#Trying and struggling to keep moving to stay alive for Arthur to find meaning without him

[shana-rosee]

How did I not realize until now how perfect a Merthur song All I Want by Kodaline is???

[clareguilty]

Coal Fires and Snowstorms

This was a request fic that was originally for the Overwatch cowboy but I changed to Arthur Morgan for... apparent reasons Arthur Morgan/F!Reader (reader also has big enby vibes) Rating: Mature | No Warnings Word Count: ~2,200

Arthur wakes with a wheeze, bolting upright and smacking his chest with his fist as he tries to pull in enough air.

He’s shirtless, but a woven blanket had been draped over him while he was unconscious. A ray of light cuts through a grimy window. The angle is harsh enough that it’s probably late in the evening.

The last thing Arthur can remember is the dark of the night and the clamoring of the law on his heels. So he’s been out for at least a day.

His lips are dry and cracked, and his muscles groan in protest with every movement. God, his head is pounding like he was hit by a damn train.

A door creaks open, and there’s a squeak of surprise. “Oh! You’re awake!”

Arthur blinks in the harsh sunlight that’s streaming into the small cabin. Whoever is there is bundled up in furs and a jacket with a bow over their shoulder. They’ve got two armfuls of game practically swallowing them.

“Who are you? Where am I?” He means for it to sound rough and demanding, but it’s more croaky and pathetic when the words pass his lips.

“I’m not really anybody, and this is my cabin up in Cumberland. The law chased you a long ways from Annesburg didn’t they? You must have done something real bad.” The hunter dumps all the game onto the table and rushes to the bedroll where Arthur lays. “You aren’t hurt too bad or nothing, but you’ve got a real nasty cough. I’ve got tea and herbs that should help. I bandaged up all the bleeding bits as best I could”

Arthur is bewildered. He knows there had been a fire in Annesburg -- the coal had gone up in a pyre in seconds. Somehow, he had gotten separated from Dutch and the others. The smoke had taken him like crows to a carcass, and he was lucky to make it across the ridge with the way his eyes and lungs were burning.

The last thing he remembered was the pinkertons still on his heels and the darkness of the trees as he tried to hide in the brush. He must have made it to cover before the smoke and the soot finally got him.

He flinches as the hunter sticks an open flask under his nose. “Tea. It’s bitter but you’ll need it.”

Arthur sniffs the mouth of the flask, but it sure does just smell like weeds and water. He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose. But the flavor is a small price to pay for the way the liquid soothes the burning in his mouth and throat.

“Thank you,” he says. “You could have left me in those woods to rot. I appreciate you dragging my sorry ass back here.”

You grin and pat the bandage on his arm. “It weren’t much trouble, but you sure are one large fella.” Arthur thinks you must be a young boy -- it’s hard to tell. Your hair is short under your cap but your voice isn’t all that low.

You turn to the game on the table and grab a knife from your belt. “I hunted enough for the both of us the next few days. It’s gonna be a while before you’ve got your strength back, and a snowstorm is rolling in off the Grizzlies anyways.”

Arthur frowns. “Bit early for snow, isn’t it?”

You shrug. “Winter never listens to me. At least the game was out. Everyone is trying to feed as much as they can before it gets too cold to hunt. That includes us.”

Arthur grunts and struggles to his feet. “I can help with those,” he offers.

You watch him with narrowed eyes, obviously skeptical of Arthur’s strength. “Take the small ones,” you offer up the rabbits and squirrels.

Arthur usually doesn’t have a problem skinning game, but the smoke must have gotten to him more than he thought because he finds himself having to take a rest after just a few minutes. He finishes off the flask of tea and sorts through his pack and weapons.

“My horse…” he asks after a while.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I found her not far from where you were unconscious and she helped me get you back here. She’s out back with my Old Girl.”

“Thank you,” Arthur sounds genuinely touched. “She really means a lot to me.”

You shoot him another smile. “You’re nothing but a big softie, ain’t ya? What could you have done to have the law chasing you all the way across the damn country?”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, flushing in embarrassment. “My folks might have blown up Annesburg? I don’t actually know how much of it is left…”

“Ha!” you bark. “You’re with them van der Linde folks?”

Arthur’s silence is answer enough.

“I won’t judge,” you shrug. “You’re safe as long as you want to rest here.”

And rest Arthur does. He’s confined to the bedroll, rolled out on a warm pile of furs near the stove. You’re good company, witty and friendly and far too nosy for your own good. Arthur learns that you’ve has been living in these parts for a few years now, trapping and hunting and crafting to sell in town every few weeks. It’s more of a living than Arthur could ever ask for. Arthur thinks he might be sweet on you.

It’s another day before he’s got the strength to walk. He makes it outside to his horse, glad to see that she’s well taken care of. You had said you were going off to bathe in a nearby stream, and Arthur follows the sound of the water.

He’s not expecting what he finds. The water is shallow but fast moving, and he sees a familiar jacket hung on a branch by the bank.

You’re turned away, rinsing in the ice cold water, and Arthur can see the gooseflesh on your skin.

But when you turn slightly, it’s the swell of breasts and the curve of hips that catches Arthur’s attention. He averts his eyes quickly, darting back towards the cabin with his cheeks stained pink.

Now that he thinks about it, you had never said that you were a man. Arthur had simply figured it was most likely. The soft voice and gentle features make more sense now.

“You had better wash up if you want to,” you say when you return to the cabin. “The snow is coming in tonight. I can smell it. I stocked up on herbs for your cough and we’ve got plenty of provisions. I’m gonna split some more wood to bring inside.”

Arthur can’t help but find it attractive that you’re so knowledgeable and well prepared. He makes his way to the stream on his own and washes up in the frigid water, pushing through another coughing fit when the cold makes his muscles seize.

It’s already getting colder when he gets back inside. His weak breath fogs even inside the cabin and the little stove can’t do nearly enough to warm the small space.

“You’re going to freeze,” he tells you. He’s big enough to handle the cold -- spent a damn month up in the grizzlies without much of a problem -- but you surely won’t last the snowstorm.

“I’ve made it before,” you say with a huff and a glare. “I’ve got plenty of furs to keep me warm.”

“Put your bedroll beside mine,” Arthur insists. “We can share the blankets.”

The snow begins to fall, sticking to the ground in wet clumps, and you brace yourselves for the days to come. You’re practically strangers -- save for the fact that you had dragged Arthur out of the woods and saved his life. Now you have no choice but to rely on each other until the snow melts.

Arthur wakes in the night to your violent shivering under the blankets. He pulls you so that you’re pressed against his chest, tucking both of you under the quilts closer together. “I thought you said you’d made it through this before?”

You huff, teeth chattering. “I survived. I never said I kept warm.”

“Stay close to me. It’s my turn to keep you alive.” He drifts back to sleep to the howl of the winter winds.

The next morning he’s greeted by a bowl of piping stew that makes his sinuses burn. “I had some jarred peppers I keep for weather just like this. You’re in no condition for liquor so this is the best you’re gonna get.”

Arthur accepts the stew graciously. He’s not ready for the way you stand on your tippy toes to kiss him on the cheek when he offers to wash both of the bowls.

You pass the time snowed in with several rounds of cards. Arthur tells stories about him and the gang until his throat aches and he starts coughing again, and so the you regale Arthur with your life’s tale and a few stories you picked up over the years. You’re curled up next to each other in front of the stove, and you have no shame about burrowing against Arthur in a quest for body heat. He lets you steal as much as you want.

“I thought you were a boy when I first woke up,” Arthur says.

You shrug. “Most people do. I find it makes things easier a lot of the time. How’d you figure me out?” You don’t seem to feel too strongly one way or another about how Arthur and others see you.

Arthur hides his embarrassment behind a cough. “I, uh, caught you washing up in the stream.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “that’s pretty solid proof, ain’t it.” You’re smiling, not shy at all. “You’re not mad at me for lying, are you?”

“You never lied,” Arthur says. “I just came to my own conclusions. Doesn’t matter much to me anyways, whether you’re a man or a woman.”

You frown at that. “Doesn’t matter?”

“Nah,” Arthur ruffles your short hair. “You’re cute either way.”

It’s the right thing to say. The frown disappears and you settle back against him, humming contentedly.

He wakes in the night to the feeling of your breath on his neck. You shift and your lips brush against his skin. He can’t help the way his whole body tenses at the sensation. His arm is draped around your waist, holding you close because he knows you’ll freeze if he doesn’t.

He pulls you in closer. Every inch where your skin touches his feels oversensitive and hot. You’re still asleep -- he can tell from how slow you breath against his skin, but you reach an arm around his neck and burrow against him.

His heart begins to race. He’s flushed and half asleep and you fit against him so well in this tiny cabin that you’ve made your home. One of his hands slides down your back. You moan as his palm passes over the small of your back and the curve of your ass. His hand comes to the back of your thigh, but you shift again and rock your hips against him.

He gasps, then has to fight back a cough. He doesn’t want to wake you, but your quest for warmth has you plastered against him in a very compromising position. It’s starting to make his long johns downright painful, and he thinks he’ll combust in shame.

You rock against him once more, mumbling sleepily into his skin.

“Darlin’” he croaks. But the sound doesn’t wake you. He tries to wriggle an arm between you so he can push you off, but instead he winds up with a handful of your breast, and the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard escapes your lips.

He freezes. He’s painfully hard now, and you’re still gently rocking against him in your sleep, perhaps even more so now that he’s got a hand on your chest.

“Arthur, please,” you whine.

He’s pretty sure you’re awake by now, so he readjusts his hand and rubs his thumb over the peak of your nipple. You let out another breathy moan against his skin. This time when he runs a hand over your ass he lets himself take a moment to appreciate how it feels under his palm, they way his fingers sink into the soft skin beneath your winter sleep clothes. He once again places his hand on the back of your thigh and pulls you so that your hips are lined up with his, straddling him under the blankets.

You whine against him once more and grind your hips downward. The friction does way more for him than he imagines it must for you, and his vision whites out momentarily at the heat and weight of you against him.

He loses himself in the motion of your hips for several long moments, but then your whines grow frustrated and unsatisfied and he knows exactly what your after.

Gripping both of your hips tightly, he flips you both so that you’re laying back on the bedroll and he’s kneeling over you.

Your eyes fly open.

“Arthur?”

“You were asleep?” he looks absolutely bewildered.

“I thought so? I was having the best dream.” Your eyes look past him as you remember.

“I don’t think you were dreaming, sweetheart,” he chuckles. He leans in to place an open mouthed kiss against your neck. You gasp and dig your nails into his shoulder.

“Then I think you had better keep going, cowboy.”

[galactic-magick]

Family: Bruce Wayne/Batman x Reader

Request: Could I please get Bruce Wayne x Reader? Where he and reader have a daughter and are married. They’re currently fighting because readers feels that Bruce is caring too much about the League than his family, before they leave to fight Stephen Wolf, they get in a fight things were said that weren’t meant but he comes back and FLUFF

Summary: Being married to Bruce Wayne has always been hard, especially with a young daughter at home, but things get worse when Steppenwolf threatens the world.

Words: 1300+

Warnings: angst (happy ending though)

Author’s Notes: Had a little too much fun writing this angst hehe, hope you like it anon!

Taglist: @candid-confetti​

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You always knew what you were getting into when you married a superhero. You knew there’d be a lot of late nights, a lot of wounds, a lot of time away. When you had your daughter, you knew balancing a family with fighting criminals would take its toll. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you’ve always tried to get through it together.

Lately though, it’s been harder than usual. Bruce has become consumed with Lex Luthor’s threat, constantly coming and going without warning in search of heroes to help in a fight you’re not even sure is actually coming. Both you and Alfred have tried telling him there’s been no signs of other-worldly catastrophes, to no avail. You know he’s doing it to keep you and the world safe, yet it doesn’t always feel that way.

“Bruce,” you grab his hand, hoping to stop him from leaving again. “When are you going to take a break?”

“I can’t, you know that,” he responds firmly. “The world won’t be safe until we have a solid defense. I may be able to protect one city, but I need more help to protect everyone else,”

“Protect everyone from what?” you sigh. “Luthor is locked up, everyone else you’ve taken down is locked up. What are you so afraid of?”

“It’s the fact that I don’t know that I’m afraid of,” he puts his hands on your shoulders. “Please, honey, just trust me,”

“We miss you at home. Your own daughter rarely sees you anymore,”

“I’ll spend time with her soon, I promise,” he kisses your forehead and heads out the door. “I love you,”

 -

 You desperately wish that was the end of it, and life would return to normal as soon as possible.

But that was far from the case.

Bruce was right about one thing: a threat was coming. A big one.

A giant alien called Steppenwolf has set foot on Earth, searching for three objects called “motherboxes” and planning to use them against humanity somehow. Bruce won’t tell you exactly what will happen if he gets all of them, but you’ve gotten Diana to tell you he is most likely working for an even worse enemy named Darkseid, who wants to control the entirety of the universe.

It’s terrifying to say the least, and part of you is relieved that Bruce saw this coming and is actively preparing against it. But even so, he’s still been struggling to keep his promises to his own family in the midst of it all. You’ve been trying your hardest to be understanding, to keep coming up with excuses to your daughter about why her dad isn’t around and manage on your own, but you’re starting to wonder if it’s worth it anymore.

What is this will be your reality for the rest of your lives? Who’s to say there won’t be more threats like this all the time, never catching a break and never getting back the man you love?

 -

 The stakes keep getting higher and higher, everything moving too fast for you to keep up. Bruce is running directly into danger left and right, trying things that could get him killed. His team has supposedly brought back Superman from the dead, and Steppenwolf has now found the last of the motherboxes. They’ve fought him head to head once, and they’re planning on doing it again to destroy him and the boxes.

“Please don’t go,” you beg him. Most of the team has already gone outside towards the ship, and if you hadn’t called him he probably would’ve left without a word.

He huffs, “For once can you just let me do what I have to do?”

“I have been,” your voice raises. “But can’t you see how reckless you’re being? And you refuse to even talk to me about it? You could at least pretend that you care,”

“Don’t you dare tell me that I don’t care,” he points a finger at you. “Everything I’m doing is for our family,”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have a family left to come back to!”

His face falls, and you instantly regret what you said, but it’s too late. He leaves, and you slump into the nearest chair, tears held back only by the anger you had been holding onto until this moment.

“Hey,” Diana comes up to you as she heads for the door herself. “I didn’t mean to listen in, but I think there’s something you should know,”

“What?” you groan.

“He hasn’t told you what will actually happen if the motherboxes unite so he doesn’t worry you, but they’re not just weapons. They’ll turn this planet into a mirror of Darkseid’s and kill most of humanity, and if Darkseid also finds the Anti-Life equation he’ll control what’s left of us. Bruce has also been having vivid dreams of a future where Darkseid wins, me and Arthur are dead, and…” she exhales. “You and your daughter are dead too,”

“I…” you can’t find any words to reply.

“We could all die out there today, whether we win or lose,” she shakes her head. “But I know he loves you, and if we make it out alive he’ll make sure you know,”

She puts her sword and shield on her back, and races out the door.

 -

 You don’t sleep at all that night, waiting several hours before you hear anything.

What if he’s dead and that’s the last thing you ever said to him?

What if you have to explain to your daughter the next morning that she’ll never see her father again?

The tears finally come, streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall. It can’t end like this, can it?

Your daughter hears you, coming into the room and sitting next to you.

“Did you and daddy have another fight?” she asks.

You nod. You want to tell her it’s more than that, but you’re not sure how much her poor little heart can handle.

“You should stop doing that,” she says matter-of-factly. “You’re both so sad all the time now. People who love each other shouldn’t make each other sad,”

“You’re right, honey,” you sigh, pulling her close to you. “You’re right,”

 -

 You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, because when you open your eyes it’s almost dark again.

“Hey,” you hear your husband’s voice behind you. “I didn’t want to wake you, but-“

You jump off the couch and run to him, falling into his arms and burying your face in his chest. The tears start falling again, and he holds you in silence until you get over the initial shock and relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve told you what was really going on. I never meant to keep secrets from you and neglect our family,”

You nod, allowing him to wipe the tears away with his thumbs and guide your gaze up to his.

“I’m just happy you’re alive,” you smile.

“Everyone’s okay,” he says. “We destroyed the boxes and killed Steppenwolf. We might not be safe forever, but we’re safe now,”

“Safe enough for you to come back to us?”

“Yes,” he holds you closer. “And I’ll never leave again,”

“Yay! You’re happy now!”

You turn your heads toward your daughter walking around the corner and up to you.

“I knew you would!” she giggles, hugging both of you. “No more fighting, okay? You should love each other instead,”

“Love each other, huh?” Bruce smirks, leaning in to kiss you.

“Ewww not like that!” she covers her eyes, getting a laugh out of both of you.

“Later then,” he says to you, and you nudge him playfully.

You follow her back to her room to tuck her into bed, something you always did together before all the chaos, something that brings back a sense of normal. She tries to get you let her stay up more, get you to tell her stories or answer her random questions, but eventually she falls asleep.

“I love you,” he kisses you once you’re alone again.

You wrap your arms around him, never wanting to let him go, “I love you too,”

[oumaheroes]

Earthbound: Arthur’s Story

Context:

Hundreds of years after the fall of Earth, mankind is slowly starting to return. Some people have a stronger urge to return than others, confused by fragments of memories from a life already lived.

Full fic can be found here.

---

Arthur is eight. He sits on the side of the playground, watching the children run about and play games together that he was never invited to play and which he doesn’t really want to, anyway. This is what he tells himself, at least, because really, he does want to play but whenever he’s asked to join in before, they’ve said no, so he’s stopped asking now. They’re fun to watch though, both the game itself and the people playing it. He can watch who cheats, who misses the kick, who pushes too hard on purpose and who kindly let’s things go.

He learns a lot, from watching.

Arthur has always watched. He watches his parents fight when they think he can’t hear or see them, he watches his mum graze her hand over Mr Benson’s arm as she passes him in the corridor of their building, watches his dad see and press his lips into a firm line but say nothing.

Arthur stands apart from other people, cut adrift on his own, and takes in what he sees, carries the information he finds in his mind like pebbles in a pocket and tucks them away for later. He feels that this keeps him safer, somehow, because he knows about things. Not that he knows what he will use any of what he’s learned for, or why he feels as though he needs to carry secrets that aren’t his in his heart, but he does, anyway.

Granddad tells him it’s ‘endearing’, that he watches, when he catches him doing so. Calls him patient, and a wise old soul with an island heart. Arthur doesn’t know what an island is, and Granddad tells him that it’s something Earth used to have, swathes of land rising out of the sea.

‘Is all land not an island, then?’ He asks, ‘Because the earth was mostly all sea, wasn’t it?’ At least, this is what he’s heard in school in lessons about the Fall; stale secrets as old and thin as air, a dying whisper across the ages from humanity long ago.

Granddad shakes his head and combs a calloused hand through Arthur’s hair. ‘No’, he says, ‘islands are smaller bits of land apart from the rest. They’re surrounded by the ocean, all on their own.’

He means it kindly but Arthur feels hurt anyway, because he doesn’t want to be on his own. He tries to make friends, tries to play with the other children and talk with them and share his collection of secrets but they never want to, telling him that he’s strange or haughty or boring.

Granddad notices his disappointment and crouches down to pull him in for a hug, pressing him into his chest. ‘No, it’s not a bad thing!’ he says, holding him tight. ‘Islands are strong, they stand up all on their own. The sea keeps on pushing and pushing, but an island pushes right back, no matter how hard it is.’

He pulls back, looks Arthur in the eye. ‘Don’t change for the sea of people, Arthur; you don’t need to be anyone but yourself. Sometimes it’s better to be an island, than to lose sense of who you are.’

Arthur nods, feeling better. Half of him hates that even Granddad sees him as that, alone and different, recognising his failure to fit in, but the other half of him takes pride in it, that he is who he is and if that’s different from everyone else, then maybe that’s okay. So, he carries on watching the children play games without him, carries on looking for secrets and listening for change, hoping all the while that, maybe, they’ll reach out and invite him in.

Arthur is eleven when his granddad dies. It wasn’t a surprise and he knew it was coming, but the blow hits him hard anyway and sweeps him off his feet. He feels hollow, like his insides have been carved out and not replaced with anything; a ringing deadened nothing that weighs him down and leaves him numb. It doesn’t seem real, because Granddad was here and now he’s not and Arthur is exactly the same but his world has collapsed. And that, that doesn’t seem possible because how can so much be the same when such a huge part is missing?

After the funeral, a sad sorry affair where adults drift aimlessly like ships unmoored, he hides himself away in his room where his heart hurts and he can hardly stop crying long enough to think. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, now, because Granddad was the only person who really knows- knew- him. He curls in on himself, tight fists and thick throat, and reaches for an e-tab, loaded with stories Granddad thinks -thought- he’d like and even some straight from Granddad himself. They’re all old, old old old things about heroes and monsters, courage and loss, long journeys across wide wide seas, and from the tales of others Arthur forgets himself, briefly, and escapes for just a moment.

Using them to start, he begins to try his hand at his own.

Each night when he is supposed to be sleeping, Arthur huddles under his blankets and spins his own stories, weaving together all of the secrets he’s ever found to make somewhere real and alive; a large family with scores of people to talk to he sails ancient seas and explores the unknown, making friends wherever he goes. They speak to him as he sleeps in unknown familiar voices and it’s a place warm and happy where he can’t hear his parents scream at each other and someone will remember to wish him goodnight.

More and more Arthur hides himself away, feeding off tales of a different place entirely and a yearning in him grows so strong that he’s surprised no one can see it, read it like his soul is mapped on his skin.

Arthur is fifteen and his school have decided that it’s time for a school trip. It’s to the botanical gardens, this time, set up in the middle of the main city dome. It’s only recently been built because, as with all human colonies, the focus is on survival first, the basic needs for life: oxygen, water, heat, food. His colony isn’t new, but it also isn’t that old and things are just advancing enough that money can be spent on more frivolous things. The gardens are just plants: grasses and flowers and trees that aren’t good for anything other than looking pretty, he guesses, but it’s new and educational so his school bundles them all up into year groups and ferries them across town to study what’s there and write a journalistic report to justify the excursion.

Arthur has made a few friends now, people he can talk to about homework, sit on shuttles next to, and hang out with after school. The air between them is stale and flat but safe and predictable, and Arthur is thankful he has this, these people at least, who like him enough to tolerate his presence, a small fragile bridge connecting them together. They’re all corralled into dreary lines as they approach the gardens, Arthur’s group slinking at the rear, so it takes a while for Arthur to notice that they’ve properly arrived.

