the center of the table. 

“I don’t want you slicin’ a goddamn finger off.” Arthur grumbles, and your shoulders slump. The barkeep watches from behind the bar, a smile on his face as he polishes glasses. 

“I thought you were fun.” You pout. 

“In my younger years.” 

“Just one round?” You plead. Arthur sighs, clearing the table before grabbing your knife from the table. 

“Alright. Just one.” He says, grabbing his pocket watch and placing it on the table. 

Arthur goes first, and you watch the clock as he does. As the clock ticks down from thirty seconds, Arthur starts the pattern, hitting the table every time and not his fingers. He goes at a decent pace, but you know you can beat it. He gets six rounds before the second hand hits thirty, and you stop him. 

“Six.” You smile, and he stabs the knife back into the center of the table, “You’re pretty good.” You admit with a smirk. 

“Think you can beat me?” He asks, taking the golden watch from the old table. 

“Oh, I know I can.” 

You start quickly, and Arthur watches the time on the watch. Its hard to tell whether or not you’re going along faster than he did or not, but you focus your all into the game, trying not to lose any fingers in the process. When you hit five rounds you begin to smirk, then six… and then just before Arthur stops the clock, you get seven. You smile, holstering your knife. 

“You’re gettin’ slow.” You joke, smiling as he rolls his eyes. 

“That ain’t fair, you got smaller fingers than me.” Arthur complains, standing up from the table with you. You toss a five dollar bill on the table, rolling your eyes as he picks it up and hands it back to you before throwing his own bill down. 

“Don’t be a sore loser.” You chuckle, walking towards the door, waving a hand at the barkeep.

Golden light filters over the mountaintops, casting the evening in a beautiful glow. The wagons and riders have mostly gone home, leaving the streets empty except for a few people enjoying the evening. 

“I'm gonna stop at the general store quick, meet me at the hotel?” You ask, walking down the gunsmith’s side of the street. Arthur’s eyebrows pull together in confusion for a moment. 

“Sure, you don’t want me to walk you?” He asks, and you chuckle. 

“I can handle it just fine, have a maid start a bath for me.” You ask, placing your hand on his arm before letting go. He nods, walking down the sidewalk as you cross the street. 

The general store has a few candles lit inside, so you push the door open, walking up to the counter. 

“Evenin’ miss. We close in about thirty minutes, but take your time.” The shopkeeper greets you kindly. You nod, quickly looking over all that he has to offer before stepping up to the register. 

“I won’t be a minute.” You smile, “You have a catalog mister?” You ask, and the man nods, reaching under the counter before pulling out a thick red book. 

“Here’s the Wheeler and Rawson, we’ll deliver right to your home if you’d like.” He says, and you shake your head. 

“That won't be necessary but thank you.”

You flip to the table of contents, running your eyes down the categories until you find the ‘tonics’ section. You flip to that specific page, looking over your options. You need something for pain, so you pick a health tonic, figuring the added herbs will help at least. 

“I’ll take a health tonic, the regular one is fine.” You say, and the shopkeeper steps into a backroom to grab your item for Arthur. 

You flip through the pages with your thumb, skimming over the pages when an image catches your eye. You stick your thumb on the page, looking over the clothes category. There, in the bottom corner, is an advertised silk robe. Its fancy, trimmings of lace on the cleavage, arms and along the bottom trim. It's long enough to touch the ground, and has a silk tie around the waist. It's hard to tell from the picture, but it looks very light, almost sheer due to its paleness. Your cheeks blush at the thought of you in it, and they burn at the idea of Arthur seeing you in it.  It’s just a robe, you tell yourself, but hell is it a scandalous one.

The shopkeeper comes back with a dark green glass bottle of tonic, setting it in front of you while making a tab. 

“Anything else you’d like?” The shopkeeper asks, and you look down to avoid his gaze. 

“Yes just uh- this robe please. In white.” You ask nervously, but the shopkeeper remains professional, nodding and heading into the back. He comes back out with a decently small box; black, wrapped with a small white ribbon. The robe must be folded up inside. He places it next to the tonic, and adds it to your tab. 

“That all for you, miss?” He asks and you nod, pulling a big wad of cash from your satchel. You glance down at the catalog, eyes going wide when you see the price of the robe- nearly one hundred dollars, but you figure it’ll be worth it. 

“109.99 please.” The man asks, and you hand over 110. He gives you back your penny, and you stuff it all into your satchel, wondering if the passersby outside will somehow know what you’ve just purchased. You ignore it, taking your written receipt and heading out.

“Thanks mister!” You holler, pushing the door open.

You glance towards the blacksmith’s to where Balius and Athena are hitched, noticing that the stablehands have refilled the troughs and left them hay. Athena's golden ears pop up when she sees you walking across the street, and you smile at her before stepping onto the platform towards the All Saint’s Hotel. 

You push the hotel door open with your new items tucked away in your satchel. Immediately upon entrance, the owner recognizes you, and you put your hand up to stop him from speaking. 

“I don't want trouble. A man came in here about ten minutes ago, where is he?” You ask, cutting to the chase. The clerk seems to appreciate your honesty, nodding as he points down the hall. 

“He rented a bath.” The man says, “Now I’m goin’ home for the night in an hour so miss, no trouble, please.” He pleads, and you roll your eyes at his repetition. 

“You’ll get none from us.” You say, walking down the hallway. 

Now that you’re familiar with the layout, having been here on more than one occasion, you go down to the bathroom. Your hand hovers over the wood, ready to knock, but you lower it, simply turning the door knob instead. 

Lavender scented steam wafts out the door upon you opening it, and you inhale deeply as you step inside. Arthur is kneeling on the ground, his shirt sleeves rolled up as he swishes his hand around in the sudsy water, stirring up the bubbles. Rose petals and oats  float on the surface of the water, and it smells as if he's put lavender oil in the bath as well. You shut the door behind you, and Arthur’s head pops up at the noise. 

