#he is old enough to be tilly's father and he's the generation before her

[amarrymeinbostonwriter]

12/22/22- And I did a sheet for Coachman Dave too. 

“Coachman Dave”/ Mr. David Sachar-Kingsley 

A classmate of Sarah Holburn that she met at finishing school. Dave was born a younger daughter to an upper class Jewish family. He kept his mother’s family name Sachar when he changed identities.

He and Miss Holburn were lovers when they left finishing school together. When she got her first position as governess to Mr. Charles Murray’s daughters Rosie and Tilly, Dave became Mr. Murray’s coachman. He remained with the family until Tilly was eleven. 

When Tilly and Hess honeymoon in London as newly weds, he later appears married to Carol Kingsley, a brewster while he works as a coachman in London. He and Carol socialize in many groups including the lesbian bar, Artemis’ Huntresses. Gerry and Mort (Paulie’s lover) are his two best friends. 

Because he becomes a long standing member of his community he also earns the affectionate title “Grandsire” to indicate his elder status. Later in life, he cares for Gerry’s horses and lives at Radclyffe Heights with the retired Professor Sarah Holburn. 

Birthday: January 4th (Capricorn) 

Dave is a calm natured female husband. If he were alive in the 2020s instead of the 1800s, he’d most likely be a trans man. 

[marstonandson]

Tearful Reunions

read on Ao3

words: 3959

Jack comes across Pearson, Tilly, and Mary-Beth in his travels. He visits a grave and finds that going home doesn't hurt as badly anymore.

--

Chapter 3: Finding Peace

When he returned from Canada, Jack realized most of his supplies had been lost in the storm. Annoyed, he stopped by Hennigan’s Stead, watching Bonnie shout at one of her farm hands before heading down the stairs of her house. She did a double take upon seeing him, immediately breaking into a wide smile.

“The younger Mr. Marston!” She greeted kindly, walking right up to him as he slid off of his saddle. “Thought you might’ve gone off somewhere and gotten yourself in trouble. Where ya been?”

Jack smiled, bowing his head in greeting. “Hello, Miss MacFarlane. I been in Canada, actually. Visiting an old friend.”

Placing a hand on her hip, she tilted her head. “Oh, that’s nice. I heard it got pretty cold up there, but you survived it, somehow.”

“Yeah, somehow.”

“Are you back to ask for some more cattle? You know I’d always be happy to sell you some, if you’re willin’ to do me a few favors.” She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “I’m just kiddin’. Your family’s done me enough favors to last me a lifetime.”

The question made his smile falter, and he shook his head. “Uh, no, ma’am. Not lookin’ for cattle. At least, not now.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I lost most of my supplies in the storm. I was headin’ to the general store.”

Bonnie smirked. “Well, you know where to find me when you need it. Go on. We just hired someone new at the store. His old store closed down, poor feller, but he’s real good. See ya around, Mr. Marston.” She waved, then headed toward the barn. Jack watched her for a moment, then grabbed the reins of his horse, leading her toward the store.

Once she was hitched, he headed up the steps and opened the creaky door, finding the store empty. “Hello?” he called, eyes scanning around for any sign of the clerk. He decided to let himself in, figuring he must be taking a smoke break or something, and began looking around, grabbing some of the things he needed. Rations, horse pills, tobacco. He went to the desk, placing them all down, and opened his mouth to call out again when something caught his eye.

A picture hung up on the wall behind the cashier’s desk, making Jack’s heart stop. It was the old gang. He could even see his own tiny face in the photo, standing happily beside his mother. He’d thought that John had killed the remaining gang members, yet this photo was here, proving them wrong. Had Bonnie lied about the shopkeeper? Who was he?

The door behind the desk swung open. “Sorry to keep you waitin’, friend, I was -”

An older man appeared, stopping in his tracks like a terrified deer. Jack blinked back. He looked familiar. 

God, he looked familiar.

“John?” The man asked, his brows furrowing, his eyes shining a little. “But…Miss MacFarlane…she said you -”

“Sorry, friend. I ain’t John.” Speaking his father’s name felt so foreign on his tongue. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “We…um…we must have met. A very long time ago.”

Jack watched the gears slowly turn in the man’s head, following his gaze toward the photo up on the wall. The man blinked once, twice, then gasped. “No…Jack?!” When he nodded, the man regarded him as if he was looking at a ghost. “Oh…Lord above. You’re all grown.”

“Yes, sir.” He smiled a little, leaning against the counter. “And I reckon we haven’t seen each other in fifteen years. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t very good…”

“Oh!” The man shook his head a little, reaching to grab the first thing on the counter that he could. “Oh, yeah. You was so young, of course…” Clearing his throat, he began scanning. “My name’s Pearson. I was…I was the cook.”

Suddenly, Jack remembered.

“Pssst. Jack. Here.” Pearson knelt down to his level, holding out a golden pear with a wide smile. “It’s the last one. I want you to have it.”

Jack gasped, reaching out to take the fruit with a slight confused smile. “Why?”

“You deserve somethin’ sweet more than all of us. Just don’t tell Uncle Bill, he’ll be sad I gave it to you instead of him.” Pearson winked, and Jack grinned, thanking him profusely.

Jack blinked, standing up straight. “I…remember. I remember you.”

Pearson’s eyes began watering as he continued to scan. “I’m glad to hear it. I never stopped thinking about everyone.”

“…Mrs. Adler is well. She’s living just outside Armadillo. A-And Charles is in Canada. He’s got a wife and kid now.” He couldn’t imagine how tough it must have felt, to have the gang, a family, suddenly disappear like mist through his fingers. “How are you, Mr. Pearson?”

“I’m glad to hear all that…” He paused for a moment, perhaps to collect himself, then pulled his gaze upward. “Happy, I think,” he said softly. “Got married a few years back. Working here has been good. The MacFarlanes’ are good folk. It’s just different.”

Pearson finished scanning in silence, and Jack gave him the money and placed things in his bag. “It was really nice to see you,” he said, genuinely. “I’ll come visit again.”

The man gave a watery smile. “I’d like that. Come visit me any time.”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack returned the smile, and headed out the door, greeted by the bright afternoon sun. He held a hand up to shield his eyes, happy to know he had another friend at the MacFarlane ranch.

***

South of Armadillo sat a beautiful park bustling with people. The first real warm day of the year, the trees rustled with the breeze and the sky was almost dazzlingly blue without a single cloud to dull it. Jack surveyed it all from a distance, remembering Charles’ family as he watched happy children run around while their parents talked on the bench.

Glancing across the park, he noticed a couple sitting on a bench together, his arm around her shoulders. She was laughing, and two children were playing with a frisbee right near them. Jack’s heart skipped a beat. She looked so familiar, he just knew that he was supposed to know her.

When she turned her head, he quickly turned his away, not wanting to be caught staring. He closed his eyes, trying to remember if he saw this woman in Pearson's photo. Instead, a blurry memory resurfaced, one that filled his entire heart with dread.

“Jack. Be brave, son. I’m gonna go get your Momma.”

The horse took off. Jack held onto its neck, squeezing his eyes shut while the woman guided it away from the forest. He didn’t dare speak, he didn’t dare move, he just held on until the horse slowed down. The woman behind him slid off the saddle, holding her hands up toward him.

“We’re here, Jack. You don’t gotta worry. Arthur will be here, and he’ll bring your Momma safe and sound.”

He opened his eyes, looking down at the woman below. She was young. Her voice had shaken a little as she spoke, but her face was steel. He leaned into her arms, and she slowly lifted him down from the horse, but didn’t let go of him yet. He buried his face in her chest, trying not to cry. “I’m scared, Miss Tilly.”

Her embrace tightened a little, smoothing down his hair. “I know, honey. I am too.”

Jack blinked the stinging out of his eyes, standing up to walk right over to the bench where she was sitting. “‘Scuse me. Don’t mean to bother you, but I believe we’ve met before, ma’am.”

The man frowned, looking toward his wife, who looked at Jack as if he were a ghost. Slowly, she stood up, looking him up and down, perhaps trying to process. “...Is it really you, Jack?” she whispered, barely audible.

A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he nodded, taking his hat off to greet her properly. “Yes, ma’am. It’s so good to see you again, Miss Tilly.”

She gasped, a hand flying over her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes. “Oh! And you remember!” Assuring her husband she would fill him in in just a moment, she looped her arm through Jack’s and they began walking. “My goodness. You’ve really grown. Last I saw you, you was barely the size of my knee.”

“I know.” He smiled softly, looking her over. She still looked just as young as he remembered, but happier. “You seem well.”

“Oh, I’m very well.” She smiled giddily. “My William is just so wonderful. And those two little ones over there are mine. I never could have imagined a life like this.” They stopped walking for a moment, watching William teach his young son how to throw the frisbee farther, while their daughter climbed up onto his back. Jack chuckled while Tilly turned her gaze back to him. “How are you? I heard that John…”

Jack nodded, hating to be the one to always give the news. “He was killed a few years back. I buried Ma almost two months ago.”

Taking a shaky breath, Tilly placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m real sorry. Those detectives had always been the scum of the Earth. Heard they was braggin’ about using your Pa, then killed him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He looked at her. “They won’t hurt me, or you. I took care of it.”

The words seemed to have the opposite effect of what he wanted, making her a little uneasy. “Oh, Jack. You’re still so young. To carry this burden…”

“Everyone has somethin’ to carry,” he grumbled, knowing that no one in that damn gang ever had a chance at peace. Why shouldn’t he have killed Ross? He pulled his arm away from her. “You should get back to your family.”

Immediately, he felt guilty as her eyes brimmed again. She hesitated, then leaned forward, pulling him into a hug. “Be well, Jack. I’ll be thinking of you.”

He slowly returned the hug, aware of how she seemed to melt into it. “You too, Miss Tilly. This ain’t goodbye.”

She held on a bit tighter, and he was reminded of that terrible day where they held each other, waiting, waiting, waiting.

***

“Did ya hear? Leslie Dupont is in Armadillo. But nobody knows what she looks like!”

“I wish I knew. I love her books. If I were her, I’d wanna let everyone know it was me.”

Jack walked past two strangers, but paused for a moment, turning over his shoulder. “Leslie Dupont?” he asked, tilting his head at the woman who spoke first. “Ain’t she the one who wrote The Lady of the Manor?”

The woman gasped, nodding. “Never woulda thought a man like you’d read something like that. That was one of her first.”

“My Pa bought it long ago. It was a very good story.” He looped his thumbs through his belt. “I would like to meet Ms. Dupont.”

The second woman scoffed. “So would I, but good luck findin’ her. She’s more secretive than Gaptooth Ridge. Dupont ain’t even her real name.”

Jack tilted his hat in their direction, then continued on walking, his gaze scanning Armadillo. There wasn’t even any guarantee that she would be here. He knew he ought to just keep going, but first, he stepped into the telegraph office. Producing a letter from his bag, he placed it gently on the counter. “Here you are. From a man named Sam Odessa. Please see it gets delivered safely to his poor wife.”

The man behind the counter nodded solemnly, taking it from him, and Jack turned away, exhaling. As he began walking toward his horse, he had the strangest feeling he was being watched. Looking around, he located a woman sitting outside the train station, an open book on her lap and sporting a slack jaw. For some reason, Jack was drawn to her, and carefully, he headed up the stairs.

“Are you alright, ma’am? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I might as well have,” she breathed, getting to her feet to look him over. “You look just like an old friend of mine, is all.”

Jack raised his brows. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Mary-Beth,” she breathed. “Mary-Beth Gaskill.”

Only one tent was still lit at this time of night. Jack slowly crawled over to it, peeking his head inside, where he found Mary-Beth scribbling away at a piece of paper. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and her brows furrowed with concern.

“Jack? It’s late. What are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep…”

“Oh, sweet boy,” she murmured, gesturing for him to come closer. He did. “Would you like to hear a story I’m writing?”

Jack beamed excitedly. “Oh, yes!”

Her soft voice spun tales of wonder that made his eyelids feel heavy. He didn’t get to hear the ending.

Swallowing, Jack smiled slightly. “Well, my name’s Jack, Miss Mary-Beth.”

Shock and recognition all rolled into one on her face. She dropped the book on the floor in her haste to hug him. “Jack! Jack Marston! Oh, you’ve grown so tall! Look at you!”

He chuckled, returning the hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you!” She pulled away, beaming brightly. “Sweet boy. I’ve missed you. You look just like your father.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jack tried a smile, tilting his head. “How ya been?”

Mary-Beth bent down to pick up her book, closing it carefully while she spoke. “Good! I been good! Still on my own, but it ain’t so bad. I’ve been writing so many stories…” she lowered her voice. “Been publishin’ ‘em under the name Leslie Dupont.”

His jaw dropped. “You’re Ms. Dupont?” he whispered, his heart skipping a beat. “So that’s how Pa got that book. I read The Lady of the Manor a whole buncha times!”

Blushing a little at the compliment, she smiled. “You always did like stories, like me.”

“I remember,” he said softly, like he was just as surprised as she was. “I remember you reading to me.”

Tears filled her eyes, but none fell. “That was when it was just a dream. I never thought it would come true.”

“I’m glad it did, Miss Mary-Beth.”

Wiping her eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder to give him a smile. “I have to get going. But I’ll write to you, Jack. I promise.”

“This ain’t goodbye,” he agreed, returning the smile. She squeezed his shoulder, then headed down the Armadillo path, leaving him alone but with a sense of peace.

***

Jack rode past Blackwater. He’d only gone a few times. When he was younger, Abigail and John would always exchange wary looks when Blackwater was brought up, and he never knew why. They didn’t tell him, and if it had something to do with the gang, he couldn’t remember it.

He was sure it had something to do with Uncle Dutch, but even the man’s face was barely a distant memory. He remembered he had large hands that would pat his head. He remembered hearing him raise his voice in distress often, quickly putting on a smile the second Uncle Hosea placed a hand on his arm, reminding him that Jack was around. 

All of those men were blurry memories. John wanted to forget that life so badly that he never talked about them, and Jack was too young to remember.

But Charles talked about it when he asked. Jack asked about Bill and Javier. He asked about Dutch and Hosea. He even asked about Micah, and Charles, although he clearly felt a lot of resentment toward that man, answered his questions.

When he asked about Arthur, Charles’ breath seemed to leave his body.

“He was a good man. He’d tell you he wasn’t, but he was.”

Charles talked the most about Arthur, and Jack let him. He wanted to know about him. All he could really remember was the smell of smoke, a gentle but calloused hand on the shoulder, fishing together. He was not unlike a brother to John. That was why he had always been Uncle Arthur.

“How did he die, Charles?”

“…Tuberculosis. But if it weren’t for him, your father wouldn’t have been able to make it back to you. I was helping the nearby tribe, but everyone else in the gang turned on the two of them because of Micah’s influence on Dutch. There must have been some big fight on the mountain. When I got there a few days later, Arthur was laying alone, blue and dusted with light snow.”

Jack couldn’t help but reach out and touch Charles’ shoulder, knowing how tough it was to come across a loved one in that way. He went on to say that he buried him atop a mountain, facing the west, because it was what he would have loved.

Now, as he rode his horse up the trail, Jack turned his gaze up to the sky. Gold swirls danced among the clouds, making it a beautiful sunset. What he was doing here, he wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t believe that people who were dead could still hear them. Maybe it was just because he felt like he should see it, just once.

When he reached the top, he slid off of the saddle, glancing up at the small hut nearby as he began walking toward the peak. There, exactly where Charles said it was, was a grave. Its wood faded with the many years it had withstood the weather, he had to kneel down to read the words painstakingly etched into it. 

Arthur Morgan. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

A small bluejay landed atop the wood, pecking at it. Jack exhaled slowly, sitting cross-legged in the dew-covered grass beneath him.

“I wish I could remember you,” he whispered, feeling stupid the moment the words left his lips. He groaned at himself, wondering what had gotten into him. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had to pull himself together.

The bluejay tilted its head back and forth jerkily, like it was listening for something. Jack sighed and closed his eyes, trying to scrounge up something other than the blurry fishing trip.

He sat on the ground, picking listlessly at the grass when footsteps approached. Jack looked up, the man blocking out the sun with his frame, a complete shadow. His voice was gentle despite the obvious gruff that he always had. “Hey, kid. You okay?”

“I’m okay, Uncle Arthur. I just miss home.”

