#a rare Clip without his hat on | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yanban-san · 2 years

Note

oh the idea of emmet wearing flashy accessories is so cute!!! like imagine their darling complimenting him and saying how cute his hair clip is and asking where he got it. and of course he’s like oh do you want this here you go no no you like it more than i do here do you want to wear it. and of course they wear it to work all the time out of appreciation- it is really cute! and makes them think about emmet

He probably has some very elegant barrettes that he uses to keep his hair out of his face; I also think he and Ingo like jewelry; They can enchant it with magic and protective spells, and also- it's shiny.

But I get off topic and somehow wrote a drabble about this? So here ya go-

Under cut because long

Tags: Demon/Monster AU, fluff, Emmet/Reader but Poly

Emmet takes off his hat very rarely when he's in the station- Both he and his brother are always so strict and rigid in how they carry themselves when working at Gear Station, especially among the public. When they're alone in their office, as you've noted, they tend to become more relaxed, at least, to a certain degree. Ingo would be as quiet and serious as ever, and his frown never gone from his face, and he usually stays seated at his desk, filling in papers and talking loudly with depot agents on his X-transceiver- But you noticed more than a few times when you'd quietly entered the office without alerting him that he'd play with tossing his pen up in the air and trying to catch it in entertaining ways, leaning back in his plush chair and swiveling around- And more than once you caught him breaking into his brother's mini-fridge of decadent sweets and stealing one for himself.

Emmet definitely relaxes more when he's in private- Whether it's just out of sight of the more public areas of Gear Station, or happily relaxing in the privacy of his and his brother's office- You can tell from the way his shoulders drop sharply and his eyes and smile soften, and how he starts happily swinging his arms and legs that he's genuinely lightened up. But, one thing you'd noted was that they never ever take off their hats or gloves so long as they're on the job. Ever.

Until one day.

You've were told to bring them some important documents from the archival rooms- Boring paper nonsense- But still, an excuse to see you nonetheless, from their perspective! And Emmet was alone in the office while he waited for you to come by. Happily sipping his excessively rich and decadent chocolate milk he'd come to love so much- Human sweets could be quite tasty, he'd realized, if you just increased the sugar and fat content by a little more than double what's considered normal.

He fiddled with the brim of his hat. You'd be in the office soon. Disembodied eyes opened and shut around him, inspecting his coat. White, white, perfectly white- Not a stain, not a speck of dust would be allowed! What would it say to you, his beloved darling, after all- If the wondrous, all-powerful, radiant Kudari allowed himself to appear before you in such an uncouth state- His perfect appearance marred by mere physical dirt? He would not stand for it. He fidgeted some more- And stood up, pacing. Ingo was off finishing some battles on the Singles train, he knew- And here he was, desperately studying himself with a hundred of his eyes floating around him, checking- Any and all dirt removed, every stray fiber from his perfect coat- And no extraneous feathers or limbs or mouths- Perfect! His teeth looked human, too.

Now when would you be here, and- Ah!

He noticed it, and a ring of his disembodied eyes suddenly opened forcefully- circling 'round the offensive detail, focusing and staring intently-

A small tuft of his silver bangs had gotten messed up from fidgeting with his cap so much. He swiftly removed his hat, revealing a pretty pair of hair clips that held his bangs up under his cap. They were a deep, crimson red, and decorated with lines of gold and a strange, opal-like material. He removed them, and the bangs fell down- Messy, unkempt! Simply awful, he thought- And obscuring his normal, human eyes- Quite a safety hazard!

"Hello, Station Masters?"

You hadn't even knocked, and Emmet flinched harshly- The eyes around his head forcing themselves shut painfully as you entered-

"I am- I am in here-" He exclaimed rather nervously, torn between asking you to step out for a minute and just shoving his hair under his hat so messily-

"Ah, Station Master Emmet?" You asked again, stepping into the office- And you nearly gasped.

"I am Emmet. Yes. Why- Hold on- a minute." He hissed, not turning to look at you- He grabbed his hair forcefully and shoved the clips back in place- Why oh why had you walked in just now?

"I am- er, fixing- my hair."

You stared in amazement, unaware of the embarrassment Emmet was going through. This was the first time you'd seen his hair down! And the first time you'd seen it for longer than the split seconds when his hat came off, either briefly fanning himself or the hat falling off from a blast from a pokemon's attack-

It wasn't fair that they had such pretty silver hair- And he didn't have it held back like he normally did! You thought it looked quite striking- So that's what he was hiding under his hat? It looked so different, being used to seeing his cap on his head-

To poor Emmet, however, It looked like you were judging him and his terrible hair styling- How awful, he hadn't wanted you to see this! He quickly readjusted the cap on his head. "Sorry. I did not- Sorry. I normally keep my hair clipped back. It appears the clips are refusing to do their job. I am sorry-" The words tumbled out of his mouth, unsure of what to say. How humiliating.

His smile was tense, and you finally realized he was embarrassed- Over what? That he was wearing hair clips to keep his bangs out of his face? They looked so fancy, but you only saw a blur of color as he tried to hide his silver locks again under that silly hat-

"Oh, no! It's alright- Your hair is quite nice, Sir!"

Emmet's face turned red- But of course you should like his hair! Why not? But it was disarrayed- Imperfect- Unfit for you to look at right now.

"It looks really nice all tousled like that, you should wear it down more, when you can- And those clips looked quite nice too!"

Emmet turned his attention to you sharply- The cap came back off, and he removed the haphazardly placed clips- And his bangs fell forward.

"You think- this looks nice?" He asked; Was it not messy? You'd said you liked things orderly... neat. Clean. The fact you were complimenting his hair was pleasant in and of itself- But were you just trying to be nice?

"Mmhmm! Though, I guess your bangs are getting in your eyes like that? That's a shame. Are you thinking of getting them trimmed at all?"

Emmet flinched. T-Trimmed?

"You know- a hair cut?" You offered apprehensively- Emmet sounded- How to put it, concerned? That you had suggested a hair cut?

Emmet's hair was not made of normal human hair materials.

Emmet's hair- and Ingo's for that matter, could feel things- Could humans not? He was suddenly quite worried- But he'd heard other humans remark on how nice it felt to have their hair brushed or played with! But-

Human's hair- Human's cut their hair? He tried to recall- He'd never seen you get a hair cut. Had Miss Elesa ever mentioned such a thing...? She'd mentioned hair styles, and having hair appointments, but... cutting?

He and Ingo looked human, alright- But the underworkings of their bodies were certainly not human. His hair was like the fluffy tendril-feathers that some of his wings bore. He understood reshaping it, but-

Cutting?!

"Do you get your hair cut often...?" He asked apprehensively. How would you deal with that? That would hurt-

"Not really... mine grows slowly. Once a year, maybe twice; I get a really cheap cut so it's not like I do anything super fancy, ya know?"

"But-" Emmet began, and cut himself off. No, he'd need to be smart about this before he said something dumb- Doesn't it hurt?

"N-Nevermind..." He trailed off, running his hand across his hair.

"No worries, Sir- I'm just going to drop these papers off over on- Ingo's desk? And then I'll get going." And you went to return to the task at hand- Dropping the small collection of archived documents on Ingo's desk, studying the space briefly. Ingo's desk had a certain... antiquarian air about it, you noted

A strange quill pen adorned with a beautiful, white feather sat next to an ornate ink well- And there was a small stack of old-fashioned letter papers and envelopes, alongside documents and papers for Gear Station... And a massive ledger and binder, and a small stack of books that didn't appear to have anything to do with work. Ingo certainly liked old-fashioned things, you noted; the lack of computers on the desk proved that- And how most of Gear Station's clerical work was still handled physically rather than electronically.

Emmet turned his attention back to the mirror- You said his hair looked pretty, all "tousled" like this?

He pulled it back, getting ready to clip the bangs again- Two extraneous eyes were staring at you from behind, watching your movements intently. You kept glancing over at him! Why? Were you admiring him secretly? He blushed, trying not to direct more and more of his gaze on you- Miss Elesa told him you wouldn't appreciate him secretly spying on you, but- He couldn't help himself! You were verrry cute- And were you not spying on him right now as well? Stealing little furtive glances at him while you straightened and sorted the papers you were delivering on his brother's desk...

"Sir..." You began, looking at him still-

"Yes?!" He returned, jolting upright again- Had you noticed...?

"Would you like some help? You've been futzing with that clip for a while now..." You asked, almost bashfully. You hoped this wouldn't be overstepping your boundaries.

Emmet's eyes widened at your offer, though the rest of his face remained rigidly happy. "Yes, I would like that verrry much!" And he moved rather quickly towards you; leaning over his brother's desk and propping up his elbows as he looked up at you, he handed you the pretty clips and you studied them for a minute.

"Gosh, these are really nice hair clips! They go so well with your hair, Sir." You remarked, turning them over in your hand. "Do you like them?" He asked.

"Yeah! The color's really intense... Where'd you get these anyway?"

Emmet thought for a minute- He'd acquired these rather recently when Ingo insisted they pay a visit to one of their acquaintances in another realm in the name of "maintaining friendly relationships". You certainly wouldn't be able to visit an arcane jeweler in a distant world quite unlike anything you knew- What would you say, he wondered, if he told you of worlds where pokemon did not dwell? Of worlds where the stars were living things, dancing over an infinite dome across a infinite, unending plain of water and land masses where day was illuminated by a ring of suns and night by moons and dancing lights of clouds of nebulae- Where humans dwelt exclusively in strange towers with exactly 12 windows each, no more no less, with roads underground and gardens on the surface- And a quadrillion other infinite differences and possibilities? He was almost giddy at the thought of taking you to other places- And away from the dreadful God of this realm. Or perhaps a world where the species of pokemon were not measured in the hundreds or thousands, but in the tens of thousands!

"I ordered them." He answered. Technically the truth. He did order them; Just not the way you were probably thinking. "I see. You have excellent taste!" Aw well, you thought- If Emmet wouldn't tell you where he was getting his attractive hair accessories, you'd just have to go searching for them yourself later. They looked expensive too, so perhaps he was a little embarrassed about revealing to you where exactly they had come from...

Emmet asked you a question, though you didn't hear at first- You were already preparing to put the clips in his hair, and your hands were running through his excessively soft, silken hair, gathering up the bangs- And you'd flinched.

His hair was luxuriously soft. You couldn't quite process it, if that made sense; Thinking to yourself that yes, it was soft, and then realizing, no, wait- It was softer than merely soft- silky and light and how was it not all greasy and falling flat against his head? Painfully soft- Almost like the fur on a Wigglytuff, except even softer- The sensation of the silken hair ghosting upon your hands as you pulled away sharply.

"-Hellllo?" Emmet asked, looking at you closely. You were looking dangerously entranced, he realized.

"Wh-What was that you just said?" You asked, returning your attention to your bosses words- How embarrassing, did you really just start practically petting your boss' hair?

Emmet's smile had relaxed, yet he looked quite sheepish- trying to hide the blush spreading across his face, the delightful pleasant feeling of your fingers against his feather-fur had set him on edge, the sensation trailing through his body like a jolt of electricity-

No, he needed to stay calm! Like Ingo. Like his wonderful, far cooler, big brother always was- calm, collected, and human. He could feel his wings and hands and mouths twitching excitedly, being so close to you- And having received some semblance of physical affection. He needed to stay human. Which was difficult.

"I asked- I asked if you would like them. They are verry nice clips, no?"

"What? But- They're your clips, Sir! I have plenty of my own, I just don't wear them usually..."

"I would like for you to have them! I have many, manyy more." And with that he moved to press them into your hand- "Actually," he began, pulling back- "I have a better idea."

Without even waiting, he flicked your cap off. "I want to put them in your hair! They will look verrry cute."

He seemed quite serious. You were rather bashful about such things- But- Well, Emmet had let you touch his hair- It wouldn't be too strange if you let him put the clips in your hair, right...? Especially if he was being so insistent.

You sat down in Ingo's chair as Emmet hummed to himself quietly, gathering up your hair gently and soothingly, pushing it all to one side and clipping it in place before placing your hair-tie back in.

"How verrry cute!" He remarked, his voice rising with happiness. He thought it was cute? You blushed. He grabbed you by the arm and pulled you in front of the mirror, smiling brightly as you admired the two new sparkling crimson hair-clips, elegantly holding back your hair.

"Wow, thank you Sir! It's just- They'll be hidden under my cap for the rest of the day, are you really sure it's alright if I just wear these...?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes yes yes, They look much, much cuter on you! Verrrry cute. Verry pretty." More gifts from him to be placed upon you, his darling little love. What other lovely little gifts could he give to you, to mark you as his own, to show the world that you belonged entirely to him and his brother-

But Ingo wasn't here right now! And- Hmm. Emmet wondered. You had his feather in your cap. Now you also had his hair clips. And you had Ingo's scale against your breast- Which made him verrry jealous, but- He had two gifts you now wore from him, and Ingo only had one! That wouldn't do.

He'd have to talk to Ingo about it later, of course!

#Emmet/Reader #Emmet X Reader #Demon AU #Monster AU #Demon Submas #Monster Submas #Fluff

147 notes · View notes

prismy-sprout · 2 years

Text

The Mane 7 Sleeping Habits

Sci-Twilight Sparkle ✨:

During school season she rarely sleeps on her bed, she´s usually doing school work until late hours at night (and most of them have a deadline like 2 months ahead), so she reaches a point where she can no longer keep going and just dives her head on her desk, using some book or her laptop as a pillow.

Spike tries his best to cover her with a blanket and then jumps on her lap to sleep aswell.

Pinkie Pie 🎈:

Her sleeping schedule is a complete mess, she can either go to sleep very early or she´ll stay up late at night (depending on how many sugar she ate during that day) and on the mean time she´ll be binging some show, talking to Gummy or posting on her social media, she also frequently has some midnight snacks.

Surprinsingly, she wakes up with her energy filled up the next morning.

Rarity 💎:

She takes around 30 minutes to an hour to get ready to sleep, while she takes a relaxing hot bubble bath to relief stress, cleaning off the remainder of her make up for the day, brushing her hair so she won´t wake up with knots on it the next day and taking some before bed pictures to her followers (that usually reach at least 200 likes on her socials).

And ofcourse, she can´t sleep without her trusty handcrafted sleeping mask.

Fluttershy 🦋:

Her bed is probably the most comfy of all of them, atleast 60% of it is filled with plushies on top of snuggling with Angel when going to sleep, for extra softness she sleeps on a sleeping robe Rarity made for her birthday, she also sets up some aromatizers to help her fall asleep and sometimes reads some manga tome while she´s fully tired.

Applejack 🍎:

Much like Twi, the last thing she does before going to bed are her chores, so it´s safe to say she´s quite tired once she´s done and heads up for a good night of sleep, it´s pretty much a 50/50 if she takes a shower and change into her pajamas to go to sleep (when not, she pretty much just takes off her hat and boots, unfastens her belt, and lay down on her sweaty work clothes), and that if she even manages to get to her room and just collapses on the living room´s couch (to which either Winona or Apple Bloom will come by and take a nap next to her aswell).

Rainbow Dash 🌈:

She does some stretches before going to bed, since it helps her burning down the remainder energy she got, she doesn´t exactly goes to sleep late, BUT, what she does is that it takes her some time falling asleep, so she stays some time rolling on bed or picks up her phone to chat with her friends (spoiler alert: 9/10 times it will be Applejack to check if she´s still up and messages her random thoughts she has until she falls sleep).

As a bonus: She snore, REALLY hard and also she can´t go to bed without giving Tank a good night kiss on the head (she won´t admit it, but everyone pretty much knows it already).

Sunset Shimmer 🔥:

She spends her night time gaming, so between match and match she´ll keep saying to herself that after that one she´ll go to sleep, which ends up being a lie and she ends up passing on her couch like at one in the morning.

There´s also been times where she fell asleep during a stream, so her viewers spent half of the stream watching her sleep to see if they could get a funny clip out of that.

Trixie Lulamoon 🔮:

(I think Trixie is the only one that we never have actually saw her house through the show, so, this is more headcanon than the rest).

I like to think that there´s some seasons where Trixie doesn´t live with her parents, that´s because her dad is a succesfull magician and her mom is his assistant/manager, so there´s time of the year where they are on tour, so she spends that time alone.

Point being, during those times, she doesn´t sleeps at home, so instead she sleeps at a van/RV (Equestria´s Trixie lives on a wagon, so it makes sense, right?) that she parks on the school´s parking lot, so she pretty much takes a step out of the car and she´s already at school (and even at that, she manages to oversleep and being late to class a quarter of times).

Also, I think Viceprincipal Luna very often treats her to a mug of hot chocolate before she goes to sleep, since she stays at the school at night during the week (I just like to think that Luna is this kind of cool teacher that knows how tired the students are during the school year, so she´s really kind and friendly with them).

#Sci-Twi #Pinkie Pie #Rarity #Fluttershy #Applejack #Rainbow Dash #Sunset Shimmer #Trixie Lulamoon #Apple Bloom #Spike #Gummy #Angel #Winona #Tank #Princess Luna

42 notes · View notes

revolversandlace · 2 years

Photo

Blemished Silk | Chapter Six - It’s A Big Old Place

Arthur Morgan x f!OC

Mature Rating - 2.3k Words

Chapter Tags: Angst, Canon Universe, Slow Burn, f!OC POV

Summary: Amelia travels to see her Uncle Josiah, only to discover some terrible news.

Boston, February 1899

By the time Amelia had coordinated her affairs and arrived in Boston, it was the middle of February. Contacting her uncle went to the expected lengthy pains that it always did. She loved him dearly, but the man was chimeric, to say the very least.

She stepped off the train into South Station, a fresh construct that the ever-growing city was in desperate need of. It was finished not even two months before - creating a streaming bustle of people. With the foresight of how the world around her was changing, the trains screamed with a harrowing whistle whilst smoke and steam mingled as one.

Outside of professional meetings, she rarely presented herself in the expected ways of her class. Amelia usually opted for a simple shirtwaist and walking skirt on most days, treasuring her comfort in the confines of the estate. However, regardless of how informal her rendezvous with her uncle was to be, she found the rare occasion to don one of her finer investments.

In a matching fan skirt of burgundy and a beaver lined jacket, Amelia also paraded her muff hand warmer made from marten and a hat that stood tall with both feathers of black ostrich and marabou.

All of it was futile in the hope of keeping the northern chill out however. Regardless of the fur that was wrapped tight around her, she was not as successful as she hoped for. When the harsh Atlantic gale from the docks blew through the wide halls of the station, her bones shivered whilst she tensed her shoulders.

As Amelia stepped through the steam of the great metal beast behind her, she felt as though she was that stupid little child that she had been so many years ago. In a desperate attempt to forsake the winds, she tried her best to politely push through the rabble of doddering folks in matching refinery.

The never-ending terrazzo marble floor caused an endless echo of the expected clip-clop of heels and the thwack of walking canes across the grand structure. Yet, all the same, this was a new building, something she had not seen or experienced before.

Boston, for all its familiarities, seemed to be an ever-evolving town. A place where the old were cherished, but advancements in society were never frowned upon. Something that Amelia could utterly appreciate.

Exiting the station, with a few unscrupulous addle pates barging past her for one reason or another, she stepped into the all-familiar streets. The smell, the markets, the people, everything brought back a crashing sense of nostalgia whilst she pursued forward in a bid to block out the involuntary memories. She was here to meet Josiah, that was all.

Pulling the letter from her jacket with her hare lined gloves, she examined the notice.

Past the glass factory. Meet me at 22.

She scoffed to herself, as it was hardly as tight-lipped as he intended. Amelia felt an odd twist at the bottom of her stomach. Something was just not quite right. She continued to pace, without paying too much attention to the note she had just read. After all, a woman, regardless of her station, alone and dazed reading a note, would certainly only invite trouble.

Her skirts clipped around her boots, while the harsh port wind uncombed the soft curls that framed her face.

Across the port way, when she approached the door of the address she had been given, she was not quite sure what to expect, as her uncle was known for his dubious habitats. Yet this in itself was far more unbecoming. A shrewd mining hut with broken hinges and mouldy windows. Almost doubting herself, she was unsure if this was even the correct establishment.

