#i just. man. i have yet to see an arthur that has some fat on his bones and bro where is he 😭

[coulson-is-an-avenger]

ok I love Malevolent so much and all the art I see for it is absolutely fucking phenomenal, however I do have to speak my truth and throw in my two hater cents because Arthur Lester, widower who had a midlife crisis after his entire child died and then went headfirst into detective work for fucking years, is not a scrawny 20 year old twink. Some of you are drawing bill cipher😭

#ABSOLUTELY NO SHADE TO ANYONE IN PARTICULAR BTW!!!!!! #i just. man. i have yet to see an arthur that has some fat on his bones and bro where is he 😭 #where is my mean disabled man 😭why do so many fics specifically talk abt how skinny he is at length #again not hating on anyone in particular it's just a little annoying to see the trend of ppl immediately skinny-ifying a protag #like. do you feel u have to do that bc you find his voice attractive? #where are his eyebags and wrinkles btw this man has slept naught but once in like a month and that was the coma #malevolent #mossy speaks #mossy probably swings a bat at a hornets nest but i must speak my truth

[gimmethosedaddymilkers]

More to Love

Ok, I wanted to write something, so I decided this is what I was gonna write today, I wanted to write Arthur with a chubby reader, because I’m chubby and I’d like to think that Arthur would like a bigger person, or a smaller one, he isn’t against either, but I think he has an affiliation for bigger. So, if you like it please let me know! And feel free to request any writing on my blog!

You huff to yourself as you continue walking through camp, feeling claustrophobic from being so cooped up in camp for the past week. You weren’t one of the usual camp members who left camp as it was, but the girls were starting to get on your nerves, and so were some of the men. 

You didn’t know what it was, but for some reason it felt like people were starting to treat you differently, you could swear people started to stare at you, and it had all started when the gang had finally settled themselves down near Rhodes. Clemmen’s Point. 

It was a great camp, it wasn’t that it was really small at all, but, everyone seemed to be too close, and it just felt as though you were the only thing that they could pay attention to. 

Everywhere you went it was like they had their eyes on you. 

Bill, Javier, Karen, Mary-Beth, hell even Molly seemed to stare you down.

It wasn’t a look of admiration either, at least it didn’t feel like it, it felt more like a judging, unwavering stare. 

Micah was no exception at all, he stared more than the others it felt like, and he hadn’t dared say anything, at least not just yet, but you could feel that he was thinking about it. 

Maybe it was because you’d started to shed some of the layers you’d been wearing. It was hotter down here, you had to, you almost had no choice but to do it. If you didn’t you’d probably end up having a heat stroke. 

So, rather than wearing a jacket or something similar, like a shawl, you started to just wear your shirts, and pants, usually your sleeves rolled up too, to allow yourself to breath a bit more. 

It felt as though that’s why people were staring at you, but you had no way of proving that was true.

It was beginning to drive you insane. 

You knew you were a bit bigger than other people, you knew that, but Bill wasn’t exactly a model himself, so why would people stare at you and not at him? Maybe it was all in your head.

That was something you’d been debating since this feeling started to prickle at your skin. There was no reason for them to stare, it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen a fat person before. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath as you reach the lake edge, you hadn’t even realized that’s where your feet had been taking you. 

The smell of the water was a little soothing, and it was something else to focus on than the strange feelings within you.

You quietly cross your arms over one another in front of your chest and do your best to empty your mind. 

“Y/n, you doin’ okay?” 

You open your eyes and twist slightly to see Arthur Morgan standing behind you. 

He was the one man in camp that you could tolerate staring from, mainly because it was rare for him to do so, but when he did there was something different about the way he looked at you. 

You couldn’t tell exactly what the difference was, the ocean color of his eyes was incredibly difficult to decipher, other than the sadness that always seemed to be present there. 

He was a sweet man, at least he was when he let his guard down, when he wasn’t playing the big tough outlaw. 

He was handsome too, and as many times as you’d heard him call himself ugly, you’d begun to wonder if he truly thought that or if he was joking like he said he was. 

“I’m....I could be better.” You admit and turn back to the lake. “Don’t worry about me Mr. Morgan.” 

“How many times I gotta tell you to call me Arthur?” He snorted and stepped closer, joining you at his side. ��Ain’t no ‘mr.’ bullshit between the two of us. You’ve saved my ass enough times and I’ve told you all my embaressin’ stories, no point in formality.” 

You roll your eyes and look over to him. 

“Okay, I could be better, Dickweed, is that what you wanted.”

“Sounds about right.” Arthur chuckled, but it died out quickly. “You sure you’re doin’ alright? I mean, It ain’t like you to be so sulky.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Well that’s a goddamn lie.” He scoffed and started searching through his satchel for a cigarette. “I could tell just with that sentence, so you might as well tell me.” 

“I...” You hesitate for a moment. Not wanting to burden him when he already had so much on his plate. He was the work horse of the gang, almost every single task was pushed on to him, he didn’t need your petty little issues to worry about, but at the same time, you knew he wasn’t going to give up on the issue.

“I just feel like everyone in camp has been watching me.” You mumble. “I feel so cooped up here, and...I don’t know, I mean, I get it, I’m fat, but why does everyone in camp have to look at me like they’ve never seen a fat person before?” 

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Arthur finally found the cigarette he was looking for and placed it between his lips, he leaned forwards and lit the match he’d also found on his heel. He lit the cigarette and puffed some smoke in your direction.

“You ain’t fuckin’ fat.” He grumbled under his breath. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ say that to me ever again.” 

You furrow your brow and look over at him, he cussed on a regular basis, but he hardly ever said that, not unless he was drunk.

“Arthur, I’m...I’m stating facts. I mean, look at me.” You gesture to your body, mainly your stomach area that protruded further than the rest. 

“Stop that shit right now.” He moved and stood in front of you, a scowl settled on his handsome features. “I just told you not to fuckin’ say that and I meant it goddamn it.” 

Again, you furrow your brow and look at him. 

“You asked what was wrong, Arthur, I was just answering your question.”

“If people are starin’ at you it ain’t cause of that, cause ya ain’t.” He blew more smoke into your face, it was meant to be joking, you assumed, but at the same time it seemed almost as though it was out of anger. 

“What the hell else would they be staring at me for then?”

He was silent, and you watched as his face started get a red haze, his nose and cheeks started to gain color, even the tips of his ears. 

“Arthur, why does your face look like that? Why else would they stare at me?” 

“Nothin’ I didn’t say anythin’ forget about it. They aren’t starin’ at you.” 

“Arthur, you can’t do this, what were you thinking?” 

Arthur sighed and blew smoke again, this time aiming away from your face, refusing to look you in the eyes.

“I....look I don’t know, I have no idea why they’d stare at you, I only know why I do, okay?” 

“Arthur, you’re just making this more confusing.” You sigh. “Can you please just be straight forward with me?”

He took a moment, and then did his best to look at you.

“I like ya, okay? I’m....I’m sweet on ya, I have been for a damn long time, and hearin’ you talk about yourself like that makes me angrier than I care to admit.” 

You blink, and swallow. 

You’d liked Arthur for a while yourself, but you’d never dared to say anything, not when you couldn’t stand to look at yourself. You’d always known that you were bigger, and you’ve always had a bad habit of talking bad about yourself.

You just figured there was no use in trying. Arthur wasn’t the kind of man who’d go for someone like you, not when everyone else in camp proved to be much better candidates than you. 

“I know, it...it ain’t somethin’ you wanna hear.” Arthur spit out. “Some ugly old man who ain’t nothin’ but sour an’ bitter at the world feels somethin’ for ya, get’s bothered up at the sight of ya. I know. It ain’t somethin’ you want, and I’m sorry.” 

“What on earth are you talking about Arthur?” 

“You ain’t gotta try to be nice to me Y/n.” 

“I’m not, I...Arthur there’s no way you’re being honest to me right now. I mean....Come on, look at you, and look at me, there’s no way that you feel...towards me? There’s no way, you’re just trying to make me feel better or something.” 

“The hell I am.” Arthur threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped out what was left of it. “I know I’m an outlaw, I know I’m a damn killer, but I ain’t a goddamn liar, at least not to people I care about.” 

He stepped a little closer to you.

“You’re a wonderful person.” He muttered, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. “An amazin’ person, you’ve been nothin’ but good to me since I met ya, you make me laugh, and...you’re kinder than what I deserve. I wish I could be the way you are, and....hell you made me fall for ya, and I know there ain’t no chance of us. I know you don’t feel the same-”

“Arthur.” 

You place a hand out, gesturing for him to stop.

“You can’t like me. You can’t.” You denied. “There’s no way. I know what I look like-”

“I don’t give a damn about the fact that you’re a little bigger, hell I like it.” He huffed. “It just means I can...” He stopped for a moment and scratched the back of his neck. “It means I can...I can be rougher with someone like you. I ain’t gotta worry about breakin’ nothin’, hurtin’ somebody by bein’ me.”

You swallowed and looked at him. 

His eyes were telling the truth. If there was anytime for you to be able to read his eyes it was now, and he wasn’t lying. You could see it. 

“You...You really...”

“Of course I do Y/n. I’m surprised you never noticed, I wasn’t exactly the best at hidin’ it like I wanted to.” 

He took a breath. 

“I know you don’t feel the same, but...I just...I wanted you to stop talkin’ like that-” 

You take your chance and step forwards, crashing your lips into his, for a moment he’s surprised, but quickly he melts into the kiss himself, and starts to take the lead.

You feel for the first time in weeks, happy.  Arthur had always been someone you cared about, someone who felt like home, you just never imagined that maybe you were the same for him. 

The two of you break apart and Arthur looks at you, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“I...Shit, I....that mean that..I mean....that you wanna...wanna try this?” He asked. 

“Of course it does...I..Arthur I think you’re the only person who’s ever said anything to me like that. I’ve liked you for a while myself, and....I...let’s try this.” 

He gave you another smile, and enveloped his arms around you. 

“Please, Darlin’...don’t talk like that again.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Okay, I’ma be real, I just wrote this off the top of my head so it’s probably not the best work I’ve ever done, but I still think it’s pretty good, again, feedback is always appreciated! Please let me know!

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #Rdr2 drabble #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #Red Dead Redemption 2

[docholligay]

The Green Knight: Chivalry is...Troubled

The Green Knight doesn’t specifically say “Chivalry is dead” but it does tend to suggest that chivalry is dying. The world is turning. This isn’t a story about traditional ideas of chivalry in the way the poem is, but a story that’s meant more to include the ideas of the human limitations of honor and courage. 

If it were meant to be a story about traditional chivalry, we probably wouldn’t set fire to Gawain when the crown descends upon him in the beginning of the movie. 

I want to point out that Gawain is actually never a knight, at least in the traditional sense, though I suppose in a later part I might argue that the entire movie is about learning what it means to be a knight versus being knighted. But from the beginning, we see Gawain being asked if he’s a knight, only to say, “Not yet. I’ve got time.*” IN earlier versions, we open with Gawain already a Sir Gawain. He’s already achieved this idea of knighthood. 

Gawain himself denies vehemently, later, that he is a knight, in an act of fantastic cowardice at the point of a knife. “I never said I was a knight!” He cries out, and it is rightly pointed out to him that he looks like one, but it’s only the trappings of knighthood, as Gawain calls out, “I’m not. I’m not!”

Constantly we are reminded of how Gawain does not behave with traditional chivalry and courage, because this is not the story of a knight, this is the story of a man, who has the capacity within him to become a knight, but has the same temptations we all do--selfishness, cowardice--and so is just as likely to become his “best” self as not. 

As Gawain rides out from the city, we see him riding toward, on his right side, the astles that are crumbled and fallen away. He is riding toward the destruction of this knightly ideal, we are moving further and further from from what we understand this legend, this type of person, to be. 

But perhaps this idea finds its best purchase in the general decline of Arthur himself. Arthur is, in contrast to most depictions, portrayed as an old man, ill and faded at the edges. It was a bit bracing when I saw this movie the first time. Arthur commands no power except through that he has been a myth in his own right. This further reinforces these ideas that chivalry, knighthood, Camelot, none of it was ever attainable or real, because it always took out the human element. In The Green Knight, the great enemy of Arthur isn’t Mordred, but time. 

I don’t want to suggest that because an ideal is not a reality, that it shouldn’t be a horizon to be searched for, and I think anyone who is a reader of this blog isn’t surprised by that. But I do think Lowery is suggesting that chivalry and honor are not immutable traits so much as they are the things we do. In the scene before the Green Knight shows up, when Arthur is asking for “Some myth, or canto” a story from one of his knights, there’s nothing. It comes up empty. The scene is shot in dark greys, and we see the aging on the knights, how they’re just fat old men, eating at the table. Whatever they were, they no longer are, decaying just as much as the castles we see as he rides out. 

It’s particularly critical of ideas of knighthood in the fact that Gawain becomes a knight when he gives in to his cowardice and runs away from the Green Knight, and returns home. KNighthood isn’t about any kind of internal honor, chivalry, courage, so much as it is about the stories we tell of ourselves, true or not. It’s never suggested in the flash forward scene that anyone ever knows Gawain ran away with his tail tucked between his legs, and the entire kingdom crumbles because a man without honor cannot lead. A man unwilling to die, cannot ask others to do it, and expect not to pay. 

Gawain has to find for himself what kind of man he is. Is he the kind of man who can have a knighthood, or the kind of man that can be a knight? They aren’t the same thing, and I think the way Lowery plays with the troubled nature of easy definitions of morality is particularly interesting.

*Okay I am definitely going to do another post about how this movie is about becoming, because several things have just occurred to me in the writing of this.

On Doc and The Green Knight

#Green Knight shit

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

The former God of Magic resents The Mother for sticking him on Earth, and plans on causing as much havoc as he can to punish Her;

Version 2, Dark!Merlin

INTRO

(Version 1, Good!Merlin)

TW: A lot of emotional manipulation, a little violence, a lot of angst.

~

“You’re late.”

The woman’s well practiced blank mask falls into a scowl as she stares at Merlin with mistrust:

“Well, perhaps I was putting off coming to see you, no matter how necessary it is.”

The gang can see the bob of Merlin’s head as he lets out a low chuckle, and they have to stop themselves from recoiling; they’d never heard a noise like that from their young friend before, it sounded almost... cruel.

He lifts a hand to cover his heart as he says in faux offense:

“You wound me, sister. You didn’t want to see your favourite sibling?”

Everyone frowns in confusion, Merlin doesn’t have... siblings. That’s not even mentioning the fact that this woman barely seems human.

The woman doesn’t hide her slight disgust, taking a step back from Merlin and letting out a harsh breath:

“I came here to tell you that you need to hurry up. Time is running out.”

Merlin chuckles again, turning to the side and taking a few short paces, his hands held leisurely behind his back. The amusement on his face is disturbing, and Arthur gulps, not noticing the way Mordred is growing paler and paler by the second. Merlin doesn’t turn to look at the woman as he speaks, and his smirk stretches wider:

“But I’m having so much fun, Ava!”

The woman, Ava, huffs again, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. If the gang weren’t so semi-sure that Merlin wasn’t dangerous, they’d think she looked scared:

“Mother sent you here to complete a task. Get it done, and you can come home. Isn’t that what you want? To come home?”

Merlin’s smirk falls, and the snarl that the gang briefly see on his face before he whips around to face Ava takes their breath away. They barely notice the thunder, snapping in the distance in time with Merlin’s anger:

“Mother’s the one keeping me here in the first place. She could accept me back any time.”

Ava takes another step back, and Merlin tilts his head ever so slightly at the movement, but waits for her to speak:

“As punishment for your cruelty. She isn’t happy, you’re making a mess of things.”

Merlin chuckles again, tilting his head even further, and his words have an immediate chilling effect on the group hiding in the bushes:

“Well, if she insists on sending the God of Chaos to fix a problem, perhaps she should expect a little mess. Plus, I’m having more fun here than I’ve had in centuries. These humans... so gullible.-”

Ava shakes her head mournfully, but before she can say anything, Merlin continues, now pacing calmly around the clearing, waving his hands and grinning in his excitement:

“-I mean, they’re just so... easy. To play with, to manipulate. You know they all trust me? They all come running to naïve, innocent, loving little Merlin, spilling all their secrets as they go. Did you know, the drunkard is the son of a noble? “Fuck nobility” my arse, he is nobility.-”

Gwaine clenches his jaw and looks to the floor, ignoring the stares of Arthur and Leon, but before anything can be muttered, Merlin continues, listing their greatest secrets off on his fingers:

“-The gentle giant is terrified that someone’s going to find out that his preferences lie with men, which is ridiculous considering the way he stares at the aforementioned drunkard when he thinks no one but little old me is watching. The blacksmith, even years on, is terrified that his whore sister will never forgive him for... something or other, I wasn’t really paying attention. Camelot’s first, The King’s most trusted, has a debilitating fear of heights, and oh if it isn’t just hilarious to watch when he has to patrol the city walls. And then, there’s the-”

Ava rolls her mournful eyes and interrupts him:

“Your point, Em?”