“I know. It ain’t easy livin’ out here like this.” Arthur stepped out from in front and instead took a seat on the ground beside him, grunting a bit with the effort. “Where’s your Ma?”

“Sleeping. She ain’t feeling good.”

Arthur nodded, taking his hat off to spin between his fingers. “Y’know, Jack, you’re real tough. Tougher than any of us.”

Frowning, he looked up. “What? What do you mean?”

“We chose this life, but you, you didn’t get a choice. It ain’t easy, but you’re a real soldier, just like in one of them storybooks you like.” Arthur paused, then turned to place his hat on Jack’s head. It fell over his eyes, which made Jack giggle. “Ha! Look at that. A perfect fit.”

“Uncle Arthur!” he giggled, reaching up to pull it off his eyes so he could see him. “It’s too big!”

Arthur’s brows shot up, a grin pulling at his lips. “Too big? Where’d you get an idea like that?”

Quick footsteps approached. “Arthur Morgan, you get that hat off my son this instant!”

Arthur chuckled, taking the hat back. “Sorry, Abigail. Just havin’ a little fun with him, is all.” He turned to Jack, winking. “See ya later, kid.”

Jack opened his eyes slowly, reaching up to take off his hat. It was all scuffed, old - it belonged to John, but if his memory served correctly, it looked a lot like Arthur’s.

He turned his gaze toward the wood, watching the bluejay flit its wings for a moment before taking off, flying toward the setting sun. Not quite sure why, Jack smiled and stood up, walking back toward his horse. He looked over his shoulder one more time.

“Goodbye, Uncle Arthur.”

Jack mounted his horse, hoping that wherever they were, Arthur was taking care of his parents.

***

The horizon was bathed with pink by the time Jack’s horse trotted up the familiar path. The sunrise already felt warm on his skin as he glanced up at the hill by the barn. The three graves stood both proud and haphazard, because they were made with shaky, bloody hands. Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

He could feel Abigail’s hand on his shoulder, telling him he was growing into a fine boy. He could hear John proudly praising him for his first hunt. Both of their voices told him they loved him. As a tear slid down his cheek, Jack smiled and opened his eyes.

Carefully, he slid off of the saddle and hitched his horse, feeding her some oats from his palm. The ranch wasn’t much of a ranch anymore. He had no animals and no help, but maybe, someday, he could be like his parents. Maybe, someday, he could be like Charles, and have a family of his own here.

For now, he supposed, visiting every now and then wouldn’t be so bad.

Dragging his feet a bit, he tiredly ascended the steps, but before he could enter he found an envelope stuck on the bottom of the door. He bent down, curiously taking it into his hands. His brows furrowed as he shouldered the door open, sticking a finger beneath the seal of the envelope. Still looking down, he slowly moved to sit on the couch where he had once spent countless afternoons reading.

He pulled out a letter, and a small picture fell onto his lap as he did. Between two fingers, he picked up the photo, pleasantly surprised to find it was a picture of Charles, Alice, and Morgan, smiling brightly with a newborn in Alice’s arms. Jack smiled, too, and turned to read the letter.

Dear Jack,

I hope your return home was a safe one. I know it’s unlikely you’ll be back to Beecher’s Hope, but in case you do go back, I had this delivered there. I wanted to let you know that our son was born the day after you left. You are welcome to visit whenever you want. Morgan won’t stop asking about you. It seems you have quite the gift for talking to children.

Alice is well. She sends her regards and hopes that you will come and meet our little John soon. It’s a fine name. It’s a strong name. We both like it. We hope you do too.

Your friend,

Charles Smith

Jack’s hands shook a little as he lowered the letter, but for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like crying. Instead, he picked up the photo, slowly getting up from the couch, and put it on top of the fireplace, proudly on display. He looked into the eyes of each happy family member, looked at baby John’s chubby fist reaching up toward his mother, and gave a watery smile.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood and stared, but eventually his feet moved him into his old bedroom, where it looked like nothing had changed at all. His bookshelf was intact, his bed was unmade. He lay down, watching the early morning sun pour in through the window. For some reason, now, the house didn’t seem so empty. He pulled his hat down over his face and closed his eyes.

For once, sleep came easy.

[rockscanfly]

the stars are not wanted now

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

Death’s messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

or,

Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Read below or at  AO3. 

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

In the life of Charles Smith, death’s messengers had come in many forms. 

The first was in the navy blue uniforms of American soldiers, their ghost pale hands wrapped tight over his mother’s arms as they dragged her from their tent, screaming and kicking. 

Ten years later it was in a letter, sent by an old neighbor. It contained his father’s wedding ring, a family photo, and no explanation. 

The way the whiskey had wafted off his father’s breath the night Charles left? There was no need for one. 

Then it had been the sharp crack of a gunshot—one, two, three. Sean, Hosea, Lenny. There was the frightened whinny of a horse mixed in, and the sick, rotten-fruit plop of Kierran’s head as it fell from his cupped, bloody hands.

This messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

For twenty-seven years, careful restraint of his emotions had allowed Charles to survive. He’d never had the luxury of anger, of rage. An outburst from most members of the gang meant getting kicked out of the saloon, a fine, or a night in jail at worst. 

For Charles, a length of rope looped over a tree branch was never far. America hated nothing more than a mutt, and to her people Charles was a rabid dog best put down at the first snarl.

So Charles learned control and calm. He learned to bury, to smother, to take everything burning in him and shove it somewhere safe. To put his feelings aside until he was alone and could take them out and look them over with no nervous trigger fingers or hateful eyes waiting for the first excuse—the first bitter word, sharp gesture, first hateful look. 

Charles didn’t know what did it, what final burning hurt snuck into the tinderbox of his chest and sparked the blaze. If it was the seventh rock his shovel struck in the soft, sucking dirt, forcing him to fumble in the dark until he could haul it free and cast it out. If it was the heat, the chafe of sticky cotton on his damp skin. Could be it was the flies buzzing in his ears, or the way the sweat from his brow stung his eyes. 

Maybe it was the sickly smell of rotting meat already coming from the sacks wrapped around Lenny and Hosea’s corpses, or the way there was no money for coffins to bury them in. 

One moment Charles was digging side by side with Sadie, knee deep in the grave that would hold just one body of the second family that fate had torn from him.

And then he was kneeling in the sucking mud, hands fisted uselessly in the torn roots and crawling worms. Anguish tore howling from his throat, muffled against gritted teeth. Charles could taste copper coating the backs of his gums as he hunched in the dirt. His eyes clenched tight as his heart did its level best to tear itself from his chest, to strike out for a life less riddled with bullets, one that didn’t bleed loss like a butchered carcass or burn everything good up to ashes.

Charles was dimly aware, under the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, of Sadie’s soft cursing as she threw down her own shovel and climbed into Lenny’s half-dug grave beside him. The darkness behind his eyes became complete as she shuttered the lamp, plunging them into night. He flinched away as Sadie’s firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t,” he growled. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted exorcism. 

Sadie just gripped him tighter, blunt nails digging hard into the hunched muscle of his shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, kneeling before him, sharp knees pressed to his own. A choked cry strangled in Charles’s chest as her skinny, whipcord arms wrapped around him, pressing him to her chest. 

“They’re gone,” he managed, gasping through the tightness in his lungs. He couldn’t get any air. “Lenny, Javier, Hosea—Arthur.” Charles made a fist, pounding senselessly at the dirt. “He, we—” Charles cut himself off, dug his nails deep into the flesh of his knee, and tried to claw the pain into his own skin. 

A beat passed. One of Sadie’s palms gripped Charles at the back of his neck, cupped the back of his head gently. “Charles,” she said, voice rough and small, gentle. “Charles, I know.”

And it’s possible she did. She was one of the more observant folks in the camp. He and Arthur hadn’t really been very careful. Nothing too blatant, no. But anyone could have read into the casual ease with which Arthur touched his shoulder, the way their knees almost touched as they sat by the fire. The way Charles would return from guard duty with his hair mussed, leaves of grass clinging to the back of his shirt, the trailing ends of his hair. How Arthur would sit on a stump, failing utterly to conceal that he was sketching Charles as he chopped wood or hauled water. 

Arthur was not a cautious man by nature. He often made Charles foolish. 

More important than any of their thousand tiny, dangerous indiscretions was the fact that Arthur had trusted Sadie. It was possible the big, soft-hearted idiot told her about them. Maybe one day Charles would have it in him to be angry about that, at Arthur for putting them both at risk without asking him first. Reckless, impulsive, trusting. 

Gone.

Charles leaned heavily into Sadie’s grip, buried his face in the sweat and dirt streaked cotton of her shoulder. “How did you live through this?” He hissed, breath hitching. It felt like nettles had grown in his chest, wrapping around his lungs, choking like weeds to a garden. 

Sadie’s arm tightened over Charles’s shoulder. “Sun hasn’t dawned on a single day I’ve wanted to live through since they killed my Jake.” A filthy hand pet his hair back from his face, streaking dirt through the sweat on his brow. “Two reasons I go on. I gotta put every O'Driscoll on this green earth into a hole in the ground. And ‘cause I got folks as need me, now.”

Charles buried himself tighter against her, hiding from the pain that wracked him. It was ridiculous. Sadie was half his size, if he was being generous. But pressed against her, her clumsy hand in his hair, her skinny arm not even half over his back—he felt safer. Smaller. “They don’t even want me.” 

Sadie laughed, a hoarse, half-hearted thing that shook her chest more than it did the air. “You think those boys are lining up to put me in charge? Or, hell, Grimshaw? It don’t matter what anyone wants, Charles. They need us.” 

“I needed him,” Charles keened. He sounded like a child. He felt like a child. And he’d never felt so helpless, so lost, since he’d been torn from his mother’s arms. “All of them.” Charles bit back a breath, forced it down. He grasped a handful of Sadie’s shirt, pulling her closer. “I feel like the only part of me that’s good died with them. I don’t. I don’t think I can keep doing this.” 

“John ain’t dead yet,” Sadie whispered fiercely. “And neither is Tilly, or Mary-Beth, or me. Even the rest of ‘em. They’re all the family we got, Charles. So cry it out. But then you gotta pull yourself together. I need ya.” 

No one had ever needed Charles Smith. 

No one who lived. 

Charle’s head was going fuzzy, light, in a buzzing, burning way. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough air. Maybe he was choking on his own pathetic sorrow. 

Maybe the pain of losing so much was finally going to kill him. 

“I should just leave,” he mumbled into Sadie’s filthy, mud spattered shoulder. “Suffering follows me, I think. Maybe if I just go you won’t die, too.” 

Sadie’s blunt nails dug hard into Charle’s shoulder. “You leave and you’re yellow or you’re a fool,” she said, shaking him. “The world doesn’t give a shit about any of us, Charles. You know this life we’re livin’ ain’t meant to be a long one.”

Something in that tickled him, in a sideways sort of way. He laughed, a weak, hacking thing that was half-cough. “How the hell is Uncle still kicking?” 

Sadie’s shoulder moved under his forehead as she gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Can’t die if you never do shit.”

“You’re right,” Charles admitted. The stupid joke had shaken something loose in his throat. His chest still hurt, but he wasn’t choking on air. “I’m sorry. I just—” Charles sucked down another breath. “I wasn’t ready to live without him.” 

Sadie just pulled him tighter, tucked his head up under her chin. Charles wondered, vaguely, what she saw when she looked out into the dark of the Lemoyne night. “I know, honey,” she sighed. “But you will. You have to.” 

                                     _________________________

Traditional Kotsoteka mourning is an involved process. Done right, Charles should have burned Arthur’s wagon and killed Peachblossom, Arthur’s white Roan mare, so he would be well equipped in the afterlife. 

But there was no body to bury. No grave in which to throw Arthur’s guns, or the bow he’d left strapped to Peachblossom’s saddle on that final, bloody day at the bank. It would have been a shame to snap into pieces, anyway. Charles had made the bow for Arthur, so the other man had always taken excellent care of it. 

Fact was, Arthur’s body lay somewhere at the bottom of the sea, and they were too strapped for resources to go burning wagons and wasting supplies for traditions Charles had never been all that good at following. So instead Sadie helped him shave the sides of his head—the left side, to mourn a fellow warrior. The right, because a fellow warrior wasn’t all Charles was mourning. 

Together, Charles and Sadie burned one of Arthur’s shirts. There was no wailing, no cutting of arms and chests. As the last few patches of blue cotton caught fire, Charles resolved that, a year from then, he would never again speak the name Arthur Morgan.

                             ______________________________

Six years and too many graves later, Charles was resting on a freshly hammered fence post when a giant, mean-looking mustang rode up the road to Beecher’s Hope. Charles was half-way to drawing his sawed-off when its rider called out to him. “Charles! Charles Smith!”

Charles would know that hoarse drawl anywhere. 

Charles jumped the fence, jogging towards the black-clad woman on her suitably terrifying horse. “Sadie? Sadie Adler?”

Sadie swung down from her saddle, running forward. Charles caught her around the middle, swinging her excitedly. 

“How are you?” Charles asked as he set her down, hands moving to her shoulders to get a look at her. She’d picked up a few fresh scars, some weather to her skin from sun and wind. But her eyes were just the same as they’d always been, lit with an inner fire.

Sadie smiled, that same bitter half lift of the mouth as six years ago. “Alive,” she shrugged, patting Charles roughly on the shoulder. “You?”

Charles shrugged back. “Better, now. A few months back? Not so well.” 

Sadie nodded, walking back to her evil looking mustang and leading it gentle as a kitten to the hitching post. Charles leaned back against the fence, digging around in his jacket pockets for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, settling it in the side of his mouth. Demon-horse secured, Sadie settled beside him, leaning forward over the fence to survey the homestead. Charles passed her a cigarette, holding the lighter out and flickering as she lit a burning ember in the early morning light. 

Sadie inhaled, brown eyes sharp and considering as she surveyed the half-built ranch. “So. You’re, uh. Livin’ with the Marston’s?”

Charles nodded, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. “Just John for now.” He caught himself, laughed. “Well, and Uncle.”

“That old fool’s still alive?” Sadie whistled. “Bless his heart.” Silence stretched out between them. Maybe it should have been uncomfortable, the way it would have been between any two other friends who had parted in bloodshed and hadn’t seen one another in six years. 

Instead, it was like a well-worn blanket, warm and comforting in the early morning chill. Charles hadn’t shared a peaceful silence in a long while. John and Uncle always seemed to need to fill the air with talk. The folks in Saint Denis too, and theirs had been a lot less friendly. 

Their cigarettes burned down to embers before Sadie broke the peace. “Any clue where John’s at?” she asked. “I got a job for him.”

Charles grunted. “Bounty hunting?”

“Only kinda jobs I run. For now, anyway.”

“He’s in town grabbing supplies. Won’t be back until late.”

“Well, shit.” Sadie cursed, scuffing her boot in the dirt. She frowned, kicking up little clouds of dust while she chewed on her lip. Charles turned, tucking his arms up atop the fence, settling against the sun-warmed wood. Sadie leaned in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, so the fringe of her leather duster brushed against his knuckles. They watched the horizon together for a few long moments, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky. 

Sadie let out a long breath, shifting restlessly next to him. In the corner of his vision Charles caught brown eyes flicking consideringly over at him, measuring. “You busy?”

Charles let out an inaudible sigh of his own. “I don’t do that anymore, Sadie.”

Sadie laughed, a little bitter, a little sharp, like a sip of bark tea. “You too good for bounty hunting? Well, excuse me.”

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Isn’t like that. I just. I’m trying something new.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ain't no reason you can't help around Marston’s ranch and earn yourself a little money.” She gestured to the half-built house, the piles of timbers and sacks of plaster. “Hell, how you think John’s paying this place off? I know y’all ain’t making any sort of profit yet.” 

Charles massaged his temples, willing away the oncoming tension headache. Sadie wasn’t wrong. Charles loved John, knew he needed to look after him for Arthur—at least until John was settled in with his family. But there would be an after, one day. Charles had learned one thing in his thirty-three years: no one stayed. 

He’d be watching his own back again, probably not too long from now. And it's a lot easier to do that when you had money. 

Charles sighed, pulling his hands from his face. He hooked his thumbs through his belt. “What’s the job?”

Sadie grinned, bitter and mean. “Man murdered his family, looks like,” she said, pulling away from the fence. “He’s wanted in Strawberry. Not even that far of a ride from here.”

Charles walked over to the little campsite, pulling his rucksack from his tent. It was already packed. He hesitated. “Kids?”