He hands over his ticket, watches it marked with a stamp, and turns his gaze to go through the doors and stops, dead. There, right at the start to welcome them in, is an assault of colour; flowers bursting from the ground in a cacophony of hues that capture the eye and dazzle him. It’s a vivacity that he’s never before dreamt was possible and he can’t look away, even as people jostle him to get past and he feels himself moving powerless along with the tide.

It’s odd, it’s strange because he’s seen flowers and things in e-books but he’s never seen any before in real life and he can’t seem to match them together in his head, the pictures in his mind and what is in front of him now. He’s overwhelmed with the experience, the sights, the smells- a heady thing that turns his mind to cotton, and he stumbles forward to touch them, fingers stroking velvety petals before his teacher pulls him sharply away.

‘Can you not see the signs?’ she hisses at him, ‘we need to stay off the grass; I told you all this in the shuttle. Don’t touch.’

Her voice comes at him through a fog and it is an effort to turn his head to look at her, nodding dumbly. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, fingers tacky with pollen and time, ‘I just-‘

He just, what? He doesn’t have the words to describe this, what he’s feeling, even to himself; his emotions a curious storm of sensations: he feels home, he feels homesick, he feels calm and sad and happy and angry, for some reason because it’s so familiar and beautiful and achingly new that what he really wants to do, embarrassingly, is sit down on the grass and cry into the dirt.

Luckily, he has enough presence of mind and teenage pride to shake himself free of whatever is happening to him and manages to locate his friends, watching him awkwardly from the path. They greet him, unsure, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care, can’t bring himself to be ashamed for not hiding his strangeness, for letting his normalcy slip. He feels the bridges between them shake and weaken but his eyes dart about the trees, drinking in the depths of green and he struggles to stay afloat in today.

That night he dreams of the sea, the sea and the sky and an endless horizon that broadens outwards, endlessly, just for him and he feels the tug of the unknown call to him across a vast and forgotten ocean. Then, as the sea rocks him in his dreams it turns dark; pulling him down into its vast weight he drowns on sea foam and regret. Unfulfilled dreams and broken promises fill his boots and drag him down and it's all his fault, all of it, everything he ever did could have been so very different, all those people he hurt when he didn't mean to, all those terrible things he's said, all those-

 He gasps awake.

 His room is dark, starlight blocked by curtains, and unmoving, but still he feels rocked by non-existent currents and the room dips and sways when he moves his head to clutch at his knees.

 The visit to the gardens, plainly, changes him; something morphs or grows within and he knows, deeply, that he doesn’t want to do anything else. He begins to select classes and at nineteen he specialises his studies in agriculture, in plants and trees and earth and grasses. He wants to grow them; learn how they work and how to use them for things. They have so many uses, in so many sectors, and Arthur can’t understand how other people don’t find them as fascinating as he does.

 There’s a breakthrough, that year. Earth, the original home of humankind, becomes viable and opens its arms wide. They’re looking for people, for farmers and fishers and growers and makers to stabilise the colony and Arthur knows that that’s where he needs to be, that’s where he needs to go and he can’t wait, won’t wait, not for one moment longer. He applies, pouring hours over his application the days before he submits it because there is a wild hunger in him, a need that he knows deep in his bones won’t be extinguished any other way and he makes sure to press what he knows about plants into what he writes.

 It’s a wait, a tense hard thing than wears at him, eroding him away but then, at last, confirmation; he’s in.

 A two-year journey is all that’s between him and the sea of his dreams and the greenery of fields and trees. He tells his parents, separately. They divorced, last year, and Arthur is glad, so glad that they never had any children other than him, glad that there was no one else caught in that maelstrom of words and bitterness. It poisoned the house, poisoned the space between them all and filtered down to Arthur, trapped in the middle with nowhere to go.

 But not anymore. He packs very little, stands to reminisce not for very long, before heading out of the door. He’s early, about five or so hours left before he can board, but once he’s said his goodbyes and gathered his things it’s as though he can’t stand to be there in that house, in that place, for one more second. The opaque material of his colony’s domes press down on him as he walks, murky and grey; he all at once feels as though he is sinking underwater and he stops on the way to the launch site, arms swinging and a pounding in his head. A deep breath, a catch in the throat, and he instead turns to veer back towards town, to the botanical gardens.

They’re familiar to him now, as known to him as his own hands, and he settles himself underneath a wide thick tree next to a bush of roses spilt red like blood and gets out an e-tab. His granddad’s voice emerges, soft and old like paper telling tales of the sea, and his words curl around Arthur’s chest to rock him back to himself and wish him good luck.

[ijustwant2write]

The Right Treatment-Thomas Shelby x Reader

(GIF credit to @19-9x​)

Tags: @captivatedbycillianmurphy @jenepleurepasbaby @amirahiddleston @bloodorangemoonlight

Requested by @randombella: 'Hi, I absolutely love your writing! Could I request a Tommy x reader where she’s a childhood friend of all the Shelbys and then she’s got some kind of illness and keeps getting sicker but tries to hide it. But then Tommy finds out and everyone’s angry at her for hiding it and makes her get treatment. Thank you so much! Xx'

Characters: Tommy Shelby x Reader, John Shelby x Reader (platonic), Arthur Shelby x Reader (platonic), Polly Shelby x Reader (platonic)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Swearing, illness (including pain), injury, arguing, angst, fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Another morning waking up in pain, another morning where I hid that away from my closest friends. I slowly sat up, having to pause for a second as my head was spinning. After a while, I thought I would be used to it. Pushing through it, I forced myself to stand, stumbling my way to the wardrobe. I had to get dressed and ready before going to have breakfast, because I found it harder to make my way back up the stairs again. The pain subsided for a while, my headache disappearing, but my muscles still aching.

The cold nipped at me as I stepped outside, wrapping my coat tighter around me and making sure my hat was secure on my head. We never received good weather, and it made me feel worse every day. It didn't help that I was vulnerable to colds that could keep me in bed for up to a week, and this would be my first day back after having to take some time off, again.

"Here she is!" Arthur bellowed as I stepped into the betting shop."Dunno how we've all survived without your gorgeous face round 'ere."

"Don't get too close Arthur, I'm still not fully recovered."

"No, nothin' is stopping this." he hugged me tightly, not realising how much pain he was causing.

I winced, holding in the whimpering as he let go, smiling as I quickly turned around, heading to my desk outside of John's office. I had been his secretary for many years, I had been there when the business first started. The Shelby's and I were close, we were there for each other throughout everything. And after my parents died, they were the only ones I had left. They were sickly like I was, and I feared that I too would follow suit. But no one else needed to worry about me, especially not my boys.

"What time do you call this? Been slacking off all week and you waltz in fifteen minutes before we open?" John teased as he opened the door to his office, leaning against the door frame.

"It's called being on time. I'm here before all the other workers as you can see." I stated, meaning back in my chair and smirking.

"I'm just messing. You give them lot a bad name."

"I just like being here. It's better than being alone in my house. And I've been stuck there for a whole week."

"Yeah, we meant to visit but-"

"But you had business. Don't worry, I understand."

"Just seems that you've been getting ill quite a lot recently-"

"John, I'm fine. It's just this weather."

He looked me over with concern, nodding his head slowly before going back into his office. The tension in my shoulders dropped, glad that he dropped the topic before any questions were asked. No one else needed to worry about me, and I didn't want anyone else knowing.

As usual, the shop was busy. Everyone was bustling about, and it was getting far too hot already. Men were constantly walking by me, some even bumping into my desk which pissed me off. John was working on the bets too, so my work was limited. It always was with him, Tommy handled more of the paperwork. And speaking of, I hadn't seen Tommy once that day.

However, after another hour, the noise, humidity of the room and generally the people, were getting to me,

"I'm going for my break." I struggled to tell John as he was surrounded by other workers.

I heard him acknowledge me, though I wasn't sure what he had actually said. Taking it as a yes, I left anyway, relieved to be in the fresh air. As I stood in the backyard, I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes as I tried to cool off. My headache was back, and my back hurt from being stuck at the desk. The pain made me want to cry, but I couldn't show that in front of anyone. Save the tears for home.

"(Y/N)?" Tommy appeared, making me jump.

I broke out into a cough as I gasped, turning away as if that would hide me from him. I felt his hand on my back, and I moved away, quickly recovering.

"You shouldn't be back." he simply stated.

"I'm fine. You just made me jump." I breathed out, standing up straight.

He was silent, about to light a cigarette before putting it back in the box."Are you feeling better?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"I might not be fully recovered, but I'm completely fine to work."

"If you say so."

I huffed, rolling my eyes."Tommy, I'm capable of working right now. I don't need you all to babysit me."

"We're just looking out for you-"

"Yes, well...I can do that by myself, thank you!"

My anger had come from no where, making me falter slightly, and I had to use the wall for support. Tommy reached out to me to help, but my arm shot out, rejecting it.

"I'm going back inside. I need to get back to my work." I mumbled, trying to ignore the dizziness as I walked away.

"(Y/N), woah, hold on." Polly blocked me from entering the shop, and I groaned at her.

"Polly, I'm fine. Let me get past." I snapped.

"No you're not. I'm not an idiot, anyone can see that you're about to faint at any minute." she directed me to a chair close by.

"Pol-"

Her hands went to her hips."Shut up. Tommy, have you seen the state of her?"

Tommy stood beside her."Yes."

"Well, why haven't you sent her home?"

"She says she's perfectly fine."

"Oh for fucks sake. You are going home, now."

"What? Polly, you can't be serious."

"I fucking am. I'm not going to make you work if you look like you're about to drop."

"But I've been off for a week."

"Doesn't matter. Get home and rest properly." the scowl on her face softened."Please."

I sighed, wanting to retaliate and stubborn, but I could already feel the energy draining from me; glancing at the clock, I saw that I had a long time left, and I knew that I wouldn't last long.

"Fine." I huffed."I'll go."

"I'll walk you." Tommy offered.

I went to say no, but Polly's eyes warned me not to."Go with Tommy. I'll be round at some point to check that you're eating properly too."

This isn't what I wanted. The Shelby's had done so much for me in the past. We were next door neighbours since children, my dad even got involved with the gang side of things because the boys were always able to cut him a good deal, they wanted to help provide for our family. My mum didn't care that he was a blinder, as long as he came home alive and spent time with me. And of course, there was that fucking war, and my boys came back entirely different men. It took a long time to build up our relationships again, to be able to laugh freely.

"Tommy, I'm sorry you have to walk me home. I know you've got better things to do." I said as we left the shop.

"No I don't."

I didn't know what else to add, deciding to say nothing. As I unlocked my house, I didn't expect Tommy to follow inside. I said nothing against it, knowing he would have come in despite my objections.

"Are you here to spoon feed me?" I deadpanned, taking off my coat and setting down my handbag as if he wasn't there.

"Why are you pushing us away?"

"I'm not. I just don't think I need this much fussing over."

I made my way to the kitchen, sitting at the tiny dining table. My body was relieved, relaxing slightly, though the numbing pain was still there.

"(Y/N), look at yourself. You're not like you used to be." he sat opposite me.

"I'm exactly the same."

"No you're not! You don't move around like someone your age. I don't see you interacting with anyone as much as you used to. And...and you don't dance anymore."

I hadn't seen Tommy this upset for years. It was breaking my own heart.

"You used to dance all the time. Any music that played and you were up dancing, didn't matter where we were either. You were always able to get John or Arthur, even Finn to get up with you. Never me though. I haven't danced with you enough."

"Tommy, you make it sound like I'm dying." my voice was shaky, knowing there was truth in my words.

He hadn't broke eye contact, but I saw a change of emotion in his eye."Because you just might be."

"T-Tommy I'm not dying."

"Then why are you so scared? Have you been to a doctor?"

"There wasn't any need-"

"Have you seen yourself?" Tommy was beginning to get angry."Why haven't you been?"

"Because I know that this is just a small illness! I-I haven't fully recovered."

"(Y/N), stop lying to yourself. Please let me take you to a doctor, or get one sent here."

"Tommy! I don't need you to look after me anymore!" I suddenly shouted, silencing the both of us.

Instantly regretting what I said, my heart was telling me to apologise, but my stubborn mind refused to. Tommy sighed, standing up to leave, but before he did, he kissed me on the forehead. I stayed in my seat as he left, laying my head down on my arms to cry. I didn't want to argue with him, I didn't mean to shout. Why hadn't I just talked with him?

Although tears were stilling spilling out of my eyes, I got up and made myself a cup of tea, needing a distraction. But what with the stress and due to how tired I was, I sat back down again, sipping at my tea. I had one of those moments where the time disappeared in an instant, I felt like I blinked and it was suddenly dark outside. Though I hadn't thought about anything, my mind had been blank. Perhaps that was my way of pushing away the situation at hand.

There was a knock at the door, and I knew it was Polly. No doubt she came to feed me, and she would definitely make me eat. Slowly standing, I called out to her, letting her know I was coming, when I felt dizzy again. Holding onto whatever was nearest to me, I struggled to walk to the door, which should have taken me less than ten seconds. Polly's voice was muffled behind the door, but I could hear my breathing ever so loudly in my ears. My upper body wasn't able to hold itself upright, and I fell against the wall. Trying to stand up straight, I swayed backwards, before tipping forwards and collapsing, but not before smashing my head against the stair banister. 

The same pounding in my head I usually woke up with was still there, though the throbbing pain throughout my body was more intense. Was Tommy right? Was I getting closer to death? I opened my eyes, preparing myself to face another day, when I realised that I wasn’t at home. The ceiling was white, and much higher than mine in my room. And as I started to gather my surroundings, it was clear that I wasn’t laying in my bed, it was too bright in here to be my room, and the smell was too strong; it smelt too clean in here, too sterile. 

“Tommy?” I mumbled as I realised he was sat in a chair next to the bed. He looked rough, it was clear that he had been here all night with me.

His head pricked up when he heard me, rubbing his hand over his face.“You’re alright. You fell yesterday, hit your head badly.”

“I don’t really remember that.”

“It was lucky that Polly was there. She kicked the door in and called us. Drove you here as fast as we could.”

“I’m sorry Tommy. I’m sorry for making you all worry.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does though.” I stretched out my hand towards him, glad when he held it.“I could have easily solved all of this, I could have just gone to the fucking doctors and got all of this sorted before it got worse. But...but I didn’t want to end up like my parents.”

“Why?”

“Because they got sick towards the end of their lives. And although they were old, they were still too young to have died. I just thought...if whatever I have has come from them, and I have it now, I was scared that I would go too. And I couldn’t stand it if I left all of you, and I wouldn’t want to be a distraction from your work. Being a Shelby is hard enough, you didn’t need me to add to that pile of work.”

“You are not a distraction, and you are not another fucking problem I have to deal with. You are my family. I would rather be dealing with another mafia target than seeing you like this, stuck in a fucking hospital. That’s why we all told you to come here, to get better. You’ve got all of us here for you.”

“I know. I’ve been an idiot for not letting you all in.”

“Yeah, you have.”

A small laugh came out of both of us.“Tommy, am I going to be alright?”

“They haven’t gone into too much detail, but they assured me that you are no where near to death.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. It’s going to take a while, but they have the right treatment for you. But they said you have to take it easy, you must rest. So you won’t be coming back into work.”

“What? But Tommy-”

“I’ll cover your funds.”

“I can’t let you-”

“Yes you can, because I already have. And you’re also going to give us all a copy of your key, because I knew you wouldn’t want to be living anywhere else.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

My eyes cast down, suddenly embarrassed to say it.“I wouldn’t object to living with you.”

“With me?”

“Yeah. Unless you don’t want me around.”

“No, I do. I think I can cope with you.”

I smiled at him, squeezing his hand.“Thank you Tommy. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You won’t have to wonder anymore.”

[charlessmithhasmyheart]

Title: Hunting Hijinks

Genre: Romance

Type: Charles x Reader

Triggers: None

A/N: Hey hey hey! This is a gift for the lovely @fangirl-ramblings. When I got the message that I was your secret santa, I was super excited! You are defs one of the people who I would consider to be my biggest supporter throughout this blog endeavor. Seriously! I would like to apologize for how long this took, but I wanted to make sure I was happy with everything before posting.

I know you had requested something about several people, so I chose Charles! Hope this is to your liking.

Here ya go! :)

____________________________

The sun was slowly sinking, the fire in front of you easily becoming your only source of light. The camp and it’s residents had been in the process of setting down for the night. Everyone but you. You were sitting on a log lost in thought, head resting in your hands as you stared into the flames; the object of your contemplation being none other than the mysterious Charles Smith.

Of course, this was of no surprise to you. It had been happening quite frequently. Charles was on your mind a lot. Especially since you had officially become a member of the Van Der Linde Gang.

A small smile began to tug at your lips as you recalled your first encounter with the illustrious group of outlaws.

You had been a bounty hunter then. Well, you hadn’t really been a true bounty hunter. You were just taking odd jobs from the wanted posters around Valentine and Saint Denis. It wasn’t the best work, but it paid well when you succeeded. And you did.

Believe it or not, you had actually met them during one of your jobs. You had been tracking a particularly elusive criminal for a few days. He had held up the general store and robbed a few of the townsfolk. Killed some too. The sheriff was adamant that he was brought back; alive or dead, it didn’t matter.

You were on the trail, the tracks very fresh when suddenly gunfire broke out ahead of you. Intrigued, you spurred your mount on only to come face to face with a shoot out. The target in question was crouched behind an over turned wagon, his own horse dead, as bullets from his attackers, three of them, soared through the air.

Determined to be the one to bring him to justice, you pulled your own gun from its holster and spurred your mount on again. Unfortunately the criminal, in what you can only assume to be a moment of stupidity, peaked from around the wagon, pistol loaded, only to receive a bullet to the face. With him now dead, the attacker’s switched their attention to you, guns still drawn. A curse slipped from your lips as you brought your horse to an abrupt stop.

“You take one step closer miss, and I cannot promise you’ll get away unharmed.” Warned their leader, who you later on learned to be Dutch.

When you made no move to speak he continued.

“Now I suggest you lower your weapon and we can talk this out. I see no reason for any more blood-shed.” He spoke, lowering his own weapon and signaling for the others in his group to do the same.

It took a moment, but you complied and re-holstered your weapon. Then came the conversation that would change your life. You had explained how you were a bounty hunter, making money to survive on your own after your family had died. Dutch responded in kind; giving you the run down of his gang, and, when he was finished, offered you a place to stay. After all, a woman of your abilities would be beneficial to their cause. Seeing as you had no better options, you accepted.

When you had arrived at their campsite at Horseshoe Overlook, you were introduced to many people who, despite being outlaws, were some of the most kind and hardworking people you had ever met. You fit right in, quickly developed relationships with many of the gang members, and the rest was history.

But despite all that, there was one member that you still hadn’t been able to understand.

When you had first been introduced to Charles, he barely mumbled a greeting or looked in your direction before heading of to complete some chore. You had brushed it off in the beginning, assuming you would find time to get to know him later. Now, it was later, and you knew next to nothing other than you had developed feelings for him.

It was all so odd. How could you develop feelings for someone who wouldn’t speak to you, let alone even look at you in the eyes? Sure, you had admired his silent nature, his penchant for taking on the difficult or unappealing jobs and his kindness with the other gang members from afar. Not to mention, he himself wasn’t unappealing to look at. But it still frustrated you to no end because you knew that he wouldn’t feel the same way. Charles had made it perfectly clear, without speaking, how he felt about you.

Stifling a groan, you rubbed a hand over your face, your frustration beginning to build to unhealthy levels.

“Something the matter [Y/N]? You’ve been sitting there an awfully long time.”

You jumped at the sound of someone’s voice and turned to see Hosea strolling towards you, a curious look on his face.

“I’m fine, Hosea.” You replied as he eased into a chair on the other side of the fire. “Just tired is all.”

“I may be old,” he started. “But not so that I can’t recognize when someone’s troubled. What’s bothering you my dear?”

You shifted your gaze from the fire to Hosea. He was leaning back in the chair, arms folded in his lap, with his eyes fixed on you. There was nothing but concern and a honest want to help you in them. He had always been like that. When you were struggling to learn the ways of the outlaw life, Hosea had been with you every step of the way. Making sure you knew the best hunting spots, helping you tend to your chores, and keeping your spirits up whenever you got discouraged. But, expressing your thoughts of Charles out loud? That was different. You didn’t know if you could.

“I don’t really know, if I’m bein’ honest.” You responded finally. “I’m just trying to sort out my feelings.”

And you were. Trying and failing, but you were trying. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t convince yourself to forget.

“Your feelings for Charles?” He stated matter-of-factly.

You snapped your head up, heat beginning to rise in your face as you tried to stammer out a response.

“How did you know— I mean. I never said—”

Hosea chuckled and splayed his hands out in a calming gesture.

“Like I said. I may be old, but I still know a thing or two. And the way you look at the man when you think no one is paying attention? I’d say you were smitten.” He teased, winking at you.

You stared, dumbfounded and unsure of what to say. If Hosea knew, surely others in the camp knew. And if they knew, did that mean Charles knew as well? And if Charles knew then... No. You weren’t even going to consider the thought.

“You know what? I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.” You stated, pushing yourself off the log and heading towards your tent, refusing to look at Hosea anymore lest you get sucked into a full blown confession.

“You know,” He called after you. “It’ll just get worse the longer you keep it to yourself.”

You gave a half-hearted flick of you hand, the only indication that you had heard his words as you continued to walk through the camp.

——————————

The next morning proved to be no better. The minute you had opened your eyes, your thoughts immediately went to Charles. And Hosea’s advice. When you had finally settled into bed last night, you had pondered what he had said. Maybe it would be in your best interest to talk to him, but the fear of his first words to you being full of hate was too much, and you had drifted off late into the night.

Groaning, you pushed yourself to your feet, ready to distract yourself with the days work. You grabbed your hat from where it had fallen on the floor during sleep and stepped out of your tent. The morning sun shone through the campsite and the warmth felt good on your face. A cup of coffee sounded like a good way to start your day so you headed towards the communal pot; Abigail and Pearson already there with cups in hand.

“Morning [Y/N].” Pearson called out. “Any specific plans for your day yet?”

“Other then my daily chores? No.” You responded, pouring the dark liquid into your tin mug. “Why?”