She knocked twice, firm and filled with purposefulness. Nothing.

Amelia knocked again, growing impatient. Forced into business by the man and he didn’t even have the curtsey of answering the door.

Again and again, she knocked. Filled with more ferocity than the last, she rasped her knuckled until the cold dull ache hit them.

Finally, the door pulled away, with her uncle standing uncharacteristically dishevelled. His un-ironed shirt loosely hanging from him and his usual slick black hair crumpled in a tousle on top of his head.

‘Oh, my dear!’ he belched, with a distinct smell of something or other on his breath. ‘Do... do come in.’

Moving to the side, he gestured more clumsily than usual, but Amelia paid no mind. If he was not in the mood to give her sense, she would feed him coffee until he was well and good enough.

‘Please,’ Josiah slurred, ushering her to what she supposed was the parlour, ‘I’m so sorry, my sweet dear, my little caneton.’

Attempting to not roll her eyes and scoff, she ignored the endearment.

‘It’s been,’ her uncle began, almost falling onto the chaise longue behind him and very nearly toppling off of the back, ‘it’s been... a strenuous day.’

‘Very well,’ Amelia sighed, ‘I would have liked to speak with you under more controlled circumstances,’ she remarked, looking at him with a slight disregard.

How could he do this? She thought to herself, slightly betrayed and utterly caught off guard.

‘Well? Out with it then.’ She snapped, perhaps a little harsher than she intended.

He gazed up; eyes unfocused as he rummaged in his pocket.

‘Uncle, for the love of God, what on earth has happened?’ Growing more and more frustrated with his self-inflicted misery, Amelia took off her gloves and pulled the silver cigarette case from her pocket.

‘Oh, Amelia,’ Josiah remarked, putting his head in his hands whilst shaking his head rather dramatically. ‘I made a terrible business...’ he paused, trying to suppress another belch, ‘decision.’

Amelia pursed her lips, raising her eyebrow at the older man. Perhaps she was being a little too irritable. The man was only drunk after all.

She held her tongue and allowed him to continue.

‘An investment of mine went horribly, horribly wrong. People have died, my dear Amelia. Innocent people.’

His hands dropped from his face, revealing watery pockets all over it.

She was stunned. What in the world was he on about? Her Uncle, of all people, involved in such crimes?

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Uncle.’ Amelia managed to let out, her voice soft and low.

‘Some... associates of mine, they were to carry out a job of theirs, but...’

Amelia furrowed her eyebrows. This all sounded quite criminal. She had always known her uncle would dance with the interpretations of the law, but not something like this. This didn’t sound right at all.

She looked away, unable to meet the anguish in his eyes. She cast her gaze into her cigarette, lighting it and hoping that all that he said was some drunken rambling from a man too far into his whiskey.

Attempting to find some excuse, some distraction, she peered around the room, taking puff after puff, whilst her uncle led out the odd sniffle or two.

‘I think some coffee is order, don’t you, Uncle?’

With all the composure she could muster, she stood and waltzed over to the side cabinets. A kitchen would have been too much of a generous word as the cramped confines only held the very basics. She dreaded to think why Josiah was here or even how he came across the property. However, she figured perhaps it was best to ask that another time.

Throwing the end of her cigarette in an empty tin - which already housed plenty of ends - she rummaged around as best she could to find the coffee. With little hope of finding a percolator, she filled an old saucepan and placed it on the singular gas unit.

When she finally found the coffee and poured it into the saucepan, something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

At first, it was the newspaper, discarded and strewn on the floor, but then she saw the cutout on the table. Curiosity got the better of her and the room filled with the scent of coffee grounds.

OUTLAW GANG WANTED OVER HEIST

The headline read. She picked it up tentatively, not wanting to read it, but couldn’t bear to ignore it.

Pinkertons Increase Search

A gang of criminals, believe to be the outlaw Dutch van der Linde escaped with approximately $150,000 after a bloody gunfight with Pinkerton agents in Blackwater yesterday. The bank was moving the money out by boats after a string of stagecoach robberies in the area. The authorities believe that the men must have stashed the money in Blackwater before fleeing and the town has been put on high alert.

She put it down, afraid to read anymore. Her stomach recoiled as her eyes glazed over, unable to understand. Was her uncle involved in this? Why did he have it cut out? Was it a trophy?

Amelia stood there for what felt like hours, trying to think of the words, the questions, and any answer that could be given that would make this make sense.

‘I didn’t know it was to be a heist, not like that anyway,’ her uncle said after some time as Amelia stood there frozen.

‘I...’ he began, and Amelia willed herself to turn to face him. It couldn’t be, surely? Her Uncle Josiah, who saved her from her beastly parents, who brought her dolls and books, who gave her everything, was involved in such deplorable behaviour?

‘Tell me, Uncle. Tell me the truth about all this!’ She was mad, so very mad. Hurt and betrayed, everything in her body told her to scream and kick and curse his soul to damnation. Amelia was not a woman to tolerate petty theft, let alone something quite like this.

He told her. From beginning to end, how he was unaware of what his investment quite was. How he knew it wasn’t strictly legal and according to his sources, the owners certainly didn’t deserve the money, but at least nothing that was too questionable. He thought it was a movement similar to theirs, people trying to do their best to syphon the wealth from the greedy, the corrupt, into the pockets of the downtrodden who were cast away by society.

Not once did Amelia interrupt, and by the time she poured their coffees, they sat there in silence.

‘It seems like an easy oversight,' was all she could muster.

‘Perhaps.’

‘How could you have not known they were Outlaws?’ the mirth had left her voice as she wrapped her hands around the coffee, the only relief in this barren place.

‘Half of our employees are Outlaws, Amelia.’

‘Former,’ she muttered under her breath correcting him, rather childishly if she was being frank with herself.

Her uncle looked at her with an exhausted sorrowfulness she rarely saw from him. A part of her thought it served him right, being so hasty to make ‘ethical’ money, as he would put it. The coffee was rancid, so much so she only managed a mouthful and feared that even a cigarette wouldn’t cleanse her of its bitterness.

‘Well, I assume you read my letter in full? About the state of the finances?’ Desperate to change the conversation topic to anything other than this nonsense.

He gave a wave of his hand, not quite as enthusiastic as his usual self.

‘I did, my dear. Knowing you, I have high hopes that you have many a trick up your sleeves...’

At least, he was growing soberer, Amelia thought to herself.

‘I have, however, gone to the liberty of securing you both a short term and long-term solution.’

She couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows in doubt. God, she thought to herself, this best be legal.

‘Do not worry!’ he fished into his pocket for another cigarette. ‘It is some racing horses coming into their own. An acquaintance of mine has recently fallen quite ill and his poor wife is selling off his acquisitions. With all the rage of racing horses against one another these days, it will give a nice minor bump up in those woes of yours.’

She pursed her lips, both sceptical of the origin and cynical and her uncles’ prospects all in the same thought.

However, when she took a moment to herself, she was not really in a position to throw away any rope that could pull her from the growing current. After all, her pride and morals were one thing, but she had her people to look after. Not just them, but their families, too. Was reasonable doubt such a bad thing? The odd turning of the other cheek? Or was her uncle making her complicit in another “bad investment”?

‘Very well,’ she sighed, standing to leave. ‘I trust you will make the appropriate arrangements?’

He smiled with a soft curve to his moustache, his eyes drooping ever so slightly from the reign of his sobering intoxication. Opening his arms to her, she couldn’t help but already begin to forgive him. Returning to his embrace, Amelia pulled on her gloves and adjusted her hat.

‘The horses should be with you in a month or two, I assure you.’ Guiding her to the door, Amelia hoped that at the very least, he had the good sense to get some sleep and leave the hovel he had found himself in.

‘Amelia, my dear, please,’ he took her hand as she stepped through the threshold, ‘nothing like this will happen again, I promise you.’

No matter how much she wanted to stay mad at him, she simply could not. With a gentle smile, she placed a tender kiss on his cheek and squeezed his hand in return.

‘Of course, Uncle. I know you would not.’ Whether that was to reassure herself or him, she could not say at that very moment. She left without further comment and proceeded back to South Station, feeling much more exhausted than she thought she would.

#arthur morgan x original female character #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #fanfic #arthur morgan x oc #amelia edwards #blemished silk

2 notes · View notes

thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 2 months

Text

Alligators as as a species have been around a lot longer than we have.

We can learn and have learned many great lessons from them. I had cause to reflect upon them while watching the opening day of the baseball season which was occurring on another continent.

What is this world coming to?

Let's review and move forward.

MMMMMKKKKAAAYY

One day many years ago, I got a job transporting an anaconda from the Rochester zoo to the Buffalo zoo. I have had cause to reflect upon that day often during the past few weeks.

So let's review and move forward.

When we got to the zoo, the herpetolgy guy came out and removed the snake from the bag. He pronounced it both female and fit. This pronunciation guaranteed that I hadn't arrived at the same time as some other guy who was supposed to arrive in a Dodge Crew Cab and that I wasn't trying to pass off a sick, male anaconda while the other guy purloined the healthy snake bitch.

Or something.

For my reward, the herpetology guy decided to give me a tour of the innards of the snake house, apparently a rare extravagance.

As we walked through the snake house, the herpetology guy explained in exquisitely excruciating detail what would happen if he or I got bit by any of the venomous snakes that we were passing. All of the poisons were different and needed a different serum and usually by the time help got to the unconscious poisoned person it was already too late. Matter of fact that's how he got the job. They found the herp dude before him passed out on the floor and by the time they figured out the problem, it was too late for him.

The dude was dead.

Then we proceeded over to the alligator pond where he invited me to watch the alligators have lunch.

At that moment, a bunch of starlings were thrown into the alligator pond. One of the "pain in the ass birds" landed directly on the head of a partially submerged gator.

As I looked at the bird doing a morbidly comic homage to a raven on the bust of Pallas, I asked the obvious question."why doesn't the bird just fly away?"

"we already clipped his wings. He ain't goin' nowhere."

The alligator with the bird on his head wasn't goin' anyplace either.

He just sat there motionless wearing a delicious starling hat.

"How come the gator isn't moving."

"Oh, they don't move much. They move only when they need to. The rest of the time, they do what he's doing."

"oh yeah, I asked, "what is he doin? Is he asleep or is he awake?."

"Well, he ain't awake and he ain't asleep. It's something in between."

Of course as a human being I was only aware of two states of consciousness…either awake of asleep. This was before my various surgeries and adventures in anesthesiology.

"He's what they call dormant."

Dormant is a deeper variation of chilling. I understood that the anaconda in the bag had been doing the same thing.

Alligators spend most of their lifetimes dormant waiting around for something to happen and not particularly concerned when nothing happens

Just gatoring.

Alligators are known for their ability to remain still for long periods, often lying partially submerged in water or on land. This behavior helps them conserve energy and remain camouflaged while waiting for prey to come within striking distance.

Alligators are opportunistic predators, meaning they will eat whatever prey is readily available. In the story, the alligator remains motionless with a bird on its head, likely waiting for an opportunity to strike and feed on the bird without expending unnecessary energy.

Alligators are adaptable creatures capable of surviving in a variety of environments, from freshwater swamps to brackish marshes. The behavior of the alligator in the story, calmly waiting with a bird on its head, demonstrates its adaptability and ability to thrive in its habitat.

The herpetology guy describes the alligator as being in a state of dormancy, which is a period of reduced activity and metabolic rate. This behavior allows alligators to conserve energy during times of low food availability or unfavorable environmental conditions.

Hmmmmmm......

I have an ability to remain still for long periods of time lying partially covered by a blanket or quilt. I will eat whatever is acvailable according to my cravings but will wait for the opportunity to eat with the least amount of effort made towards gathering and preparing food. I am adaptable to a wide variety of couches, beds, pillows, cushions in living rooms, bedrooms and man caves. I regularly reduce my metabolic rate through inactivity as I prepare for those moments when food becomes available.

Furthermore, as a modern day human, I have developed an even more bamboozling state of dormancy between wakefulness and sleep. That stage is called napthru. In its own way napthru s better than or at least as good as sleeping or waking. Napthru dexribes the condition when I'm "watching" a baseballgame on teevee and find myself dozing off. I'm still sorta paying attention to the game but I'm also moving my eyes beneath my lids that produces an effect similar between REM, reading and day dreaming in which I lose track of time unless I get a signal to eat or somebody yells help when I immediately leap to my feet as if I have been awake all the time or if I sense my wife coming up the stairs and I don't want her to catch me sleeping as I'm supposed to be watching an important game rather than honey doing.

So as we stumble through the Everglades of our existences, we find ourselves entwined with the most unlikely of companions: the alligator, the bird, and the blissful state of napthru. As we navigate the murky waters of life, let us take a cue from the gator, mastering the art of chilling with finesse, and embracing our own peculiar versions of dormancy, whether it's napping through a baseball game or simply wearing a metaphorical starling hat of serenity amidst life's chaotic pond. So, here's to gatoring, napthruing, and finding the humor in our shared journey through the wondrous, wilderness of wakefulness.

0 notes

prince--thomas · 2 years

Text

A Threat at the Door ~~ [Tonnie]

In which Annie brings her concerns about the Order to Tom...[takes place: early June]

@ugly-anastasia

[tw -- mentions of stalking, threats, violence]

ANNIE: They had settled into something of a routine, Tom and Annie. Annie dropped by Tom’s house, usually while the kids were at school and daycare, with a cooler bag of frozen milk and whatever other random baby items she had impulse-purchased from Instagram ads that week. Sometimes it was a little hat or a sleeper. Sometimes it was a toy. A baby nail clipper, a pacifier clip, a bath thermometer– she didn’t know if Tom already had this stuff, but buying it made Annie feel like she was a part of things, ordering them online, bringing them over.

Levi was officially a month old, which meant that Annie was bringing the first year photo mat, rolled up neatly and tucked under one arm. She wasn’t going to Instagram the photo, obviously– her account was still on lockdown and would remain so for the foreseeable future– but she just wanted it for the baby book!

“Good morning,” Annie said when Tom opened the door, smiling politely, though she was feeling a bit shaky. She had some… not-so-fun developments to tell Tom about. Hopefully that could wait until she got her one-month photo, though. She held up the cooler bag. “I’ll go put these in the freezer?”

THOMAS: Tom did not keep most of the gifts from Annie. He found them frivolous and unnecessary. Yes, maybe it was petty, but he also wanted to prove to himself that he could do this without crutches. He didn’t need a thermometer for the bath. The toys he allowed, or clothes. Really practical things. But most of it, he tossed in a box and kept it out of sight, still not sure what to do with it. Give it away? Give it back to Annie? Give it to Levi, when he got older?

He didn’t waste the time worrying about it now. There were much more pertinent things to worry about. Like the Order encroaching on Swynlake. Like the fact he was supposed to go back to work in a few weeks. What was he going to do about Annie?

This tepid arrangement was not going to last. Annie would grow bolder, Tom more possessive. He already felt the creeping sense of irritation as she entered the house.

“Sure.” Tom watched her cross to the kitchen.

“Baby’s sleeping,” he mentioned quietly, moving toward the bassinet in the living room.

ANNIE: Once Annie put the milk away, she was planning on getting to work on the one-month photo, but… oh. He was sleeping.

And after Harlynne and Jaxson, Annie knew how rare and precious and fleeting naptime was. It never lasted as long as you needed it to, and you grasped at those minutes, trying to use them to clean up or prepare for the rest of the day or maybe, sometimes, catch a few minutes of sleep yourself. So Annie wasn’t going to wake him up. Maybe later.

Still, Annie took out her phone and snapped a quick picture of him sleeping. He looked so peaceful. He had no idea of the storm that was swirling around him…

“It’s not goin’ anywhere. I promise. Just wanted it for me,” Annie said in a low voice, then put her phone away. She turned to face Tom, her eyes darting around nervously. It was now or never– probably better to do this when Levi was asleep, even if he couldn’t understand it either way. It mattered to Annie. “Tom, we need to talk about something.”

THOMAS: The camera made Tom nervous. He wasn’t sure why, since the Order already knew everything—because of Annie. They knew he had a son. They knew where that son was. What he looked like. What his name was. Who his mother was.

All of these things, Tom had tried so desperately to prevent. Maybe that had been foolish of him. Maybe he never should have even tried.

But he didn’t want Annie to have photos of their son. He didn’t feel she could be trusted with them. Even without the Order, he didn’t want his baby posted all over the internet. Used as some sort of weird power play.

Her reassurance did nothing to reassure him. He grunted a little in reply but didn’t say anything else, still watching her stoically.

When she said they needed to talk, his face twitched down into a scowl. He had known this was probably coming at some point, because he was sure he knew what this was about: Annie wanted to take the baby back. Tom didn’t want that. As much as the baby was a burden, as much as he worried he was doing a good job, he also felt like he was starting to get the hang of things. And he didn’t want to let him go. Especially not with the Order whipped up into an even bigger frenzy.

“And what’s that?” he asked, voice flat.

ANNIE: Annie did not want to talk about this. Oh, she did not want to talk about this. Especially not to Tom, whom she was certain would blame her. But he had to know. For Levi’s safety. At the end of the day, that was more important than anything else. So she took a deep breath and steeled herself. Maybe Tom would be mad at her. Maybe he would tell her everything she secretly knew was true, about how irresponsible and stupid she had been. But that didn’t matter more than Levi.

“I’ve been getting, uh, weird stuff in the mail. From your sister, I’m pretty sure. Like, she sent me a bouquet of roses the other day with this weird threatening letter. I know Levi’s staying with you, so he’s safe and all, but… I just thought you should be aware. In case she tries anything,” Annie explained, avoiding eye contact with Tom. “And I guess I was wondering if you had any ideas on what I should do. If there’s a way to get her to stop. It makes me worried about Harlynne and Jaxson, y’know?”

THOMAS: It wasn’t about Levi.

Well, it was, but it wasn’t about their custody arrangement. Which meant that Tom’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He was relieved. And then, felt bad for that relief. Annie’s family was potentially in danger. And it was his fault. The Order’s technically, but he’d brought them into her life. Even if there were so many reasons why this had also been her own doing.

Tom didn’t want her hurt. And he especially didn’t want her children hurt. Once, Tom had believed the Order wouldn’t hurt innocent Mundus children. Now? He wasn’t so sure.

His weight shifted and he ran a hand over his beard, which was longer than usual. He pulled at the hairs on his chin thoughtfully.

“There isn’t a way to stop, unless you move. She is going to keep trying. The Order will keep trying.” Tom realized, as he spoke, that he was probably going to have to share some form of their plans for the Order with Annie but that could be tabled for the moment. He had to find the best way to do it that didn’t compromise the mission in any way. He still didn’t trust her, after all.

“Do you know what this note said? Do you have it?”

ANNIE: “Um, yeah,” Annie said, digging through her purse for the card. She had thrown the roses in the trash, but after those awful divorce proceedings, Annie had learned that it was a good idea to hold onto stuff. Just in case. Not that she really had the time, money, or resources to press charges against Eloise right now. You never knew, though.

She glanced at Levi nervously. He was still sleeping. Good. She didn’t want this stuff anywhere near the kids when they were awake, even if they couldn’t understand it.

Annie handed the card to Tom.

Annie,

Every time I see the color red, I can’t help but think of your sweet little boy. Why don’t you give me a call so we can arrange a time all to see each other? I would hate to drop by without warning.

“I threw the roses out, but I figured I should keep this,” Annie explained. “I know it seems innocent, but I just thought it was sort of creepy. Given everything that’s happened. I dunno, she makes it sound like she’s gonna show up at my house, right?”

THOMAS: That was Eloise’s handwriting. Tom recognized it at once. It was the same handwriting on all the bins he’d taken when he’d moved to uni and in all the cabinets in his childhood kitchen. Eloise had always liked things in their proper places. It made him miss her. He knew she was too far lost, maybe to ever be pulled back, but—he missed her anyway. He was not very close to Olivia. She had been married and moved to Denmark when he was still very young and Melody was his younger sister—and years younger at that. She’d always been his responsibility.

It was Eloise whom Tom was closest to, even if most of that was bickering between them.