“A little girl, around ten. And a boy, round three.”

Charles pulled his tomahawk from under his bedroll, tucking it into his belt. He grabbed some of the nastier arrows—the poison wouldn’t kill a full grown man, but it’d make him suffer. 

Some men deserve to suffer. 

Charles stalked over to Falmouth, mounting him in one swift motion. “Lead the way.”

Sadie swung up onto her monster. “Good man,” she said, kicking her boot against Charles’s own as she trotted by. “Let’s see how rusty you’ve got, Mr. Smith.”

As they rode, Sadie interrogated him. 

“Talked to John a little, ‘bout you,” she yelled over the thundering of hooves. The earth was hard-packed and dusty in the Texarcana heat. “Heard things weren't going too well down in Saint Denis.”

“They weren’t,” Charles called back. “I’d only been there about a year, anyway. Job was going sour.” 

“How so?”

Charles laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Folks were only going to put up with me beating up white men for a living for so much longer.”

Sadie tossed a grin over her shoulder, knowing and vicious. She and Charles had different struggles in their lives. But there was a baseline understanding between them. Most of the gang had been dangerous for what they did. Of the ones who lived, Charles and Sadie were dangerous because of what they were. “Novelty was about to wear off, huh?”

Charles shook his head, whipping wayward hair from his face. “Yeah.”

Sadie turned back to the road, steering Hera around a sharp bend. “Before that?”

The road widened out. Charles urged Falmouth forward, riding till the two horses were running abreast. “Was up in Canada. Helped relocate the Wapiti after...” Charles paused. He had left with the Wapiti immediately after the attack on the oil refinery. Hadn’t even gone back to camp for the rest of his belongings, just taken what was on Taima’s back and. Left.

Charles had no idea if Sadie even knew why Charles had gone, what Arthur had told her.

“That kid,” Sadie asked, breaking Charles’s train of thought. “He died, didn’t he?” 

Charles swallowed, the dust from the road cloyingly sweet in his mouth. “Yes.”

Sadie steered Hera over a wooden bridge, hand on her rifle as she scanned each side for signs of an ambush. “I don’t think I understand what all happened with them,” she said. “There was so much going on, towards the end. Folks leaving, Arthur sick, that damn fool plan with the train—How did Dutch even get those folks wrapped up in our mess?”. 

“Same thing that happened to all of us,” Charles offered. “Dutch talked a good game, riled them up over things they were already angry about, got everyone in over their head, and was the only one who didn’t pay for it.” 

The rest of their ride continued in contemplative silence, broken only by the necessary shouts and calls needed to wrangle their bounty. The murderer was holed up in an abandoned cabin just a little north of town. Hardly worth hiring bounty hunters for, really. Except that the Strawberry sheriffs had always been corrupt, not to mention lazy. Some things don’t change. 

Still, working with Sadie again was worth it. It’d just been them those long months Arthur and the rest were lost in Guarma, presumed dead. Sure, the rest of the girls were still around and they pulled their weight. But none of them were as talented in violence—save Karen, maybe. 

 But she was too far gone over Sean to hold herself together, let alone anyone else.

It’s when they’d divvied up the bounty and stepped into the Strawberry saloon that Charles remembered why those months had been so damn stressful. Besides the Pinkertons, the hopeless fate of half their family, the deaths, John trapped in prison—

Sadie Adler’s temper had always been on a short fuze. 

And Charles, fool that he was, had always had a weakness for brave, impulsive idiots.  

A big, mean white man took exception to Charles drinking at the same bar as him. Sadie snapped off a sharp warning, stepping around Charles and squaring up to the man twice her size. Then the mean bastard took exception to Charles traveling with, being familiar with, a white woman. 

Sadie took exception to his exception, and her exception took the form of a knife straight through the man’s hand and into the scarred oak of the counter. 

They were riding hard out of town, ducking the odd shot from the posse riding too slow behind them, Sadie whooping wildly and shooting flawlessly over her back when Charles realized: he hadn’t had fun like that in six years.

They lost the posse in the hills by turning off on a razor thin trail, stashing the horses under an overhang and laying down in the tall grass. 

They lay there, panting, laughing, exhilarated. The stars were bright in the sky, glaring down through the clear West Elizabeth sky.

Eventually Sadie sobered, hoarse laughter falling silent. Charles could see her from the corner of his eye. She was still staring up at the stars, hair limned silver in the moonlight. She chewed on her words before breaking the peace. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Charles took a breath, held it. “We had to leave before the Army arrived,” he said. He picked absently at the grass, crushing it dry and summer-sweet between his fingers. “The Wapiti. They were mostly women and children, the elderly. The sick.”

Sadie huffed, turning on her side, propping up on her elbow to glare down at him, hair frizzled into a messy halo behind her head, all lit up by moonglow. “Ya could of wrote,” she insisted. 

Charles kept his eyes fixed on the night sky, on the stars in their cold, beautiful distance. “To who?” he scoffed. “We all knew the gang was on its last legs. By the time we crossed the border into Canada I’d already seen the papers. Interesting, how they left you out of it.”

Sadie went quiet. She collapsed back beside him, thumping softly in the bent grass. “Is that how you found out?” 

A copy of The New Hanover had been pinned to the wooden wall of the trading shack where Charles was selling pelts for food and medicine. He’d left for Beaver Hollow the next day. “Yes.”

Sadie sucked air through her teeth. “I went back, few years later,” she muttered. Her boot knocked against his, a rough comfort. “You uh. You did a good job, Charles,” she said. Her fingers sought his in the tall grass, brushing against his lightly. Like she was scared to spook him, maybe. “We watched the sun come up together. He woulda liked it.” 

Charles drew his hand back, pressing it over his heart. The hollow, dull ache that lived in his heart sharpened, brightened. A fresh cut on an old scar. “He’d have liked it better if he’d lived.” 

Sadie made a noise, propping back up on her elbow to lean over him. “You know that ain’t his fault,” she frowned at him. “The man was sick, Charles.” 

Charles’s head hurt. His whole body did, in a cold, numb way. This wasn’t the burning, searing grief at the bottom of Lenny’s shallow grave. It was older, rooted deeper down. “Don’t,” he rasped. Grit from the road coated the back of his throat. “Just, don’t.” 

Sadie charged on, implacable. “You know he wasn’t gonna leave without John.”

The stars were so bright. Charles could feel the headache building, like a creature clawing out through his temples. “They could have left together,” he snapped at her. “We all could have left together, before the bank. All of that mess in Lemoyne—none of it had to happen. Arthur didn’t stay for John—he stayed for Dutch.” 

Sadie scrubbed her free over her face. “The man raised him,” she tried. The excuse was hollow, empty. Even she didn’t buy it.

Charles turned on his side, faced Sadie properly through the tall grass and moonlight. “Don’t give me that, Sadie. Not you.” 

“Fine, Charles! He was a fool!” She threw her hand up in the air, exasperated. “He was scared, he was foolish, and he loved Dutch because he was an idiot.” Sadie fixed him with a glare. “There, did that make you happy, big man? Speaking ill of the dead?” 

It didn’t. “I shouldn’t be speaking of him at all,” Charles said instead. “That’s not how—we’re supposed to let go. It’s been years.”

“You loved him,” she insisted.

“Look at how much that mattered,” Charles said, anger furrowing his brow, burning low in his stomach. Had he ever let himself be angry, with Arthur, with the choices they made? “What did loving him buy me, besides a heart that broke twice?”

Sadie’s eyes softened, understanding dawning warm and terrible. “I know that’s not how you really feel,” she said. Sadie reached out, again, with careful fingers. When Charles didn’t stop her she tucked the hair plastered to Charles sweaty forehead back, away from his eyes.

It was the first gentleness anyone had touched him with since he left the Wapiti for Saint Denis. Charles’s breath caught in his throat, trapped, terrified. Vulnerable. 

It would have hurt less if she’d socked him in the stomach.

“You don’t ride back from Canada, on your own, to bury a man who you hated,” Sadie continued. Her calloused hand settled on his jaw, thumb behind his ear. She held him steady, made him look her in the eye. “You don’t spend a year of your life helping his kid brother get his family back.”

“Arthur didn’t need me, at the end,” Charles managed. “Rain Falls needed me—and then they didn’t. No one did.”

“Why Saint Denis, Charles? You hated it there,” Sadie asked, resigned. She already knew the answer. She was being cruel, making him face it out loud.

Charles swallowed. No one had ever accused Sadie Adler of being kind. 

“I was waiting to die.” 

Sadie nodded. Yes, of course. “And all this with John? What next, once he doesn’t need you?”

Charles glared at her, mouth tight and stubborn. 

Sadie laughed in his face. “You and Arthur,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You were made for one another, weren’t ya? No understanding how to live in this world for yourselves.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Charles shot back. 

“I’m happy with my life,” Sadie said firmly. “I had love, but I never wanted a family. I just wanted Jake. He’s gone. So I’m doing what makes me happy.” She paused, staring down at him, considering. “What makes you happy, Charles? You’re the most competent, most stubborn man I know. What do you really want? You know no one could stop you from getting it.”

Charles shook his head. “I have no idea,” he admitted. He climbed to his feet, offering Sadie a hand. She accepted, pulling herself to her feet. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing tight.  

“Don’t stop looking,” she commanded. “What you were doin’ in Saint Denis, waiting to die? You’re better than that, Charles Smith.”

Charles shook his head, pulling Sadie into a one armed hug. Grief, Arthur, his life—they hadn’t solved any of it, laying out in a field and snapping at one another under the stars. 

But the wound hurt a little less, like a lanced infection. 

“I hope so, Mrs. Adler,” Charles said into the mess of Sadie’s hair. She chuckled into his chest, punched him half-heartedly in the arm. They separated, fetching and mounting their horses. 

They separated at the fork in the trail. Sadie headed east, back to her base camp just outside Valentine. She had work to do, bounties to catch. The world may have been more ‘civilized’ in 1907 than it was in 1899, but work was still plentiful for a rider and marksman of Sadie Adler’s skill. 

Charles rode west towards Beecher’s Hope, sun rising over his shoulder.

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

A/N: Charles and Sadie are my favorites, and they should have spent more time with one another. They're not exactly similar people, but they've been through many of the same trials. 

I also think they were both done a disservice by the epilogue. Charles's feelings regarding the gang's collapse are largely unexplored, despite him canonically being the one to have buried Lenny, Hosea, Mrs. Grimshaw, and Arthur. 

We also don't get a good explanation for why Charles ended up in Saint Denis as part of a fighting ring. Certain lines from Charles--"It seems like I was put on this Earth to hurt and to suffer myself"--have always led me to believe that he suffers from suicidal ideations. Him ending up in Saint Denis, surrounded by people who wish him harm, reads to me like a sort of 'death by cop' form of suicide.

On the subject of Charles's heritage: Rockstar is a trash fire, so beyond being half-Black and half-Native we have very few clues about Charles's culture and his history. I settled on a particular band (the Kotsoteka, or 'buffalo eaters') of the Comanche who would have had a decent amount of contact with Black Freemen post-Civil war. They live in Oklahoma and Texas, buffalo are a central part of their traditional lifestyle, and one of their mourning traditions involves shaving their heads in a manner similar to Charles's hairstyle change post-Guarma arc.

 I'm white and if anyone has constructive comments about my inclusion of Kotsoteka funerary traditions I'm happy to hear and act on them.

The Oquenda was the name of a Cuban trading ship from the 1870's. It was primarily used to transport indentured Chinese workers to the Cuban sugar plantations.

[lovelylogans]

spring cleaning

there’s a pack rat in the family. who it is will not surprise you.

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: food mentions, alcohol mentions, general messiness, jokes about hoarding

pairings: patton/virgil, offscreen logan/roman

word count: 2,412

notes: hi! this is just a quick little fic as i beta and finish off the next chapter of debutante. this is based off the gilmore girls season three episode twelve “lorelai out of water” cold open. takes place the spring after the main storyline, after alliance but before debutante.

⁂

virgil’s phone buzzes at 10:13 am on a sunny spring sunday. he pauses just after he drops off the brunch plates for mrs. torres, babette, and east side tilly, digging around in his back pocket to squint at his recent texts.

logan sanders: Please help.

any other time, this kind of text would probably send anxiety flooding his veins like ice water. as he’s been warned, sure, he’s a little anxious that he’s misreading the situation, but he shakes that aside and snorts.

“called it,” he mutters under his breath, before he wipes his hands on his apron and types out christ, you’re folding easy this year. is that a new record?

a brief pause. then, No, the record was twenty-four minutes. To be fair, that took place when I was ten years old, we were moving into the house, and you were already going to be involved, so I perhaps I should propose that does not count against my spring cleaning record.

ah, that’s right. god, helping patton move had kind of been a nightmare. helping anyone move is a bit of a nightmare, but with patton there’s a whole new layer of shenanigans.

Another buzz. Also, I need this to be hastened along. I have a Socratic seminar in English tomorrow, and though we have settled on a tentative truce I refuse to let Dee achieve the highest grade in the class.

he shoots back i’ll be there asap.

“jean,” he calls to the counter, but jean, having been warned as well, waves him off.

“i got it, at least he waited till the we hit the between-masses lull.”

“you’re the best,” he says, hanging up his apron and ignoring mrs. torres’ hoots about his arms—he's like ninety percent sure she’s spiking her own orange juice so she can have a screwdriver with her pancakes but he hasn’t caught her with a flask in hand yet—and heads out the door.

the citizens of sideshire are fully soaking in the pleasure of a sunny spring day—it’s one of those days, where the weather’s warming up slowly, but there’s sure to be more cold snaps before they fully settle into spring, so lots of people are taking advantage of it. families are sprawled with picnic blankets in the grassy town square. the “long-haired freak” (taylor’s nickname, not his. virgil’s pretty sure his name is dave, but also, he’s not totally sure his name is dave, and as such usually avoids any complications by saying “hey, man,” whenever virgil sees him) is out hawking fruits and vegetables from his garden. lots of people are out on walks, some with earbuds or headphones on, some calling out jolly greetings to other people taking advantage of a blue sky and temperatures that are soaring above freezing.

“hey, virgil.”

“hey, felix,” virgil says, craning his neck to catch sight of—well, he guesses felix and riley are technically his tenants? but that always feels weird to say—his neighboring business owners. felix is busy making sure a promotional poster’s taped to the window. “how’re things?”

“ah, y’know, y’know,” felix says, waving their hands around. “weather’s warming up, so we’re getting into busy season. guess people want to be able to flaunt new ink in the warmer weather, y’know?”

“hey, speaking of—” virgil says.

“oh, yeah,” felix says, scratching at the half of their head that was once shaved bald but is now growing in stubbly. “you wanna have riley do one this time? they can draw up some sketches for you, if you want. or i can, if you want, but it might be a minute ‘cause i’m all hands on deck for this massive full-back piece.”

“nah, riley’ll be cool, it’s been a minute since they’ve done one for me,” virgil says. “i’ll drop by later with some reference photos, ideas and stuff.”

“i’ll make sure they’re refreshed on what your style is before the consultation,” felix says. “appreciate the business.”

“appreciate you and your spouse taking over this empty shop so taylor didn’t get a chance to,” virgil returns, as he usually does whenever felix or their riley thanks him for something. he’s really awkward about accepting gratitude, he’s working on that with emile and patton.

“god, could you imagine taylor next door,” felix says with a theatric shudder. “bad enough he runs half the town.”

“i’ll call tomorrow to make the appointment?”

felix flashes him a thumbs up, and virgil raises a hand in farewell as he continues on his way.

he ends up pushing his sleeves up to his elbows as he walks to the sanders’ house, occasionally saying hey to other residents of sideshire, or tilting his face up to the sun. 

this winter’s been brutal, even worse than it usually is for the northeast, with absurd amounts of blizzards and ice. on the days where it wasn’t shoveling ridiculous amounts of snow on the whole town, the sky had been gray and overcast, and what little sun there was could barely stream weakly through the clouds. 

but now, the sun sinks softly into his exposed skin, warming him without overheating him thanks to the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of tentatively blooming flowers planted by particularly audacious gardeners.

it is a perfect, lovely spring day. 

by the time he gets to the cheerful yellow clapboard house, he’s taken enough deep, calming breaths to ensure that he is a calming presence. he ascends the stairs of the wraparound porch—oh, huh, looks like patton or logan’s making an attempt at being a gardener, that looks like mountain mint—and knocks lightly on the front door.