“Well,” he began. “We’re getting low on food supplies and I can’t remember the last time anyone went hunting. Think you’re up for the task?”

“Sure,” you replied between sips. “I’ll head out right now.”

Pearson grunted his thanks and returned to his own mug. It felt good to finally have some sense of normalcy thrust upon you, so you were more than happy to comply. Nodding your head at Abigail, you finished your coffee; the warmth of the liquid reaching and energizing every part of your body before heading towards the horses.

Hunting hadn’t always been a skill that you particularly excelled at, but when you had expressed your unease with the chore during your first weeks with the gang, Hosea had wasted no time with setting up lessons with Arthur. Originally he would have asked Charles to do it, but every time he had mysteriously disappeared, leaving you wondering what accursed thing you had done to receive the cold shoulder. And hunting with Arthur wasn’t so bad. Of course, he was a little moody at times and his patience wasn’t always there, but you learned. You considered yourself to be quite the hunter nowadays.

Having now reached your horse, you ran your fingers through her mane and cooed soft encouragements before swinging yourself into the saddle. Grabbing the reins, you clicked your tongue and eased her towards he camp entrance.

“[Y/N], hold up!”

You brought your horse to a halt, startled, and turned in the saddle. You were surprised and a bit worried as Hosea sped up towards you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Are you going out?” He inquired, an odd look that you couldn’t quite place etched on his face.

“Yes,” you replied hesitantly. “Pearson asked me to. Why?”

“Why don’t you take Charles with you, huh? He’s quite the hunter himself.” Without waiting for a reply he called out to Charles who was sharpening a knife. “Hey Charles! You up for some hunting? [Y/N], here could use some assistance.”

It was in that moment that your heart beat began to quicken; from anger and from nervousness at the thought of thee Charles Smith hunting with you. Alone. In the woods. With no one around for miles. Oh, would Hosea be getting an ear-full once you returned. Well, maybe you’d say if. The possibility of you running away forever from sheer embarrassment was entirely plausible.

“There now,” Hosea continued, clapping Charles on the shoulder with his hand. “I’m sure the two of you can scrounge up some food for the lot of us. And don’t come back until you do.”

You shot Hosea a burning look as he sauntered away, whistling a tune the whole while. Charles barely glanced at you as he pulled himself onto his own mount, Taima, and encouraged her towards the edge of camp. You followed suite without a word.

————————

You gripped the bow tightly in your hands, trying to rack your brain for anything to say as Charles walked beside you. The silence between the two of you was uncomfortable. At least, that’s how you felt about it, and, frankly, you couldn’t deal with the fact that the man you had pined for months over was finally capable of staying close to you. Deciding you’ve had enough, you lowered your weapon and turned to face him.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you hate me?” You repeated, crossing your arms.

Charles’ eyes widened as he took in your words, and a strange look crossed his face. You started to feel guilty as you waited for a response. You had come across as a bit rude. It wasn’t what you were going for, but the words just came out without any thought. But, now that you were in this predicament, you decided you were going to keep going.

“I don’t hate you,” Charles finally spoke.

“Well, then have I done something to upset you? I’ve been with the gang for months now and you’ve said all of six words to me.”

Another long moment of silence ensued. Finally deciding you’ve had enough, you tightened the grip on your bow and turned to leave, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Before you could reach your horse, however, you felt a hand grasp your arm and you found yourself twisted around and a pair of lips locking with yours’. You tensed for barely a second as your mind tried to register what was happening. You were kissing Charles. Or, rather, he was kissing you. And it felt like you had always imagined it to be. When he broke away, you stared, dumbfounded.

“I don’t hate you, [Y/N],” He said, reaching out to take your hand his large calloused one. “I never have. In fact, it’s the opposite.”

“Charles,” You uttered, barely a whisper.

“Ever since the first day you stepped into camp, I knew there was something special about you. I was just too afraid to say anything.” Charles confessed. “I didn’t know how to say anything, because I didn’t know how you would feel.”

His dark eyes locked with yours and you could see the sincerity and fear swirling around in them. A small smile tugged at your lips. There was only one way you felt you could express your true feelings. You reached a hand up to cup his cheek and pulled him into another kiss.

Time seemed to stop. Your heart beat just as quick as you pressed your lips against his in a gentle fashion. His strong fingers brushed tentatively against the back of your neck while your own hand tangled amongst his dark locks. You placed your other hand against his chest and grasped at the loose fabric of his shirt, feeling a hunger your had never felt welling up inside you. Charles, sensing this, slipped a hand down to the small of your back and pulled you flush to him.

The kiss lasted for what felt like years before you finally pulled away, both of you breathing hard and a shine in his eyes that you no doubt mirrored.

“Do you know how I feel now?” You teased.

“Yes, I think so.” Charles chuckled, entwining his fingers with your own. You smiled warmly at him.

“Maybe we should get back to hunting then?” You inquired. “There’s a certain someone I need to have a chat with when we get back. And then, maybe we can have a chat of our own, hmm?”

Charles suppressed another laugh, placed a kiss on your cheek before resuming the hold on his own bow, and traipsed deeper into the woods. The memory of that kiss would reside in your mind as you finished the hunt and it would carry on until later in the evening when you and Charles had another moment alone.

[iplaymatchmaker]

@nishtharya​ Thank you so much for requesting🥰🥰! I’m sorry for taking so long! I feel like I  have to also apologize after all that angst in the prompt. I didn’t really mean to make it this sad but I couldn’t help myself 😅, especially considering I have written a beauty and the beast au fic in the past that was also very angsty. All the feels came rushing back. I hope you still enjoy it!❤❤ 

I match you with:

Arthur!

I had a few other guys in mind but I think Arthur would be the only one who could really give back so much while keeping things interesting.

The man has met women who graciously return his advances, but no one managed to play him like you. The look of surprise on his face when you beat him to his own games is extremely entertaining. It quickly becomes a competition of smoothness between the two of you.

After you grow more comfortable around him, both of you realize you have more in common than you think. Your conversations on the dinner table are quite the sight, since you both won’t stop talking until the subject has been completely drained.

When the two of you get into a relationship, it’s very hard for you to keep your hands off each other. He always finds himself reaching for you, whether that’s when he’s writing or when you’re out in town. Your presence around him becomes so natural he finds it hard to focus without you around for long stretches of time. He definitely tells you that a lot, especially when you’re apart for too long.

When he finds out you write and sing your own music he absolutely loves hearing your work. It provides a lot of inspiration for him and he feels very productive when listening to you, even if you’re simply talking. He often asks about your opinions on his latest Sherlock stories, especially after he reads some of your writing.

When you sleep together for the first time he notice how hard it was for you to fall asleep, so he takes it upon himself to help distract you. He’s found quite a few things that often work , although his favorite is definitely cuddling, and other things, but this a family friendly show.

 Prompt 5: Fairytale AU:

“Arthur, open the door!” no matter how many times you yelled and knocked on the door of the large mansion, no answer came.

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me.” You sat yourself on the steps, trying to appear calmer than you were. It was hard not to picture Arthur, alone and afraid, waiting for the inevitable.

“Where did we go wrong?” memories flashed through your mind as you traced your steps, trying to find any signs that this is where it would all lead.

  You had been with Arthur for years and had known him for even longer. You tried to deny it, pointing at your own tendency to over analyze, but his deteriorating health became more and more apparent by the day. He tried his best to brush it off, usually teasing you about how much you worried about him, until one day he collapsed and remained unconscious for the next two days. No doctor could explain the cause of this. He had been perfectly healthy. No problematic past, no underlying health problems. But now he was dying and there was nothing anyone could do.  

You looked back on happier days.  You vividly remembered all the nights the two of you had spent sitting next to each other, working on your stories, often turning to the other for inspiration or a simple word of encouragement when your insecurities got the better of you. He always had a way with words, a way to make you feel special.

The images provided some comfort and you slowly drifted off, still waiting for your love to open up to you, like he did before.

  When your eyes opened you were in a room you didn’t recognize. You were covered in a mountain of blankets and a hot piece of cloth lay on your forehead. When you sat up, you noticed Arthur, writing a few feet away.

“Arthur?” when he noticed you had woken up, he shot up, before tripping, landing back on the chair.

“Watch it.” You moved to get yourself out of bed but he stopped you, slowly lifting himself up, a pained expression on his face. Your heart ached for him as you watched him struggle trying to walk toward you. When he sat down next to you, some of the discomfort seemed to disappear. When he reached for your hand, a shiver run through you after the sudden contact with his ice cold skin.

“My love, you shouldn’t have come here. And you definitely shouldn’t have fallen asleep outside on the brick of winter.” You could see the concern painted on his face as he looked at you. The moment brought you back to the times before all this.

“At least I got you to open the door.” You smiled, sitting up to reach toward him. He pulled away before you could get too close.

“You should’ve left like I told you… There’s nothing for you here anymore.” You glanced at the rose, sitting on the small table by the windowsill. Very few petals were left.

“There’s you.” This time he didn’t move when you reached for him, cupping his cheek.

“I won’t be here much longer.” You didn’t want to think about what life would be like without him by your side.

“There has to be a way to stop it! We still have some time, maybe we can undo this!” he placed a kiss on your forehead, a kiss that felt too much like a goodbye kiss.

“It’s over, love. My time’s up. It’s time I join Rick again. I wonder if he’ll forgive me for not saving him.” You remembered Rick. He was a small boy, barely ten years old when his brother came to Arthur, asking him to treat Rick, who was suffering from a raging fever. He had been the first patient Arthur hadn’t managed to save, one of the many lives he still carried with him, the guilt eventually becoming too much.

“It wasn’t your fault. You can’t save everyone, you shouldn’t expect that of yourself.” you had worried about the weight being a doctor would put on him, but you had never expected it would be the thing that ended him.

“If I can’t save my patients… what kind of doctor am I?” no matter how hard you tried your words weren’t getting through to him and his time was running out.

“Love, please! Your guilt is what birthed this curse. It’s killing you! It’s in your hands to break it!” he had been cursed by his own mind for so long, growing weaker and weaker, until it manifested in the form of a rose, counting down his days. Tears slid rapidly down your eyes. He wiped them away, trying to take your pain along with them.

“I’ve always considered myself intuitive, but the mystery of my mind is one I’ll never be able to solve. But If I may, I want to ask a favor of you.”

“Anything.” You squeezed his hands, bringing him closer.

“It’s selfish of me. I’m the one who told you not to come here and yet here I am wishing you would stay by my side, until the end.” You nodded, tears blurring your eyes.

“I will, always.”

The next few hours felt like an eternity and like no time at all at the same time. There was so much you wanted to say but as you at next to him in front of the fire nothing came out. You could only watch as his life slowly faded away.

“Will you sing for me?” his eyes turned to you, a faint glint to them. You could tell he was struggling to focus, fighting to stay conscious, to spend his last moments with you.

Your voice filled the room, singing one of the songs you had written especially for him a few years ago. You tried to keep your voice steady, despite the situation.

As the minutes passed and the last petal begun to make its descend, his strength completely abandoned him.

“Ugh..”  he collapsed, falling limp on the floor.

“Arthur!” you run to his side, holding him in your arms trying to keep him from slipping away.

“Please, sing…” his words were barely more than a whisper, a sign of his end fast approaching. In spite of it all, he was smiling.

You tried your best to keep your voice from melting into weeping. You wanted to see him off the way he wanted to.

When the last petal touched the ground, he stilled. And so you allowed yourself to cry, unable to stop, to move away, to leave him.

Suddenly, a bright light surrounded you, lighting up the room, bringing warmth back to the empty space. When the light faded, Arthur’s eyes opened.

“Arthur!” you pulled him closer, so close, making sure you weren’t dreaming. He was alive, breathing and warm as ever.

“You’re alive! But how?” he laughed pulling you closer.

“Not happy to see me again?” it was such a relief to see him smiling again.

“Shut up.” You pressed you lips on his, feeling him next to you, just like before.

“I thought I was going to die. My life flashed before my eyes, but when I felt myself slip away, I heard your voice…” tears begun to form in your eyes again, the amount of information making it hard to focus.

“I… I followed your voice… I followed you and It felt like home.” Tears streamed down his face, his body still shaking from the adrenaline. “I guess I’m too much of a coward to die. Not even a self inflicted curse could keep me away from you.” You laughed, unable to contain your happiness. He followed suit, your happiness filling the once gloomy room, bringing you closer than ever before.

“It seems that I’m not going anywhere any time soon.

“You better not! I am still waiting to see the end of your latest story!”

“I would never leave my love hanging like that.” Everything in that moment felt right, preparing you for many more happy memories in your future, with him by your side.

[splat-dragon]

don't leave me here alone ~Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift

Whumptober 2020, #5: Where Did Everybody Go?: "Don't Say Goodbye"

“You’re my brother,”

and when had they stopped being brothers?

“I know,” Arthur didn’t even pause, just leaned against the side of the cliff face for the briefest moment to catch his breath, looked back at him and said it with a nod of his head as though it were a given, as though he’d said the sky was blue and water’s wet, then again, “I know.” before continuing on his way.

@whumptober2020

“Come on, Arthur… keep pushin’!”

 Arthur had always been the one to keep him going. When he was younger and everything seemed so hard he’d be there, insisting ‘naw, it ain’t so hard, is it?’ and try his hand at it. Was always right there, supporting him even if he seemed like he was just being a dick at the time.

  “Let’s go, come on!”

 But now… now Arthur was giving up. Crumpling slowly in front of him - he’d thought he was going to lose him back in Beaver Hollow, hearing him gurgling his breaths as he struggled through the cave and up the ladder, seeing him struggle to get to his feet after soothing his horse in its death. A few times after that, when he’d seen Arthur struggling, coughing so loud it seemed to drown out the gunfire, staggering as his shots went wide.

 Arthur… Arthur was dying. Had been dying for quite some time, though he hadn’t realized it. Hadn’t wanted to realize it - it was impossible to miss, his coughing fits kept them up late into the night, and he’d changed so much in the time it took Arthur to save him from Sisika he hadn’t recognized him for a moment, had felt his stomach churn and drop, his face as white as stone and… god, it seemed so obvious now, but then they’d ridden into Beaver Hollow and he’d seen Abigail and Jack and Dutch had been furious and everything was different and Arthur had fallen onto the back-burner and he’d been left to suffer it alone but no, he hadn’t been alone, had he? He’d had Charles, if only for a short time, and thank god for Charles they’d all have been lost without him.

 Arthur cracked a shot off over his shoulder, stopped to let him stumble by and shit his shoulder hurt he couldn’t believe Dutch had left him to die. Had looked him in the goddamn eye and ridden away, had grabbed Old Boy and left him to bleed to death.

 God, Dutch, what had happened?

 He hadn’t known much else in his life except for Hosea and Dutch and Arthur and god Hosea he’d never even gotten to mourn him, had watched him die then been arrested, abandoned by Dutch then, too. They’d taken him in when he was only twelve or so (he didn’t rightly know how old he was but that was Hosea’s best guess and to them it had seemed reasonable enough) and he’d known no other life. Had known orphanages for a few years before them, a dead mother and a sad father that had turned into a drunk-dead father.

 He wanted nothing more than to think that Dutch had always cared for him. That he really had viewed him as his son, as his friend, that it had all been real and that half his life hadn’t been a lie. He could have been a perfectly good little soldier without knowing how to read or write - would have been a better one, perhaps, without such distractions, but it had been Dutch that decided to teach him, Dutch who plopped a book down in front of him one day and refused to walk away even after he’d grown frustrated enough to bite him.

  “Keep pushin’, Arthur!”

 But Hosea would have insisted on it too, he knew. All three of them had known how to read and to write, so how would it be fair if he didn’t? And besides, it wouldn’t have fit Dutch’s little image to have just one of their number at such a disadvantage.

 And all the times he’d been cruel. Maybe not obviously so, but there had been times even when it had been good, when it was just them four and Susan, Bessie and Annabel, when he’d felt as though he had to walk on eggshells for fear of Dutch snapping at him. Remembered all the times he’d been made to feel like utter shit for not picking something up quick enough, was starting to realize far too late just how much he and Arthur had been pitted against each other - remembered how much he’d resented Arthur when he was new, as Dutch had always lamented ‘Oh, Arthur learned this so easily’, remembered Dutch going on for hours around the campfire about how well he was doing which, at the time, had confused him because wasn't he just frustrated with me?' and had a sinking feeling he knew just where the cracks that had formed between he and Arthur had started - somewhere far, far earlier than he’d ever thought, before they’d even gotten close and had a relationship to break.

“Come on, we need to get goin’!”

 God, Arthur sounded like he was suffocating behind him and

 Arthur’s footsteps stopped.

 John half expected to find him collapsing, feared finding him shot through, feared that his lungs had given out because god how could he breathe like that? it hadn’t sounded like breathing at all but he was only catching his breath and John felt like a true monster but they had the rest of their lives to catch their breaths - however long that might be.

 “Alright Arthur come on, let’s go!”

 And Arthur didn’t stand, didn’t try to move, only brought his hand up and waved at him as though he were some pesky gnat, 

 “You go…”

 No, not this shit again.

 He could see the exhaustion that lined his bones, could hear him fighting for each breath. But they’d made it this far already, had escaped so many Pinkertons, they were so close and he had already lost Hosea, had already lost the man he used to call Pa, he refused to lose Arthur too.

 “Keep…” and he hadn’t realized just out of breath he himself was, “pushin’, Arthur.”

 He staggered forward, clutching his shoulder - he’d drag Arthur down the mountain himself if he had to, but

 “No.”

 and Arthur was straightening up, coughing and John’s blood turned to ice when he saw the blood that sprayed through the air, though Arthur didn’t react at all, didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t widen even in that minuscule way of his, and it spoke volumes - and again, “no…” he wiped the blood from his mouth as though it were some common occurrence and, with a sinking feeling, John thought it might just be, “I think I’ve pushed all I can.”

  ‘No.’

 “Come on.” Arthur had never let him down before. When he’d been on that mountain, freezing and bleeding to death, he’d come for him. He’d disobeyed Dutch to break him out of one of the world's highest security prisons. Arthur never let him down.

 “You go.”

 and he was saying it as though it were some simple thing. As though it would be easy for John to just turn around and walk away, to leave him behind to die.

 “We ain’t got time for this, not now!”

 and then that grin. Damn that grin, that one that said ‘I know what I’m doing, I have a plan. And it’s a good one.’ All bared bloody teeth, open and sad and god, don’t, he was removing his hat, shaking his head.

 “We ain’t both gonna make it.”

 The worst part of it was, John knew he was right. His arm, at least, had clotted up as he dragged himself back to camp and, though it hurt, was an infection risk, it was no great danger. But Arthur… god, Arthur looked half a corpse. His skin already waxy, half-translucent, John could count the veins in his face, the burst blood vessels in his eyes, and already his lips were tinged blue.

 “Go…”

  No.

 “Now.”

 John’s voice stuck in his throat.

 “I’ll hold them off.”

 And then Arthur was placing his hat on his head.

  “Hey Arthur?”

“What.”

“Your hat, why you always wear that hat?”

“Well… it means a lot to me.”

“Why?”

“...”

“Why?”

“Jesus. Belonged to my Daddy. Reminds me not to become him, I suppose.”

 “It would mean a lot to me.”

 His throat shut tight - he could hardly breathe.

  No.

 “Please.”

  Don’t say goodbye.

 “There ain’t no more time for talk.” and god, Arthur sounded like he could hardly get the words out himself as he removed his satchel.

  “John!”

“Hosea!”

“Give the man his hat back, John.”

For years, John’s life mission had been to steal that hat.

 He fumbled, reached for words that, somehow, could convince Arthur to stay. But the leather of his hat, when he reached up to secure it safer on his head - god, he’d never forgive himself if it got so much as scuffed - was all too real beneath his hand.

  “John? Where y’ goin’?”

“...out.”

“Out where?”

“Gonna take Old Girl for a walk, can’t sleep.”

He hadn’t come home for a year.

 Arthur nearly knocked him off his feet with how hard he shoved the satchel into his chest—

  “What’s this?”

“From Hosea, kid. Eat."

 —and seeing him holding only a single revolver and a handful of ammo, nothing against the army of Pinkertons that, even then, they could hear fighting what was left of the Van der Linde gang (insanely, for just a moment, John wondered if they were still alive - though Bill had turned a gun to him he wasn’t well, he could see that now, and he and Javier used to be the best of friends, and Javier hadn’t turned a gun on them, had been taken by surprise though he’d been horrible in the end - they’d all been brothers, once)—it sank in horribly, he was going to rush off to his death, try and do some horrible stand-off, one man against dozens of Pinkertons, maybe he could have done it once but that was when he’d been healthy, when he’d had long-arms and countless sidearms that were, at that moment, rotting with his horse, ammunition sitting on his belt to be quickly grabbed.

 “Go.”

 He shook his head - no, no! - and, as though it would, somehow, help gestured with his gun down the path “Arthur.”

 And he turned to him, “Go to your family,” tried to shoo him away, looking up at the mountain as though he could somehow climb it—

  “Careful kid,”

“Ain’t a kid,”

“Don’t put your hand there,”

“I know what I’m doin’!”

“John-”

“SHIT!”

“-told you so.”

 —“Arthur!” he gestured again, more sharply, ‘come with me!’ and when Arthur turned to him it was with a snarl, snapping to try and chase him away and he knew what he was doing,

 “Get the hell out of here and be a goddamn man.”—

  “Stop treatin’ me like a kid!”

  “Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna treat you like an adult!”

  “When the hell are you gonna get over it, huh? That was three years ago!”

  “A goddamn man doesn’t abandon his family!”

 —He knew when Arthur had made up his mind, truly made it up, even Dutch himself couldn’t get him to change it. And god, but he wanted to make him change his mind—

  “Son if you’d just please-”

“No.”

“Arthur-”

“No.”

“But-”

“The boy said no, Dutch,” (and he was pretty sure Hosea had been biting down a laugh)

 —but they were running out of time and he’d never gotten to apologize, not for all the shit he’d pulled, not for all the low blows and yeah Arthur owed him a hell of a lot of apologies too but

 “You’re my brother,”

 and when had they stopped being brothers?

 “I know,” Arthur didn’t even pause, just leaned against the side of the cliff face for the briefest moment to catch his breath, looked back at him and said it with a nod of his head as though it were a given, as though he’d said the sky was blue and water’s wet, then again, “I know.” before continuing on his way.