Merlin laughs, fully and from the belly, but the sound doesn’t bring the gang joy like it normally does:

“My point, is that I’ve got these idiots wrapped around my finger. Mortals: the universe’s most fun toy. I haven’t even gotten to half of them yet. There’s the noble one, who thinks he holds my trust, the Druid boy, whose only redeeming feature is that he’s destined to kill the King Prat one day; believe me, if it weren’t for that I’d have killed the annoying little twerp years ago. Then there’s the King Prat’s magical sister, who is full of such terror. I play with her dreams some nights, force visions of pyres and hatred and destruction to play over and over in her mind. It’s rather amusing, watching her thrash and sweat and whimper in her sleep.-”

Arthur’s head had whipped around to Morgana when Merlin had mentioned her, but the tears streaming down her face and the way her hand was clamped tightly over her mouth stripped his anger from him. Which left him with no distraction, no way to ignore the simple fact of what was happening right now. Merlin was... not what they thought. He was powerful, he was using them. He was playing with them like puppets and pulling their strings this way and that, watching as they could do nothing but follow. Arthur didn’t know what to think, and he definitely didn’t notice the tears on his own cheeks.

Mordred was pale to the point of looking like he was about to faint and Lancelot had a deep frown on his face, tears in his eyes but not quite falling, not yet. This was... a misunderstanding. He... he knows Merlin, this is a trick, or a trap, he’ll explain later and everything will be just fine. He just has to... to trust him. Everything will be fine.

Gwaine keeps his gaze on the floor. A small part of him was feeling a little prideful that Percival liked him back, but the rest of him... had no room for anything but grief. He had suspected that Merlin had magic, but this was something else, this was... a whole new person. Did he ever really know Merlin? Did any of them? 

Elyan and Gwen sat pressed together tightly, though Gwen had one hand on Morgana’s shaking back, and her other was reaching around Elyan, gripping Leon’s shoulder tightly. Leon was just staring blankly at the scene in front of him, though anyone that knew him well enough would be able to see the tight clench of his jaw and the anger (and grief) in his eyes.

Ava interrupted Merlin’s gleeful ranting, the tears in her eyes a little more prominent as she took on a slightly more desperate tone:

“Please, Em, just... stop. They’re important, they have destinies, you can not destroy them or push them too far; this is cruel, even for you. This... you never used to be like this.”

Merlin turns around, facing away from his sister and giving the hidden group full view of his rage-filled face. His voice is quiet and clipped and angry as he asks:

“Oh?”

Another roll of thunder echoes through the clearing, closer this time, and fat droplets of rain fall harshly from the sky, mixing with the tears on everyone’s face. Ava sighs, tears overflowing as she gulps before answering, her voice shaking slightly as she takes a step towards Merlin:

“You’re meant to be the God of Magic, not Chaos. You were so... beautiful, balanced. You saw wonder in everything, every little spark of magic and every single prayer put a smile on your face. You loved humanity even more than Mother did. Now look at you, you’re tormenting them, torturing them. This isn’t you, Em, please. Help them, and things can go back to the way they were, help them and you can come home.”

The anger on Merlin’s face had only grown as she spoke, and each individual hidden in the bushes had to make a concerted effort to stop themselves from bolting. None of them had felt terror like it, and the fact that it was Merlin they were all so scared of... well, it didn’t help.

Lightening streaks across the sky and wind howls violently through the forest, calming only when Merlin shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, straightening his back and smirking slightly before he replies, still not turning around to face his sister:

“You’re right. I loved humanity, I was desperate to see them succeed. And then they butchered me. I gave them this universe to frolic in, and in return they call me a monster, a beast, they call me evil, they make nightmares out of me. I still listen to every little prayer, and do you know what I hear? I hear my people, my wonderful little creations, my creatures of magic, begging for mercy, begging for the pain to stop. The humanity I so used to love turned on them, began to burn them, out of spite and fear and hatred. I will not show them any more grace than they have showed me, I will give them exactly what they deserve, and that blonde idiot is at the top of my list of people who have to fucking pay. I won’t destroy him entirely, because ultimately I want my creatures to stop suffering, but I will break him. I will rip him apart piece by piece for what he has done to me.-”

The absolute fury in Merlin’s words, the hatred, translates to thunder in the sky and agony in Arthur’s chest. The King can barely breathe, muffling the sobs tearing from his mouth with both hands, both terrified of being discovered, and desperate to... to let Merlin punish him for the pain he has caused.

Leon settles a shaking hand on his shoulder, but Arthur doesn’t look his way, his blurry gaze focused on Merlin, now finally turning back to his sister:

“-You know, I’m this close to getting that big blonde idiot to fall in love with me. How pathetic is that?? All it took was a few touches here, a few lingering stares there, saving his life occasionally. The man is so pathetically starved for attention I imagine he’d fall for anyone who showed him the barest amount of affection. That is how I will break him.-”

The only thing stopping Arthur from sobbing aloud is Leon collapsing behind him, pulling the young King back into his chest and wrapping a tight arm around his torso, one hand clamped over his mouth as he mutters desperate reassurances into his ear. Morgana pulls Gwen close in a similar way when the servant’s cries grow harsher, her brother burying his face in her shoulder.

Lancelot barely notices Gwaine gripping his arm hard enough to leave bruises for weeks, or Percival pushing his forehead into Lance’s shoulder blade. All he can do is sit and stare at the ground, his breathing slow but shaky, tears streaming silently down his face as he rethinks everything he’s ever known.

Mordred sits on his own, rocking back and forth rhythmically as he tightens the clutch he has around his knees. Tears drip from his young cheeks, poisoning the ground beneath him as he struggles to consider his faith. His faith in magic, in Emrys, who was meant to be balanced and beautiful and giving. Emrys, who he now knew was twisted and angry and desperate for revenge.

All of their hearts are splitting, cracking down the middle.

“-It won’t be physical pain, no, that’ll be down to the Druid boy. He doesn’t want to kill Arthur now, but he will, one day, when I give him one final push. He’ll fall so far into the darkness there’ll be nothing of him left to save, and when he plunges his sword into The Pendragon’s chest, I’ll sit back and watch with a smile on my face, and Arthur will realise that the man he loves, the man who claimed to love him in return, hated him all along. Tricked him. I will watch the life drain from his eyes, and he will spend his last few moments on this world in every kind of agony imaginable, lost in the knowledge that I wanted him to suffer, that he is being punished for his sins.”

Ava shakes her head, silver tears dripping from her emerald eyes as she stares at the floor:

“Are Sir Mordred and the Lady Morgana not your creatures? Do you not wish to save at least them?”

Merlin chuckles darkly:

“I had faith in them once, but they made their decisions. They sided with a Pendragon over me. Mother may be fond of her precious Once and Future King, but to be fair, she’s fond of anything with a pulse, and I, for one, can not wait until she’s not quite so fond of him anymore.”

Ava gulps, taking a desperate step towards her amused brother, but before she can say anything, before she can make one last plea for mercy on humanity’s behalf, Merlin tilts his head, smirking dangerously:

“Do you think they’re scared?”

She halts in her tracks, blinking in confusion, and Merlin’s smile grows into a chuckle as he gestures behind him:

“The King and all his little friends, hidden in the bushes. Do you think they’re scared?” 

The gang barely have time to look up in shock before their bodies are moving, out of their control. They stand rigidly and walk single-file out from their hiding place, coming to stand in a line at the side of the clearing. Merlin hasn’t even looked at them, but his hand floats in the air, a sickly looking yellow mist swirling around his fingers as he tilts his head at his sister, staring in horror at The King, the knights, the Lady, and the servant.

Merlin drops his hand and they all fall to their knees, not even bothering to be brave as they sob. The angry God finally turns, and the serene smile on his face is chilling as he walks towards them, coming to stand in front of Lance and Mordred first. The two of them are the calmest, though calm in the way that they don’t really look... present. They stare blankly ahead, breathing shallow and tears still falling as Merlin crouches in front of them, gripping a chin in each hand and shaking their heads roughly. His voice comes out a whisper, the frown on his face looking more disappointed than anything:

“So much faith, so much trust. It’s a little pitiful, if I’m being honest.”

They don’t react to his words and he smirks before letting them go and standing, moving on to Elyan and Gwen, gripping the knight’s shoulder and saying with mocking sympathy in his voice:

“You were right, by the way,-”

He glances at a fully sobbing Gwen with disgust:

“-she’ll never forgive you, but she’ll never tell you that. You’ll just spend the rest of your life wondering why your relationship was never the same.”

Next, he shuffles over to Gwaine, not even bothering to see the siblings’ reactions as he passes Leon and Percival with a look of disinterest on his face. He leans down in front of the knight, running a soft hand through his hair, waiting for the man to relax slightly before gripping his hair harshly and yanking back, so he has to look up at him. Merlin gives him a blindingly cruel smile:

“You're grateful that Percival is just as in love with you as you are with him, but don’t think yourself too lucky. You’re a hypocrite and a drunk, and my dear old Percy has too much self respect to put himself through that. I’d go for a good tumble in the hay and give up while you’re ahead.”

Once again, he moves back, his sister having to look away in her grief, her empathy drowning her. The God comes to stand in front of Morgana, who is desperately trying to look brave but failing miserably:

“And you. You’re meant to be The Darkness, but I couldn’t very well have you outdo me, could I? Try your hardest, I’ll still be the end of you, and I wait with baited breath for the day you fall, and the day soon after that, when I get to kill you.”

She break down in tears again at that, horrified with the idea that she might one day be on the same end of morality and cruelty as this monster in front of her.

Merlin smirks before rolling his eyes and finally coming to stand in front of Arthur. The King calms his breathing just enough to look up at a smirking Merlin, his voice cracking and barely-there as he mutters:

“Please... Merlin, please...”

The smirk drops from Merlin’s face as he brings his hand up, the sickly yellow mist back again. Arthur rises from the floor, hands clutching at his throat as the air is drawn from his lungs. Merlin steps closer to his with a snarl, his free hand gripping Arthur’s chin like a vice, though his voice eerily calm as he murmurs:

“You. You and Uther were so desperate for a scape-goat, for a villain, for a monster. And you picked magic, you picked me. So stop being so fucking pathetic, I’m just playing the part you gave me to perfection. You picked the premise, I’m writing the ending.”

Ava finally speaks up, her voice loud, despite the waver:

“Brother please, this is... this is beyond cruelty, please just stop.”

Arthur is dropped, and The King can barely find it in himself to choke for air as Merlin turns back to his sister, the amused smirk back on his face:

“Why? None of them are going to remember in the morning anyway. I’ve had my fun, this has been cathartic, but I can’t have them ruining my plans. So run along now sister, tell Mother that her precious task is being completed, I’m just taking the scenic route.” 

She shakes her head in defeat, staring at the floor. She lifts her head, opening her mouth to make one last attempt, but she closes it, realising that there’s nothing she could possibly say to persuade him to suddenly have mercy, mercy that no one had ever shown him. She gulps, letting out a deep breath before shaking her head again and turning around, walking back into the trees, the way she came.

The God looks back to his puppets, shivering in time with their knotted strings, smirking once more before he clicks his fingers and everything goes dark.

~

Arthur wakes the next morning feeling oddly refreshed and surprisingly unannoyed at his idiot manservant’s lateness. He rolls his eyes at the bright sunshine glaring through his curtains, the sun certainly a lot higher in the sky than it should be at the time The King wakes, but oh well. Merlin has been chipper lately, and the warmth that Arthur feels in his chest at the younger man’s happiness makes him more likely to forgive him his tardiness.

As if thinking of him had summoned him (wishful thinking on Arthur’s part), Merlin bursts through the doors, not bothering to knock as per usual, a breakfast-laden tray in his arms and a cheeky grin on his face. Arthur rolls his eyes again, chucking a pillow at Merlin half-heartedly as he grumbles, also half-heartedly:

“You’re late.”

Merlin chuckles, setting the tray down on the table before jogging endearingly over to Arthur’s bedside, grabbing his hand and pulling him to stand upright:

“Something tells me you don’t mind all that much, Your Pratness.”

Arthur huffs, but only to stop himself from smiling, and resolutely ignores the way Merlin’s hand is still in his. The servant squeezes his palm softly, and Arthur gulps, pulling away and walking towards his meal, hoping the food would squash the butterflies in his stomach.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, smiling to himself softly at a whole range of things: the good night’s rest he’d had, the bright sunshine, Merlin’s good mood, the sensation of Merlin’s hand in his own, Merlin’s dazzling smile, Merlin, Merlin, Merlin...

Merlin stares at his back as he goes, noting with a dangerously satisfied smirk the red blush of his ears.

The scenic route indeed.

~

THE END!!

Oops I made myself sad. Sorry to say but I hope this makes you sad too.

This was SUPER fun to write and I’m so glad I decided to do two versions😅

Link to the Good!Merlin version (much MUCH fluffier, I promise) at the top!!

#merthur #merthur angst #angst no comfort #good morgana #good mordred #bbc merlin #dark merlin #im so sorry #i made myself sad #but also cackle evilly #sir mordred #mordred #bbc mordred #sir leon #leon #sir gwaine #gwaine #sir percival #percival #sir elyan #elyan #lancelot #sir lancelot #gwen #guinevere #evil merlin #arthur #king arthur #arthur pendragon #bamf merlin

[interstellargatorskinboots1812]

TAPPED INTO YOUR MIND AND SOUL

SUMMARY

Arabella Shelby is tired of the antics of her twin brother Tommy. She hates how she is always left on the back-foot of what is going on. As a fierce and intelligent force to be reckoned with, she knows she is more than capable of dealing with the more unsavoury side of the Shelby Company Limited.

She's made a decision that if Tommy won't allow her to come out of the shadows, then she will make light of her own, elsewhere. But will a deal with the devil be the answer to her problems? Tommy has a proposition for Arabella and one that will see her tied to his most untrusting of business associates. Will Arabella take the plunge and start a new life in Camden, beside the most eccentric and sadistic bread makers and leader of the Jewish Gangs in London, Mr Alfie Solomons?

CHAPTER ONE: Satisfaction Seems like a Distant Memory

She can feel her patience ebbing, like the whiskey reserves behind the bar. Arabella  Shelby grinds her teeth and wills the antagonism feeding her veins, to dissipate. The room drowns in the heavy tones of men as they jeer and chat obnoxiously , each having to shout to be heard over the man behind them. Women screech and laugh uproariously trying desperately to gain some favorable attention from any of the rowdy males. Her malachite gaze looks down to her red tipped long nails, holding a now empty brandy glass . She hates the atmosphere and finds the behaviour encircling her to be stifling.  Flinching, she ducks away from the spittle flying from the faceless philanderer, trying and failing to impress her. He was a brave man to say the least, she thought. It was rare anyone dared but look at a Shelby sister. Mores the pity she muses, that each of her brothers are too overloaded with their own egos to notice and intervene with a swipe of their caps. The room stinks of tobacco, a thick and heavy film of smog seems to be connecting one body to another as it clings into the air around them. She should already be out of Birmingham, her bags have been packed since the early hours of this morning and the decision to cut out made long before that. Instead she stays in the newly refurbished Garrison, watching the vainglory antics of a family lacerated by their hunger for being high-handed.  

Her eyes train on her older brother Arthur, fresh out of jail,  as he presses a rolled up note onto the table top and inhales his second blue vial of powder with a determined fury. She surveys with intent as he scrunches his face and presses his fingers to his nose to adjust to the sensation of the toxins traveling into his system.

'Fuck sake, Arthur', she rolls her eyes as her troubled brother stands on the bar and addresses  the room under a confident pretension of shouted words. The pub listens eagerly and replies  along dutifully and in an orderly fashion to his toasts for the Small Heath Rifles, The Lane Boys and of course, to the Peaky Fucking Blinders. Pulling a wayward wave of blonde hair behind her ear, she scans the doleful faces of the crowd as they raise their glasses, each hanging onto Arthur's words like obedient children.

'The Peaky Fucking Blinders, eh?’ Arabella scoffs under her breath.