“please come in,” logan shouts, sounding exasperated, and virgil obligingly pushes the door open.

he toes off his shoes, even as he overhears patton’s voice, cajoling.

“hug-a-world! c’mon, you’ve gotta remember your hug-a-world!”

hug-a-world, virgil mouths to himself, before it comes back to him in sudden, vivid technicolor and he rounds the corner.

and, sure enough, surrounded by the detritus of the sanders home, patton and logan sit in a hastily-cleared space in the middle of their living room, patton holding a stuffed ball tight to his chest.

“of course i remember the hug-a-world,” logan says, still with that tone of exasperation, but lessened now at the sight of a beloved childhood toy. 

“you can’t make me throw away your hug-a-world,” patton declares viciously, which would almost be believably threatening if he were not clutching a stuffed ball made to look like a globe to his chest, and if his curly hair was not sticking up in a configuration that virgil thinks of as chaotically unruly, and if he were not wearing a pink-and-blue sweater he usually busts out around easter, and if someone did not know patton as a person. “you learned all seven of your continents on hug-a-world!”

see, without fail, almost every year patton gets suckered into the whole concept of the spring clean. and, without fail, logan or virgil will try to point out that he does this every year, and patton insists no, really, this time for sure he’ll get rid of some of the clutter around this house, it’s about time!, and then he gets sidetracked getting attached to objects he finds that he suddenly cannot bear to get rid of, despite the fact that said objects have typically been buried away in a dark closet all the rest of the year.

which means that logan and virgil sit with him and try to point that out, and patton wavers, before he decides to keep or donate or trash it, and it seems like it’s going okay, until the next thing he touches turns out to be another thing that he suddenly cannot bear to give up.

it’s gotten a little better since that time they introduced the marie kondo method, but also, that much worse, because of course he insists that everything sparks joy! 

but this is way more mess than usual. there are cardboard boxes and piles of clothes and bits and bobs that are in piles that come up to his ribs. virgil squints it at it suspiciously.

“attic,” logan says wearily, in explanation. “he got boxes out of the attic.”

oh, shit, the attic. god, that thing is stuffed to the brim with boxes, no wonder the living room looks like someone upended the odds-and-ends drawer for a giant into the house.

“but—c’mon,” patton says, in that same sweetly coaxing tone that usually makes them all throw up their hands and leave the rest of this spring cleaning mess for next year’s spring clean. he holds out the hug-a-world to logan. “hold it. marie says so.”

“marie does not realize that she has a special case with my hoarder of a father and therefore should customize the approach of sparks joy, because you have too wide a definition,” logan says, but he reaches out and takes the hug-a-world with both hands anyways.

virgil examines logan holding it, thinking suddenly of a much tinier logan with a gap in his front teeth holding the same toy in the same way, though the fabric had been much more vibrant shades of blue and green then. there had been a solid stretch of time that the hug-a-world had been the toy that logan had hugged falling asleep, back in the poolhouse. he’d taken the hug-a-world to the diner and to school and all around the inn and to the princes’ apartment and back again.

a side of logan’s mouth twitches up, and then, as if suddenly conscious of it, he forces the corners of his mouth to turn down as he stares at it.

“remember?” patton repeats, staring at logan and the hug-a-world fondly. “we used to take turns to squeeze it as tight as we could and then wherever our pinkies would end up, that’s where we were going to go together when you grew up.”

“yes,” logan says, and then loses the fight against his mouth, because it twitches up into a smile again. “many a trip to uzbekistan was planned that way.”

“look!” patton says, pointing and tilting his head. “that’s canada, then, where’d your other one get you?”

logan moves his other pinky in order to squint at the faded fabric. “i believe that’s cambodia. possibly vietnam, i was rather splitting the border.” 

“why not both?” patton says pragmatically, or as pragmatically as he can sound planning a potential trip based off hugging a ball. 

logan hesitates, holding the ball.

“look,” patton says. “hey, how about virgil helps clean it up, and the hug-a-world can live in your room?”

logan chews at the inside of his lip.

“if it sparks joy,” patton sing-songs.

logan heaves a sigh.

“the hug-a-world will live in my room, then,” he says, before looking to virgil. “we’ve started a pile for you right here,” and pats a pile of what mostly looks like clothes that can be either repaired, repurposed, or sneakily donated.

virgil takes a breath, and says, “i’ll crack open a window and put on some music, then. patton, you take your allergy medicine today?”

patton tilts his head to think about it.

“that’s a no,” virgil says. “i’ll grab it on the way. water, snacks? we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“are we?” logan says doubtfully, twisting to look at him.

“we are finishing spring clean this year!” patton insists. “i mean it this time!”

logan arches his eyebrows at virgil, and virgil mouths play along, and logan sighs before he turns back to the pile, pulling out an old jacket at random.

“i have never seen you wear this. it should be donated.”

“that was from raf, we can’t just toss it!” patton cries out in dismay, and virgil heads for the kitchen.

he fills up three glasses of water, chops up some celery and apples, fills up three mini ramekins with peanut butter, and sets it all on a tray, along with the round white pill that patton takes for his allergies. 

he plugs in his phone and scrolls to a roman-made playlist, lowering the volume so that they’ll be able to hear each other, and proceeds to make his meandering way around the piles of Stuff as best he can without knocking anything over.

on his way, he moves to crack open the windows of the living room, allowing the floral-scented air to waft into the messy room, to hear the chirping of the birds under patton and logan’s debating.

he pushes aside a pile of old books on the coffee table and sets the tray down, mostly ignored as logan manages to triumph and tosses the jacket into a box labeled DONATE.

virgil settles down next to his pile, sitting in criss-cross-applesauce, and gosh all of the clutter of patton and logan’s lives looms over them like a mountain at this angle. 

“okay,” virgil says encouragingly. “good, that’s good! raf’s old jacket will probably make some other teenager very happy to have it.”

patton sighs, staring after the jacket. “yeah, i guess.”

“this is good,” virgil says stubbornly, before tugging at a piece of fabric sticking out at random and unearthing a blanket.

“oh, i was wondering where that got off to!” patton says, delighted. 

“i thought that got lost in the moving shuffle,” virgil agrees, because the last time he saw this he was pretty sure it was tossed over the back of their rented apartment couch.

“so this blanket has not been washed in at least six years,” logan says.

“well, that can be fixed!” patton points out. “i say keep.”

“we’re never going to finish,” logan groans.

“of course we’re gonna finish!” patton says.

“yeah, logan,” virgil says unconvincingly. “listen to your dad.” 

patton beams at him, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek; logan rolls his eyes, before he turns his attention to the blanket.

“so, you claim keep for your room,” logan says. “you already have so many blankets.”

“well, we can always use more blankets!” patton points out. “worse comes to worse, we’ll put it in the linen closet.”

logan tilts his head, before he sighs, and places it in a pile of other fabrics that they seem to have decided to keep.

“all right, fine,” he says, then fishes out another piece of fabric. “next item—”

“look how fast we settled that!” patton says brightly.

“pretty fast,” virgil agrees dutifully.

“we’ll totally finish spring clean this year,” patton says confidently.

(they do not finish spring clean this year.)

[tamsin-moon]

Together

Anon Ask: So Arthur survived and Charles found him, but y/n has absolutely no idea. In the epilogue he kinda lives with John Abigail and Jack (tb doesn’t exists lmao) and y/n lives in Blackwater. When they first get to Beechers Hope, they go down to Blackwater to do shit like buy the house. This is when they see y/n, wholesome shit, maybe even y/n has a kid that she was pregnant with when Arthur “died” cause why not lol

Notes: Arthur X Female Reader and I was actually thinking to write this, so the request was a tipping point. Canon divergence in which Arthur kills Micah in the end, but was really sick just from everything going on NOT tb. Charles finds him and they stay together eventually coming to help the Marstons say five years later to get the ranch and house built. Meanwhile when the gang had been falling apart Y/n left with Tilly, she hadn’t wanted to but she suspected she was pregnant and would not put that at risk. 

Work was not the easiest to come by for a single mother, but you sure as hell were doing your best. Luckily you were well accustomed to living off the land, hunting and different things so while it had not been easy since you parted ways with Tilly nearly a year ago now you were managing. Your son, Casey, was also as helpful as an almost 5yr old could be and had learned well to do what he was told. He was fairly quiet, but curious in general, liked to ask you questions, but behaved well enough.

Mostly you lived out of the wagon you owned, Tilly and her husband having given it to you despite any protest, and it had served you well so far along with the chestnut Suffolk Punch horse you had….acquired to pull it. Chester was a good boy, though, and quite protective of Casey which you appreciated. Life was actually fairly decent if you thought about it, but you wanted to find something stable to raise him. It was a surprise to you, though, as you found yourself near Blackwater, but you reminded yourself everything was over.

It would cause the pain to swell inside you for a bit as you steered the wagon down the street, eyes casting about for anything interesting before glancing back to your son who was napping in the back. Everything was calm and it seemed like that terrible event may as well never had happened, but you would always have the bad memories. Finding the general store would be where you came to a halt, you could use a few things and had a little spare money, but your thoughts would be stopping short as someone exited the store.

The faces of your companions were ones you would never forget so when your eyes fell on a dark skinned familiar one you would almost feel your head spinning. At first he didn’t notice you and would be heading towards a horse hitched nearby, but you would force your voice to work and called out to him. “Charles? Is that you?” It could be a mistake, your mind playing tricks on you, but as he turn around again with wide eyes you could feel the smile growing on your face.

Dropping from the wagon you would meet him halfway, practically jumping to hug the tall man tight and feeling a warmth you hadn’t in years as he gripped you in return. “I thought you were dead” would fall from both your mouths before you were both laughing, him setting you back on your feet and stepping back. Just looking each other over you would wipe tears from your eyes, “What are you doing here?” you finally ask and he chuckle, “I could ask you the same thing, but right now helping John and Abigail build their house”

You would feel your heart thump as he said that, was her serious? You knew he wouldn’t lie about something like that and were about to speak again when he would add, “Arthur is there too and Uncle” and the air would be practically leaving your lungs that you had to remind yourself to breathe. Arthur? He was alive. If Charles was saying it you knew it was true and you would feel a sob trying to bubble up from you, but a littler voice would be having you force it down, “Mama?” your head snapping to your son as you hastily rub your eyes, seeing him grow concerned quickly.

You had also seen the surprise coming to Charles face and would hear him comment, “So you were pregnant,” before he was stepping over with you. Taking the little boys hand you would give it a squeeze, “I’m alright sweetheart, this is one of mama’s friends, Charles. I haven’t seen him in a long while so just has me so happy I’m crying” you explain best you could before he would wave to Charles, “Hi, I’m Casey” he greet, not nervous if you said it was a friend and Charles would smile to him, “Nice to meet you”

You would feel your friends gaze fall back to you, “You going to come with me to see everyone?” he ask, but you were already nodding. There was no way you weren’t going, especially if Arthur was there. He deserved to meet his son and you still loved him as much as you did then. Casey would look at you curiously, “More friends?” he ask and you smile, kissing his cheek, “Yes, it seems they live nearby and I didn’t even know it” you tell him honestly before continuing, “But not just friends, Charles tells me your papa is there too”

Blindsiding Arthur with this would be one thing, but you had told Casey about his father plenty and shown him a picture so were certain he would recognize him. “Will he be happy to see me?” he ask and you could only smile, giving his hand another squeeze, “I am sure he will, but you might have to be patient with him a bit” you say before looking back to Charles who was just giving you an agreeing smile.

The trip itself to Beechers Hope was uneventful aside from Casey talking to Charles, asking questions and just being a curious child. It had your nerves rising the closer you got and you did have a fear that Arthur could reject you both, but deep down you knew that was unfounded. As the partially built house came into view you would see Abigail and Jack first and it would have your heart swelling, it just seemed right seeing them hanging laundry.

“Arthur must have gone out hunting or so, I don’t see his horse” you hear Charles say, turning to lead you over toward a paddock to park the wagon before you were hearing Abigail. Even at a distance the woman recognized you when she saw you and you were barely off the wagon when you were in another hug, “You’re alive! It’s so good to see you!” she would be saying before she was yelling for John. Said man coming running from around the house with Uncle right behind him and the reunion was turning into a bit of chaos.

Eventually things would settle and they were surprised and happy to meet Casey as well, Jack taking him to play while you all settled on the porch and got caught up on everything. John looking to the sky a minute, “Arthur should be back here soon, thought he saw signs of a cougar this morning so wanted to check around for it” he explain and you nodded, “I am terrified” you admit, but Abigail was swatting you quick, “Nonsense, he’ll be happy for once” she say firmly and you just do your best to nod, knowing better then to try to argue with her.

It would be maybe a half an hour later when you would hear hoof beats and looking up you would feel your heart get caught in your throat. It was a sight you never thought you would see again, the man you love riding up on a horse. Hat tucked on his head, sleeves rolled to his elbows and patting his horses neck. When he caught sight of you all on the porch you could see the confusion grow on his features and how he looked to Charles first. The man just nodding his head towards you and you could tell he lost all form of thought.

At first you weren’t certain what he was going to do, but were soon gasping as he was trying to get off his horse so fast he got caught up in the stirrup and fell on his back. You could hear him cursing from there, but it had you moving. Pulling your skirt up to practically run you would be getting to him just as he was getting to his feet and knocking him right back onto his rear. Arms wrapping around each other you would just cling, as if this would all vanish if you let go, and you couldn’t hold back the tears.

You could feel his own dripping into your shirt as he buried his face into your neck and shoulder, “Oh darlin’ I’ve missed you so damn much,” you would hear him speaking, but your own voice was a mess. It was all you could do to remember to breathe until your body calmed and you could pull back to look at him. He looked healthier then he did when you parted and it had more relief washing through you, leaning into his hand as he cupped your cheek to brush your tears away.

Nothing needed to be said as you both leaned in, lips finding each others and the love sparking between you. A flame that had never dwindled, only pulling back when you needed to breathe. Finally about to speak would be when you heard it, your son’s voice, “Mama?” It seemed Jack saw Arthur ride in so he had brought Casey back around, the little boy looking between you and Arthur with a worried expression.

Taking a deep breath you would feel Arthur tense, seeing him glance between you and Casey before a look of understanding seemed to come over his features, “So that’s what you wouldn’t tell me…when you left with Tilly” he say softly and you blink, “I could see it in your face, something you weren’t saying when you told me you were goin’” It had you softening, squeezing his hand a moment, “You already had so much on your mind, you didn’t need the thought of….leaving a child fatherless on top of it” you admit before feeling little hands gripping the back of your shirt.

Looking over your shoulder you would smile, tugging him around to sit on your lap as he look up to Arthur. Said man shifting to rest on a knee would give the boy a smile and you would feel your son relax a bit, soon asking, “Papa?” and it was all Arthur could do not to cry again, but he nodded, “And who might you be, huh? Been taking care of your mama?” You could already hear the love in his tone and it had any worry in you flying away.

Your son smiling to him brightly, “I’m Casey and yeah, I try” he say happily, not even hesitating to reach for his father and you felt your heart swell as Arthur scooped him up a second later. Rising with the boy on his hip before pulling you to your feet he pulled you both close, you barely hearing him, “Don’t let this be a dream”

[starfleetimagines]

Mobile Masterlist

I figured it might be easier for my readers to find my previous imagines if I make a mobile masterlist that I update at the same time as I update my desktop one. So here it is! I’ll add to it when I post new imagines, so it should always be up to date. Some imagines are listed in multiple series if the character is found in both - like Q or Pike, for example.

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi (it’s as low as $1CAD and it’ll go towards my education funds) or check out my commissions! Please check my bio and title to see if requests are open before requesting.

Alternate Original Series/The Original Series:

Being Leonard “Bones” McCoy’s younger sister would include…

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - “Have you lost your damn mind?!”

Being Jim Kirk’s twin would include…

Jim Kirk - “I can’t explain right now, but I need you to trust me.”

Jim Kirk - “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.”

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - mismatched uniforms

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - you get hurt

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - medical anxiety

Montgomery “Scotty” Scott- “That’s a promise.”