He wanted to stop him. Wanted to grab him by the boot and drag him down, haul him kicking and screaming to Copperhead Landing, find him a doctor and make him well again.

 But John was no fool. Thick, yes, but not a fool. Even sick and dying Arthur was stronger than him, and if he tried to haul him down they’d be overtaken by Pinkertons long before they made any true progress.

 God it hurt, but he knew he had no other choice—

  “We’re family, son. Family means never leaving anyone behind.”

 —took a long, final look at Arthur, watched as he slung himself over the ledge, then fled down the mountain, never letting go of his hat even as a sharp whistle pierced the air, a familiar snow white horse bolted passed him.

“You’re leaving.”

“What?”

“I heard you talkin’ to that Mary girl. She wants you to leave.”

“I… You heard that?”

“I did.”

“Well… don’t worry about it.”

“But… but you’re leaving!”

“No I’m not, John. I… I’m gonna talk to Hosea and Dutch about havin’ her come with us.”

“...What?”

“You didn’t really think I’d leave, did you?”

“...everyone leaves.”

“Nah, I don’t leave family behind.

And you, Dutch and Hosea?

You’re my family.”

[the-headbop-wraith]

1_11 Glass Anvils

The room is dimly lit when he awakens.  The lamp on the coffee table is on its lowest setting and the pale light builds a gold dome over the floor, before breaking around the numerous countertops left at odd angels around the room.  Order was an elusive concept in his mind, and translated to chaos when projected from his mind.  He doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s either very late or very early judging by how still the air is.  He doesn’t recall when he turned in for the evening, but he does remember there is still too much work to do.

Arthur stretches, careful not to stir Vivi where she lays with her head on his lap.  He leans over sliding his arm under her folded arms and lifts her, so he could wriggle out from under her.  Arthur’s movements do momentarily rouse Mystery.  The dog, sleeping on the couch at Arthur’s feet, gives his companion an annoyed glare before curling back down into the lumpy cushion.  Arthur murmurs an apology, as he sets Vivi’s tangled arms and head down on the couch where he had lain.  He adjusts the blanket wrapped over her shoulders, before slipping off the sofa and locating his travel bag placed on the floor beside the couch.

The air was brisk on his bare skin and only a wrap of beige gauze has been fixed to the remains of his shoulder, above the connector chute of his prosthetic.  Arthur touches the medical wrapping and feels the faint sting of the injury beneath.  How did that happen?  Later he would remove the bandage and take a look, but he judged his hand must have slipped while he was groggy and making an adjustment in the connector for the new prosthetic.  This happened too often and he chided himself.  Arthur needed to be more careful, he didn’t have much arm left.

Arthur looked back over at Mystery on the sofa, content and sleeping beside Vivi’s head.  He didn’t know what they would do without that dog.

With his fingers and thumb, he wriggled the zipper of his bag along inch by inch, deftly with one hand until the sack was fully open.  Arthur plucks out one clean short sleeved shirt and fumbles hid hand around into the neck, until he finds the rough label with his thumb and twists the shirt around.  With the shirt adjusted proper, he takes the inside of the right sleeve and drags the shirt down over his shoulders.  He pushes his one arm free and reaches over to fix the empty left sleeve.

It didn’t really matter, Arthur reflects as he picked up his personal bag.  The stump would constantly slip in or out of the sleeve, but that didn’t bother him too much.  Only when he was frustrated and he needed some form of distraction, or some alternative outlet for his irritation.  Another reason he hated wearing his sleeves down, or long sleeved shirts for that matter.  He didn’t like pinning the remaining sleeve up, in the scenario he had to remove the prosthetic for whatever reason (sleep usually).  One time he did cut the sleeve off in a fit of frustration, but afterwards it just made him look more pathetic, in his opinion.  It was just easier….

Arthur paused as he moved towards the door.  That steady rhythm.  He hadn’t noticed it before, until there was the faint whisper of a page crinkling.  Arthur caught movement in the edge of his eye as he spun and saw a dark shape positioned at one of the work tables closets to the wall.  The bag made a sharp Pop! when it hit the floor, and Arthur recoils from both the sound and the shadow.  He doesn’t recognize the gloomy figure until vibrant magenta replaces the hair, and a hollow gap takes residence where the neck was a moment before.  His mind is still not at ease, though he is aware by the sudden jolt of the figure that it was startled by the random sound as well.  The only one unaffected was Vivi, buried under the blanket; and maybe Mystery, but the dog’s eyes had only cracked a portion to stare at Arthur with irritation.  The air hangs with the pause as the echo of the bag’s sudden acquaintance with the floor dims, under the sound of the subdued thrum of the locket.

“Arthur?”  Lewis says, voice below a rasp.  The answer doesn’t come right away, but Lewis vouches for no hasty movements until the other has adjusted.  He sets the book he was reading down among the clutter and scratched top of the table.  When only the silence holds residence, Lewis calls again, “Is that you?”

A quick farewell and retreat appeals to Arthur, but that just didn’t seem right.  “Yeah.  It’s me,” Arthur says.  He reaches down and takes up his bag.  “I didn’t know you… uh, had risen?  You okay?”  He hesitates.  “Well, you look fine now, but are you?  I got really worried.”

“Better,” Lewis says.  He ponders over Arthur’s presence and mood without looking back.  “About last night?” he began, pausing as he put the question together.  “What happened?  We found you, and you had collapsed.”

Arthur shifted his hand over, but he was still holding the bag.  “I collapsed?” he echoed.  He remembered vaguely wishing Lance a good night, but Arthur was too engrossed with work to look up.  Not long after that, Galahad had rolled off as he usually did to explore the empty garage.  But that was it.  He didn’t do anything else.  “I must’ve been working too hard.  There’s still a lot I have to get done.”  Even through the pale light, Arthur could pick up on a fog of discomfort ebbing at Lewis.  “Did… something happen?”

Lewis didn’t make a sound.  He thumbed at the book he set on the desk, trying to focus on pushing his thumb into the pages without sinking through their outline.  “I cleaned up the other work room.”

“Huh?”  Unease swam through Arthur.  “You didn’t try to organize anything, did you?”  He wasn’t even halfway done with the prosthetic, and it took a while for him to get all the parts he could carry with one arm.

“No,” Lewis answered.  “I just picked up the floor a bit.”

Arthur exhaled a tight breath.  “Good, thanks… I guess.  I mean, you didn’t have to.”

“I know.”  The skull bobbed in a nod.  Without a sound Lewis slipped from the chair, glided though it as he drifts to raise himself upright and faced Arthur.  “Would you like me to heat something up for you?”

Arthur made a meditative sound in his throat.  He set the bag down and fished around in his pants pocket for his pocket watch.  The lounge had the small fridge and microwave, as well as the coffee makers for the staff.  Lance would expect him to get the coffee going since Arthur was up, but Lance would also be arriving in less than thirty minutes to get the garage itself opened up and ready to receive customers.  But Lewis was probably hunting for something productive to do, even if it was microwaved meals.

“A pepperoni hot pocket,” Arthur says.  “And can you get the coffee makers going?” He pockets his watch and grabs the bag again, before turning away.

“I think so.”  Lewis pushes the chair out of his way as he follows Arthur to the door, careful to keep his distance from the other.  Before he steps out Lewis takes one glimpse of Vivi and Mystery, and ducks out of the room.  “Everything’s in the cabinets in the break room?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, hurrying to the steps.  It struck him odd momentarily that Lewis would follow him, when he could theoretically go through walls and float.  But he said nothing.  Instead, he reminds,  “And don’t let Uncle Lance see ya.”

When Lance arrived later to open shop and check in with Arthur and company, fresh coffee was brewing in the lounge.  Suspiciously good coffee.  He questioned if Arthur had gotten any sleep the night before, and Arthur endured some mild suspicion from his uncle before Lance let him be.  Galahad was on the solder table assisting Arthur in fixing pieces in place when one hand was too little, the hamster’s cooperation a sure sign that Arthur had taken pause in his work.

The following days, Kingsman Mechanics developed a reputation for being ‘spooked.’  It was no shock that the mechanics Lance had employed, burly or sweaty men from varied backgrounds, would be superstitious people.  None of the staff mentioned it to Lance directly, but the conversations began to float around within noon of the first day, and by the second day even the customers were seeing shadows at the corners of their eyes or shapes in the mirrors around the shop.

Lance was not as superstitious as his hired hands, and not as into the paranormal as Arthur’s crew was, but he managed to keep his jumpiest mechanics soothed with the prospect that they were willing to lose a good job over words.  Besides that, business had increased due to curious patrons dropping by to verify the rumors, or in hopes of catching sight of the shadow people.  For certain Lance didn’t give a damn the motives of his customers, as long as they paid for legitimate services and were respectable people.

Right on the first day Vivi managed to catch Lewis in one of the upper work rooms and gave him a firm talking to about the issue, but Lewis insisted it was none of his doing.  Tentatively, Lewis did suggest that the rooms could be salted, just in case.  Vivi denied this would be necessary, and settled instead to drag Lewis away from the shop whenever possible to adjust him to being around People while projecting his Alive appearance.  The van was left to Lance for its maintenance check, and Mystery stayed with Arthur to make sure he didn’t suffer another breakdown.

They started slow, a quick trip over to Vivi’s station of employment at the Tome Tomb comic store.  Vivi had some books that she had acquired on their recent trip, and she had another check to pick up.  Vivi managed a heavy amount of the online sales and purchases, while also picking up rare or interesting books sold by private dealers online.  Aside from sales and inventory control, Vivi could keep track of the paranormal market and promote the Tome Tomb on blog spots.  This kept the shop from falling too far behind big name competitors, by offering loyal customers rarity items.  And if a certain book could be found nowhere online, Vivi had a knack for finding physical copies during their various travels.

Lewis still struggled to shrug off his death suit, and the fact he couldn’t decide how it was he projected his living appearance fueled his aggravation.  As always, Vivi was a stern but patient coach.  Often they had to stop at some store or some shady alley for Lewis to take a moment and collect himself.  Vivi had purchased him a wool sweater, alpaca she insisted, and some gloves to further mask him for the time.  Lewis’ shadow was also… wrong, but not as noticeable as his first encounter with a mirror.  His head and legs were a pale shade of gray, the sun flittering through his shape and cutting over the solid fabric of the clothing he wore.  Vivi never mentioned it, since Lewis had too much to work on as it was.  But he was determined to master the skill (ghostly abilities), which was why she pushed him so hard.  Otherwise, she’d still be in those ice skates tiptoeing over china.

Vivi spent a few minutes in the comic store for the usual review, drop off of the books, and catch up with co-workers.  Even if Lewis knew he could go in, he couldn’t.  The Tome Tomb had problems some time back with hostile spirits, and Vivi had pretty much solidified her employment with barrier charms hung by the shops door.  Tough luck, but as Vivi put it, Lewis could have some time on his own and stray a bit out of his comfort zone.

For the first time, Vivi took note of a framed newspaper clipping that was on the wall behind the glass counter that stretched out near the front of the store.  She asked to see it right quick.  The employee currently on shift spun around to take the picture and with a tight face, he set the frame clipping beside the stack of books Vivi had brought in.  Vivi read through the newspaper article in silence.  An abrupt giggle jumped from her throat and Vivi had to cover her mouth, in response to the grimace her coworker had taken.

“Sorry,” Vivi said, and dabbed at her eye with her scarf.  “Something funny.  It’s sweet.”  She would tease Lewis later.

“Do you…” the employee, a young guy still in high school with an ear piercing, began, “You remember him?  They said not to say anything, but….”  He let his voice tapper off when Vivi leaned back and shook her head.

Vivi would TEASE Lewis relentlessly, later.  “No.  But I feel like I’m starting to remember him.”  She took note the date on the clipping, her smile faded some.  “Did you ever meet him?”

The employee shrugged his shoulders and fumbled with the edge of the frame.  “Not really.  We talked once, but that was not long before….”  He sighed and let his shoulders slump, as he pressed his elbows to the glass counter.  “I said it before, but you were kind of oblivious?  But I give my condolences.  He seemed like a real chill guy.”  He looked up when Vivi set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“It’s okay, really,” Vivi said.  “Things get better.”  To those encouraging words the employee nods, and he takes the framed clipping to return it to the wall.

Afterwards, Vivi said a goodbye, and left to rejoin Lewis a few shops down at a café.  She would wait until later to tease him, Lewis needed to stay focused.

__

The eventual did happen, and Arthur was putting the last touches on the first completed arm.  He was fidgeting, in part that he had a tendency to nitpick personal projects into the dirt.  It was late in the evening, the shop now closed and Uncle Lance had gone back to his and Arthur’s home.  As per his nature, Arthur had stayed at the shop and was fixing the last points at the base of the arm, where it would attach into the connector chute in his arm.  Vivi was on the sofa giving Mystery some much needed praise and attention, while Lewis had taken post at the work desk beside the wall.  The Closed hours were the only time when the group could sit together, void of the distracting worries that someone would stumble onto them.

Arthur was filing down some over-welded seams on the arm, when Vivi brought up the subject.  “Have you been seeing the shadows, Arthur?” she asked, while rubbing Mystery’s ears between her palms to warm the velvety dog radars.  “You’re usually sensitive to those sort of things.”

“Naw,” he said.  “No, not really.  I thought about salting my room just in case, but of course I’m too busy.”  Arthur picked up a screwdriver and motioned to Lewis ‘seated’ at the messy table.  “And that would be uncool.”

Lewis glanced over but decided not to answer.  A long time ago he had set his book down to address his new companion on the table.  “I honestly don’t know why anyone would be seeing shadow people,” Lewis, again, defends.  “It’s usually when I’m not around, isn’t it?”

“No,” Arthur said.  “I have noticed, it’s only when you’re around.  I asked about it when I went down for the other jobs, and the guys can’t shut up about it.  They must think we brought something back with us?” Arthur turns the handle of the clamp, tightening the jaws hold of the metal prosthetic.  “I guess that is what we’ve done— Or, it’s what I did.”

“I have no regrets over the matter,” Lewis admitted.  “But I think things will go back to normal here once we get a move on.”

Vivi had lain down behind Mystery and was rubbing the dog’s shoulders, as he sat perched on the edge of the sofa beside here.  “I have a route set, some places we can think about stopping along the way,” Vivi says.  “We’ve got nothing immediate planned.”

“Cool.  Cool,” Arthur hummed.  “No forever road or late night driving will daunt our way.” Arthur stands up as he adjusts the clamp and moves the light on the table.  He’s a little more distracted than he’d like to be, only because he knows now where Galahad had gotten to.  “I was thinking of a resonance,” he says, in a way to change the subject’s direction.  “You didn’t really make the mansion, it just sort of came.  Maybe you’re still doing it, or trying.  Like a habit?”

Vivi shifts on her side to peer over the arm of the sofa as much as she could, to where Lewis was.  “And Arthur’s over analytical mind of physics and engineering rears itself again,” she enthused, and slumps back down.  “Could be something you were compelled to do with no effort, sort like,” Vivi thought to say breathing, but quickly worked out a more appropriate allegory, “Thoughts.  Just thinking, and the compulsion to think.”

“Could be,” Lewis hummed.  “I did inspire the architecture, the layout of the halls and rooms.  Once I knew what I wanted, little by little it became.  But it doesn’t feel the same now.  Now, I don’t feel like I’m doing much of anything, save for my appearance.”

“We don’t really feel thoughts either,” Vivi says.  She’s focused on rubbing her hands gently down Mystery’s shoulders, and kneads at the tense muscle under the soft white coat until the dog surrenders and melts onto the couch beside her.  “What are they even?  A voice in our head.  And if we can’t deal with it, we talk aloud.”  Vivi keeps an eye on Arthur, clinking at the metal and the sporadic flicker of the lamplight on the desk he works as he adjusts the light to view the prosthetic arms open end.  “This was something I thought of,” she said, voice soft, “but the deadbeats may have been drawn to you because of that.  The mansion.  They couldn’t find their own way, but your home was probably the closest they could find.”

Lewis raises his shoulders in a shrug.  “They just sort of… were,” he says.  “There suddenly.  I don’t remember a specific day or time.”  The tone of his voice thinned, as he stared at his hands upon the table and the orange ball of fluff there.  “I can’t even recall if they came because the mansion, or if I had seen them before.”  He looked away from the table, over to the top of Vivi’s blue head partially hidden behind the sofa’s arm.  “But they were welcome there,” Lewis voice rattles, with a resonance akin to fondness.  “They helped.”

Arthur paused to watch Lewis gently scratch under Galahad’s chin.  The hamster didn’t seem bothered by the spirit, but Galahad was always a fearless little dude.  Lewis glanced over at Arthur, and Arthur jarred out of his staring to resume his work.  “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, with a huff.  “Nearly done.  I might get around to making some progress on the second one, but I doubt it.”

“Don’t overwork yourself,” Lewis warns.  He glides away from the table leaving Galahad stranded where he is on the cluttered work top, and Lewis moves around the room to stand beside the sofa.  Vivi is curled up on her side, eyes shutting blearily until her eyes close altogether and her breathing becomes steady.  Mystery remains tangled in her arms but as always has no complaint, though Mystery does watch Lewis as he drifts by to perch on the opposite arm of the sofa.  “You’re nearly done.  Even I, a person no longer tethered by the natural laws of physics, can make out that much by your work.”

As Arthur readjusted the arm in the clamp, he lets out a heavy sigh.  “I’d like to have my balance restored,” Arthur says.  “People don’t stare as much, y’know?  They see something attached to your shoulder, and automatically their mind fills in the blanks.  Symmetry.  They don’t see a problem first, they see an outline.  Then the stares are mild curiosity, sometimes fascination.  But not much pity.  I’m different, but not broken.  I cope, but I don’t struggle.”  Arthur sets the screwdriver aside and grips the handle of the clamp, but pauses.  “Sometimes you’re the only one that can put yourself back together.”

A soft peeping came from below, and Lewis turned to look down and see that somehow Galahad had managed off the table and was beside the couch.  Galahad wheeled around and over his shoes peeping for attention, and would peer up at Lewis with his large black eyes.  It was endearing, but Lewis felt ripples of concern if he became too attached to the hamster.

“Hey Galaham, don’t pester the guy,” Arthur said.  “If he doesn’t wanna pet you, then let him be.”  Arthur fumbled to undo the gauze wrapping on his upper arm.  He had seen the injury a few times when he was forced to shower, but it still mystified him.

“We found you passed out,” Lewis offered.  “Vivi dressed your wound.”

Arthur nodded silently, still staring at the ugly red burn.  He took a mirror from his table and set it beside him, then took a sharp tool from the numerous scattered over the table and fiddled with a prong inside the connectors housing.  “My arm must’ve slipped when I was repairing the chute, it was smashed and bent bad,” Arthur murmured.  “It happens too often ‘cause of the awkward angle I have to work with.”  Lewis gripped the sofa arm that he was perched upon; he felt that more than often that injury wasn’t inflicted by a careless hand.  “Ask Vivi,” Arthur went on.  “Wait, is she asleep?  Can you just… not look like yourself?  I am happy you can do that, trust me but— Fuck.”  He reached over and set his hand down on the metal wrist of the prosthetic resting on the worktable, and tilts his head back to stare at the dark bars and cables of the ceiling above.

Lewis made a soft crackle sound as he moved to his feet, his attention placed on the floor where Galahad scooted about.  Of course he wasn’t walking, but he was still conscious of the little hamster wheeling around and waiting for some attention.  Lewis looked at Vivi and felt the doubt suffocating the remorse for his erratic deed, lessen by some amount.  It had not ceased to unsettle Lewis at any point when he was evicted from his searing bitterness, and he could never deny that he had committed a hideous crime, but Vivi could look at him now and smile, void of those memories haunting the areas behind her eyes.  Mystery looked to be deep amid slumber as well, so Lewis was able to take the glasses off Vivi and set them on the coffee table.  He pulled up the blanket left crumpled up in the corner of the sofa and covered the two sleepers.

“If Vivi wakes up,” Lewis says, as he steps away, “tell her I went to rest in the van for a bit.”

“I didn’t tell you to leave,” Arthur snapped.  “I don’t want you to leave.  I need you to stay.”  His fingers fumbled with the metal fingers of the prosthetic, and he could almost feel the device attached to his arm and that familiar sense of pressure he had developed in the prosthetics interactions.  “Just stay,” he whispered.  “I need someone here.  Someone that knows how terrible I am.  I don’t—” Arthur drew up his fist to his brow and shrank down under his skin.  “I don’t want to be left alone.”  He shuddered at the chilly air, and looked up when he detected a sudden presence.  He was a little startled by Lewis close proximity, skull bleached and pink fire burning in the depths of his eye sockets.

“C’mon,” Lewis says, as he takes Arthur by the shoulders.  “You’re getting some rest now.”  Arthur doesn’t protest as Lewis guides him over to the sofa, and makes Arthur lay down in the corner opposite of Vivi and Mystery.  Lewis tugs a section of the blanket free from Vivi and covers Arthur.

Arthur snuggled down, and watched as Lewis ducked away only to reappear from behind the sofa with Galahad in hand.  Arthur stared at the little hamster as he was set on the blanket, and reached up his hand to stroke one of the wheels Galahad wore.  Arthur sighed.  “Why is life so shitty?” he asks.

Lewis folded one arm under him, over the back of the sofa, and perched his skull upon the crook of his arm.  “Good things tend to break,” says the ghost.  “Perfection is a lunatics dream.  Flaws are natural, they help us see what we normally wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and a small painful sound was caught in his throat.  “But why—” He winced when he looked up and saw Lewis’ outstretched hand, just before the dark palm settled on his forehead.

“Shut up.  Just get some rest.”  Lewis gently coaxed the heavy eyelids shut and pressed his palm to Arthur’s face.  Arthur relaxes and feels himself diving, falling, into a black void as dark as Lewis’ hands.  In this place as deep and endless as midnight, nothing exists but a null of presence, comfort, and perpetual rest.  “No nightmares for you,” Lewis hums.  “Not tonight.”

Once Arthur’s breathing became placid, Lewis lowered his hand and gave Galahad a gentle scratch.  Lewis then turns his gaze onto Vivi and Mystery.  He reached his free arm over and strokes Vivi’s cheek, and hummed a soft tune that spun on the empty air that hung within the small room.  Lewis decides it was lonely to be the cause of so much pain.  He missed his mansion, and he missed the deadbeats always present and mischievous, always curious.  He missed the sequential waiting and reflection, and inexorable vehemence that fueled his passion for his current existence. But most of all, he missed his friends.