“I can leave if you like.” Arthur says, standing up from the ground, “I was just gettin’ the water ready.”

“Isn’t there a bath maid for that? Or a working woman?” You ask. Typically someone gets the water ready. You feel bad he’s had to do it himself.

“Yes,” Arthur gestures to the bath, “but I know you like the lavender soap, and the water real hot so I told them I’d take care of it.”

You smile at him, taking care of you like a gentleman, and then remember that you have to take care of him too.

“I got you something for your pain.” You mention, carefully reaching around the ribbon tied box in your satchel to grab the tonic. Arthur huffs. 

“You didn’t have to, I'm alright-” 

“Please just drink it Arthur, it would make me feel better.” You explain, and he smirks, taking the bottle before popping the cap off and taking a long swig. He makes a sour face, but drinks enough down before stuffing it into his satchel.

“Thank you.” He says, tipping his head. 

Arthur moves for the door, wiping his hands on a hand towel, but you grip his forearm, stopping him before he can step out.

“Don’t go.” You plead, grip tight on his arm. When he turns to catch your eyes, he can see how much you want him to stay. So of course he does. He'd move the heavens or fetch you the moon if you asked him to. 

Arthur takes his time undressing you. He unties your little neckerchief first, setting it neatly on the dressing table before he moves to the bigger items of your clothing. With the adrenaline from your crashing together gone, you find yourself a bit self conscious as he strips you of your clothes, but you say nothing. Your breath shudders against him as he undoes the buttons of your shirt, it’s something he picks up on immediately. 

“You’re nervous.” He points out. You nod lightly. 

“A little.” You admit, thinking of what the rest of the night will entail. You were too worried about his safety last night, you didn’t have time to doubt yourself or feel insecure. 

“S’okay. Let’s just get you cleaned up, we don’t gotta do anythin’ sweetheart.” He offers quietly, and you nod. He pulls your shirt down over your arms, eyes running over your body.

“So perfect…” He whispers, thumb rubbing circles over the skin below your breasts. You smile at his compliment, some of the anxiety falling away before he lowers you into the bath. 

The water is hot, the perfect temperature as your skin meets its embrace. The tub is deep, and the water comes just over your breasts once you relax against the lip of the tub. The aroma of lavender swirls through your head, replacing any remaining anxiety with bliss. Arthur gets back on his knees beside the tub, and your hand snakes out from the soapy water to rest on top of his. 

“This is perfect, thank you.” You sigh, eyes slipping shut. There is a nice, tooled slat of wood over the bath, and on it is a small assortment of soaps and a half filled decanter of whiskey. It looks expensive

 the crystal reflects the firelight beautifully, shimmering and sparkling like snow in fresh light. Arthur picks up the crystal decanter and pours two glasses. You sit up to take the one offered to you, sipping the burning liquid. Arthur dips a small pail into the water, filling it completely. 

“Close your eyes, darlin’.” Arthur says just over a whisper, and you set your drink down before slipping your eyes shut. Warm water cascades down your hair and back, but none gets on your face or eyes from the hand Arthur uses to shield them. He rinses your hair until it's completely drenched before placing the bucket down. 

There is a rose scented bar of soap on the bath table, and Arthur grabs it, lathering it between his hands. Then his hands are entangled into your hair, scrubbing and scratching at your scalp as you moan. Arthur chuckles at your reaction, his fingers working delicately to scrub your hair, getting your scalp thoroughly clean all the way. 

“That smells so good.” You exhale, eyes closed as Arthur fills the pail again and begins rinsing your hair out. After a handful of rinses, your hair is all clean and he brushes through it with his fingers. Once he’s done, you look up to him, overcome with the emotion of him taking care of you. No one has ever treated you so kindly. You look into his green eyes. They are unnoticing of your gaze, directed to where he sets the bucket down. 

“Kiss me.” You plead, arms resting on the side of the bath as you lean over the metal lip. Arthur leans forward, his hand lining your cheek as he takes your lips. You tilt your head, opening your mouth as Arthur gives you butterflies, yet again. When he pulls away, his eyes are searching yours with a question. 

“Back when I was in here, after Tommy… You almost kissed me. Why didn’t you?” Arthur asks. He realizes it's unimportant now, but he’s still curious. You had pulled away from him, and then curled into his bed the same night. Your head falls some, and you play with your hands under the murky water. 

“Guess I was just afraid… of hurting you or getting hurt.” You admit out loud, and it feels good to get off your chest. Arthur sees the sadness creeping onto your face, and he's quick to fix it.

“None a’ that dancin’ around matters now.”  Arthur whispers, index finger hooking under your chin, pulling you to plant one small kiss to your lips. You could kiss him forever and never get used to it. 

He picks up the rose scented bar again, reaching behind him to grab a washcloth. You watch the bubbles pop under his touch as he lathers the cloth, dipping it under the murky water again. You slip your eyes closed, relaxing fully as he runs the cloth over your neck and chest. 

His hand heats up the washcloth all on its own as he spreads the soap across your body. Silently, with a wrinkle of concentration, he cleans you up. Your wet skin glistens in the firelight, goosebumps rising on your arms 

“You just wanna relax for a bit longer?” Arthur asks, and you nod, sinking deeper into the bath. 

"Okay, sweetheart. Take your time, just come knock on the door when you're finished. I got the big room, 1A." 

"I'll be right up." You smile, bringing your knees up to your chest under the water. 

Arthur wipes his hands on the hand towel before walking out of the room. Your eyes flicker to your satchel resting on the little table beside your clothes, and you bite your lip, thinking of the bow tied box resting in it. Your fingers tap along the side of the bath for just a moment before you push yourself up, water dripping down from your hair as you step out of the tub. 

The bath towel is big and soft on your skin, wrapping you up completely as you dry yourself and your hair as best as you can. Then the gray cotton slumps to the floor as you drop it, stepping forward to the table. 

The box is of fine quality, and you pull the white ribbon, watching it release until it flutters to the ground. You pull the top of the box off, revealing the white silk robe. It's absolutely stunning, even more beautiful than in the catalogue as you pull it out. 