His thumb moved over the “E” and he frowned, feeling that old, fresh wound in his chest.

“Mm,” he hummed, the gears turning in his head. He wasn’t the strategic one. If he had gotten this note: he would’ve believed it. He would’ve—been confused.

Reading it now, with Annie already putting it in context, he could see what she meant.

“I—think it might be an empty threat at this point,” Tom said with a little shrug. “Or…it will be soon.” He hesitated again, not sure what to reveal. He wished for John. He would know what to say. How to explain all of this.

“I am taking care of it and Eloise isn’t going to show up here. She knows her cover is blown.”

ANNIE: That wasn’t enough for Annie. Not by a mile. She knew Tom would do anything to protect Levi. That was obvious. She wasn’t sure he could do everything to protect her, though. And, really, why would he? After everything she had put him through. They were bound by this baby, sure, but they weren’t bound by blood.

Even if they were— Annie was done trusting people’s word.

“What do you mean, you’re taking care of it?” she asked nervously, her eyes flicking from the note back to Tom’s face. “I just told you about this now, there’s no way you’re already taking care of it. Unless…”

Was there more going on with Tom and his family than Annie realized? The thought made her even more nervous. “What do you mean by soon?”

THOMAS: Right. Clearly, Tom shouldn’t have said anything. Just--told Annie not to worry and left it at that, because now he had to…sift through what to tell her and what not to tell her. Both to keep her safe (as much as he disliked her, he didn’t want her or, especially, her children hurt) and because, even after everything--or maybe because of everything--he didn’t trust her. Sure, maybe she knew the Order was a bunch of fucking assholes now, but--she was susceptible, clearly, to their manipulation. Even if she didn’t align herself with them, he couldn’t trust her not to let things slip.

And this first attack--it was crucial that they had the element of surprise on their side. If they didn’t, the Order would simply move and they’d lose the trail. There wasn’t anyone on the inside anymore. Eric, in his dying moments, had given them the location of the new headquarters, but that meant there could be no mistakes. Everything had to be done in complete secrecy. The only reason he could even trust the Acherons was because he knew they wanted the Order destroyed even more than he did.

“I told you I was going to protect my son and that is what I am doing. The less you know about the details the better.”

ANNIE: “Tom!” Annie blurted out, her face going a bit pink.

She had tried. She had really, really tried to be nice, and calm, and civil. She was the one who had messed it all up, after all, who was trying to get everyone’s forgiveness. Annie knew she wasn’t really in a place to be making demands. But when it came to Levi, Annie believed she had a right to know. Especially after Eloise had made it clear that Annie was still very much on the Harringtons’ minds.

“You can’t just tell me that. He’s my son, too. I deserve to know if it’s something that involves him!” Her voice dropped lower in the way it did sometimes when she was emotional. “I know you don’t want me to be a part of this whole business with your family, and honestly, I don’t wanna be part of it either, but Eloise is making me a part of it. What’s going on? Are you suing her? Getting a restraining order or something?”

THOMAS: When Annie snapped at him, Tom’s face hardened.

He hadn’t felt particularly keen on Annie the last few months and although they had come to a tepid understanding, he still didn't trust her. Or like her very much. And he certainly didn't like being scolded by her.

“I don’t have to tell you anything, considering the last time I did try to include you in my life, you called me crazy and a liar and then gave our son away to a bunch of bloody lying psychopaths.”

Tom didn't feel the need to cushion his words. Maybe, if he was still a Prince, he would. Annie was the mother of his child and he’d been taught to uphold that title more than any other. But, that title had also been synonymous with wife. Partner. Someone he loved and trusted. Annie was none of those things. She was a stranger who had broken his trust. Who made it very clear that she had no interest in coparenting.

“I am handling it. Eloise is just trying to manipulate you. Don't let her. She’s a coward. Her threats are empty.”

ANNIE: That stung. Because the worst part was that it was true, all of it– and it was one of Annie’s worst regrets. She had been misled and manipulated, but she had let herself be, all because she was weak. Because she put her own vanity and desperation to be loved above her own kid’s life. And now she was paying the price. That nobody trusted her to protect him.

So Annie opened her mouth to retort and closed it again, because she didn’t have much of an argument.

She took a deep breath. “And I– I know I was wrong. We all know I was wrong at this point, so we don’t have to– whatever,” Annie mumbled, waving a hand as though to push the topic aside. She looked up at Tom, her gaze stubborn and determined. “You’re absolutely certain they’re empty threats. You’re not just saying that to make me go away.”

Tom knew his sister better than Annie did– he had been right about her when Annie was wrong about her– but Annie was reluctant to believe she was really safe. She was too scared at this point. She had already lost so much by getting tangled up in the world of Tom’s family– she couldn’t lose anything else.

THOMAS: Tom knew that he should find some sort of sympathy or forgiveness for Annie in his heart. Or even just tenderness. After all, he had been manipulated by the Order his entire life. He knew how toxic they could be. But, he had also never had anyone telling him that the Order was toxic and evil. He had never taken a child away from its parents. In fact, he had left the Order to keep that from happening.

It worried him, the ugly, black anger that he had. It made his heart feel scorched. Like he would never be the man that he wanted to be. A man free of the Order and all the mistakes of his past. There were too many of them, it had been too long for him. There would never be enough time to make up for his past. He would constantly be swimming up from drowning, never breaking the surface.

Was Tom just saying that Eloise was an empty threat to make Annie go away?

“I cannae be absolutely certain, but I know my family and at this point: they have bigger things to worry about. They’ll know that I have Levi. Which is why I have him. They’re not going to involve some random civilians.”

If Annie was someone he cared about, then maybe…

Though, he supposed the Order did underestimate him in that way. If someone took Annie, or her other children, he would get them back. That doubt worked in their favor.

ANNIE: Random civilians. That’s what Annie was. What the rest of her family was. Like they were in a war, and Tom was on the front lines, not her.

But that wasn’t how it felt. Every day, Annie woke up and felt like she was suiting up for battle. She checked the footage on the security cameras she had installed outside of her house, she skimmed the crime news for anything strange, she kept a detailed list of anything that seemed unusual. She tried to think of ways she could fix everything. Because she knew she couldn’t go on like this. Something had to change.

“If you say so,” Annie said uncertainly, like she didn’t really believe that at all. “When you say you’re taking care of it… you think they won’t be a problem anymore soon? You don’t have to give me all the details, I just– that’s the part I wanna know.”

THOMAS: Tom couldn’t promise the Order wouldn’t be a problem. This battle could go wrong for them. Hades seemed confident, but that prick had more confidence than literally anyone he knew. And he was best friends with Phil fucking Knightley.

Anyway--it could go badly. There could be retaliation. They weren’t finishing something. They were starting it. They all knew it, but--

One day, they could be free.

That was the light at the end of this. That his son could grow up in an Order free world. He deserved that. All the children who came next--Magick and Mundus, deserved that. It had taken Tom a long time to come to that conclusion, but he believed it. He could never wash the stain of blood off of his own hands, but he could keep Levi’s clean.

“I believe so. It might take a while but we have a plan. And if anything changes or I ever think you and your family might be in danger, I would tell you.”

ANNIE: It still didn’t feel like enough. But Annie could believe, at least, that Tom couldn’t tell her much more. Either there wasn’t much more to tell, or telling Annie would create more trouble for her. She could kind of understand that. There was a reason she didn’t tell anyone else about Eloise, and it wasn’t just because she was embarrassed (although she was rather embarrassed). She was also afraid of dragging anyone else in.

“Fine,” Annie said, giving Tom a steely look. In some ways, she was just going to have to handle her own side of this. Look into some security cameras for her house. Maybe see if she could get the SSHIIT people to keep a lookout for her (without telling them anything, obviously). Stay quiet on social media, until she was sure that Tom’s plan, whatever it was, had worked.

And if it didn’t? Well, Annie would figure it out. She always did. She missed her life as an influencer, but it wasn’t more important than her kids’ safety. She had learned the hard way what happened when she prioritized her own ego over that.

She turned her attention back to Levi, who was still sleeping peacefully, no knowledge of what was happening. It made Annie’s heart ache. She drifted over to him and then looked up at Tom. “I’ll head out soon, but– just give me a minute, ‘kay?”

#swynanastasia #tonnie #a threat at the door #these two messy bitches #i love them

1 note · View note

damiano-mylove · 3 years

Text

The members of our beloved Måneskin reacting to their S/O’s self-harm scars

Tw for self harm, blood, old scars - fresh cuts, vague suicide mentions, don’t read this if you’ll be inspired by it. *Masterlist*

Self harm isn’t cute, it won’t make anybody fall in love with you; this is purely for those who have self harmed/struggle with it currently, so that they don’t feel less than because of their scars

Vic

'If you think this makes your body any less than perfect, you'd be wrong.'

Depending on if was a big reveal, Vic would pull you close to her, able to hear your heart that was beating with the bass of a hundred kick drums - she'd press the softest and most meaningful kisses all over your body, asking if she'd be allowed to kiss your scars

If it were a casual reveal, Vic wouldn't bat an eye

Scars don't change how she'd feel about you; you're already the most ethereal person to walk the Earth to her

On those rare occasions (that we've all had, so don't be embarrassed) where you'd bleed through a pant leg, or skirt sleeve, or anything else because the cut was fresh and it stretched; Vic would be more than willing to pull you into a bathroom and help dab away the blood and help it clot

Yes, she would check you into a ward, if your harming got out of control - Vic wouldn't love you any less, but she would be horrified that you would feel so horrible as to mutilate yourself

When the evenings would be more calm, Vic's cold and rough finger tips would dance over your scars in a haunting tango that would send shivers through your bloodstream

Vic would hide your blades, she'd hide your knives, she'd hide your glass, she'd clip your nails - anything that you would use, Vic would find that steal that away from you, at risk of that thing stealing you away from her

Thomas

When you told Thomas about your...affliction, he was silent

Too many emotions came over Thomas at once, so he opted to shut off for a couple minutes, as to not overreact, to scare you, to make you feel worse than you obviously already did

After the initial shock passed, Thomas was crying - not weeping or sobbing, just crying, just a dribble of sadness down his soft skin

He asked you why, he asked you about the thoughts that filtered through your head as your method of choice drew blood; though he understood your reasoning thoroughly, and without an ounce of judgement

If your cuts were fresh, if you're still struggling, Thomas would offer you his unmitigated support, but maintain that seeing a professional would be your best move

However, if your cuts were old, if they were turning silver and pink, Thomas would feel relief, he would kiss your scars then kiss your lips - he'd ask you what it was that got you to stop, and he would be thankful for whatever your answer entailed every single day

Thomas wouldn't treat you differently afterwards; but he would be even more mindful of your triggers, at risk of you relapsing, or it making your problem worse

Many nights were since spent, sat on the couch, in the wee hours of the morning, tangled limb in limb, with Thomas making sure that you were doing okay, that you were either making a conceited effort to stop, or that you hadn't sunk so low again

Ethan

Ethan would need a minute to dwell on it; he would need some space (but not at your expense), and he would need a clear head to process your actions

No matter how you feel, how other people act, self harm is a very heavy topic to take in - especially when one of the people closest to you feels the need to do it

After a little bit, Ethan would sit down with you, he'd have a conversation with you, because that's how Ethan works; he talks out the important shit, instead of letting it fester in ignorance

He would offer you his full support, then ask if he may ask a few questions

Why you did it, was at the top of his list, and, even though he didn't have a crystal clear view point of the issue, Ethan would try his God-damnedest to understand every single word that cycled through your mind

Scar treatment would also be another forefront topic - Mederma (though it feels like plastic and burns on fresher cuts), Bio-Oil (though it takes long to dry and doesn't work all that quickly) - Ethan would hope that you'd want to take a step to rid yourself of the markings you've bestowed yourself

After the talk, after half a tissue box, after a Kit-Kat, Ethan would sit you on his lap and rest his head against your shoulder

He'd be grateful that a blade hadn't gotten the better of you, and he would be happy that you'd stand with him in wanting to better yourself

Damiano

There would be no possible way that you would be able to casually approach this with Damiano, not a way in Hell

The conversation would be brought up accidentally, in drunken slurs in the moonlight, so Damiano would bank it for the morning where he'd confront you at the table

He'd be perplexed; he loved you so much, saw so many amazing qualities in you, how could you not see them as well?

Damiano's face would screw up, it would get a bit red, and your heart would break just before a couple tears began to fall from his eyes - if you were still going, this reaction warranted you to inspect yourself and really make an effort to stop

Both of you would cry like children at the table as you tried to explain yourself and as Damiano offered up support like a golden egg from the golden goose

Things would be wary for the next couple days, until you had another conversation with him, which would be much more mature, where you two would talk about your respective struggles and routes of recovery

The last thing Damiano wanted was for you to get a bit happy one night and not be there the next day; so he would become much more protectionist over you, and would be willing to throw down for you at the drop of a hat

hundred quid to whomever can guess what ive been up to for the last little bit, based on this shitty hc list

#måneskin #maneskin #vic de angelis #victoria de angelis #victoria maneskin #victoria de angelis x reader #thomas raggi #thomas maneskin #thomas raggi x reader #ethan torchio #ethan maneskin #ethan torchio x reader #damiano #damiano david #damiano x reader #damiano david x reader #damiano maneskin #x reader

461 notes · View notes

chiapielle · 2 years

Text

Drabble

Um, well, apparently, I am throwing my hat into the ring for this fandom. I have 0 clues about either Eminem or MGK so this should go spectacularly well! :)

But I really want to contribute something!

Short drabble - inspired by the fact that Pete's done two incredible Eminem impressions on SNL (and stated in an interview that he called Em to say thanks)

“You serious?”

Colson grunts from where he’s sprawled out on the sofa, not bothering to move in favour of scrolling further through his Instagram feed. “Sup.”

“Uh huh,” Pete waits for a few seconds then lets out a slow sigh, “right, I’mma need to be high for this.”

Colson pushes himself upright enough to make a 'give me' gesture once Pete lights the joint, and pushes himself all the way up into a sitting position once he gets it in hand. He takes a deep inhale and quietly relishes in the familiar burning in his lungs.

Huh, Pete’s pulled out the good stuff.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you twisted?”

Colson slides a side look at the other.

Pete looks tired, as he usually is on Sunday mornings, likely the crash from the stressful adrenaline of finally having the live show wrap up for the week (and hungover from the drinking that the SNL cast indulges in afterwards). There are dark circles under his eyes and there are still imprints from the pillow on his right cheek, along with the strong smell of sweat and alcohol.

“You look and smell like shit,” Colson observes as he passes the joint back.

“And you’re here obnoxiously early,” Pete retorts without any real heat, “so what’s up?”

In a rare moment of uncertainty when speaking with one of his closest friends, Colson hesitates. “Saw clips of your show last week,” he gets out after a beat too long, gaze dropping to where his fingers are unconsciously tapping against his thigh.

He doesn’t know what to say to articulate the mess of feelings inside.

Pete is silent for a long moment, his eyes closed as he slowly gets through the joint before he mutters, “thought you were over it.”

“I am,” Colson snaps back immediately, bristling at the hint of something much too close to pity in the other’s voice, he swallows hard, “just, seriously? Another one of his songs?”

“NFTs are hot right now,” Pete replies evasively, though he does open his eye to peer at Colson. “And what can I say,” he shrugs glibly, “the dude’s songs are iconic.”

“His old shit maybe,” Colson concedes petulantly.

Pete offers the joint again but Colson shakes his head, he feels too wired already, and the feeling has nothing to do with the weed.

“Just, fuck,” he groans, “he ain’t even relevant anymore.”

Pete exhales slowly and when he speaks again, his voice is lowkey amused, “I spoke to him you know.”

“What?” Colson jerks his head towards Pete's direction, tensing as some unknown feeling makes knots in his stomach, “how did you? What did-? What?”

“He did a cameo last time,” Pete starts, turning to look out at his sparsely decorated yard, “and I dunno, he was cool with us doing it again, and even said some nice words, so I called him to say thanks. Only polite y’know?”

Colson did not know.

“What?” he repeats.

Pete shrugs. “He’s a pretty cool dude,” he pauses pointedly, “when he’s not pissed at you.”

“You said it was a good idea!” Colson protests, because he’s not a complete idiot and he does trust his friends (what few true friends he has) and he definitely sought their opinions before he released Rap Devil and none of them had said anything at the time. “And what the fuck ever, I don’t care that you spoke to some old ass rapper who still thinks his shit is hot.”

“Uh huh,” Pete says, managing to adopt the driest tone Colson’s ever heard from him.

“Give me that,” Colson grumbles out, snatching the joint back with petty vindictiveness and taking in a deep drag.

Pete raises a hand to rub at his right eye and badly hides a yawn, “have it, I’mma go back to bed.”

Colson grunts.

Pete pauses by the doorway, and Colson looks up when the other stays for a moment too long.

“What?”

“You happy with Megan?”

Colson clenches his jaw, “yes.”

He feels unbearably scrutinized under Pete’s normally placid gaze, but refuses to look away out of sheer obstinacy. He has nothing to hide, Pete can stare all he likes.

Eventually, it is Pete who looks away first, digging into the pockets of his hoodie that he slept in with clumsy hands.

Colson takes another drag, suppressing a smug smile, only to falter when his phone vibrates.

The notification alert pops up to announce it’s a text from Pete.

“Wha-”

“Just in case you’re not,” Pete mutters as he begins to shuffle back to his bedroom, “happy I mean.”

Colson stares after his retreating back for a few seconds before his brain makes the connection between the words and the text and suddenly, he’s scrambling to unlock his phone.

It’s a phone number.

Colson swallows.

#emgk

20 notes · View notes

twopoppies · 3 years

Note

I remembered the time when it was officially announced that H is gonna be part of MP and he is going to portray a gay man and how solo-henries reacts, they are all like; 'oh please no, not Harry' 'anyone but harry please!' the lot and you can clearly see what kind of fans they all are. Pretty fucking disappointing really. I wonder how well MP is going to do if it ever will be shown in the cinemas.

I don’t know… normally I’d say it’s a straight to streaming movie because movies like MP rarely ever get a chance at the box office. But then I thought, well, Harry is a huge star, Emma is winning all kinds of awards… maybe? Maybe a studio will take a chance.

But then I remember that Steven Soderberg, who’s won multiple Oscars and made movies that earned millions, made a film with widely known Oscar winning actors, Michael Douglas and Matt Damon.

That film was the Liberace biopic Behind The Candelabra in 2013 (only 8 years ago) which was released by HBO because not a single studio wanted to back it. At the time he said:

Nobody would make it. We went to everybody in town. We needed $5 million. Nobody would do it…They said it was too gay. Everybody. This was after Brokeback Mountain, by the way. Which is not as funny as this movie. I was stunned. It made no sense to any of us…[The people at HBO are] great and they’re really good at what they do, and ultimately I think more people will see it, and that’s all you care about. Studios were going, “We don’t know how to sell it.” They were scared.

Brokeback Mountain came out in 2005 and although it was released widely to great acclaim, there was a concerted effort to show that that film was “more than just” a gay cowboy film:

the distinct emphasis of so much that has been said about the movie—in commercial advertising as well as in the adulatory reviews—has been that the story told in Brokeback Mountain is not, in fact, a gay story, but a sweeping romantic epic with “universal” appeal […]

(The words “gay” and “homosexual” are never used of the film’s two main characters in the forty-nine-page press kit distributed by the filmmakers to critics.) “One movie is connecting with the heart of America,” one of the current print ad campaigns declares; the ad shows the star Heath Ledger, without his costar, grinning in a cowboy hat. A television ad that ran immediately after the Golden Globe awards a few weeks ago showed clips of the male leads embracing their wives, but not each other.

So, despite Harry’s celebrity and assumed passion for this project, the team behind MP has an uphill battle not only against homophobia, but against an industry that is losing money hand over fist and is not likely to want to take any risks when it comes to this film and getting it into theaters.

We shall see. Oh, and those supposed fans? Who needs them? They’ll be on to the next shiny thing regardless of MP.