__

They packed and left the following morning.  Arthur finished up one arm to satisfactory condition, and packed the additional parts and motors he foresaw would be needed for eventual repairs.  While Lance took Arthur by their home to pick up extra clothing and essentials, Vivi took Lewis and Mystery to pick up additional supplies for the long hours of road between stops.  In all the rush Vivi did manage by her own home to visit with her family and apologize for being so busy, before she whisked away as always.  With formalities and preparation concluded, the group loaded up newly acquired goods, supplies, and a cooler for the road that had patiently awaited their return.

That had been late morning, nearly three hours ago.

Voices drifted across the busy thoroughfare, jovial patrons coming and going.  Engines roared as vehicles entered the parking lot and fade, while others bellowed to life in the constant cycle, coming and going.  Never slowing even during the low hours of the day; always busy, the restaurant buzzing with unruly activity.  Lewis concentrated, and could almost feel the interior of the building.  The cacophony of voices bouncing between the walls, the sweet scent of food cooking, dough baking, and meat frying.  He felt it somewhere within him, where he usually felt himself — the odd scent of stale water, the delicate aroma of freshly chopped vegetables, and spicy peppers bubbling in his sinuses.  People yelling with urgency as steam gushed, voices commanding, sometimes laughing.  Warmth.  Belonging.  Memories.

Cold air moved through him, and he came back to the present.  He focused once more on the parking lot, as more cars came and others went.  A steady stream of content people, whom took the simplicity of their world for granted.  Lewis reached a hand up to clasp the locket gently thumping at his chest, and let himself fade more into the shadow of the tree he stood under.  He didn’t want someone to glance out a window and catch his figure waiting, watching.  He couldn’t bear to think what his family might take of his appearance.  It was too soon.  Maybe they would take it as a good omen, but that didn’t settle right in him.  They would be reminded.  He didn’t want them to remember, and Lewis didn’t want to remember.  He wanted closure.

Vivi had brought it up.  She waited until Arthur was about to start the engine of the van and made sure to ask before he could grip the drive shift.  As expected Arthur froze, and Vivi was uncertain if he’d be able to drive.  Lewis, occupying the passenger seat, had turned slowly to give her a stare she could not make out through the dark sunglasses.  She regretted the question, but honestly Vivi had almost forgotten about her own family upon returning to their home town.  They came by for Arthur’s sake, pretty much.  That’s what she told herself.

“I just wanted you to consider it,” Vivi said.  She began to lean away, returning to the back of the van.  “I didn’t know if it would be something you would have thought of.  They’re your family, Lew.  I can’t stand thinking we’re stealing you away from them again.”

Here he stood now, a hollow languid shape.  Desire burned in him, hotter than vengeance and rage.  Lewis yearned to race across the road and burst through those doors, see his family.  Greet his siblings, embrace his Mamma and Pappa.  Tell them that everything was okay, he was doing well and was ready for another adventure on the wild and open road.

Lies.  He wasn’t okay, he hadn’t survived.  Lewis’ state of presence had altered, he had been exiled from the plain of the living.  There was no amending the issue with a smile and some comforting words.  Only something so unmovable and indiscriminate in action could smooth out the fine scars left behind.

Time.

Lewis lost track of time.  It was getting late and no one, Vivi, Arthur, or Mystery, had come to collect him.  They let him have his brief pause of existence to absolve a piece of himself, but even that had interwoven grief into his musings.  The part of him that was none physical, the vapor and core essence of himself that was more crucial than blood and bone, brain or heart.  He didn’t belong here anymore, yet he was compelled and sentimental.  His sense of adoration drove a thick spike through Lewis’ metaphorical heart, urging him to save his family, protect them from lies and false hopes.

Without a second glance, without regret, Lewis turns away and made his slow journey along the road.  It is never cowardice to withdraw from the unconditional love of family, when one is already so well versed with how much pain is inflicted through goodbyes.

[wordsablaze]

13~ Adrenaline

Magic and Misery Merlin might use magic to help Arthur but he rarely uses it to help himself, which leads to an awful lot of misery… written for whumptober, enjoy!

A/N: okay, this seriously got away from me and ended up double the intended length but here’s a hopefully satisfying continuation of my last piece x

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Merlin rarely screams.

He’s so used to being quiet and hiding his pain to maintain his reputation as a bubbly manservant who always smiles at everything and cracks endless jokes. Even in front of Gaius.

The last couple of days have made up for all of that.

He easily loses count of how many times he’s screamed in pain during his sentence with the witchfinder, both due to internal agony related to the magic-suppressing shackles and the inflicted external wounds.

And the third day’s morning sees him screaming yet again, albeit weakly this time, as freezing water is unkindly poured over him; it’s a shock and a half.

“I thought you might be dehydrated,” the witchfinder explains, even though it’s more of a taunt.

Merlin just glares up at him, not even bothering to try and straighten his posture from where he’s awkwardly slumped against the wall because his limbs feel like the mud he usually has to clean off the horses after it’s been raining.

“What? No thanks?” Aredian’s son crouches down and lifts Merlin’s chin with his hand, smirking. “Do you need more incentive to show your gratitude?”

Naturally, Merlin doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy trying to figure out if he’s now freezing because of the unwanted shower or if the burning in every atom of his magical being is just so intense that it only feels as though his soul has frozen over and is now shattering into tiny fragments, fragments that are slowly piercing his organs.

Within seconds, the witchfinder’s other hand presses down onto the stitched wound on his arm, eliciting a sharp, broken whimper from Merlin, who can’t help but also flinch away from the pain.

“Much better!” Aredian’s son beams brightly, as if he were a child getting his way.

A lack of sleep means Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to mentally form a comeback to that, never mind actually say one out loud. He just waits until Aredian’s son is satisfied and lets go of him again so he can exhale softly, pulling his arm closer to his chest protectively.

“I had so many fun things planned for today but I might have to change them if you’re so unwilling to talk,” Aredian’s son announces.

Merlin just waits, blinking water out of his eyes.

“I think we’ll go for a ride,” he announces eventually, making Merlin groan.

He knows what’s coming but it still hurts - it hurts so, so much - when Aredian’s son unfastens the chain and yanks him to his unsteady feet, not bothering to let him steady himself before starting to march towards the door.

Merlin almost falls over in his haste to stumble after Aredian’s son, his numb feet just about managing not to let him fall until they arrive back at the cart. Only then does he stumble and end up on the ground, groaning softly as the witchfinder grins down at him.

“Pathetic,” he comments gleefully.

Merlin flinches from the word, using his less injured arm - that is, the one without the stitches - to push himself upright as he bites down on his lip to stop himself crying out.

Aredian’s son just grabs his ruined t-shirt and hauls him up, practically tossing him back into the cage before securing the chains to the cart once more. He’d lost his jacket and necktie at some point, probably when all those blades had gotten involved, so he can’t stop himself from shivering when his skin touches the cold metal of the cage.

“Comfortable?”

Merlin lets his eyes shut and refuses to acknowledge the question, but regrets that when Aredian’s son bangs on the cage, the reverberation echoing through his bones and drawing out yet another whimper.

He feels himself slide down until he’s not touching the bars anymore, curling into himself to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.

Aredian’s son just angrily grumbles something about a confession and, soon enough, the cart starts moving. Hitting as many rocks and bumps in the road as possible, it seems.

When they stop, Merlin doesn’t notice.

What he does notice, however, is the chains rattling and the shackles rubbing against his bruised wrists, where the skin is raw from when he’d found the energy to struggle.

He hisses softly, his eyes blearily blinking themselves open.

“Merlin?”

Arthur.

Merlin gasps, pulling himself upright with newfound strength, carelessly lifting a hand to rub his eyes, ignoring the pain that shoots down his arm.

“I can’t- Merlin, stop moving!”

Definitely Arthur.

But Merlin obeys anyway, his gaze finally focusing on a familiar face as Arthur draws out his sword. Despite the familiar face, however, Merlin flinches as light glints of the sword, pulling himself into the opposite corner.

“No, Merlin, I wasn’t-” Arthur cuts himself off, sighing sadly, and swallows before sheathing his sword almost guiltily and turning to the menacing chains once more.

Merlin lets his eyes fall shut again regardless of how much he wants to see Arthur, how much he wants to see if Arthur will stay.

He’s missed Arthur.

There’s about a minute’s silence before an almighty, metallic noise rings out and Merlin abruptly feels alive.

He gasps, ducking his head to hide his eyes as they widen because he can feel, actually feel the powerful golden glow that radiates from them. He covers his head with his arms as his heart blooms again, as his soul finally starts to thaw and comfort him again, as his magic roams free under his skin again.

He breathes.

Inhales.

Exhales.

Simply breathing.

He’d forgotten how liberating it feels to be able to breathe normally.

He waits until he feels his magic settle, nestle inside him where it can’t be found, before looking up.

Arthur’s tears greet him.

He frowns but no, he’s not hallucinating, Arthur Pendragon is in front of him, is crying in front of him.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathes, a small smile blooming on his face.

Arthur looks conflicted but he beams as Merlin smiles, letting them share their relief for a moment before clambering onto the cart and unfastening the bolt on the cage, practically throwing the door open.

“Come on, Merlin, I have to get you out of here,” he says quickly, hushed.

Merlin nods, pushing himself towards Arthur and letting himself be swiftly but kindly guided off the cart.

Instantly, there are arms around him.

Merlin’s smile only lasts a second before Arthur’s hand brushes the stitched wound on his shoulder and he cries out, wincing enough for Arthur to pull back in concern. “Merlin?”

“S- sorry,” he manages, unable to stop smiling despite the pain.

“Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry,” Arthur tells him sincerely.

Someone starts yelling somewhere behind them - apparently, Aredian’s son hadn’t missed the commotion - and Arthur’s eyes widen, glancing around frantically before settling back on Merlin. “I’m sorry if this hurts,” he whispers.

Then Merlin’s feet are leaving the ground and his head is suddenly on Arthur’s shoulder.

He whimpers but clings to Arthur as he bites down on his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet, focusing on his magic, trying to see how much of it he can use to help them escape, to help prevent Arthur having to face the witchfinder too.

Not much, apparently.

But just enough.

With the help of Arthur’s strength and a sprinkling of Merlin’s magic, they manage to make it far away enough that they can’t even hear whoever it was chasing them anymore. Only then does Arthur stop and let Merlin down, making sure there’s a tree behind him that he can lean on.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Arthur smiles.

When he doesn’t continue with how he’d be losing someone to use as target practice or something of the like, Merlin lets himself smile properly for the first time in days.

“Why… I mean, how did you…?” Merlin stops suddenly, unsure of what exactly he should be asking.

Arthur understands anyway.

He shrugs. “I persuaded my father that three nights was far too long to result in a genuine confession and then I simply followed the tracks to find you.”

“You followed the tracks?” Merlin echoes, unsure where his energy is coming from but unable to resist an opportunity to tease Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat pointedly. “I may have, uhm, asked… everyone… if they’d seen a witchfinder.”

Something soft, something like happiness, spreads through Merlin as he imagines Arthur questioning so many people just to look for him. It means more to him than he can care to admit and it makes his suffering at the hands of the witchfinder just a little more tolerable.

“Arthur, we can’t stay here,” Merlin finds himself saying, despite his heart wanting to do just that.

Arthur nods solemnly. “I know, we have to get you back home- Uh, that is, to Gaius. So he can heal you. Because you don’t look good at all.”

Merlin has questions but he makes a note of and saves them for another time.

When Arthur moves to pick him up again, Merlin holds up a hand and steps back just enough to prove a point. He ignores the way Arthur looks horrified at the bruising on his wrist and swallows. “I can walk.”

“Merlin…”

“We’ll be faster this way,” Merlin argues.

Arthur takes a moment but nods once more, pausing briefly before grabbing Merlin’s hand and starting to run.

“I only said I could walk, Arthur!” Merlin yells as they start moving.

“You also said you wanted to go faster!” Arthur yells back, his voice laced with equal amounts of amusement and concern.

Merlin had anticipated himself falling but he does nothing of the sort, a strange sort of strength pushing him forward, allowing him to keep up with Arthur as they sprint their way towards Camelot.

They don’t speak but they don’t need to.

If Arthur’s hand wasn’t firmly gripping Merlin’s as they ran, Merlin would have thought he was imagining this as some kind of fever dream. It just seems unreal that Arthur would search so desperately for him but he’s not complaining; if this is the reward for maintaining his end of destiny’s bargain, he’ll gladly accept it.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks breathlessly at one point, glancing sideways.

Merlin nods, not even lying when he manages to reply, “Never been better!”

They carry on, through the forests and over the mostly deserted roads, stopping for nothing and no-one as they move, their fingers firmly intertwined as if their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the castle comes into view and the two of them share a slightly exhausted but still exhilarated grin as they somewhat carelessly navigate their way through the streets until they burst into the courtyard.

Coming to a stop, Arthur looks over to Merlin, pure relief in his expression.

Merlin sends him a lopsided grin in return.

But then the blistering pain of the last few days catches up to him and he whimpers again, his hand falling from Arthur’s as he doubles over, his body aching all over.

Agony burns and dances across his skin, creating nonsensical patterns between his wounds and connecting the dots of all his bruises. It hurts and although it's slightly better than before because his magic is trying its best to help dull his pain, it still hurts a little too much for him to bear.

“Merlin!”

He can hear Arthur’s concern but it seems that his adrenaline could only last so long.

Satisfied that he’s back in Camelot, back where he’s safe, back home, Merlin offers Arthur a soft smile before letting the soothing comfort of darkness take over, take away his pain.

He just about registers himself collapsing before he sinks into unconsciousness.

At least Arthur's there to catch him this time.

-

I legitimately haven't read this through properly so my bad if it read a bit strangely! I hope it was okay though :)

-

like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist

[arthur-morgan-slap-my-ass]

Here Now

Anonymous asked:  I love your writing SO MUCH AAAA ❤️ could I request (either headcanons or a fic, whatever you like!!) reader getting hurt on a mission and trying to hide it but Arthur just sees right through it when they try to shrug it off? I'm all about hurt/comfort, ESPECIALLY with this soft cowboy 👀 thank you!!

Anonymous asked:  Can I request a fic with the "let's get warmed up" trope? With Arthur, please?

A/N: This wasn’t beta’d and I apologize for the long wait! I had a real busy week at uni - one where we had to discuss subjectivity and its effects on time, only to come to the conclusion that the subjectivity is subjective and honestly? I hate philosophy so much. Thank you to @winters-uprise for helping me pick out the angsty ideas for this fic. Either way, here’s a sweet lil thing I put together with a lot of love uwu Excuse my messy writing and please, enjoy!!!

Word Count: 2400+

Summary: near death experience, fussy horses, hypothermia, a tad bit of angst, snowy camp dates and a possible love confession if you squint enough.

There was a moment where your adrenaline spiked, desperation-driven and determined, as you sunk further and further in the water. Your arms agitated feebly around you, trying to gain leverage on the water and pull you back up; but the water was too cold and your winter clothing too heavy now that it was soaked.

You jerked your body, feet kicking at anything you could reach by now — rocks, the riverbed — in a sad attempt not to drown. The river was dark and fast moving as it dragged you through stream with little to no effort; and when you managed to poke your head over the water to gasp for air, all you could hear was the raging of the water, your heartbeat drumming in your ears and Arthur’s desperate shout.

You had been out with the man in some sort of scout mission through Grizzlies West, looking for any signs of Colm O’Driscoll and his gang — Dutch had made a point of going after them, now with all of you comfortably stablished on Horseshoe Overlook, he had brought up the subject once more. Arthur seemed hesitant, like Hosea, but ultimately obliged to it. Agreeing to join him in the scout — at Hosea’s request —, you saddled up and left at first light. The trip had been uneventful, mostly filled with small talk and companionable silence.  Arthur was easy enough to be around, with his brooding personality and witty comments here and there.

Out by Beartooth Beck, a little over Cattail Pond, with the setting sun and temperatures dropping just as fast, you had both decided it was time to setup camp and keep tracking for another day or two before heading back to Horseshoe. There hadn’t been any conclusive evidence of the O’Driscolls so far and you were highly doubtful there was gonna be any; but kept your thoughts to yourself. Arthur suggested setting camp on a clearance he had spotted a couple miles back, and so you turned your horse and followed him.

Halfway across the path, though, just as you crossed the river, your horse got unsettled with the depth of it. The stream moved fast and for some reason, your mare had always taken it unkindly to water — especially chest-deep. It all happened at a moment’s notice, the hooves slipping on the loose river bed, your horse rearing and you losing your balance, Arthur’s yell and then freezing cold.

There was the steady thumping of horse hooves on your right and you saw Arthur kicking his steed faster as he tried to catch up with you. You tried waved your arms feebly at him, screaming for help.

“Try to hold onto somethin’!,” he called to you, voice ringing louder than the raging water, “c’mon, c’mon!” The horse complained, but acquiesced to Arthur’s brutal pace as he urged it to go even faster.

Doing your best to stay afloat despite the weight of your soaked winter coat and boots, you tried to steer your way towards the round-looking boulders on the riverside. Hell-bent on surviving, you really didn’t want a bloody fucking river to kill you—

Your body slammed against the well-rounded rock violently, hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, gloved hands feebly scratching at its smooth surface for a small indent, anything that could keep you from being dragged down the river—

Arthur took a hold of your forearm, gasping at the coolness of the icy water; snowflakes clinging to his face and clothes as he pulled you out of the water stream considerably easily.

“Shit,” he gasped, cheeks bright red as he shrugged off the blue winter coat, “take it off, c’mon.”

With shivering hands, you tried to undo the fastenings of your jacket, breath coming out in shallow puffs from your trembling lips; the harsh wind only worsening your state as you constantly failed on getting rid of your soaked clothing.

“Here,” Arthur offered himself, already down to his shirt and waistcoat, “I’ll do it.” His hands worked fast, almost in a frenzy, as he peeled the fur coat from your arms, flinging it to the side and moving to your shirt without sparing a glance to your chest. A tremor passed your body and you closed your eyes, aching deep to the core of your bones at how cold you were. “No, no,” Arthur tapped at your face gently, getting you to look at him, “eyes open, c’mon.”

You nodded, feeling him drape the warm jacket over your shoulders and wrap it around your shivering body. “Gloves,” he demanded hastily, getting up to unbuckle the furry wolf chaps as you struggled to remove the wool mittens and Arthur came back, holding the canvas of his tent and the sleeping bag, making quick work of spreading it on the snow next to you and willing you to move onto it. “Let’s get you warmed up, nice n easy.”

Your teeth clattered incessantly, your body unable to stop its shivering; even as Arthur put the canvas around your body. “I’m f-fu-fucking f-freezing…”

“I know, I know,” the man shushed you gently, taking off your moccasins and unbuttoning your pants. Part of you wanted to be embarrassed, ashamed of it, but Arthur displayed no interest besides getting you warmed up as fast as possible. He instructed you to lay down on the sleeping bag, helping you wiggle into the chaps fairly easily; hands calloused and warm. “Stay still, a’ight?”

You heard footsteps crunching the snow next to you, the huffing of a horse — you supposed Arthur’s — and he came back, looking apologetic, almost guilty. “Gotta move, sweetheart.” Before you could react the man scooped you up in his arms, holding you gently to his warm chest, the puffing of his breath creating little clouds of steam in the cold air. “Now, up ya go.”

He helped you up on the saddle, draping he woolen sleeping bag around your shoulders and you held back a pained whimper as the left side of your body burned with white hot pain before Arthur settled behind you, his arms securely wrapping around your waist. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you lied through your teeth, sinking at the saddle as Arthur spurred his horse onwards, towards a small group of trees. “I’m fine.”

Arthur’s shoulders shook with a humorless laugh, but besides that, he didn’t say anything else. You still shivered, clutching at his winter jacket as the horse trudged through the snow. You didn’t really know what to say, nor what to think of the whole situation — it wasn’t like you weren’t grateful he had saved your life, but his desperation… there was something about it that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. You still felt on the edge, your ribs hurting terribly and teeth clattering as you did your best not to slip off of the saddle.

“We gotta get you warmed up,” Arthur rumbled behind you, breath coming warm against your cheek, “real quick, before it gets dark.” You looked up at the sky, the setting sun low on the horizon as if only realizing now. Arthur’s horse huffed, nodding its head in complaint to the cold.

“M-my horse,” you startled, “w-w-where—“

“She’s fine,” he calmed you down, voice gentle and low, “she’s right behind us. Calm down.”

With a shaky breath, you slouched back against him; trying to bask in his warmth. Your teeth still clattered, the sensitivity in your fingertips all but gone. Trying not look back at him, you focused on the path he seemed to be directing the both of you — a small group of trees over on a hill, enough to both keep you sheltered from the cold and to allow a campsite.

By the time you got there and Arthur had started a fire — after digging in the snow and finding the right rocks to put around the campfire — and put on your tent, you were shivering uncontrollably. Doing his best to warm you up slowly, he had taken the small liberty of setting the tent reasonably close to the fire, busying himself with brewing some coffee to make sure you’d have something to warm yourself with.

Sitting there, still wrapped in his clothes and the canvas of his tent, you watched his back to you, pulling a little more tightly at his bandana around your face. It really did smell like him — a good leathery smell, some remaining aftershave and campfire smoke. To protect your face, he had said, wrapping the piece of cloth around your neck and tugging it up, watch for frostbite.

With a sigh, the man got up, making his way back into the tent and beside you. He had taken his hat off, opting for keep his gloves on. “Here you go, drink this. Nice n easy, yeah?”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, taking hold of the aluminum cup with both your hands, basking in the glory of the hot beverage. Arthur nodded, looking out to the campfire with an expression you could only read as dark and brooding. Was he mad at you? So far, the man had seem nothing but kind; but again, you could only guess he was doing his best to keep you alive. That didn’t mean he had to get along with you.

Sipping at the coffee, you quietly downed it, and Arthur poured you a second one with a small dosage of whiskey to work up a little fire inside. Feeling better, but still undeniably cold, you sighed; watching the small cloud coming out of your mouth.

“We should go back,” Arthur spoke, not looking at you, “I knew this whole thing was a terrible idea. We’re going back, first thing tomorrow.”

Looking up at him beside you, you waited for him to speak up again before opening your mouth. “We couldn’t know what was going to happen.”

“I—,” he protested, twisting a small piece of twig in his hand, ultimately shutting up.