You smile as you pull it over your shoulders, tying the silk ribbon at your waist before moving to the mirror. White silk cascades down from your hips, pooling on the floor in a small train. The lace on your chest and arms isn't scratchy, but soft, and it leaves just enough to the imagination. It's absolutely indecent to wear anywhere but to bed, but you have a few plans in mind. Smiling at yourself in the mirror and bouncing on your toes, you move to the door. 

The hotel clerk should have gone home by now, but you still crack the door open and peek your head out. You hear nothing and see no one, so quietly you step out. The door clicks behind you, and you gather your silk skirt in your hand, scurrying into the hallway and up the stairs as quickly as possible. The wood is cold on your bare feet as you carry all your items, smiling and feeling like a schoolgirl as you run up the empty staircase. 

You know he's waiting for you, and you wonder if he has anything else planned or if he's waiting to take you to bed. Either way, you smile, reaching the top of the steps and turning left. The door labeled 1B reaches your eyes, and you raise your hand to knock. 

"Arthur? It's me." You whisper, knocking lightly on the door. You hear footsteps approaching before the door unlocks. You fix your robe quickly, pulling the cleavage down just a little, before the door opens. 

"You enjoy your…?" Arthur pauses, eyes on yours before he slowly trails them down your figure. He swallows thickly, seeing the way the silk clings to your body before pooling to the ground past your hips. His eyes flicker up to the lace at your cleavage, and he blushes something fierce, reaching for your hand. 

"Star.. you look-  where did you get this?" He chuckles, blushing even further as he rubs some of the silk between his fingers. 

"The store." You smile, hair falling down in front of your face as you look down at yourself. 

"You look incredible." He whispers, hand resting on your waist. It's then that he realizes all that you're carrying, and he curses himself, taking your satchel and boots from your hands

"Shit- I'm sorry. Here, let me take your things." Arthur whispers, setting everything down on the dresser. You step inside, hands toying together as you wait. 

"I got one more thing planned, c'mon." Arthur smiles proudly, taking your hand. 

You walk side by side as he leads you down the hall. You pick up your skirts again, and you notice the way Arthur looks down at you on multiple occasions, groaning ever so lightly in his chest.

He leads you to the end of the hall, and out the door onto the back porch. It's just a small platform, and the only way to go is down the stairs. When you look over at Arthur, he's eyeing the roof, and your eyes go wide. 

"Forgive me for not havin' a proper way to get you up here." Arthur chuckles and you roll your eyes. 

"I ain't never been proper, now help me up." You joke, watching him jump up and grab the roof. He pulls himself up with a surprising amount of ease. 

"You climb buildings often?" You laugh as he leans down and takes your hand.

"Usually, when I'm robbin' 'em." Arthur huffs, pulling you up as gently as he can manage. Eventually you not so gracefully land on the roof. It's flat, and from it you can see the the tops of The Grizzlies, the entire way down to the plains in Blackwater. You stare in awe, stepping closer to the edge as you look out over the town and the miles of nature beyond. 

"It's beautiful." You whisper as Arthur stands behind you, pulling your back to his chest. 

"Sure is." Arthur mumbles, eyes on you as his hands grip your waist. 

"Got some chocolate n whiskey." Arthur says, and you turn around curiously.

You hadn't even noticed the decent sized, thick blanket resting in the middle of the roof, or the bottles of Tennessee whiskey and the chocolate bar. Your lips form into a pout as you step forward, robe swaying in the breeze as you lay down on your back. 

"Come sit with me." You ask of him, and he comes forward, resting beside you on the blanket.

You lay beside him, hands resting on your stomach as you look up at the sky.

"Been a while since I looked at 'em." You point out, eyes running over the bright stars. You look over the clusters, how they shine and shimmer, wondering if that same shine still resides in you. 

"I noticed." Is all he says. 

"Which is your favorite?" You ask, finding lupus and locking your eyes on his howling figure. 

"My favorite star?" He asks, looking over to you. 

"Well, yeah, star- or your favorite constellation." You clarify. 

"Never really thought much about it." He says, and then it grows quiet. So much has changed since Tumbleweed, and yet you stare up at the same stars you looked at all that time ago. It frightens you, knowing how badly things have gone in such a short amount of time. 

"What now, Arthur?" You ask, taking the chocolate and breaking it into pieces, "Where are we goin'? What is Dutch's grand plan?" You ask. Arthur sighs, the same worries clouding his head. 

"Well, we're supposed to be headin' out west. We still are, if we can get around the law." Arthur explains. 

"And if we can't?" 

"Dutch has a plan. He'll get us outta this, he always does." Arthur says, his faith to Dutch shows, blind as it may be. 

"What else is on your mind?" Arthur asks, hand gripping yours from where it rests between your bodies. You hold his hand on your abdomen, playing with his fingers to distract yourself. 

"Tell me about Mary." You blurt out. You don't regret it though. Now that you're together, the matter of his ex-fiancé sending him letters is something that should concern you. Arthur stills beside you, and then his head turns, looking to your eyes. 

"Okay I will, but you gotta give me somethin' too. No more closin' off." He mumbles, and you nod. You don't have anything to hide from him anymore. 

Arthur sits up on the blanket, and you follow suit, grabbing one of the whiskey bottles and setting it in front of him. He undoes the cap, bringing the bottle to his lips before handing it back to you. 

"Well Mary n' I met when we was real young, even before Eliza. I was just a kid- eighteen." Arthur sighs. You take a drink from the whiskey bottle, savoring the burn, and hand it back to him. 

"We were fools, living separate lives. We wanted different things entirely, but still eachother somehow. She was high society. I'd been runnin' with Dutch for three years, was still learnin' to read and write." Arthur laughs humorlessly. 

"Asked her to marry me, she said yes. But her daddy didn't like me one bit. He said I was a 'no good degenerate'. Guess he was right on that account." 