'Whose gunna stop us ?'the gravel tone of Arthur spews out. She watches . The time keeper of events from her spot in the corner booth, examining Arthur as he climbs down out of sight, the mask slips  as his brow becomes deep set and his expression dulled. She shifts her weight as the leather studs of the booth stab her fiercely in the back. Glancing across the bar to her younger brother, John she observes his dirty and paranoid glances to his wife as he knocks back yet another whiskey. As for her twin, well Tommy was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t seen him since Epsom earlier that day, when he had told her that he needed to see her urgently for business reasons but then had seemingly disappeared into the ether. Well, she had need to see him urgently too, although he may not like her reasons.

To the outside world the Peaky Blinders were an untouchable force to be reckoned with. Raconteurs racing their way up the crime ladder and vying to be the top of the chain. Money was rolling in and reputation was building, Tommy was making a name for the Shelby Company Limited and a name for himself. However, behind the façade  the cracks were springing thick and fast. The family felt fractured and Arabella felt completely disconnected. Dealing with the legitimate side of the business, being a woman within the family, Tommy did not want her getting mixed up into the illegal and dangerous goings on. He would listen to her smart ideas before dismissing them and then re-imagining them with his own. She had begged for Tommy to take her to London to run the start of their empire down there, an ambition that Tommy had staunchly diffused, particularly after what had happened to their younger sister. 'London is no place for a woman like you, it’s heaving with trouble and violence and no sister of mine is going to get caught up in it on my behalf'.

'Pfft and here was me heeding your words of this business being a modern Enterprise that believes in equal rights for women. Those are your words Thomas, or do they only matter when it suits?'

They had argued for days over the matter, of course Thomas had won out and it was Arthur running the show down in London. Upon his arrest, however much it angered Tommy under it’s circumstances,  it made his gloating no less bearable when he reiterated that this was why she shouldn't go to the city, Arabella argued back viciously that had she been in charge down there, none of this would have happened because she had a lid on things and was not riddled with the lingering effects of war, mixed with a habit for white powder rotting her faculties.

She could face no more of being on the back foot of what was going on, of having her intelligence shunned and her opinions chewed up and hashed back out in the guise of another. The last few months had been eventful, in the precipice of war with Sabini's Italian gang and in an mistrustful partnership with another, fighting for the dominant control. What good was she to be by being the pretty face at the fucking bookmaker's reception, seemingly in the dark about everything going on beneath the surface.

Unlike her younger sister, Arabella longed to be more involved in the family business, to handle the threats, the plans and the schemes. She knew she was worth more, that she could handle more. She had repeatedly begged Tommy to allow her to be more involved but to no avail. If she couldn’t be more to the family business than somebody who handles it’s books, when it could be seen that she had so much more potential, then she didn’t want to be involved at all. She had made her decision that she would not stand by and be dismissed and so she would wait for Tommy to return to his office and she would tell him she wanted out. Family or no family, her ambitions were being stifled and she would not stand for it any longer.

'Excuse me', she says with a flash of a scowl, pushing at the shoulder of the offending would be suitor to allow her to get up. She manoeuvres the silk crepe of her yellow dress, it's horizontal pointed waistline spiking down like daggers. She couldn't wait to get home and take of the dress. It still smells of smoke from the burning bookie bonfires started by her brother's gang. She wanted to remove every last stitch of Epsom still clinging to her.

Just as she gets to her feet and moves forward, she is  hauled back. She glances down to find his fat fingers gripping at her upper arm, fingertips pushing into the flesh.

'Now come on sweetheart, I haven't finished talking to you yet'.

Momentarily, she's startled by the misogynistic manner of his speaking, The moment quickly passes though.

'Ooff!'

The air rushes from his lungs, his stomach moving to a more unnatural position , Arabella uncurls her fist from his diaphragm. His face is turning more scarlet by the second as he desperately tries to suck down more air to get his breath back. Leaning into his ear, she makes her tone curt.

'Call me sweetheart and touch me again  and  it'll be more than the air I'll take from your chest. Now, fuck off'.

Whipping her red felt hat from the viscid table, she heads for the exit without a sideways glance back. Tommy would see her tonight, alright.

                          ___________________________________

MASTERLIST HERE

TAGLIST: Let me know if you want to be added!

@lokigirlszendaya​​

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons x shelby sister #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons fic #alfie solomons fan fiction #peaky blinders fandom #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders oc #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fiction #tom hardy fanfiction #tapped into your mind and soul #fanfic #fan fiction #tom hardy #shelby family #peaky blinders fan fiction

[justiceleaque]

Hey Leaque! I know you watched the new Justice League movie and I was around when you were doing the very first DC movie reviews back in the day. I would absolutely love a review of this one if you have the time :)

i've been a fan of Snyder's universe from day 1 so i understand this might be considered an off-balance review already, but i want to note that i didn't come in wanting the film to be good or willing to see it as good despite actual impressions. i wanted to watch it as the Justice League movie i was supposed to get back in 2017, the same one i was willing to not watch for years if it meant Zack Snyder got to finish his vision even later down the line

i was actually as neutral as i could possibly get because at this point i don't have any real emotional involvement in whether this version of the DCEU continues or not. WB execs have done some fucked up things with the treatment of the cast/ray fisher, so i take this as Snyder's DC trilogy and nothing more (which makes it bittersweet for me but that's a different topic)

heavy spoilers follow

it's incredibly comic book-like. i remember typing the exact same words back in the Dawn of Justice days: it doesn't read as a superhero film a la Marvel but as a comic book film. each frame could be a realistically painted comic book frame; the dialogues would fit freakishly well if they had to fit speech bubbles. the damn scene overlaps and changes are heavily reminiscent of a comic book. better yet: of a Justice League comic book. if you’re familiar with comic book events where big things happen and it affects everyone, this is how this reads

it’s a heavy film but it’s not hopeless. i’ve been seeing reviews pop-up already: “ZS’s Justice League film is twice as longe and twice as hopeless” is the maybe verbatim title of most articles. the one thing i kept thinking throughout these four hours is how much hope this is filled with. we’re dealing with a post-superman world that was shaken by the loss of a beloved superhero and you see batman, the #1 comic book superhero known for brooding and darkness and all things sad and bad, be the loudest, most hopeful person in the film, trying to get a team together to save the world, and later on being two steps from literally screaming that bringing back superman is what should happen no matter the cost because of his faith and hope in winning. did we watch the same film?

in the same vein, the 4 hours seem like a stretch until you realize each part has an actual purpose that introduces or ties in important aspects related to the film’s one purpose: take down Steppenwolf and Darkseid. i don’t believe any scene was wasted on useless information. it can get tiring in the way watching a shot tv series gets tiring: it does NOT get boring at any point

such wonderful character arcs. seeing each of the team’s personalities and quirks, the way they clash with each other, the way it makes it all work so goddamn beautifully. the way they click because they just keep interacting so much? Whedon’s cut didn’t give me a team, it gave me five different people in costume that were forced to sort of work in the same vicinity as each other. Snyder’s cut gave me a version of the Justice League that worked so flawlessly together by the end of the film it felt like a dance. felt like comic book page spreads

right before the epilogue they all pose together in the rising dawn, clark included, having won. super reminiscent of the JL cartoon intro. i cried a bit

J’ONN J’ONZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DO YOU KNOW THE AMOUNT OF SPECULATION ABOUT GENERAL SWANWICK BEING THE MARTIAN MANHUNTER BACK WHEN MAN OF STEEL WAS RELEASED???? VINDICATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

listen to me. i need to make this clear. listen.  j’onn. j’onny boy. the way he’s designed and cgi’d..........the adorable frown............the kind smile......................his obvious need to make others feel better and to simply help......................i love him

his interaction with bruce only comes in the end and it’s super brief but seeing those two still not know how the hell each other works even in film format is hilarious. bruce having accepted aliens and magic and shit is the new norm after like 20 years of only having to deal with the joker attempting to rob neon green hair dyes or some shit is so much bigger of a character development than i ever expected, especially coming from BvS where he’s just a stupid fat-bat-carrying onion

i wasn’t a big fan of Suicide Squad’s joker portrayal but we get to see him at the end of the film while we’re seeing a possible future where lois lane has died and superman is best friends with darkseid playing tic-tac-antilife equation. Snyder somehow managed to turn jared leto into a disgustingly legit comic-faithful joker. dont’ ask me how

in the same scene they mention jason and his death

: - (

we see a few bits of some green lanterns in some scenes, one from the past and one from a possible ultra dark and edgy darkseid future. still convinced bruce simply willingly did not go looking for hal, which, fair

they cut out the fish joke bruce tells arthur when they first meet which immediately turns the whole film into a 1/10 for me

ben affleck’s bruce wayne and batman continue being my favorite on-screen batman iteration to date. we finally move from the usual dark lone soldier version Hollywood is relentlessly giving us into one that belongs with the Justice League. incredibly heartwarming to see

there’s a scene when the JL are first assaulting Steppenwolf’s base and they’re all fighting parademons and shit and there’s a moment where you see batman fighting the Space SWAT From Hell alone and the way he moves? the way he flows from one position to another and another like i’m watching a damn comic book animation????????? sir????????????????????

barry allen saved them

like, literally, barry allen saved them. superman was back and everyone was ready to dance one final time and they were all going ‘steppenwolf fucking SUCKS’ and steppenwolf was crying to darkseid and then the motherboxes did their thing and they all were obliterated into star dust and then barry allen was like ‘bitch i told you i need FRIENDS’ and turned back time and now they’re all okay again :o)

darkseid @ batman through his magic spacetime portal: i’m gonna get your ass one day soon and take you back in time and you’re gonna eventually bring about the end of the world by having every dark twisted batman invade your universe because you inspired them

batman:

batman:

batman: i haven’t read Rebirth bro

i know i’m forgetting stuff but that’s the gist. hands down one of the best comic book film experiences i’ve ever had. with an aside to barry allen being more of a mix of barry and wally, everyone feels incredibly faithful to the source material. also batman definitely killed like, at least 400 parademons in one night, but pest control doesn’t count

(like. he straight up obliterates them)

(pulls out a batbazuka on them)

(amazing)

#Anonymous #asks #zack snyder's justice league #zack snyder's justice league spoilers #JL spoilers #justice league spoilers #/ long post

[esther-dot]

Ned was traumatized by Lyanna death and feel guilty for years. But not once he thought about Ashara supposed suicide and her unborn child. Even Selmy seems to recall her every moment though creepy. Ned and Reed were responsible for Arthur death and only Reed mentioned her. Cat and Cersei spoke her name yet no thoughts. Even before his death he only think about his family unlike Robert who mentioned Lyanna. If Ned and Ashara were lovers, then grrm did a poor job to potray as Ned looked he didn't.

And this from a different anon:

I agree with you, first anon. When Cersei throws Ashara in his face, Ned should have had a reaction if they were lovers, and he certainly should have thought of her with grief to establish their relationship if it was going to come up later. This is why I assume they weren't lovers. I can’t actually imagine Ned loving Ashara and having no guilt associated with her death when he is so traumatized by Lyanna’s. So, I think Ned thought she was beautiful, but I doubt it went much beyond that. @fedonciadale explains why it was Brandon, not Ned who dishonored her (link), and I think that interpretation makes much more sense given their characterization.

To the second anon, see above and check out the link. I think it really is the most reasonable way to view things. And also, we are told in ASOS that Ashara and Ned had fallen in love during the Tourney at Harrenhal, but I wonder if that was fed more by rumors than what anyone actually witnessed at the Tourney. But mainly, I think it’s just more misdirection by Martin. The way it reinforces Cat’s own questioning from AGOT makes me think Martin is playing the same game here. I don’t think he wants us to know Jon’s identity until he reveals it, so he can’t just tease the mystery, he has to keep offering more paths for people to run down, which is why here we’re offered a love story for Ned with a woman previously suspected of being Jon’s mother and given a new candidate for Jon’s mother. It’s also interesting how Targy Edric’s description is when he’s declaring that he and Jon are milk brothers, so it’s possible this is actually just talking about Jon’s identity from a different angle/introducing the idea of Jon having a brother he doesn’t know about—Aegon. I just typed that, I haven’t really given it much consideration so I’m not sure if that was the point or not.

I’m very into how Martin writes with this kind of doublespeak, so some of these lines can be read in a pretty funny way:

Edric is just relaying what he’s been told, but Ned Stark is a big fat liar. He’s a good man, but still, what a liar! 😆

As for the love triangle idea, I personally don’t think Jon will fall in love with Dany, so even if Dany is interested in him (and even if Ned had loved Ashara), I don’t think that’s associated. Ned married Cat out of duty, initially had sex with her for the same reason, but I think Jonsa is all about love. Since we know Sansa ends up ruling the North we know she will not be experiencing Ashara’s tragic fate. So, to me, Sansa won’t be in the role of either of these women. She will be loved, marry for love, and live. I suppose the idea could be that Dany is the tragic woman in the scenario, but it feels unfair to compare Ashara to her because by the time Dany dies, it will be justice. 

Tbh, I always felt like the hang up on Ashara some people have is based in Cat hate. There was an insistence in certain corners that she was Ned’s great love paired with a denial that Ned loved Cat. Truly weird stuff, so my own aversion to all that kind of talk might have made me just gloss over all of this. I really didn’t pay much attention to Edric so I guess I need to reread his scenes and see if anything strikes me this time. I mean, I didn’t even remember that he was named after Ned? Is that in the books? I’m totally blanking!

#ask dot #anti ned/ashara #anti-jonerys #jonsa

[shieldmaidenofgod]

Writing Our History––Part 1

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch van der Linde called as he spotted the outlaw ride back into camp. “Where have you been?”

“In town,” Arthur replied. “Had to grab some things. Why? Did something happen?” The light from the setting sun illuminated the worry in the cowboy’s eyes.

Dutch chuckled and a glint of mischief twinkled in his eyes. “You could say that. Hitch up your horse and follow me.”

Arthur ended up sitting by the campfire with a bowl of Pearson’s stew. The other men surrounding the fire leaned forward as they listened intently to Dutch’s news.

“So,” he began, “I got tipped off at the saloon today by the barman. Said there’s an enormous mansion right in the middle of a huge plot of land ‘bout ten miles north of here.”

“So we’re just robbin’ some rich bastard?” Sean asked, taking a sip from his beer bottle.

“Not if you let me finish, MacGuire,” Dutch scolded, and the Irishman raised his hands defensively, causing the other men to laugh.

“I also found out that the man of that house, Hawthorn, owns a rather successful tailoring company. He has a location right in the middle of Valentine, so I headed over there to see if I could find out anything else, and I heard he has but one daughter.” Dutch stopped there and spread his hands, as if the conclusion were obvious.

There was a pause while the men tried to figure out what Dutch’s plan was.

Arthur swallowed a bite of stew before asking, “So what, we kidnap ‘er?”

“You always were the smart one,” Dutch commented. “I managed to get a tipoff from one of his servants, if you can believe it. French girl. Poor young lady was barely holdin’ it together, you could tell she’d been cryin’ for a good long while. Apparently, he’s gonna marry his girl off to one of his business partners in a few days.”

“A good reason to demand a bigger ransom,” Charles spoke up.

“Exactly,” Dutch declared, pointing to Charles. “And think of this, if a mere servant has that much of an attachment to her mistress, who’s to say her parents don’t adore her even more? So, who’s with me? I’ll need a handful of men to get this done right.”

All the other men around the campfire looked to Arthur, as if for his permission.

Arthur shrugged. “When you wantin’ to leave?” he asked Dutch.

“Tomorrow morning. Early. Least we can do is scope out the house from afar.”

Arthur nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Dutch grinned. “It’s settled, then. Are you all with me?” he asked the others, who all nodded (except for Sean, who gave a hearty cheer). “Good, very good. Well, we all better get some rest then, if we want to head out by dawn tomorrow.”

The next day, Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and Sean rode out of camp at the break of dawn for the northern end of Valentine and eventually arrived on the border of Mr. Hawthorn’s land by 7:30. They all managed to stay low while observing the house and its surroundings through their binoculars.

“See anything interesting?” Sean asked Arthur, who was using the pair of binoculars the two of them were sharing.

“Not much,” Arthur grunted, handing the binoculars over to Sean beside him. “Lot of windows, though. We’ll have to steer clear of those.”

“I see a carriage. They just pulled it up to the house,” Charles announced from his position, also looking through a pair of binoculars.

“Anyone gettin’ in or out?” Arthur asked, Sean still looking through his binoculars.

“Not yet.” Charles paused for a moment. “Wait. The front doors are opening. It looks like Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorn––I’m guessing it’s them, at least. Ah, that’s definitely their daughter.” He lowered his binoculars. “When do we move, Dutch?”

“Not yet,” their leader answered. “We wait until they’re far enough away from their property and not too close to town. Then we strike.”

