#your davey is so important

[asexualenjolras]

It is one week until Newsies London closes in Wembley, and I got to see it again the other day, so I want to talk about Ryan Kopel and his beautiful portrayal of Davey Jacobs one more time.

I love how Ryan portrays Davey to be autistic. Ryan has said that he plays Davey in a way that exemplifies his quirks, and it really works in this production. It’s what I am going to miss the most. I’ve never felt more seen.

As an autistic person myself, I have always headcanoned Davey as being autistic – in every format of Newsies previously. Ben Fankhauser’s Davey was always autistic-coded to me – his portrayal was one of my favourites. And I was nervous about seeing another actor take on a character that means so much to me ... but Ryan took Davey and made him even more autistic and I am so, so grateful and in awe of his talent.

Let’s talk about Davey Jacobs and his autistic traits, as portrayed by Ryan Kopel in West Endsies:

- Stimming:

Davey is stimming the WHOLE SHOW. And that’s not an exaggeration. He is shown to bounce on his toes, he is constantly fidgeting with his fingers (and standing with those stereotypical t-rex arms) and he runs his hands along his newsie bag, and he does a few little spins when he's excited, and he jumps up and down at one point.

- Difficulty with social interaction:

From the first moment that Davey is on stage, he is shown to be incredibly uncomfortable talking to other people. He is shown to stammer over his thoughts and struggles to coherently converse with the other characters on the stage. He is portrayed as someone that is reluctant to speak, and he stutters and rambles and struggles to maintain eye contact, looking down at his fidgeting hands a lot. Ben Fankhauser made Davey more confident in his ability to share his thoughts, but Ryan’s Davey struggles - both internally and externally - with this.

He is also shown to have a one track mind in conversations. He struggles to see why Jack is having doubts after the rally because he, personally, thinks it was a success. Davey is bouncing around and his tone is so light and he is so confused by Jack's doubts. It's so autistic. It's so relatable.

- Relationship with physical contact:

Davey is shown to struggle when people suddenly touch him, he flinches and wipes the touch away whenever he is uncomfortable. BUT he initiates touch with those that he trusts. He's so physical with Les, constantly holding him and giving him reassurance through taps. He is shown to hug Jack and he hugs Crutchie and it's nice to see.

- Strong moral compass:

Unlike Ben Fankauser’s Davey (who I LOVE), Ryan’s Davey is shown to be more reluctant to join in on the strike – he is a lot more sheltered, and is completely isolated on one side of the stage in that scene. Davey looks down to his feet and looks to be at war with himself. He looks completely defeated when Jack asks if his father would be in the mess he was in if he had a union, because he knows that Jack – this boy that he has just met – is right. But he is so conflicted because he knows that this is going to be difficult, and he’s so worried and so anxious and so questioning about what the right thing is. It’s such a minor part of the show, but it’s there and I love it.

- Autistic joy:

I don’t know how else to word this but the way that we see Davey unmask throughout the play makes me so smiley. We see him go from this uncomfortable, awkward, masked version of himself in the beginning to someone that genuinely feels accepted and like he has a place in this strike and in the Newsie family. The excitement in his voice when he is talking to Jack in Medda’s is UNMATCHED. He’s so bouncy and light and he’s STIMMING and he’s so happy. I love it.

I could go on and on but I won’t. I just really love the artistic differences between Ryan and Ben’s Davey Jacobs’. I love both of their adaptations, but Ryan’s Davey feels so authentically autistic. And I am PRAYING we get to see his Davey immortalised in a pro-shot?! PLEASE?!

Ryan Kopel, thank you so much for giving us this wonderfully autistic Davey Jacobs on stage.

#newsies #davey jacobs #ryan kopel #west endsies #newsies london #autistic davey jacobs #autism #autistic headcanon #autistic spectrum #actually autistic #wembley #i am so not ready to lose this show #i hope it comes back soon #thank you so much ryan #your davey is so important

[excineribusbooks]

Resource Post: Supplies, Equipment, and Software

So I've had some people ask about the supplies and equipment I use to make my books! This is not a comprehensive list, nor is it an official tutorial on how to make a book (for that, I recommend starting with Renegade Publishing's resource documents, DAS Bookbinding, or SeaLemon's YouTube tutorials -- all free, no patreon required!), but if you're floundering because you don't know what you need to get, hopefully this will help a little bit ❤️ If I discover more good resources or change up my style, I'll add to this post.

Of note: I'm based in the US, so this list is unfortunately pretty US-centric. Apologies!

SUPPLIES

Disclaimer #1: I have a background in book conservation, so I'm picky to a fault about the supplies I use. To make a long-lasting book, you want to look for "acid-free" or "archival" materials -- BUT, a lot of consumer craft stores have realized those are good buzzwords to slap on products even if they aren't really archival. Your best bet is to buy from stores that supply materials to libraries and archives; those tend to be higher quality and stick to actual archival standards. Talas, Hollander's, University Products, and Colophon Book Arts Supply are good places to start.

That said! If price matters more than longevity, hitting up Michaels or Joann Fabrics is totally fine. This is a hobby. The bookbinding police are not gonna come smash down your door because you didn't use archival-quality craft paper. My big recommendation, though: at least get your glue and paste from Talas. High-quality adhesive makes a huge difference in how well, and how long, a book holds together. Bad adhesives can turn brittle with time, stain your paper/cloth, and make all your hard work fall apart.

So, all that said, here's what I use:

BOARD - Davey Binder's Board, 0.098" GLUE - Jade 403 PVA PASTE - Zen Shofu wheat paste (you shouldn't have to buy more than half a pound -- a little goes a long way) CLOTH - Either Arrestox or Dover bookcloth, which comes in a wide variety of colors and holds up extremely well to whatever you want to do to it THREAD - 25/3 linen thread, which I run over a small block of beeswax to make it easier to handle and give it better "locking" properties as I sew. For bigger books of ten signatures or more, I sew onto 3/8" linen tapes for extra support. DECORATIVE PAPER - Hollander's is a treasure trove of decorative papers for endsheets and covers; Talas has some really nice ones, too, but they tend to be pricier (since unfortunately everything at Talas has gotten a lot pricier lately) PRINTING PAPER - Hammermill Colors paper, 20lb, in cream; 24lb is also a good weight that feels a little more substantial than regular printer paper. (I'll probably switch to 24lb once my 20lb paper runs out.) To get the right grain direction, I buy a ream of 11x17 paper and cut it in half to make standard letter-sized sheets (8.5x11). Here's a quick primer on grain direction and why it's important when making a book! ENDBANDS - I've never had the patience to sew my own endbands (though I hope to gain that patience someday!), so I just use premade ones like these.

EQUIPMENT

Disclaimer #2: a lot of the stuff on this list is professional-grade (or close to it) with prices to match. You definitely don't have to buy everything right off the bat. It took me fifteen years to accumulate it all, and you can DIY a lot of bookbinding equipment -- a good googling will lead you to all sorts of innovative ways hobby bookbinders set up their shops. The Renegade Publishing resource documents also have a lot of A+ recommendations.

PRINTER - For text, I use a Brother B&W laser printer with auto-duplex (auto-duplex is key when printing a book); for images, both B&W and color, I use a Canon color inkjet printer set to at least 300 DPI. I fully admit having two printers is an absurd setup, but what laser printers can do well, inkjets absolutely suck at, and vice-versa -- and like I said, I'm hella picky. You can get by fine with a single laser printer! Just make sure it's got auto-duplex to save yourself a lot of pain. GUILLOTINE - I have this model, which goes in and out of stock with some regularity. The trick with this guy is to (a) sandwich your text block between some scrap board so the clamp doesn't leave a dent, and (b) REALLY CRANK DOWN on the clamp as tight as you possibly can to keep the paper from shifting as you cut. This fixes 99% of the skewing problems mentioned in the reviews. PRESS - I have a little cast-iron press I bought off a coworker for fifty bucks; similarly, you might have luck searching eBay, looking at Affordable Bookbinding Equipment (Jim does incredible work!), searching craft stores for a flower press, or even just using two pieces of wood and a few C-clamps. SeaLemon on YouTube also has a good video on how to DIY a book press. PRESS BOARDS - For setting the hinges in the press, I use a pair of brass-edged boards like these. It's a good investment if you want to get really nice, crisp hinges, but it's also 100% possible to DIY brass-edged boards if you want. At my very first job, we even set our hinges by taping sewing needles to the book before putting it in the press! FINISHING PRESS - I have this one, which I use to back my books in combination with these backing irons BACKING HAMMER - To my chagrin, I've discovered that having an actual backing hammer makes backing a book way, way easier. Some folks have had good luck with a cobbler's hammer or just a regular old hammer from a hardware store, but I splurged on a student hammer from Hollander's, and it works fantastically. (I wouldn't recommend buying the "professional" hammers, though, because seriously, $90 for a hammer?! No.) BONE FOLDER - I'm actually not a fan of bone folders made from real bone; I like Teflon folders a lot better for scoring and flattening. (Real bone folders tend to burnish the material, an effect I'm rarely going for.) CUTTING MACHINE - A Silhouette Curio. This is 100% optional, but it's how I do the bulk of my cover designs, including cut-outs, embossing, foiling (with a foil quill attachment), and spine titling. The software and overall quality are way better than Cricut, and its 5mm clearance means you can fit more than just vinyl in there. Sadly, Silhouette has discontinued the Curio, but it's still possible to buy from third-party sellers -- and if you don't care about the 5mm clearance, I've heard good things about the Silhouette Cameo line.

A side note on vinyl, from the obnoxiously picky book conservator: if you're aiming for longevity with your books, using HTV in your book designs may not be the best idea. Not only can the adhesives be questionable, but the plasticizers in vinyl break down in really weird, gross ways once several decades have passed. That's why I tend to stick with cut-outs and foiling instead of HTV. But, again: if you just want to make something pretty, don't worry about it!

SOFTWARE

TYPESETTING - I use Affinity Publisher -- it's similar to Adobe InDesign, but with a flat cost instead of a bullshit subscription model. I am by no means an expert in this, since I've only been designing books for a couple years; pretty much everything I learned, I learned from Aliya Regatti's tutorial, plus or minus a lot of googling and noodling around. I've discovered that it does get cranky if your book is over 250 pages or so, meaning you may have to split longer fics into multiple files. That said, I've been really happy with it, and it goes on sale every now and then if the $70 price tag is too much.

As always, Renegade Publishing has a whole lot of tutorials for other software options, including Microsoft Word, InDesign, LaTeX, and Scribus if you already have access to one of those instead.

IMPOSITION - "Imposition" is when you lay out a book so all the pages are in order once you fold + gather the signatures. Since Affinity Publisher doesn't do this automatically on export, I use Bookbinder 3.0, which is an old but nice little Java program that breaks a single PDF into a series of properly imposed signatures. I usually set it to 6 sheets per signature.

MISCELLANEOUS

IMAGES

The Noun Project is a gigantic repository of basic SVGs and PNGs that are not only great for cutting machines, but for adding flourishes to your title page, chapter headings, and scene dividers. Every single book I've made has used at least one image from here; I pay for the yearly Noun Pro subscription, but it's not necessary to use the site.

Unsplash is perfect for photo elements

Pixabay not only has a great archive of photos, but illustrations and vector images as well

Surprisingly, Wikipedia also has a lot of good Creative Commons photos attached to their articles!

FONTS

1001Fonts is a good starting point for finding free fonts, as is FontSpace and DaFont

If you're willing to pay for fonts (and sometimes it's worth it for a well-designed font that's perfect for your project), Creative Fabrica and Pixel Surplus have some good stuff, including discounted bundles of multiple fonts

#book arts #bookbinding #fanbinding #resources

[we-are-inevitable]

you asked for restaurant au requests so!! restaurant au javid?? and if there is a sauce-related incident i'd appreciate it?? (no pressure though!) - @pigeonwit

OHHH!! absolutely.

edit after writing: this got out of hand. i love them so so much.

———

“Corner!”

That’s all the warning David gets before a body rounds the corner and rams straight into his own. He sees it first, a curly mop of blonde hair, a high-pitched yell, a tray flying out of hands— all too suddenly, David is splayed on his back on the kitchen floor, and all too suddenly, his white shirt is soaked in something chunky and wet.

Racer immediately kneels down next to him, eyes wide as one of the big pans they use to cook up all of the fries. “David! Oh, shit! Man, are you okay?”

“I— Yeah, I’m fine. Get me up,” David says, but as soon as he sits up, there’s a distinct pain in the middle of his back. He winces, and that must be noticeable, because Racer instantly starts asking questions.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, just—“

“No, you’re hurt, aren’t you? Fuck, I am so sorry, I didn’t know you were right there, I’m sorry—“

With a sigh, David grabs onto Racer’s shoulder, slowly pushing himself up to a standing position despite the blossoming feeling of ow currently pulsating through his body. “Kid, you’re okay, okay? You’re fine,” David says through gritted teeth.

Everyone in the kitchen is looking at them by now. David slowly turns to give them all a glance, noticing that something is missing— and just at that moment, Jack walks into the kitchen, smelling like cigarette smoke masked by a high-end cologne.

Jack stops just before the mess on the floor, taking it in with wide eyes, and he quickly looks up and makes eye contact with David. “What the hell happened?”

David sees the nervous look on Racer’s face, so he concedes and says, “It’s my fault. I was leaving and ran into Racer, I fell down and dropped the food. I’ll clean it up.”

“Clean yourself up first,” Jack comments, gesturing to David’s shirt, smeared with all sorts of colors: red and green salsa, garlic aioli, ranch and ketchup— a menagerie of condiments for a menagerie of burgers. “You didn’t get hurt when you fell, did’ja?”

“No, I—“

“He fucked up his back,” Race says from the side, and David gives him a nudge with his elbow. “He’s movin’ slow and it looked like he hurt when he sat up.”

Jack takes the information in, and gestures to the dishwasher. “I’ll give you a ten if you clean this up,” he says, gesturing to the pocket his wallet resides in, and the dishwasher responds with a curt nod. Turning to his linecooks, Jack nods to them as well. “Keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Rush isn’t startin’ for another twenty minutes, I’ll be back in ten at the most. Got it?”

“On it,” Specs pipes up, not even looking away from the task at hand.

With that done, David watches as Jack reaches out, then sighs at the feeling of Jack’s hand on his shoulder. They walk slowly to the manager’s office- a larger room off to the side of the kitchen, with a couple of comfy chairs and a place for staff to eat their food.

“Don’t bother Charlie with this, please,” David says, head lolling just enough to look at Jack. “I’m fine, really.”

Jack clicks his tongue a few times, then pulls out his keyring and unlocks the door. “Charlie ain’t here,” He murmurs, pushing the door open and leading Davey inside, only to lock the door behind them. “He’s runnin’ up to the bank. Register’s almost outta change for customers.”

“Ohhh, okay, makes sense,” David nods, then takes in a deep breath. “So… can I go, if he’s not here? I have tables I need to check on.”

“They can wait. Your health is more important than a table,” Jack says like it’s the easiest thing to understand, and Davey wants to agree, but he never knows. A few good tips could be the difference between eating and not.

But he doesn’t bother arguing with Jack, because that’s never gotten him anywhere in the past.

Jack, after rummaging around in a locker for a moment, comes back to Davey with a clean- albeit wrinkled- white shirt. He sets it down on Charlie’s desk, and walks back to David, and suddenly, there’s a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before— a carefully concealed care. Jack cups his cheek, and leans up to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

With that, Jack makes gentle work of untucking David’s shirt, working the buttons open until he can push the fabric off of his shoulders.

David gulps, and says, “I wish you were undressing me in a different circumstance right now.”

That quip gets a grin in response, Jack looking up at him with bright eyes. “Turn around, you dumbass.” And who is David not to comply? He turns, feeling Jack’s hands on his back. “Hm… It looks a little red,” He mumbles. “You sure you feel okay?”

David hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, I just… I guess I’m taking it slow today,” he murmurs. “If it gets worse, I’ll call out tomorrow. Racer owes me a covered shift anyway, I’ll talk to him if I need to.”

“If you’re sure,” Jack says softly, kissing the back of David’s neck. He then gently turns David around in his arms, running a hand through his hair. “Make sure you let me know if you need to go home, okay? I got a lotta sway over Char.”

David just grins and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Jack’s lips. “I’d rather go home with you,” He says softly, then sighs, grabbing the shirt off of Charlie’s desk. “I need to go check on my tables. I’d love to stay in here and have you all over me, but…”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t all over you. I was makin’ sure you weren’t hurt,” He defends, though his smile is more than telling.

With a shake of his head, Davey finishes buttoning his new shirt, tucking it into his belt. It’s a little loose on him- it’s likely Jack’s- but he rolls the sleeves up and smiles in Jack’s direction. “Thank you, ahuví,” David says, and gives Jack one last kiss on the lips before they both walk towards the door.

“Ready to hate each other again?” Jack asks, and David squeezes his hand three times. They both walk out, discarding the dirty shirt into one of the trashcans in the kitchen, and David walks back to the front of house with a new smile on his face.

#this is so. RAHHHH i love them #thank u for the request pidge!! #jack kelly #davey jacobs #david jacobs #newsies #livesies #newsies musical #ask a jac ! #racetrack higgins #specs newsies #newsies fic #newsies fanfic #newsies broadway #newsies live #west endsies #newsies uk

[angel-noaxod]

Even more incorrect quotes with the Shaw pack

.

.

darlin: there's no need to be afraid. i don't bite!

literally anyone: yeah but do you stab?

darlin:

darlin: i don't bite :))

----

davey: and if you're gonna call me cute, then, you be-

angel: *giggle*

davey: i-

angel: pubby

davey, agressively inhales, desperate not to be flustered: stop. it.