#my policeman #hollywood homophobia

60 notes · View notes

let-me-write-shit · 4 years

Note

Hiiii! I absolutely love your writing. Could you do an imagine based off of your pregnancy one shot? Since H is incredibly private, would the couple be able to hide her pregnancy from the public and then announce it similar to like Kylie Jenner’s video diary of the whole experience? Thanks!!

A/N: Ok I was OBSESSED with this request, but for some reason I found it very difficult to write, so I’m so sorry if it’s shit. Hope you like it <3

Word Count: 2,698

Requests are OPEN! If you have a request for a blurb, oneshot, imagine, whatever, Send me a message HERE!!!

To add yourself to my Taglist, click HERE

CLICK HERE TO READ OTHER COMPLETED STORIES

Friendly reminder to please like and/or reblog. It helps more than you think :)

---------------------------------------

Is Forever Enough?

From the moment Harry found out he and Y/N were expecting their first child, he knew he wanted to document everything. He had been in the habit of capturing moments throughout their relationship, mainly of big events, but from this moment on, he wanted to capture it all. Little clips of every doctor’s appointment, every craving his wife had, every heartbeat, and every little kick. He wanted video documentation of the life growing inside his wife’s belly and everything that happened during that time. They had waited so long for this moment, and now that it was finally here, he wanted to make sure they would never forget a single second of it. From telling their closest friends and family members, designing the nursery, their tiny baby shower, attended by the select few that were lucky enough to know their secret.

At first, keeping silent was a way to protect themselves in case Y/N’s pregnancy didn’t stick like their fertility doctor had warned them was a possibility. It took them nearly two years to conceive, and the thought of going through a miscarriage in front of millions of watchful eyes was terrifying. But by the time they became aware that they weren’t going to miscarry, they had gone so long without announcing it that there wasn’t a point to do it. Why ruin something that was so well hidden?

The decision not to announce their pregnancy to the public wasn’t a hard decision to make. Harry was private, anyway, and everyone knew that. He was rarely on social media and didn’t talk about his private life to many people, and those who he did talk to were very loyal and trusting. They just wanted to enjoy being pregnant without the prying eyes of strangers and it was fairly easy keeping it under wraps considering how private they were, to begin with.

The timing of Y/N’s pregnancy helped, too. The early part of her pregnancy was during the summer, so they could enjoy tropical holidays together without worrying about being seen because she simply wasn’t showing yet. But, towards the end, it got harder to conceal, like during award season in the fall when an oversized shirt or puffy dress couldn’t conceal the roundness of her bump and plumpness of her cheeks and lips. It was the first award season she hadn’t accompanied Harry to in years and people began to get suspicious.

That’s when the rumors of her possible pregnancy started. Of course, no one could prove anything. But that, along with the lack of sightings of Y/N was enough proof for some. Luckily, nothing more came of it other than whispers. Harry had stopped doing interviews when he first got wind of the rumors, so no one could catch him off guard in uncomfortable positions or having to lie to protect his wife, and he began to focus his attention back on his music, halting his pursuance of on-screen work for the time being until after their baby boy’s arrival. Instead, he was the man behind the camera.

For the most part.

There were times when certain family members or friends would pick up their camera and film some things for them, capturing little intimate moments of the parents-to-be. They even enlisted the help of Harry’s on-tour photographer, Helene Pambrun, to help film the birth of their baby. Though she focused mainly on photography, her knowledge of videography and style of filming fit exactly with what the couple wanted, and Helene was all too honored to be a part of the day.

And although the birth of their child was, albeit, a bit traumatic, they couldn’t have asked for a sweeter baby boy. Born on a frigid Friday evening on March eighteenth after twenty hours of active labor and an onslaught of chaos, Paxton Robin Styles was born, tiny, healthy, and beautiful, surrounded by family that already loved him so dearly.

The hospital staff was wonderful in keeping their attendance private, no one having a clue that they were even there. No news articles or whispers were heard of their newest addition to which they were grateful to be allowed to enjoy their first week home, getting acclimated to being new parents. They had fallen in love with him.

“Y/N!” Harry exclaimed, bouncing into the nursery on a Monday afternoon as his wife fed their son, his phone in hand, and a bright smile on his face.

Y/N looked up, surprised and slightly offended, “Don’t ever call me by my name again,” she joked, stroking their son’s cheek.

Harry laughed, “Sorry, love. But, look! It’s here!”

He held his phone in front of her face, playing the edited version of their pregnancy and birth journey in video form one of Harry’s editor friends kindly put together for them after the birth of their son. The five minute and fifty-one-second video filled with shortened clips of the last nearly ten months of their lives in becoming first-time parents. They watched it together, occasionally glancing down at their baby that had fallen asleep while eating in Y/N’s arms, in awe that this was their life.

Tears were streaming down both of their faces, and Y/N giggled, wiping her husband’s cheek with her free hand. He was an emotional being, she knew that, but she had no idea what the effect of fatherhood would be on her Harry. She couldn’t have picked a better partner to raise a child with.

“I think we should post it,” Harry said, causing Y/N’s eyes to go wide.

“Post it? Like...social media?”

Harry nodded, “Well, we can’t keep him a secret forever. People are already starting to talk. I’d rather announce it on our own terms than on someone else’s. We can still stay as private as possible, I’ve already talked to Jeffrey and my publicist about it. I just...he makes me so proud and I feel like I need to show people that.”

Y/N smiles sweetly at her husband, taking his hand that rested on the arm to the nursing chair and pulling it up to her lips, kissing it gently. “Okay. We can post it.”

Later that evening, the internet was in an uproar and their phones were blowing up like crazy, for on both of their Instagrams they posted a grey-scale picture of a name tag sticker that read “Hello, I’m: P”, captioned ‘link in bio’, where they were directed to a youtube link posted under Harry’s account.

As soon as the video began, Harry’s soft voice was heard, singing his version of ‘Lullaby’ by the Dixie Chicks in the background as unseen footage of their wedding a few years prior had fizzled into view, video of their first dance as husband and wife played while the tail end of a speech made by Harry’s mom, Anne, was heard over everything else.

“We are so incredibly grateful to have Y/N now an official part of our family and I wish you both years of love, health, and happiness….and giving me tons and tons of grandchildren,” earning laughter from the attendees, “I love you both to pieces. Congratulations.”

The video slowly changed to little snippets. Y/N running towards the beach, holding her hat tight on her head with one hand while the other was holding onto Harry’s hand that was at the bottom of the screen as the breeze whipped at Y/N’s hair and sarong, cut to a clip of the camera propped on the beach overlooking the two of them sitting in the sand, looking out into the ocean, Y/N’s head falling on Harry’s shoulder and him kissing the top of her head as the sun set.

Next was a scene during one of Harry’s tour where someone filmed Y/N at the front of the stage in a VIP area beside a few of their friends, dancing and singing along with Harry who stood in front of her, smiling and singing at her.

The next images were upsetting. When they first started trying, they recorded videos of themselves awaiting the results of their tests, hoping to capture the moment they found out on film. One after another, the video showed negative test upon negative test, wanting to document the struggle they faced in fertility, one of the main reasons they decided to post this video. If it helped just one person who struggled with infertility and gave them a bit of hope, they needed to show it.

They showed clips of Harry holding an emotional Y/N in his arms, her eyes filled with tears and a quivering lip as he kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. Until the next clip showed. A shaky still of a screen that read ‘Pregnant’ that panned up to show a reflection of Harry and his wife in the mirror, Y/N pulling the test up to her face with a smile while Harry looked down at his wife in pride, softly touching her flat belly.

Clips of an ultrasound showed, Y/N stomach looking more bloated than anything as the doctor slid the wand around on her belly, Harry filming while squeezing his wife’s hand. His voice could barely be heard over the music of the video as he cooed, “Is that it, right there? So little…”

They included a few announcements they made to family members. How they told Anne while on an end of summer family vacation with a little jewelry box that opened up to two little birds and an egg in a birds nest with a note that said ‘A little birdy told me you are going to be a Nana.’ making Anne burst into tears, hugging them. And when they told Y/N’s best friend by giving her an orange and saying, “That’s how big our baby is right now,” which caused confusion before the screaming.

Y/N had filmed mirror clips of her growing belly in the floor-length mirror that stood in the corner of their room and had gotten clips of Harry laying beside her bump, his hands rubbing her stomach, clasped on either side as he sang, or talked, or read stories.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he could be heard saying before kissing the top of her bump, looking up and past the camera to his wife, smiling lovingly.

There were images of Christmas, Gemma having caught an intimate moment between the two of them, Y/N sat in between Harry’s legs on the floor, mugs of hot chocolate in her hands and still in their Christmas Pajamas, Harry’s cheek pressed against hers as he held up a blue Gucci baby suit in front of them, smiling and gushing about how small it was.

The couple’s silhouette could be seen in the dark light sky as they stood in the middle of the field, illuminated by the New Years’ fireworks that went off in the distance, Y/N’s belly pressed against Harry’s stomach as they kissed intimately amongst their friends.

A small baby shower inside one of their London country homes was next, littered with a few familiar faces along with some that were likely family members. Harry still sang in the background as the two of them opened gifts, smiling and laughing with each other, genuine happiness and love could be seen on everyone’s faces and a few people popped onto the screen to say a few words for the unborn baby.

“You have wonderful parents,” Y/N’s parents grinned, her mom getting teary-eyed. “I can’t wait to see the person you become.”

Anne’s bright, shining smile was next, “You’re going to do amazing things. You are so loved.”

“Hi, my sweet nephew! It’s Auntie Gemma,” she grinned, waving at the camera, “I can’t wait to meet you and snuggle you! I hope you grow up to be just as kind and loving as your parents. We are so lucky to have you in our lives.”

Harry and Y/N were seen in the background, Y/N eating a slice of cake while Harry casually kissed her cheek before stealing a bite of her food, earning a smile from his pregnant wife

Video panned over their newly renovated nursery, mostly designed to be gender-neutral with little hints of outer space; moon lights, a solar system mobile hanging above the cot, with a star blanket draped over the nursing chair. Harry moved the camera to Y/N who was hanging some onesies in the nursery closet, smiling and waving at the camera.

Next, they were laying in bed. It was dark and, but a glow from a nightstand shone and Y/N’s belly was visible, round and very pregnant, a few freckles near her navel, and the faintest linea nigra could be seen running from her belly button down towards the bottom of her belly. Their voices were barely audible over the music still sung by Harry. A little ripple on her belly cast from left to right and then her belly distorted a little as their baby boy kicked and pressed against the center of her bump, making the couple laugh and Harry’s hand appeared, softly rubbing where his son’s foot would be.

It changed. They were in a hospital now, Y/N in a grey and white spotted hospital gown. The camera was propped on a table filming Y/N who sat on the edge of her bed, moving her hips from side to side as she breathed heavily, moaning, while Harry kneeled on the floor in front of her, his hands on her hips and squeezing to relieve some pressure. They were talking to each other, concern, and empathy clear on Harry’s face.

In the next clip, Y/N was laying back in her hospital bed, sucking on gas and air. Harry was filming this time, and his Anne could be seen this time, sitting on Y/N’s other side holding her daughter-in-law’s free hand. Y/N put the gas and air down, gave a thumbs-up, and smiled, “We’re having a baby today!” as her mother-in-law smiled brightly.

The footage faded to black before it flashed to Y/N looking at someone just out of view as the disembodied voice said, “Whenever you feel the urge to push, let us know. You’ll be meeting your son soon.”

It faded to black again, Harry’s singing more evident in these moments, louder, as the footage flashed back into focus. The camera was, once again, being propped up on a table. At Y/N’s head on either side stood Anne who was still holding her daughter-in-law’s hand, while Harry stood, back to the camera, mostly blocking the view of his wife as one hand stroked her hair and the other held her hand. The doctors could be heard saying, “Deep breath” before Y/N took a deep breath in, bringing her legs to her chest with the help of a few nurses that could hardly be seen, bearing down and pushing as the nurses counted and Harry said, “Great job, love. Keep going. You’re so strong.”

The screen went black. A doctor’s voice was heard saying, “One more big push.” Y/N could be heard taking a deep breath, and a little exasperated yelp before gasping from both Harry and Anne followed by the beautiful, gurgling cry of their baby. Harry’s sweet singing voice in the background of the video got louder and finally, the video came back into view of a little name card on the bassinet that read:

Name: P, Styles.

DOB: March 18th

Weight: 6 lbs 12 oz

Height: 20 inches

Time: 8:39 PM

The camera panned down to the top of a blue baby cap with a white embroidered ‘P’ in the center, moving as their son wiggled in his bassinet, the hushed reassuring whispers of his parents heard just behind the camera as little lip-smacking and coos could be heard from the baby.

The screen went blank as the song started to end and white words appeared on the screen.

“Welcome to the world, Baby P. We love you to the ends of the earth.

Love,

Mummy and Daddy”

------------------------------------

Taglist:

@odetostep , @thurhomish

#Harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #harry styles blurb #harry styles dad #dad!harry #pregnant #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles smut #harry #one direction #1d

844 notes · View notes

twistedtummies2 · 3 years

Text

Green-Eyed Devil

A silly piece of Sherliam fluffiness; nothing kinky, just sweet foolery. Summary: William James Moriarty always thought that Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson made a good pair...but he finds himself getting very jealous over just HOW good a pair they might be.

In Other Words: Liam goes into “jealous boyfriend mode.” ‘Nuff said. :P

---------------------------------------------------------

Another busy day in London. People bustled to and fro in the cool, semi-drizzly afternoon’s yellow-gray light. Paupers held out their hats in hopes of alms, while the gentry chattered, unconcerned by the rain pattering onto their umbrellas. Hoofbeats clip-clapped upon the cobblestone streets as carriages and hansom cabs went back and forth, carrying their passengers quickly but carefully through the mild downpour.

One particular carriage turned a corner onto Baker Street: a black carriage, with strange red-tinted lamps on its sides, which matched the dark, blood-colored lining of its inner cushioning, barely visible through the windows of the coach. The same deep red was painted on the wide wagon wheels. It was a nobleman’s coach, something that turned many eyes, as it was rare for a nobleman to hurry along Baker Street. While the road was by no means a slum, it was not one of the grander parts of the city either: a decent middle-class zone. Those who knew the street best smirked, already having a guess as to where the carriage would stop. They were correct...but not for the reasons they expected. In the driver’s seat of the coach was a young man, dressed in a dark blue suit, with a matching tie and hat, and wire-rimmed spectacles upon his fine nose. His blonde hair fluttered at the sides of his head, half-hiding the nasty scar upon his cheek; the only thing that marred his otherwise handsome, youthful face. A pair of strange red eyes which seemed to dimly glow in the shadows of his hat brim stared resolutely onward...until the carriage neared its destination. “Whoa there!” the man in blue called to the twin horses that pulled the carriage, and tugged on the reins, slowing the stallions to a stop. They whinnied softly and shook their heads as the driver tied the reins off, then hopped down from his seat and opened the door to the coach. “Brother William,” he said to the one inside, “We’ve arrived.” There was a pause...then, a lone figure stepped out of the carriage. He was tall and thin, his stance as elegant as his choice of clothes as he adjusted the gray top hat on his head and tucked a silver-topped cane under one arm. He wore a rich brown suit, and white kid gloves; over this was a thick black overcoat. His countenance was almost identical to that of the other man, with the same blonde hair and unusual red eyes...although his eyes glowed much more brightly, and the whole face seemed narrower, sharper, more mature and almost predator-like in shape, while still having a pleasing, downright attractive demeanor. His expression was serene and gentle, magnetic in the way the features were fixed; a cool, effortlessly composed face that seemed unperturbed by the rain, or anything else, for that matter. The lips on the endlessly calm face stretched ever so slightly into a satisfied smile as he saw the address plaque on the door only a few feet away: 221B. “Brother?” The man in brown turned to the man in blue. “Yes, Louis?” he responded, his voice the same practiced, even calm that could be seen on his face; pleasant, yet unbreakable. Louis James Moriarty squirmed a bit; he looked nervous. “Is this really wise?” he asked, and looked to the door as well. “Asking HIM to join you for dinner, I mean.” “Why not? The Cafe de L’Europe serves fabulous suppers.”