Leonard “Bones” McCoy- flirting in sickbay

Pavel Chekov - Period Cuddles

Pavel Chekov - Moving Forward

Jim Kirk - Family

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - Shore Leave

Montgomery “Scotty” Scott - Open Waters

Dating Leonard “Bones” McCoy Would Include…

Being Pavel Chekov’s Betazoid Wife Would Include…

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - Study Date

Spock and Uhura’s Wedding Would Include…

Leonard “Bones” McCoy - Dance Practice

Pavel Chekov - Set Up

The Enterprise Crew Finding Out You’re Bisexual Would Include…

Montgomery “Scotty” Scott x Jayla - Graduation

Spock and Uhura Having A Baby Would Include...

Spock - “To say that was unexpected is an understatement.”

Spock - Fireplace

Deep Space Nine:

Julian Bashir - “Cuddle me.”

Julian Bashir - “It’s almost midnight.”

Julian Bashir - “Just kiss me.”

Odo - “Are you hurt?”

Julain Bashir - “Please hold me.”

Benjamin Sisko - “How do you cope?”

Garak - “I’ll keep you warm.”

Dukat - you get hurt trying to defend him

Odo - you’re his adopted child

Miles x Keiko x Reader - Sunflowers

Julian Bashir - Insecurities

Enemies To Lovers With Odo Would Include…

Garak - Pregnant

Garak - Lulled To Sleep

Quark (platonic) - Marital Advice

Garak - “So, you like me?”

Garak - Rescue Party

Julian Bashir - Growing Family

Garak - Presents

Ezri Dax x Julian Bashir - Moving In

Julian Bashir (platonic) - Worries

Kira Nerys - Stress

Kira x Dax - Pride Month

Weyoun - “I don’t understand.”

Nog x Jake - Pleasure

Weyoun - “You’re the only one for me.” [NSFW]

Weyoun - “Please wake up.”

Enemies to Lovers With Kira Nerys Would Include...

Weyoun 6 Living on the Station Would Include...

Worf x Jadzia - “I love us.”

Weyoun - “Why did you take that shot for me?”

Cuddling With Weyoun Would Include...

Discovery:

Gabriel Lorca - “Did I stutter?”

Ash Tyler - “I need you.”

Saru - Christmas Gifts

Saru - You’re Overworked

Michael Burnham - “That was hot.”

Michael Burnham - She Saves Your Life

Saru - Confidence Boost

Christopher Pike - Longing

Christopher Pike - Longing part 2

Sylvia Tilly - Romance In Sickbay

Saru - Homesick

Ash Tyler x Michael Burnham - “Breathe with me.”

Christopher Pike - You’re In Labour

Being Saru’s First Officer and Best Friend Would Include...

Spock - “To say that was unexpected is an understatement.”

Enterprise:

Jonathan Archer - “Leave her alone.”

Malcolm Reed - you’re his sister

Trip Tucker - de-con talks

Malcolm Reed - PDA

Jonathan Archer - jefferies tube acoustics

Jonathan Archer - “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Jonathan Archer - “For some reason, I’m attracted to you.”

Dating Jonathan Archer would include…

Malcolm Reed - “Stop talking about the past, I could be dead in a matter of hours… make me up a future.”

Being friends with Trip Tucker would include…

Jonathan Archer - “Go then, leave! See if I care!”

Malcom Reed - “Oh my god! You’re in love with them!”

Trip Tucker - you’re shy

Jonathan Archer - “I thought you were dead.”

Malcolm Reed - you’re taken hostage

Trip Tucker - sleepless nights

Malcolm Reed - “You make me feel like I’m not good enough.”

Jonathan Archer - “That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”

Being Trip Tucker's  twin would include…

Malcolm Reed - “Go then, leave! See if I care!”

Jonathan Archer - dress shopping

Jonathan Archer - pillow fights

Trip Tucker being your boss would include…

Cheering Jonathan Archer up would include…

Phlox - you avoid him

Jonathan Archer - nightmares

Helping Trip Tucker in engineering would include…

Jonathan Archer - horseback riding

Malcolm Reed - cuddles after a mission

Jonathan Archer - hideouts

Malcolm Reed - “Because I love you.”

Phlox - Trip sets you two up

Jonathan Archer - “This shuttle was roomier before I realized I’m attracted to you.”

Malcolm Reed - “Can I kiss you?”

Malcolm Reed - sexting on PADDs

Phlox - you hide an injury from him

Trip Tucker - “It was just a dream.”

Jonathan Archer - “Am I dreaming?”

Trip Tucker - “I just want you to hold me.”

Malcolm Reed - Emotional Trauma

Malcolm Reed - He Sees Your Scars

Trip Tucker - “Thank God you’re okay.”

Malcolm Reed - You’re Ill

Malcolm Reed - “I don’t fit in.”

Trip Tucker - Restless Nights

Enemies To Lovers With Malcolm Reed Would Include…

Malcolm Reed - Labouring Mission

Trip Tucker - Jealousy [NSFW]

Dating T'Pol Would Include…

Malcolm Reed - Nightmares

Trip Tucker - Tension

Malcolm Reed - Destiny

Malcolm Reed - “I’m broken.”

Malcolm x Trip - Caught [NSFW]

Shran - Blue Boy

Trip x T'Pol - New Life

Malcolm Reed - The Way I See You

Malcolm Reed - Confessions

Being Trip Tucker’s Sibling and Jonathan Archer’s Partner Would Include…

Trip Tucker - Helping Hand

Being Pregnant With Phlox’s Baby Would Include...

Malcolm Reed - Destressing [NSFW]

Jonathan Archer - Too Busy

Trip Tucker - “You can’t protect me forever.”

Malcolm Reed - Mistletoe

Picard:

Chris Rios - “Thank you for not dying.”

Elnor - Quiet Time

Strange New Worlds:

Christopher Pike - Longing

Christopher Pike - Longing part 2

Christopher Pike (platonic) - Mentor

Christopher Pike - Brink of Death

Spock - “To say that was unexpected is an understatement.”

Spock - Fireplace

The Next Generation:

Falling in love with Data would include…

Dating Data would include…

Data - “Is there a special reason as to why you’re wearing my shirt?”

Data - you tell Tasha and Deanna about your crush

Worf - “You did this for me?”

Data - pet names

Data - “You never told me you had a fucking twin.”

Jean-Luc Picard flirting with you would include…

Q loving you would include…

Being friends with Worf would include…

Jean-Luc Picard - he realizes he loves you

Data - “When I picture myself happy … it’s with you.”

Will Riker - midnight visits

Will Riker being a father figure to you would include…

Data - he protects you

Data - bathing with the emotion chip

Data - you repair him

Will Riker - cuddles

Dating Wesley Crusher would include…

Data - he teaches you how to fight

Will Riker - “I’m sorry I had to kick you out when you were possessed.”

First time with Jean-Luc Picard would include…

Data - “I think I forgot how to breathe.”

Q - “You’re so hot when angry.”

Wesley Crusher - “You said my name in your sleep.”

Data - you get caught kissing

Data - hometown trip

Data - stuck on a cold planet

Will Riker- “If I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

Deanna Troi crushing on a girl would include…

Data - “Are you hurt?”

Reginald Barclay - Fencing

Reginald Barclay - Unexpected

Data - Teacher

Deanna Troi - Feeling Down

Data - First Meetings

Wesley Crusher - Hidden Talents

Being Will And Deanna’s Child Would Include…

Visiting Risa With Will Riker Would Include…

Will Riker - Confessions

Beverly and Jean-Luc’s Date Nights Would Include…

Data - First Date

Having Worf as a Father Figure Would Include…

Will Riker - All Partied Out

Data - “You must breathe.”

Will Riker - “I love you.”

Coming Out As Bisexual To Q Would Include…

Being Married to Jean-Luc Picard Would Include…

Worf - “What were you thinking?”

Data - Art Teacher

Beverly Crusher - “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Being a Scientist and Dating Q Would Include...

Data - “I suppose we would make a good couple.”

Voyager:

B'Elanna Torres - best friends

Going on a date with the Doctor would include…

Tom Paris - date night

Kathryn Janeway- “You’ve only heard his side of the story. You never asked for mine.”

Doctor - “I love you, you asshole.”

Harry Kim - “I thought you were dead.”

Being friends with Tom and Harry would include…

Chakotay - near death confessions

Icheb - you’re shy

Being Harry Kim’s twin would include…

Being shy around the doctor would include…

Q Loving You Would Include…

Doctor - “You did this for me?”

Being Icheb’s friend would include…

The doctor being jealous would include…

Tom Paris - kidnapped

Harry Kim - “This shuttle was a lot roomier before …”

Keeping the doctor company would include…

Q junior - “You’re hot. Shame about your personality.”

Chakotay - “You love me.”

Q - “You’re so hot when you’re angry.”

Harry Kim - mismatched uniforms

Dating Icheb would include…

Harry Kim - he proposes

Kathryn Janeway - you’re insecure

Icheb - first date

The Doctor - talent show

Harry Kim - “Please don’t go.”

Dating Q Junior Would Include…

Chakotay x Kathryn Janeway - Dancing The Night Away

Date Night With Chakotay Would Include…

Tom Paris - Old Flames

Dating Tuvok Would Include…

Dating Seven Of Nine Would Include…

Q Junior Being Jealous Would Include…

Harry Kim - You’re Tom’s Sister

Tom x B'Elanna - “I’m scared, all right?!”

Kathryn Janeway - Locked Up

Being Kathryn Janeway’s Kid and Living on Voyager Would Include…

Coming Out As Bisexual To Q Would Include…

Tom Paris (platonic) - Different

Seven of Nine - Exploring

The Doctor (platonic) - Aromantic

Comforting Kathryn Janeway Would Include…

Tom Paris - “You are enough.”

Cuddling With Q Would Include…

Kathryn Janeway - Here For You

Friends to Lovers With Chakotay Would Include...

Harry Kim - Avoidance

Being a Scientist and Dating Q Would Include...

[verai-marcel]

Payback (RDR2 Fanfic, Morgan Twins x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Arthur and Thorne go out on an errand without telling you. When you find out what it is, you aren't happy that they kept it from you. So you plan a little payback. 

Author’s Notes: I wrote a little drabble a while back and several people wanted more. So here we go. Also there is a bit of Mary Linton bad mouthing in here, but I personally don't dislike her; I just find her to be a weak-willed character. Also this is the 3rd story in the Morgan Twins AU; read the other parts on my  Master list!

Tags: rough sex, teasing, neck grabbing, creampie, dirty talk, minor degredation

AO3 Link is here, sweetness.

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

“Hosea, have you seen Arthur and Thorne?”

The older man put down his book and looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. “They didn’t tell you?”

You shook your head.

He picked his book back up. “They’re on an errand. They’ll be back before dark.”

You cocked your hip, arms akimbo. “What kind of errand?”

Hosea let out a small sigh. “I don’t know. Ask them when they come back.”

He knew. You knew that he knew. He knew that you knew that he knew. But he wasn’t saying anything else, diving back into his book without another word.

You huffed and went back to your chores, waiting for an opportune time. When Susan was busy supervising the girls who were washing clothes at the river, you snuck over to the horse area, grabbed one of the wagon horses, and left for the nearby town to see if you could catch sight of the twins.

***

It wasn’t hard to spot them, even from a few houses away. You hitched your horse at the general store and snuck around to find them standing on the porch of some farmhouse, bickering in low tones. You crept along as quietly as you could, hiding behind the next door building and craning your neck around the corner to hear while keeping the rest of your body hidden.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t want you to do anything stupid.”

“I wouldn’t leave.”

“Mary has a way of wrapping you around her finger.”

“She doesn’t—”

The sound of a door creaking open interrupted Arthur’s reply. You could barely make out the woman beyond the large bodies of the two men blocking your view.

“Arthur!” she said happily.

“Mary,” Arthur said politely.

“And… Thorne,” she said with a hint of distaste. You immediately wanted to slap her.

“Why do you need help?” Thorne barked, his tone hard and impatient.

You could hear her taking a few steps around the porch. “It’s Jaimie. He’s been brainwashed by cultists! Please, bring him back, he won’t listen to me.”

“What, and your father won’t come get his own son?” Thorne snarked.

“He… He won’t,” she replied, sounding hurt.

“Mary…” Arthur said, the sympathetic tone in his voice grating on your insecurities.

“Surprise, surprise,” Thorne bit out. “Arthur, we don’t need to help, he’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions.”

Arthur was quiet.

“Arthur,” Thorne said more urgently.

“I’ll help,” Arthur finally said. He mumbled something else afterwards, but you didn’t catch it.

Thorne was silent, but after a few moments, he nodded. “Fine,” he grunted.

You didn’t wait to see any more. Leaving quietly, you concocted a plan. Stopping by both the doctor’s for some herbs and the general store for some beer, you mounted up and went back to camp.

***

You had heard from Tilly previously about the woman named Mary Gillis, the woman who had Arthur’s heart for a time, but did not accept Thorne and tried to drive a wedge between them, tried to take Arthur away from his own family. Tilly’s dislike of the woman was very clear, but having just seen proof of Mary’s disapproval of Thorne, you were more than willing to believe Tilly’s observations to be fact rather than personal opinion.

Arthur had kept this from you. You felt betrayed. You knew he wouldn’t go back to her, that was crystal clear. But the fact that he didn’t tell you where he was going, that he didn’t trust you enough, was a blow to your ego. Your feelings hurt, you decided with a clarity that belied the swirl of emotions in your heart to teach him a lesson. 

But for your plan to work, you had to trick them both as a pair. You felt a little bad about having to trick Thorne as well, but to be fair, he didn’t tell you where they were going either. That made him just as guilty. Almost.

***

"That was a waste of time."

"Jaime needed to get out of there."

"Then maybe his father shoulda went and got him. Not us. Not you."

"Thorne…"

"I know you said it was for his sake, not Mary's. But dammit, when she left, you looked like a kicked puppy."

"I just…" 

"Just what, Arthur?" 

"Just regrettin' all that time with her, that's all."

"Good. Remember who has our hearts now."

Arthur nodded solemnly. "Speakin' of…"

They had returned to camp to find that their love had not come to greet them. Heading over to their tent, they found a letter in the middle of the cot. Arthur looked at Thorne, who shrugged. Grabbing it and opening it carefully, Arthur read it out loud. 

"My lovely men, meet me at the hotel in town. I'm treating you to a nice dinner and a warm bed, to reward you for working so hard lately."

Thorne grinned. "Race ya."

***

At the hotel, you smiled as you saw the two of them hitching their horses. You called to them from the window and waved, acting like a happy wife. 

Grinning together, they quickly made their way upstairs to your hotel room, where you had some meals and beers all ready for them. 

They didn't know that you had laced it all with some sleeping herbs. 

As the three of you dug into your food, you asked them where they had gone all day. 

"An old friend asked me to get a relative out of that cult, you know, the Chelonians."

"Did it pay well?" you asked, knowing full well that Mary wouldn't have given them anything. 

Arthur shook his head. "Just did it as a favor. 

"We found some poor idiots to rob on the way back, so it wasn't a total loss," Thorne added. 

You laughed. "Tell me more about these Chelonians."

***

After regaling you about how they talked about turtles for half an hour just to get the cult to lower their guard long enough to get the young man named Jaime out of there, you noticed that their heads were starting to nod off. 

"More beer, boys?" you asked, pulling out two more bottles from the bag you had brought with you. 

"Sure," Arthur slurred. 

Turning away from them, you pulled out the sprig of the sleeping herb that you had been steeping in the beer and brought the bottles to them. 

They drank and told you more stories. With each passing minute, their speech stumbled, their movements slowed, their eyes blinked more in an attempt to stay awake. 

Then they closed their eyes and fell asleep in their chairs.

You grinned. It was time to work. 

***

“Wh.. what happened?”

“That li’l minx...”

Thorne and Arthur were both surprised and a little confused to the scene they had awoken to. The last thing they remembered was you giving them another drink.

You had tied them to their chairs and waited for them to come around. And now... now the fun was going to begin.

“Hello boys,” you purred as you walked around them, your hips swinging as you brushed your hand along each of their shoulders.

“Darlin’...” Arthur said as he tried to reach out for you, before he realized with a frown and a confused grunt that he was securely tied to his chair.

“Let us go,” Thorne snarled softly, already pulling at his ropes.

“Hmmm.... no. I think I’ll just take care of myself tonight, and you two just be good and watch.” You simpered at them as you dragged hands along your body, making exaggerated sounds of pleasure. “Oooh, I’m starting to get wet.”