----

sweetheart: sam can't be good at everything, maybe he's a bad kisser or something?

darlin: no he's good at that too.

sweetheart: oh, i see.

sweetheart:

sweetheart: wait what-

----

asher: on a scale of "dammnn daniel" to "free sha vaca do", how you feelin'?

angel: i'm between "it's an avocado, thanks" and "how you defeat captain america", but as a solid answer i would have to say "i don't need a degree to be a clothing hanger". how 'bout you milo?

milo: prob'ly road work ahead.

davey: i speak many languages and this is none of them-

----

*post more davey character development*

angel: is that your hand on my ass??

davey: it's an accident.

angel: your fucking hand is still on my ass davey

davey, smirking: it's still an accident.

----

angel in literally every comfort video: i'm fine.

angel:

angel: *passes out*

----

sam: i ain't sayin' shit.

darlin: do it cowboy.

asher: fuckin' do it.

sam: *sigh*

sam, rapping: i'm a i'm a i'm a i'm a farm booy

----

christian: *snort* nice onesie, does it come in mens?

asher: i think you come in men enough for all of us

christian:

davey:

milo:

amanda:

----

*when they first found darlin at age 18*

davey: rate your pain, 1-10

darlin, who has a broken leg, bruises, and cuts: pi. minimal but never ending.

davey: dad what kind of fucked up hellhole did you find them in?

----

sam: shit darlin! you alright?!

darlin: . what?

sam: didn't that hurt?!

darlin: yeah? and?

----

marie: you look like your father in that suit

davey who's about to host something very important and is sweating not visibly but violently: so i look like a dead man? great-

----

angel with their cat: ma'am, it has been reported lately that you do, in fact, have little paw-paws and a meow-meow button nose. would you like to add a comment to this?

their cat: meow.

angel: riveting.

davey, who just walked in their bedroom to get socks: am i interrupting something-

----

asher: -and this is a baby jumping spider :)

angel, being deadly afraid of spiders already: you're telling me this shit jumps babies??!!

----

asher: ughhhh, wifi's down.

sam: modern technology is really somethin' else. in my ol' days, we didn't have all this new shit

milo: well yea' but you had other cool shit

asher: yeah! like dinosaurs and Moses!

sam:

davey:

----

christian who just told a very not-funny joke: must be hard not being able to laugh

angel, basically hating christian to their very core: i am able to laugh

angel: i've just never heard you say anything funny.

the pack: YYAAOOOWW

----

random kid in the pack being babysitted by their alpha, about to go to bed: goodnight moon

kid: goodnight trees

kid: goodnight ghosts that only i can see

davey: you've been spending way too much time with asher

kid: he's my favorite babysitter

davey: not anymore he's not-

#redacted asmr #redacted davey #redacted david #redacted angel #redacted shaw pack #redactedasmr #redacted asher #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart #redacted darlin #redacted sam #redacted asmr incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #redacted incorrect quotes #redacted audio

[pigeonwit]

hello again mr pigeon 'pidge' wit i come to u with a writing req ....... no pressure to write obviously!!!!

but consider ur shitface drunk davey w jack (potentially friends too) at a restaurant ... javey aren't together at this point ... but davey is just a little too drunk and ends up pretty much lying with his head on jacks lap ... cue 'jack, I don't wanna go all the way home all by myself ....... can I come home with you?' and jack being the smitten pushover he is of course lets David 'Lightweight' Jacobs sleep in his bed with him ...

davey wakes up has no recollection of what happened and is SO concerned when he wakes up in jacks bed - jack is shirtless - and oh lord he's SO hungover .... anyway ...

consider also jack waking up and saying 'hey beautiful' and Davey short circuiting and jack shrugging and saying 'well u seemed to like it just fine last night'

sorry for the long af ask but this????? in your writing style!!!!! I would shit myself /pos

roman i have had this in my inbox for so long cause i want to write this so goddamn badly but alas uni is killing me, so that's probably not gonna happen for a while. BUT! i do have little snippets for your convenience, because again, this idea was so fun and i wanted to write it so so badly. hope these can tide you over:

“Davey,” Jack says, far more charmed than he should be, because he is pathetic, “maybe you oughta take a break for a bit, you’re-”

“Don’t worry yourself, handsome,” Davey winks, and Jack immediately feels his stomach drop. They have entered Flirty Drunk Davey, which means Jack is going to be of no help for the entire evening. “I’m a big boy, I can make my own decisions, and I’m deciding to get sloshed tonight.” He drums his hands on the table as he gets up and shoots Jack a finger-gun as he stumbles only slightly. “Livin’ la vida loca!”

Oh, Jack is a sad man. Jack is a weak, pathetic little man who is in love with someone that just said livin’ la vida loca unironically. Jack is a sad, sad man.

[…]

“And iguanodons,” Davey says quite seriously, with one finger raised like a very wobbly professor,“iguanodons, they walk like – like this…”

He shapes each of his hands into three-toed points and leans forward to plant them on the floor.

“Oh, no-” Jack says quickly, taking his wrists and gently pulling him upright. “No, Davey, that’s okay, don’t – don’t crawl on the floor, pal.”

Davey looks at him with the largest eyes Jack’s ever seen in his life.

“But that’s how iguanodons walk…” He says plaintively, like Jack is a monster who is stifling a very important display of science, and Jack is so pathetically gone for him that he’s almost tempted to say, ‘I’m sorry Davey, by all means crawl around on the floor like a dinosaur, I love you so much.’ Christ, he needs to skip town, go somewhere so repressed he’ll never even think about feelings again without curling up and dying of shame. Britain, maybe. Or wherever the Amish live.

“I know, bud,” Jack soothes, rubbing a hand down his back. “You, uh – you just show me later, okay? We’re going inside now.”

[…]

Right. Right. Breathe. Facts. That’s what Davey needs. Facts.

Fact one: he is currently in Jack’s bed, in Jack’s sweatpants.

Fact two: he cannot remember how he got into either Jack’s bed or Jack’s sweatpants.

Fact three: Jack is making pancakes. Shirtless. With a bit of batter stuck to his collarbone that Davey really wants to lick.

(Fact three, subheading: Davey might still be a little bit drunk)

Conclusion: Davey had literally mind-blowing sex last night while more drunk than a Baltic tide and has thus not only ruined the best friendship he’s ever had, but can’t even reminisce over the memory of it to soothe the wound. Fantastic.

#again - the iguanadon thing is a real thing that has happened. #newsies #uksies #(it's always uksies here) #pigeon scribbles #fic thoughts #loiteringandlurking #javey #davey jacobs #david jacobs #jack kelly #javid

[cowboydisaster]

The Fire In Your Eyes

part IV: colter

originally posted on 8 march 2023

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 14k

summary: you and the others ascend into the mountains with the law hot on your tails. A nasty storm picks up, making matters worse for everyone. You're bed ridden and ill, trying to heal both your physical ailments and your mental ones.

a/n: this chapter is huge, and important! Firstly you all voted and decided that reader should have a nickname given by Arthur that all the gang members call her, and that comes up in this chapter. Plus we get some really good fluff between reader and Arthur. Thank you to margowritesthings for always rising up to the massive chapters I've been throwing at her.

warning: wounds, gore, mentions of past trauma and post traumatic stress

SERIES MASTERPOST

The wind whips through the air, chilling everyone to the point of numbness as you all ascend the mountains in hope of some form of sanctuary. John and Micah are still out scouting ahead, and Arthur’s now been sent out too, in search of a place to hole up. Everyone is hungry, frozen and afraid. Who knows how close the rest of the Pinkertons are, or if they were bold enough to follow you up into this hellstorm. You have no idea how many days you’ve been traveling, two or three? To be fair, it's been hard to keep track in your state. 

Your back is resting against the wooden slats of the wagon, curled up to fend from the whipping blizzard. The canvas on the conestoga-style wagon provides little defense from the storm. With everything going on, the girls are huddled around you, keeping you covered in blankets while fighting your protests. Your skin is icy to the touch, but youre so hot. Cold sweat runs down your forehead, covering you in a sheen. Your eyes are red and sunken in as you shiver and groan. The sewn up shot in your thigh is swollen, red and oozing. It's infected, and if Grimshaw doesn’t get you some help soon… Well, you’ll be on the pile with Jenny and Davey. 

You peel a blanket off of yourself, groaning, mind foggy from your body fighting to stop the infection. You’re so hot, it's torturous. Immediately, Tilly covers you back up with the blanket. 

“Please- I'm so hot.” You moan, whimpering at the throbbing pain that is shooting down your entire left leg. 

“I know, I do, but if you take this off you’ll freeze to death.” Tilly argues, and you know she’s right.

The wind is loud, but even through it you can hear Dutch yelling. He’s driving the wagon with Hosea, and both are praying for some shelter. 

“Arthur! Any luck?” Dutch hollers over the wind, and you perk up at the familiar name. All the girls, wrapped in blankets and coats, huddling around Jack and you, glance in the direction of Dutch. 

“I found a place where we can get some shelter. An old mining town, abandoned. It ain’t far. c’mon!” Arthur yells back before spurring Taima in the direction of your sanctuary. Everyone in the caravan lets out a breath, relieved at any kind of hope. 

The wagon continues on while you fade in and out of consciousness, the fever too much for your body to handle at times. The closer you all creep towards the mining town, the more Grimshaw’s anxiety grows. She doesn’t know if you’re gonna make it much further, but by god she won’t let anything happen to you. They’ve lost too much. The wagon comes to a stop, and you blink your eyes open, watching as everyone files out of the wagon. 

“Miss?”

It’s Dutch, he’s come around to the back of the wagon, extending a hand out to help the women and Jack get into a building. Despite your best efforts, you can’t bring yourself to move. Your muscles strain, but the pile of blankets is too heavy and you’re too weak. 

“I can’t-” You whisper, pissed off that you’re incapable of handling your own at the minute. Asking for help isn’t exactly your specialty, but the cold sweat running down your forehead combined with your heavy, flushed and swollen eyelids prove enough that you’re unwell. 

Dutch places his hand on the floor of the wagon, pushing himself up into the back. He peels the blankets away from you to find your once white shirt from however many days ago drenched in sweat and dried blood. You’re practically gasping for breath, panting in the frozen air, it doesn’t appear that you’re winning the battle against your body. 

“Oh, miss… Here, let’s get you down.” Dutch whispers before taking your arms and helping you to climb down. It hurts like hell, climbing out of the wagon. Every muscle in your body twitches and aches, and the wound in your thigh throbs and oozes, it’s awful. Eventually, with Dutch’s help, you manage to stand in the calf-deep snow. He supports all of your weight, which you’re begrudgingly thankful for. Truthfully, he’s the last person you want help from right now, but without it, you’d be dead in the snow already. Slowly, you both shuffle through the damp, icy snow, trying to ignore the way it soaks your pants and freezes onto your eyelashes. You can see, foggily, the lantern lights of other gang members that are filing into a large, abandoned wooden building. You whimper at the idea of shelter, shuddering and tripping as the frozen air wars with your fever. 

“Almost there..” Dutch whispers to you before yelling towards the building, “Miss Grimshaw, Mister Pearson! We need help!” 

Dutch’s arm is tight around your waist, and the other holds a lantern in the air as he guides you through the door of the building. You’re struggling to stay awake, vision blurring as Dutch guides you to an old, makeshift cot off the main room. The warmth is immediate. There's no fire in the keeper yet, but the protection from the wind alone is noticeable. You’re not sure if you should be thankful for the shelter, or upset that the warmth worsens your fever. A few people rush over, standing around you as he lays you down.

“I am not losing anyone else! You get her patched up. I don't care what it takes!” Dutch hollers, pointing to you for emphasis as he glances at the miserable, frozen faces around the room. 

You hear the slip of a knife, the shred of denim as Susan cuts away the patch of denim from your thigh to get a better view. She makes a noise of distaste, one that worries you. The skin around your stitches is red, and hot to the touch, with pus leaking from the suture holes. You arch your back against the wooden cot, gritting your teeth and groaning as she prods at your leg. 

“We’re gonna have to redo these, I'm afraid, and you need dressings for this once I'm done. Abigail! Bandages!” Grimshaw orders around. You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. 

“Am I- You think I’m gonna be alright, or…?” Your voice is barely audible, like a breath on the wind. You’re not ready to die, not before you’ve even lived. 

“You’re gonna be just fine.” Grimshaw says with a tight lipped smile, grabbing Strauss’ medical kit once again. She’s lying, both for her sake and your own. She has no idea if you’ll pull through this. Infections are bad, and in these conditions, with no supplies? Well, your chances aren’t good. Jack is quietly crying in the corner, wrapped up in his momma’s arms, and next to his cries you hear large boots thumping against the wood, someone has entered the building. The footfalls grow quicker, rushing into a light jog approaching you. You force your eyelids to part, providing a thin view. 

“Shit, Grimshaw? What’s going on?! She okay?!” Arthur growls, skidding to his knees at your bedside to help. He’s covered in snow, cheeks bright pink from wind whip, and his black hat is covered in a thick white dusting of ice. He’s suddenly more awake than he’s been for the last three or so days, and despite his lack of sleep, there is nothing but clarity and fear on his face when he sees the state you’re in. You look so small on the bed, so frail.

“I’m fine, Arthur.” You whisper, hand snaking down the mattress to rest on top of Arthur’s. Your lie doesn’t faze him at all, and he runs his eyes down your hip and thigh to where Grimshaw is cutting open your stitches, squeezing your hand as he does. Your nose wrinkles at the pressure and pull of Grimmshaw’s hands on your thigh. 

“Mr. Morgan, she needs medicine and she needs it now. Got a bad infection. I’m afraid she can’t wait much longer.” Grimshaw states, looking up to your pale, sickly face. Arthur rests the back of his hand against your forehead, and you grimace, head pounding from everything that's going on. 

“You’re burnin’ up real bad,” Arthur’s stomach turns with anxiety as he glances between your eyes and Grimshaw’s hands, “I’ll find some medicine. I will.” He growls, as if making himself a promise.

You know he may not be able to keep it. It took days to find this place, and he won’t make it far in the storm. John and Micah haven’t returned yet, and the chances of him finding medicine is low. If he leaves now, he might as well sign his death certificate along with yours. 

“No- please don’t go out there, Arthur. The storms too bad.” You protest, hanging onto Arthur’s hand with every bit of strength you have in you, little as it may be. Arthur squeezes your hand, kneeling down to look into your eyes. 

“I'm not just gonna sit around and watch you die. I'm goin’ to find you medicine.” There’s no room for debate in Arthur’s eyes. Begrudgingly, you nod your head, terrified that your illness is going to get more people killed. Once you nod, he leaves go of your hand. You wince, gripping the corner of the cot till your knuckles turn white as Grimshaw pulls the ruined sutures out of your infected thigh.

“I’m going too. Anywhere that has medicine could have food or supplies too. And maybe we’ll run into John or Micah on the road. Who knows where they are in this storm, I just hope they’re okay.” Dutch says, cracking his knuckles through his thick black gloves as he steps over to you. 

You don’t try to protest as they head out the door, and you're thankful for Grimshaw’s stitching, as the pain keeps your mind off the fact that four of the gang members are out in the storm of the century, two are buried outside, and two are missing. 

—

You drift in and out of sleep, eyes fluttering open and closed as the girls take shifts holding cool rags over your forehead, helping you sip cool water and changing your bandages. You have no idea how long you’re out, but at some point you wake up, once again surrounded by the frozen wind. 

“W-what?” You whimper, eyelashes fluttering in the snow as you attempt to come to your senses, despite the pain that radiates through your entire body, and the fog that clouds your mind. There's a solid strength under your knees and your neck that you can't place. But it's warm, soft and strong. The chilly wind feels ethereal, and you want to cover yourself in its blissful coolness that soothes the fire blazing through your body.

“Takin’ you to your cabin. Miss Grimshaw got it fixed up. There's a real bed in there, it’s warmer, be better for you to heal.” A familiar, gruff, voice says. Despite the freezing, howling wind, there is a warmth against your side, radiating and wrapping around you. You want to push away from the heat, already too hot from your fever, but as you weakly pull away it only wraps around you tighter. You're too weak to fully protest, fighting to stay awake as your head becomes light and your senses begin to slip away to darkness again. You succumb to the blackness, and the howling, screaming wind grows further away as you lose yourself to sleep once again. 

— 

A cold, red hand shakes your shoulder lightly, rousing you a little as you groan. 

"Hey… hey can you sit up a little for me? It's Arthur." 

You squint, eyes fluttering open once again. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, a wooden cabin similar to the one you were in previously, but this one is smaller, cozier. You're laying in a real bed now, a decent sized one, with a thick pillow under your head and a heap of faded serape blankets pulled up over your shoulders. 

"Mmmm.." You moan, wincing as your head pounds and your skin boils with a heat that you can't seem to shake. Your hair is soaked through with sweat, and your clothes cling uncomfortably around your body in their wet state. The hand on your shoulder shakes you a little harder now, coaxing you to sit up. 

"I- I don't feel good, Arthur." You whimper, feeling unusually weak and vulnerable, but knowing you're not strong enough to do anything about it, "God, everything hurts and I'm so hot." You whisper, tears forming in your eyes at the unbridled misery that you're feeling. Every bone in your body aches, your muscles twitch and cramp from both a lack of food and the infection and it's miserable. 

"I know… I know, here. I'll make it better, I'll make it go away, just please- sit up for me, alright?" Arthur pleads with you. 

You nod, doing your best to sit up, wincing at the pain it sends through your body. Arthur helps you, placing his hand on your back to help you adjust as you lean up a little and rest your head against the old cracked headboard. 

"Good girl… real good. Here." You finally manage to open your eyes and see Arthur holding a little metal cup up to your lips. It's the one that he keeps in his satchel for coffee, but the smell that's arising from the little silver cup is god awful. You're too weak to fight Arthur's cold hand as he presses the metal cup to your lips, tilting it so that the majority of the liquid slides down your throat. You cough lightly, as some of the medicine travels down the wrong pipe, and Arthur uses his thumb to wipe away the tonic that has dribbled down your chin. After a few coughs, and a whimper of misery, the tonic is all down. 

"You got me medicine…" You mumble, partially a question and partially a statement. You glance up to Arthur with red, bloodshot eyes and see the worry that lines his face. 