<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>

Once the Hawthorns were seated in the carriage and their luggage strapped to the roof, the carriage was off to the nearest town: Saint Denis.

Mrs. Hawthorn looked down her nose at her daughter, who sat across from her and her husband and was engaged in reading her collection of E. B. B. poetry. “Put that accursed book away,” Mrs. Hawthorn snapped.

(Y/N) jerked in surprise at the sudden break in silence. She looked back down in dismay at the loss of her only entertainment, closed the book, and put it in her carpet bag beside her.

“Honestly––” her mother continued, “––it’s positively shameful, being a female author. As if any decent man would wish to marry one. It’s not a woman’s place.”

“No,” (Y/N) countered in a biting tone, a smug smirk on her pretty face. “But it must be a woman’s place to be married against her will to a man she’s never met.”

“You will marry whoever we choose for you and that is final!” Mrs. Hawthorn slammed her fan against her lap in emphasis.

(Y/N) slumped in her seat and crossed her arms, a difficult and uncomfortable position considering her garments and tightly-strung corset, but the action was worth the horrified looks on her parents’ faces.

“This is so unfair! Maybe I do wish to become an unmarried author! Why should you be the ones to stop me?”

“Stop that ugly slouching and sit up this instant!” her father exclaimed.

“Oh, I’ll slouch if I bloody want to!” (Y/N) shouted back.

“Now you listen here, young lady!” Mr. Hawthorn roared and pointed a shaking finger in (Y/N)’s direction. “We know far better what is best for you than you do. I’ll not have you vilifying our family name by running off and becoming some undignified, unmarried hooligan!” he spat, his eyes glinting with rage. His fat mustache continued to wag as he yammered on about what a disgrace she would be to the family name if she did not marry his business partner, but (Y/N) had stopped listening.

Everything about the whole situation was so unbelievably unfair. (Y/N)’s parents had always been rather controlling of her, but never to an extent as drastic as this. Or, perhaps, she had just never noticed how little control over her own life she had ever actually had.

What I wouldn’t give to just run away from all of this, (Y/N) thought to herself, completely unaware of how soon her wish would come true.

<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>*<*>

“Okay, move out! Come on! Go, go, go!” Dutch yelled, riding forward in a full gallop behind the carriage.

Charles, Arthur, and Sean, led by Dutch sped after the carriage, bandanas covering their lower faces to protect them from the kicked-up dust and from being recognized. Once they got closer to the carriage, Arthur whipped out a pistol and fired a warning shot at the carriage. The bullet zipped through the very top of the carriage wall right below the covered roof, signaling to those inside that they had company.

Terrified screams erupted from inside the carriage and the four horses pulling the car whinnied in fright. The driver desperately pulled on the reins, attempting to stop the beasts so that no more threatening shots would be fired in less-than-cosmetic directions. Once the carriage came to a stop, the driver threw his hands in the air.

“Pl-please don’t hurt me, sirs!” the driver exclaimed.

“Oh, we ain’t here for you, boy!” Dutch shouted as the other outlaws threw open the carriage doors.

Arthur and Charles reached into the carriage and pulled out a thrashing (Y/N). She clutched her carpet bag to her chest and screamed frantically but the men paid her no mind, throwing her in the front of Sean’s saddle.

“Take her home, boys!” Dutch shouted and he, Charles, Arthur, and Sean spurred their horses into a gallop back the way they’d come.

“Let me go!” (Y/N) screeched. “Let me go, you brutes!”

“‘Fraid I can’t do that, lassie,” Sean answered behind her. “We’re gonna be hangin’ onto you for now.”

Once the party arrived at camp, (Y/N) had calmed down, becoming rather apathetic. Sean lowered her off his horse and into the waiting arms of Miss Grimshaw.

“We don’t want to hurt you, miss,” Dutch called to (Y/N) in a slightly smug tone. “We just want some compensation from your family, that's all!”

“Come on now, dear,” Miss Grimshaw said gently. “Let’s get that dust out of your dress and a tent set up for you.” She led (Y/N), who only nodded, away from the horses.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #fanfiction #writing our history

[honestlywtfisgoingon]

A Match Set

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Pairing: Benny Watts x Reader

Summary: After meeting one night in New York, you and Benny Watts are drawn to each other. As you go through different experiences with one another, you grow closer until it finally gets to be too much for Benny.

Word Count: 1890

Warnings: none

Notes: aye this is my first fic because there is a serious lack of benny watts fics and i had to change that for myself. this will probably be multiple chapters that can be read separately.

It was your first art gallery, and you were both anxious and overjoyed to see people surveying your work. You had put so many hours into each piece and all kinds of people had poured in to look. It was a well known gallery, but the variety still surprised you. You looked around and saw some interesting characters, but your interest was piqued when your eyes fell upon a particular cowboy.

He was inspecting one of your favorite paintings which had chess pieces as the subject. The pieces merely served as part of a metaphor in your art, as the game and all its complexities had never really been your thing. As you looked closer at the man you realized that, not only had his outfit sparked your interest, but he seemed familiar too. Out of curiosity, you walked over and stood next to him.

“What are your thoughts?” You asked, motioning towards the painting.

His initial expression showed surprise that you were talking to him, but he recovered quickly, saying, “It’s good. I think the artist has talent.” You felt a bit of pride hearing that. You opened your mouth to say thanks, but you decided not to reveal yourself. You wanted him to give his honest opinion without fear of offending you.

“So do you like chess?” He nodded to the painting. Hearing this you made the connection as to why you remembered seeing him before. Your father owned a little bookshop back home and you were looking into chess for the same painting you were discussing right now. You had seen this cowboy on the back of one of those books, but you hadn’t given it another thought, never actually expecting to meet him. You decided not to reveal this information either and continued with the conversation.

“I can play a modest game. You?”

“I can play a modest game.” He had a small smile as he shrugged.

“Your first lie.” You said smirking back.

He looked confused but curious, so you explained about your research, your fathers bookshop, the whole story. He puffed up a bit after hearing that, looking impressed that you knew who he was.

“What’s your name?” He asked, still curious.

“Y/n” you replied.

“Nice name. I’m Benny, but you already seem to know who I am. On the other hand I don’t know anything about you.” He reached out his hand to shake yours.

“You walk in here with a black trench coat but you make me out to be the mysterious one,” you smirked as you took his hand. He chuckled a bit, and after your introduction, you asked why he was here.

“My friend knows the artist actually. She told us we had to see her work before going out.” You hummed as you thought about what to say, but he interjected.

“I don’t usually do this, and I’m not sure why I’m doing this now, but maybe you’d consider coffee with me. I won’t tell anymore lies” he joked.

You laughed a little, mildly shocked. “you’re not sure why? That’s flattering” you teased.

“Not what I meant-“ but before you could come to a conclusion on his sudden offer, you heard an excited french accent.

“Y/n! Im so proud! You finally got to show off all that talent!” Your friend Cleo ran up to you and wrapped her arms around you. You hadn’t seen her since you lived in France for a few months and you had missed her. You left for France after you realized you weren’t really needed at home, so you dedicated yourself to trying to soak up some culture. She looked gorgeous like you remembered, fitting for a model. You continued your reunion embrace for a moment before she waved her arms to the men and woman behind her. She introduced the friends she had brought to your show as Arthur, Hilton, and Annette, who all smiled at you. Cleo paused to turn to the cowboy saying, “I see you’ve already met Benny.”

“Yeah we met,” he said, “but I didn’t know this was your work. I would’ve told you how impressed I am.” Your cheeks turned a light pink at the praise.

“Look at Benny, impressed with someone besides himself for once.”Cleo poked fun and the group let out a laugh.

“Hey I’m not a narcissist or anything, don’t listen to Cleo,” Benny made excuses to you, only mildly offended.

“Sure you aren’t. I have nothing against narcissists,” you jokingly assured him. This answer didn’t comfort the man who had essentially just asked you on a date.

You and Cleo continued to catch up and you talked more with her friends as well. Benny just stood next to you, and you caught him glancing at you once or twice, but you just ignored it. Eventually you agreed to go out for drinks with the group, walking with them to a bar a couple blocks down called Hal’s.

You all squeezed into a booth while Arthur went off to get drinks. You sat on the outside, watching the people out on the floor next to you giggling and dancing. Having a couple of drinks beforehand must’ve contributed to the large amount of people out there, you thought. Arthur eventually announced his return by laying a tray of drinks in the middle of the table.

You were all conversing and sipping on your drinks when Annette decided she wanted to dance. Cleo agreed enthusiastically, but the rest of us refused. She suggested we all take shots to make it easier, but once again we tried to turn her down. she pleaded, “come on guys, it’s a Saturday night, and you can’t possible lose something from it. Have a little bit of fun with me!”

We relented, having a feeling that she wasn’t going to give up any time soon. She gave a little clap and handed out the shots. You knocked yours back with everyone else and grimaced at the bitter taste. Shaking it off, you slid out of the booth so the others could get out. You moved back into your spot after they all made their way to the throng of people. You decided you would join them later, but you liked to observe first. You looked over and the only two left were you and Benny. You slid over to him, not wanting to sit awkwardly on the other end like he wasn’t there.

“I bet you five bucks that lady is bored out of her mind.” He pointed to a blonde on a date across the bar, “Either she’s an alcoholic or she’s trying to tune out baldie.” You looked at the woman and saw she was surrounded by empty glasses while the man in front of her seemed like he was boasting endlessly. You both started making observations about the various people in the bar. Most of them were snarky comments that you whispered into each other’s ears, giggling, but you also created imaginary lives for them, guessing who they were and how they got here. After sharing a couple laughs, you sighed and reached a comfortable lull before Benny brought up what you knew was coming.

“So have you thought about my earlier question?” He eyed you seriously all of a sudden, but you didn’t feel any pressure. He seemed the type of confident where he thought you would say yes, but he could recover if you said no.

You weighed in your impression of him. He was cute, with fluffy hair and nice eyes that were a kind of chocolate color. He was funny and you he seemed intelligent (I mean he had to be, he played competitive chess). Albeit his trench coat and hat were a bit eccentric, but that wasn’t a bad thing, in fact you found it attractive.

“So have you?” He asked again, leaning his head in.

“Oh uh” you hadn’t realized while you were thinking that you had zoned out looking at him. Clearing your throat you said, “I’m free for coffee.” You stopped, “But you have to wear the hat.”

“Wouldn’t leave home without it” he winked.

Suddenly you were shoved against him as your tipsy friends barreled back into the booth.

“We should probably join them” you said as you moved off him, pushing one of the leftover drinks towards him. He nodded and you both drank some more just to get on the same level as your friends.

“You two haven’t even danced! I saw you whispering. Too busy flirting?” Annette smiled as she slurred a few of her words. You just looked down, cheeks pink, leaving Benny to respond.

“How were you watching us when you were dancing with that guy, the one who looks like he’s only ever kissed his mother.”

“No, I’m sure he’s kissed other people! I mean he did seem young but...” Annette looked over to the guy she dragged to dance with her earlier. He stood sheepishly in the corner, looking like he hadn’t outgrown his baby fat yet, and was definitely not a city type. “He’s just shy!” She defended, but me and Benny just looked at each other, falling into giggles. You figured out that night that Annette was one of those drunks who got a little childish, but she was sweet.

You would’ve been content to keep hanging out with Benny, if it hadn’t been for Cleo who grabbed your hand and pulled you out to the dance floor. You looked back at Benny, but gave in and allowed her to twirl you into the crowd. You were having a good time with Cleo, Hilton and Arthur dancing on either side of her. You were soon out of breath, but didn’t mind, enjoying it all.

You had moved to the city a couple months ago, but hadn’t had time to make friends, focusing on your work and setting up your apartment. You missed having company, people who were fun and interesting.

You continued to move to the beat of the song until you bumped into someone. You looked back to see Benny smiling next to you. You smiled back and let him in to the little circle you and your friends had created. You felt a little warm, not from the dancing, but from being close to him.

After fifteen minutes you were all tired and made your way to the booth to gather all your things up and pay the bill. You walked out of the bar and into the chilly night air, grateful for the residual body heat that came from all the dancing. You hugged Cleo and your new friends goodbye as took turns getting into taxis and headed towards their homes. Hilton offered to wave you down a taxi too, but you declined, explaining that your home wasn’t a far walk. He shrugged and gave you another hug before climbing into the yellow car. Once again it was just you and Benny.

“Just the two of us again huh?” He spoke, and he definitely didn’t sound turned off by the idea.

“Fate I guess.”

“Sure” he said casually.

“Do you not believe in fate?” You asked. You weren’t a firm believer in the idea but something in his tone made you curious.

“I’ve had this debate before I think. I’m not sure, but I’d like to figure it out. How about you?” He said. You imagined him having a lot of debates. You had just met him, but he seemed to fall into the intellectual category. They always kept things interesting, and frequently offered new perspectives.

“I mean everything’s gotta mean something, there has to be a purpose. I just don’t know if we make our own purpose or if we’re given a purpose; fate.” You mused, not meaning to get existential. He didn’t seem to mind.

“You seem like the type to want to figure things out too.” He said ‘too’. So you and him both liked to do that. You added that to the growing list of things you liked about him.

“I guess I am.” He had a pleased look on his face and you just shrugged as you started to say goodbye.

“Wait” he grabbed your arm, “I heard you say you didn’t live far, I could walk you.” Before you could protest he told you, “it wouldn’t be a big deal, I heard you tell Hilton where you lived, we’re in the same direction.”

You agreed, finding yourself wanting to talk to him more. He offered you his arm casually and you laughed to yourself a little at the gesture, taking it anyway. You walked down the sidewalk, talking and laughing. You felt comfortable as you felt like you leveled with him. It seemed like too short of a walk as you suddenly found yourself at the door of your apartment building.

“Guess this is goodnight.” Benny said as you both stood on the sidewalk.

“What about coffee?” You asked.

“Glad you remembered. I’ll pick you up at twelve tomorrow, we can make it lunch. I’ll pick you up.” He said it decidedly, like it was just a fact. Something you noticed he did often.

“Ok then. Lunch. Tomorrow. Am I forgetting anything?” You said as you stepped halfway into the doorway.

“If you are we can figure that out later. I’ll see you.” He waved with a slight smile.

You waved back and smiled in return, watching him walk away before closing the door. You sped up to your apartment, letting yourself finally feel the excitement and anticipation of going out. You stripped off your clothing as soon as you got in and flopped on your bed, feeling sort of giddy. You felt like you and Benny were connected, though you had barely met him. As you laid down you smiled to yourself, looking forward to tomorrow.

#benny watts #benny watts x reader #the queen’s gambit #beth harmon #benny watts fanfiction #fan fiction

[pangtasias-atelier]

Taking it Natural

Well I can never fully stick to an outline lmao. But, I did manage a lil fic involving just some simple stuff between Cormag and Artur.

Kink stuff is more on the lesser end, cause I wanted to focus a bit more on dialogue and also wanted to write something on the smaller scale of sizes. Also was just fun to write a shorter, simpler story and also one not set in Askr which I need to do more lol

"I am perfectly fine doing the dishes," Artur lightly hums to himself. He scrubs away at the bits and remnants of the day's finished meal. A few pots and pans already on the drying rack alongside the ladles, said dishes preemptively cleaned before dinner had even been eaten, he washes the clutter of used dinnerware. His back facing Cormag, his partner currently sits at the couch.

"I'll go check on Genarog then," His voice comes out strained. Completely leaning against the couch, Cormag's stomach continues its prolonged harassment towards its owner. His stomach is a cacophony of churning and gurgling noises, the overworked, stuffed gut letting it's discomfort be known. Despite his declaration of performing a chore, he simply remains seated with his head leaning back. His lips are parted as he languidly recovers enough energy to catch his breath.

"I already fed him and made sure he's comfortable in his stable," Arthur places a plate on the drying rack beside the just washed cutlery and glassware. His still soapy hands reach for the next plate to scrub at.

"Ah," Cormag's strenuous breathing remains the same. He keeps his eyes closed as a way to block out any possible external  discomfort besides his tumultuous tummy. "Then I'll…" Cormag trails off with a groan. A few extra pants and wheezes come out as his gut seems to give him an extra angry complaint. "Then I'll-"

"You can wait on the couch. I am fine, Cormag," The last plate cleaned and set aside to dry, he dries his hands on a dish towel, the damp cloth adorned with miniature wyverns. Turning around, he smiles as he gets an eyeful of Cormag's sorry stuffed state.