"He was not right." You correct, stealing back the whiskey and drinking some down. Owls hoot in the distance, and your head looks in their direction for just a moment before you return to Arthur. 

"He treated me real bad; humiliated me, scolded me. Came a point where Mary broke it off. Said her daddy wouldn't allow her, but she also didn't want my life or my money. Just… didn't work out." He sighs. 

Your eyes flicker from the bottle you've just handed him up to his eyes, sensing the deep, old pain. 

"Did you love her?" You ask, pulling your legs closer to yourself. 

"Thought I did. It's different, I guess. Back in that time I thought I loved her, but it weren't like-" He trails off, shaking his head. 

He thought that he loved Mary, but Arthur never loved her like he loves you. 

You swallow thickly, wondering if those were the words on the tip of his tongue. Either way it doesn't matter, he never says them. 

"You ever been in love?" Arthur asks, and you frown, playing with the lace cuff of your robe. 

"No." You state plainly. 

"Why?" Arthur asks, eyebrows pulling together. He was surprised to find out that you had never taken to a man, and he's even more surprised to find that you've never loved one. He hands you the whiskey, sure you need it. 

"I stayed home most of my childhood. Didn't get much chance to meet boys. Momma home schooled me, so I didn't have school mates." You take a swig of whiskey, slipping your eyes closed as it burns a trail down your throat. 

"Never had the chance to fall in love really. After my daddy died and I killed that man, I- I never got close to no one." You admit, hoping he won't judge you for being on your own for so long. When you glance up, you find no judgment, just understanding.

"And how long we're you runnin? You didn't run with anyone? You didn't have anyone with you at all?" Arthur asks, wondering how you navigated it all on your own. He sees a whole new strength to you, and begins to understand why you have so many walls up. 

"About a year, I think." You admit, a tear slipping down your cheek that you wipe away, "You're the first person I ever opened up to." 

Your lip trembles, looking up to him with watery eyes. It frustrates you, how much you've been crying lately, and you huff, wiping them away with your sleeve. 

"Stayed closed off to avoid gettin' hurt and hurtin' others. It worked… till you came along." You chuckle, a smile breaking through your tear-tracked face. 

He takes one of your hands, soothingly running his thumb over your knuckles. Amongst your upset, the shoulder of your robe has slipped down your shoulder, and Arthur leans in to fix it so you're not left indecent.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" Arthur asks. You nod, he can ask anything at all. 

"Your daddy… You said he was real mean after he took to the bottle?" Arthur asks, and you nod, unsure of where he's going. 

"Yes." You say, not following his train of thought. 

"He ever hurt you?" Arthur asks, and you look down to his hand on yours, avoiding his gaze. 

"Sometimes, yes, when he was drunk." 

"Why did you fight for him, Star?" Arthur asks, voice quiet. Your eyes flicker up to his green ones, and you look almost offended by his ask. 

"What do you mean?" You ask, a bit defensively. 

"When my daddy died, I reckon it was the first good day a' my life." Arthur admits, swallowing heavily, "It was me that got the law." Arthur admits, searching your eyes for any hatred or disgust and finding none. He's never told a soul that, not even Dutch or Hosea. It was a secret he was sure he'd die with. Your eyes go wide, your hand stills on his. 

"What?" You ask, not fully grasping what he's just said from the shock of it all. 

"I set him up so he got hanged… Didn't put the rope around his neck, but I killed him just the same." Arthur says, no sense of regret in his eyes. 

"I don't regret it, never did. So I'm just askin, why did you get revenge for your Pa if he was hurting you?" Arthur asks, and you're so thrown off by his question that you pull away from his touch, shaking your head. He's got this all wrong. 

"I… After Momma died, all I had was memories. My daddy was hurtin', drunk and mean, but he was still my daddy, the same man who taught me to ride and shoot. He used to be kind before the drink got a hold of him." You whisper, tears welling in your eyes, but you don't let them fall.

"I guess I wasn't just takin' revenge for my daddy, but for what could have been. I could have been raised up good by my parents, gone to some ladies school or somethin." You laugh, but it's shortlived. 

"They'd be real disappointed if they could see me now." You admit, thinking over your actions, your bounty and the growing number of victims you've left behind. 

"No, no they would not be disappointed in you." He says, hands grabbing each of yours as he reassures you. You nod, trying to listen to his reassurances. He pulls you forward on the blanket until you're resting in between his legs, leaning against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight against him. 

"I'm proud of you for talkin' about it." Arthur whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair. 

"It's not so hard, talkin to you." You admit to him. From his arms, you glance up at the sky and see a shooting star, it zips across the skyline before the fire dies out, and turns to nothing. When you glance over, you see Arthur is looking as well. 

"What's your wish?" You whisper against his warm skin. 

"Oh, I already got my wish, darlin." He whispers back, hand rubbing circles on your back. 

— — — —

The door clicks shut behind Arthur, and your heart thrums in anticipation. You hear his spurs click as he walks up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. The bed is huge. Its thick, red comforter is welcoming from where it's sticking out in the middle of the room. On the wall adjoined to the headboard is a fireplace, with orange flames that heat the room. Albeit the fire, your body seems to be heating all on its own with Arthur’s arms around you. 

“You tired?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“No.” You stutter, frustrated with the way you melt into putty in his hands. You turn around in his arms, hands sliding up to rest on his chest with a deep breath. 

“Show me what you want.” Arthur whispers, hands gripping onto your waist. Looking up to him, seeing the dark look in his eyes, the freckles that dot across his face like stars in the sky, the smile lines from old and new joys, it seems painfully obvious what you want. 

“I want you.”

And of course, he gives himself to you.  He always will. His hands find the ties to your silk robe, and with one small tug to the sheer, snow colored silk, it falls to the ground. Without the rushed fear that pulled you both together last time, Arthur can really take his time looking you over. His eyes trail down your form, hands finding purchase on your waist. 