“It’s not the food that worries me,” Louis said, somewhat blandly, and gestured with a toss of his head towards the building. “HE, after all, is simply meant to be a part of your game. And if he figures out the truth through frequent contact…” Louis trailed off. William smiled a little wider. “Ah. Are you afraid the White Pawn might take the Black King, Louis?” the man in brown asked, almost teasingly. “That’s part of it, yes,” Louis answered, in a slow, careful way. William let out a puff of amusement through his nose...then reached out with his free hand, placing it on his brother’s shoulder. Louis turned quickly to face him. “Holmes is a powerful piece in our grand puzzle,” William said softly, making sure not to be heard by any passers-by. “One must know the enemy in order to reach the endgame properly. The more I study him, the more I can learn.” He paused, looking towards the door once more. His eyes narrowed as he seemed to peer through the door. “Besides,” he murmured, and his voice quivered ever so faintly with emotion. “I find him interesting. He seems a clever man...and a lucky one.” Louis narrowed his own eyes and said nothing. He paused before speaking again. “William,” he said, and the genius in brown raised an eyebrow at the use of his name as he gave his younger sibling a sidelong glance. “I don’t like it. I really don’t.” “Holmes’ interest in me, or mine in him?” William checked, voice even and seemingly uncaring. “Both,” Louis confessed. “The more time you spend with him, the more dangerous the game becomes.” “The game was always dangerous, Louis,” William said with a light chuckle, and his red eyes twinkled deviously. “Now the game is just more FUN.” “That’s my point,” Louis responded. “You’re literally flirting with trouble; you could be dining with disaster. I know you, brother. Don’t think I didn’t realize what was going on during the train trip to Durham, or the way you smiled when you spoke of his visit to the university.” William’s smile flickered, showing weakness for the first time, though he kept his eyes on the door. “Louis,” he said at length, “I know you’re looking out for what’s best for me. And I appreciate it. I do.” He turned back and smiled to his younger brother. “I will ALWAYS appreciate you, little brother,” he promised, his voice filled with firm meaning. “That is never going to change, no matter what happens in the future - in our plans, between myself and Holmes - you will always be my light. Having said that, I am not the sort of person to allow my emotions to ruin my strategies.” Louis seemed to relax...and a small smile of his own fell onto his face. His cheeks seemed to turn a bit pink. “If you say so,” he said, his own voice a bit shaky, before his eyes hardened again. “But after Enders in January, Hope in February, and the business with Mr. Bonde in March…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath before stiffening his back. “...If he continues to incommode us, I will remove him myself.” William’s smile was affectionate. He nodded. “I would ask no one else to do it, brother,” he said, sounding pleased to hear it...then added, very quietly, seemingly more to himself than to Louis, “I’m not sure I would have the stomach for it now…” There was an awkward pause, which was interrupted by Louis giving a nigh-imperceptible shiver. William perceived it, however. “How thoughtless of me, keeping you standing in the rain!” he smiled anew, and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Why don’t you take the carriage somewhere dry and get yourself a meal? I can take a hansom up to meet you.” Louis nodded and told William where he was going, then drove the carriage off. William watched his brother go, then marched up to the door of the flat house at long last. He could feel the rain speckling his own clothes, and had no desire to be soaked. He took the brass knocker and, without another moment’s hesitation, he knocked upon the door. Almost immediately, he heard footsteps coming to the door...then, a woman - a little older than himself, but not by more than a few years - answered. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, her hair an auburn shade, tied into a bun. She was dressed in a very proper-looking pink tea dress, a cream-colored apron draped over her front. The woman tilted her head slightly as she blinked up at William. “Hello?” she greeted, curiously. “May I help you?” William doffed his hat; the drizzled rain felt cool and soothing on his golden scalp. “Good day,” he greeted, in his most dulcet voice. “My name is William James Moriarty. I am a Professor of Mathematics at Durham University. I take it you are the famous Miss Hudson?” The woman’s cheeks turned almost as pink as her clothes, and she smiled. “Only thanks to Dr. Watson’s stories,” she chuckled, then frowned and mumbled to herself: “I really need to remind him it’s MISS Hudson, not Missus...yet…” She shook herself out of that thought and stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in!” she said cheerily. “No need to stand out in the rain!” “Thank you,” Professor Moriarty said with a short, respectful bow of his head, and stepped into the parlor of the flat house. He offered his cane, his hat, and his black overcoat to the landlady-slash-housekeeper, who graciously smiled as she put the items up on a rack… ...Then scowled as Moriarty began to walk across the room towards the stairs. “OI!” she suddenly snapped. William stopped short, eyes wide, a little alarmed...although the carefully constructed evenness of his voice never once gave that away. “What’s the matter, ma’am?” he asked, politely. Miss Hudson took a breath to calm herself. “Nothing, sir, nothing,” she mumbled. “Just...you forgot to wipe your feet on the mat.” William blinked, and looked down at his shoes. He admitted he felt a flutter of embarrassment as he saw he had left rain-soaked footprints on the floor leading up to the staircase. “Oh,” he whispered to himself, and smiled apologetically, his voice as graceful as his movements as he stepped back, retracing his steps carefully, and did so. “My apologies. It quite slipped my mind.” “Never mind,” huffed Miss Hudson. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Professor, just...at least you LISTEN, unlike that stubborn, skull-wearing…!” She took another breath and sighed. William’s smile became more akin to a smirk. “I take it Mr. Holmes is as trying as Dr. Watson’s publications would lead one to believe?” he puzzled. “No,” Miss Hudson droned. “He’s even WORSE. I’ve never had children, sir, but after Sherlock Holmes, I think I know what it’s like to raise one, and I don’t think it’s fun.” Moriarty chuckled. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he soothed, and cocked his own head. “Is Mr. Holmes in, by the way? May I see him?” “He is, and I suppose that will depend upon Mr. Holmes,” Miss Hudson answered, and stepped in front of the young Professor, leading him back to the stairs. “Not that I imagine he’d have any objections. He speaks of you often, you know.” William paused at the foot of the steps. “Does he now?” he questioned, seemingly more to himself than Miss Hudson, but she answered anyway. “Yes, almost as often as he rambles on about how important tobacco ash is in an investigation,” she mumbled, with a wry chuckle. “He gets so wrapped up in the little things!” “Well, the little things are often the most important,” Moriarty defended as the pair made their way up the stairs to the upper floor of the building. “That’s what he says,” Miss Hudson shrugged. “I’ve never understood it myself, nor how many different types of ashes he claims there are! Something like one hundred different varieties-” “One hundred forty, actually.” Miss Hudson froze on the steps and looked to the Professor, whose uncanny smile never once faltered. He hadn’t sounded like he was bragging or patronizing, he just...said it. “Yes,” she murmured, and nodded slowly. “That’s exactly right, I remember now...have you read that monograph he published?” Moriarty gave one of “his smiles”: the masks of pleasant sweetness where his eyes closed and his lips curved perhaps a little TOO wide to be genuine looks of happiness. “We’ll say yes,” he answered, in a chirping sort of manner. Miss Hudson raised an eyebrow at the cryptic reaction, then shrugged and led Moriarty up the steps. The Professor followed at a polite pace and distance as she approached the door at the top of the stairs, leading into the rooms of her most popular tenant. She knocked on the door, sharply rapping it with her knuckles. “Sherlock!” she called. “Go away!” a voice from the other side of the door called back. William couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath as Miss Hudson flushed with indignation. “What’s that kind of talk for?” she shouted. “You have a client!” “Tell them to go away, too; I’m busy,” was the snorted response. Then came a new voice: milder, more genteel. “Ah, Miss Hudson...ask them if they wouldn’t mind waiting? We won’t be too long, I should think…” “No more than an hour,” added the first voice, and the Professor was almost certain he heard the other voice hiss angrily: “Not helping, Sherlock!” “I don’t mind waiting,” Moriarty said, placidly. And he didn’t; there was no rush to his visitation. Miss Hudson, however, was incensed, and would hear none of it. “Like HELL you will!” she snarled, causing William to quirk his brow at her language before she glared at the door like it was the source of all the trouble in her life. “Sherlock, you cannot keep a gentleman like Mr. Moriarty waiting! He is-” “Mister WHO?!” came the first voice. “Moriarty! Professor Moriarty from Durham!” Miss Hudson answered. Scarcely had she gotten out the last word, however, than the door burst open, and Miss Hudson jumped aside with a yelp as an excited figure all but jumped through the doorway. William’s smile softened and took on a shade of amusement at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, who looked breathless and almost manic, his smile stretched wide across the handsome but angular proportions of his face. His dark blue eyes (which Moriarty noticed were slightly baggier than usual) gleamed as his dark hair - unkempt as ever - sprung out in every direction, from the curlicue cowlick to his untidy ponytail. He was dressed in his usual garb: not the deerstalker and inverness cape the public knew from the illustrations in the Strand, but a dark blue coat and trousers, along with brown leather shoes that had seen better days, and a white shirt with its top button undone. Moriarty couldn’t help but give a passing glance at the glimpse of a strong chest and collarbone that were visible through that partition… The gangly detective grinned widely, as if his whole day had just become a little sunnier, and extended a hand to William - the one that wore his silver skull ring. “LIAM!” he boomed with a jovial laugh. “You couldn’t have come at a better time! I was just about to get started on a chemical experiment, come in, come in!” Before either the Professor or Miss Hudson could stop him, the detective all but dragged the mathematician through the door. Miss Hudson blinked at the closed door after it slammed shut...then sighed and shook her head, before sniffing primly and heading back downstairs. “Mad as a hatter; he always will be,” she muttered. Meanwhile, the Professor brushed himself off briefly as he stood in the entrance area of Sherlock’s flat. Holmes smirked, tucking one hand into his pants pocket, the other scratching his chin as he eyed William critically. “So, Liam...how was your ride over here? You took your own coach, didn’t you?” “Bumpier than I would like, but not too bad,” shrugged William, not at all bothered by how easily Holmes guessed. “Well, with the weather, you might have found the trains easier. Did our case on the Paddington line make you that squeamish?” teased Sherlock. William gave another of “his” smiles. “Perhaps a little,” he lied in a sing-song way. “Ah...how do you know he came in his own coach?” Blue and red eyes turned to look at the third person in the room: another young man, in his twenties - roughly the same age as both the sleuth and the schemer - dressed in an olive-colored jacket and trousers, along with a brown vest, a neat-looking off-white shirt, and a burnt-yellow-colored ascot. His skin was very lightly tanned, his eyes were the same shade as his vest, and his hair was a sort of pale grayish-blonde color. The eyes were very wide and bright, and peered between the two geniuses with curious interest as he stepped closer. “Elementary, My Dear Watson,” Sherlock chimed, and then looked back to Moriarty. “I don’t think you properly got introduced, did you?” William shook his head, and then looked to Watson with a smile, extending a hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Doctor,” the Professor greeted in a warm but casual voice. “William James Moriarty, at your service.” “It’s nice to meet you, officially,” Watson smiled back with a nod, and shook the hand of Professor Moriarty. “John H. Watson. Thank you, by the way, for helping Sherlock with the Hawthorne case.” “Oh, please,” Moriarty chuckled, lifting his other hand in a dismissive gesture. “Say nothing of it. I’m simply glad I could help an innocent person and see a criminal brought to justice. It was exciting, playing detective, really. I’m surprised you didn’t publish that one.” “Sherlock talked me out of it,” admitted Watson, and gave an accusing look at the detective. Holmes shrugged. “It was a simple case. Too simple, too quick,” he said, boredly. “You two were the only things that made it interesting. I figured your adoring readers would like something more interesting.” “Sure they would,” Watson muttered, then looked back to Moriarty, huge eyes burning with interest. “Now...about your ride here...do you know how he guessed it?” “He didn’t guess it,” insisted Moriarty. “He DEDUCED it, Doctor. And I think I know.” “Oh?” Holmes spoke up, and smiled challengingly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Prove it. Go on, Liam, what were the clues?” “Three clues, really: it was all a question of sight, recollection, and smell.” “Huh?” Watson spoke up, brow furrowing in curiosity. “What do you mean?” “First, recollection,” Moriarty explained, and began counting off the points on his fingers. “Mr. Holmes knows I live in Durham. To say that’s a bit of a walk from here is an understatement, and I do not own a bicycle. So there was no other way to get here beyond covered transportation, especially in this weather: the rain may be light sprinkling, but with that much ground to cover, I would have been soaked to the bone. This leads into sight: if I had even come in a dogcart, for instance, the mud and rainwater would have been splashed onto me.” “But you could have come in a cab!” “That’s where the smell comes in, John,” Holmes interjected, pulling up the sleeve on one of his arms and scratching at a spot there before rolling the sleeve back down as he elaborated. “No driver would take someone from Durham all the way to Baker Street; too much of a distance, and the Moriarty household is much too remote to simply hail a passing cab. Liam either would have had to catch a cab or a horsebus from the train station, or take his own carriage directly from his house. And as there is no scent of smoke from the steam engines or any crowds on him, as you would expect from the former scenario, that leaves only the option of him making the full journey in his carriage.” Watson blinked...then let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “Well...it...sounds kind of obvious when you put it that way,” he admitted, sheepishly. “That’s because it is obvious,” Holmes boasted. “Indeed,” slithered William. “Just as it is obvious Mr. Watson has been diluting your cocaine solution from seven to five percent.” Holmes gaped and Watson gasped. “H-How...how did you guess that?!” sputtered Sherlock, who looked mortified. William’s smile was simple and innocent. “Elementary, My Dear Holmes,” he answered, in a gently teasing tone...and pointedly said NOTHING else. Holmes gulped thinly, and gave a tight sort of smile. “Liam, you rascal,” he hissed under his breath, eyes dancing. “You’re GOOD at this game.” “Thank you,” Moriarty purred, with a slight bow, then looked towards the chemistry set. It was prepared on a table near the window. “So, what was the experiment you mentioned, if you don’t mind my asking?” “Oh!” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, snapping his fingers, and gestured for both Dr. Watson and Professor Moriarty to join him as he sat down at his chemistry set. Watson stood to his left, while William paused at his right, both watching the detective check on the items he had gathered, to make sure everything was in place. “Part of a case?” William guessed. “Yep,” Holmes popped the word out with his lips before continuing: “A man in Cheshire - John Vincent Harden by name - came to us with the problem yesterday.” Watson nodded, and pulled from his coat pocket a piece of paper. On it was a list of items, untidily scrawled. “Mr. Harden’s friend is currently in the dock under suspicion of murdering the family butler,” the doctor explained. “This piece of paper - which includes the murder of the butler as part of a number of surly deeds to be done - is the only clue that can prove he might be innocent.” “I see,” William murmured, looking at the paper briefly...then nearly jumped as Sherlock snatched it away. The sleuth glanced over it before scoffing through his nostrils. “Offhand, I can deduce very little,” he muttered, placing the paper on the table and squinting down at it. “Only that the paper comes from Mongolia and has no watermark, that the one who wrote this is a drinker, and that they are probably not very rich.” Liam grinned, looking proud as a plum, and was about to comment...but Watson beat him to it. “The odor of cheap brandy, plus the weight and texture of the paper, right?” he smiled hopefully. Holmes grinned. “Very good, John!” he chuckled, and nudged the doctor’s shoulder with a light punch, making Watson squeak like a mouse before gripping his shoulder. Watson gave a blushing, shy smile as he rubbed his shoulder and Holmes all but sang out: “You’re getting better at this every day!” Watson shuffled on his feet. “It was...really nothing; you can smell the brandy part, easily,” he mumbled. This was the moment where Professor Moriarty’s usually marble-carved smile flickered faintly, and his red eyes seemed to shine a bit brighter...and not in a pleasant manner. He slowly looked Watson over, taking in the way the surgeon and former soldier stood and smiled at Sherlock. He could sense the doctor’s heightened pulse even from here...the way the pupils dilated as he watched Holmes work… It could just be happiness at being praised - the rather wide, almost childlike small on John’s face could make that clear - but, of course, it could also mean something far, FAR more meaningful. William glared...but then shook his head, clearing it. No. Not a chance. There was no reason to get worked up. Not yet, anyway. “Liam,” Holmes spoke up, catching Moriarty’s attention as he handed him the paper again. “Is there anything you can see that I haven’t noted yet?” “Black dust,” William said, without taking the parchment piece up. “The ink half-hides it; the man either works as a lamplighter, or frequently goes somewhere where gaslights that require coal are plentifully found.” Holmes nodded, humming softly in thought as he pulled his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and inspected the letter closely. As he did, Watson inched closer...and Moriarty felt his own chest tighten almost imperceptibly as he saw the doctor lean against Holmes, his head in the crook of the detective’s shoulder and neck. It was a casual sort of movement; something intimate, but not necessarily sensual. The same went for the affectionate smiles the two shared before looking back at the paper. All the same, William suddenly sensed the way his own fists tightened at his sides. He felt strangely cold, and he didn’t like it. “Well, until I put it through the chemical test, I can’t say much else,” Sherlock sighed at last. “So far, none of this helps Mr. Harden’s friend: he works at a theater with gaslights, and is, in fact, a frequent patron of a local pub.” So saying, Holmes stood up and held out a hand to Watson, flexing his fingers in a beckoning motion. “Light, please,” he ordered. Watson rolled his eyes but obligingly pulled and struck a match from his waistcoat pocket. Holmes plucked up the match, and then, grinning widely, lifted the paper, preparing to set it ablaze… “STOP!” Holmes jumped at Watson’s shout. “What now?” “You can’t just burn the whole thing!” John protested. “I can, and I will,” huffed Holmes. “He DOES need to reduce the paper to ash in order to conduct the experiment,” Moriarty put in. “Thank you, Liam!” Sherlock nodded. William smiled, a light glimmer of victory in his expression...but the victory was squashed when Watson spoke up again. “Well, burn a small portion of it then,” John suggested. “After all, this is your only sample: if something goes wrong, and you burn the whole thing, you won’t be able to conduct the experiment again, properly, will you? Plus, you’ll be ridding the courtroom of evidence!” Holmes opened his mouth to snap back something...then closed it...and blinked. “...Oh,” he murmured. “I...somehow did not consider that.” He smiled with friendly admiration. “John, what would I do without you?” he chuckled. “Well, you need SOMEONE more normal to tone down that insanity of yours,” John smirked back. Holmes laughed. William’s smile remained fixed...but his eyes narrowed. “You two are even closer than I realized,” he observed, quietly. Sherlock had just asked John to fetch him some scissors. As the doctor returned with the cutting blades, Holmes nodded. “Well, yeah. We’re pretty much inseparable.” “Yes, like two peas in a pod,” Watson agreed, as Sherlock cut a small portion of the paper off the rest. He then tilted his head and added: “I suppose more like two cherries in a bunch, actually. I’ve never liked peas.” “Neither have I!” Holmes exclaimed. “What a remarkable coincidence!” Watson grinned brightly. William felt his molars grind against one another very slightly. He breathed through his nose to relax; externally, he looked thoroughly composed, his smile still set...but inside, he could feel something bubbling up inside him, like magma in a volcano. He wanted Holmes to smile at him that way. He suddenly wanted to be the one there with him constantly. It wasn’t fair that someone else got to be around his nemesis so often. “I always knew you two made a good pair,” he thought to say, as Holmes burned the cut piece and then carefully brushed the ashes into a small bowl. “John has helped me on nearly all my cases since Jefferson Hope,” Sherlock smiled. “Honestly, it’s hard to imagine a time before he came around.” “Aww,” Watson mumbled, blushing once again. “Thank you, Sherlock.” “Oh, don’t think anything of it,” sniffed Holmes, as he poured the ashes into a beaker filled with a curious blue liquid. “After all the times you’ve bungled things, I have to stroke your ego a LITTLE bit.” “Oi! I do not bungle things!” Watson cried out. “Oh, no?” smirked Holmes sitting back and crossing his legs and arms with a supercilious smile. “And what about that case with Miss Stoner? You were so proud of yourself when you found footprints outside her bedroom window...only for us to find out they were OUR footprints the whole time!” “That...I...a-anyone could have made that mistake!” Watson sputtered, withdrawing childishly as he rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment. “Not me!” chirruped Sherlock Holmes. Watson glared. “Oh, no?” he retorted, mimicking Holmes’ voice and posture as he smirked deviously. “Then how about that time you let those counterfeiters go because you accidentally set the house on fire?” “IF LESTRADE HAD BEEN THERE ON TIME, THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN CAUGHT!” Holmes shouted, and pouted like a sulking child. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again!” “How do you set a house on fire with a spoon, Holmes?” Watson ribbed. “Clearly, another of your many talents.” Holmes growled...then reached up and pulled Watson down - “C’mere, you!” - giving the gray-blonde soldier a noogie and making him shriek and laugh. William watched the shenanigans with utter apathy. Or at least, utter external apathy. Internally, he wished he could have such an open, joking friendship...in truth, Moriarty had never really felt he HAD a true friend till Sherlock Holmes. He’d understood what friendship was, but beyond his family, he tended to see most people - even his closest subordinates - as pawns for use in his grand scheme. “Ahem,” the Professor cleared his throat, and the pair froze...before jumping away from each other like singed cats. The reaction was so much like two young lovers being caught kissing in private that it almost made Moriarty squirm. Almost. “As amusing as these hijinks are...what about your experiment, Holmes?” “Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed, smacking his own forehead. “Thank you, Liam, for reminding me. Watch carefully, both of you…” So saying, Holmes placed the beaker under a large contraption on the table: it consisted of a glass flask, with a burner under it, and a long curlicue tube - which was patched in several places - stretching from its open top. The beaker was set under the end of the tube, and Holmes switched on the burner. The flask was filled with a bright green liquid. It bubbled and fizzed, and soon began to rise in the glass chamber, pumping into the tube. Slowly but surely, it began to make its way through the piping. Holmes watched the fluid flow intently, his feet tapping on the floor like an excited, eager child, his hands drumming his knees impatiently as he muttered to himself. “Yes...yes, good, good...c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon...hmmm, yes-yes-oop! No, no, bad, bad-yes! Good! C’mon, c’mon-ah! That’s it! C’mon, c’mon...yes, yes, yes…!” Both William and Watson leaned close as the fluid reached the end of the tube...and, after an excruciatingly lengthy wait of exactly three seconds...PLIPP. A single green drop plopped into the beaker. FWOOMPH! A puff of smoke burst from the beaker as the fluid turned red...then purple...then changed back to blue. There was a pause...then, Holmes grinned wider. He began to chuckle...and the chuckle became a giggle...and the giggle became a loud, roaring laugh as he jumped out of his chair, throwing his arms up in joy. “IT WORKED! IT WORKED, JOHN!” he almost screamed. Before either of them could comment, Holmes suddenly slapped both hands down on William’s shoulders. Moriarty stiffened almost imperceptibly; he felt his heart almost stop as he looked into the earnest, happy blue eyes of the detective. “Liam...Liam, it worked!” he gasped out. “I knew it! I KNEW it! You knew it, too, yes? Right?” Moriarty blinked a few times; for a moment his mask fell away. His eyes were very wide and seemed to sparkle faintly...but finally, he recomposed himself, and licked his lips thinly before speaking. “I did,” he confirmed with a nod. “Distilled sodium chloride, yes?” “Exactly! EXACTLY!” Holmes cheered with an extremely hyper nod. “Um...wh-what just happened?” Sherlock turned around fast to face Watson. Moriarty felt a pang in his blackened heart as he realized he missed the warmth and closeness. “Oh, you don’t know?” Holmes blinked. “Would I have asked if I did?” Watson reasoned. “Hmph. Touche,” shrugged Sherlock, and pointed to the beaker. “It’s simple, John: that reaction could only have happened if the paper was, at some point, exposed to a great deal of salt water vapor.” Watson gaped. “Then the person who wrote the paper came from somewhere by the sea. Most likely the dockyards!” Watson realized. “Precisely!” Holmes said, with a clap of his hands. “And you know what that means, don’t you?” “That Mr. Harden’s friend is innocent! He lives in a spot far, FAR from the docks; on the other side of London, in fact! Well done, Sherlock!” “Yes, indeed,” William spoke up, a little more forcefully than he usually liked. He wasn’t at all liking the closeness of the pair, in any sense of the word, in that given moment...and, he realized, he had yet to present his invitation to his nemesis. “Now, Mr. Holmes, since you’re experiment’s done, I wanted to know-” “Sherlock!” Watson exclaimed, and Moriarty realized - with no small amount of affrontation - that neither had been listening to him. Watson, however, immediately backpedaled and smiled nervously at the red-eyed guest. “Oh, sorry, Professor…” “No, no. Go ahead,” Moriarty purred, trying not to clench his teeth as he spoke. He barely succeeded. Watson nodded, and looked back to his dark-haired partner in crimefighting. “How about we celebrate with some dinner? My treat!” “Excellent suggestion, John; I didn’t eat at all yesterday, I could use something now,” Holmes admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “You need to watch that,” John warned. “I will try,” Holmes laughed weakly. “Where should we go?” “Why not the Bugle Tavern?” Watson suggested, in a tone that suggested there was some significance in the spot. William James Moriarty was by no means a snob: his upbringing and his philosophy prevented that. But with that said...he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of superiority flood through him when he heard John Watson’s suggestion. He knew the Bugle; he’d taken a witness there for interrogation during the case of the Earl of Argleton. It was not a BAD place, but it was on the seedier side of the city; the food was decent but cheap. Compared to where he planned to take Holmes, it was hardly an even match, and as the detective was his intellectual equal - a man of many similar tastes - it seemed unlikely he’d ever- “A perfect choice, John!” Holmes declared, and William’s perfect poker face very, VERY nearly broke apart at the seams. “We’ll have a quick dinner, then head to the station to speak to Gregson.” “Right,” Watson nodded as he headed to the door and picked up his bowler hat and cane. “Perhaps with the help of our evidence, and a few very simple charts and graphs, we can convince him that night follows day.” “Yes, and that two plus two will inevitably equal four,” Sherlock snickered, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket as he started to follow Watson… ...Then froze...and slowly turned around to look at Moriarty, who still stood beside the chemistry set. “Oh, ah...Liam...I’m sorry, was there something you needed?” he asked. Moriarty blinked slowly...then, gave another of his far-too-happy-looking smiles. “Oh, it can wait till another day!” he sang. “Off you go! Enjoy yourself!” “Thanks, I will,” Holmes chuckled, and turned to Watson, extending the hand that held his cigarette. “Light, please? Again?” Watson obligingly lit the cigarette. Sherlock took a long drag from it, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, before leaving the flat. “See ya, Liam!” he called over his shoulder with a quick wave. Watson smiled politely and tipped his hat to the Professor, before using his cane to shut the door as they departed. The instant both were gone, Moriarty’s expression became cold as ice. He slowly turned his head to look out the window - almost the way a snake might turn its head when charmed from a basket - and watched as he soon saw Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson walk out into the soft shower and down the street. He saw the doctor’s arm squeeze Holmes’ shoulder...saw the way the two inched closer… William’s red eyes blazed like burning coals from the pits of Hell. He briskly marched out of the room and down the stairs. “Ah, Professor, there you are!” Miss Hudson greeted, with an oblivious smile, and handed him back his overcoat, hat, and cane. “Did you get what you needed?” Moriarty swung on his coat and carefully placed his hat upon his head. “No,” he said, very, very softly - so softly Miss Hudson wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly - as he took the cane, gripping it so tightly the hidden sword within nearly rattled. “But I still might.” He tipped his hat and left, saying nothing else but “Good day, Miss Hudson,” as he departed the flat house and went to hail a cab.