Cormag retiring from being a soldier, he had instead taken up woodworking once he and Artur decided to live together. His new line of work requiring a different, less intensive set of skills, the sudden change of constant routines and fighting to meticulous, long periods of time sitting while carving was a sudden change for his metabolism and appetite. The lack of much activity affecting his physique was only compounded by Artur's task of taking care of the house's chores. Cormag had already been aware of Artur's proficiency in the culinary arts through their occasional picnics back when the two had first begun a relationship, yet the latter's constant practice through cooking everyday left his prowess in the kitchen to something to truly be proud of. Cormag having a generous fill of food every meal of the day, his indulgence of Artur's cooking hadn't moved quite past an extra helping or two every go around. Although, even those generous extra helpings helped plump and widen his waistline to a body type rather past stocky and into fat guy territory.

Clothes upsized just as his body upsized, his maroon t-shirt does a sufficient job in covering Cormag’s sun kissed skin. His compact yet soft pile of squishy fat for a stomach curves outwards as it ever so gently slots itself on top of his doughy thighs. Pressed up against his shirt, the malleable tummy barely covers any of Cormag’s lap, enough space for Artur to be comfortably seated atop him still. The two fleshy legs seem even wider as he sits, the bunched up fat splaying a slightly extra amount from resting on the couch. Cormag’s pants do their best in perfectly covering the two, the waistband even widened as well to not uncomfortably squish against Cormag’s hips. The center of his gut juts out more than his squeezable love handles, Cormag’s rotundness more pronounced. The stuffed mass seems to taunt Artur, his eyes finding themselves often drifting back towards the perfectly rubbably surface. Cormag’s sizable chest makes itself comfortable on top of his stomach, the handful of breasts splaying a bit to the side from the accumulation of fat. His pronounced chest only helps make Cormag seem extra wide, Artur always feeling rather twiggish next to his plump teddy bear of a husband. Though the lightly tanned moobs are offered enough room from Cormag’s spacious shirt to not be so confined and pressed up against the fabric. Cormag’s biceps are no more, the somewhat, albeit nicely, defined biceps coated in a plush, warm layer of fat. The plump appendaged perfect for a nice, crushing yet comforting hug, Cormag’s arms had always been a secret favorite of Artur’s. Cormag rests his arms on the cushiony back pillows, the bottom heft of his arms squishing ever so slightly against the surface. His face at the very center of his arm span, Artur can only see the fleshy double chin connected to Cormag’s lovably wonderful kissable face. Though he can very much hear his love’s taxed breathing even over the angered grumbling coming from his gut.

“Oh, Artur,” Cormag’s arms wobble for a few moments; the two doughy appendages struggle as he tries to push himself up despite his body’s protests. “Give me, hah, a minute,” His rotund body expands with each great, deep breath he takes.

“No worries,” Artur sits himself beside Cormag. His lap calling to him, he’d feel like a monster causing him anymore discomfort. “I’ll wait beside you,” Artur pats Cormag’s thigh.

“Heh,” Cormag lets out a small chuckle, the only response he can give before he has to take a few more breaths to help relieve the heavy pit of pain resting in his gut. “I really ate like a pig,”

The faint warm onset of a blush on Artur’s face blossoms on his face, the healer always getting a tinge of embarrassment whenever Cormag even offhandedly mentions his size or eating habits. “Perhaps. But, I should learn to stop cooking so much. I just think of something nice for us to share and so I kinda just make it,” Artur tosses a noncommittal shrug at the end, a few awkward laughs thrown in as well as if he hadn’t confessed his unique admiration in the way Cormag’s body plumped out. A few extra pounds looking rather dashing on his tall figure which would only look more handsome if those few extra pounds swelled into a dozen or perhaps even a hundred before Cormag was resting at a sizable 300 pounder of a man.

“Maybe. Guess we both should learn some restraint,”

“Perhaps,,,” Artur nearly reaches for Cormag’s aching gut to soothe the beast before thinking better of it. “I have a salve that should help,” Without waiting for any confirmation, Artur goes to the closet full of his supplies. Herbs able to help cure maladies unlike staves, he rummages through the several jars and boxes he has. Though only Artur would consider his neat, organized setup a mess requiring rummaging, Lute always interested in his tidy organizational skill. Having fetched the ointment, he stands in front of the seated Cormag. “This has to go directly on your skin,” He tosses the lower hem of Cormag’s shirt up. Applying a dollop of the ointment on his hands, he wastes no time in getting them all over Cormag’s stomach.

“You’ve never needed an excuse to do this stuff before,” The salve immediately begins to work its magic on Cormag. His labored breathing slowly begins to take on a more natural pace and the evident discomfort on his face washes away. “You sure do know your way around there,” Cormag even shifts around on the couch, his stomach no longer threatening to self-destruct from the slightest jostle.

Artur drops his head in mirthful laughter, Cormag’s surprising silly teasing always getting to him. “I have rubbed your stomach how many times, Cormag?” His hands drift on over to Cormag’s love handles. Standing above Cormag, he grabs on to the chunky handles as he leans down for a kiss.

“Not enough, knowing you,” Cormag whispers as they part.

“Then you truly do know me,” Artur retorts. Cormag’s stomach is no longer a ticking time bomb, so he figures it’d be fine to sit in his favorite spot. He gently lowers himself down onto Cormag’s lap. His soft squishy, tummy rests comfortably against his back.

“If you had this kind of stuff laying around, why use it only now?”

“Well- I,,,” Artur considers his next words for a moment. “I felt bad with how much I stuffed you tonight. I may have gone overboard so-”

Cormag promptly cuts him off with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t force me to do anything. You’re cooking is great. I tell all my clients about your cooking. They kept hounding me about your recipe for those cookies you always make to butter them up,”

“Ah,” Artur turns bright red as he recalls the high praises from all of Cormag’s clients, a few even inadvertently referring to Cormag’s weight upon said praises. “Well, I also didn’t use this because I didn’t want you to feel like I only cared about stuffing you and getting you fatter,”

“I’m gonna have to get up for this one,” Rising up, Cormag makes sure to help Artur up first. “Look at me,” He grabs Artur’s shoulders. Artur shorter by a few inches, he feels miniscule right now. “If I ever have any problems with my weight, you are going to be the first person I tell. We’ve known each other for years before I started gaining weight,” Cormag brings Artur to him, wrapping him in a bear hug. Artur’s arms are ensnared by Cormag’s own doughy arms. Though he knows his arms wouldn’t be able to wrap around him regardless. His feet rise off a few inches from the ground as Cormag holds on to him. Cormag begins to chuckle, his heart always aflutter with Artur in his arms. The ring of laughter catches onto Artur, the two laughing together. They remain like so for a few minutes, neither speaking.

Eventually, Cormag lets Arthur back down. A hefty sigh escapes his lips from the minimal amount of activity. “And if you ever have any problems with my weight, then let me know,” Cormag holds onto Artur’s hands, rubbing the palm of them with his thumb.

“Of course. But I don’t think I could ever have a problem having such a handsome husband.”

“Unfortunately for you, my husband is more handsome than yours,” Artur snorts from Cormag’s reply. His hands find their way to Cormag’s arm for a light slap.

“I guess you win then. But, thank you. Neither of us have done this, so I wanted to make sure we’re going at a natural pace for the both of us,”

“Taking it nice and slow is my preference. Enjoying the travel is just as important as the destination or however you say it,” An idea sparking in his brain, Cormag devilishly grins, his plump cheeks dimpling. “Let’s enjoy the scenic route some more,” Cormag leans slightly down. He gently whispers in Artur’s ears before resting his lips on his partner’s.

Artur grinning, he merely murmurs in hushed agreement as Cormag kisses him, the crackle of joy feeling just as natural as their first kiss, the two ready to indeed enjoy Cormag’s current size and take things naturally, wherever it might lead.

#Cormag is kinda hard to write but I hope this is somewhat close #I just imagine him eing actually kinda dorkish with someone he's comfortable lol #my writing #fat fiction #fat!Cormag #fat!Sacred Stones #maleweightgain #male weight gain

[meowdymista]

For my first RDR2 event, I was paired with @sunspott / @polybigbang. Their art was for a playlist on spotify called Going’s All We Know, and I’ve tried to incorporate the mood of the playlist into my first impression of the art.

You can read my submission on AO3 or follow through with the read more :)

Still No Rest

Feet are itching again, plus it ain't like we can stick around much longer. Going is all we know, even if we ain't got nowhere else left.

Things had been too steady of late. They had been too safe, had slipped away far too easily, had pulled moneybags out of places that should have fought back but hadn't even batted an eye.

Arthur pushes back his hair, greasy and long, off his brow. The clouds above are smoky and dark - a storm, just as anticipated.

Maybe he jumped a little too far too fast today. Maybe if he hadn't been so on edge waiting for something to go wrong, they could have deescalated the situation. Maybe lives could have been spared, but it’s not like the guilt isn’t scratching the ridges of his brain like a dusty gramophone needle.

What makes you any different? You who's always scraping for a scrap of some sort. Them trying to do the right thing and crossing your path to do it. Better you than them, right? Like Daddy always said, if they didn’t want to die they should mind their own business.

A new start: isn't that what they had promised themselves? A new state, a new town, a new camp: a clean slate that he had managed to bloody in a record three days.

Every bullet that screamed past his ear left his bones ringing with that too familiar dull tired ache. Every blade that snagged his clothes instead of his skin embittered him. The tiniest of voices hummed with the thought that maybe, maybe, he should fight that craving for carelessness and even tell someone about it… but the beast he’s become scowls and reminds him with a low growl that then they would stop him. They would take him off the front line, teach the gangly adolescent John - who is a far worse shot - to replace him.

It's not even jealousy really, he reasons as he slips his journal away and stretches into a stand. They need him. Need his gun, his eye, his blade. Worrying them isn’t an option, especially right now. He doesn’t need to make them doubt his reliability, or question whether they’ve misplaced their trust. He knew in his heart that if anyone in the gang confessed the same, he would refuse their gun, even if he needed it - and afterwards? In the weeks, months, years to come? He would always pick someone else. Someone less vulnerable. Someone he never doubted or needed to protect.

Which is how he ended up going out with the feller Dutch had picked up when they were up North. He’s had a few too many close shaves under Hosea’s watchful eye of late as he struggled to conceal the beast's rearing head. The old man was onto him, his brown eyes still boring into him, even after Copper found his way to him.

Bill, on the other hand, is always game for a ruckus. He has as much of a temper as he does, and can match him drink for drink. Some of the stories he lets slip prickle him - like the beast recognising a party equal, a fellow host. He says nothing. Doesn't validate them, doesn't acknowledge them or aim to empathise, he just accepts the added weight of tar and grudges home with another bottle.

“Arthur?”

"M'tired," grunts Arthur, walking past Hosea, boots scuffing the dry red earth beneath them. “Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes bullets fly no matter what you do.”

Hosea doesn’t dignify his excuse with a response, and despite the poker face, Arthur can feel the guilt twist a little tighter in his gut as he sets about washing his arms and face in the barrel by the food reserves. He knows nothing good would come from trying to explain the truth of the situation... How a glimpse of a little boy in his peripherals is as sure a sign of upcoming thunder as lightning flashing in the distance. His not-brown-not-blond tussle of hair brushing the wind with fat drops of rain… rain that never came, leaving Arthur to water the ground with blood, like somehow it could make him feel less like he’s drowning in the driest desert outside of New Mexico.

He pats his pockets for the cigarette he had rolled earlier, until, retracing his steps mentally, he sighs in disappointment. He had been about to light it when it all kicked off. Or rather… it had been in his mouth whilst he tried to align yet another match to the tobacco when he had caught the eye of another patron and decided to swap the nicotine for some adrenaline.

His fondness for Bill always grew at moments like this. Bastard heard one cross word and his guns were out before he found his balance.

Deflated, he uncaps a beer instead, emptying it, tossing it aside and grabbing another, before spotting the girl devouring a bowl of stew a stone's throw away.

"Who's she?" he asks before Hosea can try to raise the day’s events.

"Your new ward."

Arthur stops, scoffing, growing angry when the elder doesn’t back down. "Nuh uh! No way! I just got rid of Johnny! Get Williamson to do it!"

"You'd trust him with her?"

"Sure! Why not?" He glances back at the girl despite himself. His index finger is itching again. "Or get Marston on it. Ain't like he's doing much else."

"John is still learning how to take care of himself, and Bill…"

"He ain't gonna beat up a little girl." Restless, his feet shuffle beneath him, his beer swapping hands before touching his lips again. "And ain't like he's gonna have interest in her."

"You think he wouldn't do it just to prove a point?" Their eyes meet briefly before Arthur's gaze drops. "People who are insecure are far more dangerous than those comfortable in themselves, never forget that Arthur. Besides, I'd rather not expose her to the prejudices she can get any day of the week. She ought to feel safe here, don't you think?"

He finishes the dregs and tosses the bottle, preferring to change the subject than admit he’s right. "Where’d she come from? She got any family?"

"She left her cousin back east. Came this way looking for her mother but she’d passed meanwhile."

"So… what’s the plan? We taking her back east?"

"Sure as shit you ain't!"

The girl has stepped around the table, legs planted apart, hands folded across her flat chest, her hair as free and untamed as her temperament. She is glaring something fierce, making the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in a fight or flight instinct.

Hosea chuckles softly, eyes bright with pride. "I reckon she's one of us now."

"Well, does she have a name?" asks Arthur, incredulous.

"Jackson." She jerks her heart shaped face in a defensive greeting. "My name is Tilly Jackson."

"Well, Miss Tilly Jackson, you always so fierce?" He stalks the couple of steps to the nearest crate of whiskey and pulls one free.

"You always this stupid?"

"Hey now, Miss Jackson," interrupts Hosea before Arthur can bark. "We don't talk to each other like that here."

"He started it!"

"And you’re sitting with Mrs Matthews when you’re done so she can keep an eye on you!” He ushers her towards Bessie to keep her out of harm's way before turning back to his first product of adoption with a raised brow.

"You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

"Try coming back just half soaked some time. Might make them go easier on you."

Arthur scoffs, his rebuttal dying in his throat. He dampens the ash with another swig.

"I want you to take her with you when you go out."

His scoff is solid. "No way."

Hosea straightens up, watching him, using his body language to ask the questions.

"I ain't taking her out. You want her shot?"

"You intend to shoot her?"

"No, course not-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Arthur's eyes roll in exasperation, his finger flexing around the neck of the bottle like it's a button that will win the argument if he squeezes tight enough. "The problem is other people shooting at us."

"You intend to get shot at?"

"No, but-"

"Then I see no problem."

"That don't mean we ain't gonna get shot at!"

"Why would you get shot at?"

'Cause that's what I set out to do most days, he wants to counter. And if I ain't likely to get shot, I'm likely in jail or black out drunk in a saloon someplace.

Instead he closes his mouth, any excuse dead before it passes his lips.

"I'm not asking you to take her with you to rob a bank, Arthur." Hosea's tone is firm but still soft - a talent of his. "But while you're out looking for leads, or even looting a homestead or something… She's nifty."

"Hosea, I-" He trails off, distracted by the clip of notes Hosea is picking through, and downright thrown when he passes him the thinned out clip. "What's this for? I gettin' paid to be a nanny now?"

“This-” Hosea holds up a couple of notes before putting them in his pocket. “-is for arguing with me. This is for the box, as it seems you’ve forgotten to pay the camp's share, and this-" He casually holds out the last few dollars to the side like he’s ashing a cigarette. A small brown hand slips it away as both Hosea and little Miss Tilly regard him smugly. "Is for a mark well scammed."

"You mean-?" He checks his pockets, ears growing hot. "You son of a-"

“Ah-ah! Language!” Dutch swaggers up with a smirk like he has been watching the introduction unfold in its entirety. “C’mon, Arthur, you have to give it to her. She’s talented!”

“Might finally have picked up a smart one, eh, Dutch?” winks Hosea. Arthur scowls and turns on his heel, leaving them laughing and praising their newest addition.

****

Arthur remains cool and calm the next few days, hunting local and sticking close to camp. Every time he approaches his horse, the little girl is waiting, watching him with her fierce brown eyes.

"Where we goin', Mr Arthur?" She asks as soon as he's within earshot. "Do I need anything bringing?"

Every time he offers to pay double what Hosea has offered her, and every time she refuses to discuss the terms of their negotiation. Every time he curses everything under his breath, keeping his language savoury for the child nearby. Every time he scowls, and every time he gives her a grunt of "naw, we ain't going far" before mounting up and lifting her onto the rear.

"I can ride myself, ya know?" She shoots one morning as Arthur leads his stead into a trot away from camp, heading towards the softer, greener terrain that’s barely visible on the horizon. "Properly. Not side saddle."

"Good for you."