“So beautiful.” He mutters, smiling when his eyes land upon your face. Your hair is still wet, forming small waves as it falls down your back. You practically glow, and the room is filled with the aroma of lavender as you step closer to him, infiltrating all of his senses. You lean on your tiptoes to kiss him, heels only hitting the ground once he leans down to take your lips. The kiss is not desperate like it was the night before, but instead, slow and passionate and wanting. Your lips are soft against his, meeting his pace. 

He holds your chin, tilting it to the side before his tongue slips into your mouth. It’s like a flower blossoming for the second time. You’d thought surely nothing could top the emotion and the feelings you had last night, but you were wrong. Again, a tether pulls you two together, and it's so tight that you're sure nothing could pull you two apart. You reach for the buttons to his shirt. The little plastic circles pull apart from their keepers quickly, as if understanding the importance of their juxtaposition.

You pop the buttons out one by one, gasping as Arthur's lips connect with your neck. Your fingers pause for a moment as you take a moment to lean into his kisses, exposing your neck to him further. You whimper as Arthur slowly kisses your neck, feeling some suction and a small nip. 

"Arthur, you're gonna leave a mark." You whisper, eyes fluttering as your hands still on his buttons. He pulls away only for a second. 

"Good." He mumbles, lips kissing down to your collarbone where he repeats the same process.

"People will see." You point out, but your body betrays your mind, leaning into his touch with a moan. Your hands find the strength to continue pulling buttons out of keepers, making progress on the shedding of his clothes. 

"Let 'em see." He hums against your skin, leaving a few dark marks.. He runs his thumb over the splotches, soothing the throb.

Once the last button is undone, you tug upwards at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it out from where it's tucked into his chaps. His hands run over your body, gliding and fondling and squeezing until you slide his plaid shirt down over his arms. Your hands run over the expanse of his chest, pausing once they reach the trail of dusty blonde hair that trickles down his abdomen and disappears under his jeans. He does the honors of taking his gun belt off, dropping it down to the ground before doing the same for his chaps. You step toward him, fingers wrapping around the zipper to his jeans as you pull down the metal, anticipation growing with each click. 

"You're so beautiful…" Arthur whispers, leaning in to kiss your lips. Your heart flutters with anticipation and lust and love, but it's over too quickly as he pulls away again. 

"My star." He ghosts over your lips with his thumb, eyes looking into each of yours. 

You shudder, looking up to him with wide eyes before urgently finishing with the button on his jeans. He steps out of the denim, leaving the two of you completely bare again.

The fire in the mantle burns nearly as bright as the one in your abdomen, warming the room and yourself. Arthurs hands are on you as soon as he's free from his clothing. In one stride he comes forward, one hand gripping around your waist while the other cups your cheek. Your heart melts as he kisses you again, walking forward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Alcohol has loosened your limbs and secured your confidence, you know what you want. So, with swollen lips and sparkling eyes, you nudge Arthur towards the bed. 

"Ya sure?" Arthur asks, making sure you're comfortable taking charge. You nod, pushing him lightly down to the bed. Arthur sits up with his back against the headboard, and you look at him, feeling so lucky. Fate really managed to align the stars for the two of you. 

Your eyes trail over his body, from his silk hair, his green eyes, following the trail of brown hair until they reach his member, standing big and tall. You swallow, glancing back up to Arthur.

"We got all night." Arthur reassures you, extending his hand out. You take his hand, and he pulls you forward as you climb onto the bed and sit over him on your knees. You're face to face, your head sitting taller than his because you're raised on your knees. You take a moment to drink him in, your soft hands running over his tanned skin. 

Your hands find purchase on either side of his face, and you pull him up to kiss you. He tastes like whiskey, and the smell of lavender and rose swirls between the two of you. You moan into his mouth needily before he pulls away. Your head tosses back and your fingers intertwine into Arthur's hair as he kisses your left breast, massaging the other with his hand.

He pulls away a fraction of an inch, breath hot on your skin. 

"This okay?" He asks, and you nod with your eyes slipped closed, pulling him back to your chest. 

His tongue licks over your nipple, a new sensation and a tantalizing one. You moan, a high pitched whimper, and Arthur has to compose himself for a moment. His fingers that are pinching your soft skin release, and he trails them down over your hip, across your thigh… 

You gasp when they brush against your core, and Arthur's chest shudders when he feels just how wet you are for him. Arthur doesn't move, and you grind against his finger, gripping onto him tightly as you moan.

"Please." 

It's all it takes, and he slips a finger inside, curling it until he feels that swollen sweet spot. You grip onto his shoulders, the firelight dancing in your eyes as you moan. 

"My beautiful girl…" Arthur mutters, his palm rubs against your clit as he works you, lips kissing every inch of skin that they can reach.

His words spur you on, and your nails dig into his shoulders. Not wanting to wake the whole town with your noises, Arthur crashes his lips against yours. You moan against his mouth, the fluttering in your core turns to waves as you approach a climax against Arthur's hands. At first you think you should wait, climax with him instead of on his fingers, but it feels too good to stop him. His other hand traces over your skin, squeezing your hip.

"Don't– Don't stop." You whimper against his lips, and Arthur focuses on keeping a steady pace for you. It builds and builds until inevitably it comes crashing down, and your whole body is racked with waves of intense pleasure. 

You pull away from his lips to gasp and moan, hips grinding against his hand perfectly as your orgasm hits you. Arthur's member is hard against his stomach, twitching with every one of the moans you elicit. Your legs shake on either side of him, your head tossed back, exposing your throat. You look so beautiful atop him, and he's the proudest man in the world knowing that he's the only one you're like this for. 

"Easy darlin', you're doin' so good." He mumbles against the skin of your throat as you come down, panting. 

"Shit, Arthur. That was so– that was so good." You pant, resting your forehead on his own as you try and catch your breath. 

“Let me know when you’re ready.” Arthur whispers, breaths mixing in with your own. You take a few minutes to recuperate, catching your breath and waiting for the tingling in your core to subside. Arthur waits until you tell him to continue, hands gripping onto your legs and hips, kissing your neck and chest. 