Miss Hudson wasn’t sure, but she almost swore the red eyes had turned green.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following day, at the Moriarty Mansion, William was sitting alone in the study, poring over a quaint and curious volume of Egyptian lore. Louis had prepared tea and sandwiches, and the mastermind - currently dressed in his fine, gold-and-burgundy robe - was sipping from a cup of Earl Gray while he read. A knock came at the study door, and Moriarty glanced quickly at the portal before placing the thin silk bookmark on the page he was focused on. He then shut the leatherbound tome and put it to one side. “Come in, James,” he called out. The door opened, and James Bonde’s turquoise eyes soon connected with William’s. The master spy was dressed in their usual garments: a light gray suit and small homburg hat, a neatly-pressed lavender tie elegantly bound around their throat. Bonde smiled, the beauty mark at the corner of one eye crinkling slightly as they removed their hat and swept some loose strands of corn-colored hair out of their face.

“How did you know it was me?” “Two very good reasons,” William smiled. “First of all, because I was expecting you, and second of all, because I heard your footsteps in the hall, and your step is unlike any other in England.” The Napoleon of Crime waved a hand towards the seat across from him and simply said, “Please.” James Bonde took the hint, and sat down, hands in his lap, legs crossed, chin held up with cocksure pride. “I take it you have a mission for me?” “Should you choose to accept it,” William confirmed with a nod, and lifted his teacup again, stirring the tea with elegant, slight turns of his wrist. “In your...ahem…‘past life,’ you spent some time with my appointed nemesis, yes?” “Yes,” smirked Bonde, a twinkle in their eye that called back to the days when Irene Adler planned her plots. “I guess that means I have the advantage of being the only agent in our organization who’s slept with the enemy.” Moriarty froze, red eyes latching onto Bonde. “Or, at least, in enemy territory,” James corrected quickly. Moriarty smiled. “James,” he said, far-too-sweetly. “You know how I really feel about him, don’t you?” Bonde nodded slowly, their own smile faltering a bit in confusion. “Well then, please don’t make jokes like that again,” William went on, in a voice that indicated he was a hundred times more aggravated than he chose to let on. James gulped nervously as William sipped his tea far, FAR too crisply. He could almost imagine the unspoken words from the Napoleon of Crime: If you do, they’ll never find your body. “...I’m, uh...I-I’m sorry,” Bonde stammered out with uncharacteristic fear. “It’s fine,” William said with a light sigh, and shook his head as he put his teacup down. His smile settled into a look of sincere apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bonde. I’m...feeling a little testy today, that’s all.” Sensing he was out of danger, James nodded and smiled back sympathetically. “I take it your nemesis is what my mission concerns?” the spy said, and then turned serious, frowning. “Is he getting in the way too often?” “Not often enough,” mumbled Professor Moriarty, and shook his head again, this time in answer. “No, James, it’s not that. And it’s not Mr. Holmes I want you to deal with.” James raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Watson, then?” Bonde guessed. “As a matter of fact, yes,” William said, and sat back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “I want you to keep an eye on the flat for two weeks. I want you to pay particular attention to Watson, and whenever he and Holmes leave together for any reason, follow them. I don’t care if they’re simply going to shop for tobacco at the market: keep tabs on them both. Next Friday, you will make a final report on anything suspicious you encountered.” “Suspicious? In what way?” Bonde frowned. “You’d expect US to be the ones up to no good, after all.” Moriarty chuckled. “I will let you be the judge,” he purred, smoothly. Bonde looked confused, but nodded slowly. “Very well, I’ll take the job,” James said, and cocked his head. “But...William...why?” Moriarty shut his eyes, pausing as he tried to decide on his words. “Let us simply say,” he answered steadily, “That I’m concerned about their relationship. Take careful stock of all you see, while I deal with the plans for our next caper, and the rest deal with other matters.” “As you wish,” Bonde said, and stood up from his chair, replacing his hat. “One other thing, James,” Moriarty added, lifting a single finger in instruction. “This mission is particularly special: I’d like to keep it between us. Tell no one else: not any other member of the gang. Not even my own brothers.” James frowned, narrowing his eyes; he wasn’t sure what was so important that had William this worked up...but clearly it mattered a great deal to the Professor. The True M. “Yes, sir,” Bonde said, and tapped his hat brim. “I’ll do my best.” “Very good. You are dismissed; if you need help, inform me. Good day, Bonde.” “Good day, Professor,” smiled James, and exited promptly. The moment the door shut behind James Bonde, William sighed to himself, bowing his head quietly in musing thought. “I suppose,” he whispered to the empty room of books, “That it’s quite wasteful of me to use my Knight for such a menial job in the grand scheme of the game...one should never misuse resources…” He paused...then smirked as he lifted his teacup again, and took another sip before picking up his book to continue reading. “...Then again,” he chuckled lightly, “I’ve committed far worse sins than a little self-indulgent espionage. I AM the Lord of Crime.” He glared as he hissed under his breath: “If anyone is stealing a heart here, it’s going to be ME.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James Bonde stared somewhat dully out the window of the empty house across the street from 221B Baker Street. Teal-toned eyes kept a careful watch in the night on the one lit room in the house. He could see the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes, fiddling away on his violin. He could hear the detective playing, too...a nostalgic smile came to his face; he could almost remember hearing those tunes play him to sleep, in another lifetime… Bonde shook his head and lightly slapped his own cheek (more of a rough pat) to keep himself focused. He’d been instructed by William, to watch them from the moment they awoke to the moment they went to bed. The doctor had evidently retired some time ago, but Holmes was still up and about, playing his violin and tinkering with his contraptions. It had been a few days since Bonde started his mission, and Holmes had been given a case by one Mr. Cubitt from Norfolk, involving a mysterious secret code. Bonde had followed Holmes and Watson every which way they went, but so far, nothing of particular unsuality had occurred; Holmes refused to travel to Norfolk till Cubitt sent more information, and so much of their days were spent in the flat, simply trying to puzzle out what they had been given so far. As a result, the past three days had really been quite boring for Bonde. A part of him felt a pang, as it always did, and he wished William had given him a different job; the side that was still Irene Adler wished she could walk across the street and just...tell Holmes the simple fact. Certainly, he guessed she was still alive, but...that was nothing to a direct encounter. James Bonde was a professional, and held out: whatever purpose William had for this mission - be it personal, or something related to the Great Problem - his job was to keep a close eye on things and keep track of any interesting movements: from before they woke up to the moment they both clocked out. Right on cue, Holmes’ silhouette disappeared from the window...and not but sixty seconds later, the light in the room went out. Bond sighed softly, and stood up, stretching; the room in the Empty House was small, dark, and not very large. It was lonely, too: aside from getting meals, Bonde stayed here all day, and could not focus too much on any great amusements, such as reading, lest he lose focus. All he had was solitaire; Moran had been teaching him how to play cards, and it was better than nothing. Bonde grumbled to himself about the slowness of the case as he began to pack up his playing cards...but no sooner had he tucked the box back into a pocket in his jacket lining...than he froze, as he saw the front door of 221B open. From his spot in the window, Bonde watched intently, wondering what was going on. The unmistakable figure of Dr. Watson crept quietly out the door. He shut it silently, and glanced from side to side, as if checking to make sure no one on the street was watching him. The street was silent and quiet; lonely on that dark night. The Doctor twirled his cane, propping its length against his elbow, and began to stroll down the street. Bonde could make out Watson’s brown eyes; they furtively darted from side to side in a ferret-like way. Unlike Moriarty, Dr. Watson had an absolute lack of anything resembling a poker face. Bonde continued to watch as Watson approached an alley...then, after checking once again, slipped into the passage between the buildings and vanished. Suddenly realizing he’d lost track of his target, Bonde cursed under his breath and raced downstairs and across the street… ...But by the time he reached the alley, Dr. Watson was nowhere to be found. “Damn,” muttered Bonde...then took a breath, and straightened his tie and hair, which had been tousled in his quick sprint. There was nothing to be done now; the question was, whether to report this to William now, or wait? After pondering for a moment, Bonde walked off down the street back towards his own lodgings. He would wait. It’s what William would want. For all he knew, this was a one-time affair; whatever had Watson acting so sneakily, it could be resolved by morning. Then he would have no reason to worry at all. Right?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Six times?” Professor Moriarty repeated, blinking quickly in surprise. “Yes: six times in just two weeks. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, in fact,” nodded James Bonde, standing almost like a warrior at attention as he made his private report. He was standing near the threshold of William’s room in the manor. William James Moriarty was dressed in his usual clothes, minus his brown coat, which currently hung loosely on his bedpost. “And you’ve lost him every time?” William frowned; he didn’t sound angry, or even disappointed. He was simply checking his facts. “Not exactly,” Bonde claimed, and hastened to elaborate: “The past two times, I was able to catch up with him, but I can’t follow him beyond a certain point.” “What do you mean?” “He’s been visiting a noble’s house.” William’s eyes widened. “He’s what?” “To the Forrester estate,” clarified Bonde. “He climbs over the wall at a certain point, leaps into the yard...then, every night, after a couple hours, crawls back up and high-tails it back to Baker Street.” “Hmmmm,” Moriarty murmured, placing a finger to his lips in thought as he looked down at the floor, brow furrowing. “Have you seen what happens when he goes over the gate?” “This last time, yes,” nodded Bonde. “He doesn’t enter the house, but instead runs to a gazebo in the courtyard. He clearly knows the residence well; he knows when the night watchman comes around with his dog, and avoids them.” Professor Moriarty scowled and made a sour sound in the back of this throat.. Things were more serious than he thought: behavior like that wasn’t just sneaky, it was literally criminal. It appeared that a stolen heart was far from the worst thing he had to fear from John H. Watson. “What do you think he’s up to, William?” James asked. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Yet,” Moriarty responded. “But I intend to find out.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That very night, being a Friday, Professor Moriarty lay in wait behind a tree, in a park area across from the Forrester Estate. He wore a long, black, hooded cloak over his usual suit, and gripped his sword cane tightly in one hand. His red eyes glowed in the dark as he kept his focus zeroed in on the high stone walls of the mansion spot. The Forrester Family was not a bad one, nor even the most noble: they were gentry, people in the upper-middle class, who qualified among the elite but lacked the status of proper Lords and Ladies, Knights and Dames, and so on. With what they had, they were generous, and most considered them friendly. William had nothing against them, and while he sought to destroy the social order...that didn’t mean destroying the good in it. What he wanted was to eradicate evil through his own means… ...He wasn’t sure whether or not to hope he would have to do that tonight. He saw the glare of a bullseye lamp through the grates in the black iron gate that closed off the estate. The distant shape of a man with a large, black dog on a leash walked past and then disappeared: that was the night watchman James Bonde had mentioned, no doubt. Almost on cue, not long after the watchman passed, Moriarty saw a familiar figure - dressed in a green coat and a dark blue bowler hat - trot around a corner. Moriarty narrowed his eyes as Dr. Watson flattened his back against the wall. His expression was tense, worried...almost scared. He glanced from side to side, and sighed with relief; he hadn’t noticed William, and was glad to find apparently no one had spotted him yet. “It’s alright,” William heard Watson say. “What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him…” Moriarty felt his own eyes blazing as he suspected who the “he” Watson referred to was. “Soon,” Watson added to himself, adjusting his tie and then looking up at the wall. “Soon...it will all be over…” Then, without another word, the Doctor jumped up and grabbed hold of the wall’s edge. He let out a sharp yipe, and bit his lip to silence himself; as he scrambled up to climb over the wall, the sounds and motions he made reminded William so much of a big, dumb dog trying to clamber over a fence, he nearly laughed. Nearly. Not quite. From what he was hearing, he was beginning to have grave worries. Once Watson disappeared over the wall, William took his turn to check and make sure there were no witnesses nearby...then - cloak fluttering about him as he went - he raced to the wall, and leapt over it with the grace of a gazelle. The courtyard was lushly kept, with grass, small topiary trees, and little yellow flowers all around. Quaint and tended to with perfect decorum. Across the lawn of green grass, Watson saw Dr. Watson racing towards a distant red-and-blue gazebo; it was octagonal in shape, and was a closed-off affair; no door, but with thick, tinted windows on seven of its eight sides. William was about to dart forward...when he heard the barking of the Watchman’s dog. Quickly, he dove into the bushes, and crouched low. The Watchman and his dog soon hurried to the spot; both looked around, then the man mumbled something to the black hound...and the pair continued on their way. William waited till their footsteps faded...then, stole across the lawn and made a dash towards the distant gazebo, stealing across the courtyard with such silence, he might as well have been a part of that black night. The Master Criminal only paused once more; this was when he noticed he had to run past an open window, and the light was still on. Inside, he saw Cecil Forrester - the lady of the house - speaking with a maid. Both were fair women with chestnut-colored hair. The two left the room, and Moriarty continued towards the gazebo, keeping low and moving with quiet quickness; one might have mistaken him for a wolf, stalking its prey. Moriarty traced a wide path as he drew closer and closer to the gazebo; he had no desire to be spotted when he got too close. Once he reached it, he flattened himself quietly against the glass-paneled walls, and sidled closer to the open entrance. As he moved nearer, Moriarty could hear a voice; it was tremuluous, faint, and he couldn’t quite make out properly who it belonged to or what they were saying. Once he was right beside the door, that voice stopped...and he picked up the unmistakable sound of John Watson’s voice. Now, he could most certainly make out the words… “It’s too soon. I don’t want to take any risks. This is a delicate operation; one false step, and everything could be ruined. But don’t worry...if worse comes to worse, I can handle him. He won’t be a problem. We’ll get everything we want...nothing is going to stop us. I swear it.” William narrowed his eyes into crimson slits, and prepared to draw his cane sword...before whipping around the side and spinning into the gazebo. “‘Hell is empty. All the devils are-’” The melodramatic quote was stopped short as William froze in place and his eyes went wide at what he saw. Dr. Watson - who had just kissed the lips of the person with him - gasped and backed away fast… ...Leaving a young, beautiful lady standing alone in the center of the gazebo, her indigo eyes wide and bright with surprise. Her hair was the color of brass, and she was dressed in the prim, proper outfit of a governess. Moriarty and the young woman stared at each other, each equally stunned. It was Watson’s stuttered, scared exclamation that broke them out of their momentary stupor. “P-Pr-Pro-Professor M-Moriarty!” he managed to cough out...then, impulsively, he moved forward again… ...And held the young lady close, in a protective, caring way. She coiled back against him, looking startled and more than a little scared by the red-eyed stranger that had swooped into the area. “What...what are you doing here?” Watson asked, a little accusatorily. Moriarty soon regained his composure, the look of utter speechlessness leaving his face as it slid back into his usual, blank, mask-like features. “Following you,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and pointed his cane at the young lady. “Who is this, and what is going on?” Watson squirmed a bit uncomfortably at the Professor’s blood-eyed stare. He held the woman closer and then answered. “I...this is...my fiance,” he answered, and turned rather pink in the face. “Her...her name is Mary Morstan.” Moriarty blinked. His expression didn’t shift an inch. “Fiance?” he repeated, not sounding surprised, but simply questioning. “Y-Yes,” the woman answered. William realized he was still holding out his cane...and, not wishing to frighten the young lady any further, lowered his secret weapon. Mary smiled and sighed gratefully before going on: “I work for Mrs. Forrester; I live here. It’s, um...i-it’s a pleasure to meet you, ah...Mr. Moriarty.” William paused, before giving a single nod. “Mutual,” he responded, but his voice was still quite frosty, then looked back to Watson. “Is this why you’ve been sneaking out three nights a week?” Watson blanched. “H-How did you…?” “I have my ways,” William answered, smoothly. Watson flushed and shuffled on his feet. He hugged Mary close with one arm, his other hand holding hers as she embraced him. He smiled bashfully before looking back to Moriarty. “I...we proposed in secret,” he admitted. “I met Mary thanks to a case. I’ve been...I’ve been keeping this secret from Sherlock.” “Why?” William wondered. Watson frowned and looked askance. “Because I’m not sure if Holmes would approve,” he admitted, quietly, a sad look in his eyes. “He...the two of us have been inseparable, since we met, and...I’m worried about how he’ll react when he finds out about Mary and I.” “So you’ve been meeting her in secret; to rendezvous under the stars,” Moriarty romantically surmised. Watson blushed more and Mary giggled. “Something like that, Professor, yes,” Miss Morstan confirmed in a saccharine sort of way. “Is that what you were whispering about?” William presumed. “Saying you weren’t ready, that you could handle him?” “Yeah,” Watson chuckled, and scratched the back of his head. “I, uh...I-I guess wording like that could sound kinda suspicious, huh?” William sighed through his nose as Mary giggled again. “Very,” William agreed. His face remained blank, his lips still set in a straight line as he then went on: “If I may advise you, Doctor...I think you should tell Holmes soon.” Watson frowned and lowered his head; he looked amusingly guilty, like a little boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. “Well...I know I SHOULD, but...I don’t want to make him mad,” he admitted, almost meekly. “Not about this. I still want to work with him, and...and he’s my friend, so…” “So,” Moriarty interrupted, “Shouldn’t you be used to sharing secrets with him?” Watson looked up, a little startled. Moriarty’s expression had become a thin, taut smile. “If Mr. Holmes is truly your friend, he should be able to handle something like this,” he reasoned. “Perhaps he’ll be jealous or untrusting at first, but that is to be expected. But behavior like this is dangerous, and it could lead to more bad than good. You shouldn’t be afraid to admit to Holmes things like this.” Watson bit his lip, and looked at Mary, who nodded back to him. He smiled, then looked back up at the Professor. “Yeah. That...I guess that’s right. I’ll...I’ll see about telling him soon. And...and no more of these...these midnight liaisons.” He looked back to his fiance. “We’ll meet on our own terms, without all this roundabout racing. Right, Mary?” “Of course,” she responded, and kissed his nose, making the doctor give a bashful, red-faced smile. Moriarty looked the pair up and down as they hugged...then turned on his heel. “Well,” he said, shortly and sharply. “Now, with that issue settled, I’ll be on my way.” Watson watched as Moriarty left the gazebo and began to walk back towards the wall. His brow knitted itself into a knot, and he paused, whispering “One moment” to Mary before kissing her forehead and hastily hustling out of the gazebo. “Professor!” he called out, and Moriarty paused. His red eyes glittered like rubies as he turned back over his shoulder, expression chilling. Watson didn’t seem scared. He smiled in a kind, amiable manner. “Why DID you follow me?” he asked, simply and bluntly. Moriarty said nothing. Watson paused before taking a guess: “Were you concerned about Sherlock?” Moriarty nodded, still saying nothing. Watson chuckled and smiled gently. “You don’t need to worry, Professor: when I hide things from him, it’s nothing sinister. Sherlock his my best friend, and one of the most fascinating people I know.” “I’m glad you think so.” “Oh, I know it’s so. Just like I know the reason why you looked so jealous when I asked him to join me for dinner.” Moriarty’s eyes widened...then narrowed again. Watson smiled humbly. “I AM getting better,” he said, in a faint, cheeping sort of voice. “You won’t tell him, will you?” William checked, voice staying even, conveying neither worry nor rage. Watson smiled a patient smile; he placed a hand on the young Professor’s shoulder, causing Moriarty to stiffen with surprise. “You just told me that, if he’s really my friend, I shouldn’t keep secrets from him,” Watson stated. “I think the same is in reverse: whatever you feel for him...I think he needs to hear it from you. No one else.” William paused...and his bangs hid his eyes from sight. “And if he doesn’t feel the same?” he queried, in a strangely business-like tone. “I think he will,” Watson chuckled. “You two are practically made for each other: you’re both extraordinary. You both live for the game. You’re both intelligent. You’re two of a kind! I know it’s not the kind of relationship our society smiles upon, but...if it’s the true way you feel, why should that matter?” He patted Moriarty’s shoulder, and then finished: “You’re two sides of the same coin. You belong together...Liam.” William was silent...then, a slick smile slithered over his lips. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll remember that. But please...don’t call me Liam.” Watson pulled back quickly and let out a nervous laugh. “Ah...heh heh...s-sorry, I won’t.” “Thank you,” Moriarty repeated, and gave a mock salute with his cane. “Goodnight, Doctor. And do apologize to Miss Morstan for me: my unseemingly dramatic entrance no doubt gave her quite a fright.” “You can say that again,” mumbled Watson, and returned the mock salute with a real soldier’s stance. “Goodnight, Professor!” William smiled a little wider...and then walked forward. His dark cloak allowed him to easily slip into the shadows...and soon he was gone. As he prowled through the city back towards home, William James Moriarty couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t felt this good in a while.