"If I had a horse I would show you."

"And run off with the money we got, huh."

She bristles. "I ain't no snitch."

"Sounds like somethin' a snitch would say." He pops the cork from a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Replacing the bottle, he notices her scrunching her nose in disdain. “Got a problem? I can take you back to camp.”

“You sure don’t drink much water,” she comments drily. “You ain’t worried ‘bout heatstroke out here?”

“Liquor’s hydrating,” he scowls, pushing the horse into a canter.

“Pretty sure it ain’t, but you do you. Besides, I got dibs on your things. We all gotta start somewhere, right?”

Arthur snorts angrily, adrenaline prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You sure as hell do not, princess. I ain’t going nowhere!”

Miss Jackson hums sarcastically. “Sure you ain’t. You don’t eat, don’t drink anything under forty proof, don’t talk to no one-”

“If you don’t like it, I can drop you right here!”

“Go ahead.” Her tone is defiant, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she grips his sides a little tighter. “Mr Matthews was pretty explicit about what he’d do to you if you tried.”

He stews the next mile or more, not speaking up until he finally dismounts for a break at the change of terrain.

Wide open spaces always helped to ground him, even though it could make vanishing into thin air difficult. To some extent, it forced him to not be so careless. In others, it made it easier to kid himself that he had never crossed the threshold into civilisation, let alone crossed a kind faced waitress.

Listening out for creeping cougars and restless rattlesnakes, he crouches down by the water’s side and splashes his face, washing off the worst of the sweat and dust that’s caked itself into every pore available. The girl makes no move to dismount, so he takes it upon himself to refill her canteen as a gesture of goodwill.

“You don’t got to stick to us, you know.” She turns her big brown eyes from the sky onto Arthur’s face. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, focusing his attention on brushing out the biggest clumps of dust from the horse’s mane before they continue. “If you need me to take you somewhere-”

“And what’s a girl to do then? Hit the road with a couple dollars?” She fixes him with a look that is too old for her face. “Naw, I think I’ll stay with youse a little longer.”

“That’s alright, but we’re gonna have to be moving on real soon.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the unspoken reminder that it’s because of him and his actions. “It ain’t like we can promise to be back up this way any time in the near future. If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind about them, Mr Morgan.” She shivers in a breeze that only seems to touch her. “No, sir. They had me bound real good for real long, but I don’t need ‘em. I won my freedom, Mr Morgan, an’ I ain’t going back.”

He risks a glance, curiosity getting the better of him. Her eyes are sparkling as bright as the water's surface, but her jaw is clenched tight. He debates riding further, doing what he can to get them set up at the fishing spot Hosea had heard about as they moved through the state to their current set up, but the child looked too old. Too tired. Too existentially exhausted.

Plus, when you get low enough, it's like some things will follow wherever you go.

“Let’s stop here a while.”

As predicted, Miss Jackson double takes. “Don’t you want to get to where we’re headed?”

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like there ain’t food to be foraged here. Nothing to come raising any hell or bother us into raising it for them. Reckon this spot’s as good as any.”

He turns his back to her as she dismounts warily, focusing his energy on starting a small campfire they can add to.

"I ain't goin' anywhere if you wanna swim." He grimaces as his words come out gruffer than intended. "I got clean clothes in the saddle bags here if you want 'em for the trip back or to swim in even. Can't imagine that skirt is the lightest when it gets wet."

"You ain't wrong, Mr Arthur, sir. Thank you for the offer but I think I'm just gonna stick to paddling for now."

"Sure."

It's not his first choice. This land is a little too dry for his liking, but that's what comes with being so close to the desert. Money means nothing to nature, besides she provides everything and more than what shops and butchers supply. Who needs civilisation when there's the wilds to retreat into? When there is wild carrots and rhubarb aplenty, fresh meat, shelter, all for the low cost of taking what you need as you need it?

The fire started, he sets out to look for fuel and food. Crouching down to check dung and disturbances in the foliage, he finds the damage is minimal. He swears again, taking a swig of whiskey from his satchel.

He doesn't really remember a time he didn't drink, but he knows this is different. He knows this isn't a choice on his behalf. The demon demands fuel as a child demands milk, and like the fool he is, he provides without much hesitation. Anything for a glimmer of peace from the screaming child in his mind.

He scoffs at himself and straightens up, looking around on the off chance some animal is dumb enough to be caught out in the open - and as luck would have it, a pronghorn buck is grazing a stones throw away.

He inhales deeply, taking aim with newfound focus, and fires.

The pronghorn bolts, but it's no contest for the bullet soaring his way. A mournful cry bleats through the undergrowth as it flees. He follows, as loud as he likes given the rip of the shot would have blasted a warning to anything within earshot. Breaking through a wall of cacti, he spots Miss Tilly aghast in the shallows as the buck splashes into the lake he had washed up in on their arrival.

He keeps going, realising the buck is heading for a wet escape. Shedding his guns as he runs, he wades in after it, shouting.

The buck is swimming in deep water, leaving behind a trail of blood behind with every baleful bleat, leaving Arthur with no option besides taking a spur of the moment swim or going home with an empty stomach.

"C'mere!" he cries, breaking into breaststroke. The buck is slowing, every cry growing more lamenting and mournful. "Stop! I can make it stop, just come a little closer."

It's crying weakly by the time he manages to reach it. He throws an arm over its neck and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the blood proves too thick and one small fumble sends it disappearing into the depths.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging the wounded animal with him as he kicks his way towards shore. "You ain't gonna get any lighter."

He struggles towards shore, gasping assurances every chance he gets. When his boots finally scrape the bottom, he whistles for his mount with the last of the air in his lungs.

He finally releases the animal, using both hands to search for a knife or a pistol - something to end its suffering quickly. Drowning the thing felt too callous, too slow, too-

"Will this be enough?"

Arthur, still gasping for breath, hair dripping into his blue eyes, pauses, surprised. A small hand is proferring a flip knife, her small face reflecting the distress of his own. Recovering, he nods quickly, thanking her as he takes the tool from her and advising her to look away and cover her ears. Obeying doesn’t lessen the heart wrenching last cry of the animal, but on opening her eyes again, she decides it is less painful than watching the poor thing struggle as it drowned.

Arthur is holding the animal, counting, as though held to some strange code to make sure it is dead before removing the tool of choice. He shakes the knife under the surface and folds it up, passing it back to her with a grunt of thanks. She takes it, still in shock at the unexpected show of violence.

He pushes the carcass out of the water, promising to be back soon before swimming back to where he caught the animal. Watching his head disappear under the surface, she is left with the silence of the cooling body nearby. It looks strangely peaceful staring off into the east.

Arthur swims back, pushing back the sodden mop of brown hair as he wades out with sopping boots and a shiny carving knife he must have dropped earlier. He advises her to leave him to it if she’s squeamish, and she refuses up until the animals guts plume onto the sand.

From a distance, she watches him carry them away from their makeshift camp, covering them up with some leaves and branches to disguise the worse of the mess but leave it readily available to the creatures due a feast. Returning to the body, he begins to carve with care, piling steaks onto canvas. He wastes as little as possible, even wrapping the exposed neck of the head in canvas before tying it onto the horse. He turns to the water, notices her watching and walks over.

“Reckon we’re almost done here,” he calls as he gets close enough. “Just gonna wash up and we can get going.”

“You always butcher your kill before going back?” she asks.

He huffs, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, when I don’t plan on walking back. Figured you’d rather hitch a ride than straddle a dead deer.”

She shudders, making him laugh as he kicks off his boots and setting them aside to dry from earlier. He doesn’t remove his clothes, just pulls a bar of soap from the saddlebags and asks if she minds if he doesn’t dry off. She herself finally admits internally that she feels grubby. She had washed and washed and washed, and eventually came to accept the grime was not going to wash off her. Too much dirt, too ingrained, too repeated to ever shed properly…

She follows him, still keeping her distance. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing suds under his nails, over his forearms, into every fibre of his shirt. When she finally feels brave enough to speak up, she takes a deep breath, and on a whim decides to splash him.

He turns around, frowning, before picking up on the giggles and grinning himself. His arms are stronger, thicker, longer - the retaliation engulfs her with a responding tidal wave that leaves her gasping for air. In the small glimpse she makes of him, she notes the guilt and the apology on his lips as he believes himself having gone too far, but she’s too quick. She pushes him in the chest and tries to swim away as quick as she can, squealing the whole way.

Their laughter disturbs the birds in the branches, and they take flight, not that either of them notice. They play until the sun lowers to kiss the leaves around them. They share the bar of soap, and Tilly takes refuge in his disinterest. He lets her wash. She lets him wash. Both of them keep their distance when appropriate.

“Perhaps we oughta ride back in the morning,” Arthur muses when he notices how much she is shivering. "It's only gonna get colder, and at least we've got a fire going here."

“I don’t mind making the ride.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Miss Tilly. You’re dead on your feet, and sure as hell will be dead in the saddle. I can fall asleep just about anywhere if you’re alright with the tent and bedroll? Hell, it’d make a nice change to waking up to Susan and Dutch arguing, huh?”

“You ain’t wrong...” She is still hesitating. Arthur tried to shake the thought of what she must have been through and instead tells himself that it's standard practice to be wary of new folk. She could feel safe in camp because there were more people to keep tabs on one another. Out here, it was just him, her and the stars, and since when did the stars ever do anything to help?

“Listen. Choice is yours. I’ll ride through the night if that’s what you want, but I promise you’re safe with me.” He checks the barrel of his revolver, counting the six bullets nestled inside before snapping it in place and holding it out by the barrel. “Here. I can’t give you both in case we get jumped, but I’ll stow the long arms on Wyn if that makes it easier.”

She sits in silence for a long while before nodding slowly.

“Alright then. You get to eating your fill while I set you up for the night.”

*****

She wakes up, well rested and warm. She takes a few minutes to lay there, watching the shadows of the flies buzzing on the canvas above before finally crawling out in search of fresh air.

Owain is grazing not so far away, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. His long arms are still stashed, the fire just ash now. Panic rises in her throat, torn between the fear of him being jumped and him abandoning her willingly.

She frets, pacing, checking their reserves. No, she has no clue where the hell he has taken her so she doesn’t know where to even start on trying to return to Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde. She curses him for being so spoilt as to be threatened by a little girl.

“Mornin’, Miss Jackson.” She flinches, immediately retreating from the greeting. Arthur is frowning under the brim of his hat as he dismounts the small bay coloured horse. “Everythin’ alright?”

“I thought you left me,” she admits, still choked up. He seems surprised, then bashful, trying to hide it by patting the neck of the horse he has with him.

“Naw. There was a herd moving through here early this morning and I remembered about you wantin’ a horse of your own.” He gives her an awkward nod. “Whaddaya reckon? She rides pretty nice. One of the smaller one, but she seems friendly enough. If you wanna keep her, I’ll set you up on mine until we can get this one broke in properly if tha’s alright?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He begins to pack their things away, tacking Owain and bribing both steads with sugar cubes.

“We going hunting again?”

Arthur puts away the brush and pats his horse’s neck. “Naw. Today we’re headed to Greyhound Station.”

“Why?”

“Boring stuff. Check to see if anyone’s tried to write us. Check for bounties and that we ain’t most of ‘em. See if there’s any jobs goin’, keep an ear to the ground in case there’s money to be had. You know, standard outlaw stuff.”

“I ain’t ever been on a wanted poster yet,” she muses. “That I know of anyhow. Knowing the Foreman Brothers, they’ll be tryin’ to frame me for something.”

“The Foreman Brothers?”

“The… gang. The ones I was with when Dutch and Hosea found me.” Arthur hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t press it. It’s like he knows it’s a big bruise still there after months of riding with them. “They was wrestlin’ to hang me or bury me alive. Never did find out which since I managed to wriggle off the wagon without them noticin’. So much for family.”

“Y’all were related?”

“Yeah.” She spits off the side. “Good riddance to ‘em.”

He hums. “If anybody tries to pull that with you again, you lemme know. I’ll get ‘em before they blink.” He rummages in his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle of clear liquid. She frowns as he takes a greedy few gulps before offering it to her.

“I ain’t much a fan of the bottle, Arthur.”

He throws her a look of befuddlement over his shoulder before understanding befalls him. “It weren’t my first choice, Miss Jackson, but I’ve yet to learn how best to store water if not in a bottle of some kind.”

“Water?”

“Water,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Whiskey’s the other side if you want some.”

“I’m good for now, Mr Morgan,” she smiles, raising the bottle to her lips, squinting at the sunburned strip that’s the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

#rdr2 reverse big bang #rdr2 #rdrbigbang #rdrreversebang2021 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #tilly jackson #arthur morgan #sunspott

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

[imaginesbymk]

“Sweet as Cherry Pie.”

Peaky Blinders One Shot

Summary: Y/n is Alfie Solomons’ younger sister who comes to Camden town & Small Heath. Why? She’s their secret weapon: sassy, unpredictable and insults their enemies to filth. Or maybe she’s just bored and needed the first enemy she sees to throw a comment at. Either way, Alfie couldn’t ask for a better sister.

Pairing: ---

Tags: swearing, mentions of violence, weapons, drug & alcohol use, smoking + s4 spoilers

Word Count: 1755 words

Author’s Note: sksmsksks this is based off a dream i had one night. it isn’t the best piece i’ve written but i love a sassy reader. one shots are not open, this is just a one shot for my 800 follower special - [milestone masterlist]

“GOOD MORNING, Alfie.” Tommy said, walking down the distillery. Well, it wasn’t that much of a good morning for Tommy, really. In fact, even though he’s very productive and professional most times, this time the man wished he was back in bed where he could be exposed in his shirtless self, waking up to see his boy with that bright smile, sharing his eyes. 

Normally, he’d be drowning in family meetings back in Small Heath, but the atmosphere in Camden town begged to differ.

“Meh, not really,” Alfie Solomons glances up at the window- the dusty, stained window pane gave in the overcast weather. He turns back to Tommy. “Mate, I’m glad we’re right on schedule. I was starting to think you got shot in your own fucking office chair back home.”

Tommy stared at the Jewish-English man, knowing Alfie was from Camden Town, how outsiders would speak ill of such towns and vice versa.

Alfie shuffles over using his cane as support and hands Tommy the tickets. “Those are the tickets to the boxing match. And in that storage unit behind you is the gateway to the clouds.”

“Kind of you. But you know I have booze at home, stored neatly and safely. I can manage without your rum.” Tommy walked in, anyway.

“I’m not giving you my rum for free, Tommy. I’m not even selling it to you,” Tommy watched as Alfie made his way to the other room of his bakery, ready to check on the AM workers as they got to work right away.

Tommy read the front labels of the bottle he picked up from one of the barrels. This man has gone a long way in his business, he couldn’t deny that. Over a hundred barrels have been shipped to God knows how many speakeasies were in Europe and America, and when Alfie Solomons received his earnings, he holds it tightly and proudly, guarding it as he cherishes his success.

Taking a bottle wouldn’t hurt, it would please him knowing he is interested in buying his product. He could even smell it from the sealed caps. He could smell it from the barrels, residue on the floor, or even from one of the workers’ breaths. He could pop it open and take a quick sniff like playing in snow. Tommy dug in his coat pockets, pulling out a stack.

“Oh, so you are fucking loaded.” Tommy whipped around, his gun already pulled from his holster, gripped and pointed to the voice inches behind him. 

The person- the woman, didn’t react, not a small gasp at the sight of the barrel of the gun nearing her face. Boldly enough, she reached over and grabbed the stack of cash from Tommy’s hand and walked away, not even remotely thinking if the man she startled would pull the trigger with her back turned. 

“Thanks, Mr. Shelby. And Alfie thanks you!” the female voice calls out.

Con artist? Someone posing as a worker? An enemy? Tommy breathed heavily, swearing left and right in his mind that he could of at least stopped whoever that was from taking his money, or yelled at her the way he usually does to anyone who worked for him because he was the boss. He was loaded, but no one would just allow someone to take a loan like that without anything afterwards, unless they were a clerk in a bank robbery.

After feeling like he was glued to the floor in that tiny space, Tommy rushed out to find Alfie back in his office with his glasses on his face, jotting notes down on a piece of paper, noticing the stack of cash sitting near the cup holder.

“Who the fuck just walked inside that storage unit and grabbed the stash right out my fucking hands?”

Tommy’s outburst of his question didn’t send Alfie into a panic. “You mean my dearest sister y/n?” Alfie got up from his seat. “She gave me the cash so I didn’t have to do it, but she didn’t even bid me a goodbye afterwards. She just plopped it on my desk and went her way. It’s not like I died or anything. I’m not fucking invisible, Tommy. You can see me, right?” 