"Course I did. I told you I would." Arthur whispers back, placing the metal cup onto the dusty wooden floor. He's kneeling on the hard floor, knees digging uncomfortably into the wood. There's no chairs in the room, but he's not leaving you here alone. 

"Scooch over, I'm comin in. Floors tearin' up these old knees." Arthur chuckles, helping you adjust closer to the wall under the heavy mass of blankets. After he's situated you, leaving just enough space for him to squeeze in, he sits down on the bed. He doesn't bother to kick his boots off, resting his feet up on the lower side of the mattress. 

"There." He whispers, looking after you with concern, although he's less worried now that you've managed to drink down some tonic. 

Your eyes have slipped closed once again, but you aren't sleeping, just resting as your fever has you by the neck. Arthur's body is solid beside you, gentlemanly of course. He brings his black hat down over his eyes in hopes of getting some sleep.

It only takes a few seconds for you both to succumb to sleep. For Arthur, it's the first he's gotten in days. And for you? All you've done is sleep. You'd be irritated with yourself if you weren't too sick to care. Quiet snores and slow breaths pass through the room as the two of you catch up on sleep and heal beside another.

Many things begin to change tonight, shifting the course as they do. The snow turns from a heavy downpour of ice, carried by the raging wind, to a slow sprinkling of fat, light snowflakes. They land on the roof, melting together and dripping chilly water down through the cracks until they splash against the wooden floor just feet away from you and Arthur. The snow and ice outside begins to melt away, just a bit, but it's an improvement from the blizzard.

Your fever breaks, and the red hot blaze that was dragging you closer to the brink of death with its fiery grasps turns to an even, cool temperature. The tonic spreads through your veins, starting the process of mending your leg back together. There will be a scar, a constant reminder of what happened here, but gone will be the pain. As the fever breaks, your sleeping body becomes more aware of the cold, subconsciously wrapping the blankets tighter around your small frame, begging the inanimate comforter to provide you with warmth that it doesn't hold. 

And the last change; the one between you and Arthur. Something settles between you two, like two magnets feeling the first waves of force pulling them together. There's something there. There's hope with Arthur, there's friendship and compassion, companionship, and something more, you both just have to find it. 

Your eyes flicker back and forth beneath their lids as you sleep, mind lost on a world of stars and flowers. The smell of fresh lilies and wildflowers surround you as you laugh, biting into fresh strawberries under the moon in a field of tall grass. The stars shine so brightly that you're sure they could fall out of the sky and land in your lap. The night is young, the world is beautiful. It's familiar, it's safe and it's good.  

…and then you wake up. 

Gone are the lillies, the warm night and the breeze. They are replaced by a cold cabin, by a chilly wind that howls outside and water that drips down from the ceiling. You roll onto your back, looking up to see Arthur still beside you. His hat is still resting over his eyes and nose, protecting him from any distractions that may prevent sleep. Your eyes linger on him for just a moment longer, taking note of the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his broad shoulders, and his beard that has grown a bit since you've fled Blackwater. You sigh, feeling the residual ache in your thigh. Reaching down, you lift the blankets to peek at the wound. You peel back your bandage some, wincing as you assess the damage.

The red ring around it has gone away, and Grimshaw did a nice job on her stitch work. It no longer oozes, but it's still a messy wound. You sigh out of frustration, fixing the bandage and pulling the blankets back over yourself. With the fever now gone, you've gone from one extreme to the other, shifting from an unbearable heat to a terrible chill, and you can't shake it. After a few moments of your teeth chattering, the solid mass of a man beside you begins to stir.

"You alright over there?" Arthur asks, ever the light sleeper. His voice is deep and gravelly from sleep as he takes his hat off of his eyes and places it onto the floor below. He notices your teeth clacking together, and the light shake of your shoulders as you curl into yourself under the blankets.

"Y-yeah, fevers c-comin' down is all." You stutter, trying to restrain your jaw from shaking in the cold night. 

Arthur leans in towards you to press the back of his hand over your forehead. His hand is so warm, and you lean into his touch, chasing after the heat that never seems to leave his body. He assesses that your fever is gone, and his worry shifts from you dying of infection to you dying of hypothermia. Your skin is like ice as you shiver and writhe under the blankets, searching for any kind of warmth you can grasp onto. 

"Shit, you're freezin'. C'mere." 

Arthur snakes his hands under the blankets, pulling you into the crook of his side so that you're partially laying against him, and partially on top of him. Immediately, his body heat wraps around you, as his hands run up and down your arms to create warmth. You shudder, leaning into him as much as possible to chase after the ever giving fountain of warmth that he gives off. 

"If I'm makin' you uncomfortable, just say the word and I'll move. Just don't want you freezin' is all." Arthur whispers. He tells himself that this is solely to warm you up, that he would do this for any of the girls. But as much as he tries to convince himself, he knows it's a lie. The feeling of your small, cold hands gripping onto his shirt is one he never wants to forget. Having you so close, he knows he'll likely never get this chance again and he wants to soak up every moment. 

"No- no, this is nice." You whisper against him, truthfully. He pulls the blankets over you both, and you're surrounded by his scent under the confines of the blanket. You focus on keeping warm, on getting better, trying not to think about being pressed this close to Arthur. Already you can feel his body defrosting your own, melting away the ice that resides in your fingertips and the chill that shivers up your spine.

You want to distract yourself, to get away from this vulnerable feeling because it's dangerous. You think about what happened with Lenny and Jenny, what happened to the good people who let their guards down and what they lost. You won't allow yourself this, and as soon as you're warm enough, you plan to move back to your side of the bed. He's only in here because there's not enough space in the other cabins anyways, you lie to yourself. 

Desperate for a distraction, you think of a topic to bring up. Arthur's hand running up and down your back is far too consuming and you have to find something else to focus on.

"What happened while you were off lookin' for medicine anyway? You were gone a long while." You whisper against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart beating against your ear. It's beating a bit quick, and you try not to think about why that is. 

"Well we ran into Micah. He got separated from John and we still haven't found him…" Arthur pauses for a moment, concern tracing his words although he would never admit to worrying over his bastard little brother, "We found a big farm up north from here. Seemed like a good place to look but it was overrun with O'driscolls. They started threatenin' us so we took em out and-" 

You interject Arthur with a furrow in your brows, confused by the mention of a name you haven't heard before. 

"O'driscolls?" You ask, thinking back and deducting that you've not heard of these folks before. 

"Guess you ain't been with us long enough to run into them yet -well we've been out further west than them for a while too- They're another gang, big bunch of cruel bastards run by Colm O'driscoll. He and Dutch go way back in a proper blood feud. Bad business…" Arthur says the last line with a particularly dark edge, and you make a note to ask about it at some point in the future. A breeze shakes the little cabin, and you burrow in tighter against Arthur, shivering lightly. 

"They had a woman holed up in the basement, it was her and her husband's house. I can't imagine what they did to her. We found her husband shot outside, and then Micah got the goddamn house burned down. It was a right mess." Arthur says quietly, lightly shaking his head as if recounting the day with distaste. You rest your chin on his chest, looking up to see the remorse on his face, knowing he is punishing himself for an act he's not responsible for.

"And the woman…? What happened to her?" You inquire, fearing the worst for this girl. If the O'driscolls are as big and nasty a group as Arthur described, then you can only hope that she's okay. 

"We brought her back with us, just till she gets on her feet again… y'know Dutch weren't too happy about finding O'driscolls up in these parts. He wants to hit them first thing in the morning."

You nod, resting your head back on Arthur's chest, glancing up through the cracks of the roof to get an estimate for the time. Your watch, the one you stole off of your current pillow and personal heater, was abandoned in Blackwater. The moon filters through the broken down roof, signaling that it's very early in the morning. You sigh, tracing the moonlight that trickles through until you see a few flickers of light. It's the stars, shining brightly now that the fog of a storm has passed. Arthur is seemingly eyeing them as well, as he speaks. 

"Y’know you're like my little star." Arthur whispers, voice gravelly against your ear. You crane your neck to look up at him, pulling your eyebrows together. He doesn't look down to you, feeling too vulnerable to make eye contact. 

"Everything that's goin' on, all the chaos, and you're still burnin'." His thumb rubs slow circles on your back as he talks. 

"Shinin', bright, beautiful, but'll burn your ass faster than you can blink." Arthur chuckles, not even realizing what he's just said until he feels your breath hitch against his neck. You move your eyes away from the stars to rest your chin on his chest, looking up to him once more. 

"You think I'm beautiful…?" You whisper, trying to hide your smile at Arthur's flustered state. His cheeks turn pink and his jaw falls slack as he stutters and avoids your eyes. 

"I- I didn't mean nothin' by it, I was just- didn't mean to say- I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry-" Arthur rambles, cursing his damn big mouth and his thoughts for getting him in this situation that he's digging himself deeper into. You laugh at Arthur's quick embarrassment and self reprimandation. You move to lay on your back so you can better see the stars, still nuzzled tightly against Arthur, with his arm under your head, and his thumb tracing back and forth over your shoulder.

"Y'know my momma used to call me Star before she passed." You whisper, pushing down the emotions as you think of your sweet mother and her all too early fate. 

Arthur squeezes you just a bit tighter in a show of comfort when he hears your sniffle. He lost his momma at a young age too. No matter how old you get, or how long it's been, the ache is still there. 

"Well I think it's a fittin' nickname for you, considerin' how much time you spend lookin' at em." Arthur smiles, glancing between you lying beside him, cuddled into the crook of his arm, and the twinkling stars that are peeking through the abandoned cabin's splintered roof. 

"Star… I think that's gonna stick." Arthur adds, adjusting himself a little and crossing an ankle over the other at the bottom of the bed. 

"God Arthur, isn't it just beautiful?" You whisper, awestruck by the stunning, shimmering lights in the sky. They peek down through the cabin's cracks, causing your eyes to fill with them and sparkle as well.

"So beautiful…" Arthur whispers, but his eyes are not looking up. No, Arthur's eyes are fixated on you at his side, until he forces them to pull away on account of decency. He pulls you closer to him, savoring every second and cursing himself for being selfish enough to allow himself this moment. 

"You warmer now? Comfortable?" He whispers, so close that you can feel his warm breath on your ear. You try to convince yourself that this is normal, that snuggling tightly in a bed with your best friend is normal. 

"Toasty warm, mister." You reply, looking away from the stars to lay back on Arthur's chest. He holds his hand out in the air, waiting for you to situate yourself before resting it on your back, swallowing thickly at your actions. 

"Try to get some sleep." He says. It takes only minutes for you to slip into slumber. Arthur on the other hand? He doesn't sleep the rest of the night. 

—

"Honey?" A voice calls to you through your sleep. It's far away, beckoning you to join the realm of the living as you come to. 

"Hmm?" You respond, too tired to form a coherent answer. 

"I brought you some bandages, figure those are gonna need to be switched by tonight." 

It's Abigail, and once you realize it's her, you finally perk up. She's standing beside your bed, placing a little roll of fresh bandages on the broken bedside table. You watch her hand release the roll, and notice the little fluttering paper beside it that is being held down by a glass bottle of tonic. 

Arthur is already gone, he's been swept away by Dutch to go raid the O'driscolls. It's a foolish move. The gang is barely on its feet. The miniscule supply of food that had been brought from Blackwater has already dwindled, and while people here starve and freeze to death, Dutch is off with the strongest boys on a merry chase. When Arthur had woken up, only a few hours after he'd held you back to sleep, he had brushed a hair out of your face, pulled the blankets up for you, tucked you in and left you a note on the table. Unfortunately for you, when Arthur left he also took his warmth with him. 

"Abigail? Could you help me get to the main cabin? It's mighty cold in here and I'm afraid my leg ain't lettin' me put much weight on it."

Abigail turns back to you, smiling. 

"Course', c'mere." 

She takes your hands, helping to pull you up to your feet. The weight on your leg aches something fierce, but at least the fever is gone. 

You step towards the little table, eyeing the paper and tonic. You recognize the paper, the texture and torn edges tell you that Arthur has ripped it out of his journal, scribbling to you with his beloved charcoal. 

Star, I've gone after these O'driscolls with some of the boys, should be back by nightfall. Drink the rest of this tonic to keep from getting sick again- Arthur

You pick up the delicate paper, smiling at Arthur's nickname for you. Folding it, you place it in your pocket before reaching for the medicine.

"Star?" Abigail questions, peeking over your shoulder, curious of the note you've been left. 

"Yeah, little nickname Arthur came up with. Well, my momma used to call me Star too. Been a nickname since I was a girl, but I haven't heard it in awhile. It's nice." You explain, grimacing before you drink down the few swigs of tonic that are still left in the dark glass bottle.

The note stays tucked in your pocket as Abigail tosses your arm around her shoulders so that she can take some weight off your leg. 

"Arthur told me about John last night… I can't imagine what you must be goin' through. I'm sorry Abigail. John is tough though, he'll be okay and we will find him." 

Abigail is quiet, nodding her head lightly with a slight wobble to her lip. 

"I hope so, Jack would be- what would he do without John?" 

You know she's projecting a bit, as Jack is surely not the only one who would be lost without John. There's tension in Abigail and Johns relationship, something likely happened before you joined the gang, but it doesn't change that Abigail loves him. No, love isn't conditional like that. 

That's all that is said, all that needs to be said as Abigail helps you to limp outside. Your leg is getting a little stronger but it still hurts like a son of a bitch to fully support yourself, something you'll have to get used to sooner or later because you'll be damned if you have to be helped along everywhere. 

The snow is still thick on the ground, but the heavy downpour of snow and ice has stopped almost completely. Instead, the sun shines, finally having escaped the confines of the clouds. Eventually, after some struggling, you both make it to the main cabin where most of the gang is residing. 

When you push the door open, the relief is immediate. It's much warmer inside, and you notice that someone already has a fire going in the fireplace. 

"Just set me down over here, I'll be fine." You whisper to Abigail, nodding towards an empty bench on the left side of the wall. She gets you situated down on the bench, checking that you're comfortable before heading over towards Jack. 

It's a boring day, and you're frustrated on account of your uselessness. Soft cries can be heard throughout the cabin, of friends and lovers who have lost their other halves. You crane your neck to glance out the broken window, sighing and wincing at the sight of two freshly dug graves that are marked with wooden crosses. The one closer to you, separated only by the cold, foggy glass, is marked with a 'J'.  You've been repressing the emotion, repressing the memory, not allowing yourself to feel or to grieve. For just a moment, your mask slips down and a pain stabs your heart from the loss that you endured just a few days ago. But quickly you pull yourself together, wiping away the unshed tears and forcing yourself to bottle up like you always do.

You need a distraction, a vent to keep your mind busy so that it can't pull you down into the dark thoughts that threaten to eat you alive. You've been sitting here, not busy for far too long and it's starting to eat away at you, slowly creeping into your mind. You need to do something. 

Charles enters the cabin with a pail filled with chunks of meat, and you stand up, putting most of the weight on your right leg as you walk over to him. He sets the pail on a wooden table off the center of the room, next to a decent sized stove. 

"Charles, let me." You say, wiping your hands on your coat before taking in the ingredients in front of you. The pail of meat is fresh, likely just butchered. It appears to be venison, and it'll make a nice, gamey stew. 

He rests against the table, eyeing you up and down quickly before cocking his head, as if unsure. 

“You sure it's good for you to be standing for so long? Why don’t you go sit, its no trouble for me to-” Charles starts to rebuttal before you interrupt him. 

“Please- all I've done since we got here is sit, and I need to do somethin’, I need to keep busy. What's good for me isn't sittin’ down and thinkin’ over all the shit that just happened.” You plead. There is understanding in Charles’ eyes, he knows exactly how you feel. Your eyes then travel to his hand, and you remember that he’d been hurt too. You’d seen the burn on his hand when he and Jenny carried Davey out of the boat. Now it's wrapped in clean gauze, pale against his skin. 

“Sides’, you’re hurt too. What happened to your hand? Looked like a burn when I saw you on the boat...” You whisper, taking the meat out of the bucket and putting it into a pot, even though Charles never explicitly told you that it was okay for you to take over. 

Out of reflex he stretches his hand a little, putting some pressure on the throbbing pain. 

“When that oil barrel got shot I was standing too close, had my hand on a metal rail when everything went up in flames, burned me pretty good, but I’ll be fine.” Charles explains, glancing towards the sound of whimpering sobs. You follow his gaze to a woman you’ve never seen before, presumably Mrs. Adler. She’s wearing nothing but a chemise and a coat, her blonde hair is dirty and her freckled face is red and puffy from her cries that haven’t ceased since arriving. Slowly, you bring your eyes back to Charles, checking inside the stove to make sure the fire was still lit and hot. You poke the burning coals and wood with an iron prod that was sitting beside the stove. 

“Charles when I went in there… everyone was-” You pause, looking around at all the miserable faces in the room, pausing on Jack and deciding to choose your words carefully, “I saw all the people, what the hell happened?” You ask, thinking back to the passengers on the floor, dead, and the ones cowering in the corner. Charles purses his lips as you take the pail of water that he’d brought in earlier and pour it into the pot. Steam rises from the simmering pot, along with the first mouth watering scents of real food.

“Dutch, it's like he lost his mind in there. Once the boat caught on fire, he was gone, he started yelling, he shot a girl in a bad way. I haven’t been with him long but… it was unlike him.” Charles whispers, distaste coloring his face, and a scowl that matches your own. You nod, thinking over the hell that has been the last few weeks. Nothing can really be said about it, what is there to say? The silence is comfortable as you stir the pot. 

“Thank you, Charles. I’ve got this from here, why don’t you go rest, you’ve done plenty.” You thank him, and he dips his head lightly, resting his hand on your shoulder as he steps past you.

The meat simmers in the pot, and the water begins to boil lightly. Amongst your ingredients on the table are a carrot, salted offal, two apples, an onion, rosemary, thyme and a whole lotta rum. It's apparent that Pearson’s priorities were not with grabbing the gang food, but rather fueling his own addictions. You sigh, taking the carrot and pulling your knife out of its sheath. You chop it into slices and add it to the pot, just as you do with the onion and herbs. It's a simple stew, but it's still going to be delicious. The savory aroma begins to fill the room, and soon the hungry bellies of the gang begin to rumble. 