The Devil swore the lightness in his heart must have been what Angels felt every day.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Married with two children. Native of Suffolk. Works in a public house.” “The shoes gave it away?” “Yeah, yeah. Invalid husband; dismissed from the army for his injuries four years ago.” “Three.” “Oh, yes, of course, three! Lastly, at least one of them has a drinking problem.” Sherlock Holmes took a swig of ale from the pewter cup he held and sighed, smacking his lips as the woman he’d been scrutinizing disappeared. He then turned to the party across from him with a daring smile. “Your turn, Liam!” William James Moriarty smirked cunningly, and looked out the window. His blazing, cat-like eyes soon caught sight of his chosen prey. “Bachelor by choice,” he began, noting a gentleman in a stovepipe hat who was passing by. “Scholarly by nature; a frequent visitor to the library. Smokes far too much. Works at a very fine hotel, most likely in an administrative position.” “Birth and residence?” “Lancashire for the former, Yorkshire for the latter. I believe he’s visiting London for the sake of family, but he doesn’t much care FOR said family. I speculate his bachelor status might be the reason-ah! He’s gone. That’s all.” William smiled back at a beaming Sherlock Holmes, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table as his chin rested on the other. “How was that, Mr. Detective?” he purred. Sherlock laughed and applauded. “Liam, you excel yourself!” “I try,” shrugged Moriarty, without much modesty, and lifted his own pewter cup before taking a drink. All around the pair, the bustle and hustle of the Bugle Tavern buzzed and hummed and bellowed...but neither gave it much attention. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation to dinner,” William said, sincerely, folding his hands on the table with a quiet smile. “Eh,” Holmes shrugged, stirring his drink in its mug as he spoke. “When we met for lunch in Durham, you were busy grading papers. I’m glad we could just have a meal together. Although…” He paused, and then gestured with a careless wave of his free hand around the establishment. “...I am surprised a nobleman would choose to eat HERE.” William smiled a bit wider, and glanced about. A few people were giving him odd looks; it was rare someone so well-to-do showed up in this place. He shrugged again and smiled to Holmes. “I am full of surprises,” was all he said. “Isn’t that the truth,” chuckled Holmes and took another drink. Moriarty watched the detective for a few moments, eyes scanning him. His crimson irises flickered vulnerably for a split second before he spoke again. “Mr. Holmes...may I be very frank with you?” “Sure,” Holmes drawled. “What’s up?” “I’m very glad I met you.” Sherlock blinked and froze, his smile fading. “Eh?” he tilted his head. “Why do you say that? I mean...I’m flattered, obviously, but...what brought this on?” “It’s...hard for me to say,” William admitted with a very soft laugh, before going on. “It’s just...while I have my fair share of friends, and a family of my own that cares for me...I’ve always felt this...disconnect from the world around me.” He glanced out the window as he went on, watching people go by. “Like you, I can look at a person and analyze everything about them...and I can do it very rapidly. While on the surface I am placid as a still lake, my mind is always racing out of control. The sheer amount of mental exertion I go through just in the span of taking a single breath can be exhausting. The rest of the world moves...so slowly. Too slowly. Everyone going about their lives, making differences in small ways or simply shambling around…their minds so rarely used to their fullest...” He tilted his head downwards. “...There are so many days where I feel...I’m totally alone in the universe. Where the mental strain becomes too great.” He paused...then looked back up at Sherlock, once again flashing one of “his” smiles. “It’s relieving to know there’s someone even more mentally fractured than I!” Holmes snorted with laughter. “Well,” he muttered, taking a drink, “We all have our problems, don’t we?” He paused...then licked his lips of some foam as he put down his ale and leaned forward on the table. “I...I have to admit...it’s good to be able to talk to someone who can work on my level,” Sherlock said, with a surprisingly tender smile. “Someone who isn’t my obnoxious control freak of a brother, I mean. I…it’s like...” He paused, biting his lip, hesitantly...then sighed and ran a hand through his hair with a shake of his head. “Ahhh...I’m not good at heartfelt confessions,” he mumbled, and gave an almost sheepish smile. “I guess...I’m trying to say I feel the same way. And...it...it honestly feels really good to hear you...say all that, even in such a teasing way.” The pair smiled at each other, their eyes seemingly magnetized as they found themselves leaning and inching closer across the table. “...Holmes…” “Yes, Liam?” “I...feel there’s something else I should tell you.” “Yes?” was the breathy response. William’s lips were quivering as he moved nearer. “I...I think I might be in lo-” “GENTLEMEN!” Both shot back, sitting straight up in their chairs as a fat waiter with a bristly moustache waddled over to their table, and placed their meals - two plates of steak with baked potatoes - upon the table. “‘Ere’s yer food, gents!” he boomed. “I ‘ope ye find it t’yer likin’!” “I’m sure we will,” Moriarty smiled with a nod, his composure so fully complete it was as if nothing had happened. “Thank you, sir.” “Talk to ya later, Pete!” sniggered Holmes with a wink. The waiter winked back, nodded to Professor Moriarty, and then trundled off. “What were you saying, Liam?” Sherlock asked, as he began to cut into his steak, sawing off a huge chunk and stuffing it into his mouth. William much more elegantly carved a tiny square off his slab of beef, and hummed happily as he savored the juices upon popping it into his mouth. “I forget,” he lied through his teeth...then gave a challenging smile as he glanced to each of their pewters. “Say, Mr. Holmes…” “Mm-hm?” Sherlock grunted through a full mouth. “How much can you drink in a single sitting? Before you collapse?” Sherlock paused mid-chew...then smirked around his stuffed chompers, chewing a few more times, slowly, before gulping down his food. He stifled a burp in his fist and gave a cocksure smirk. “Probably more than you, fancy-pants,” he bragged. “Would you like to make a wager?” Moriarty crooned. “Sure! We’ll make it a race! First to finish twelve straight rounds without falling over wins!” declared Holmes. “Think you can handle that, Mr. Mathematician?” “As long as you can count that high,” was the sharp response. Holmes cackled and lifted his pewter. “You’re on, Liam! May the best man win!” William James Moriarty put down his fork and knife, and lifted his ale. As he clanked it against Sherlock’s, he answered the dare with one of his own, his eyes sultry as he slithered out his response. “Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock Holmes shivered almost invisibly, and quickly took a drink. As Liam’s seductive red glare caught his azure eyes, the criminal mastermind had no idea that the one thought on his mind was being copied by the other man at the table. Someday, I’ll tell him I love him. Someday.

The End

47 notes · View notes

revolversandlace · 2 years

Photo

Blemished Silk | Chapter Three - Who The Hell Is Leviticus Cornwall?

Arthur Morgan x f!OC Explicit Rating - 6k Words Chapter Tags: Violence, Novelisation, Slow Burn

Summary: In a desperate attempt to put the gang back on track, Dutch orders them to rob a train from an exceptionally powerful man.

A/N - Trying to upload my chapters on here alongside Ao3, prepare for incoming spam.

Colter, January 1899

He saw the needle before he saw anything else, his breath fogged in the air as the clip of his boots echoed in the small wooden lodge.

‘I thought you was reading him his last rights...’ the sullen outlaw began, pacing himself as his hat began to stiffen under the foreboding cold, ‘now I see you're introducing him to your other passions.’

The reverend looked up from the mauled young man on the bed. An eccentric theologist with unpredictable behaviour pulled the needle from the young man's veins.

John Marston. An impetuous young man now sprawled out on the makeshift bed, flesh bloody and swollen with deepening lacerations across his face.

The reverend, for lack of a better word, would proudly shout the word of Jesus. Yet when it came to his poison, he was a madman to say the very least. Rising from his chair, he precariously wrapped some fabric or another around his head and under his chin. This was a cold place, a cold place for only the likes of them.

‘I’ll mind you to show me some respect, Mr Morgan,’ the reverend nodded defiantly.

‘Mind away,’ Arthur commented flippantly, without a care as to what the lunatic had to say.

Arthur Morgan was not a man of expression as his hardened leather hat dipped onto his increasingly cold face. He did not want to exert any energy that did not need to be done.

Following the loon with his eyes until he left the old mining house, Arthur walked closer to the bed with the wounded idiot twisting slowly to the new elixir of pain relief.

‘You still here then?’ Arthur said abruptly, gesturing towards the mutilated John.

Sitting down on the chair that Reverend Swanson was once in, Arthur sat, cold and frustrated with their given circumstance.

‘I owe you,’ the young man said, trying to prostrate himself by the neck, his long greasy brown hair spilling out the corner of his lank bandages.

‘And you’ll pay me...’ the older of the two said gruffly, concerned but not overly, ‘but, for the moment, just rest.’

Before Arthur could commit any more retribution than needed to be done upon that stupid boy, he heard the door swing. It was not just the swing of the cold that filled the room but Dutch their leader, marched in.

‘Arthur...’ Dutch said, clutching at some paper roll with his black woollen attired already beginning to frost at the edges. ‘I think it’s time for the train.’

As soon as he began unrolling the parchment, John stirred, almost reinvigorated by the words of their father figure.

‘You want me to come?’ He spluttered, his hand still cradling at his chest.

Dutch in his predictable candour, allowed the paper map to spring back upon itself. With all the concern his dark eyebrows could muster, he turned to the injured boy. After all, John was the new prodigy.

‘Of course, I do, but...’ Dutch began, shaking his head and sighing to himself. Arthur has seen the performance many times before yet for whatever Dutch was, he cared about his boys, ‘look at you.’

Dutch was rarely someone to cower away from anything and recoiling was certainly not what he was doing now. A stern man, a man with foresight, he avoided the gaze of his youngest who had been desecrated by wolves and still recovering from his gun wound, a farewell gift from Blackwater.

‘I was always ugly, Dutch,’ John commented, trying to lift his hand in the air in some sort of gesture, whilst Arthur could not help feel pity for the boy, ‘it's just a scratch.’

To that, John sprained himself trying to lift his shaken and weak body in an attempt to make something of himself. Boy, was he a fool... Lying on his back his hair spalled from the bandage that was already slacking. He got got.

Arthur, as much as he was pissed off to hell by John, placed his hand gently on his chest encouraging him to rest. He was not the only one to attempt to discourage him for Dutch moved closer to the edge of the camper.

‘Lie still, son,’ Dutch said, with care and authority all in one.

It was in that very instance that the door blew open again. No matter how many times it was latched, it was a still mining town that was filled with snow and winds. Even more so given that everywhere they went was experiencing the worst of blizzards that even Hosea could remember. Arthur looked up, startled by anything that caused the slightest commotion.

Then he saw her; Abigail marching through as though she had the right to. Well, she rightly did.

She had the usual air of veracity, defiant to all the men around her. Something which Arthur had always admired about her. Yet as she came closer, it was then that he saw the boy Jack, nestled beneath her skirts, hand in hand.

‘Hello, Abigail,’ Dutch called, as the door continued to slam and swing in the mountainous winds.

‘Dutch,’ She retorted with as little formality that was expected of her.

‘Jackie!’ Dutch called in excitement, attempting to mask the situation as far as Arthur could guess as he rose from the stick chair.

‘The boy wanted to see you, John’ she spoke with all of her raven confidence, ignoring her audience.

Ushering Jack forward, Arthur could see his hunched little shoulders, the way he nervously rubbed his mittens together, the way he looked at his father in unknown measures. He was a good boy, but not a boy for this life.

Yet all the while his mother allowed him to step forward. Arthur stood back and Jack, the child that he was, crept forward.

‘He’s seen me now.’ John quipped as though a child seeing their distant father in such a state was something to be made light of, ‘or what’s left of me...’

Arthur could see the boy rubbing his hands together, not out of fear, but out of worry. Goddammit, Arthur he thought to himself.

John was torn up to shreds like some butchered meat, yet here he was. His own goddamn child was nervous as shit before him.

The silence between them passed but not for long as John had to have another sense of the last word. Arthur stepped back, not wanting to interfere between man and wife.

‘What about you?’ That piece of John Marston was more likely to look for a fight, even against his own family than show any humility. Arthur held his tongue, attempting to not defend the woman or boy.

‘Guess I was hoping to see a corpse,’ Abigail spat.

Even under the woollen shawl that she had wrapped around her face, Arthur knew as good as any that the sound of the stamp of her feet was never a good sign as she recoiled in disgust. And yet all she got was a laugh, an empty chuckled from her mauled man, the father of her son, the son who was in that room.

‘Bide your time, you’ll see plenty of them.’ A small splatter of blood fell onto John’s chin as he venomously said the words to his lady.

Arthur had no time for quarrels that were not for him, but he was annoyed. Annoyed at the stupidity of John Marston. Before Arthur could say anything, however, it was Abigail as it always was who spewed the fire.

‘You’re a rotten man, John Marston,’ she seethed.

The boy, Arthur couldn’t help but notice was already weak, his eyes down and mouth slanted. It was easy to see where he got it from with John taking the self-pity act as usual.

Tired of the impetuosity, however, it was Dutch’s turn to speak with his charming ways and deep command that no one, not even Abigail dared to challenge.

‘He is an idiot, Abigail, we all know it,’ clutching at the parchment he watched the mother and child leave before he followed them out of the cabin.

‘Now, railwaymen.’ He began, pushing open the door to the harsh wintery sun, reflecting off of every spec of snow that clung to the ground and leafless trees.

‘Bill,’ Dutch yelled to the brick of a bearded man, ‘now you ride ahead and set the charge...’

As always, Arthur followed Dutch’s lead and walked out into the blinding snow.

‘...at the water tower,’ Dutch continued, ‘just before the tunnel.’ Resolute, Dutch tucked the paper scroll into the inside of his jacket as Hosea sternly walked forward with wide arms open.

‘Why are we doing this?’ the usual calm but conscientious tones crept from the eldest of the group. He did not look as old as he truly was, but old enough to encourage a mentorship for the gang - especially with Arthur. ‘Weather’s breaking, we could leave. I-I thought we was lying low,’ Hosea suggested.

Mounting their horses, the younger men and Bill spurred his horse paying no mind to Hosea as the horses took straight to a gallop.

‘What do you want from me, Hosea?’ Dutch commented an annoyance lingering in his voice as he secured the bridles of the horse.

‘I just don’t want any more folks to die, Dutch,’ Hosea said, almost pleading.

Arthur eyed the both of them cautiously. Since the whole Blackwater business, the strain of the relationship between Dutch and Hosea had grown substantially. It was not often they went too long without quarrelling for one reason or another, but now it was constant.

‘We’re living, Hosea. We’re living...’ Dutch noted, in his usual way of trying to placate the situation, ‘look at me, we’re living... even you.’

Arthur tightened the last of the reins, reaching into the saddlebag for the last carrot he had. It was dried and withered, much like him, Arthur couldn’t help but think to himself. He was still trying to bond with his horse, a strong Tennessee Walker and knew they had a hard ride ahead of them.

The horse nuzzled at his hand, taking the carrot as steam puffed from his nostrils.

‘But we need money, everything we have’s in Blackwater,’ Dutch remarked as Arthur felt like flinching to the name of the southern town.

He couldn’t be any further away from it if he tried but he hoped he never had to hear that damn name again.

‘You fancy heading back there?’ Dutch continued sarcastically.

‘No,’ Hosea confessed, his old bones visibly shaking underneath his layers, ‘Listen, Dutch, I ain’t trying to undermine you, I just...’ Hosea sighed as Arthur looked on at the exchange feeling sympathy for his mentor. ‘I just want to stick to the plan which was to lie low, then head back out west.’ Hosea’s voice rose slightly towards the end, frustrated and tired. They all were.

‘Now suddenly,’ he continued, ‘we’re about to rob a train.’

Dutch was firm and even underneath the brim of his black hat, Arthur could see his thick dark eyebrows furrowing.

‘What choice have we got?’ He said calmly, but firm. Firmer than Arthur liked.

‘Leviticus Cornwall’s no joke, Dutch, he’s -’ Hosea tried to push.

Arthur was growing tired at this point, he wanted to just get the job done. To try and claw back from this shit.

‘Who is Leviticus Cornwall?’ Arthur barked, having heard the name before but with no damn idea as to why they were chasing after him.

‘He’s a big railway magnate, sugar dealer, oilman -’ Hosea informed before he was interrupted.