“I’m ready.” You nod, and he adjusts himself underneath you. You raise your hips off of his lap, guiding him inside you as you slide down onto his length. 

“Oh-” You moan, tossing your head back as you wince slightly from the stretch. He can reach much deeper in this position, and it'll take some getting used to. 

“Y’okay?” Arthur asks in between a groan. 

“Yes.” You moan, whimpering as you slide down a bit further.

“Just go slow, it’ll make it easier, n’ we can stop if you want.” Arthur whispers against your skin. With him sitting up, your chests are nearly against eachother, giving him the perfect vantage point to lean up and whisper into your ear, 

“No, I don’t want to stop, I’m okay.” You quickly respond. You slide down slowly until he’s completely buried in you, moaning as he bumps into your sensitive sweet spot again.  

Even the firelight reflecting on the walls feels as if it's intruding this moment as you start to rise on your knees, riding Arthur. He groans deep in his chest, and it spurs you to continue on. You go slow, and pull Arthur’s face up to yours in a needy kiss. He fights back his instinct to groan into your mouth, whilst you don’t even attempt to stop yours. 

“Oh it feels so good-” You moan, and Arthur smirks against your lips, gripping your hips to stop your movements. At first you worry you’ve done something wrong, or he wasn’t enjoying himself, but all your worries melt away as he drags your hips back and forth over him. 

Immediately you shudder, arms wrapping around to the back of Arthur’s head as he kisses and toys with your breasts. With the way he’s maneuvering your hips, his tip bumps into your swollen g-spot, and your clit drags against his pelvic bone, giving you an intense mixture of pleasure.

“How's this feel?” He whispers against your chest, and you arch your back, rocking against him. 

“Oh- Arthur, good, so good, please don’t stop.” You stumble over your words as he looks up to you. 

Your eyes are slipped closed, mouth formed into an ‘o’ as you moan and whimper from his touch. You grip onto him with just as much need as you had last night, but somehow this feels even more intimate, because it's twenty four hours later and you’re still choosing each other. The adrenaline and the fear have passed, but the one constant is the want. Be it emotional or sexual, you both want each other impossibly more than the day prior. Looking up at you now, Arthur is sure he’s in love with you, madly, desperately in love with you. What he had with Mary is a mere spark compared to the overwhelming burn that he feels for you. He won’t tell you, not until you’re ready to hear it but he knows. 

He continues his ministrations, and you feel the now familiar fluttering in your gut. 

“Oh, I’m close, don’t stop-” You mutter again, losing your composure as you stutter and moan, whimpering and gripping him as tightly as you can. Your walls constrict around him as you come undone again, something you didn’t even know was possible. You curse loudly, hips rocking against him at that same tantalizing pace until your orgasm peaks and falls.

“Good girl, that’s it.” Arthur coos as you pant. It doesn’t take long with those noises you make, plus the sight of you alone. 

“I ain’t-” Arthur groans, eyes squinted shut as he grabs your hips tightly, “I ain’t gonna last much longer.”

You keep your pace, incentive coming from the sound of his groans that fill the room. You can feel him twitching and pulsing inside you, and you know he must be teetering. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you kiss him one more time, lips locking together in between hushed pants and moans. Arthur groans against your lips, and in a swift movement he pulls out of you. His hips buck against your stomach a few times before he finishes between your bodies, groaning loudly. Your foreheads still rest against one another’s, beads of sweat trailing down your skin and covering you both in a glistening sheen.

“Christ alive, Star.” Arthur exhales, and you smirk.

“I dread going back to camp… how will we keep quiet?” You ask, slowly climbing off of him with a wince as he gets up from the bed. 

“That's a problem for later.” Arthur chuckles. He gets a wet rag, one he’d brought up from the bath house, and puts expert care in cleaning you up. He’s gentle, wiping away his spend from your belly until you’re back to your fresh clean state. He picks your robe up from the floor, handing it to you before grabbing his jeans. 

“Come sit on the deck with me.”

You catch your silk robe, pulling it over your shoulders. Arthur parts the french doors straight from the room out onto the deck, and you watch as he leans over the rail, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his satchel.You follow him, tying the silk ribbon as you step outside. 

“New pack. You do the honors.” Arthur mumbles, holding the open pack of cigarettes out to you. You choose the one in the top left corner, pulling it out, flipping it, and sticking it back in. Then he picks a separate cigarette, placing it between your lips before lighting a match and holding it up to the smoke between your lips. 

“Today was perfect. I mean that. Thank you, for everything, Arthur.”

You pass the cigarette back and forth until its spent, and then you sit on the deck and talk for a while. Eventually he pulls you back through the french doors and rids you of your fine robe all over again. It’s the only night you know you’ll have him. You both reckon the gang will be leaving soon, and who knows where you’ll end up. But tonight, none of these worries plague your mind. Your only concern is Arthur, and the feel of his body on, under and in yours. You cling to him tightly, spending the entire night together until the sun begins to peak past the horizon. New days are coming, days where you don’t have to hide behind your feelings anymore.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow

series taglist: @catnotbread @chxosangxl @globetrotter28 @justalittlerayofpitchblack @fruittiest-of-loops @randomidk-123 @heyworld-whatsup @btsiguess-kpop @how-the-heck-would-i-know @rratman @eyelovie @mykneeshurt

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom

[zablife]

Keep Us Safe (Part 2)

Tommy Shelby x wife reader 

Summary: Family history repeats itself when your daughter is taken by parish authorities. This time Tommy won't let them get away with it.

Author’s Note: I have rearranged certain events from S1-2 canon to suite my purposes. Part 2 was getting too long so I split it up. Part 3 will be the conclusion.

Warnings: language, ethnic slur, kidnapping, sexual assault (not graphic), mention of blood

Part 1

Tommy startled at the sound of the phone’s shrill ring, bringing him back to reality. “Mr. Shelby, it’s done. Stanley Chapman was picked up this morning. Inspector Campbell is questioning him now, but he appears to be who you say he is.”