The wind howled outside and you guessed there must’ve started snowing and once more, were thankful for Arthur’s quick thinking. Downing the remnants of your drink, you felt the well welcomed burning sensation of winter coffee down your throat. The side of your body felt sore and sensitive and you wanted to just curl on yourself and see if it’d heal — you couldn’t come to Arthur with it, there had been already too much he had done for you, and so you decided to deal with it on your own.

“We should get some sleep,” Arthur determined quietly, shifting in the tent with a tired sigh, “got a long way back tomorrow. Yer clothes should be dry by then,” you eyed your outfit draped over a couple boulders next to the bonfire, “if not, you can keep those ‘till we get to Horseshoe.”

Frowning, you ignored as he fussed around in the tent for a good position. Normally, you’d both put up your own tents — or use both the canvas to make a bigger one to try and chase off the cold. You weren’t annoyed by his presence, though; more like guilty, feeling bad for having him babysit you when he had nothing to do with it. Arthur was kind, you decided. Perhaps way too kind.

“Don’t think too hard,” his voice came from behind you, low but clear, “or else yer gonna burn the little brain you still have.” Arthur seemed please with his joke, peering at you from below the edge of his hat with a lazy grin. “Get some rest.”

“Sure,” you replied, starting to look for a good way to lay down without hurting your bruised side. Arthur made way, because of course he did; and you did your best settle down beside him, only barely hissing at the small shot of pain.

“You still cold?,” he asked, genuinely worried.

“A bit,” it wasn’t a lie per see, you were cold, and supposed it only worsened the condition of your bruising. “but just a little.”

Arthur stayed quiet for a moment, only the wind and crackling of the firewood a few feet away to be heard before he spoke up, “scoot closer, then.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he complained, shutting his eyes with little to no concern. “Scoot closer n don’t hog the blanket.” Gnawing on your lower lip, you weighed your options. The wind howled outside, almost dulling out the gentle crackling of the firewood a few feet away from the tent. “C’mon, now,” Arthur sighed, throwing the blanket over your body and settling against you, your head tucked comfortably under his chin, “‘s just body heat.”

Feeling flustered and embarrassed, you obliged; pretending not to enjoy too much the warmth the man behind you provided. Within no time the shivering died out, the cold pushed aside by Arthur to make way for the hopeful promise of a dreamless sleep. You were tired, yes, not so cold; and most of all, grateful to be alive.

“Thank you,” you finally whispered to Arthur, expecting him to be asleep, “you saved my life today.” Suddenly, an arm wrapped itself around your torso; not enough to hurt your bruised side, hesitant and gentle in its movements. “Arthur?,” you called, trying to ignore the burning in your cheeks. He didn’t answer, instead simply pulling you closer to his chest, deliberately avoiding the area where you had been hit; his hand slowly caressing your forearm, and you somehow knew he was aware of your injury. Arthur could tell. He could always tell.

“I was…,” his voice rasped out, somewhat strangled and barely above a whisper, “I thought I was gonna lose you too, today,” Arthur confessed, now pressing his face to the crown of your head, “I got so afraid, I—”

You allowed the silence to stretch a bit, basking in the gentleness he offered so free-handedly. It wasn’t surprising to you, but it pleased to see this softer side directed at you. “I’m here now,” you spoke finally, allowing your head to lol back against him, “I’m alive.”

“I know,” Arthur replied and pressed a small kiss to the top of your head, “but that doesn’t mean it didn’t get to me.”

“You don’t have to worry,” was all you could say, feeling the blush creep to your neck and the words tumble out of your mouth.

The man breathed deeply and you could feel the fluttering of his exhale on your hair. “It’d be hard not to, sweetheart.”

[reddeadmort]

Can I request a ArthurxF!Reader where everyone starts to gang up on Kieran (they have yet to trust him.) And his sister (reader) just opens a can of whoop ass on whoever is trying to mess with him. Normally, they'd try to kill her but Arthur feels some sort of connection even tho she makes it known she isnt interested, but only for the sake of her brother but Arthur appreciates a good challenge.

This ended up being a bit different from the request, but the general theme is still the same :) Was nice to mix it up with a reader that isn’t instantly dropping their pants just because Arthur spoke LOL.

Arthur Morgan x f! reader | “Not a fair fight” | AO3

Guidance: Minor mentions of violence, mostly just fluff/general entertainment.

Words: 1.9k

“Arthur, please, for me?”

“Mary-Beth, I ain’t riding for hours to go and get that O’Driscoll’s sister.”

“Arthur! You know he’s not an O’Driscoll no more, never really was. And she’s an innocent! If the O’Driscolls are after her like Kieran thinks, she’ll be dead soon. You could save her.”

Arthur sighed. Mary-Beth really knew how to play him like a fiddle. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur shook his head before replying.

“Fine. I’ll go help Kieran find his damn sister. But she ain’t stayin’ with us long, and she’ll pull her weight!”

——-

You had just finished moving the rubbish out of the back of your little shack when the two men on horseback showed up. Before they’d had a chance to even call out to you, your shotgun was in your hands and pointing at the face of the bigger of the pair.

“Sister! It’s okay, it’s me!” Kieran called out, leaping off and running towards you.

“Kieran? What the hell are you doing here? I thought…well, to be honest, I assumed you were dead. Since you were stupid enough to go along with that O’Driscoll lot.” You lowered your gun just as Kieran flew into you, nearly knocking you over, and hugged you tightly. With your arms pinned to your side, all you could do was awkwardly pat him on the back with your free hand.

“I got out, sis! I… well it’s a long story, but I’m running with a different lot now. And they’re a lot nicer.” This comment caused the man still sat on his horse to chuckle. “This here’s Arthur Morgan, Y/N.”

“Ma’am” Arthur said as he tipped his hat at you, finally getting off his horse.

“Well, that’s all lovely Kieran, but why the hell are you here?” Kieran finally released you and started nervously wringing his hat in his hands.

“Ummm… I’m sorry sis….. but….but…..” Kieran stammered.

“Kieran, this is takin’ too damn long. Either she’s comin’ or she ain’t.” Arthur grunted, lighting a cigarette.

“What do you mean, ‘she’s coming?’” you snapped at the pair of them.

“Well, sis, I think there’s some O’Driscoll men coming after ya. They ain’t so keen on me leaving as it turns out.”

“Well we won’t be so cut up, feel free to leave us when you want” Arthur chuckled to himself, but went back to fiddling with his cigarettes when you scowled at him.

“Yes, thank you Kieran, I know. I’ve already had a visitor.” You hadn’t even finished your sentence before Arthur had his revolver out and was pushing past you into the shack. “Mr Morgan, while I of course appreciate you tramping mud into my house, you won’t find him in there.”

“Where’s he then? When did he come by? How long has he been gone?” Arthur was in fight mode now, assessing the situation, planning an exit strategy.

“Out back, with the rubbish. Came by about an hr ago. Died about 59minutes ago” you answered, nodding towards the back of the shack. Arthur, looking slightly bemused, took off around the shack to have a look, while Kieran once again grabbed you in a hug.

“Oh sister I’m so sorry!”

“Kieran, for the love of god, will you get the hell off me.”

Arthur reappeared from the back of the shack, a slight grin on his face.

“Yep, that’s one dead O’Driscoll. At least I reckon it is, ain’t much left of the face. Kieran, you sure she needs to come with us?” Arthur was looking at you slightly differently now; before, he couldn’t really be bothered, like you were an inconvenience. Now there was a slight twinkle in his eye you weren’t sure you liked the look of.

“Again, what’s with the ‘coming with you?!’” You were getting quite irritated now.

“Miss, Kieran here reckons you should come stay with us a while, until the O’Driscolls get bored of trying to find you.” As you opened your mouth to protest, Arthur held up a hand to silence you. “Now, I know you can clearly take care of yourself, but when that man don’t come back, they won’t be sending just the one. And I won’t feel right leavin’ you here to deal with that.”

“So instead I have to deal with you?”

“Sister, please.” Kieran was practically begging you, it was just like being kids again.

“We ain’t nice men, Y/N, but we ain’t them.” Arthur was giving you a look that said you were being put on a horse, whether you liked it or not.

“Fine. I’ll just grab a few things.” You quickly threw some clothes and the few valuables you had in a bag. You really didn’t have much, anyway; you’d never have told Kieran, but you’d been struggling to get enough money to buy food, let alone anything more extravagant than that. You’d even had to sell your horse a few months back.

“Y/N, you can ride with me” Arthur held a hand out for you to climb on his horse behind him.

“I think I’ll ride with my brother Mr Morgan.”

“Suit yourself.”  

——-

It had been a few weeks since you’d arrived in the Van der Linde camp, and you certainly didn’t feel like much of a guest, more ‘staff’. You had been set to work almost immediately; though, to be fair, one taste of Pearson’s stew had you pretty much begging to take over the cooking.

You got on alright with the women, but the men did your head in. Not because of how they treated you; in general they were pretty polite, though you had to tell a couple of them that it wouldn’t be just bits of deer in the stew if they came any closer to you. Your problem was with how they treated your brother. He couldn’t do anything right; even when he was just sat, or tending to the horses, he got shouted at for some reason. It was like your dad was alive again.

Kieran being Kieran wouldn’t stick up for himself at all, just tried to avoid doing anything to trigger anybody. But he didn’t need to do anything; all he had to do was pass by one of them and they’d make some form of derogatory comment. You fought back as hard as you could on his behalf, just like you had growing up. Arthur was one of the worst, he always seemed to have a sarcastic phrase or two; for some reason, Kieran liked him more than a lot of the others despite this. Apparently, Kieran said, when you weren’t around, Arthur was fine with him. You had no idea why this would be, and didn’t really care.

—–

“Arthur, for a grown man, you sure act like a teenager” Mary-Beth gently scolded.

Arthur frowned, unsure what she meant. He’d only asked her why you didn’t really ever want to talk to him; he wasn’t really expecting that response.

“She doesn’t like it when you are mean to her brother, Arthur, it’s as simple as that. It’s all you ever do when she’s around! Have you tried, I don’t know, maybe just talking to her?”

“I don’t know what to say Mary-Beth. I always just kind of… go blank.”

“You’re a silly old fool Arthur Morgan.”

—–

The next morning, you were chatting as you helped a couple of the girls prep some breakfast. You liked this time, just after sunrise, before most of the camp had got up. It was peaceful, and your day had yet to be disturbed by some offhand comment.

“Mary-Beth, reckon I could borrow one of the horses? I could really do with some meat that’s not green for the stew.”

Before Mary-Beth could answer, Arthur’s now familiar voice rumbled behind you, making you start.

“I can take ya out huntin’, Y/N.” His tone surprised you – it sounded almost hopeful. You turned to look at him.

“Thank you Mr Morgan, but I really don’t need a chaperone.” Behind your back, Mary-Beth gestured to Arthur, encouraging him to say something else.

“Y/N, I….errr… well you ain’t leavin’ camp without one, so either you go huntin’ with me or stay here.” Without you seeing, Mary-Beth slapped her hand to her forehead, covering her eyes, shaking her head.

“Well I guess I’m going with you then Mr Morgan” you sighed, starting to walk away to get your gun.

You and Arthur rode in silence towards the hunting spot Charles had recommended, you having borrowed one of the camp horses. When you arrived, you hitched the horses, put out some herbivore bait, and settled in to wait. Arthur leaned against a nearby tree while you crouched low a little way in front. After a little while waiting, with no luck, you stood up to stretch your legs.

“Mr Morgan, can you keep an eye on the bait for a moment please.”

“You can call me Arthur ya know.” Again, there it was; a slightly hopeful note to his voice.

“I know, Mr Morgan, I just don’t want to.”

“I don’t know what ya want from me” grumbled Arthur. “I mean, I didn’t kill your brother, I saved his life, that’s got to count for something.” He kicked at a nearby stone, sending it crashing into a bush, scaring the crap out of an unsuspecting rabbit.

“Oh, will you shut up about that?!” you rounded on Arthur, startling him. “God! Like it’s some great thing, “not killing someone”. Normal people don’t even THINK about killing someone else! Much less, that person having to be grateful for it!” By the time you finished, you were right in Arthur’s face, him backed up against the tree, hands out trying to placate you. You suddenly realised how close you were to him; you could practically feel his thumping heartbeat.

You stepped away a few paces before sitting down on the ground with a quiet huff. After a few moments silence, Arthur came to sit next you, not particularly close.

“I’m sorry Y/N. We shouldn’t be so hard on Kieran, he’s a good kid. And he’s lucky to have a woman like you for a sister.” Arthur plucked some grass from the ground, fiddling with it.

“Woman like me? What does that mean.” You meant to snap at him, but the sight of this large, grown man fiddling with the grass like a child softened you.

“I don’t mean nothin’ bad by it. I think you’re….. strong.” Arthur had paused too long before that last word, you could tell it wasn’t what he wanted to say.

“Thank you Arthur.” He looked up as you said his name; it was the first time you hadn’t called him Mr Morgan.

“Thank you Y/N. I’m sorry, I think sometimes I forget to behave around people that ain’t…. well, outlaws.”

“It’s okay Arthur. I guess I’m not doing a great job of showing that I’m grateful for your protection either.”

“If your dumbass brother hadn’t fallen in with the O’Driscolls you wouldn’t be in this mess with us” Arthur chuckled.

“Hey! He’s my dumbass brother, only I may mock him” you said as you stuck your tongue out playfully at Arthur, making him smile. It was nice smile; without intending to, you found yourself hoping that you’d see it again.  

“Ya know, Y/N, I’d like to come huntin’ again with you if you’d have me.” There he went again, fiddling with the grass, like a kid 20-25 years his junior. You smiled before replying.

“I think I’d like that too Arthur.”

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 26 (Arthur x Mary Beth)

 AO3 | Masterpost

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big, all of which bring them closer to one another, as well as to their future. But they’ve fallen in love during hard times. With the gang tipping dangerously close to a breaking point in a changing world, Arthur must make a difficult choice. Can he escape his past, as well as the outlaw life, in order to start a family of his own? With Mary Beth by his side, one thing is certain: redemption and second chances finally seem within his grasp.

***Chapter 25 cw: strong violence (canon typical), vague reference to sexual violence **

Chapter 26: Goslings

When Mary Beth was a little girl, her father once shot and killed a pair of thieves—a couple of good-for-nothing petty outlaws who had been rustling around their property, picking off their goats for months. Whenever they came around, he would take her big brother out and arm him with a shotgun. Before they left, he would say, “Mary Beth, you stay inside with your mama,” and so she would stay inside with her mama, and together, they would make clay figurines like dogs and trains and things and cook them in the kiln, or else they would bake a pie or knit or sit by the window and read aloud the gothic tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Mary Beth so loved The Raven. Meanwhile, her mother would keep a loaded shotgun by the door but she did not act as if anything were terrible or amiss.

The night those thieves finally got their comeuppance, Mary Beth had been looking out the window, braiding her long hair. She was just minding her own business when, in the light from the big moon, she saw one of them—a strange-looking man, come running out of the woods and toward the house with his gun drawn and this look on his face like he was an animal. It was wrong. That was all she remembered thinking. It was wrong, and it happened in a kind of slow motion, as her mother was in the kitchen making tea, and the kettle was screaming, and so she had no idea. Mary Beth was alone. She froze in childish fear as she watched the man coming. She stood alone in the window, unable to yell or do anything at all but wait helplessly, as if she were in a dream. He made it all the way to the foot of the porch before her daddy put him down with his rifle from the tree line. Mary Beth closed her eyes and covered her ears. Her mother came running when she heard the sound of the gun but to her it was none the difference.

Mary Beth still wonders sometimes what would have happened if the bad man had gotten into the house. Would her mother have known what to do? Would her father or brother have gotten there in time? Whenever bad things happened to the gang, Mary Beth was typically hidden away with Abigail and Tilly and Jack and Miss Grimshaw and Karen—Jenny, too before she got shot. She longed for adventure but never had the chops or the know-how to exact her longing upon the world until she went hunting with Arthur. She did not want to kill anybody. She was not a killer, and she knew it. He was right about that, but the world was still all full of bad men. Bad men running toward her door with their big guns and their animal teeth.

“You ain’t gonna do nothing to me, Colm O'Driscoll,” said Mary Beth, her gun pointed. Colm was about fifteen feet away, and she was pretty sure she could make the shot. Even if he didn’t die, he’d be fucked up half to death with buckshot, and that was good enough. But her hands were shaking. She was standing at the window trying not to freeze.

Colm still had his hands up, in surrender. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because,” she said, renewing her grip on the gun. “Dutch might secretly relish the drama of a blood feud, but Arthur has no such vanity inside him. If you kill me, he will end you, even if he kills himself in the process, and you know that ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Colm took a step forward, considering. Mary Beth had nowhere to go, but she knew she had a point. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Back up.”

“Maybe I ought to just haul you off like I did with Annabelle.”

“Don’t say her name.”

“But unlike her, I could keep you alive,” he went on, “as bait. I bet I could get Arthur Morgan to do all sorts of mean things to get you back. Though my boys is mighty starved for affection, don’t you forget, and that might be worse for you in the end.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughed. “A fighter? Just like she was. You know, she caught me good, right before I strung her up. Right here, with the blade of a beautiful hunting knife.” He leaned into the light then, showing Mary Beth a fine scar across his right cheekbone. “Those van der Linde boys, they do got feisty taste in women, I’ll give them that.”

“At least they get women.”

“Their primitive weakness.”

“Seems they’re doing just fine.”

He smiled.

Then, there was a sound, coming from the front of the cave. Mary Beth moved fast when Colm turned to see. She wound up and swung that gun like a baseball bat, lit him clean over the head as hard as she could. He stumbled, swore, but when she tried to get past him, he grabbed her by the skirts and yanked her backward, tossing her into the cave walls like a sack of potatoes. It was nothing for him. She hit hard but caught her balance, and she was able to bring up the gun in an effort to shoot, but it was too late.

Somebody else was in the cave.

Mary Beth got distracted. It was footsteps, and in this time, Colm lurched forward and wrestled the gun away from her. She screamed. Then there was a low voice.

“Colm,” it said.

They both turned to see this time, but it was dark, and in the space of a second, a single gunshot rang out from where they were looking, and Colm went down without warning. He cried out. At first Mary Beth thought he had was dead meat, but it turned out he had only been caught in the precise back of the knee. He was writhing. And the gun had gone down with him, making a great big clang, and he did try swiping at her feet, unable to stand, but she stole the gun and backed away from him, unsure of where to point it next but emboldened nonetheless. “Don’t move,” she said.

“It’s okay, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch. He walked out of the darkness, smoke alighting the barrel of his revolver. He holstered it up, stepped over Colm and his squirming disposition. He was removing his gloves, one finger at a time, looking like a surgeon as he gazed at her through the dim light of the cave. “You can put the gun down, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

She nearly collapsed into the earth, the relief so sudden. She dropped the gun to her side and steadied herself against the cave wall. It was cold and damp and the blood was pounding in her skull like a fuckin freight train. “Sweet Jesus,” she said.

“Motherfucker,” Colm groaned.

“That’s right,” said Dutch. He followed up then with one long stride, a quick swing of his boot, striking hard across the meat of Colm’s jaw. Mary Beth could have sworn that man picked straight up off the ground, flipped inside out and then landed hard on his back, wheezing and coughing, rolling onto his side, spitting blood into the dirt. Dutch tucked his gloves into his back pocket. “It’s me. The motherfucker.”

Mary Beth waited, pressed to the wall. She looked at Colm, and then she looked at Dutch, and she did not move. Dutch had entered a sort of trance, she thought. He circled Colm, as a predator. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and he wiped the sweat from his brow, and then he put the handkerchief back in his pocket again.

“Did he touch you, Miss Gaskill?” he said then. She noticed he looked very tired and dirty. He had blood on his vest and his sleeves—from the fight at Lone Mule, she expected. She looked away, too scared to ask. She didn’t wanna know. Not yet. “No,” she said. “I mean, he roughed me up a little but nothing like you mean.”

Dutch nodded, cracking his knuckles. “Did he threaten to touch you, Miss Gaskill? Like I mean?”

She blinked, catching his drift. She held the gun close to her chest and nodded. “Yes.”

This seemed to enrage him. He kicked Colm again, in the gut this time. Colm yelped and rolled over but then much to her surprise, he began to laugh, maniacally, as if he had just realized what the hell was going on.

“If it ain’t ol daddy Dutch,” he said, coughing, “as I live and breathe.”

“Living and breathing ain’t in the cards for you too much longer, Colm,” said Dutch.

“I was just admiring—” his breath rattled, like maybe he’d punctured a lung. “Just admiring Miss Gaskill here. A pretty piece, even for you boys. I’m surprised you don’t take them spoils for yourself.”

“Shut up,” said Mary Beth.

Colm laughed.

“You’re like an animal,” she said.

“Don’t waste your breath, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch, studying. “It ain’t worth it.”

Then, something changed. Without further delay, Dutch got down and straddled Colm and started beating the shit out of his face. It was alarming, like something had snapped inside him.

“This is for Arthur,” he said, hitting him again, and again. Dutch was a big man, very tall, and he was stronger than he appeared. “You tried. To take him. From me.” He then took to strangling Colm with two hands, a veritable death grip. Colm tried to struggle, but it was no use. As Dutch put him out of commission, he got real close, almost nose to nose, and he said, “And this is for them.”

Mary Beth could only watch from the corner of the cave. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was and how she had gotten here. The shock of it all and the speed with which so much change had taken place was so extreme. She could hardly remember. It was like waking up from a nightmare. But after a little while, she realized what was going on, and then she realized that Dutch was still over there, still holding down Colm’s wind pipe even as Colm was already dead and had been dead for some minutes.

She became hurried. She left the gun. She went to Dutch, and she got to her knees and tried to ease his hands away from Colm’s throat. “Dutch,” she said, trying to be gentle. He wouldn’t respond. She picked up his face, using all her strength, and she finally got him to look up, to see her eyes. “Dutch,” she pleaded. “Dutch, he’s dead. You can stop now. He’s dead. It’s over.”

“Over?”

She nodded, trying to shake him out of it. “Yes. It’s okay. You can stop.”

He surfaced, blinked a bunch of times. All the air seemed to go out of him, and he sort of lurched forward a little to try and catch his breath. Then he looked down at what he was doing and he immediately sat back with his hands resting on his knees. He looked at Colm O’Driscoll. Dead. He looked at his hands, and then he looked up at Mary Beth.

“Are you all right?” she said.