‘Well, how good for him.’ Dutch quipped, always rash to comment on the rich man, ‘sounds like he has more than enough to share.’

Hosea called ‘Dutch!’ in protest but as usual, their leader was having none of it.

‘Gentlemen! It is time to make something of ourselves!’ he called out to the camp, marching into the centre.

The rest of the gang scurried out from every corner of the snow-covered ghost town, guns in hands with no question, they all leapt to the back of their horses. Arthur, too, mounted his new stead, as did Dutch whose horse, an impressive white beast, could hardly be differentiated from the snow that surrounded them.

‘Get your horses ready!’ Dutch yelled, ‘we have a train to rob.’

The ride was long and arduous, even during the initial descent, Arthur could see the horses struggling and he knew now why Dutch had sent Bill Williamson ahead on Brown Jack. He was a huge brute of a creature, as was the mount.

By the time the snow started to scatter across the mountains, Arthur's nose was bit with frost and regardless of the fur-lined gloves he wore on his hands, they were dry and chapped. They ached numbly as he clutched the bridle of the horse.

Moving into formation down a steep ravine, Arthur could hear the breath of both steads and gang members.

‘There’s the water tower,’ Dutch called behind him as the horses settled into a canter, ‘hold up here on the ridge.’

They all stopped on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the train tracks and trees beneath them. It was a good spot.

Arthur moved down with the instruction of Dutch, checking on Bill. A man not known for his brains; Arthur assisted him with the explosives. Once all was in place and Arthur returned to the rocky plateau Dutch prepped the rest of the gang with his typical confidence.

The air had a winter stillness to it as a light breeze caressed through the barren land. Masking themselves with their bandanas, Arthur gripped the reins of the horse, feeling the cold leather in his palm.

He was an outlaw, a bandit, a thief, a liar and a cheat. With no shame, this was the life that not only had been chosen for him but one that he fully embraced. He couldn’t help but recall Hosea’s warning. Dutch had never been one to take ample risk for a blind reward and Blackwater aside he had never been wrong.

Regardless, Arthur always grew wary before each job. Almost as though he could already hear the cacophony of bullets whilst a swirling uncertainty built about whether he would see tomorrow.

They didn’t have to wait for very long and as the sun started to dip behind the mountains on the horizon, Arthur heard the chugging of the train’s wheels.

‘Gentlemen,’ Dutch said in a calm and determined tone, ‘it’s time.’

The train steamed forward around the corner, coming into their eye-line as it left a trail of thick black smoke above it. Bill – who was hopefully only visible to the gang – scampered to their level as the train passed the bundle of sticks that were nestled underneath the tracks.

Arthur took a deep breath waiting for the screech of metal and the barrage of broken tracks.

Yet nothing happened. No boom, no fire, nothing.

Arthur glared at Dutch from the corner of his eye. He knew somehow Bill would sure as shit mess this up one way or another.

‘You have got to be kidding me!’ Dutch yelled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

‘Where did you find that moron,’ Arthur grunted. This was not the first time Bill had fucked up.

Dutch was mad, that was plain to see, ‘you said it was fine-’

‘So, it’s my fault?’ Arthur snarled back and he threw himself off of his horse.

Muttering the odd insult or two under his breath in the direction of Dutch, Arthur ran and ran hard.

He followed Javier and Lenny back through the ravine which led to the tracks behind them.

He pushed through the cold and saw the train. Perhaps it was not too late.

All three men leapt onto the top of the train, the momentum and solid metal knocking the wind out of them. Arthur’s knee slammed into the carriage roof, sending a shot of pain up his leg as his body sprawled out. Holding onto the metal vents, he looked up with his breath fogging through the bandana he wrapped around his face. He saw Javiar fall from the carriage as his figure got smaller and smaller whilst the train continued. He seemed unhurt as the Mexican staggered to his feet, but one man down would not help their favours.

‘Hey, down here!’ Arthur heard Lenny call, looking around he couldn’t see the young man. Pushing himself up, his knee twinged as he made his way to the other side of the carriage. Groaning, as Lenny continued to yell, he crouched down offering his hand out.

‘I’ve got you. Now stop yelling,’ Arthur moaned, pulling his friend up, ‘you’re okay... now let’s go slow this thing down.’

They both fumbled to their feet, trying to get balanced on the moving locomotion. Running ahead and dropping between the two carriages, Arthur cursed himself silently at his foolishness for not landing properly. He was gonna feel that damn bruise for a while.

Lenny led the charge, as he quickly and quietly ran up to the man in the coach, striking him hard with his pistol on the side of the head.

The man fell, barely making a sound as they pushed forward.

‘Come on, we need to stop this train,’ Arthur commanded, desperate to get today over and done with already.

‘There’s another guard up ahead, want me to take him?’ Lenny asked, crouching down by the archway of the carriage.

Without saying anything, Arthur raised his pistol, shot and the man went down. One less Pinkerton bastard to worry about.

Even before the man fell from the flatcar, Arthur had already seen another. The man ran from the carriage opposite, rifle in hand. He was quick, but not as quick as Arthur Morgan. Another bullet sent the Pinkerton down before he could even cock his firearm.

Lenny followed close behind, firing shots to Arthur's right as men popped out from behind doors, seats and barrels. Not that it mattered where they hid. It always played out the same, the fools of the private law desperate to take the outlaw's head. It made them eager and sloppy. Arthur was too damn stubborn to be taken out by these morons in tweed jackets.

‘You won't make it out alive!’ One shouted before Arthur put a bullet in his gut.

Lenny took out two more, with no words exchanged between the two men. Lenny may be young, Arthur thought, but he learnt damn quick that this was a job.

Pushing through the cargo rear, it didn’t take long to drop the last few men who stood in their way.

‘You alright?’ Arthur called behind him, as he did a sweep of the last cargo car.

‘Yeah, I’m good,’ Lenny retorted, a slight shake in his voice. ‘What the hell was Bill doing? He had long enough to set that charge!’

Arthur couldn’t help but hmph to himself as he pulled himself up onto the last car whilst the heat from the steam hit his face. They were at the front of the train now, only a few more bullets and this damn job could be done with.

‘Well,’ Arthur yelled to be heard over the chug of the train's engine, shooting another assailant within the blink of an eye. ‘I hooked up the wire,’ bang, another one down, ‘but we won't mention that!’

Laying waste to the last of Cornwall’s men, he ran past the boiler towards the front cab.

‘If we don’t stop this train soon, the other boys’ll never catch us!’ Lenny cried out above the ever-growing noise.

Arthur barely heard him or registered what he said. The only thing he knew was the hard smack of metal that landed straight into his face. His ears rang and his eye went black for a second as he tried to grip onto something.

He felt the arm wrap around his throat, the stench of burnt coal filled his nostrils, mixing with the blood. Then, the anger took him.

‘You got him?’ Lenny shouted, ‘I ain’t got a clear shot!’

Arthur could hear the panic in the young man's voice and he threw his elbow into the mass behind him. He did it again, and again, and again, enough until he could create some leverage to loosen the grip and turn around.

He managed to get a turn on the man, whoever the hell he was, as Arthur wrapped his hand tightly around his throat. It was clear that he wasn’t one of Cornwell’s men and just an engineer but God did he want to choke the life from him.

Over his bandana, he saw the flash of panic on this man's soot-covered face. Hell with him, Arthur thought to himself as he landed a fist squarely on the man's nose, followed by another few quick punches, settling the train engineer off balance. Arthur took one final swing before pushing the man off of the side of the train.

The mixture of the freezing fog around him fought with the heat of the open coal fire in the engine. Familiar enough with the structure of steam trains after several robberies, the outlaw reached for the emergency brake lever, heaving it forward as the screeching commenced. The train slowly halted with sparks flying up either side as Arthur's breath fogged under the cloth that covered his nose and mouth.

Finally stopping the weight of the metal beast, he could hear the yells coming closer. Jumping from the front cab, he rolled behind a boulder, taking a second to gather himself.

They came from everywhere like rats, behind trees and on top of the carriages. Fuck.

Omitting his pistol, he pulled his carbine repeater from his shoulder, withdrawing the spring assembly he replaced the cartridge in the butt plate. Slamming it back into place, he listened for a moment, aware that any second wasted was a second that could land a bullet in his skull.

There were more men than he thought.

‘Shit, more guards coming out of that train car!’ He yelled. As to whether Lenny heard him was another matter.

Aiming the repeater, he squeezed the trigger, first at the man on the top of the carriage, then the one that had just taken point on the flatcar behind the timber. Both fell with little effort. Five bullets left; Arthur noted to himself.

‘There better be some money at the end of this!’ He heard Lenny cry out. At least the kid was still alive.

Bullets cut through the winter air from both directions. With any luck, he wouldn’t be hit by a poorly aimed stray.

Arthur ducked back behind the boulder, taking note of the men he had seen. One directly in front of him mimicking Arthur's defence and one was on the ridge a little further away. Praying his aim stayed true, he came out from cover. One headshot took out his closest assailant. He tried to aim for the man on the ridge but between the trees and the setting sun, it was hard to get the quick precision he required.

Retreated down, he saw Lenny shuffle back behind the front of the train.

‘All these bastards must be guarding something,’ Arthur called out, adjusting the stock in his shoulder.

Peering back out, he could see Cornwell’s men running around for cover, if it was a lack of ability or to confuse the pair he could not say. Over his shoulder, he could hear the shots from Lenny’s gun and a few distance thuds of a successful shot.

‘We need the car at the back, right?’ Lenny said between shots, over the gunfire.

‘Yep, keep pushing on ‘em,’ was all Arthur replied as he fired twice more, sending another man down.

Changing his cartridge once more, the exchange continued. Duck, shoot, duck. Over and over until he could push forward, getting clearer aim on the more distant of the aggressors.

He left the snow-covered boulder, pushing forward as the leaves crunched beneath his weight. A shot here, a shot there, enough to cover a good amount of ground.

‘Damn, he’s got an army! Who is this guy?' Lenny crept up behind him, as they both took point, finishing off the last that they saw. They were well-armed, he gave them that, but they were just crooks and thankfully not the same way Arthur was. The more men the better, Arthur couldn’t help but think. If there were men, there was gold. Maybe it wasn’t too late to claw the money back that they had lost in Blackwater after all.

‘Where the hell are the others?’ Arthur was mad, damn mad. He was good but bullets only lasted so long and even though he and Lenny had picked off their fair share, it was getting hot.

Yells and swears between the two parties continued as they pushed on down the side of the train, trying to pick off as many as they could.

‘Oh shit!’ his younger companion shouted, ‘they’re coming outta that last car!’

Arthur had already seen them, squeezing the trigger a few more times, another two fell.

‘We’re gonna get out of this,’ the last thing he needed was Lenny starting to panic and do something foolish. He needed the boy to focus.

‘Oh, I know we are.’

Good, Arthur thought, they had enough fuck ups for one day, didn’t need any more.

‘Hey! There’s the other boys!’ Lenny called, as he pushed his hat out from his eyes.

Then the carnage happened. The low light was not doing any favours but Cornwall’s men were surrounded. Steam, fog, bullets and plenty of ‘fucks’ were all around them. The firefight continued as Arthur and Lenny held their ground.

Using any tree or rock he could find, Arthur would take cover, fire some shots, change the cartridge, run forward, and take cover.

‘Alright!’ He heard Dutch yell down below by the train, ‘finish those sons of bitches!’

About damn time.

‘I can now see why the O’Driscolls brought so many boys up here for this,’ Lenny panted bedsides, Arthur, as they ran forward towards the rest of the gang.

‘You two alright?’ Dutch nodded towards the men.

‘Yes, let’s get the money and go,’ Arthur gruffed. Pissed off, cold and sore, they finished off the last of the men making their way to the end coach.

‘We got some fellas holed up in this car,’ Dutch pointed with his pistol. ‘What are you boys planning on doing in there?’

The gang charged forward, bandanas and guns adorned, they surrounded the carriage allowing Dutch, as always, to take the lead.

‘Listen to me, we don’t want to kill any of ya... any more of ya.’ He chuckled. Dutch and his damn showmanship. Even after all the shit, they’ve been through the past few hours and he still wanted a performance.

‘I give you my word, but trust me...’ the older man taunted, pacing by the door, ‘we will.’

‘I work for Leviticus Cornwell!’ a muffled voice yelled from behind the steel tomb. ‘We got our orders!’

‘Okay,’ the gang leader yelled back, ‘you asked for it. Five! -’

‘We ain’t opening this door!’

‘Four...’

The rest of the men raised their weapons. Arthur could feel the ache returning to his knee whilst his ears started to bite from the winter night air.

‘Three, two, one,’ turning, Dutch faced the rest of the men, ‘seems our friends have gone deaf. Wake ‘em up a little!’

Obeying, Arthur started to fire at the coach with the rest of the men. The streaks of gold flashed before him as metal met metal. Glass from the lights smashed into the air as the deafening, tinny sounds ricocheted in Arthur's ears.

‘We ain’t coming out!’

He barely heard them over the gunfire as the firearms continued to unleash a reign of bullets on the car.

‘That’s enough!’ Dutch signalled, holding up a hand to the gang.

‘Mr Williamson, give Mr Morgan and Mr Smith some dynamite... you two boys go blow that door open.’

The air became hauntingly still, a stark contrast from a second before as Arthur reached towards Bill, snatching the red sticks from his hand. Approaching the carriage door with Charles, Dutch continued to antagonise the trapped men inside.

‘Now don’t matter too much to us, but you boys in there...’

Arthur and Charles lit the sticks simultaneously, sticking the dynamite to the metal as the fuse started to spark and hiss immediately. Retreating to the group, it didn’t take long for the explosion. Ripping into the side of the car, smoking and bursting into the night the metal peeled back whilst the ground shook.

‘Alright, come on...’ Dutch began, however, it didn’t take long for the men to appear, arms in the air in surrender. ‘Just walk outta there,’ Dutch signalled, as three men appeared whilst Bill took the duty of beginning to bind the men.

‘We don’t want to kill you, we just want to rob your boss,’ Dutch reassured them whilst Bill worked his way through them, tying their hands behind their back.

Micah, Lenny and Arthur climbed into the carriage on the orders of the Dutch to search the place and find what they came here for.

��Look at this place, it’s like a palace!’ Lenny exclaimed. He weren’t wrong either. Chandeliers, carved wooden panels, fine crystal lamps. Damn, it really was like some fancy estate room.

‘Now I’ve seen everything,’ Arthur said, almost awestruck. Composing himself, he turned to the two men beside him. ‘You two got the safe? I’ll search the rest.’

He had gold on his mind, but looking around the indulgently decorated car, there was enough money to find outside of the safe.

‘Oh yes, should be easy as the rest,’ Micah charmed in with his usual sarcastic drawl. ‘You’re just gonna stand there kid, pour me some Brandy.’

Arthur shot Micah a look, not that it ever made a damn bit of difference.

‘Shut up, me and Arthur did all the work,’ Lenny retorted.

Exhausted from the day enough as it was, Arthur ignored the bickering and began to rummage around. He didn't get very far before he noticed a letter on one of the many side tables.

‘Yeah... kid did good. Didn’t see you rushing to jump on that train,’ he called back over to Micah. The man was a fool, always wanting the glory for none of the work. Why Dutch even let him stick around, especially after Blackwater, was beyond Arthur.

However, Arthur’s focus shifted, he read the handwritten letter.

Dear Mr Cornwall,

We are yet to receive payment of $2,000 for the initial phase of exploration at the Waipit Indian Reservation. Ambarino, as agreed in the contract between Cornwall Kerosene & Tar and the Leland Oil Development Company, dated November 8 th 1898.

On receipt of the funds, we will proceed with phases two and three of the project and present you with a detailed report of our findings within the month.

Yours respectfully,

James Critchly

Head of Accounts

Leland Oil Development Company.

Well, more rich people after what ain’t theirs. Hardly a surprise if Arthur was honest but two thousand dollars was a hell of a lot of cash. Either way, this wasn’t what he came for, but made a mental note of it just in case.

Micah attempted to pry open the safe doing little to hide his incompetency and frustration, Arthur made way to the drawing desk at the back of the cab.

‘Shit,’ Michah grumbled, ‘just a pile of papers.’

‘Bonds?’ Lenny asked back.

‘Nah, don’t think so.’

Arthur continued to search through the draws, some expensive cigars, a gold pocket watch, a few dollar notes but nothing quite in the way of gold bricks.

Moving over to the bookcases at the back, he noticed the cabinets at the bottom. Searching each one in turn it wasn’t long before he found a leather-bound, padlocked box. Reaching for his knife he jimmied the latch.

There they were, a stack of bonds. Goldmine, Arthur thought as he tucked him into the coat pocket.

‘Think I got ‘em,’ he called back to the men at the other end of the carriage.

‘Well thank God,’ Michah commented, as all three of them left the train.

Arthur could feel his knee swell, another aggravation he didn’t need tonight.

‘What did you find?’ Dutch asked him as he left the cab. Arthur pulled the papers from the inside of his coat, handing them over.

‘These, bonds. They worth anything?’ He asked. Arthur knew exactly how much they could be worth; it wasn’t his first rodeo after all but always liked to give Dutch the satisfaction of announcing the winnings.

‘Oh, sure,’ Dutch nodded, his tartan bandana slipping down his nose slightly, ‘bearer bonds. I think we could probably sell these pretty easily. Well done.’

Arthur removed his hat and ran his gloved hand through his hair, least Dutch would be happy. They could go back to camp, have a celebratory drink and sleep off all the shit that today had thrown at them.

'Now, would you get rid of all of this?’ Dutch asked, adjusting the tartan bandana on his face.

‘The train?’ Arthur retorted back, knowing damn well it was an instruction and not a question.

‘Yeah, get it out of here.’

Arthur wasn’t sure whether he should laugh, shake his head, or knock some sense into the man. Dutch made it seem as simple as pouring rancid soup into the bushes. Same old Dutch, he figured to himself as he turned to the bound men.

‘What about them?’ Arthur asked, gesturing as the men looked at each other in fear.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Dutch said.

‘I don’t know,’ was all that Arthur could say. After all, even though they were Cornwall scum, they didn’t even attempt to defend themselves, unless of course you counted cowering behind some metal doors.

‘It’s up to you,’ Dutch said with a small chuckle, ‘Kill ‘em, leave ‘em... take ‘em with you on the train, just make sure they don’t send no folks after us.’

Departing back to his horse, Dutch waved his hand dismissively.

‘When you get back, we’ll be moving on,’ the gang leader nodded at Arthur, ‘the rest of you, let’s ride!’

With that, the dozens of hooves kicked into the frosted ground, and Arthur pulled his pistol from its holster. He pointed it at the men, with all the intent of shooting them and making sure they weren’t followed. There had been enough fuck ups today and even though killing them would sure as shit eliminated those worries, Arthur saw little need in wasting the bullets.

'Okay, get on the train,’ he called towards the trio. He was pretty sure even in the twilight he saw the distinctive wet patch of piss on one of the man's pants. ‘Quick, all of you,’ he flicked his gun towards the hole they blew open not an hour previously.

The men stood, slowly at first until Arthur stepped forward, making it clear he was in no mood to fuck around.

‘Any bright ideas, I’ll kill all three of you... so behave,’ he snarled, as the last of them hopped into the car.

‘We won’t tell a soul, I swear!’ One called, his voice shaking and teeth chattering from both fear and cold alike.

‘Move!’ Arthur yelled as they scurried away from whichever corner they were dragged out from.

Making his way back to the front of the train, he kept an eye out over his shoulder, just to make sure none of the men became too foolhardy and thought it was a good idea to run. Stepping over the bodies of all the Pinkertons he and the gang had laid to waste, he stepped up to the engine and pushed off the emergency brake.

It didn’t take long for the train to start again, as the fires billowed up, and the slow mechanical chug jolted at the wheels.

Whistling for his horse, the Tennessee Walker, Montague , appeared from the treeline. Arthur took one last look over his shoulder to make sure the men did indeed behave themselves. Climbing onto his horse, he set off back to Colter.

#rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fic #oc fanfic #fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan x original female character #original female character #blemished silk #amelia edwards #available on ao3

2 notes · View notes