You laughed as you watched them struggle. “This is what happens when you don’t tell me you’re going somewhere. This is what happens when I wake up alone with just a note saying ‘we’ll return at sundown.’” You reached up and fondled your breasts with one hand as you continued to walk around them. “I can take care of myself too, you know.”

With both of them looking at you in rapt attention, you started to slowly remove your clothing. As your shirt and chemise started to slide off your shoulders and to the floor, the men’s eyes followed your every movement, their pants growing tighter as they strained in their ropes. In a moment of complete uninhibited madness, you bent over and flipped your skirt up, waving your derriere in front of them as you slid your drawers off.

“You’re askin’ fer it,” Thorne growled.

Saying nothing, you just turned around and smiled at him before removing your skirt, letting it drop to the floor. Dressed in only your stockings and boots, you kicked off your boots before walking up to Thorne, putting one foot up on his knee, showing off your legs. He stared, breathing heavily as you slowly rolled the stocking down. Removing it and tossing it into your pile of clothes, you stepped down and turned away, giving him a perfect view of your ass while you put your foot up on Arthur’s knee and did the same thing. 

“You were bad today, weren’t you?” you cooed at him as you threw your other stocking into the pile with a bit of anger. “You didn’t tell me where you went.”

Arthur’s eyes pleaded with you. “Didn’t think you needed to know, darlin’,” he rasped.

Lightly pressing your foot against his balls, he groaned. 

“You didn’t think,” you retorted, moving away from him. “Neither of you did.”

Moving to the bed, you sat down at the edge facing them and spread your legs. “Now you get to watch while I take care of myself, and you two can just suffer.”

Sliding your fingers along your slit, you watched them as they watched you, and part of you started to truly enjoy yourself. You leaned your head back and moaned, letting your hips rise a bit, writhing on the bed as you started to get into it, feeling that delightful build-up of pleasure.

Then you heard wood snapping and you brought your head up. Watching in both fascination and anticipation, you felt your heart pound as Thorne broke his chair apart with sheer strength, quickly loosening the ropes around them. He turned his hungry gaze upon you, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He stalked towards you as he pulled open the fly of his jeans, quickly freeing his cock, stroking it with one hand as he reached for you with the other.

“Sweetheart...” he growled.

His hand wrapped around your neck as he pushed you down. Using his knee to spread your legs apart, he pressed his cock inside of you, not waiting another second. He sank in quickly, your wet channel inviting him inside, despite your annoyance.

“Bastard,” you gritted out.

“I told you, you were askin’ fer it,” he rumbled as he started thrusting hard, giving you no chance to escape. His hand around your throat tightened slightly as he grabbed your ankle with his other hand to hold it high. As you mewled helplessly, you watched Thorne turn to Arthur with a wicked grin.

“Feelin' guilty, Arthur?” he taunted.

Arthur merely growled.

“You just sit there then.” Thorne turned back to you, letting go of your throat to grip your jaw, shaking your head slightly. “Looks like our little slut needs a good fuck.”

You moaned. You’d come to love Thorne’s dirty talk, the way he was so vulgar when he was balls deep inside of you. You loved the way his eyes lit up as he slammed into you, as if taking you was his greatest joy.

“Hear that? Hear how much she loves getting fucked?” Thorne sneered as he pounded you into the bed, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Make sure he hears how much you love being my cock slut.”

You let out a strangled cry of pleasure as Thorne rutted into you faster, harder, the slapping of flesh filling the room.

The sound of a chair cracking and falling apart drew both of your attention.

Arthur stomped over, angry and horny. He promptly shoved Thorne out of the way before he bent over, grabbed you by the neck and kissed you passionately, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he took every last breath you had.

Thorne could only laugh. “Took ya long enough. Been wanting to stuff her beautiful mouth with my cock anyway.”

Arthur pulled away, grabbed you by the hips, and flipped you over, lifting you up so you could get your knees onto the bed. You could hear him unbuttoning his fly as Thorne climbed onto the bed, spreading his legs and stroking his cock.

“Come here, sweetness,” he coaxed. “Suck me off.”

You leaned down and took his hard shaft into your mouth, the salty bitterness of the beginning of his spend filling your mouth. Bobbing your head up and down, you wrapped one hand around his thick girth, using your other hand to massage his balls just the way he liked it. You were rewarded with a low groan and his hands tangling in your hair, pulling gently as his hips twitched slightly upwards.

“So good, goddamn,” he growled as he leaned his head back and let out a shuddering sigh of pleasure.

Arthur’s hands gripped your hips once more as he guided himself inside of you. You moaned around Thorne’s cock in your mouth as Arthur pushed in until his hips were flush with your ass. Leaning forward, she kissed your shoulder, giving you a teasing nip and a lick before standing upright again. His hips drew back and then snapped forward, making you squeal in surprised before he started to fuck you in earnest; his raging lust would not be denied this night.

“Darlin’, yer the only one fer us,” Arthur said between thrusts, grabbing your upper arms and pulling you towards him, making you arch your back. This position made your breasts thrust forward and bounce as he took you like a wolf in heat, his hips unable to stop, his breath ragged with exertion.

You saw Thorne smile, his eyes taking in the sight of you above him, your tits bouncing so beautifully, your moans music to his ears. He stroked his cock as he watched you getting rammed from behind, his eyes burning with lust.

“That’s it, moan for us, our little slut,” Thorne said with a low voice. “You love how our cocks fill you up, hm? Can’t get enough of us, can ya?”

“Oh lord, can’t get enough,” you keened, your body fully in rhythm with Arthur’s thrusts.

“Tell him how much you need him,” Thorne ordered.

You turned your head to look at Arthur. His face was contorted with passion, sweat dripping off his brow as he moaned quietly. Catching your eyes, he grinned as he reached down and rubbed your core.

“I need you Arthur,” you pleaded. “Need you to spend in me, please!”

“Oh darlin’, oh fuck,” he gasped as he suddenly came, your words triggering his release like nothing else. He held you tight to his chest as he thrust as hard as ever, his cock spilling deep inside of you as he continued to rub your clit, making you quake in his arms. The feeling of his spend filling you, so much that it was spilling out, made your pleasure hit its limit. You let out a cry as you released, your body shaking from the euphoria flashing through your body. 

Murmuring your name over and over into your ear as he came down from his high, Arthur shuddered and let his cock slowly slide from you, his spend dripping down your thigh as he took a step back and let out a shaky breath.

“My turn,” Thorne said, catching you as you fell into his lap, and he lifted you up and dropped you onto his fully erect manhood.

“Oh lord!” you cried out. 

Wasting no time, Thorne started to piston up into you, bouncing you on his cock with the strength of his hips. You watched Arthur lay on the bed and watch as you were made into Thorne’s plaything, his hands on your hips manipulating your speed and your angle as he wished. 

“Such a good sex doll,” he purred as he sped up. “Goin’ to fill you up, sweetness, you ready?”

“Always,” you breathed. 

“Good girl,” he moaned. “Now take it, take my spend.” His hips thrust up once, twice, then one last time as he held your hips flush to his, his cock pulsing inside of you as he released. He leaned his head back, panting as he filled you up, letting out a sigh and a grunt as he finished.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said shakily. “You really are the best woman in the world.”

You grinned. “Don’t forget that, especially when you think you can do something without telling me. Without trusting me.”

Arthur reached for you, pulling you off Thorne and draping you over his body. His arms went around you and held you close. “I’m sorry darlin’. We… I should’ve told you. Should’ve trusted you.”

Thorne rolled over to his side and languidly stroked your back. “And I shoulda told him not to be a dumbass.”

You giggled at Arthur’s look of annoyance. Then you raised yourself up, resting your forearms on Arthur’s chest. Staring him straight in his beautiful eyes, you said with no room for argument, “Tell me who the woman was you met today.”

Arthur sighed. “A long time ago, I was courtin’ a lady, Mary. I asked her to marry me, I was so taken with her.”

Thorne interrupted. “But she didn’t like me none, and she didn’t like gettin’ her hands dirty. So I tricked her, invited her out to dinner instead of Arthur, and called her out on her bullshit.”

“I was so mad, but when I saw the two o’ them, glarin’ at each other at the restaurant, I thought, did I really know Mary, or was she just showin’ me one side of her? So I took her aside, and we got to talkin’, and she finally said what I knew in my heart, just didn’t want to admit.”

“She wanted to take Arthur away, separate him from his family. From me.”

“So I let her go.”

Arthur’s look of pain made you feel a bit bad about tricking them. Emotions were difficult to deal with; you understood that, even as you burned with your own.

Thorne snorted. “She didn’t want you anyway, Arthur. She wanted the idea of you.”

“Don’t mean you hafta be rude.”

“For what she put you through? I’ll be as rude as I like.”

Arthur sighed. “Fine. She’s history, anyway.” He smiled gently at you, cupping your cheek with his warm hand. “We have someone who accepts both of us, and that’s worth more than gold”

Thorne scooted closer and pulled you off of Arthur’s chest, sandwiching you between the two of them. “The finest lady that ever was,” he said reverently as he kissed your shoulder.

You smiled as you snuggled against their big bodies, feeling safe, warm, and loved.

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

End Notes: Just imagining this got me all hot and bothered! I hope you enjoyed this story too, thanks for reading!

[oh-theres-a-woman]

Flowers in a Peaked Cap; Part One

A/N: Heres to attempt two at writing this author’s note… Let’s just say, I haven’t perfected the art of saving drafts. Note to self to actually find out how to make the draft before losing three solid paragraphs of rambling about the story… Sophie Points; Nil. Laptop/Internet Points; One. Welp, honestly internet and laptop have won a hell of a lot more than that. Just don’t remember how many times I’ve lost work because of not quite understanding how to post on here…. Safe to say I’m still a noob. 

Any hoot! Enough rambling about that stuff. 

After posting the first piece to this story; in the very very early hours of this morning. I couldn’t help but feel the massive urge to continue and work on the more of Tillie’s little adventure. It made me want to think about her as a person outside the relatives that we already know. What this girl’s goals are and ambitions. Unlike the rest of her family, I think she has a relatable amount of vulnerability and anxieties that are more from society’s working in the 1920s compared to her brothers; Arthur, Thomas and John that all suffer war-related mental illness and scars.   

Actively she’s a romantic escapist that wants to make her brothers and aunt proud. Making a name for herself in the means of writing and exploring the tales that are brewed from the memories of old days. 

In the progression of this story, I want to be able to explore the growth in Tillie as a young woman. The stepping out of her brothers’ shadows and coming into her own. Growing into a more confident young woman that could be from meeting new people like in this chapter and moving away from her fears. 

I do see romance in this story, something like and full of all the trend first experience one faces at one stage or another. In terms of smut, I’d think it’s lighter and would be something that is worked towards. Tillie to me doesn’t seem rather lust-driven. So, it’ll happen if it does, and if not; its simply because Tillie Shelby isn’t interested in that sort of thing. 

Important note; I’ll be working on organising the Taglist a little more throughout my next few posts. Please notify me if you’re interested in anything specifically and want tags there or if you mind just being on the general tag list and included in every story I post. Thank you!!!  

Requested By; @csigeoblue​

Parts; [ Prologue ] 

Taglist; @zodiyack​, @itsfrancisneptun​, @amys-small-world​, @fandom-fucking-shit​, @hesagod-notyet​, @hinagiku0​, @dylanlover24​, @amirahiddleston​, @a-dorky-book-keeper​, @theamuz​, @csigeoblue​, @smallheathgangsters​, @beautycinders 

Word Count; 1400

Watery Lane wasn’t the play that supported the wild fantasy’s of Tillie Shelby, but the little bookshop that was filled with many hopefuls or lads that were born a little more well off collectively grouped together. Reading the stories they wrote. This gathering was apparently one that caught the attention of the paper since the known publishers and well-off lads from another book club around England had found themselves doing a sort of travel for their source material. 

Since the profile of this club of prolific writers had taken interest in the area of Small Heath and its inhabitants. Inviting upstart writers or aspiring tellers to come and meet them. So, onward the youngest Shelby strolled until she pulled open the door of the quaint little bookshop. The signal of her arrival was the sound of her kitten heels and the ringing of the bell on the door. Doe-like blue eyes that were like the crystal-clarity of the purest of water found themselves settling on a group of well-dressed gentlemen.  Her eyes flicker between some faces she knew of Small Heath, most of them being the arseholes she went to school with and thought themselves privy to a better life. 

It wasn’t that Tillie didn’t believe they weren’t welcome to it. Mostly, it was the way they treated people in order to get there the young woman didn’t quite agree with. She was rather foolish coming to her though since her brother’s had a very vision about how the Shelby family should be seen. Their measures to getting things done with it were also less than admirable. Perhaps, it was the fact that Billy Bronson, James Fitz and Joe Gilbert made hers and Finn’s school life a living hell one way or another. But, it also made it seem extremely unfair to talk to their older brothers about what happened. Since most knew better than to fuck with the kin of the Peaky Blinders. 

Plooms of cigarette smoke clouded in the air, filling the bookstore with a spiced herbal infusion and rippled tailored sticks of tobacco. Moving her gaze from the lads she knew; to the new arrivals. The youngest of the Shelby mob offered a little smile. “Is there room for one more?” Tillie finally spoke up, pulling her book that contained the novel she had poured hours and hours over. Smiling hopefully. Arms hugging the expensive leather made book that her brothers banded together in the hopes for a lovely birthday present in the days before the war. 

Hoping that she’d fill in with various things she enjoyed to draw, but instead, Tillie hadn’t touched it until she was old enough to respect things. Asking Aunt Pol to help her keep in a safe place until then. Scraps of paper were best for sketches in any case. 

Eyes ever hopeful looked at the posher sort, some seemed wary until a certain collared lad smiled and offered a little nod then the place he’d been sitting. Away from the boys that seemed to make life a little more bothersome. “Thank you,” she whispered, settling down in the seat. Resting the book down on her lap before looking to the other lads who straightened their composure.

“We were all about to introduce ourselves since we’ve never travelled outside of London for such a meeting before. Yet, it seemed like a brilliant idea when bought up. Birmingham seemed like the best place, so raw and thrilling. Small Heath alone.” Spoke finally a lad in a handsome waist-coat, the colouring of coal, stiff collar and matching suit made her think of it being something her brother; Tom would wear. Only on the best occasions, or when he was dressing-to-impress. Unlike Thomas, this lad had handsome hazel eyes, the slightest tan to his skin like he enjoyed the frolicking on the beach. His name was Walter, but everyone called him, Walt. 

“Even the presence of criminal activity and organisations like the Peaky Blinders, it does make the area a prize for writing. Wouldn’t you agree, lads,” spoke up for eccentric Norman, who took delight in the thing that only made Tillie smile in a measure of great awkwardness. The name seemed to follow her everywhere she went, and there was a measure of awkwardness for that.  “Sorry, miss, I didn’t quite mean to be so rude, it’s just you don’t seem the sort to know much on that end, too kind and pretty, huh?” Norm covered himself for any form of rudeness that could have been interpreted. 

Only causing a polite little lowering of her head, as her hands wrapped anxiously around her book’s spine. Before relaxing at the conversation drifting off elsewhere. Sobering to the notion that the following cough from Joe Gilbert had goosebumps appearing on her arms. Causing a vast amount of discomfort in the young woman. Tillie traded glances with the nicer of the Londoner’s; Robert. Whom quickly coughed to get things back on track. 

“In any case, back to the introductions. We shouldn’t dwell too long on the story topics if we’ve lacked the proper course of introduction. Shall I start?” Robert spoke up, settled against set up for the purpose of meetings. “My name is Robert Augustine, myself and these other gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the others in the group of London lads. 

“Are from a collective of young men that wish to write and publish arts. Never before have we had a lady join us, but surely in this modern world we’d be able to welcome the bright minds of femininity amongst us. After all, lady authors are blooming into the publishing world more and more with each generation.” His words seemed to still the anxiousness within her soul at the agreement of his other companions. Looking forward to seeing a hand extended to her, Robert allowed her to stand. The mix of coarseness and softness met between the two palms meet. 

Holding her book, Tillie looked down smiling a little at her feet. Hugging her book to her chest, like it was the most precious thing to her. That was… Because it truly was the thing that held so much value to her heart. Her right hand still gently in the hold of the Londoner, cheeks lightly warming. “I’m Tillie Shelby, and I like to write about my brothers, their stories before the war. When we were kids,” she lit up sweetly talking of her brothers. Her hand and Robert’s naturally finding it parting, before he settled in his spot by the desk. Arms folding at his chest with a little smile. 