It took him a moment to register exactly what she had asked of him. But at some point, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not, Miss Gaskill. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Where’s everybody else, Dutch? Are they—”

“They’re okay,” he said. He patted her on the back, seeming to normalize, if only for a second and he got to his feet, slowly, dusting his hands off on his slacks. “Arthur is fine. Don’t worry. They were on their way in to free Kieran when I—I saw Colm trying to sneak away. I tracked him here alone.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth, in earnest. She was standing too now, feeling eager. “You saved my life.”

“I would never let anything happen to you, Mary Beth.” He sort of stumbled. She caught him. He leaned into her, seeming dizzy all of a sudden. He was heavy, but she could handle it. “You,” he went on, “or Arthur. You’re my goddam family.”

“I know,” she said, trying to steady him against the wall. “I know, Dutch. I know.”

Just then they heard more footsteps, coming quickly into the cave.

“Mary Beth?”

It was Arthur.

She looked at Dutch, then she picked up her skirts and went running. The cave was filling with light as the sun rose outside. It flooded through the skylight, all pinks and yellows. She went into Arthur's embrace, and he held her tightly.

“You’re okay,” she said.

He smiled into her hair. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Did you get Kieran?”

“We did. He’s a little messed up, but he’ll be fine.”

She breathed.

“We can’t find Dutch,” he said then, pushing her hood down, the hair off her shoulders, “or Colm. I’m worried—”

“Dutch is here,” she said. “He’s in the cave.”

“He’s here?”

They parted. She looked up at Arthur and took a deep breath. He had a shiner on his cheek but it was nothing alarming. He didn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere. “Something bad happened,” she said.

This confused him, so she took his hand and led him to the back of the cave. Dutch was there, in the pale circle of light from the oil lamp, sitting with his head hanging between his knees. In front of him with the dead body of Colm O’Driscoll.

“Holy shit,” said Arthur, scanning the situation and removing his hat. “What happened?”

“Colm came,” said Mary Beth. “He was—looking for some place to hide. He found me.”

Arthur looked shocked, and he had this wildness then, something unhinged about it, just around the edges, like he might snap. She hadn’t seen it much before. But then he softened when he looked at her. He put some of the hair behind her ear. It calmed him down. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. He didn’t—it was scary, but he didn’t do nothing to me. Dutch came in time. Killed him, obviously.”

Arthur sighed, real serious. He went over to Dutch then, stepping over Colm'd body. He got down to one knee to try and figure out what was going on. “Dutch,” he said. Dutch was unresponsive. He snapped his fingers. “Dutch. You conscious?”

Finally, he looked up. His head sort of swiveled. He blinked and exhaled. “Arthur.”

“You okay?” said Arthur. He reached around into his satchel, handed Dutch a canteen of cold water. Dutch took a drink, gave it back, wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“I'm fine,” he said. He got up again. Arthur helped him to his feet. “Jesus Christ.”

“You killed him,” said Arthur, testing the body with his boot. “Colm O’Driscoll. He’s dead.”

“Indeed,” said Dutch, breathing heavily, his hands on his hips. “Did we get Kieran?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Everyone’s outside.”

“Good.” Dutch nodded. “Very good, son.” He clapped his hand to Arthur's back, and then he turned around and proceeded to haul Colm O’Driscoll’s body up off the floor of the cave and over his shoulder. Arthur offered to help, but Dutch wouldn’t allow it. “Go on,” he said instead. “Both of you. Get. Let’s not spend another goddam minute in this goddam cave.”

He went out first, lumbering, but sure on his feet. Once he was out of earshot, Arthur said to Mary Beth, “What all happened here, exactly?”

She shrugged, slinging her shotgun over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

He nodded, then he turned to her again, one more time before they left the cave. It was cold and eerie but they were alone. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Mary Beth. I should’ve—”

“There was no way you could’ve known, Arthur,” she said. “I’m sure I was still safer here, in the grand scheme.”

He sighed, pulled her in again, real firm, kissing the top of her head. “You’re too brave, woman.”

She laughed at this. Truth be told, she was still shook up, but having him back, knowing the night was over—it was enough to sustain her. “Ain’t no such thing as too brave,” she said.

They were about to leave then, Arthur with his arm slung around her shoulders. But before they could get outside, Mary Beth thought of something. She stopped him.

“Something wrong?” said Arthur.

“I’m not sure,” she said, glancing around, as if making sure they were still alone. “It’s just—I gotta tell you, now. Dutch said something, while he was…strangling Colm. It worried me.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, first, he was just beating him up. He said it was for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “He said, ‘This is for Arthur,’ and then some other stuff. That part…that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Arthur seemed surprised, a little taken aback maybe. “What else did he say?”

“It was right at the end,” said Mary Beth. “Right before Colm…died. He said, ‘This is for them.’”

Arthur gave her a look. He lit a cigarette, gave it to her. She smoked, took a big, long drag, let the nicotine soak into her blood, calm her nerves considerably. “Them?” he said.

“Yeah, them,” said Mary Beth, exhaling the smoke. “Do you know of anyone else Colm might’ve killed, other than Annabelle? Who Dutch was talking about?”

“No,” said Arthur, shaking his head. He’d lit his own cigarette now, smoked and closed his eyes like he was trying to remember, but it was crickets. “No.”

Outside, Charles had steadied Kieran and they were sitting down on a long piece of driftwood and Kieran was drinking some water out of a tin cup. Kieran was bloodied up in his face, real good, and he looked shook to high hell, but he wasn’t shot, and he was conscious. He seemed to fill with considerable warmth when Mary Beth went over and sat down beside him.

“Hi, Miss Gaskill,” he said, real bashful.

“Hey, Kieran.”

“I’m sorry I—I missed our last reading lesson.”

She took his hand. She smiled, close to crying. She had a real soft spot for him, and she was very relieved. Maybe she knew somewhere deep down he had taken a shine to her, and she didn’t feel the same, but they were friends. She hoped he knew. “I was real worried,” she said.

“Arthur said it was you who lead the way.”

“I couldn’t’ve done it alone,” she said.

When Dutch hauled Colm’s body out into the advancing daylight then, Sadie went right over to him. She was all dirty, blood staining her neck and one whole side of her face, and she seemed full of pent-up rage and excitement. “You did it. You killed him.” She wiped her face on the back of her hand, sheathing her knife.

“That, I did,” said Dutch. “Colm O’Driscoll is dead. But there are many O’Driscolls, not just the thirteen we dispatched of tonight. They won't take kindly to this.”

“What you gonna do?” said Sadie. “If you’re going for more of them, you gotta bring me with you.”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Adler,” said Dutch, placing his hand on her shoulder. “One step at a time.”

“What now, Dutch?” said Arthur.

“Now,” said Dutch, “we get the hell out of here. Charles, Sadie, the two of you bring Mr. O’Driscoll’s body down to the Sheriff’s station in St. Denis. There’s gonna be a considerable bounty on his head, and we’re gonna reap it.” He looked at Arthur. “Arthur, Mary Beth, the two of you get Kieran back to Shady Belle, and then I want you to…take a break. Take a vacation. Come back, if you will, please, but get out of the swamps for a week or two. Mary Beth, you been through enough.”

“What about you?” said Arthur.

“I’m—I’m gonna stay here,” he said, looking around. “I need to…clear my head. Get my bearings. I need a plan.”

“You can’t stay here alone,” said Arthur. “It ain’t safe. We're mighty close to Blackwater, Dutch.”

"I’ll be fine, Arthur,” said Dutch, looking up at him from beneath the low brim of his black hat. “Please. Take your fiancé, and leave.”

“Fiancé?” said Sadie, looking from Mary Beth to Arthur then back to Mary Beth. “You two engaged?”

This seemed to defuse everything, all the badness from the night and the uncertainty on the beach. It went away in an instant.

Arthur took a deep breath and scratched at his beard. He deferred to Mary Beth. She became self-conscious and blushed. “Yes, we are.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Sadie, real happy all of a sudden, slugging Arthur in the shoulder. She was coming to her faculties again and smiling, looking more like Sadie. But it was always a certain sadness, with Sadie—back behind her eyes somewhere. “When’s the wedding?”

“Wedding?” said Kieran, looking wobbly. He blinked, looked around, bleary-eyed but okay. “I’ve missed quite a bit, I guess. I need to catch up.”

"You need to rest,” said Arthur. “You been through a fair amount of hell back there.”

“And we ain’t—we don’t got specifics, Sadie,” said Mary Beth, shyly. “I’ll let you know.”

Charles patted Arthur on the back in a stoic manner. “That’s good, man. Real good.”

“Thanks, Charles.”

“Anyway,” said Dutch. “Now that we’re all here and together and established again like one big, happy family, it’s time to disperse.”

“We hear you,” said Arthur. “But I just—” He leaned close, lowered his voice. Dutch seemed out of sorts, and with all that stuff Mary Beth had said back in the cave, he was worried. “Are you sure you wanna stay here, by yourself? We’ll stay with you. It’s no problem.”

“I’m sure,” said Dutch. “Tell Hosea I’ll be back in a few days.”

Arthur nodded, hooking his gloved hands over his belt. "Okay," he said, unwilling to argue. He looked around as Charles and Sadie started deconstructing their camp. All seemed clear. It was a new day by now, with the sun up over the lake and soaking their insides with its warmth and renewal. A flock of geese had come down to roost by the water's edge. Some of them were going out and wetting their feathers. A bunch of little babies were waddling in a straight line behind their mother. Mary Beth came over. "Look at them goslings," she said, pointing. "See them, Arthur?"

A breeze came through, blowing her hair around. The air smelled good.

"Yeah, they're real cute," he said, smiling down at her. He asked Mary Beth if she would like to wear his jacket, as that breeze was chilly.

"I'm okay," she said, linking her arm in his, placing her head on his shoulder. "Thanks, Arthur." They watched the birds.

[reddeaddenial]

Your Redemption

Summary: Arthur learns about the next great adventure, which takes him not where, but when. Reincarnation AU? Spoiler Warning of course.

Characters: High Honor Arthur Morgan and his thoughts, Deer Spirit Animal

Word Count: 2537 

Dying... was such an indescribable...something.

There’s so much happening yet nothing, too quickly and too slow. Too much pain and yet none. So much to say and yet few words to speak. But what’s the point of telling someone how it feels to die? What’s there to describe and to whom? It’s the last moments of your life after all.  The numbness, the lack of feeling and yet sensing everything, the fatigue of trying to keep your body working…You made your peace, accepting the inevitable, but that doesn’t stop the fear of feeling yourself fade. Struggling breaths, the panic of not wanting to go, not yet, please! And then finally the over encompassing exhaustion, eyes too tired to stay open. The fight leaving your body...And then suddenly it’s just... gone…all gone.

But what was left?

What came after what all humans feared?

The next great adventure? Floating in darkness? A new home in the clouds? Or in fire down below?

Apparently for Arthur Morgan it’s waking up in a meadow surrounded by deer.

A lot of deer in fact, big and small, grazing quietly without a care in the world. Arthur lay there face up in the tall grass, eyes focused on the sepia tinted sky and the playfully twisting clouds. Weird. Clouds shouldn’t move like that. And deer shouldn’t be so calm around people. He felt a doe get a little too close to his head and snuffle his hair, almost contemplating it for a snack. That got Arthur to quickly move his body upright.

The sudden movement would have surely startled the skittish creatures, but the deer just gave him a look of acknowledgment and the herd went back to eating. He looked up at the surreal sky once again, confusion furrowing his brow, recalling his final memories and then just suddenly ending up...here. Where was here? It looked and felt like a nice summer day, warm gentle breeze, sound of birds and somewhere in a distant treeline. He could feel the grass and dirt under his palms, the sun on his face. It felt much too real to be a dream.

Arthur stood up finally, stretching his limbs and looking back down at himself, his hands, clothes. His clothes were clean, as if they were just as new as the day he got them. Arthur realized as he flexed his hand slowly that he felt a lot more… energized than he had in months. That rattling in his chest when he took every breath was gone. He had a bit more of his muscle back too, not looking underweight and sickly.

That’s when he felt it, a pair of eyes on him, watching. Amused. Wait... how the hell did he know that’s what they felt? Arthur frowned looking around, seeing nothing but the ridiculous herd of deer that still paid no mind to his presence. But one stood out among the rest. A buck, twice as large, impressive antlers curving into the air, it’s scarily intelligent eyes staring straight at him. Wait… he’s seen…

“I know you.” he said aloud to the deer in question. The animal tilted it’s head slightly, its eyes still focused on Arthur. It didn’t speak of course, that would be ridiculous. But if Arthur had to guess, he thinks he would say. “And I know you as well Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur scoffs at his own thoughts and glances around before looking to the buck again, who was gracefully nearing closer to the outlaw, much to his surprise.

“What the hell happened huh? Pretty sure last I checked I was dead… dyin’ at least.”

He had said that aloud, more to himself than to any of the animals around him. But...the deer stopped a few feet from Arthur and gave him another look as if to say. “You are. Dead that is. Very much so.”

Arthur stared dumbly at the buck who simply looked right back at him. Great. He’s talking to a damn deer. Maybe the sickness fucked with his head. Mumbling under his breath how crazy this is, being dead but alive in a way, and talking to a damn deer who he's wondering if he's reading the thoughts of, he figures, sure why the fuck not. Talk to the damned deer. After all the shit he’s seen, rituals, flying metal saucers, giants, ghost trains, glowing pentagrams, mysterious houses... Talking to a buck in weird deer heaven isn’t that far off from possible.

“Not heaven Arthur. You’re not there just yet.”

“Oh great, so you can read my thoughts now too? Who are you huh? Hardly just a deer. You some weird grim reaper in disguise or somethin?”

The deer shook it’s head as if to shoo a fly and Arthur was pretty sure the animal was laughing at him. “I’m honored you would think so. But no. I am not Him. He is still dealing with the affairs of the living. I am more of a...guide. One of judgement and redemption.”

A heavy weight set in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. Limbo then. To be judged. He wasn’t sure why he felt so surprised and so crestfallen, knowing that this little peaceful meadow was temporary for some tainted soul like him. “Judgement huh… Guess it’s pretty obvious where I’m goin’ then.”

The buck snorted and shook it’s head again, going closer to Arthur. The outlaw tensed and was definitely not expecting the affectionate nudge with the animal’s head, mindful of its own horns, and gently rubbing against Arthur’s arm.

“Oh Arthur… so much of your life you have put yourself down. I have seen it all.”

Arthur stayed quiet not sure what to say. Seen everything huh? Well then surely this creature… spirit of judgement or whatever it was, understood. He deserved to be punished for all he’s done. He’s ruined lives, killed people, so many damned people… He deserved to suffer.

The buck gave a firmer head butt to Arthur’s arm, making him grunt in surprise. He never thought he’d ever imagine for a deer to look so… annoyed at him before.

“Enough of that Arthur Morgan. I have seen it all, and we are the ones to judge you, not yourself. That is why you are here.”

The outlaw awkwardly looked away, keeping his self loathing doubts to himself and watched the other deer milling about. He spotted a small family, a doe, and her fawn. It made him think of Jack and Abigail.. And then of John.

“Can you… are they… My friends… do you know if they made it out alright? Like can you tell with your weird deer powers or somethin’?”

The deer emitted what Arthur was thought was more amusement and even some fondness when he had changed the subject. It confused him, but he waited patiently for an answer in the buck’s strange mind thoughts sent to him.

“It’s questions like that which are the reason why you woke up here Arthur, yet you still see yourself so unworthy… No. I cannot tell you about all of your friends. But I suppose… I can tell you of the ones you think of most. I do not think He would mind.”  The buck looked at the same doe and fawn that Arthur had before. The two just stood in silence for a peaceful moment just watching the mother deer graze with her child, enjoying the soft breeze and the singing of birds.

“He... has taken a personal interest in John Marston and his decisions… I cannot tell you what befell him. They lived on for a many years, for a time... He protected his family until the very end. His son...lived on. He was going down a similar path but...changed course. He grew to be a good man… They all may be given the same chance as yourself. I do not know for sure. I am not suppose to know. My purpose was to follow you and you alone.”

Arthur looked to the spirit with a frown, taking in what vague...whatever the hell kind of lousy answer that was. He was happy to know John and his family lived but it sounded like they didn’t have as happy of a life as he hoped for them. If only he could have went on a little longer… maybe he could have done something about it. But… it was too late for what-ifs, especially since was in weird cryptic deer limbo..

“ ‘The same chance as yourself’...The hell you mean by that?”

If animals could smile, surely his spirit companion would be doing so at him. “You had quite a journey during your time alive Arthur Morgan. Especially as your time began to thin. You tried to right wrongs, save people, helped others-- even when there was no benefit to you. Your honor through your actions, in the most dire parts of your life...they have been recognized. And with that, you will be reborn.”

“...The hell?”

The moment those words left his lips, Arthur felt an instant heaviness, like gravity was starting to work double time. Tiredness. Not so dissimilar as he felt when looking at his final sunrise. Panic welled up in his chest and he stumbled, looking at deer spirit which seemed...infuriatingly unfazed.

“Wh...What’s happenin’?”

The buck allowed Arthur to lean against him as his world began to grow dizzy, the warm tones of the meadow and sky beginning to swirl as he felt his knees begin to buckle. The spirit’s mind-thoughts projected to his own, growing faint, yet Arthur heard every word clear as a bell.

“You’re waking up. A different place. A different time. Your soul has been reborn for a while now. But when you wake, your past and present will merge. And you will be aware of it all. Take this chance Arthur. Take it and use it. Find happiness. True happiness.” The spirit bumped his head to Arthur’s side one last time.

“And do not worry Arthur Morgan. I will continue my watch until the very end.”

“W-Wait!” he used what energy he had left to project his voice and repeat himself. “What’s happenin’ t’me?”

He could feel the deer smile even though he could no longer see anything.

“Your redemption.”

And just like death, everything was just suddenly... gone.

But then, like an instant… like a gasping breath, like a bolt of lightning, like a match being struck with fire, he was there.

Body weighted against the top of a mattress, lungs panting, pulse racing. Eyes wide open staring at the sterile white ceiling with irritatingly bright lights.

Alive.

He was god damned alive.

How? Why? What the hell just happened? And what was that god. damned. beeping?!

Arthur groaned, his thoughts a blur, his vision sliding to the side of the bed. Wires, needles… machines? The beeping… monitor. Heart monitor. The term came to him instantly. Why the fuck did he know that? His head felt terrible. The lights too bright. He was gonna puke.

…

He puked.

The sound of retching over the side of the bed must have alerted somebody because a loud gasp came from across the room. Footsteps rushing away, fading… returning with more footsteps and alarmed voices. It was all a blur. Faces, people in white coats, doctors. Easing him upright, flashing more bright lights to his face. He grimaced and tried to push it away.

“Easy now sir, just checking your vision. All seems good.” A smooth male voice belonging to a man he’d never seen before in his life. “Can you tell me your name sir?”

“Arthur…” he trailed off as his mind automatically finished for him before he could stop himself. “Mathews? Arthur Mathews?” The hell? That wasn’t his last name. But recollection and a whirl of unknown thoughts told him otherwise. Arthur Mathews. 37. Born in 1982… Nineteen eighty god damned two?!

His existential crisis was unknown to the three doctors as they continued to check his vitals. “Excellent Mr. Mathews. Now can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

Arthur grimaced and wiped the side of his mouth. A nurse noticed and rushed out of the room, returning with a cup of water made out of some weird materia-...Plastic. Cup. Plastic cup. Jesus these foreign ghost thoughts that were apparently still his own was creeping him out. Why was the doctor looking at him like that? Oh yeah. Last thing he remembered… He took the cup gratefully from the nurse and took a sip of the cold liquid, clearing the bile taste from his mouth. How was he going to explain this without sounding damn near insane? Play it off as a dream? Hallucination? Why was he even here in what he assumed was a hospital?

“Uh… shit. Not sure if it was real but… a deer?”

The doctors and two nurses looked mildly surprised. Surprised but pleased. The doctor smiled and finally backed off with poking and prodding Arthur. “You’ve got a great memory for going through all that. You’re right about the deer. According to the car passing that saw everything, a massive buck jumped in the road. You swerved and crashed in a ditch and into some trees. Miracle you didn’t break anything.”

Flashes of memory of being in a strange metal carriage flashed in Arthur’s mind. Car. Horseless wagon. Well shit, guess they finally made those then. He frowned and kept sipping his water. The doctor carried on like nothing was wrong, mistaking Arthur’s look of dawning recollection for remembering the crash.

”But you had concussion and have been out for four days. What really gave us a scare was that your heart just stopped beating for a whole minute into the third day. For no apparent reason, and we checked your medical history for heart problems too.” the man shook his head. He seemed puzzled about the whole situation and Arthur hummed in thought. He had a good idea as to why that happened. And it had to do with a spirity hoofed animal that may have also crashed his horsele-... car.

“We were starting to worry for you after you stabilized and showed no signs of waking. And then...well here you are... “ The doctor trailed off awkwardly, unsure what to take Arthur’s silence for. “I understand that this is a lot to take in… Do you have any questions?”

Questions? Really now? Well Arthur sure as hell had many damned questions to ask. The doctor wouldn’t be able to answer any of em though. Plus the more he tried to wrap his mind around the idea of his own damned reincarnated soul being self away of his life- past life, the more his head hurt. Dammit he needed a drink. His mind unhelpfully told him alcohol wasn’t allowed in hospitals and he nearly cursed aloud. His head ached more. He could think about all this bullshit another time. For now, he decided to play along, take a nap, get the hell outa here, and figure out what this new era had in store for Arthur Morgan...Mathews

He looked at the concerned doctor and thought. Did he have any questions…

“Well Doc, y’know if the deer’s okay?”

Idk guys, It started out with something I just really wanted to write and the tone shift spontaneously turned into Arthur Morgan: self aware reincarnated cowboy trapped in his Millennial body and figuring out the wonders cryptic talking spirit animals. Haha I know it’s really OOC, but the whole idea is kinda just ridiculous but wouldn’t leave me alone until I typed it out.

Will I continue this? Bring other characters in? Hell if I know lmao :p give me suggestions if you’re into it

[mojoflower]

Involuntary Invisibility

I’ve read a few fics with this rare trope, and this is what I found when I searched my bookmarks.  Anyone know of any others?

and with thy lips dispell this curse by paranoid_fridge  No rating.  10k.  The Hobbit.  Bagginshield.