Tommy let out a long sigh, dreading that there’s not one but two migraine-stirring bastards named Solomons, it’s enough for one he already wishes to throw a beer bottle at some times, but now another one probably much worse than if described. “You have a sister, Alfie? You never said anything about having a sister.”

“Yeah. But don’t worry, she’s sweet as cherry pie,” Alfie nods. “I brought her here, but she’s pretty homesick, so I would bid her warm welcomes if I were you.”

“Why should I?” Tommy says, frowning. “She just took my fucking money.”

“Oh, for sure.” Alfie waves the loan in front of Tommy, reminding him that y/n is no thief. “And because she knows about the vendetta between you, the Peakys and the Italians. If they come to her, she’ll roar at them, literally.”

“WHO the fuck is this, now?” Arthur stared at the woman stood next to Tommy at the foot of the small dining room where old memories held of their past meetings and heartbreaks.

“This is Y/n Solomons. She’s our messenger.” Tommy wished he never had to say that. He wished she would stop touching his fucking stuff, too. “Y/n, put down my fucking frame.”

“Oh fuck,” Polly blew out smoke from her cigarette. “There’s two of them?”

“And what is wrong with my brother?” Y/n places the frame back down on the mantel. “He’s a successful businessman. He beat a man three fucking times his size to gravel after he called me fat.”

“Y/n Solomons is our messenger. She’s also helping with updates from Aberama Gold once we get Michael out of Birmingham for now, because Luca Changretta is still out there, and he’s fucking pissed.”

“You can very hot headed sometimes, Mr. Shelby.” Later the brief introduction of their newcomer in their recent meeting was long over, she stayed back even though she was dismissed to do her work. “It’s probably because you smoke so much cigarettes that you’re starting to look like an ashtray, or of that heavy out-dated coat you wear all the time just weighs you down that your back and shoulders must hurt like hell.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Tommy said, irritated by her presence, even her just standing there at the table.

“Nothing.” Y/n sighs and heads out the door. “You know where I’ll be!” she calls.

Sweet as cherry pie, my ass. Tommy grunts and lights a cigarette.

“WHAT’S the matter?” Luca Changretta asks. “I said we had a deal.”

“Ah, you just made a deal without negotiation, now did ya?” Y/n’s brother sat on the chair, staring up at the menacing mobster holding one of the rum bottles given as a gift. “Yeah, Tommy Shelby was right about you. You plan to kill us all.” He spoke in Yiddish, and he mocks a tsking sound.

Luca smirks down, even though he didn’t know what he said, at least they both were aware of one thing; Tommy knows what kind of man I am.

“Mr. Changretta, may I speak freely?” y/n chimes in.

The Italian shrugs. “Mr. Solomons, I checked my calendar earlier and I did not read anything about today being Take Your Kid to Work Day,” and he laughs, his cousin as his henchman behind laughing along with him.

“Mate, I’d choose my next words very carefully if I were you,” Alfie says, stifling a smile. “This is my baby sister you’re talking down to, and she won’t tolerate one bit of it.”

“And I should be afraid?”

“Perhaps less afraid, more self-conscious, Mr. Changretta,” y/n replies. “Just a few minutes ago I was sensing the stench of failure, but then I saw you and your men walk in.”

Luca chuckles sarcastically. “Ouch.”

“And it’s not like we’re having a showdown right here, you didn’t need to bring your men with you unless you’re doubling their pay for just standing silently. I mean, they’re as important as Tommy Shelby’s evening sous chef.”

“Who?” Alfie had to ask.

Y/n smirks. “Exactly. Anyways, I just need to tell you that my brother’s business isn’t for sale. Alfie has worked hard and I’m proud to be his sister, supporting him. I’ll drink his rum like it’s mother’s milk if I had to. So, let my brother handle your men at the match, and you’ll take care of the two hundred barrels to be shipped to New York. Simple.”

“What do you know about business, Miss Solomons?”

“What do you know about combat, Luca? If you didn’t lack the experience, Tommy Shelby’s blood would spill fresh on your hands as we speak. How are you a soldier for the mafia if you hadn’t accomplish the vendetta yet?”

“Well-”

“Actually, don’t answer that. I’ll fall asleep.” Y/n took a step forward, lowering her smile up as his height overpowered hers. “My brother isn’t asking for much. He’s a good friend of Tommy Shelby, yet he’s helping you. You should be kissing his feet, Mr. Changretta, not abusing his generosity.”

Luca chewed the matchstick in his mouth. “Is that so?” he looks back at his men. “Porca puttana.”

“Vaffanculo, right back at you, mate. You just earned yourself another tonne to your bill. Bring tissues for both your lawyer and accountant.” Y/n turns around and grins at her older brother, who smiled warmly at her the entire time, feeling as though he was proud. If the Peaky Blinders were here, they’d share the same reaction as Luca. 

“So you both know Italian?” Luca asked as he sighs in exhaustion.

Alfie nods at Luca, who was glaring down at him for an answer. You learn from your older sibling, you become as tough as bullets and the big help as the messenger, sending a telephone call or a letter mailed to Small Heath, saying Luca Changretta is six feet tall, but shrunk four feet down when y/n opened her mouth. 

“Take it or leave it, Signore.” The Italians didn’t even need to ask where this woman got her attitude from. If you’re a Solomon, there’s perks. Y/n smiles to herself, Tommy is gonna hate and love me.

“I warned you about my baby sister, mate.” Alfie says. “Sweet as cherry pie... but with broken glass once you bite into your first slice.”

—

tag list: @ladyxblake @lotsoffandomimagines @amirahiddleston @thethyri @woahitslucyylu @myriadimagines @fangirlsarah16 @your-pixels-are-showing @lucillethings @sirkekselord @kaetastic

#peaky blinders one shot #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders #alfie solomons x sibling!reader #alfie solomons #fem!reader #reader insert #one shot #imagine

[spooky-luvur]

So I feel like these characters have never been in a fic before- Can you do something with Arthur and his male partner during the scene at the Aberdeen pig farm (the weird asf incest couple) and Arthur getting really over protective

Sorry if this is super late anon I didn’t get the notification :(

I only just recently played that mission and the whole time I was just as stiff and uncomfortable as Arthur was I genuinely thought they were cannibals and we’re gonna eat me. Well, eat Arthur.

Glad I got to blow their heads off with a shotgun

Also fun fact! I’m writing this on a plane

-

“Arthur, you sure this tip is good?”

“Well, I did get it from a feller who just got out of jail.”

You shoot him a look.

“I ain’t sayin nothing, but relax. Farmers usually got lots o’ money anyway. If they ain’t good, shoot ‘em and run.”

“If you say so..”

-

Probably the last thing you expected to see from the house you were gonna rob was a very fat man in nothing but overalls reclining on the front porch. You and Arthur stop in your tracks, glancing at each other. Should you go back? And leave all the money behind?

Before you can decide what to do, the fat man notices the both of you awkwardly standing there.

“Well hey there friends!”

You swallow, moving your hand slightly to brush your wrist against the handle of your gun.

“Don’t be shy, partners! No such thing as strangers here!” His eyes trail over both of you, staying on you for a little longer than necessary. He grins.

“Yeah, you two look like you need to take a load off...”

The door suddenly opens, drawing yours and Arthur’s attention. A thin yet busty woman steps into the porch, a light smile on her pale face.

“Well...” she drawls, “ain’t this a rare treat?” She goes to stand beside the man, placing a hand on his chest. So it was a couple. “Why did you tell me we had guests comin’? I’da fixed myself up nice...”

Couple of lunatics.

“Aw, now, you know you look perfect princess...” fatty laughs.

“Erm, we ain’t no guests, Miss,” Arthur glances at you. “Just passin’ through.”

The man waves his hand. “Oh, nonsense, come on in, rest a while. We got food on the stove, and a bottle of the good stuff we been savin.”

“It’s decided then,” the woman steps back into the house. “I’m gonna go freshen up...” her voice is light, seductive as she winks at you.

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “We appreciate the offer but we best be on our way.”

“Oh, come on now!” Spreading his arms wide, he grins at Arthur. “Are you gonna turn down a hot meal and good company? Ha! I’ll go open that bottle!”

Arthur sighs heavily. “I don’t like this.”

You place a hand on his arm, frowning. “Me neither. But think about the money, Arthur. We could really use it. And like you said, thing go south, we hightail outta there.”

He shakes his head, thinking it over. Eventually, he nods.

“Okay.”

“Hey there they are!”

Fat Man (sorry if that’s offensive idk what else to call him other than man and besides- outlaws were mean) is already sitting at the rickety-looking table. “Come on in! Come on!” He gestures for you to sit.

Arthur makes you sit in the seat further away, giving you a look once you open your mouth to question him.

“I hope she ain’t preppin’ for hours up there or we’ll never eat!” He turns his attention to you, a weird smile on his face.

“Hey, tiny, go check on her, will ya?”

You begin to stand, but Arthur’s firm hand on your shoulder stops you.

“No...I’ll do it. He can stay here.”

Fat Man shrugs. “Fine by me! I just wanna eat!”

Yeah, you could tell.

After a few moments Arthur and the woman come back down, an odd look on Arthur’s face. You try questioning him, but he quickly shakes his head, taking a seat while she goes to the stove.

“Well ain’t this just about perfect!” Fatty says in a weird voice. “Just one of them moments you wish could last forever.”

“Like we said, we can’t stay long,” you give him a fake smile.

“Just look at us,” the man waves a hand at you and Arthur. “Like a couple of old friends.” He laughs as the woman sets plates down on the table. “It’s a short life, but a merry one.”

You look up from the food to see the woman looking at you with dark eyes. She’s bent over in such a way you could tell she’s purposely trying to show you as much cleavage as possible. Her husband doesn’t even seem to notice, or if he did, he doesn’t care. She giggles as you quickly avert your eyes. Right after, there’s a strong hand on your thigh, gripping tightly just above your knee. You glance over at Arthur, but he’s looking at the man.

“All the fixens. I hope you boys left some room in your trousers.” She looks between you and Arthur, a smirk on her face. “I can tell there ain’t much.”

Fatty inhales deeply and moans, opening his eyes to look at his wife. “That smells delicious.” He takes her hand. “Food don’t smell too bad neither.” They both laugh as he pulls her to sit on his lap.

“Oh, stop it, you!”

The continue to laugh, turning their attention to Arthur and you who’d been trying the food.

“How do you like it?” The woman asks.

Arthur nods. “Mm, it’s good. Different.”

The woman goes to get another chair from the side of the room as Fatty eats the food, moaning.

“That meat is so tender...” he glances at you, an unreadable look in his eyes.

You pause from eating another piece. “Yes, it’s uhm, good...”

“And you know what? This place it used to be a pig farm- when we was-“ he picks at his teeth. “when we was kids?”

Wha- oh...oh dear...oh dear...

It hits you before it hits Arthur. You place down your fork slowly, loosing your appetite.

He continues. “Before we lost our Ma and Pa...horrible business.”

The woman’s mouth tightens into a thin line as she shakes her head. “Horrible.”

“But we still got each other ain’t that right honey pie?”

That’s when it hits Arthur.

“And we still know how to have a hog killin’ time.” (someone told me what she said ty)

You meet his eyes. He glances at the door before glancing back at you. You shrug, shoulders stiff.

“Here, here, that’s for you...”

They both feed each other food with their forks, eyes locked in a intimate moment, both moaning once they taste the others food. They don’t seem to remember you and Arthur were there until they slowly turned their heads. An awkward moment of silence passes before the woman puts down her forks abruptly.

“Where are my manners? Drinks!”

“Yeah, I could defiantly use a drink.” Arthur shakes just head, making you quietly snort.

“And you, sugar?” The woman smiles at you, holding a bottle.

“Yeah.” You really needed to forget all this in the morning.

She laughs, pouring you and Arthur each a small glass.

Arthur downs his in one gulp, and he immediately recoils at the taste. He clears his throat, looking at you.

‘Fucking strong’ are what his eyes tell you.

You down yours too, coughing. It burns your trait and stings your eyes. It’s strong that’s for damn sure. Stronger than any whiskey you’ve ever had. Doesn’t taste like anything you’ve ever had neither. It leaves an unpleasant feeling in your mouth and your gut.

“Ha! That stuff’ll put hair on your chest!”

“Oh, I doubt the big one needs that,” the woman rounds the table with the bottle, passing Arthur as she says that. But she stops at you, putting a hand on your shoulder and slowly sliding it down your partly open shirt and across your chest. You tense, holding your breath.

Oh, you can feel Arthur’s anger.

“But this one here needs some more. Whadda ya say, hun? Let’s loosen the both of you up some more.” She removes your hand, much to yours and Arthur’s relief, and goes back around the table to sit on her *brothers* lap.

Neither of you say anything, only looking at each other. You can tell Arthur doesn’t want to stay.

But the money is the main thing on your mind at the moment.

You just barely nod your head, and Arthur understands. He clenches his jaw, and begrudgingly takes another shot of the strange alcohol. The siblings laugh gleefully, looking at you for your turn.

You’re way lighter on alcohol than Arthur. Only your second shot and your head is already swirling.

The three are talking, laughing, but you don’t hear anything. You sway in your seat, pain flowing throughout your entire body. The last thing you feel is someone picking you up before everything goes black.

-

“Woo wee, we done and got ourselves a real nice one here!”

“We sure did!”

Ugh, what in the hell did you drink?

Your bleary eyes blink open. You’re standing, but your eyes are tied above your head and around a high railing of the stairs. You’re on your feet but barley. For a moment nothing is clear before you focus on the large figure of the Fat Man and his sister not two feet away from you.

“Oh, you sons of bitches,” you groan, hanging your head. Just listen to Arthur next time you moron.

They both laugh.

“Mama would be real proud of us wouldn’t she sugar?”

“She sure would honeybun!”

The woman turns back to you, getting on her knees. You struggle against the bonds, pushing your self as far away from the crazy woman as possible.

“Oh, don’t be shy, sugar, I only wanna taste you!” She giggles and puts one hand on your crotch and the other on your hip.

“You crazy bastards! Where’s Arthur!”

“Oh he won’t be back for a while, now hold still darlin’-“

Right as she reaches to unbuckle your belt, the front door flies open and a gun immediately goes off. The woman gasps in horror, rising to her feet. The large body of her brother crumples to the ground.

”NO!!!”

She screams, rushing at- thank the heavens- Arthur. Before she can reach him another shot goes off and she crumples right on top of Fatty.

You take a deep breath, head rolling back in relief.

“(M/n)? (M/n)!”

Arthur catches you once he cuts your bonds, holding you to his chest in a crushing grip.

“Goddamn, you alright?! The hell did they do to you?!”

“Nothin’ thanks to you.” You give him a long kiss, holding his face in your hands. He pulls away to put his forehead against yours and you can see the unshed tears in his eyes.

“Thought I damn near lost you...”

“It’s okay, Arthur. I’m alive, and they aren’t. Now, where is that money?”

——

#rdr2 #rdr2 x male reader #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x male reader #arthur morgan x male reader #rdr2 arthur x male reader #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #arthur morgan x reader #request #anon request

[maybebrilliant]

My ridiculous fandoms:

I know, multifandom much?!

I have a LOT, although I will post mostly AoS shit. (I don’t make things for all of these, don’t worry lmao, mostly I just spectate and sometimes reblog stuff.) Up to know I’ve put them all up in my bio, but I’ve decided only to do the top, say, three, otherwise it just gets wayyy too long. However, I’m putting it all here, so that anyone, if they feel so inclined, can see what shit I’m interested in. 

I will also be putting a bunch of my favourite quotes from the shows there, because, well, I’m a total nerd xD. 

Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

”With great responsibility comes...a ton of weird shit you are not prepared to deal with.”

“The steps you take don’t have to be big, they just need to take you in the right direction.”

“Sometimes, making a difference means being different.”

Star Trek: Discovery (sauce)

“You had me at unsanctioned mission...” 

“Deal with me, universe, while I deal with her.”

And...(though this is not a real quote, exactly) Sauce Afirma Sauce Eterna. :)

Derry Girls

“If anyone is feeling anxious, worried or maybe you just want a chat, please, please do not come crying to me.”

“We got the gist. They ran out of spuds, everyone was raging.” 

“Slainte, motherfuckers!”

Julie and the Phantoms

“Chill man, Street Dogs haven’t killed us yet.”

“I cried in a room for twenty-five years and didn’t get a single hug from either of you!”

“Oh. She said oh. That’s what you say if you get socks on your birthday, not when you’re invited to join the most epic band ever!” 