“Thank you,” Tommy said, dropping the receiver and exhaling in relief. The bait he had dangled in front of Campbell had worked and he could once again concentrate on the upcoming race. He would approach Kimber there and everything had to be perfect. 

“Arthur!” he yelled. “Arthur, get in here!”

Arthur peered around the frosted glass door asking, “What’s all the shouting?”

“I need you to talk to that barmaid, Arthur. And get a haircut! We’re going to the races!” he proclaimed happily. 

————————————————————

Nora played quietly on the rug with her teddy bear as you kissed Tommy goodbye in the kitchen. Placing his hands at your hips to quell the nervous anticipation of the day, he said, “Kimber will accept. He won’t have any other choice.”

Unlacing your hands from his neck, you ran your fingertips over the shorn hair at the back of his head absently, biting your lip as you asked, “Are you sure about this?”

He fixed you with a reassuring gaze, promising, “Things are going to change for us after today, love. It’s all going to be different.”

You nodded, placing complete faith in him when he set his mind to something. However, you still worried for him and his brothers. “Please be careful, Tommy,” you begged, placing a tender kiss to his lips. 

“Don’t worry about me. The most important thing is to look after yourself and Nora. Remember what I told you about staying inside. You’ll have men at the door-“ he said, repeating the information he’d told you the night before.

He hadn’t allowed Esme to take Nora to the park since that unsettling revelation you were being watched and he didn’t let you go anywhere unaccompanied nowadays. Your safety was his greatest concern. He knew his part of the deal with Campbell had been fulfilled, but there was something about the crooked policeman that didn’t sit well with him.

You placed a finger to his lips as you smiled. “We’ll be fine. I love you, Thomas Shelby. You keep us safe.” His heart swelled with pride as he caressed your cheek with his thumb. 

“I’ll be back in time to put Nora to bed,” he said, turning to watch his little girl. He broke away from you to kneel down to her on the rug, kissing her curls as he patted her little head. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear. She turned from her game of make believe to hand him her teddy bear and place a kiss to his cheek. Tommy could only stare at the brilliant blue of her eyes so much like his own, yet holding an expression of love and warmth she’d clearly learned from you. The look of unconditional love for him took him aback. 

He cleared his throat of the lump that had formed, handing her teddy back to her gently and standing to leave, he pulled his cap over his brow with a sharp tug. It was time to get on with the business of the day.

—————————————————————

Having tired her with games and songs after lunch, Nora collapsed onto the carpet without warning, overcome by the need for sleep. You chuckled to yourself as you remembered her last feisty words to you, “No nap, mumma!”  She could be just as stubborn as Tommy at times, but how angelic she looked as she slept. You put the dishes aside, wiping your hands on your apron as you moved to collect her, but a sharp whistle broke the peaceful silence. 

Before you could make your way to the window, more of the same piercing noise could be heard up and down the lane. The sounds of horses and stomping boots became louder and you swore you felt horse hooves in your chest, beating at your rib cage as the pounding at your own door began. Despite the protection of the blinders posted at your door, you ran to Nora, sweeping her up into your arms as she whimpered at the interruption of her rest. You heard the men at the door being asked to stand aside for the police and you strained to listen for their reply. The men dutifully denying the residence was occupied, saying you’d moved weeks ago.

You bowed your head to Nora's pleading, “Shhh, my darling. Please don’t make a sound. Mummy needs you to be very quiet.” However, the feeling of your racing pulse against her and the nervous tone of your voice only served to frighten her. When another round of knocking began, she let out a long wail and you held your breath as you listened to the sounds of a scuffle on the other side of the threshold. As shots rang out, you ran and ducked behind the sofa, covering Nora with your body, praying the blinders had kept you safe.

A brief silence lulled you before your front door swung open slowly, the hinges creaking as boots thudded across the floorboards. A blinder would have called out to you, making his presence known. This was an intruder and your body shook with uncontrollable tremors, knowing you were without a weapon to defend yourself and your child. You kissed her forehead as she sobbed, listening to the terrible sound echo off the walls and feeling utterly exposed. 

A policeman towered over you suddenly, observing you with a sour expression. “Just here,” he said, pointing out your position to someone you couldn’t see. “You can begin,” he ordered. Two more men marched in behind him, turning the house upside down with violent force, smashing dishes and overturning chairs. 

You were hauled to your feet, still clutching Nora to your chest, as you asked, “What’s happening?”

No one answered you, but a fourth man joined the fray soon after. He was much older with graying whiskers and a bowler hat which he removed as though conducting civilized business as his men continued vandalizing your home. “Mrs. Shelby, are you aware of the criminal empire your husband is running right here in this city of hardworking, decent people?” he asked, softy at first, but his voice growing in anger and insistence. You stood motionless, tracking his movements with your eyes as he continued his tirade. You rubbed Nora's back to soothe her and she sucked her thumb against you, letting out hiccuped sobs.

“My name is Inspector Chester Campbell and it’s my job to see that men like Thomas Shelby don’t upset the rule of law. I’m sorry to say that he has and for that he will have to be punished,” he said with a stern look. You gulped, fearing the worst for your husband’s well being, but you stayed strong. Adjusting Nora on your hip, you stood tall, head held high.

“My husband has done nothing wrong,” you said, finding your voice in defense of Tommy. “He’s a respectable business man who only wishes for a peaceful city in which his business can thrive.”

Campbell laughed at the notion. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to stay with a cutthroat mongrel gangster, but understand there will be consequences.” As the hateful vitriol spewed from his lips, his men approached with various items including guns, blades and opium. Campbell scowled at you, shaking his head as he scoffed loudly, “I wouldn’t call this respectable. In fact, Mrs. Shelby, in my professional opinion, I would say this home is clearly unfit for children.” 

Your stomach dropped and you knees went weak as he motioned to one of his men uttering an emotionless order, “Take the child.” On instinct, you backed away from the man who came toward you, begging him, “No, please. She’s just a baby. You can’t take my child from me. This isn’t right!” The more you talked, the more desperate you became, kicking at his shins.