After some more stirring, and some additions of more herbs thrown into the pot, you deem the stew done. There are enough metal bowls on the table for everyone in the room, and you fill them almost halfway. As much as you’d like to hand everyone a  full bowl, there isn’t enough and you need to ration it. The boys will be hungry when they get back, and you make sure there is enough for everyone.

“Alright everyone, stews ready!” You holler, wiping your hands on your coat once more and watching as a huddle of cold faces light up at the mention of warm food. 

Karen and Tilly come up together, arms linked to stay warm. Both are swaddled in coats, and Tilly has a scarf wrapped over her head to protect her ears. 

“It smells so good, this’ll be the first meal any of us have eaten since Blackwater.” Tilly sighs, excited and hungry. Karen nods, taking two bowls, one for her and one for Mary-beth who is reading on a bench by the door. 

“Thanks for cooking, Star!” Marybeth giggles from across the room and your jaw drops with a chuckle. 

“Y'know gossip spreads around this place faster than the goddamn plague.” You laugh. Apparently, Abigail had told the girls about your note from Arthur, and the nickname that he had signed onto the top of the paper. 

You sigh, shaking your head and handing out stew bowls to the people waiting in line. You thank Grimshaw for all her help with her leg as you hand her a bowl. Reverend Swanson, who is mostly unfamiliar to you, mentions that he’d expected you to have coins on your eyes when he’d seen you coming out of the wagon. Miss O’shea takes a bowl with a wicked scowl on her face, and Hosea thanks you, wishing you well with your leg before taking his bowl and resigning back to his cabin. Everyone who is there comes up, except for Abigail because Jack is sleeping in her lap.

Once everyone has gone through you turn around and see that Mrs. Adler hasn’t gotten a bowl. You bite your lip, toying with it while deciding to take some to her. Maybe she’ll want nothing to do with you. Maybe she’ll see your place in this gang as no different than the O’driscolls who took everything from her. But you won’t know until you try. Throwing caution to the wind, to take a bowl in hand and carry it over towards her. Her knees are brought up to her chest, and her arms are wrapped around them as she sobs into herself. Once you are in front of her, you hesitate. She hasn’t noticed you in front of her yet. 

“Mrs? Do you- Are you hungry…?”  You ask, extending the bowl of stew towards her. 

Her head snaps up at you, and the glare she sends your way is ice cold. 

“Could you eat if you were in my situation?” She hisses with a thick Texan accent. You nod your head, pursing your lips as you begin to turn on your heels to head back to the table.

“Take that as a no then…” You mumble under your breath. You only make it a step away before she calls out to you, gripping your wrist and pulling you lightly so that you face her again. 

“I, wait- Im sorry.” She says, feeling regret from pushing you away so rudely just moments ago. 

“Please, sit.” The woman offers, gesturing towards the open area on the bench next to her. You extend the stew out to her, and this time she smiles before you sit next to her. You wince as it pulls at your healing thigh, but the pain is already getting better. Mrs. Adler notices, and then thinks back to when the man that had brought her in, Arthur, had asked for medicine from her cabinet.  

“You were sick when I got here right?” She asks, eyebrows pulling together slightly as she takes a bite of the stew. Her eyes slip closed for a second as she relishes the flavor. Instinctually, you run your hand down to your thigh, tracing over the bandaged wound. 

“Bullet to the leg, I’m afraid… Nasty business.” You all but whisper, once again fighting your memory in an attempt to repress them. Your eyes flicker around the room, and for the first time in a while you see a few smiles. The food has brought some hope.

“Yeah. I'm glad to see you back on your feet then. I… I wasn’t doin’ so well last night. Couldn’t hear much other than my own cryin’, but from what I did hear, you weren’t doing so hot either.”

You’re at a loss for words, not sure whether or not to respond on the matter of her grieving her husband. After a little debating in your head, you decide on the former. If something happened to the love of your life you would probably want to talk about it.

“Mrs. Adler-” You start, but she holds her hand up quickly and interjects.

“Please, call me Sadie.”

“Sadie, I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you. I know how it feels to have someone you love taken from you for nothing other than selfish greed.” You offer, thinking about your Pa. A few tears form in your eyes as you think about him. He was a bastard towards the end of his all too short life, but he was still your Papa.

She smiles, seemingly remembering something, but it falters, and forms into a deep frown with tears rimming her eyes. Watching Sadie remember her husband is like the sun being driven out by a thunderstorm. The good memories flash over her face for a moment before she realizes that they will never be anything but memories. There is no chance for making new ones now. 

“I- we…” Sadie starts, tears dripping silently down her cheeks, falling into her bowl of stew. She can’t find the words to express her heartache, or her gratitude towards you. But how could she? How can one put emotions so vast and contrasting into words?

“Jake and I, our farm-” She starts again, unable to put her grief into words. You place your hand on her knee, and she stops to look up at you.  

“Hey, it's alright. Don't gotta talk about it now, just eat somethin, yeah?” You whisper, hoping that you haven’t made her feel worse. She looks up at you with a nod, and a sincerity. 

“Thank you. You’re the first person who's actually talked to me since I got here. But I guess what could people even say…?” Sadie thanks you, taking another bite of stew. 

“It’s no problem at all, Sadie.” You go to stand, but stop when she speaks once again, embarrassed that she didn’t ask your name. 

“I didn’t catch your name.” She says, and you noticed the tears have stopped trailing down her cheeks. 

“Well,” you chuckle, and tell her your real name, “but the new running nickname is Star, so why don’t you just call me that?” 

“Thank you, Star…” Sadie offers sincerely, before letting you go. You smile at her once more before heading back to the table. Jack is still asleep, and you want to get some soup to Abigail. She hasn’t eaten either, but isn’t going to move the poor kid. He’s so young, too young to be going through all this. You pity Abigail, and how hard it must be for her to explain to her son what's going on. 

Just as you go to grab the bowl off the table, a hand gently touches your elbow. You turn to see who it may be, needing some food or to give you an empty bowl. To your surprise the person in front of you is Lenny. Your jaw falls slack a little, and your eyes start to water before you stop them. You’ve been avoiding him, because what can you even say?

“Lenny…” You whisper, and there is so much pity and heartbreak in your voice that it sounds foreign to your ears.

He smiles at you, as if everything is going to be okay before he pulls you a little aside, away from the ears of others. It’s then that you see the unkempt look about him, his red eyes and the haunting grief that hasn’t left him since those few days ago. 

“You were a good friend to Jenny… and I thank you for that.” Lenny says, glistening tears in his eyes that match your own. You hastily wipe them away, before glancing across the room, out the window to the fresh grave that is haunting you. You haven’t allowed yourself to feel it, to grieve it. You only knew Jenny a short time but in that time she was your friend and she’s gone. It took just a half-second for her life to be erased. Just a moment. If the shot had been off by a foot it would be you in that grave instead of her, and you wonder if it would be better off that way.

“She told me about your plans, about going to Tumbleweed. Lenny, I’m so sorry.” You whimper, asking yourself if Jenny’s death is your fault. They should be in Tumbleweed getting married by now. But Lenny is here with you, with tears in his eyes and a broken heart, and Jenny is buried outside.

“She- that never should have happened.” You pause, thinking over Jenny’s dying wish that she had whispered to you with the last breath of air that ever left her lungs. 

“Jenny asked me to tell her how much she loves you… I was there with her, the whole time until she- until she…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, but Lenny understands, nodding with a smile that holds so much pain.

“I thank you for that, for staying with her. We dont get many chances for love in this life. Im glad for the time we spent together. God I miss her so much already, my sweet Jenny…” Lenny mutters, before pulling you into a hug. He’s so young, just barely an adult, and he’s already lost so much. The grief in the room is almost unbearable. Everyone has lost something, and yet you're the only one who won’t allow yourself to feel. Every time the emotion bubbles up, you stomp it back down. Lenny’s arms are tight around you in a show of friendship and heartache before he pulls away.

“Thanks for all you did for her, even in the end.”

“She would have done the same for me.” You smile, although there is no joy behind it.  

“I'm sure she would have, miss.” Lenny adds before tipping his head to you and walking out of the room back to his cabin. 

As soon as the door swings back into place, and Lenny’s figure disappears behind it, you let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. A few tears and one quiet sob escape from you, but you quickly put yourself back together, wiping away your tears and avoiding the window that gives view to her grave. Just as you’ve finished collecting yourself, a little hand tugs on the bottom of your coat. When you look down, slightly startled, you see little Jack, cheeks pink from the cold as he looks up to you with tired eyes, despite the sleep he's gotten. He tugs on your coat until you give him your full attention.

“Are you okay? When I was with Mama I saw you crying. Is Lenny okay too?” Jack says, his little high pitched voice a light in the dark. You kneel down onto the ground beside him, ignoring your thigh, and once you're on the ground, he holds on to the lapels of your coat. His little chubby features are so worried. Jack’s too sweet for this life, too innocent.

“Yes, we’re just fine, little mister, I promise.” You chuckle, looking into Jack’s sparkling eyes that haven’t yet lost their childlike wonder. 

“I was meaning to ask since you woke up, you hungry?” You ask, stretching from the ground to grab a bowl of stew from the table at your back. Jack lights up, looking forwards to his first meal in days. 

“Oh yes, please! My tummy has been growling since we got here.” 

You smile, handing him the bowl of stew and leaning your back against the wooden wall, still sitting on the floor. Much to your surprise, Jack settles himself right in your lap, scarfing down the soup as politely as he can. You tense for a moment, not expecting him to have sat in your lap. But after a few seconds you relax, resting back against the wall to let him be comforted, the poor boy just wants to be coddled, which is understandable. 

“You are a very good cook! Better than Mister Pearson!” Jack says, excitedly. His bowl is almost half gone as he uses his sleeve to wipe away the broth dripping down his lip. 

“Well thank you, Jack. Maybe I'll have to cook more often.” You respond. You enjoyed cooking for the gang, even though it's quite different from your usual line of work.

“Oh, please do!”

“Can I call you my aunt?” Jack blurts out, setting his empty bowl on the floor. Abigail overhears her sometimes overbearing son and chuckles knowingly.

“Uh, I- what?” You stutter, at a loss for words. Of everything he could have said, you didn’t expect him to say that. 

“Well there's Uncle Dutch, Uncle Hosea and Uncle Arthur. I have aunt Tilly and aunt Karen… so are you my aunt now too? I asked if I could call Micah my uncle, but papa got mad…” Jack whispers, looking up to you with anticipation for your answer. With a little tap to his cherry red nose you respond.

“Well of course I’ll be your aunt, silly.” You smile at the pure joy radiating from Jack as he squeezes you into the tightest hug his little arms can manage. 

“Okay so you’re my aunt Star!” He yells out, and your jaw drops with a laugh. 

“You too? Has everyone picked this nickname up now?” You chuckle, surprised. 

“Sure have!” Jack responds, cuddling back down into your lap.

—

A few hours later you wake up to yelling. You startle awake, gasping and out of instinct you pull your knife out before your eyes are even fully open. It's a habit you’re working on stopping. When you feel that unfamiliar weight in your lap, you pause to realize Jack is still sitting on you, nuzzled into your coat. He’s still asleep, and by the dark night outside, you presume he won’t be waking up soon. 

“Abigail?” You whisper, not wanting to wake up the boy. 

“I can take him now. Thank you. I didn’t wanna wake you either.” Abigail smiles, coming over from her makeshift bed on a bench. The yelling outside ceases for a moment before it continues again, but it's muffled. Abigail’s eyebrows pull together in worry before she gently picks up her sleeping boy and carries him over to his spot. She settles him down, and you move to stand but the ache in your leg has grown tenfold and is stiff as a board. 

“Goddamnit.” You curse, realizing that you’d neglected to take the tonic that Arthur had left you that morning, and had spent all day walking on the bad leg. The lack of medicine combined with the sudden use has swollen your leg up and made it unbearable to put weight on. 

Simply put, you can’t get up. 

Anxiety suffocates you for a moment as you feel vulnerable and stuck. And yet you’re too proud to ask for help. You desperately want to investigate the noise outside, but you can't even stand on your own two legs. It’s the most frustrated you’ve been in your entire life. With a sigh, you give up, slinking back against the wall. After a while of internal struggle, you begin to drift to sleep again. It seems to be all you can do as of late, but your body is still fighting the latter end of an infection, and has been completely wracked by the trauma you’ve endured. 

Your eyes are heavy, winning the battle as you fight to stay awake. That is until a large boot nudges your own on the ground. 

“Hey you alright? Why you sleepin’ on the floor?” Arthur asks, standing above you. He looks exhausted, dark circles underline his eyes and purple bruises line his fists, which you choose to ignore.

“Just got tired and decided to stay here is all.” You lie, not wanting to ask another favor from Arthur. All he's done is help you, and you have nothing to give him in return. Asking him for more help would be just another debt to the man whom you can’t repay. He eyes you for a moment, hands resting on his gun belt before speaking.

“I'm goin’ back to the cabin. You headin’ over too?” He asks, gesturing towards the door.Your pride will not allow you this, and so you lie again. 

“Yeah, I’ll go over in a few.” 

Arthur chews on his lip, thinking for a moment before he dips his head and turns towards the door. His hands rest in the pockets of his large blue coat as he walks past the array of people who are sleeping, sprawled around the large room. He reaches the door and places his hand on the knob, but he doesn’t open it. With a small chuckle, and a shake of his head, he turns around and struts straight back over to you.

“What?” you ask, raising your eyebrow at the cowboy and pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. One hand lightly massages the sore, tender flesh of your shot thigh. 

“You can’t get up, can ya?” Arthur asks, all too amused by your scowl. 

“I can get up just fine. Just choosin’ not to…” You mumble, avoiding Arthur’s eye contact. With a sigh, he leans down, wrapping his arm around your waist and helping you to stand. He’s on the same side as your bad leg, and he holds your arm tightly to help you along. 

“I said I was fine-” You hiss, wincing when you take the first step.

“Yeah and I’m a dancin’ girl, now let me help you. C’mon.” Arthur jokes, taking his time to help you across the room. He goes at your pace, and you force yourself not to think about his hand on your waist. Slowly but surely you make it outside, across the road, and into the cabin.

As soon as Arthur sits you down on the bed he sighs. 

“You are so goddamn stubborn, woman, you know that?” He chastises lightly, grabbing the tonic and bandages that you were supposed to use about… twelve hours ago.

“Been told once or twice.” You rebuttal. 

Arthur kneels on the ground in front of the bed, right between your knees to grant him easier access to your wound. He’s careful, slow and patient as he peel back some of the cut denim to take the gauze off of your leg. It’s quiet as he wipes away some old poultice from your wound, apologizing quietly when you wince or tense up. In those moments, when you gasp or tense, his hand immediately leaves your thigh. He doesn’t want to cause you pain. 

“Real good…” Arthur says, putting new bandages in place of the old. He glances up to your eyes every now and again to make sure he’s not hurting you, and there’s something so intimate about it. Him kneeling on the ground between your knees, his hand on your thigh as he helps you to heal makes your heart ache in an unfamiliar way and it’s so overwhelming that you have to look away and change the subject. 

“So… What was all that yellin’ about before you came in?” You ask, referring to the commotion that had woken you up earlier. 

Arthur nods, carefully wrapping the gauze around your thigh. 

“That would be an O’Driscoll.” Arthur says, irritated. 

You have to do a double take to make sure your ears are working. 

“A-an O’Driscoll?! You lot brought an O’Driscoll to the camp where we sleep? Where Jack sleeps??” You bite, eyes wide with shock and confusion. Arthur had just told you last night about this dangerous, cold gang with no morals and a leader that is as sneaky as a serpent. 

“Weren’t my idea, Star, trust me.” Arthur says, seemingly as surprised about it as you. 

“He’s a harmless feller. Dutch wants to question him for information, that’s all.” Arthur adds, trying to ease your upset. 

You nod, accepting his response for what is rather than what should be. One thing about your decision to run with a gang is that you signed up to follow Dutch. You live with his shots, that was your choice. So even though you strongly disapprove of this move, it isn’t your call. 

“Okay…” You whisper. The wind howls loudly in the distance, and as you glance out the window you see the graveyard across the way that you've been desperately trying to avoid. Of course, Arthur notices this. He finishes bandaging your thigh before he speaks up.

“How you feelin’?” He asks, squeezing your knee a little. You know what he’s asking. He’s asking how you’re holding up after everything that you’ve gone through. And yet, you have a feeling that he already knows without you ever having to speak a word. You can’t bring yourself to open up, not even to him. You’ve built walls for a reason and taking them down is hard.

“It hurts, but I'll be fine. Grimshaw says the infections already gone down, just gotta keep it that way now..” You say, feigning ignorance to the depth behind Arthur’s question.

You rub at the tender skin around the gun wound in an attempt to ease the ache. By the look on Arthur’s face, he’s not fooled, and you frown deeply, avoiding his gaze. To your surprise, he stands up and sits on the bed beside you. Even as you avoid his eye contact, you can feel him staring at you. When you refuse to look at him, afraid that the tears will  start falling, he places his index finger under your chin and pulls your gaze to his own.

“Star…you ain’t gotta lie to me, y’know. Not with me.” He whispers. 

Your eyes flutter shut and you try your damndest to hold it in, but a single tear falls down your cheek, and your lip quivers. The conversation with Lenny today was almost too much. It brought back every memory of Blackwater that you had been trying so hard to repress. Arthur wipes the sole tear away with his thumb, smearing it across your cheek before taking both your hands and placing them in his own.

“You’re tough. You’re strong for everyone around you, and you’ve always got this damn wall up. You’re-” Arthur pauses for a second, looking down to his lap in thought before looking back up.

“You’re my friend. You ain’t gotta hide around me, alright?” He whispers, bright green eyes looking straight through your tough facade and boring into your soul.