In a word where neither the One Ring nor the Arkenstone exists and all survive the battle, Bilbo encounters a strange, magical creature while helping to evacuate Dale for the coming winter. He thinks nothing of it initially – but then he watches his own arm pass through solid wood and sees Thorin’s eyes widen in fear and call for him.

“I’m right here.” Bilbo wants to say, but cannot make a sound.

Not when he has been cursed to disappear.

My bookmark:  Wow, turning invisible involuntarily is some scary stuff...

Invisible Man by shinkonokokoro T.  21k.  Merlin.  Merthur.

"You are capable of more?" "More? Your majesty?" "More types of spells. More brain cells as well?" "Yes," he hissed. "Protect yourself." "What?" "Carl, shoot him."

Getting captured by Uther doesn't quite have the results Merlin expect.

My bookmark:  Lovely story. Modern royalty au, if you will, where, instead of executing Merlin, Uther makes him play invisible bodyguard, with a lot of emphasis on "You no longer exist." Merlin is terribly amiable, which is funny, and doesn't actually manage to keep his mouth shut when he bodyguards. Arthur creatively names him Voice.

In Visibility by cat_77  T.  14k.  Avengers.  No pairing.

He was used to slinking in shadows, hidden from sight. This was just ridiculous, really.

My bookmark:  "Hey, I figured out several important pieces of data with this little adventure," he protested.

"Such as?" Bruce prompted. Clint knew he was in trouble when Mr. Mellow looked pissed.

"Sitwell is an excellent liar, Fury still has the Gameboy I gave him for Christmas like six years ago, and the World Security Council wants to carve me up like a lab rat," he recited. He considered it an accomplishment that he was able to get any words out at all the way Nat still held him in place, fingertips carving into his skin.

Tony leaned back against the nearby counter and mused, "We figured out some stuff while you were out too, wanna know what?" He didn't wait for a response before he ticked off on his fingers, "One, you're an asshole. Two, the field around you is shrinking. Three, the World Security Council wants to carve you up like a lab rat, or possibly a frog because I doubt they've made it past sixth grade Biology, let's be honest here."

In Plain Sight by oldenuf2nb M.  38k.  Harry Potter.  Drarry.

Draco Malfoy had stopped believing his wishes would be granted long ago. He could perhaps be forgiven for being startled, then, when one of them came true.

My bookmark:  Lovely: the Board decides to do away with the Slytherin House and Hogwarts fights back. Meanwhile, Pansy is terribly injured by a curse and that makes Draco the last Slytherin standing. "He's the last," the voice tells Harry. "There isn't much time." Draco starts by using a disillusionment Charm, but it quickly becomes involuntary invisibility. But Harry's watching, and doesn't want him to disappear entirely. UST, although it isn't sex-heavy at all. There are some shining bits, however, like this bit, after Draco's injured and somewhat stoned: ******** “And that mouth…” he exhaled slowly. “Such a pretty mouth, Potter. Such a pretty, pretty mouth. Makes a man want to grab handfuls of your horrible hair and kiss that pretty, pretty mouth until it’s all soft and puffy and swollen.” Malfoy abruptly released the hold on Harry’s jumper and smoothed the bunched fabric with his hand. “I mussed you,” he noted, his eyes drifting closed and the smile returning to pull at his lips. “I mussed Potter. Although, Potter is usually mussed.”Harry was frozen in place, staring at Malfoy’s face, his heart racing. /What the hell had that been?/ he thought, finally pulling back. Malfoy must be heavily drugged. It was the only explanation for what had just happened.

Who said that? by coconutcranberries (orphan_account)  No rating.  33k.  Teen Wolf.  Sterek.

Stiles has a very unique superpower, in that he doesn't exist. He's invisible, untouchable, unhearable-is that a word?-and just not there. He feels like a ghost most of the time, although he can't walk through walls (he tried, the wall took offense and his nose paid the price) and he can still trip over his own feet. He blends perfectly into the background and no matter how hard he tries, nobody knows he's there.

It's a lonely life, he's not gonna lie.

But suddenly something changes. Stiles is part of a group project which includes probably the most explosive combination of people in his class. These people don't notice when he waves a hand right in front of their face-how could they when he doesn't exist? The possibilities are endless.

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

My bookmark:  Such an interesting idea: Stiles' power is to make himself not exist... AT ALL. So from the time he's 8, he's vanished from everyone's awareness, all records deleted, everything. Only his dad can see him (and even that is periodically unreliable). But then suddenly, Derek sees him one day, which starts a chain of events that leads to him feeling hopeful once again about being able to interact with the world. It's kind of tragic, I mean, think of the loneliness, the skin hunger, the sense of abandonment involved in being non-existent for 8 years. But it eventually works out.

In Time of Trial by Shine  M.  38k.  Merlin.  Merthur.

Uther fears his son's power, and Merlin has helped Arthur flee to escape imprisonment. Now the two of them must fight to regain Arthur's rightful place in Camelot.

My bookmark:  Wow, what a fantastic story. 36k words never went so fast. This is the one where Uther's old friend Aelfric comes to visit and slowly drips poison into his ear until he's convinced that Arthur is going to try to depose him and take the crown. When he orders Arthur to be taken to the dungeons as a traitor (and killed on the spot if he struggles), Merlin races ahead of the guards to rescue Arthur. (Luckily, he's been practicing a spell that makes things invisible. Unluckily, he has to spring it on Arthur with no warning at all and convince him to be silent and still while the guards search his room around them.) And thus is magic revealed.The pair go on the run, and eventually settle near Tintagel, where all the Druids live, and begin preparations to fight back. Arthur allows himself to act on his attraction to Merlin (I'd rate this an M), perhaps because now that he sees that Merlin is a powerful warlock, he sees them as being equals. Also, there's no doubt of Merlin's loyalty, considering how they got out of Camelot.

Merlin's Moving Castle by KrisEleven  G.  49k.  Merlin.  Merthur.

As a result of some very unfortunate decisions, Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot, is cursed by Morgana (also known as the Witch of the Wastes) and becomes fully invisible to anyone who doesn’t possess magic. Forced to abandon his kingdom, he begins his quest for a remedy to his unfortunate condition and comes across the quite charming - and even more annoying - Merlin who may be the only one able to save Albion, if only Arthur can convince him to try.

My bookmark:  What an amazing story. I kind of expected a rehash of the Howl's Moving Castle plot (which would have been fine, as I adore the story), but instead the author used only pieces of it and built something entirely new and totally belonging to Merlin and Arthur and their world from the show. There was a surprising amount of action (Merlin first meets Arthur during a fight and flight) and it culminates in an enormous battle. But in between, it's Arthur, learning to be patient and getting to know some new people... learning about the world through their eyes. It's just beautiful.

Beyond the Mirror's Edge by VivacissimoVoce  M.  49k.  Harry Potter.  Drarry.

Harry Potter is dead! A spell goes wrong in Advanced Charms class, leaving nothing but a charred ring and a pair of empty shoes. Draco Malfoy must figure out what happened and try to bring Harry back.

My bookmark:  interesting premise!The one where Harry is hit by a protection charm gone wrong and only his shoes are left. Dumbledore's Dead/Alive device only wavers with the needle halfway between the two when it's questioned, and no one knows where Harry is or how he's half alive. "The small wooden box with the life-death dial was mounted on the wall outside of the Charms classroom, with Potter’s shoes encased in a glass box beneath. The needle stayed resolutely fixed between the two indicators, but no one was sure what it meant."And then Draco hears, "Can anybody hear me?"Draco looked up and checked down the table. "Beg pardon?" he asked Pansy."I didn't say anything," she looked up in surprise."Anybody, please, if anybody can hear me please say something!"

Unseen by astolat  M 11k.  Harry Potter.  Drarry.

When he wasn’t wearing it, he got jumpy, always waiting for someone to come at him wanting something—and now they did it even more urgently, if they ever saw him, because most of the time, nobody did.

My bookmark:  #not involuntary invisibility#but i'll tag it that way#for my own purposes 

What it says on the tin, really. Draco is the only one who notices that Harry has turned himself into a ghost and is "haunting them all before his death". He carefully takes the Cloak, just for 24 hours, challenging Harry to see if he can do without it. Of course, Harry's never heard a challenge from Draco that he hasn't immediately and fiercely accepted. But it's HARD. As Draco, in a weird combination of rude and kind, coaxes him through the week, Harry learns to be seen again, is shown how to protect himself, and finds himself falling for Draco.

we are tangled by drunktuesdays  T.  6k.  Teen Wolf.  Sterek.

"Derek was at your house?" "For like ten seconds," Stiles said. "I'd say it was weird, but is anything about Derek ever not weird?"

My bookmark:  invisible!derek!!!

Invisible by chappysmom  G.  86k.  Sherlock.  No slash.

John had had the knack for as long as he could remember.

It wasn’t that he could become invisible, exactly. The laws of physics worked quite well in his vicinity, thank you very much. It was just that people tended … not to see him.

My bookmark:  Invisibility not actually involuntary, but this has always been one of my favorites.

[lilmajorshawty]

8th house your lesson part 1/2

8th house Aries cusp:

You were born with an aura of the independent pilot. The world itself seems to move slow and almost in a sense out of your orbit. You’re not at all a stranger to intensity or the idea of loss which can come as both a massive hurt to those around you but also an air of emotional absence in the times it matters most. Aries being the child of the zodiac translates to the realm of transformation and rebirth via personal immaturity which in itself means that you often travel down the road of trial and error longer than most and at times to your own detriment. Your lesson is to realize that as much as you’ve mastered self preservation you must also realize that the world is made up of plenty of main characters besides you and some of these characters love and care about you if you’d take your foot of the gas for a moment to see.

Who you share it with: Jay z, Madonna, Keanu Reeves, Walt Disney

Fictional characters like you:

Alfie Solomon & Arthur Shelby(peaky blinders)FX

Nora durst & meg(The Leftovers) HBO

Noah solloway(The affair)Showtime

☄️Arctic monkeys - if you were there

☄️The Kills - pull a u

8th house Taurus cusp:

You were born with a natural sense of stability. The world to you seems easy, people in your eyes throw a fit for nothing, for what reason is there to shout about your discomfort when you could simply create a comfortable situation? You always seek bliss and at times this can cause others to walk around you as if glass were laid about the floor as no one wants to be left in the dust after you deem them to much of a damper to your good mood. It’s easy for you to discontinue something that’s not providing in a sense which is both good and bad as sometimes those you let go are oblivious to the slow burn that’s been taking place underneath your unfazed exterior. Your lesson is to learn that others shouldn’t be casualties in your search for the sensuality and security you seek and security shouldn’t be your sole hold to this world! For what should happen where you to lose all you have?

Who you share it with: Leonardo DiCaprio, Beyoncé knowles, Britney Spears, Adolf hitler.

Fictional characters like you:

Clay Jenson(13 reasons why)Netflix

Wolfgang & Lito Rodriguez(sense8) Netflix

Sydney Barrett(legion) FX

🍃Arctic monkeys - 505

🍃jack white - would you fight for my love

8th house Gemini cusp:

You were born naturally in a pair of two on a emotional level. Parts of you are presented to a situation as is whilst there are often entire personalities inside you bustling around like the streets of New York. Due to your back and forth and often immensely “screened” nature it’s hard for people to truly meet you, which is often further intensified by the way this energy manifest in true Gemini like fashion which is all around like a cyclone never directly landing on target. In emotional times it’s easier for you to hop into one of your varying personas rather than outright dealing with it thus causing venom to build up until it becomes its on separate persona. Your lesson is to realize that the more you try to hide in a crowd inside yourself the less you’ll be able to successfully bring out the real you; let go of the fear you have of confronting the real hurts in you.

Who you share it with: Nicole Kidman, Katy Perry, Bjork, Tom Cruise

Fictional characters like you:

Dexter Morgan( dexter) USA

Rosita & Eugene(The walking dead) AMC

Sansa Stark(game of thrones) HBO

🌴Daughter - dreams of William

🌴Daughter - no care

8th house cancer cusp:

You were born naturally with the ability to embody sincerity and the moon itself. Love and intimacy come easy to you but that same internal forethought is lost externally. It can be hard for you to express your more sensitive and emotive side to those whom you’re untrusting, doubly so to those you actually care for. With cancer here there is a tendency to get carried away with ones emotions often drowned in whatever sea of emotion they happen to be feeling be it anger, sadness, hate, love, and even nothingness is felt with a deep rooted intensity. Your lack of a healthy medium can at times make those around you feel like they’re being given a silent but overwhelming ultimatum. Your lesson is to learn to dial back the lever. Not everything needs to be a black or white end or be all sensation! Try and find a healthy calm before the storm.

Who you share it with: brad Pitt, Scarlett Johansson, Bruce lee, Kim Kardashian

Fictional characters like you:

Jon snow & arya Stark(game of thrones) HBO

Barry brown & pope(animal kingdom)USA

Mr-robot, Angela moss & Darlene Alderson(Mr. robot)USA

🌑jack white - Love is blindness

🌑ane burn all my tears

8th house Leo cusp:

You were born with a inner flame that serves as a driving force between much of what you do. Your ego is both endearing and something to admire out of how through sheer will and individual reliance you push through much of your turmoil. The issue here lies in the spectacle you make of your own misfortune as some inner part of you needs to be recognized for your sorrow, your pain. The innate desire you have to be recognized at times devours the actuality of what you’re going through, it removes the depth that’s been bestowed upon you. Your lesson is to learn to navigate away from public recognition! Not everyone needs to know what lies deep in your closet-nor do you need to relish in telling them about it.

Who you share it with: Jesus Christ, Taylor Swift, Oprah Winfrey, Ariana grande, Virgin Mary

Fictional characters like you:

Micky milkovich & frank Gallagher(shameless) showtime

Ulrich Nielson(dark) Netflix

Francis underwood & Thomas Yates( House of cards) Netflix

⛅️The smiths - how soon is now

⛅️The psychedelic furs - Love my way

8th house Virgo cusp:

You were born with a rather reserved and impartial energy. There is a noticeable preference to stay out of involvement or as one would say to keep an observant yet detached liaison with ones surroundings here. Ideally you seek intimacy of the mind rather than physical intimacy outright which occasionally clashes with your unconscious need for “touch.” The cutting nature of Virgo is extremely amplified here often creating literal Barriers between you and the outside world around you which may be good in some cases but not always. Unfortunately your more sacrificing and caring traits are shadowed by the cold and often meticulously thought out side you present. Your lesson is to understand that people are flawed, but most importantly as a human your too are indeed flawed.

Who you share it with: Barack Obama, Megan Fox, Nicki Minaj, Russell Crowe, Naomi Campbell.

Fictional characters like you:

Doug stamper & Claire underwood(house of cards) Netflix

Javier pereira(good behavior) USA

Bette Davis(feud: Bette and Joan) FX

🍂The dead weather - rocking horse

🍂Johnny cash - mercy seat

8th house libra cusp:

You were born with a almost unbelievable amount of innocence and charm. Socially your impeccable always capable of giving the world and those around you exactly what they’ve wanted and more. Ironically the weighted nature of libra here actuality provides a bit of clarity on the darker themes associated with the 8th house. You find transformations something more on the side of beauty rather than something on the side of the vulgar and obstructive. There is a dying goddess syndrome associated with this placement being the fact that those whom have this seem to see a gradual death of their beauty only to be completely remodeled even more beautiful than they were previously. Though despite the ease presented here shallowness and inaccessibility cloud you, as often speaking upon real and dark matters with you seem to scare the child in you that wants to see the world as jolly and amicable. Your lesson is to see the beauty in not only the pure side of life but also the struggles and pains that exist; not to turn a blind eye but to see the truth before you.

Who you share it with: michael Jackson, George Clooney, Orlando bloom, David bowe, Whitney Houston.

Fictional characters like you:

Joshua ‘j’ Cody & Catherine brown(animal kingdom) USA

Tyrese, Gabriel stoked & Paul “Jesus”(walking dead) AMC

Celeste wright & ed Mackenzie(Big little lies) HBO

🐿nena - 99 luftballons

🐿Tracy Chapman - fast car

8th house Scorpio cusp:

You were born with an atmosphere of death, like that of a one winged angel out of sight of the sky. Much like Aries intensity is no foreigner to you Nor is the concept of darkness in the life around you. Unlike most you’ve seen the hardships, the falls, the wounds, the scars of the broken. Scorpio is at home in this house-often in such a way that these natives seem the most alive despite the overwhelming flow of contempt that surrounds them. You’re capable of deep healing-healing that could bring someone out of the very clouds themselves but this is something deep within you that just first require you to meet the winged demons lurking around in your own mind and soul. People are frightened by your true nature and because of this at times you wear a cloak around those be it a smile or an exaggerated sense of happiness just so they don’t leave you. Your lesson is to realize that just because people can’t expect your truth doesn’t mean your to much nor does it mean you’re evil or too dark it means your path is unique and your path is one unlike any others.

Who you share it with: Rihanna, Shakira,zayn malik, James Dean, Ryan gosling.

Fictional characters like you:

Ellen barkin & deran Cody(animal kingdom) USA

Maeve Millay & Dr Robert Ford(westworld)HBO

Sun(sense8)Netflix

8th house Sagittarius cusp:

Many sag in the 8th house natives are born with a very obscure but unique two Time life trait. Often these natives live life in stage one, infantile and erratic, living life without remorse or commitment-flying from the next fleeting feeling to the next then crashing into phase two the more quietly observant years-viewing the world yet reacting only when necessary, optimistic and deeply self spiritual in what they deem as the unknown. Commitment is something that you grow into, not necessarily something that comes naturally like with most people which can cause you trouble in the realm of romance and the realm of overall projects and even things as small as a job. At some point in these natives lives there is a turning point in which they no longer are a horse prancing about they become a true centaur capable of deep and often soulful commitment to another or whatever calls them forth but as with the 8th house this is a trait that takes time to cultivate. Your lesson in this life is to learn that settling down and committing in no way shape or form takes away any ability for you to live or explore the world any more than you would’ve been capable without! It’s okay to love and belong to something the world won’t stop moving I promise. Stop sabotaging relationships that are good for you just because you’re afraid of missing out on a party that’ll never come.

Who you share it with: Martin Luther king, Mikey Cyrus, Lana Del Rey, Mariah Carey, snoop dog.

Fictional characters like you:

Kevin Garvey & matt lamison(the leftovers)HBO

Lenny busker & Kerry loudermilk(Legion)

John Shelby & May Carleton(peaky blinders) Netflix

🐎kid bloom - I kissed a girl and she kissed me

🐎Roosevelt - Montreal

8th house Capricorn cusp:

Ah Capricorn in the 8th your were born with wisdom, wisdom that both to your befit and detriment has aged you before you were even able to waddle across the ground. You have a more astute nature about you, one that makes it clear to others that you’re not to be trifled with. Often there is a heavy energy that shrouds you, capable of bringing a room to a complete stand still once mastered-though in the same token this ability of respect also causes alienation amongst those closest and dear. The world in your eyes is a constant high rise uphill battle, one you refuse for any reason to let get the jump upon you. The bravado and tenacity you’re capable of at times can get you to the top but at what cost? The question for natives of this placements is wether or not power and prestige tower over love and care? Money and glory or intimacy and vulnerability? Your lesson plain and simple is to open your heart, allow the inevitability or a let down or a sad day to touch your heart! Because even though you’d like it not to be true you feel pain and you need a gentle hug as much as the person besides you.

Who you share it with: Albert Einstein, lady Gaga, Sandra Bullock, Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson.

🐺Chris isaak - wicked game

🐺placebo - running up that Hill

8th house Aquarius cusp:

You were born with a natural detachment from your own body, There has always been a at times cold, yet alarmingly far away nature about you. These natives where often the unproblematic child when growing up on an emotional level, sure outburst were occupant from time to time-but that more childlike and often emotive nature present in us all just wasn’t there with these natives. The older you get the more detachment begins to embody you often leading to the creation similarly to Gemini of alter egos, varying emotional responses, along with altogether emotional alienation. The processing of emotions is either non existent-or a painful process for you leading to avoidance of the big picture which is usually that these natives repress childhood trauma and even present trauma to the point of numbness-leading to a plethora of random, and seemingly obscure emotional reactions at inappropriate moments or moments of aloneness. Either you feel it or you don’t and often times you prefer it to be the latter which can often create an aura of being out of reach which causes many who romantically or even are related to these individuals to seek out reactions from the natives by any means which only serves to further cause the native to dive into themselves. Your lesson is to confront the big bad red door that you’ve placed so many chains upon, take it day by day, year by year if need be and slowly but gradually confront all those demons! Learn their names, their triggers, their motives and their sob stories-and feel every painful rushing feeling-let yourself be alive.

Who you share it with: Angelina Jolie, Julia Roberts, bill gates, will smith, Mel Gibson, Tyra Banks & George w. Bush.

Fictional characters like you:

Legion(legion)FX

Elliot alderson & Joanna wellick(Mr. robot) USA

Lydia & Allison argent(teen wolf)MTV

🌫Stardust - music sounds better with you

🌫 Daughter - run

8th house Pisces cusp:

You were born with a deep receptivity to this world. Often times emotions much like Scorpio and cancer here are the theme but in a much more powerfully cosmic sense! You feel the world around you-it’s tension and quiet underflow which often can be easily overwhelming for these natives unknown to those whom happen to be close to them. Their is a sense of grief for these natives one that colors them even in their happiest moments it always seems like something is wrong and slightly adjacent. Intimacy is something that comes naturally for these natives but is also something that’s subtly avoided out of fear of being so dependent on another that the ego itself is lost in the transaction. They deeply fear the loss of their own selves through another which often causes a repulsion to the idea of sex or commitment yet Pisces nature always somehow leads them directly into the fray as if it were a moving train. Your love is very genuine and true but it can also be so honest and sincere that those whom aren’t ready often find themselves either attracted to what they can take from you or feel as though they don’t deserve you. Your lesson is to grasp yourself from the world of the spiritual-to create an earthy manifestation to ground yourself with, to learn and feel through the energy around you and see who’s deserving and who’s using you-to love the world but also to allow yourself to be loved in the same passion you do it. Stop absorbing all the personalities around you and cultivate your own otherwise you’ll lose track of the real you.

Who you share it with: Marilyn Monroe, Donald trump, Johnny Depp, Drake, Selena Gomez

Fictional characters like you:

Dolores(westworld)HBO

Alison Lockhart & Helen solloway(the affair) showtime