In a flurry of movement, you were restrained and Nora was ripped from your arms, screaming for you with deafening cries. “Mumma! Mumma!” she shrieked, face contorting in agony. You reached out for her, thrashing against the men who held you, cursing at them and finally spitting at one in an attempt to break free. In a fit of anger, one of them grabbed your throat, slamming you against the opposite wall. The back of your skull connected with a sickening thud, vision going fuzzy as you watched Nora being carried away and you willed yourself to stay awake. 

Campbell’s dark form came back into your line of sight and he dismissed the policeman holding you, watching you tilt forward and heave for breath with an unsettling hunger in his gaze. You bit back tears to prove he had not broken you, trying to hold your composure as best you could. Nora was just beyond the door and though he stood between you, you still held out hope you could get to her.

Bringing your attention back to him, the inspector cruelly taunted, “Not going to cry?”

“You’ll be the one crying when Tommy finds out what you’ve done, you pathetic old man,” you spat at him.

He slapped you across the face hard enough to turn your head, his ring splitting your lip open in the process. Distracted by the taste of blood in your mouth, you inhaled sharply at the sudden, rough drag of his stubble against your cheek as he hissed in your ear, “And you’re nothing but a gypsy fenian slut.”

He grabbed your chin to force you to look at him as he ran a hand up your skirt. He noticed the tears welling in your eyes, giving you a sickening smile. “I have to admit, I do have a great curiosity though. Like a magpie who sees something shining in the mud,” he said, moving his hand up your thigh toward your apex. “He has no need for the silver, but he takes it anyway.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked as the first tear slipped down your cheek. Campbell caught it, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

He shook his head as he replied with condescension dripping from his voice, “I’m not the one responsible for this unfortunate chain of events. No, my dear. It would be best to remember that your husband did this to you.”

—————————————————-

John and Arthur badly wanted a drink after the long day at Tommy’s side, but they had promised to look in on Y/n on their way to the Garrison as Tommy took the important papers and earnings to the safe. Trudging along Watery Lane, they indulged in a quick drink, swigging from Arthur’s hip flask as they recounted the day’s events, laughing and boasting to one another. However, they both stopped short when they came to Tommy’s house, a peculiar sight catching their eye. A pair of boots stuck out at an odd angle from the alley and as Arthur went to investigate, John heard him mutter, “No, no, no…” John rounded the corner to find a blinder dead of a gunshot wound, one of the same men tasked with protecting Y/n and Nora.

John’s feet fell fast along the cobblestones as he rushed to push open the front door of the house. Once inside, he found it shrouded in darkness. He lit the lamp on the kitchen table as he called out for you and Nora, but received no response. Arthur quickly followed and ran his hands through his hair in distress as he took note of the wrecked house, John still searching for any sign of you. Then as he came to the foot of the stairs, he heard an unsettling sound, quiet whining like the sound of a wounded animal. He gulped as he turned to find you, huddled in the corner clutching a knife. 

“Y/n, oh, my God,” John said, kneeling to where you sat, staring ahead of you. He raised the lamp to your face and was horrified to find you beaten and bleeding, the state of you worse as he lowered the light. He took in the sight of your torn dress and stockings, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his reaction. Then he quickly got hold of himself reassuring you, “You’re going to be alright. Tommy’s on his way,” but you didn’t seem to hear any of it. He wrenched the knife from your hands, as Arthur came to stand over you both.

Although he was afraid of the answer, Arthur asked, “Where’s Nora, love?” At the mention of your daughter’s name, you came back to reality for a moment, breathing sharp ragged breaths to push the words out, “Gone…she’s gone. They took her,” you said as you began to shake.

John removed his jacket and placed it around you carefully. “Can you tell us who it was?” he prodded gently.

Before you could answer, Tommy was storming through the open door, looking about wildly at the destruction of his home and possessions. Arthur held him back suggesting, “Tommy, it’s bad. We should get Pol.” Then Tommy heard John talking to someone and his head snapped toward the sound. You were here and alive!

Tommy shoved his brother aside without thought, needing to be with you and Nora. However, he was immediately confused. Someone was crying, but it wasn’t his daughter's tiny whimpers. Had she gone to sleep, he wondered? He was supposed to put her to bed tonight, he remembered suddenly and a tidal wave of dread washed over him. He followed the dim light slowly then, crossing the floor as though weights had been tied to his feet. He realized he didn’t want to know the truth.

And then he was upon you, the light not strong enough to illuminate all of you at once and yet, allowing him to see far more than he could bear. With your arms wrapped tightly across your body you whispered, “Campbell,” into the silent room. 

“What did she say?” Tommy asked, throat suddenly too dry to swallow.

John looked up at his brother with hesitancy, then explained, “I asked who did this to her. Who took Nora.” That’s when Tommy’s heart caved in.

——————————————————-

Tommy placed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, attempting to ease the exhaustion he felt behind his eyes. In the two months since the attack, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. When he wasn’t working to find Nora, he was watching over you, trying to get you to eat or sleep. It wasn’t easy because you’d withdrawn into yourself, sick with grief and the lingering effects of your trauma. Your wounds had healed, but now headaches and nausea incapacitated you. You no longer ventured outside the house and Polly was doing most of the shopping. She also took it upon herself to look in on you both again in the evenings for added measure.

“Pol, she can’t go on like this,” Tommy said one night after begging you to rest. 

Polly pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it, turning away from him. 

“Polly, I said Y/n is sick. Something has to be done or I’m going to lose my wife,” Tommy said with greater insistence as he made a desperate plea to the one person he thought might be able to help.

Tapping her fingers against the table for a moment, Polly thought about whether she could betray your confidence. As she stole a glance at her nephew, she braced herself for a difficult conversation. Taking his hand in hers, she confided, “She’s pregnant, Tommy.”

Cont reading Part 3

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