The tears just start falling and you can’t stop them. For the first time in your adult life, you don’t try to. You bring your hands away from Arthur’s, and up to your face as you sob into your palms. Immediately, Arthur pulls your hands away from your face and wraps his arms around your small frame, swaying you gently on the bed and shushing you. You cling to his blue coat with every bit of strength you have, dampening the wool as you cry.

“I- I can’t believe they’re gone, Arthur.” You sob. All of the passengers that died on the boat, then Sean, Davey and Mac, possibly John. Jenny and Boadicea…You gasp for air, lungs shaking as you release all the emotions that have been building up for far too long. 

“I know, I know…” Arthur whispers into your hair, running his hand up and down your back to comfort you. You’ve not been looked after like this in a long time. It's nice to know you have someone to bear your soul too, but right now all you can think of is the ones you lost. 

“Jenny- Jenny was my friend!” You half cry, half gasp into Arthur’s coat, clenching your fists so tight onto his coat that your hands are on the verge of shattering.

“She was- she was talkin’ to me about Lenny. They was- They were gonna-” You sob, hiccuping and snotting against him. It's not an aesthetic visual, but it's raw.

“I know sweetheart, I know they was, c’mere.” He mumbles, pulling you against his chest to hold you even tighter. 

You don’t correct him for the pet name like you did in Tumbleweed. Maybe you’re too emotionally drained to care, maybe you don’t mind it. Your sobs turn to cries, that turn to whimpers, until after a long while of crying, you're just breathing against Arthur’s chest. His grip on you hasn’t let up, but neither of you have said anything, just swaying and shushing. Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, but you push out one last whisper before they close. 

“Arthur… I'm so sorry about Boadicea…”

Arthur sucks in a deep breath, fighting the emotion that bubbles up from the mention of his former horse. 

“That wasn’t your fault. You hear me? That’s not on you.” He growls, holding you even tighter. His heart breaks to know that you’ve been carrying that weight. None of this is your fault. 

Before long, you’re asleep in his arms. Even after he hears your breathing settle, and the light snores that you make, he doesn't go. He rests his back against the wooden wall and falls asleep with you in his arms. He can’t bring himself to let go of you, even for a second. Terrified that you’ll disappear from his arms or feel the need to close yourself off or be alone again. Because you're not alone, not anymore.

—

You wake up slowly. Underneath you is a slow rise and fall, accompanied by light snoring. You smile warmly before even opening your eyes. Arthur’s arms are still wrapped around your waist tightly.

When your eyes open, you are met with Arthur’s sleeping face. His eyes are peacefully shut, and his lips are parted to allow his little snores to fall from his lips. Besides his absolutely killer morning breath, he looks as snug as a bug. You chuckle, slowly prying yourself from his grip, trying not to wake him. He needs the sleep. You crawl over him, yelping as he snores particularly loudly, shaking you with his rumbles. Eventually you make it out of the bed alive. Arthur is still sleeping, and you pull the blankets up over him.

You want to leave him a note, and pull your leather bound journal out of your satchel. You haven’t opened it since everything went to shit, and you run your hand over the cover before flipping through the pages. The last entry was from a few weeks ago, the night that you had laid under the stars and picked wildflowers. Before venturing out you had written about meeting Jenny. It was also the same day Arthur bought his journal. Oh, how quickly things change. 

You eye your last entry for a moment before turning the page, and tearing the next section out. You take your pencil and scribble onto the paper before setting it on the table next to Arthur’s hat. You go to sign your name at the bottom, signing the first letter before pausing for a moment and changing it.

Thank you for last night, really. -Star

It's short and sweet. Once it’s secured on the table, you glance back at Arthur one more time before heading to the door. Maybe it’s from the tender care he had shown you yesterday, or maybe it’s coincidence, but your leg feels much better today. You’re confident enough to head to the main cabin yourself. Your thigh is sore, but not the burning pain that had torn through you yesterday. You walk past the stables, glancing in pity towards the wails of the O’Driscoll being held captive. Some of the snow has melted from the sun, which you're grateful for, as it’s easier to navigate across the road. Still it takes you a bit longer than usual, and you curse whatever may be out there that you’re stuck in this position. 

Before you’ve even breached the door, you can hear the arguing, the crying. God, what now? The gang seems to be falling apart at the seams and everyone is shattering. Once you pull open the door, the muffled voices become clear. 

“Dutch van der Linde, it has been two days! He ain’t been seen in two days!” Abigail yells, storming after Dutch who is glaring at a very worried Hosea.

“Abigail, your John is just fine. Lost in the storm, he's probably on his way back from wherever he is right now.” Dutch rebuttals, causing Hosea to grow irritated. 

“The girl is right, Dutch. He could very well be dead out there. We barely survived here and we have walls, who knows where the poor boy ended up.” Hosea states, worried over the state of the closest relationship he’ll ever have to a son. Dutch turns, glaring daggers at Hosea, but he's met with a glare just as strong. 

“I’ll go get him.” You state, and all eyes in the room shift to you. Abigail practically whimpers, uttering out her thanks as you pull your coat back over your shoulders. Hosea steps forward, a look of pity on his face. 

“Dear girl, your leg… You’re barely back on your feet, you can’t venture into this mess.” Hosea says, gesturing to the freshly wrapped bandages around your thigh.

You pull your revolver out of its holster, squinting and looking down the barrel to make sure it's clean and fully loaded before you reholster it. 

“I have to. For Jack, for Abigail. If he's out there I gotta find him. Sides’ my leg is fine, really.” It’s a bit of a white lie that your leg is fine, but you need to find John. 

“I’ll bring him back, Abigail. I will.” You promise, hugging her tightly before heading towards the door.

“Estrella! I'm coming too.” Javier calls out, pulling a patterned poncho over his coat and grabbing a sawed off shotgun from his items. You nod, chuckling as Javier approaches.

“Estrella? I even wanna know what that means?” You laugh, gearing up with Javier. 

“It’s nothing,” he laughs, “You think we can handle this? Just the two of us?” Javier asks, holstering his gun before holding the door for you. You walk towards the barn while you think. You’re not even sure who to ask, but you’re not waking Arthur up, he needs the sleep. You chew on your lip for a second, thinking it over before you come to a decision.

“Yeah, just us. We can handle it.”

When you push the barn doors open, you see Charles, sitting in a wooden chair about ten feet in front of the tied up O’driscoll. He’s sharpening a knife, barely paying attention to the smaller man’s cries. 

You dip your head to Charles in greeting before going through the open stalls. Boadicea isnt here, and it causes that dull ache to grow a little stronger. You do see however, right next to your still unnamed buckskin, an unfamiliar horse. 

“Where’d this guy come from?” You ask, petting the skittish tobiano. 

“Oh. Arthur found him when they raided those O’Driscolls. He’s keeping him for now.” Javier says before grabbing the reins to his paint, Boaz. He leads the stallion outside, and you grab the buckskin to chase after him. 

“Can you track?” Javier asks, mounting up on Boaz in time with you. He starts off at a trot, leading you towards the main road. 

“Yeah, my Pa taught me when I was just a girl. If he was through, I’ll see. I just hope his tracks aren’t covered with snow…” You say, retaining hope that John is alive and well. 

“Good. we’ll go back to the main road, try to find where he broke off.”  Javier calls back to you, pushing Boaz into a canter. You run after him, pulling your coat up over your nose to protect it from the cold. 

You cut across the river, and it isn’t long before you find a few sets of tracks. 

“Hey is John’s horse shod?” You yell up to Javier, who chuckles. 

“No. That horse is the most sure-footed bastard you’ll ever ride. Carajo, he’s more like a mule than a horse.” Javier jokes. One set of hoof tracks resembles a shod horse, and one an unshod, so you start following the latter trail. 

“It cuts across the crick here.” You yell, running across the little creek and picking up the trail on the other side. Javier and Boaz fall behind you, following as you lead the way. 

After following the trail for a bit, you come upon a gorge. It causes your limbs to tingle with anxiety, and you try not to look down and see how deep it goes. 

“Shit, be careful. There's a hell of a drop here.” You say, navigating your horse around the fault. John was more reckless, his tracks prove that his horse cantered around the gorge, cutting deep as if running from something. After some more following, splatters and drips of blood are evident against the crisp white snow. 

“Javier…” You whisper, following the trail that shows evidence of the horse spooking, and jumping around, like there was a fight. More blood is spilled in the snow the further you travel along. 

“I see it too…” He whispers, and both of you are less sure that John is okay.

“Oh no.” You mutter under your breath as a large body comes into view. You gallop towards it, sliding your buckskin into a stop as you jump down. 

“It’s John’s horse. He must have went on foot from here.” You say, glancing between the initials “JM” that have been tooled into the leather, and the disappearing trail of footprints in front of you.

You take in the poor horse before jumping onto your own. It was brought down and partially eaten by something, either a bear or a wolf, most likely the latter. 

“His tracks disappear, but we gotta keep goin’!” You holler over the wind. The cold is almost unbearable as you ascend higher up the mountains, and the snow grows deeper, making it harder for the horses to climb. 

“Estrella, the horses are getting tired.” Javier calls up, unsure of when to stop following the lost trail. 

You feel your horse’s gait getting sluggish, and feel his breaths become hot and heavy. 

“So we’ll go on foot.” You rebuttal, refusing to give up just yet. 

After cantering to the top of the hill, you hop down, grabbing a springfield rifle and enough ammo to kill whatever may be prowling. 

“JOHN!!” You scream into the wind, receiving no reply except your own echo and the whipping wind. You can barely stand the wind, but you push on anyway. 

“I don’t- we dont even know he’s up here.” Javier tries to reason, but you continue to walk away, sliding down a small slope before coming to a ridge that youll have to jump up to. Its taller than you, and you sigh in frustration. Javier notices your hesitation, and he jumps up, grabbing the rock platform and pulling himself up before extending his hand down to you. 

"I'll help you, come on." He calls down and you hesitate to take his hand, a scowl formin on your lips. 

"I don't need your help." You hiss, knowing fully that you absolutely do need his help. The platform is way taller than you. 

"Easy there tigra, I'm just trying to help." Javier placates, and you feel bad for snapping at him. You jump up as high as you can manage, gripping onto his hand and allowing him to pull you up by your arms. 

"I'm sorry. Just tired of sittin' down and askin' for help all the t-time." You explain, standing up and dusting the snow off your legs while shivering heavily.  

"I understand that." Javier smiles, leading you towards a crack in between the rocks. It's big enough for you to walk through, and you squeeze in, feeling both frozen to death and terrified by the altitude you’re at. Javier is quick to slip in after you, noticing the chills that wrack your body.

“Here this should warm you up.” He extends a bottle of bourbon out to you. The cap is already popped off, and you down a swig before handing it back. The bourbon burns down your throat, warming you as it does. 

“Thanks.”

Just as Javier takes the bottle back, you hear a voice. You can't make out what it says, but it's raspy and familiar. You and Javier share a glance before you start running to the other side of the tunnel.

"John!! Keep talkin' so we can follow your voice!" You beg, jogging after the initial sound. 

"Help!" John yells, and you dart to the left in the snow until you come upon a dip. Your leg aches, but it doesn't matter. This is too important. You run to the edge of the little cliff and look down. 

Down the cliff, John looks up at you, frozen and exhausted. There are bloody gashes in his face, markers of a wolf attack. Blood trickles down his chin, staining the snow white. Really, it's a miracle he didn't bleed to death.

"John, you look like shit." You say before whistling to the horses. Javier is only a few steps behind you, and he hops down into the hole. John groans in pain as Javier tosses him over his shoulder. 

"Good to see you both too." John says with a small laugh despite his bleak situation. 

"Brother, we were worried about you." Javier says, waiting as Boaz canters up the hill alongside your buckskin. 

Once the horses reach you, Javier helps John mount up behind his saddle. You both get on and start cantering down the hill towards Colter. 

"Your woman's been worried sick about you, y'know." You holler over the wind towards John who looks far too close to sleep for your liking. 

"Oh there will be hell to pay when I get back." 

The three of you grow quiet, too concerned with getting John back to really chat. You make it about halfway, pushing the horses as hard as you can through the snow before you hear them. 

Howls sound out from the top of the mountain, and you whip around on your horse to see five snow white wolves running down the bank towards you.

"Shit, John looks like your buddies came back to finish their meal!" You yell, pulling your rifle from the holster on your saddle. You flip the safety off, load a bullet into the chamber, aim right for the closest wolf's chest and fire. 

The first wolf goes down, and as the shot rings out, the other four falter for a moment before returning to their chase. 

You aim for the next closest wolf, but right as you squeeze the trigger, your buckskin trips on a rock hidden under the snow and you miss. The horses are galloping so fast down the mountain, and turning around makes it difficult to aim. The wolves are getting far too close for your liking, and anxiety causes you to have tunnel vision. 

You take a deep breath, and as you exhale time seems to slow down. You aim, squeezing the trigger four times and taking down all four wolves. When the last one hits the ground, your vision returns to normal and time seems to resume. 

"Fine shootin, lady." John says as you come out of your trance. It's unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and you have to shake your head. 

"Thanks." You say, tossing your rifle strap over your shoulder and spurring your horse across the river. 

Colter has come into view now, and you see the few people loading up wagons outside. So we're leaving then? 

You slow down your horses, coming into the town. 

"We need help!" You call out, dismounting and jogging to Javier's horse. 

Abigail runs out the main cabin door, and the relief that washes over her face is clear as day. But as she takes in his poor state, it is replaced by concern.

"John Marston where in the hell have you been?!" She yells, rushing over to where Javier is lifting John down. 

"Oh you know, up on the mountains gettin' eaten by damn wolves. I missed you too, dear." John jokes, wincing as they carry him inside. 

You are left alone outside the cabin, and you take the horses by their reins and lead them the a hitching post. After tying their reins up, you offer both horses an outtake from your satchel, which they greedily accept. 

Just as you're about to head back to the main cabin, the door swings open. 

"Why didn't you wake me up? I was worried sick." Arthur says, walking hastily towards you before, to your surprise, wrapping you in a hug. It lasts only a few moments, and you exhale, releasing the day's tension as he hugs you. When he lets you go, he leans down to inspect your thigh. 

"You okay? It hurt? You shoulda got me up, that was a dangerous trip." Arthur says, worry evident on his face. You raise one eyebrow at him, giggling at his 'mother hen’ state.

"Haven't you learned that I can handle my own yet, Arthur?" You ask, a little offended that he's suggesting you needed help. You know he means nothing by it, but still. 

"Oh, I know, trust me I do. But you shouldn't have to do everything alone."

The air grows too serious for your comfort, and you nod towards the main cabin before heading over to the door. Arthur is by your side as you open the door. 

"Further East?" Uncle says, getting up out of his chair, "Why don't we just run down to the city and turn ourselves in?  How you mean we're going further east?" 

"The west is blocked off, we have no choice! We go east, lay low for a little while. We can hide out and lick our wounds. And then my friends, once they have long forgotten our troop, we seek absolution out west, as far as we can go." Dutch says, addressing everyone in the middle of the room. 

You and Arthur give each other a look, not too sure about heading further east. Hosea steps up beside Dutch and looks around at his family. 

"I don't like it, but he's right. We have nowhere else to go." Hosea adds. 

"And where will we go? Do we have a spot picked out? Twenty people ain't exactly easy to hide, Hosea." Tilly points out, and as you look around the room, everyone seems to be at a loss. 

"I don't know, dear girl. We'll find it when we come across it I suppose…  

An idea sparks in your head, and you step forward from Arthur a bit.

"Actually I may know a place." You interject, and everyone's eyes land on you. 

"My daddy was a gunsmith, and every year he took us to this trade fair in Valentine. It's just down the mountain." You say, and Hosea nods, thinking. 

"Valentine… I know it, little livestock town, our kinda place." Hosea thinks out loud.

"Just off the town is an open space, hidden in the woods that overlooks the valley. It's well hidden and big enough for all of us. We used to set up camp there every year when I was a girl. 

"And it's safe? Well hidden?" Arthur asks,  stepping up towards you. You nod, craning your neck to look at him. 

"Yeah. There's trees around all sides except for the overlook. Plenty of good spots for lookouts, it's not too close to the road. And we'll have a pretty view too." 

"And this place, it have a name?" Dutch asks,  stepping forward.  

"Horseshoe Overlook." 

Dutch and Hosea share a look, thinking it over, before Hosea comes forward and places a hand on your shoulder. 

"Thank you miss- what are they callin' you now? Star?" Hosea cuts himself off. 

"Apparently." You chuckle, quickly glancing back to Arthur. 

"Well it's fitting. You're a bright girl, my dear and you may have just saved our sorry asses." Hosea pats your shoulder for good measure before turning to the rest of the room.

"As soon as Johns back on his feet we are heading out!" 

You sink back beside Arthur, looking up at him for a few moments. He knows that look. You're worried. Here you all are, heading towards yet another unknown, another situation that may hold death for everyone. But Arthur will be by your side through it all. And if even just for a little while… that makes it all okay.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Pretty Girl | 4. last goodbye

1. pretty girl. | 2. lover, you should’ve come over | 3. been on my mind | 4. last goodbye | 5. hold my hand

warnings: cursing, discussions of an ed (if that’s not something you want to read, you can skip this chapter and read the next one!)

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enews Do we see some drama raining on the new couple's parade? After they publically announced their relationship, Y/n Y/l/n"s ex Davey George was interviewed with Vouge and cast some light on the previously dark recent breakup scandal. Here are some of the highlights we collected for you.

About their relationship: "She was distant throughout the relationship. Call it prioritizing her career, but it just felt like I was a second thought. Which, you know, is funny, considering how it felt like I was the one doing her a favor by going out with her in the first place. I mean, she was a mess when we first got together. Crying all the time, shit like that. It felt like she couldn't be real around me because of how much she was upset about a breakup that I got the impression she didn't even care about... It was one guy after the other, for her, with a few girls mixed in, and I can see why nothing ever stuck. Good luck to Seresin, though."