Brigerton

“Having a nice face and pleasant hair is not an accomplishment. Do you know what is an accomplishment? Attending university! If I were a man, I could do that, you know.”

“You would actually have to be interesting for me to bother spying on you"

“All is fair in love and war but some battles leave no victor, only a trail of broken hearts that makes us wonder if the price we pay is ever worth the fight.”

Simon Snow series

“You were the sun, and I was crashing into you.”

“Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire. He's constantly drawing you in. And you're constantly stepping too close. And you know it's not good--that there is no good--that there's absolutely nothing that can ever come of it. But you do it anyway. And then... Well. Then you burn.”

“I'd cross every line for him. I'm in love with him. And he likes this better than fighting.”

Avatar the Last Airbender

“Life happens wherever you are, whether you make it or not.”

“My first girlfriend turned into the moon.” “That’s rough buddy.”

“Why am I so bad at being good?”

Harry Potter

“It’s leviOsa, not levioSA!” 

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

“Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.”

The Queen’s Gambit

"I Would Say It Is Much Easier To Play Chess Without The Burden Of An Adam's Apple."

"I'm Not Your Guardian Angel. I'm Not Here To Save You. Hell, I Can Barely Save Me."

“Again?”

Once Upon A Time

"That's How You Know You've Really Got A Home. 'Cause When You Leave It ...There's This Feeling You Can't Shake. You Just Miss It."

"Sometimes The Best Teacup Is Chipped."

"All Magic Comes With A Price."

The Good Place

“I’m just not a ‘new experience’ kind of guy. My comfort zone is basically like, that chair, and honestly? The arms are a little sharp.” 

“What matters isn’t if people are good or bad. What matters is, if they’re trying to be better today than they were yesterday. You asked me where my hope comes from? That’s my answer.”

“We do nothing. We hope that our early successes make up for the embarrassing mess we’ve become. Like Facebook. Or America.”

Community

"We'll definitely be back next year. If not, it'll be because an asteroid has destroyed all human civilization. And that's canon."

"GAAYYY MARRIAAGEE!!"

“Our Captain was killed on duty tonight. Leaves behind two kids and a pregnant wife. So you’re missing a Batman DVD?”

Zoey’s Extraoridnary Playlist

“Who wants some freshly delivered, slightly cold, mediocre pizza?” 

“Songs are all just an expression of our deepest wants and desires… Joy, pain, heartbreak, yearning, forgiveness, revenge. Good music can make you feel things you can’t express in words.”

“I just found out a guy I like is engaged, and I am either going totally nuts, or I suddenly can hear people’s innermost thoughts as big musical numbers.”

The Old Gaurd

“Depends on the century.”

“You're an incurable romantic...”

“SHIIIIIIIIITTTTTT!”

Merlin (BBC)

“Merlin should take some of the credit, turns out he’s not always entirely stupid.” 

“Are you saying I’m fat?” -Arthur | “No, I’m saying the belt is one hole shy away from perfection.”

Artemis Fowl

“I am the future queen of this world, at the very least. You may refer to me as Mistress Koboi for the next five minutes. After that you may refer to me as Aaaaarrrrgh, hold your throat, die screaming, and so on.” 

“We lost the crickets,” she said. “Even you can’t make that sound tough.”

“I never tell anyone exactly how clever I am. They would be too scared.”

How To Train Your Dragon

“ Thank you for nothing, you useless reptile!”

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“Toothless, what are you doing? We need her to LIKE us!”

The Dragon Prince

“I’m just a kid. I haven’t fought in any battles. I haven’t read many books of wisdom. I haven’t gone through the things that made my father the king he was. So I’ve decided that I don’t have to be the king my father was. My father made choices to keep fighting battles that started hundreds of years before he was born. To punish enemies for crimes their parents committed! I don’t want to be that kind of king.” 

“The dragon prince is alive! And he’s really cute, by the way.”

“What? WHAAAAAAAT!”

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

“Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?”  

“A towel, [The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy] says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-boggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.”

“For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.”

“The Answer to the Great Question... Of Life, the Universe and Everything... Is... Forty-two,' said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.”

“Ford... you're turning into a penguin. Stop it.”

sorry for the five I couldn’t choose only 3

But there you have it, my insane, ridiculous, way-too-many fandoms. For anyone who cares. ;)

#fandoms #multi-million fandoms #fkdsllj #may's random personal shit #long post #aos #simon snow #carry on #atla #harry potter #the queens gambit #ouat #the good place #community #zoey's extraordinary playlist #the old gaurd #merlin #artemis fowl #httyd #the dragon prince #the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy

[talicat713]

It’s Always Been Molly

John Shelby x OC

Part Eleven 

*GIF CREDIT TO ORIGINAL POSTER*

A/N: hello everyone! We are one past closer to having our #Jolly baby! I’m super excited for this part and the next. Hope you all enjoy! Happy Reading! 💜

Warnings: language, angst, cursing, pregnancy, labor, childbirth, *sorry if I missed any*

READ PARTS 1-10 HERE

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Taglist: @haphazardhufflepuff​   @pijoendios @theshelbyclan  @wnygirl2012 @bekkimahonxx95   @lotsoflovefromlea  @theunderlier   @envysorrows   @healthygirlsdoitbetter  @account71453   @blindedbypeaky   @xshinytrashcanx   @wednesdayqueen-18   @chaotichurricaneoffandoms   @jrdpdlcki @lettersshapes   @rosesandrap  @jenni-jones00  *if you would like to be added please let me know*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks had passed since Molly had spent the day with John and the kids. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy. She was still experiencing the usual aches and pains, but she wasn’t having as many headaches or dizzy spells. Molly cursed herself often about this. She almost predicted they would finally get her iron levels sorted once she was nearing the birth of her child. Her belly seemed to have grown even more. It looked very massive against her petite figure.

She and Jacob had cleared out the room next to Molly’s and placed all the baby furniture and supplies Polly and Ada had brought over. Jacob had purchased Molly a small bassinet and pram. They were both a total surprise to Molly. She never knew Jacob was planning to buy those for her. She greatly appreciated how much her brother stepped up to help her throughout these months.

Molly hadn’t seen or spoken to John as much since their day in London. She did however see him spending more time with Esme and the children. Molly was happy he was finally making an effort to love her. It did scare Molly a little about what would happen in the future, but she tried really hard not to think about it and focus on her baby.

Today, Finn had been sent to tell Molly that Polly was requesting her presence at her home for brunch. Molly agreed and told Finn to tell Polly that she would be making a sweet to bring with her. She also told him to tell her she wasn’t going to change her mind either. After a few minutes, Finn came back yelling to Molly that she would send Tommy or Arthur to come walk her down. Finn then ran down the lane to go play with his mates, leaving Molly laughing.

Once Molly finished making her cakes, she started looking for her mother’s old cake tin she used to use. After looking through the cabinets for a while, she then noticed it was on the high shelf above the stove. Not thinking, Molly pulled a chair over to the stove and heaved herself up on the chair to grab the tin. She was still a little too short to reach it. She huffed in annoyance, but then was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Arthur heard Molly yell to come in, and as he walked through the door, he saw the heavily pregnant woman trying to reach for something. “Oi, what on earth do you think you're doing? ,” he said running over to grab her off of the chair,” John would have my head if he knew I let you do something like that. What do you need from up there anyways?”

Once he settled her on the ground, she huffed in annoyance again,” My mums bloody cake tin. Jacob put it up there because he’s a jolly green giant and can reach up there. Doesn’t he know better?.”

Arthur grabbed the tin for her and handed it over,” Love, he probably didn’t expect you to be so active when you are, you know,” as he gestured to her belly.

Molly’s lips began to wobble, and she started to cry as she put the cakes in the tin,” Are you calling me fat Arthur?”

“What… I, uh… No, I’m not… I just meant…,” he continued to stammer.

Molly then slammed the lid on the tin and grabbed her coat,” Just walk me to Polly's and carry that. I can’t believe you just called me fat. Use your words Arthur. I’m pregnant, carrying your niece or nephew,” she continued as tears fell from her eyes, and she walked out the door.

Polly was concerned when she opened the door to see Molly’s face wet from crying,” Molly love, what’s wrong?”, she asked.

“Ask your nephew,” she stated as she pushed into the home.

Polly then turned to Arthur,” Well? What did you do?” Arthur continued to explain what happened which one, made Polly angry that she was on a bloody chair at eight and a half months pregnant and two, made her chuckle because neither Molly nor Arthur were familiar with pregnancy hormones.

“Oh, you stupid man,” she said, grabbing the tin from him,” Everything is fine. I will calm her down, now go back to work.” Arthur nodded and practically ran away.

Polly walked into her kitchen to see Ada trying to comfort a sobbing Molly. She could tell Ada was trying very hard not to bust out with laughter. Polly set the cake tin on the table and knelt in front of Molly.

“Darling, these hormones are only going to get worse after the baby is born, so dry your eyes. This isn’t going to be the last time you break down because of something someone said,” Polly explained.

Molly sniffed and wiped her face as she nodded. She was now embarrassed about the way she reacted. She should have known what he meant. She had been through midwifery training.

Polly then patted her knee and stood up, “Now let’s talk about you climbing up onto a chair while you were by yourself, especially since you haven’t been very steady on your feet all these months,” she said sternly.

After being scolded, the three ladies sat down to have their brunch. They spoke about when they thought the baby would come. Ada wanted to make sure she was in town. She wanted to be there for Molly like she was for her during her delivery. Molly reassured both women that she had been feeling no practice contractions what so ever, so she was still weeks away from labor.

The three also spoke about what was going to happen after the child was born. There would still be about two months left on the arrangement Thomas had made with the Lees.

“I hope you know whatever happens, we will always be around to help and take care of you,” Polly reassures Molly.

Molly smiles, running a hand over her belly,” I know that and I appreciate it. John and I haven’t spoken in weeks, but I’ve seen the way they look at each other. He’s falling in love and I pushed him to do it. I wouldn’t be shocked if he picked her.”

Molly hadn’t realized tears started to fall again until Polly reaches for her chin and wiped them away,” He will never pick her over you. I believe she is stepping out with another man. Tommy and Arthur are trying to figure out whom she’s been seeing. That love look you claim to see is fake. John has only ever had love in his heart for you.”

“I believe it to Molly,” Ada piped up,” Her love is for another man, not John. If we can prove it by the time the arrangement is up, then John will be yours and yours only.”

It brought Molly great comfort knowing she may still have a chance with John in the end. Knowing this will make the months go by fast and will release the weight on her heart for pushing John away.

As the afternoon turned into evening, Molly realized she needed to get home to start supper for Jacob. Polly and Ada hugged her goodbye and gave her belly a rub.

“I guess I should probably go find Arthur and apologize for my outburst this morning,” Molly laughed as she stepped into the lane.

“Let him grovel,” Ada laughed,” You can always use it as blackmail later for when you need something.”

“That’s very true, and thank you for the idea,” Molly laughed again.”

As the three approached Molly’s door, she noticed Jacob wasn’t home.

“That’s odd, Jacob isn’t home yet? ,” Polly asked.

Molly pushed the door open and the light were still off,” I guess not. This isn’t the first time. He’s been coming home later for a few months now. Think he might have a new girlfriend, he doesn’t want to tell me about yet. Guess he doesn’t want me to beat the chick up whilst I’m pregnant.” Polly and Ada looked at each other with wide eyes, thinking the exact same thing.

“Why are you two looking at each other like that,” Molly asked when she noticed them not speaking.

“Oh, it’s nothing darling. I’m sure he will be home soon. Let me know if you need anything and call if you start to feel any pain,” Polly rushed.

“Yeah... Okay,” Molly replies not convinced, but brushes it off as she watched the two women walk fast back to Polly's.

=================================

As her due date grew closer, Molly had a Shelby with her almost twenty-four seven. It was, again, almost always Finn. He would report every wince and every groan to Polly, Ada or John. One or all of them would run over with Finn behind them asking if it was time. She and John were for somewhat speaking again. She could tell he was getting nervous about the impending birth.

With things heating up in the Shelby business, Polly was begging Molly to let one of them stay with her or move into her home until the baby came. As much as Molly protested, she settled on moving into Johns old bedroom, but made sure everyone was aware that as soon as the baby was born she was going back to her home.

They all watched her like a hawk when she was up walking around. Of course, they wouldn’t let her do anything to physical. She would secretly sweep the floors once she was alone.

Over the past week, the Shelby’s were planning some big takeover which involved every member of the family. They were having countless meetings, but never shared any of the details with Molly.

On the day the business was going down, Thomas had closed the betting shop for the entire day. Molly had been woken up that morning by an ache in her back. Throughout the day the ache would come and go. She had thought that maybe they were contractions, but they were too irregular.

With the betting shop being closed, she thought she would be able to sneak some cleaning and mopping in without the family knowing. Grabbing her supplies from the cabinet, she made her way to start scrubbing in her hands and knees. She was almost finished when she heard the door open and the family started filing in. Cursing under her breath, she tried her hardest to stand up on her own, but the ache in her back started again causing her to stop.

“Why does it smell like cleaner in here,” she heard Arthur say. She then heard loud footsteps and John cursing coming toward the shop.

“Why the bloody hell are you on the floor, Molly,” he said, stomping over to her,” I thought we told you no more cleaning, you are too pregnant to be doing that right now.”

“I’m fine John. It was bothering me how dirty it was in here,” she breathed as the ache subsided, and she tried to pull herself up.

John rolled his eyes at her and helped her up,” Come on then, let’s get you onto the sofa.”

From the sofa, Molly was listening to the family go over their plan for the evening. The aches had now turned to pains, and were becoming more regular. They were coming about thirty minutes apart from each other. Molly knew she still had a while to go if she actually was in labor.

John watched her closely from across the room. She would look up at the clock every ten minutes and every once in a while she would take deep breaths and rub her belly. John was silently hoping their child wasn’t going to make an appearance tonight while they were all away.

After the meeting, everyone went back to their homes and waited for the time to leave. Molly took it upon herself to clean up the table and wash the dishes. Every time she would have a pain, she would stop and breathe through it, running her hand over her belly. They were unfortunately getting closer together.

John came back to the betting shop right before it was time to leave. He needed to check and make sure Molly would be okay on her own. He found her at the sink. He watched her for a moment before he made his presence known. He knew Molly better than anyone, and he could tell she was in pain.

“Molly, are you alright, my love? ,” he asked, walking over to her.

Molly turned around with a smile, “Yes of course I’m alright,” she lied,” why do you ask?”

John took Molly into his arms,” I just have feeling love. The baby is going to come any day and I feel like it might be tonight,” he says worried,” I don’t want to leave you alone, but Esme went to her brothers, and Polly and Ada are going to be with us.”

“John, I haven’t had any contractions,” she lied again,” If I was having any I would tell you. Now go finish business and I promise when you come back, I’ll be on the sofa waiting.”

John still wasn’t convinced. He grabbed her face in his hands and opened his mouth to protest. But he was interrupted by a bang on the door, signaling it was time to go. “Alright, I’m coming,” he yelled, “I love you and if you are lying to me, I’ll be so angry,” he sighed. He then pulled her to his lips and kissed her passionately, then bent down to kiss her belly.

“I’ll be back later, lock the door after I leave and then I want you on the sofa. We hopefully won’t be long,” he said as he walked over to the door.

Molly followed him and pulled him into a kiss one more time,” I love you too.” John smiled and ran toward the car. Molly watched as the car turned off the lane. As she shut the door, she was hit with the worst pain she had all day, which caused her to double over. She was definitely in labor.

After the pain had gone away, Molly trudged up the steps to grab the birth supplies she and Polly gathered earlier that week. She also changed into a thin night dress and took her undergarments off. She then carefully got herself back down the stairs and set up her birthing place, by the sofa and fireplace.

As Molly labored, she managed to boil a couple of kettles of water and gather more towels. As the contractions got closer together, the worse she felt for lying to John. She really didn’t want to have this baby all on her own.

After she finished having a contraction, she made her way back over to the front door. She had forgotten to lock it. As she turned to walk back into the kitchen, she was hit by a very strong contraction and overwhelming pressure down below.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned as she lent one hand against the doorway and the other on her belly. As the contraction and pressure peaked, Molly bent her knees and gave a small push down toward her bottom. With that push, her waters broke, leaving a puddle on the hardwood.

With her waters now broken, Molly began to feel the baby move into her pelvis. And with her next contraction she had the overwhelming urge to bear down and push.

Molly couldn’t believe how fast this was happening, but she knew now she was definitely doing this all on her own.

(posted 08/29/2020)

#John Shelby #john shelby x reader #john shelby x oc #john shelby imagine #john shelby imagines #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #talicat imagines