“Would you be willing to share any of those stories?” Robert asked in a light voice. Tillie could only think of one response. 

“Would I ever,” she beamed with a presence that seemed to warm the room and the quiet little shop around them. Settling down into her seat once more, she didn’t think about when the others were introducing themselves. Instead, she found herself lost within stories. The more whimsical tales of lads that laughed and partied. Or the ones that filled with a warmth that made her think of the family that suppressed or lost who they were before the war. Among them, none had known those woes and horrors. 

They’d seen things happen on the outside. Felt the absence of a brother, father, uncle or grandfather that either died or lost what kept to their memory that their younger-selves recalled. Tillie was young then. Merely a baby in some regard. But she couldn’t ever forget the days of laughter, wherein night terrors; her heroes would just come up and curl into the undersized cot she called a bed. Soothing their fingers along with the softness of infant or child hairs–that had yet to understand dryness or damage. 

When business didn’t entirely rule the Shelby family but happened in the background. Those were her tales. The tales of rawness and loss from a different scene. Where her brothers; the men who took over the role of an absent father, became; fathers, uncles, older brothers and best friends. And… Pol became the only mother she ever knew and remembered. Her voice spoke of the volumes to family values and how terrible things broke people. Yet, she never uttered their names aloud. 

Only recording them within her mind when she read the tales that meant something to one of her brothers. Art. Tom. John.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Down the Rabbit Hole

Summary: After meeting online, Belle French and Aiden Gold have their first date in a rather unusual location - a bookstore.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”

Rated: G

Down the Rabbit Hole

After seven and a half months of what could only be described as truly horrendous internet dating, Belle French knew that she had found the one when her latest match agreed to have their first date in a bookstore. 

Aiden Gold was a little older than most of the others she had matched with, and looking at his profile, it was obvious that he was far different from all her previous potentials. 

Belle knew that it had been a mistake to let Ruby set up her profile for her. Aiden was the first person she had matched with after having gone through and laboriously changed all her settings. Belle was somewhat ashamed that it had taken her so long to realise what the problem with her online matchmaking service was. 

The first thing it said on Aiden’s profile was that he was a single father. He was looking for a serious, lasting relationship. He was an antique dealer by trade, and liked reading, cooking, and spending time with his son, who was fourteen and had been the one to set him up on the website in the first place.  

He seemed to be just the kind of person that Belle was looking for, and yet, when he had come up in her matches, she had been reluctant to make the first move and contact him. He was almost too good to be true, and she couldn’t help wondering what the catch might be when she did meet him. 

Eventually, though, curiosity overcame her, and she had made that first tentative step, sending him a message and beginning the dialogue that had led them to their first date. The first litmus test of any potential partner for Belle was the bookstore test. If they agreed to their first date being at Down the Rabbit Hole, the antiquarian shop tucked away in the heart of the city, then she knew that she had met someone who was likely to be a kindred spirit in some way. 

Aiden wasn’t the first to agree, but he was the first to agree with the same amount of gleeful enthusiasm that Belle herself always felt at the prospect of spending time in the company of very old books. 

She was waiting just outside the shop, looking around for her date. She hoped that he would turn up. She’d had plenty of experiences in the past where she’d just been left standing outside the shop for half an hour waiting for someone who was destined never to arrive, to the point where Tilly had come out and taken pity on her, inviting her in for a cup of tea as consolation. Belle peered in through the window; she could see that Tilly was behind the counter again today, and she wondered what her young friend would say when she saw her come in with another prospective partner. 

Aiden rounded the corner right on time, and as he got closer, Belle gave a tentative wave. He waved back a little shyly, and she smiled. Yes, she was definitely on to a good one here. True, she might be projecting because this was the first match she’d had in so long who was even halfway decent and there was a tendency towards rose-tinted spectacles in such cases, but even so. 

“Hello.”

“Hello. You must be Belle.”

Belle nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Aiden. Thanks for agreeing to meet up here.”

“Not at all, I love this place.” There was a little pink tinge of embarrassment to the tops of his ears, but it seemed to fade under Belle’s optimistic nod of agreement.

“I do, too. I think that it’s my favourite place in the whole city. Well, aside from my own home, of course.” Now that she came to think of it, with the gurgling pipes and the old, creaky infrastructure, maybe the bookstore took her top spot after all. 

Aiden opened the front door for her, and Belle gave a little curtsy before stepping inside. “Why, thank you.”

“Hi Belle!” Tilly jumped off her stool behind the counter as Belle entered. “I’ve been waiting for you to come in all week; we’ve got a brand-new George Eliot first edition in. Well, brand-new to us, obviously, not brand-new to the world in general. It’s Middlemarch, I know that’s your favourite of hers. Do you want to take a look? I kept it back off the shelves especially so that you could have first dibs on it.”

Belle smiled at Tilly’s infectious enthusiasm and good mood.

“Not right now, Tilly. Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, hello Mr G, I didn’t see you come in there.” Tilly paused, and Belle could almost see the cogs turning in her mind before her face lit up in a eureka moment. 

“Oh, this is perfect! Fate is a wonderful thing. I was just saying to Margot the other day that I really need to get you two to meet, and I don’t know how it hasn’t happened before since you’re both in here so much all the time. Belle, Mr Aiden Gold. Mr G, this is Belle French.”

“We’ve actually already met, Tilly.” Aiden’s ears had gone decidedly pink again. Tilly looked between the two of them and a knowing little smirk began to show at the corner of her mouth. 

“Well, don’t let me keep you from getting to know each other better. Just call if you need anything.”

With that statement, Tilly skipped off into the back room of the shop, and Belle wondered how long it would be before she came out again offering them cups of tea. 

There was an awkward silence for a few moments; she and Aiden were the only ones in the shop, after all, and Tilly’s sudden absence seemed very noticeable.

“So,” Belle began, going over to the shelves and beginning to run her fingertips along the familiar faded spines. “How did you find this place?”

“It was a very long chain of events, really.” Aiden came and joined her by the shelves. “I was looking for a bookbinder to assist me with a tricky restoration, and eventually I tracked down Margot. Through her, I found Tilly and this treasure trove.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Bae says that I spend more in here than I do on paying off the mortgage. What about you? I know you’re a librarian, so I know you love books, but swapping one palace of books for another?”

“I don’t know. I think that there’s something about old books in particular that just draws me to them. They contain so much magic and mystery, all those secrets waiting to be uncovered. You can find things in here that you would never even consider before you saw them here, and some truly one of a kind works that would never make their way onto library shelves. Take this one.” Belle pulled out an anthology of fairy tales bound in faded brown leather. “You’d never find something like this in my library.” She flicked carefully through the old pages, looking at the exquisite illustrations. She was aware of Aiden looking over her shoulder, but she didn’t mind. 

“It is beautiful,” he said. “I think there’s something in the atmosphere of a place like this. The secrets of old masters waiting to be retold and rediscovered. What was it that Cicero said? A room without books is like a body without a soul.”

Belle couldn’t help but giggle. “I have that quote framed on my bedroom wall.”

“And I’m sure you subscribe to the notion.”

“Of course. There are books in every room in my apartment. Including the bathroom. It’s good to have an old favourite to read the bath. One that can take getting dunked in bubbles.”

“Not one of these ones, then.” Aiden returned to perusing the shelves as Belle desperately tried to get all thoughts of bubble baths out of her head. That was not at all appropriate for a first date, even if said first date was really going swimmingly and Aiden was just as good-looking in real life as he was in his profile picture on the website. 

“You know, you’ve both been in here enough times to know that there are some comfy armchairs on the second floor if you want to have a cosy chat.”

Tilly had come out of the back room again and was pointing up at the mezzanine above them. Belle looked at Aiden, who looked back at her. It would be harder for Tilly to interrupt them up there, even if she was doing it with the best of intentions, and Belle was definitely comfortable enough not to need a timely rescue from this date.

“Shall we?” she asked. Aiden nodded and they made their way towards the tight spiral staircase in the corner of the shop.

“You know, Tilly, I’ve never managed to work out how you managed to get those chairs up there,” Aiden said. 

Tilly just laughed. “Oh, getting them up there was easy, Mr G. I’m more concerned with getting them down again.”

Leaving them with that cryptic comment, she took her place on her stool behind the counter again, and Aiden and Belle made themselves comfortable in the chairs on the mezzanine. Tilly’s acknowledgement and overt approval of their date gave Belle encouragement that this was definitely something that could go the distance, an independent third party who knew them both giving it the thumbs up, so to speak.

“You know, I think that Cicero was really on to something. You can’t deny that it’s these books that give this place its atmosphere. It wouldn’t be the same if the shelves were full of kitchenware.”

Belle burst out laughing at the image and before she knew it, she’d set Aiden off too. It was so long since she’d found someone that she could laugh with like this, and about books as well. 

Once they’d collected themselves, she sneaked a sideways glance at Aiden, only to discover him doing the same thing. The blush in his ears really was adorable, and Belle couldn’t wait to get to know him better.

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 50

AO3 | Masterpost

Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth

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

Summary: After Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. What takes place at first is a simple love story: full of trials and journeys that they must endure together, as a team. But over time, things complicate. The gang is in trouble, and as Arthur and Mary Beth aim to set out on their own one day, they must find a way to help those they love while eventually, finding escape. Their ultimate goal is to go north with the Marstons, to find the bucolic stretches of Wisconsin where, rumor has it, there are lily farms. Will they make it? How will they survive when all hope seems lost? This is their story.

Chapter 50: Revenge is a Dish Best Shared

“Dutch,” said Abigail. “Goddammit, Dutch. Answer me.”

She had left Jack with the Reverend. They were practicing reading with the Bible inside one of the shacks on the water. A good deal of the camp had capsized in recent storms. The weather was cold at night, enough so to make most of them drink, even more than usual. Abigail had not drunk a drop, not since Sadie had left with the Texas Rangers some weeks before. She did not fancy losing control. That day, she wore a pair of John’s old trousers, tucked into a heavy pair of boots. Pearson and Charles and Lenny were spending all morning digging the wagons out the mud, caked in the stuff from head to toe, drinking water and wiping the sweat from their foreheads. A lot of the food had been lost or stolen by wild animals. One morning, not too many days before, an actual gator had washed up with the storm and nearly snapped Karen’s leg off. She bashed it on the head with a bottle and shot it with her gun and it scurried into the marsh.

Dutch and Hosea had been holing up in private the last couple days. They had sent Trelawny into town more than a week before with a letter Abigail knew was intended for Arthur. Something was going on, and though she understood it to be some sort of complex distraction being planned, she was sure they were supposed to be waiting for John and Sadie to return before they put things into motion.

“Tell me what’s happening, Dutch,” said Abigail. “Or I swear to fucking god.”

He was leaving the marsh. He was getting on his horse. “You swear to fucking god?” he said. “What god, fair Abbie? Prithee, tell me now.”

“Don’t matter what god,” said Abigail. “And don’t call me Abbie. Only one man around here can get away with that, maybe two, and it ain’t you.”

Usually Dutch would have laughed at her, but today, she seemed truly unhinged, and she was wearing trousers, which she never wore. He sighed, sitting on top of the Count. He leaned on his elbows so he could see her eyes. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know, Abigail.”

“I wanna know why the hell the boys are digging up the wagons? Why Miss Grimshaw is packing up the camp like we’re fixing to leave tomorrow.”

“Because we are fixing to leave tomorrow,” said Dutch. “Look around you. We are knee-deep in mud. If the law don’t find us, starvation surely will.”

“But what about John?” she pleaded. “What about Sadie?”

“We’ve got contingencies,” said Dutch. “Don’t worry. They’ll find us when this is all over.”

“All over?” she said. “How long will that be?”

“I don’t know,” said Dutch. “A few weeks? It really depends.”

“Weeks?” she said. With an unseen force, she reached up and tried making for his gun. “Weeks?”

She clawed at his face and got ahold of his hair. He was so surprised he didn’t know fully how to fight back and instead he yielded and allowed himself to be dragged from the horse. There was nothing else to do.

He landed on his feet in the muddy earth and then he managed to nudge her off of him as gentle as could be. He proceeded to dust off his lapels. “You trying to kill us both?”

“Maybe.”

“Calm yourself,” said Dutch.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“John and Sadie will be fine. The Rangers have reassured me that they’re alive beyond their daring escape and in hiding north of Annesburg.”

“It’s gotta be freezing cold up in them hills,” said Abigail. “What if they’re—Jesus Christ, Dutch. What if they’re—”

“They’re fine, Abigail.”

“You don’t know that,” she said. “We gotta wait. Or—send somebody after them.”

He sighed. He hooked his thumbs around his gun belt. He squared up with her and said, “My girl, we can’t stay here any longer, and we can’t spare the manpower. You know it, as well as I. It is simply not safe. Everything is in place in St. Denis. The robbery will take place the day after tomorrow, and by then, you all need to be fully removed from Lemoyne, or else this is all for nothing. Arthur and Mary Beth risked their lives for nothing. John spent months in jail, for nothing. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But I just—” She was holding her face in her hands. “I can’t leave him,” she said. “I can’t keep waiting like this, Dutch. It’s killing me.”

“I know,” he said. “I know, my dear.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. He looked at her with soulful eyes, which seemed familiar. He had not reassured her on such fatherly terms in many years, and it was so foreign now she nearly backed away out of fear that he had been replaced by some sort of imposter. “You have to trust in John. Can you do that?”

She stared at him, feeling like a wild animal. “I suppose I can try,” she said.

“That’s my girl.”

“Where you going,” she said. “Why you getting on your horse.”

“I have an errand,” he said, replacing his hat atop his head.

“What sort of errand.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “If you’re looking for something to keep yourself busy, see Miss Grimshaw. I’m sure she needs help salvaging what’s left of this…wreckage.”

“That woman can bite my ass,” said Abigail, ringing her hands. “But I’ll help anyway.”

Dutch chuckled, mounted up, scratched the Count along his mane. “I shall return by morning,” he said. “Have faith, Mrs. Marston.”

He rode away.

She turned around to face the camp, which was in shambles. Mud everywhere. There were a couple structures, like repurposed fishing shacks, and that’s where they all slept. She thought about going in to bug on Hosea next, but she had heard him up coughing late the night before. This weather wasn’t good for him, for his lungs. Pearson was smoking a pipe, sitting on a tree stump. It was odd behavior for him and she figured he must have been drunk, head in his hands. Charles was taking a break, smoking hash cigarettes, which he had shared with her on occasion, but he seemed ornery as a great deal of the grunt work those days fell on him, and Lenny, and Lenny was green and despite his enthusiasm required some level of instruction. Micah was gone. Nobody had seen him in months. Tilly spent most of her days working the towns, bringing in as much money as she could, but without Mary Beth to help her work the angle, she just couldn’t bring in what she’d used to. The Reverend helped a great deal with Jack. He seemed to have turned a corner, and this was one small, good development amidst all the chaos.

The days and nights felt like an ongoing and monotonous fog of indecision since the weather started getting bad. Without Arthur and without John there was a big feeling of being unprotected on all sides. She felt like there was nobody manning the guns, even as that was untrue. There were good men left, but without those men she trusted most, it was never enough. In general, even with John around, Abigail had come to rely on Arthur’s presence for her ongoing sense of safety and stability in the gang for many years. It was something she was working on, not relying on him too much, especially now since he was having a family of his own and since John was stepping things up, as a man. But Arthur had always been the pillar, for as long as she had been around. Without him, there was a hole. Huffing and puffing and unsure of what to do, she placed her hands on her hips and scolded the dog for no reason. She felt bad about it immediately, patted him on the head and squeezed him behind the ears and said, “God fucking dammit. Goddammit. I’m sorry.”

“Hello, Abigail,” said Hosea. He was approaching her with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired, but awake. He had some color in his cheeks. Cane went up to him and sniffed at his pockets with excitement. Hosea scrubbed him once behind the ears and sent him away.

“Oh, Hosea,” said Abigail. “How you keeping?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” He walked past her. He stood on the edge of the water, looking out into its murky depths, wearing a brown cuourdoroy jacket. “How are you.”

“I’m trying my best,” she said, resisting the urge to ask too many questions. He wouldn’t have the answers anyway, not the ones she was looking for. She took a cigarette out of her pocket, but she didn’t have any matches.