About the breakup: "Things got bad, quick. One day, she was cuddling with me and watching movies, the next she can't stand to see me and is fucking around with some guy behind my back...I should've expected it from someone like her. All I did was take care of her, and she tossed me aside. Literally. She threw my shit out the window, changed the locks, the whole nine yards. Wouldn't even listen when I tried to explain myself."

About the recent announcement: "Shit, man, I can't say I'm surprised. She ran out of guys not in her friend group to fuck. All I can say is that Bradshaw and Machado better watch the fuck out. Even her best friend's man isn't out of the picture...It won't last long, though. Her shit'll get in the way like it always does. First, she'll stop being fun, then she'll stop eating. All the crap you'd expect from a model, right?"

view 68,580 comments

jakeyswiffe this is absolutely horrible

daveyyyy i knew there was some reason he was so upset, what a bitch

y/nsgirl anyone else smell bs?

bradbradbob she better stay away from bradley

-> natasha_pho for reallll

seresinhangman did he really say all of this?? i knew he was a shitty person

models_uno she sounds horrible omg

y/nhubby damn this is so disappointing to hear, stay safe out there guys

jakeeee_s okay but anyone else upset that he talked about her ed like that??

-> callieslove definitely

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Messages

you: i didn’t cheat on him

jakey: baby

you: i didn’t do it i swear

you: i don’t want you to think i would do something like that

jakey: i know you didn’t

jakey: he’s a goddamn liar

jakey: and that’s not what i’m worried about

you: what are you worried about?

you: i mean i’m dedicated to my job but it won’t get in the way or anything

jakey: i’m not worried about that either

you: ??

jakey: honey

jakey: have you eaten today?

you: yes

jakey: i’m gonna ask again

jakey: have you eaten today?

you: i said yes

you: is this about what davey said?

jakey: is it true?

you: some of it

you: i’m better than i used to be

jakey: okay

jakey: why didn’t you tell me?

you: it’s not that easy

you: and i didn’t think it was important

jakey: how could this not be important

you: i don’t my ed to be the thing that defines me

you: i already have enough labels, i didn’t need any more

jakey: that has nothing to do with us though

jakey: it’s not like i would tell anyone

you: you would look at me different

you: everyone does when they find out

jakey: i don’t see you any different

jakey: i’m not like all of your shitty exes

you: really?

you: that’s what you want to bring up?

jakey: i didn’t mean it like that and you know it

you: sure

jakey: i’m just saying that i’m different from them

jakey: i care about you and i don’t want to see you get hurt

you: oh, haven’t you heard?

you: apparently i’m going to be the one to hurt you and throw you out of my apartment

jakey: come on

jakey: don’t be like that

you: i’m not being like anything

you: i’m going to sleep

——————————————————————————

Messages

you: are you busy?

tash: not particularly

you: i need a tasha hug

tash: babe you’re in new york

tash: but i can get a plane ticket

you: not if you have anything important

tash: come on

tash: you’re more important than anything else

——————————————————————————

You put down your phone and curl up further into the mess of blankets and pillows that you’ve scattered around your bed. Even thought it’s night, the city noise is still going strong outside, but you’re high up enough for it to be a distant, pleasant hum other than it’s actual chaotic bustle. It’s one of the perks of having enough money to buy yourself an apartment as high as you want.

Your PR manager told you to lay low for a while, not because you did anything wrong, but because it would give her time to figure out a way to take this into your hands. You can’t complain; you’re not sure you would be up for doing much right now.

It’s not like this was anything unexpected. Eventually- because Davey never could stand not having attention- someone was going to say something about you. You’ve finally come to accept that, in your line of work, you don’t really have room for secrets.

But right now, it feels so overwhelming. You’ve had exes share details about you before (the whole world knows that you hide in closets at parties when you want alone time), but it’s never been anything as…personal.

And then there’s Jake. The conversation you had earlier with him didn’t exactly go as you wanted it to, and now, for the first time in weeks, he’s in San Diego while you’re in New York. It had been pre-planned for you to go back to your apartment for a while and for him to get enough space in his house for you to move in some of your stuff, but the timing feels abrupt. You have your first fight and you can’t even look him in the eye. You can’t make up with a few words and a kiss, and he can’t sweep you off your feet in a bear-like hug.

You could break first and ask him to come to New York. But after some of the things he said, you’re not sure if you want to be that person. For your whole career, you’ve been positioned as a girl who chases after the guy until he’s too boring. With Jake, it hadn’t been like that. It had been a whirlwind, and you undeniably wanted him just as much as he wanted you, but it had also been easy.

It’s always been true that no matter how mad at Jake you are, you still want him by your side. But do you still want him by your side if he doesn’t trust you? If he thinks you’re keeping secrets from him based on one interview, how can something long-term possibly last? If he can’t be supportive when you need him to be, then how can you stay with him?

You’re not embarrassed or ashamed of your history with food. It’s something you’ve been struggling with for years, and you can proudly say that you’re much better now than you used to be. But that doesn’t meant that you haven’t had setbacks. While you were dating Davey, there was a particularly hard shoot. Your body, which you’re used to being on display, hadn’t looked how you wanted it to look, especially compared to the other women you worked with. Against them, you didn’t feel like you deserved to be on the cover of any magazine.

So you’d skipped meals. It didn’t start intentionally. It was hardest on lazy days when you didn’t have anything planned. It was so easy to tell yourself that you didn’t need food, and Davey wasn’t around enough to notice or help you. It was a hard time, but, with help from Natasha, you’d gotten yourself out of the situation. Part of that meant getting rid of Davey, which turned out exactly how you thought it would: with him telling the world about all your flaws.

Tossing and turning throughout most of the night, you end up falling asleep with Jake’s hoodie underneath your head.

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Instagram

tasha.trace added to their story

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y/n.username i’m so so proud and humbled to have been included in this project. taylor, thank you for choosing me to be a part of your beautiful, tragic vision. it came at just the right time for me. all too well (10 minute version) (taylor’s version) the short film out now. 🧣 good luck, babes.

view 89,202 comments

y/n.fan what did he do to her 😭

roo_bradshaw so proud of you ♥️

taylorswift Working with your was a dream ♥️

-> natashasgirll uhh new moms just dropped?

tasha.trace i love you!!

tasha.trace i’m gonna cry i adore you

bob.bob.floyd this is amazing! you’re unstoppable

the_real_taytay IM SCREAMIMG AHHHH

halo_cal_bass my god i love you but why would you make me watch that i’m sobbing

penny.benny Way to go!

jakeyswifee she doesn’t post anything for a month then drops this, love a chaos queen

-> tasha.trace i support all of her chaos

maverick.mitchell You’ve now convinced me: you can do anything.

model_y/n oh you can tell that she’s not acting in some scenes

model_y/n don’t let jake see this

swiftietaylor the combo i didn’t know i needed

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Messages

javy: hey

javy: i’m proud of you!

you: thanks :))

javy: he really misses you, you know

javy: i know he was an idiot

javy: and that probably hasn’t changed

javy: but he’s a mess

javy: and he’s sorry for whatever he did

you: he didn’t tell you?

javy: he wouldn’t say a thing

you: did he ask you to say this?

javy: he’s too proud to do that

javy: as his best friend, i know when he’s suffering and when he’s too stubborn to admit he was wrong

javy: right now he’s both

you: right

you: thanks for telling me

javy: at least let him know you’re okay

javy: are you okay?

you: i am

you: i do miss jake though

javy: tell him that

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It’s been a month. A month of throwing yourself into your work and trying to pretend that whatever was happening with Jake, wasn’t happening. You thought that the fight would blow over. He would apologize, or you would make him apologize, and you would be back to spending your days staring into his ocean eyes.

But every-time you thought about reaching out, you could never convince yourself to actually reach out and accept his hand. He’s tried to talk to you, through text messages and missed calls, but you’ve stayed strong.

Then you got the opportunity of a lifetime to work with Taylor on a short film, and that was the distraction you needed to clear the anger and the fog of grief from out of your mind. Being in such an emotional, raw project allowed you to feel your own emotions as well as dip into your character’s. Tasha’s been with you the whole time, sometimes physically and sometimes virtually when she had to work. Callie’s been there too; she even made a girls trip up to New York despite being in the middle of a directing project. If any of the other Mav’s have felt awkward talking to you, they haven’t shown it. The only difference has been the lack of Jake.

Now, you’re starting to doubt if it’s worth it to keep up the lack of communication. Jake’s been part of your life for so long, and you miss him. You kind of wish there was something deeper behind it, but it’s really that simple: you miss Jake. More often than not you find yourself asking the question is it really worth it to miss him when you could try and sort out the misunderstanding?

If Javy’s telling the truth and Jake really is a mess, like you are, then maybe it’s time to reach out. Surely you can sort this out, right? You can explain your side like an adult, and Jake can tell you his.

You still think- no, you know, that he was wrong to say what he said. But part of you recognizes now that he had been hurting just like you had. Now that the drama has died down, you find yourself wanting Jake to come back, mistakes and all.

——————————————————————————

you: hey

you: do you want to talk?

jakey: i would love to

jakey: call me?

——————————————————————————

A/n: how’s everyone feeling? lots of big emotions here lol

taglist lovelies: @rosiahills22 @fangirlvibez @djs8891 @shanimallina87 @abaker74

#pretty girl #tw ed recovery #tw ed discussion #ed discussion #tw: ed mention #jake seresin fanfic #jake hangman x y/n #jake seresin x y/n #jake seresin fic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin #jake hangman fic #hangman x you #jake hangman seresin #tgm #top gun

[britany1997]

Love your writing it’s amazing. I saw someone do a little headcannon with modernday lost boys and they were toxic can I please have a modernday David x reader where he leaves you on seen everyday but when you take more then a second to respond god forbid it. Thank you <3

Male Manipulator

Thank you🥹 happy to write this for you!

Thank you so much to @iovesia for letting me use her Modern Toxic David headcanon for this! You can read her amazing toxic lost boys blurb here:)

Modern! Toxic! David x GN Reader

(This is gonna be a big deviation from my usual fluff y’all)

Warnings: ANGST, Manipulation, TOXIC toxic David, derogatory language (one use of “attention w****.”), yanking and arm pulling, emotionally abusive behavior, the tiniest hint of implied dub-con at the end, David is NOT NICE in this

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

David rolled his eyes as your text notification flashed on his screen. He swiped it away and continued to scroll through tinder. He checked his watch. He was supposed to be at the bar an hour ago for your birthday celebration, but he liked to keep you waiting. Wanting him.

You sighed as you looked down at your phone, leaning against the bar while scrolling through a string of unanswered texts to your boyfriend. Your bestfriend snatched your phone from your hand.

“Hey!” You said.

“I’m turning this off!” Your friend said while pressing the power button, “he’s not coming. You should just enjoy this time with the people who actually care about you! When are you gonna dump that asshole??”

“He’s not an asshole,” you murmured, “if he’s not here I’m sure he’s doing something important! What if he wrecked his motorbike? What if the hospital calls me and I can’t answer because my phone’s off???”

Your friend glared at you.

“Ok ok fine,” you said, surrendering and taking the drink from their outstretched hand.

David stared down at his phone in confusion. He had sent you back a “omw” almost fifteen minutes ago. He scoffed as he got out of his wheelchair and sped off to the bar on his bike.

David strode in, spotting you laughing and chatting with your friends at the bar. You were radiant when you smiled. David hated that everyone at the bar was getting to see you like this. You should only look that good for him.

He stomped over to the bar and grabbed your shoulder, spinning you to face him.

“Davey,” you said, obviously buzzed, “you came! They all said you wouldn’t show but I knew you would.” You told him while gesturing to the group of friends surrounding you.

Your friends looked down sheepishly, terrified of David.

David pressed his lips together into a straight line, “of course I came,” he fumed, “wouldn’t miss my baby’s birthday.”

“You’d just be almost two hours late,” your best friend piped up.

David shot them a look that could freeze over an active volcano, “I would have been here earlier, but my little brother Laddie wasn’t feeling well. I couldn’t just leave him to fend for himself now could I?” He asked

Your friend shot him a look of disbelief, but didn’t say anything else. They knew that if they fought back any more, it would just push you further into his arms.

“C’mon,” David said to you, “we’re leaving.”

“You can’t be serious,” your friend scoffed.

“Do we really have to go?” You asked him. You had been having so much fun.

He glared at you. “Yes. C’mon,” he said grabbing your arm and practically dragging you out of the bar.

Your friends watched with pity in their eyes, no matter how many times they urged you to leave David, you never did. Your rose colored glasses prevented you from seeing him for the monster he truly was.

When you and David arrived at the cave you could tell he was livid. “Why didn’t you answer my text?” He asked you dryly.

“That’s what your upset about?” You asked him, laughing to yourself. “My phone was off! I was trying to enjoy the moment.”

David scoffed and shook his head at you, “liar,” he spit. “Were you texting other guys? Chatting on dating apps?” He accused, “You’re a cheating attention whore.”

You gasped, you had no idea where this was coming from, you had never done anything but love David. “I would never!” You protested, “my phone really was turned off David, I swear!”

He gritted his teeth, “I love you. I am so good to you. I care for you. And this is how you treat me?” Tears were streaming down his face, “how could you do this to me? How could you hurt me like this? Aren’t I enough for you?” He asked you. “Don’t you understand how much I love you? You’re everything to me, but I can’t even get a text back from you?”

He cupped your face in his hands, “you’ll break my heart if you leave. You’re still mine aren’t you?”

Tears started to pour from your own eyes, “I’m sorry David,” you cried, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I love you too I love you so much. I’ll never leave you I promise.”

He wiped tears from his eyes

“I’ll never turn my phone off like that again,” you promised.

He sniffled and nodded in response, pulling you into a tight hug.

You wrapped your arms around him and cried into his chest, ashamed of yourself.

David pulled back a bit, “want to make it up to me baby?” He asked, wiping another tear.

“Yes David,” you answered, “I’ll do anything.”

“You know,” he said sniffling, “your mouth always makes me feel better.”

“Of course,” you said as you sunk to your knees.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Taglist❤️:

@ghoulgeousimmaculate @pixielostboy @misslavenderlady @anna1306 @6lostgirl6

#the lost boys #david lost boys #tlb #tlb 1987 #the lost boys fic #the lost boys 1987 #modern toxic David #modern lost boys #gn reader

[livesincerely]

hopes are kindled (on scraps and ashes)

Or: something, something, a one shot/offshoot from the Merlin AU. Also on Ao3.

00000

Once again, the Lady Theophania lays her small, delicate hand across the breastplate of Jack’s armor, batting her lashes in a demure, courtly fashion. As he watches them David feels the polite expression he’s been wearing for the last half hour start to crack and splinter.

He slips away before anyone can notice or comment on it. He knows better than to let his disappointment get the better of him—knows intimately the futility of the feeling—but still his stomach churns, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Poor, foolish, lovestruck idiot.

His feet carry him to the simple sanctuary of his quarters, though it’s something of a cold comfort. The tourney starts in earnest a few hours after mid-meal so he has an excuse to make himself scarce; there are still plenty of weapons to be sharpened, shields to be polished, horses to be dressed and harnessed.

Not that he expects his absence to be noticed, David determines, a touch bitterly. Any such… attentions will most certainly be directed elsewhere.

He can still make out the faintest roar of the growing festivities despite the thickness of the stone walls. Gritting his teeth against the urge to scream, he reaches for a pile of mending that still needs to be finished, hoping for some kind of distraction, then nearly jumps out of his skin when the door behind him creaks open.

It’s Jack—of course, it’s Jack. So distracted by the dark cloud of his thoughts, David hadn’t noticed him following.

He pastes a smile across his face. “Shouldn’t you be entertaining your guests, mi’lord?”

“Don’t,” Jack says, expression pained. “Don’t call me that.”

David raises a brow. “And since when did you start objecting to your title?”

“Since you started saying it like that.”

And suddenly David is exhausted, weary right down to the marrow of his bones, sick to death of this same old song and dance. Tired of impossibilities kindled on scraps and ashes.

“What is it you want, Jack?” he sighs.

Jack steps out of the doorway, moving further into the room, and the door swings shut behind him. David allows him to approach, holds his ground and lets him close the gap between them.

“The way you looked at me just now, at the banquet,” Jack starts in a low, serious voice. “I never want to see that look again.”

Oh. David hadn’t thought he’d noticed, preoccupied as he was. But Jack’s always been more observant than most.

“Of course,” David says, embarrassment curdling over his tongue. “It won’t happen again.”

“Dave, that’s not—“ Jack runs a hand through his hair, his mouth pressed into a hard, flat line. “That’s not what I meant.”

It’s inconvenient that David hadn’t managed to grab that mending. If he had, it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.

“Davey,” Jack starts again. “You can’t honestly think I’m interested in courting anyone but you.”

David’s heart ricochets off his ribs.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says tightly, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but as I’m aware of it, it doesn’t matter what you want.”

A long pause. Jack’s footsteps echo against the flagstones as he approaches.

“Davey,” he implores gently. “We can't just give up.”

“It’s not giving up, Jackie,” David says. “It’s accepting that there’s no fight to be had! It’s understanding that we can’t— That we can’t—“

He makes himself stop, his eyes stinging against a prickle of frustrated tears.

Straining for the last vestiges of patience, he says, “Brooklyn is an important kingdom, an essential ally. Your council is all but insisting you create a formal alliance with them, and with Lady Theophania being so obvious in her affections—“

“She offered me her favor,” Jack tells him, and David thinks he might have genuinely choked on that information for a moment.

He hears himself say, “Well, I suppose that’s that—“

“She offered her favor,” Jack clarifies sharply. “I declined, seeing as I’m already spoken for.”

It takes David a moment to catch on. “You’re already… What, me?”

“Who else, Dave?” Jack says, on the verge of shouting. “Who else could possibly hold a candle to you?”

“Keep your voice down!” David hisses. “Someone’s going to hear you!”

“Because it’s some great secret?” Jack asks, sardonically. “As if it’s not written all over my face, as if it’s not painfully obvious to everyone in the Five Kingdoms exactly how I feel for you?”

“Jack,” David says, shaking his head as if that will keep the words from reaching him. “Stop it.”

“You said that you’d only gift your favor to me,” Jack continues, undeterred. “Was that offer made sincerely? Or merely in jest?”

David swallows. “If memory serves, that’s not precisely what I said—“

“Dave,” Jack interrupts, and there’s an almost angry edge to his tone. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it,” David says. “But surely you know that you can’t actually accept.”

“And why can’t I?” Jack asks, jaw stubbornly set.

“Oh, shall we go through the list?” David snaps, throwing up his hands. “Because even disregarding the alliance with Brooklyn, there’s the fact that you’re the prince, that you’ll one day be the king, and you’ll need a queen to give you heirs? Or the fact that I’m a peasant—a sorcerer—and that I even dare to breathe in your presence is grounds for execution? Or, how about the fact that you’re Prince Johnathan Francis Sullivan Kelly of Manhattan and I’m nothing, no one at all—“

It’s wrong to say that Jack appears, per se, but that’s certainly how it feels. That one moment Jack’s watching him with those depthless eyes and the next he’s suddenly in front of him, one hand curled around David’s chin, his thumb just brushing over his lips.

“Davey,” Jack says, intense and intent, and David’s caught, tangled in the snare of him, utterly helpless. “My darling. My dearest one. You are everything.”

David's eyes squeeze shut. They’re so close that when he hangs his head, their foreheads press together.

“The kingdom must come first,” David says, because one of them has to. “Manhattan, your people, must come first. You know that as well as I; affairs of the heart cannot come before duty.”

“I,” Jack says, the words full of venom, “am so sick and tired of fulfilling my gods-forsaken duty. Of sacrificing every inch of myself for the good of the kingdom.”

A shared breath.

“But you’ll do it anyway,” David murmurs, a statement of fact.

Jack takes in a shuddering inhale.

“…But I’ll do it anyway,” he quietly agrees.

His touch lingers for another moment—David thinks he’ll remember the heat of his hands, the strength of his grip, until the day he dies—before drawing away.

“I’ll fight in the tourney unadorned, then,” Jack declares, grimly resigned. “Because it’s your favor or none at all.”

It bubbles up, urgent and unstoppable. “Wait.”

David reaches up with trembling fingers and carefully unties his neckerchief from around his neck. Without giving himself a chance to think about it, he wraps the fabric around Jack’s arm, tying it off just above his elbow.

“Blue, for Manhattan,” he says, because that’s what it’ll look like to anyone else who sees it: that Jack has chosen a blue marker to represent his kingdom. It’s only the two of them that will know better.

That will know the truth.

Jack lifts David’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the tips of his fingers. “For Manhattan,” he agrees solemnly.

And when he exits, he carries David’s heart away with him.

#newsies #davey jacobs #jack kelly #javid #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #merlin au #but like an au of the au if that makes sense #the main plot is no longer moving in this direction but I liked this scene too much to let it die #so here it is as it’s own separate thing #context? what context?

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday the Scottish folk singer/songwriter Brian McNeill born on April 6th 1950 in Falkirk.

Brian was a founder member of the Battlefield Band, one of our finest Folk Groups. He also joined several other top Scottish Folk musicians including Dick Gaughan in Clan Alba.

Brian is a multi instrumentalist – chiefly fiddle, bouzouki, mandocello, guitars and concertina – and the importance of his songwriting has long been recognised with such songs as The Yew Tree, The Lads O' The Fair, The Snows of France and Holland, Strong Women Rule Us All With Their Tears, Any Mick'll Do and No Gods and Precious Few Heroes. Many of his songs have been performed and recorded by artists worldwide. He has been described as ‘Scotland’s most meaningful contemporary songwriter’.

​Brian’s audio visual shows, The Back O' The North Wind, about Scottish emigration to America, and the sequel, The Baltic Tae Byzantium, exploring the influence of the Scots in Europe, have won wide critical acclaim. His long connection with America's Lone Star State led to him being created an honorary Texan by the then Governor George W Bush. For six years Brian was Head of Scottish Music at the RSAMD, now the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland.

Brian is increasingly in demand for his production skills and his album credits include Davey Arthur, The Paul McKenna Band, Lorne MacDougall, Rua Macmillan, Eric Bogle and John Munro, Matt Tighe and Tad Sargent, The John Wright Band, Drones and Bellows and Missouri a cappella quartet The Wee Heavies.

As well as his musical talent Brian has also turned his hand to writing, he pens short stories, crime and mystery fiction involving his hero, busker Alex Fraser and his heroine, private sleuth Sammy Knox.

Brian is currently on the road with the The Feast of Fiddles 30th anniversary tour.

A song Brian wrote is one of my favourite modern folk songs

No Gods And Precious Few Heroes

I was listening to the news the other day Heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say He was proud to be Scottish, by the way With the glories of our past to remember "Here's tae us, wha's like us", listen to the cry No surrender to the truth and here's the reason why The power and the glory's just another bloody lie They use to keep us all in line

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So farewell to the heather and the glen They cleared us off once and they'd do it all again For they still prefer sheep to thinking men Ah, but men who think like sheep are even better There's nothing much to choose between the old vain and the new They still don't give a damn for the likes of me and you Just mind you pay your rent to the factor when it's due And mind your bloody manners when you pay

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

And tell me will we never hear the end Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again? Though he ran like a rabbit down the glen Leavin better folk than him to be butchered Or are you sittin in your Council house, dreamin o'er your clan? Waiting for the Jacobites to come and free the land? Try going down the broo with your claymore in your hand And count all the Princes in the queue

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So don't talk to me of Scotland the Brave For if we don't fight soon there'll be nothing left to save Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave While you wait for the Tartan Messiah? He'll lead us to the Promised Land with laughter in his eye We'll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by Free heavy beer! Pie suppers in the sky Will we never have the sense to learn?

That there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And I'm damned sure that there's plenty live in fear Of the day we stand together with our shoulders at the wheel Aye, there's no Gods

#scotland #scottish #history #singer songwriter #folk singer #Youtube

[baura-bear]

comment what you think davey/les/sarah would call their grandparents I'm leaning towards Baba and Dziadzia (pronounced like bah-bah and jah-jah basically) those are both variations of Polish grandma and grandpa but dziadiza also means uncle in russian and I hc the Jacobs kids as Russian-Polish and multilingual so that might be confusing. But do we think they'd be more likely to call them a by a russian name or hebrew/yiddish?

this is literally for one singular line in a fic I'm writing but accuracy is important to me. (i spent an hour yesterday researching tradtional russian, polish, and jewish meals and then said 'fuck it they eating soup' so that's how my mind works) especially if any of y'all call your grandparents by these names or are of russian/polish/jewish descent plz weigh in. thx :)

#eastern europe #newsies #david jacobs #poland #russia

[newsiesproduction]

*Important Information*

First and foremost, the ones in charge of making this show happen! :D

@artemis-lynn: Director & the one who runs this account...she/her, call her Artie or Pepper!

@hey-they-was-coronas: Stage manager! Goes by Charlie, with the pronouns she/they (but she doesn't really care)

Assistant Director position open, send in an ask with your preferred name and pronouns, plus 1+ (preferably at least three) reasons why you believe you'd be a good match for this position!

Auditions:

-Info out for...

Jack

Crutchie

Davey

Les

Spot!

Katherine

Weasel

Delancey Bros. (Super Mario Bros...but better)

Pulitzer

Up next: Snyder (Other newsies will be last, notable ones like Race/Albert)

Note: If you REALLY really want to audition for a character that isn't posted about, dm me or my main. For example, if you wanted to audition for Mr. Jacobi or Hannah- I'll also need Bowery Beauties for I Never Planned On You/Don't Come A-Knockin' On My Door

COMING SOON!

-I will make a post for each character and what I need you to do for the audition, and then if you could either a.) Post a recording & tag this account + the director, stage manager, and AD's accounts, b.) Send an ask to this account with your recording, or c.) Reblog the audition post of the character!

-People have raised questions about this, so: You are NOT required to show your face at anytime! This'll be an audio-only show, so you won't need to show your face unless you want to make a video of yourself saying you lines or auditioning!!!

-I'm also OK if girls audition for boys!!

More Info to be added soon!

*Tag posts about this with #tumblr newsies production*

#newsies #Tumblr newsies production

[we-are-inevitable]

from the burdened prompt list: “i know it’s selfish.  but i wish someone would just take care of me.”

davey struggling, having to work longer hours bc his family needs more money this month and jack finds him and davey accidentally lets this hidden “selfish” desire slip out

respectfully y’all are SO jacphobic if you don’t leave a comment on ao3 for this one (im joking (a little))

i hope you guys like this one !!

————

For the Jacobs boys, nights at the lodging house are a rare treat.

They always start the same. One of the boys at the lodge would tell Les about a game they were playing, or an event that everyone was chipping in on. A birthday, most often; birthdays at the lodge were apparently a big deal, since it was the one joy some of these kids might have. The boys who could afford to would offer up a few pennies to buy something nice. A dime novel, maybe, for the boys who liked to read, but usually the gift would be as much candy as a few quarters could buy.

Les, ever the social butterfly, loves being a part of these nights, and always tells their parents at the dinner table. Esther usually allows him to donate a penny or two, especially if this birthday was for one of the littles or a boy around his age. It wasn’t always like this, of course; the first time Les asked to stay the night, it took a long discussion before Esther and Mayer agreed, and they only agreed if David would stay, too. It was a little easier to convince them the second time, and again for the third, and fourth, and fifth, and now the boys don’t even have to ask: if they have a free night with no work at home to be done, they can go, but only if Esther and Mayer know ahead of time.

Once Mayer is cleared to go back to work, though, nights like those are few and far between.

As promised, as soon as their father finds a new job that will be easier on his health, Les and David are back in the classroom, learning literature and arithmetic as though their summer hadn’t been taken over by the strike. David had considered it a miracle, and Les had dreaded it since the start, but school was in session and David finally had structure back in his life.

That was what was missing, right? Structure. A clear plan. No roadblocks, no mishaps— a guidebook to the rest of his life, one he had made up when he was far too young to worry about such things. To David, school is structure. School leads to college, and college leads to a career, and a career means that David can provide for his parents, and his eventual family, and he will never have to worry about not doing enough or not being good enough because he will be enough and things will work out in his favor.

School is structure, and structure is uninterrupted, until it is.

When Esther pulls David aside one morning before he’s supposed to walk to school, David feels his stomach drop. “David,” she starts, her voice ever soft, calm, “Dear, your father and I have been thinking.”

“About?”

“Your schooling. We know how important education is to you, but, darling… You’re a smart young man, so I’m going to be honest with you. With your father’s new job, we’re still struggling to make ends meet. It doesn’t pay as much as his old job, and—“

“Do you need me to stop going to school? So I can work?”

“Oh, dear, we would never ask that of you,” She assures him, gently cupping his cheeks. “You have a brilliant mind, son. You are going to do amazing things one day, I’m sure… I want you to understand that we- your father and I- hate asking this, but,” She pauses, and David can see her frown pinch like she’s in pain, like asking this is hurting her. David hates seeing this expression on his mother. She closes her eyes for a moment, then meets his gaze with a sad smile. “Would it be possible for you to go to school, then sell the evening edition? Just until we can get back on our feet?”

Against his better judgement, David says yes without even thinking it over.

His family needs him. He can manage this. He’ll still be in school, and he’ll be making money, and it doesn’t matter that he already comes home from school dead on his feet because he’s so tired, because this time he’s helping his family and doing something for himself to make something of himself, and isn’t that the point of all of this?

Besides, it works.

It works for three weeks, at least. For three weeks, Does it, no problem. He goes to school and rushes through work so there’s less to do at home, and he’s still getting good marks on most of his assignments. Once school is done, he walks Les to the halfway point between the tenement house and the lodging house, tells him to take his bookbag and put it next to the door, and to give Ima and Aba a big hug for him. He watches Les walk for about a minute or so, just to make sure he’s okay, and when Les rounds the corner of the block, David takes off like a shot to get to the lodge in time.

That’s his every-day for three weeks. He doesn’t make much money only selling one edition, but he’s helping- he can see that he is. His parents aren’t as stressed anymore, and he’s still getting an education and holding down a job, and surely that means something, even if he comes home from work late and misses dinner with his family often and rarely ever talks anymore because he heads right to bed after eating.

Three weeks, and Esther finally sits him down one Friday morning before school.

“David,” she says softly. “Why don’t you stay at the lodge tonight?”

David it’s his head, brows pinching together. “You’re sure?”

Esther nods, and squeezes his hand, something she’s done since he was a child. “I don’t want you having to worry about walking home so late, darling. Besides, you don’t have any school tomorrow, and you haven’t stayed over in a long time— I insist, really. Have some fun with your friends.”

“…Okay,” David says after a moment, nodding. “Okay, I can do that. I won’t have to get up so early for the morning paper tomorrow.”

“Skip it,” Esther say, and runs a hand through David’s hair. “Take a weekend off, baby. Please?”

“But—“

“But nothing,” She interrupts. She has that look on her face: a mother’s look of concern, one that says she knows he’s overworking himself, but it’s not like he can just stop now. “You’ve been such a big help, dear, but you’re still a kid. Have fun, and be with your friends. Don’t worry about work.”

And David knows she’s right. She almost took it back, saying that David could work and go to school, after the first week— David was the one who said that he was fine, that he’d keep it up until winter and see where they were financially. If they were well off, he would stop working after the winter holidays. If not, he would continue. Mayer had said it was a good idea. Good work ethic, his boy; that’s what Mayer brags about to coworkers, and that’s the praise that David keeps square in his chest. Good work ethic.

Good work ethic.

That being said, David is appreciative of being given the weekend to be a teenager again. Everyone has been asking when he’s going to stay over again, and he hasn’t had an answer for them, but now he’ll be able to have a good night again.

The evening headline is a good one, too. Something about some bigshot in Brooklyn being killed. David knows that Spot Conlon and her girls are going to have a field day with this one, that’s for sure, but David is just happy that it was a big enough of a deal to make Manhattan’s news too. The papes sell fast, and David gets to the lodge even faster. Walking through the doors, he’s immediately met with the familiar chaos, and it brings a smile to his face.

“Dave!”

The voice comes from his left, and before he’s able to turn, he’s wrapped in a hug by Racetrack. It only lasts a few seconds, but David laughs and rolls his eyes as Race shoves him almost immediately after.

“Where’ve you been?” Race says with a grin, raising a brow. “You ain’t been here in ages.”

“I just spoke to you an hour ago,” David reminds him. He had seen Race walking back to the lodging house while he was selling. From the looks of it, Race had been walking back from Brooklyn, so odds are that he had been selling across the bridge all day. “I’ve been busy with school, but I’m stayin’ here over the weekend.”

Race nods his head, that signature mischievous smirk reappearing on his face. “Ya don’t say,” He says, teasingly. “Y’know, Dave, Jack’s been throwin’ fits without you bein’ around here so often. You should go talk to him. Does he know you’re stayin’?”

“Not yet,” David replies, shaking his head. “Is he okay? Have I missed something?”

“Oh, no, he’s fine,” Race says quickly. He pulls his cigar out of his shirt pocket, then the lighter from his pants pocket; he offers them up to David, but David shakes his head again and Race nods to himself. “He’s just been missin’ you, I think. He ain’t ever gonna admit it, but…” He trails off, giving David a knowing look, and, yeah, okay.

Okay, maybe Jack and David have a thing going on. There’s nothing really there, not yet, but the chemistry is undeniable; David had at first assumed he was making it all up— he’s never really understood this romance thing— but then Race pointed it out one day, and since then, David has gone to him for every burning Jack Kelly issue his mind could think up. How he wants to kiss him, but he’s never kissed anyone, but Jack has kissed a lot of people so what if David isn’t anything special? Or how it’s unfair that Jack can look so good in nice, tailored clothes, since he has that big job at the World now, you know, so he has to look nice and it kind of drives David mad, and how—…

And how David hasn’t really been here in weeks. And how David has only been selling, then heading home immediately after selling his last paper. And how he can’t remember the last time he had a good conversation with Jack, who should probably hate him by now.

David takes a deep breath. “Where is he?”

Not even five minutes later, his hands land on the last rung of the ladder to the rooftop, and Jack Kelly is there in all his glory: laying on his back, basking in the August sun. Once David has both feet solidly on the roof, he sees Jack’s eyebrow quirk up, though his eyes never open. “Crutch? You good?”

David clears his throat. “Uh— Yeah, but I’m not Crutchie.”

Instantly, Jack sits up, eyes flying open. His look is nothing short of delighted, and he grunts as he pushes himself up to his feet. “Davey! What’re you doin’ here?”

An oddly chipper reaction, considering they haven’t actually talked in a while. Back over the summer, David and Jack were fast friends, and even faster… whatever they are now. They sold together nearly every day, played cards between editions, sat next to each other during every meal, talked for hours and hours on end without ever tiring. They were a package deal.

“I’m staying the night,” David says with a nervous smile, pushing down the thought of this is ruined and he hates me. “It’s been a while, so I figured I could come back for a bit, if that’s okay? I have enough to pay for a bunk, I just—“

“You’re kiddin’ me, right?” Jack asks, walking closer. “Dave, this might be one of the last nights we get on the rooftop ‘fore it gets too cold. You’re stayin’ up here, with me,” He says, and that smile— god, that smile— shines full force. “C’mon, sit down. How’s school been?”

David follows Jack’s lead, eventually sitting next to him on a pile of blankets near the outward corner of the roof. “It’s been alright,” David answers, leaning back and bracing himself on his palms. “I’m still no better in math, but grammar is kind of fun. My teacher thinks I’m ahead, though, whatever that means.”

“That’s good, though, right?” Jack nudges David gently with his elbow. “Means you can take it easy.”

“I guess,” David nods, and lets out a soft sigh. Taking the easy road, it’s never been David’s strong suit. He supposes Jack is right; he can take it a little easier in school and not push himself so hard, that way he can pace himself while selling. Maybe he wouldn’t be as tired then, but… “I don’t think so, though. I’d rather just get school over with so I can focus on working.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. David stares straight ahead, resting along the ledge behind him, until he feels Jack’s hand on his shoulder. “Dave,” He stares, tilting his head. “What’s goin’ on? I thought you loved school.”

“I mean, I do,” David says quickly, though he doesn’t meet Jack’s eyes. “I want to continue my education so I can be a- a doctor, or a business man, or something, but right now… My family needs me right now. If I go faster with school, then I can help them, and—“

“Is that really fair to you, though?”

The question stops David in his tracks. Is it? Not really, no, but then again, what is? If life was fair, his father wouldn’t have gotten hurt. If life was fair, his father wouldn’t even have been working in that damned place anyway, and instead he’d be rich and successful like he had always been working towards. If life as fair, David would be able to focus on school, and wouldn’t be mocked and ridiculed all day for working a job. David knows he’s better off than the rest of the newsies, but at school, it doesn’t feel like it. Most of David’s friends don’t even have to work a job. They get new shoes every year, too, instead of waiting until the old pair gets too small or falls apart. If they rip their clothing, they can mend it and make it look seamless, not patchy, or they just buy new clothing all together. David doesn’t have that luxury. Life isn’t that fair.

He takes a deep breath, then says: “No. It’s not.”

Jack nods. The silence between them is uncomfortable, but only until Jack gently slings his strong arm around David’s waist, pulling him closer. David sinks into his touch, letting himself relax, letting himself lose the rigid tension running along his spine.

“I wish I could help,” Jack says softly, and shifts, allowing David to lie back with his head against Jack’s chest. “But, hey… soon, you’ll be outta school, and you ain’t gonna have to worry about that anymore. Right?”

“Until I decide to go to university,” David amends, “but at this point, I don’t- I don’t know if I can afford to go. My teacher is telling me I should, but it’s going to cost $150… I don’t have that kind of money. None of us do. And- And maybe I could save it up, but not when all of my money is putting food on the table— I can’t just… focus on myself right now. I have a family to feed.”

Jack rubs circles against David’s hip with his thumb, and sighs. “You deserve the chance to focus on you, Davey…”

What breaks David’s heart is that he knows. He knows he does. But it’s not in the cards, not now. David stays silent for a long while, and Jack does too; they listen to the sounds of the city bustling beneath them, the boys’ laughter filtering out from an open window, music playing in the distance.

Neither of them say a word, until David sniffs, and wipes his eyes. “I- I know it’s selfish,” He starts, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I… I wish someone would just take care of me. I know that’s not- it doesn’t work like that. I know. I’m supposed to take care of everyone else, but it’s so fu-fucking hard to just… push myself to the side.” As he speaks, his voice catches, and the next thing he knows, he’s wrapped in both of Jack’s arms. Jack’s hand rubs his back, and David finally allows himself to let go. Not a sudden outburst, no; this is a gradual accumulation of tears until David’s shoulders shake, but he’s silent, because outbursts are unappealing and sadness should be polite.

Still, David finds Jack’s voice grounding him.

“I know, I know… Let it all out, Dave, you don’t gotta be strong right now. I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you… You’re safe to let it out.” And how Jack always knows exactly what to say, David will never know.

David will never know how Jack knows just how to hold him, just how to run his hands through his hair and just barely tug on the strands to reign him in. He’ll never know how Jack knows to kiss his temple, his forehead, his cheeks, all while squeezing his hand or wiping away his tears. He’ll never know how Jack knows that humming calms him down, whether it’s his mother’s Hebrew lullabies or the melody of one of Medda’s songs from the last show she put on.

What David does know, though, is that he’s safe, and he doesn’t have to shoulder the weight of the world. Not around Jack.

When David calms down, he’s still resting against Jack’s chest, letting out a few heaving sighs. “Thank you,” he whispers, tilting his head up to look Jack in the eyes. “I— I didn’t mean to cry, but… thank you.”

“You don’t gotta hide from me, Davey,” Jack murmurs back, tucking a strand of David’s hair behind his ears. “You don’t gotta explain yourself, either… When you’re here, my job is to take care of you, okay?”

“Jack, no—“

“I’m serious,” Jack cuts him off, raising a brow. “You got so much on your plate, and you know that. Right? … So let me help, wherever I can. I want to.”

David takes this in for a moment, before sighing softly and nodding. “Okay. I… I appreciate it.”

Jack smiles gently down at him. For a moment, they stare into each other’s eyes, and as soon as Jack cups David’s cheek, it’s all over. David leans up and Jack closes the gap, and the kiss is short, but sweet, and good, and right.

The weight of the world isn’t so heavy after that.

#this is very long sorry #newsies #davey jacobs #david jacobs #jack kelly #livesies #newsies musical #newsies live #newsies 1992 #west endsies #ask a jac ! #jac writes #javid #javey #javey newsies #javid newsies #newsies fic

[emmedoesntdomath]

emme i am in need of assistance.

i need to be dragged kicking and screaming back into the newsies fandom, please and thank you

you know what? fine, sure, let’s do this. 

in this fun little drag-you-by-your-ears-and-force-you-to-listen-to-me, we’ll be talking about javey. 

obviously, javey is the lifeblood behind most of this lovely fandom. look at your own account. besides the synchronized dance numbers, it’s about the most the majority of us agree on (with a few exceptions, but we love them anyway <3333 /j)

but why is javey such a phenomenon to us? why is it that big of a deal? let’s explore that. 

javey is, in simple terms, something that can quickly become revolutionary. 

don’t understand what I mean? consider it-

most of us headcanon jack to be a person of color. whether he’s black, or of latinx descent, jack is not normally white. in a lot of cases, people don’t even believe english to be his first language. with these very intentional choices, you are already taking marginalized groups, and giving them a voice. groups, that for most of history, have been shunned, or outright ignored. and to see jack kelly, a character not defined by his parentage or skin color, simply *living*. making choices, mistakes, wrong decisions, without being turned into a performative political message by a major corporation. he’s just jack kelly. and his existence speaks louder than words ever could. 

and all of this can be said before we even mention what else he could represent, could mean to all of us. 

he’s a kid from the streets, or the more modernized foster care. he’s not the sad, lonely, discouraged orphan kid that needs saving. no, jack kelly is going to get off his ass, and do it himself. he’ll run away. earn a living. he is our defiance, he is our rebellion and independence. 

he has dreams, big ones. ones that we relate to. he wants to run to santa fe? well, guess fucking what? we do, too. wants to be given a little respect, a little worth? maybe we relate to that. 

he is the poster child of found family. and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re all pretty big on that in this fandom. 

so, let’s put it this way- jack is a lot of us. most of us, maybe. 

but so is davey. 

davey is a canonically (or maybe not, but I say it’s canon) jewish character. in a world that reeks of antisemitism, that is ridiculously important. he, too, represents more than just himself. there is a whole history of a people hated and brutally punished for simply existing. he is another character who isn’t restricted, forced to be but yet another stereotype or one-note idea, but who just exists. you don’t realize how huge that is. representation and the explicitness of modern media is great, and very much needed. but it is just as powerful, if not more so, to let a character be without making it a display. 

to compound this all, he is the epitome of religious struggles. our davey has internalized homophobia, self-hatred, and more crises in faith than he has time to count. and I would say at least half of the people that I have met in this fandom can identify with one or more of those things. that’s valuable. especially when you consider that a lot of those things are essentially taboo in a number of regards. 

he’s from a working class family. he’s not rich, not swimming in bills. he’s missing school every day to go to work so his family might eat the next week. and that’s a reality for a lot of people. 

putting them together, we have- a man, a person of color, who has seen the shit end of life that a lot of other people do, falling in love with another man, one burdened with mental struggles and a heritage that carries just as much weight as the heaviest, in a time period when it was literally illegal to do so. 

they are people. they are representations. they are silent messages to the world. they are love. they are queer. they are happy. they are a family. they are revolutionary. they aren’t wrong. they aren’t broken. they aren’t hate. 

javey thrives because they are us, and by letting them thrive, we are hoping we will, too. 

(newsies, with more layers and deeper meanings than one could have ever hoped for since 1234)

ta da. 

#newsies #92sies #uksies #livesies #jack kelly #manhattan newsies #west endsies #davey jacobs #david moscow #david jacobs #jack x davey #javey #javey newsies #javid #newsies broadway #jeremy jordan #ben fankhauser #michael ahomka lindsay #ryan kopel #1992sies #newsies 1992 #gay newsies #gay #jack kelly newsies #francis sullivan #newsies david jacobs #christian bale #emme’s bad ideas

[pigeonwit]

okay okay okay. oh my god. okay. rabbit jack. jackalope. your brain. oh my god.

what my little brain snagged on was “davey is a dog” and as a dog-metaphor diehard lover and a davey jacobs defender i am humbly begging for more thoughts on this front

anon. i love you. moving on-

so when i say 'dog imagery' for davey i mean a specific kind (or. haha. Breed.) of dog imagery, which @we-are-inevitable sums up very well; #it’s the inherent obsession with loyalty to a fault and the shame that comes with being a bad dog.#it’s the need to sink teeth into flesh and bone but knowing it’ll result in being sent away from all you love.#it’s needing to run but not forever and its wanting to be a hulking beast but not having the space to grow

it's about having your instincts trained out of you because they're wrong, and you know they're wrong, but they're always there under your skin, so maybe you're wrong, too. it's about learning to be led or tied or caged because as much as they love you, as much as they trust you, they can't afford for you to act on your own. just in case, you understand? it's about always coming back when you're called because you don't know how to live off the leash. it's about desperately loving people who do not have the time or space between their many responsibilities to love you back.

it's impossible not to reference 'how to be a dog' by andrew kane if we're talking about dog imagery. i mean it's the blueprint. so here:

If you want to be a dog, first you must learn to wait. You must wait all day until somebody returns, and if somebody returns late, you must learn to wait until then.

davey's used to commands. used to hierarchy. he's been trained all his life to wait for permission, to wait for his mother to say the blessings, to wait for his father to eat first because even if they never say that that's a rule, he knows it is - he knows he has to wait when he eats, too, has to take polite and careful bites with his mouth closed, timing every chew and swallow. but if you look closely, there's this split second where his teeth tear through his food like an animal, so quick you'd barely see the primalness of it.

Next you must learn to relinquish all control over everything you might wish to control. You must learn to prefer to be led about by the neck on a piece of string, or staked to a neglected lawn by a length of chain. You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again.

davey as a character needs to be kept in line. he needs to provide. he needs to take care of his family because they're his family. they feed him. they love him. so he needs to repay them for that. he does the work, follows the commands, he keeps the rabbits off the crops and the coyotes from getting over their fences, but there's this old itching in his bones that wants to hop that fence and run with them. but he can't, because he knows he needs a place to rest, too. he wants that place to rest, he'd never take it for granted. but he has to choose between the two, and shelter's more important than running, and so his teeth rot in his mouth from lack of use, and his bones keep growing under skin that refuses to stretch with it.

You must learn to speak in one of the voices available to you, high and light or mellow thick and low or middle-range and terse. Whichever voice you learn to speak, you will meet somebody who does not like you because of it, they will be wary or annoyed or you will remind them of something or someone else. Once you have learned to speak you must learn not to speak unless you absolutely must, or to speak as much as you feel you must regardless of how many times you are told to stop, or sit, or placed behind a door—this will depend on what kind of a dog you want to be.

davey's whole life has been spent learning how to be the right version of himself. he knows how to be well-behaved enough to not be hit. to be rewarded. but then he meets the newsies, and suddenly, he's a bad dog. he's wrong. but how can he be wrong when he never bit anyone?

but that's the beauty of his relationship with jack. because jack un-trains him. davey doesn't know how to live off-leash yet, how to run for himself - so jack gives davey something to chase, something to sink his teeth into, and he finally feels real. like he's part of a world beyond the fence. but davey's a good dog, so he always goes home afterwards, and when he goes home, he's punished. of course he's punished. his fur is unkempt, there's teethmarks on his skin, there's blood matted around his mouth. he bit. and good dogs don't bite.

(what's the point in doing all this work to be a good dog, then, if one bite undoes it all?)

Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. You must learn to be confused but never disappointed by a deficiency of love. [...] You must learn how to wait at the foot of the bed and hope, silently, that somebody is drunk enough or lonely enough to invite you up, and you must learn not to show your excitement too much or overplay your hand.

davey's always searching for his place to belong. he loves people like a dog does; vicious and messy and panting. he drops words and ideas and newspapers at their feet because he's good and he loves them and he needs them to know. and then they turn around and leave. but davey's a good dog, so he'll wait until they come back. and before they even open their mouth, davey forgives them. because davey loves them. he tries to hide it; he didn't think loving too much made you a bad dog, but he tries to hide it anyways. he doesn't hide it very well. his parents see it. they try to keep him trained. they try to keep him leashed, because when a dog is cornered, it bites, and they can't afford for davey to bite. i know 'leaf pile' by the front bottoms is hardly dog-related and definitely a leap from an andrew kane poem, but it still reminds me of davey;

Do I seem anxious to you? Do I seem backed into a corner? As if I had to make a move But you could tell I didn't wanna

he wants to stay. he wants to follow the command. he can't. he's not a violent dog - but he knows that he can bite. and that's what makes him dangerous.

#this took me ages because davey and dog imagery matter so much to me actually #ik this is a hamfisted description i promise i can write more subtly than this i promise i swear- #but you asked for dog-imagery and by god i delivered #ask #anon #newsies #davey jacobs #david jacobs

[shinakazami1]

Nobody is gonna read this prob but I today wrote some The Beginner's Guide snippets to kinda try to see if I like this style for a fanfic I plan

Short one here, more under the cut:

In a way, he knew what he was doing. Deep down, not even he could hide that his intentions were not just a pure concern and worry. But, just like the Coda he made in his mind, he himself had nobody to look for help for.

Maybe that's why, in the room full of people he knew and kept saying he loved and cared for, he couldn't bring himself to say a single word. Because the moment the eyes looked at him again, he knew he had to keep the act going.

'But there is no act. It's just me.'

It's just me and my depressed friend's games.

And I'll get him out.

Because nobody else will do that for him.

---

Davey stared at the wall and listened to the clock ticking. It seemed the mechanism was not a typical one - there seemed to be a small delay, making the rhytm uneven. Pam, pampam, pam... it did match his breathing pattern. In, hold for a second, out and quickly in again. Or maybe, he matched the mechanism.

It was hard to tell what inspired what at this point. Everything blended into one shape, no matter what creator of either intended.

Everything had a purpose in a way that maybe nobody even desired.

But that would be sad, wouldn't it be? For your work to grow up from the idea into a grotesque fleshened out monster of what it was supposed to be?

Was it what it was to be a creator? A loving embrace of a child you'd never be able to look at, that will never grow up to an image of itself that it was never supposed to really reach.

He didn't notice that he stopped breathing until he coughed out.

It was four pm. He still had three hours left.

And it felt like waiting for the guillotine to fall. For the choir to stop singing, for the last scene, when the director would say, cut.

Was he cut out for all this? He didn't know and he didn't dare to question it. He knew that from some spirals, he couldn't get out.

So how did Coda do it? How did he just, leave his creations, to die, to never be appreciated and seen? To be able to tell others of what it was supposed to be?

Why couldn't he consider the feelings of his creation?

Why couldn't he appreciate the code?

And why did he invite Davey over, for the first time?

---

20092311_230320.mp4

"I still don't get it. It's supposed to be a self expression but why would you self insert in a way that's supposed to be accessible, supposed to be PLAYED if you don't give it to others? Video games show a story in many ways. Sound, sight and most importantly - interactibility. So what's the point of a language when you keep it to yourself? We would not go far enough if-"

Hearing some knocking on the door make him pause the recording. He hated that - he typically picked an hour when others were away just so he could have a moment of peace to write everything down with his voice.

Davey sighed and turned around, asking his brother to come on in.

Whatever was the topic of the conversation was probably not important, as Davey didn't mention it in the recording at all.

The last time he mentioned anything beside game making was around a year before.

The game jam wasn't a start - it was only an aftereffect.

Just as what was going to come next.

---

"(...) It's Friday already. And I still have 23 more games to check. He had to hide an easter egg somewhere, right? It's not just a hundred of copies of the same room. He always shows some nuiance in routine, in the whole madness.

It's... 2:33 now. I have to wake up in 4 hours.

But I won't be able to fall asleep until I find the key.

The puzzle IS here. It's in here, somewhere, and I am probably not seeing it correctly.

Ok. Just, maybe five more games. And I'll try to look through the code.

Davey, out."

20091301_052330.mp4

"It's me again. I don't know what I am missing. Probably some coffee. Just two games left, it's probably in there.

I'll take my laptop with me to work. They shouldn't mind, I did stuff like this before, I'll just pretend it's work related.

I'll crack the code until midnight. And I'll show him I've done my job correctly.

Now, I have to pack and hope the vending machine works.

Davey, out."

---

"Consumption is for consumers, not for the actual food enjoyers. But the enjoyers only are up their own theories of what the flavours really represent."

"But we're talking about game develo-"

"Which one are you? Do you enjoy food?"

Davey was not prepared to be put on a spot. Coda rarely asked him anything, or even said hi back - so, such forward question was not typical.

He wasn't dumb - he knew it was all a metaphor. And he wanted to just start his point showing that it isn't a perfect one. Now, he only had one true option to choose from because there would be no resets.

Or so he thought.

He heard a sigh and looked up at Coda as the man already turned his back.

"It was an illusions of a choice."

One that Davey once again couldn't make.

---

#The beginners guide #The Beginner's Guide #Coda #Davey #Davey Wreden #Writing #Fanfiction #My writing #Tbg #Ngl I feel way happier when someone comments on my writing than on my drawings ajshsh #Cus i feel it needs more brain power but alas #If this gets read by one person #I'm lucky #Skhshs