Hosea breathed deep. He turned around, smiling at her wearily. He had a match and lit her cigarette, then he shook out the flame. “I know you miss John,” said Hosea. “I know you’re worried about him. I just wanted to check in on you.”

“Yes,” she said. “The boy needs his father. I—I need him, too. We been on better terms lately. Almost happy. Would be a shame to lose him now.” She was being sarcastic, but she almost started to cry as she smoked.

Hosea’s presence was strong and warm. He had been up late coughing, but she thought he looked a little better that day. Maybe it was just that she was so relieved to see him. “The two of you will make it,” he said.

She tried to smile.

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot,” said Hosea.

“About what?” said Abigail.

“About Arthur,” said Hosea. “I miss him.”

She was surprised to hear him talking this way, so earnest. “Yeah, I miss him, too,” said Abigail, smoking. “Nothing feels quite right without him.”

“I agree,” he said. “It’s got me thinking. This whole…experiment. The gang. It might just be over. For good. That’s sad, in a way, but for Arthur, I couldn’t be happier. Somehow, it seems like a sign. New things are ahead, good things. I’ve just been thinking about him. That’s all.”

They listened to the sounds of the wintry swamp. It was cold and dank. The trees seemed to be heavy and hanging with sludge. The sky was gray. Abigail finished her cigarette, tossed it into the mud.

“Don’t give up on John,” said Hosea. He put his arm around her, held her close. “There’s still one more day, my girl. He might just make it, with moments to spare. He has a certain talent for that, don’t you think?”

They looked at the thick haze out over the water. There were alagators swimming in the soup. Hosea smelled strongly of stale smoke and medicine.

“Yeah he does,” she said, tucking her head into his shoulder, like she was trying to hide. “I’ll keep hoping, Hosea. I’ll try.”

It was late afternoon, and Arthur had tracked a Thoroughbred filly halfway down the valley and into Murfree Brood country. He thought she seemed fairly tame in nature upon initial observation and was going to break her for Charlotte. Though he had entertained the idea of taking Hamish since it had been some weeks since they’d spent time together, once he thought about it further, he decided that Hamish was an old man, and it was cold out there, and he was worried about the violence that could ensue. Perhaps it was coddling, but Arthur had grown a little protective in those days of the people had had left and those he held dear. He knew it would be better for him to go alone.

Losing light around four o’clock, he tried to ascertain whether he should stay the night or get back to the girls. John and Sadie had made their way out that very morning, and they were alone, and he didn’t want to lose the horse. It was now or never, he decided, after he’d had his dinner and tracked her one last quarter of a mile to the top of a snowy hill. He smoked a cigarette and went slow, the job taking about an hour in time. She would need further taming. She was a bit wilder than she had let on, but strong. Once he got her on the bit, he rode her back with Leah trotting at his side. The sun went down, and he did not see any bad characters nor cannibals on his journey. Perhaps they were in hiding, or sleeping off the snow. When he returned to the house, he tied up the horses in the stable and watered and fed them well. Inside, the girls had already finished with dinner but had saved him some, keeping it warm on the stove. Mary Beth had fallen asleep by the fire. Charlotte was knitting a sweater on the sofa.

“How’d it go?” she said to him, seeming good that night, though it was very late.

“It went well,” he said, lifting the lid on the stew. “I brought back a prize girl.”

“Really?” said Charlotte.

“Indeed. It’s a bit late, though. I’ll introduce her to you in the morning.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Thank you, Arthur.”

“You are welcome. It was the least I could do.”

Charlotte went back to her knitting, happily. Arthur went to touch Mary Beth on the forehead, just a habit he had. He had hoped she’d be awake, for he was in the mood to be with her and to talk a little. But it was okay.

“I’m gonna haul her off to bed,” said Arthur. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “You don’t have to wrry about me, Arthur.”

He took a deep breath then, put his hands on his hips. “Did she, uh, talk to you at all? About what’s coming?”

“She did,” said Charlotte. “She asked me to come with you.”

Arthur nodded, looked down at his boots for a second. “And?”

“And, I think I will.” She set down her knitting and looked up at him, seriously. “I’ve nothing going for me here, not all alone. I see that, and while I think that it was once a noble dream, Cal wouldn’t—he wouldn’t want me to be unsafe.” She looked down into her lap and held the ring on her finger, tightly. “I don’t see it as giving up. Not anymore. I don’t know what I’ll do, where I’ll end up. But Mary Beth told me the two of you are headed north to Wisconsin with John and his family. I have a cousin in Chicago. We were quite close in childhood. I thought maybe I would…I’m not sure. Head there? Start over, somewhat. What do you think?”

Arthur smiled at her, feeling accomplished as if his job were done. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

She was relieved.

“It might be…a little while, before we head up there,” he said. “Maybe not till some time after the baby comes. You good on waiting? If not, we can get you on a train. Any time. It ain’t a problem.”

“I think I’ll wait for a while,” she said. “I’ll try my best to learn and keep up. I’d like to meet the baby.”

For some reason, this surprised Arthur. He hadn’t thought about it like that before, not really. That the baby would be real, sooner rather than later, and that it would be a person that somebody would want to meet. It overwhelmed him, but just for a moment. This wasn’t his first rodeo, though he had not been there for Isaac’s birth. He had been so young, and it was a lifetime ago. “Very good,” said Arthur, almost bashful about it. “I’m real glad, Charlotte.”

“Me, too,” she said.

Meanwhile, Dutch was on his way into St. Denis. Some weeks before, he had received correspondence from Micah Bell, asking him for a meeting at the saloon there, wanting for peace, saying he had a plan, but Hosea had convinced him it was a fool’s errand. Convinced him he could even be working for the feds. Dutch was not fixing to go. He was sending a representative in his place. He rode around outside the town, to the big houses on the water, in full disguise. He had stopped somewhere under the train tracks to change his clothes. He was dressed like a stevedore. He even mucked up the Count. Nobody was going to catch a whiff of him, not for miles.

Things had changed, and Dutch was gritting his teeth. He had needed for some time to be reminded to look into the future, not the past. The future. But to get there, he knew he had to entertain some modicum of looking back, and so that’s what he was doing tonight. He hopped a large stone fence and bartered with a couple security guards, on of whom he had met at the mayor’s party many months before. He waited beneath a gazebo lit with electric fancy and there was a duck pond, which he admired as he smoked his cigar. Checking his watch, he was made to wait twenty minutes, which should have angered him, but he knew he would get what he came for. It was worth his patience tonight.

“Signor van der Linde,” said Angelo Bronte, coming out onto the lawn in the moonlight. He held two glass cups—Sambuca, con la mosca. He was wearing slippers and his smoking jacket. He, too, held a stogie between his teeth. “I am so sorry for the delay. My men, you know, they are hopeless bastards. Most are too drunk half the time to communicate at all, let alone clearly.”

Dutch knew it was mostly bullshit. He didn’t particularly care. He straightened up off the railing upon which he’d been leaning. Bronte handed him one of the Sambucas and the men shook hands in the gazebo. “It is not problem,” said Dutch. “Gave me time to collect my thoughts.”

“Very good, very good,” said Bronte. He smoked, looked around, and lowered his voice. “You are alone?”

“I am indeed.”

“Good. Then we may proceed. You and you’re men are all set for two nights time, no?”

“Yes, we are.”

“My man will be there,” he said, smoking, “at the bank, as previously agreed upon. He has the key, but not the combinations.”

“I have a vault man,” said Dutch. “You needn’t be concerned.”

Bronte examined his nails. “Detonation will occur as soon as you have boarded the vessel. My hostages will ID you, as discussed. Micah Bell will be there to take the fall.”

“Have you apprehended Mr. Bell, or does that yet remain?”

“It is in progress, as we speak.”

The ducks splashed around a little in the pond. A cloud passed over the moon, darkening the yard. “Very good.”

“When you arrive in Blackwater,” said Bronte, “you are on your own. My vessel returns to the St. Denis docks.”

“I got no further use for your boat, Mr. Bronte. Just need a clean getaway

“I had to make sure. You understand.”

“Of course,” said Dutch.

“I trust you will hold up your end of the bargain.” He blew a smoke ring into the air, watched it disappear, blew another.

“The mayor is already in trouble, my good sir,” said Dutch. “Removing dirty politicians from office is a former specialty of mine.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ve got friends in high places.”

Bronte smiled. “I want my money.”

“You’ll get it.”

“And I’d like to see Marie again, some day. If possible. Boy, I do miss her. And her oaf of a husband. They are such fun, for Americans.”

“Marie?” said Dutch. “You mean Mary Beth.”

Bronte laughed. “Yes, yes. Whatever the hell.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” said Dutch, “but I’ll see what I can do. They’re expecting a child. Arthur—or, Tacitus, is fairly…protective of his own. It’ll take some convincing. Especially after you kidnapped little Jack.”

“I did no such thing,” said Bronte. “I love children. I have several of my own, with multiple women back in Calabria. Jack was delivered to me by local barbarians with chips on their shoulders. All I did was give him a warm bed and feed him fine Italian cuisine. What was I to do, turn him out on the street?”

Dutch put out his cigar in a nearby flower pot. “I suppose that is true.”

“Anyway,” said Bronte. “All is in order. Are we in business, or no?”

He held out his hand. Dutch shook it, firmly. “Yes. I believe we are.”

They drank the Sambuca, both of them, in one gulp. Then they tossed the cups into the weeds.

“You may wait here, until you have confirmation of Micah Bell’s safe capture,” said Bronte.

“I think I will. Thank you.”

“You want anything? Food? Wine?”

“I’d love some,” said Dutch. “Thank you very much.” He took a seat at the table and straightened his suspenders. “Feel free to join me, Mr. Bronte. I love a party.”

“As do I,” he said. “I’ll send for the servants, and then I’ll return. It the good life, no? Being in agreement for once?”

“I could not agree more.”

They drank and enjoyed themselves for most of the evening. The girls came around, and though several were offered to him, Dutch did not partake. He didn’t like to mix business with pleasure, and he did not get too drunk. Around midnight, one of the men returned with Micah, unconscious, hog-tied, stuck him in the locked cellar. It was time for Dutch to take his leave, as all had been made clear. He rode home through the marsh, eager to return to Hosea, who he was concerned he had left behind in poor health.

“This is it,” whispered Sadie. “Don’t cause a ruckus. I don’t know what the hell’s been going on.”

“Why the hell would I cause a ruckus?” said John. “Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?”

Sadie glared. They were on horseback, coming in slow to the marsh. The gators were everywhere in the glowing moonlight, and it was clear that Arthur was at least partially correct. The weather was becoming a problem. When they crested the trees and entered into camp, John could see all that had been lost, everything that was going on, and it was a sorry and fucked-up situation. He’d never lived like that, not since joining the gang. It was a bad way, for sure. Good news was, however, they hadn’t missed them. Everybody was still there. He and Sadie had gotten home in less than a day, and the fire was still on, and Lenny and Bill were standing guard. It was near on 2am when John and Sadie arrived, in full safety. The snow had kept them hidden up in the hills, and by the time they got down through the valley, the lawmen were long gone. Charlotte had saved them.

“John Marston,” said Lenny. “Holy shit. It’s you! Sadie, you did it. You got him free.”

“Damn straight, kid,” she said. She tied up the horse and removed her hat. “Weren’t no picnic, I can assure you.”

“Where’s Abigail,” said John. “Is she here?”

“She’s in there,” said Bill, switching his shotgun to the other shoulder. “Shack by the edge of the water. Been crying for you every goddam night, Marston. I swear to god.”

John didn’t know what to say. He tipped his hat to Sadie like a final thank you and proceeded through the camp, listening to Lenny chatter on to Sadie in the background, asking her for the full play-by-play. Everybody must have been holed up in the shacks, because he saw no one lying about, or drinking, or warming to the fire. Not even the Reverend. The atmosphere was dank and sad.

When he got in the shack, he took his hat off and hung it up by the door and looked around. It was two rooms. The stove was burning. He heard Abigail’s voice from the other room. “Goddammit, who’s there?” she said. “Get the hell out. We’re sleeping.”

“Abbie,” he said, standing in the doorway. His own voice sounded desperate, echoing through the shack like a hollow tune. She came out, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, looking beside herself. “Abbie, I’m back,” he said.

“Oh my god,” she said. “John?”

She rushed to him, dropping the shawl. She was wearing his clothes, and she smelled like sweat and the smoke from the stove. He held her tightly, maybe tighter than he ever had. “I’m here,” he said, smiling into her hair. “Goddammit. I’m here.”

“You’re so goddam skinny,” she said, right away, smiling through tears. “John Marston. What happened to you?”

“Nothing good,” he said. “But I’m here now. That’s all that matters.”

They kissed in the warmth of the shack on the water. It had surprised them both. They looked at their shoes, and then they looked at each other. It was all right. It was right. He had been so scared that she would change, that she’d lose hope in him. But nothing had changed. It was all right.

“Hosea was spot on,” she said, drying her cheeks. “He knew you’d come.”

“Is everybody okay?”

“As far as I can tell,” she said.

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good.”

Dutch arrived back into camp shortly thereafter, bringing with him a bottle of very expensive Limoncello, and the the promise of a new day.

[msilwrites]

The Strange Woman

A/N: Errr... so I thought of just writing this while at home. Enjoy! I just want to add that I'm tired of female characters surrender to their men so easily... or needing their protection all the time... Why can't we have a female lead of equal footing?

Genre: Action/ Drama / Comedy

Sandro Balestreri - Michele Morrone

Tilly McLeod - is an original female character

                                         The Strange Woman

                                          (Written in Sandro’s POV)

My Tio often said that a perfect spouse is someone who you will fit exactly with  because you can weather any storm together. He was probably talking about his wife, my Tia. He was one of the few who was lucky enough to find the right woman. But in this life and world of mine, it is hard to find the right partner, it was like finding a needle in a haystack, moreover I’ve long given up with that thought. Though I never had to chase a woman as many of them vyed for my attention, no one had actually held my attention for long nor have they gotten my entire affection. Everything I felt for them was just lust and was fleeting. I had no intention of entering a relationship, nor do I want to get married. Which is why I am wondering how did I end up sitting in front of a strange English woman, drinking afternoon tea at the back garden of a hotel in Mayfair, going through this arrange ‘marriage’ meeting.

Tilly McLeod was not the type of woman I usually went for. She was not sexy, hot, and sultry nor did she stir up anything inside me when I first looked at her. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t ugly. In fact, she looked elegant, and was very prim and proper. Though she had a sense of style, her way of dressing was a little conservative compared to the women I’m used to, she only showed a right  amount of skin and it wasn’t even the parts I wanted. 

In fact, her sense of style reminded me of that VOGUE chief in editor, what’s her name again? Was it Anna? I don’t really care if other women considered her stylish because they looked boring and dry to me. If my Tia’s idea of a fine woman and a perfect wife for me is someone who is a stick in the mud, well then she’s certainly found one.

My Tia... she just told me one day that she had found the perfect partner for me and I should fly to London and meet her. At first, I was confused. Everyone in my family knows that I didn’t plan to get tied down. I like my life the way it is. But then she brought up about me having a heir and my horrible taste in women and never stopped harping about it. When she couldn’t convince me, she had to remind me of my grandfather’s will and told me to treat it as some sort of merger, merging with the McLeod family wasn’t such a bad thing. It would after all, expand their family business faster. 

Ah... my grandfather’s will. Find the right woman, make her your wife or get nothing. I actually didn’t mind not inheriting anything from the late old man. After all, I have earned my own keep and wealth, and inherited a lot more from my late father. However, that trickster of an old man knew how to find my weakness. The vineyard that I love and had been passed in our family for generations would be sold away. It’s not that I couldn’t buy it if it happens, but that late scoundrel had specifically prevented me from even purchasing the vineyard.

“Ahemm...” Tilly cleared her throat as she puts down the cup of tea on the table. She takes lifts her eyes and stares right back at me with a smile. In fact there was something wrong about her that I couldn’t pinpoint.

“Thank You for meeting me here today, Sandro!” she greets cordially. “I’m already aware of the situation, so there is nothing to worry about.”

Situation? So she was already briefed then. “ I see, that’s good!” was my short answer. I didn’t really want to prolong this meeting.

“However, before I marry you, I have some conditions...” she mentions, before taking an envelope from her bag and handing it to me. If it was a prenup, I sure had no problem with it.

“Is this a prenup?” I asked

“No...” was her quick reply, before taking a bite of biscuits and washing it down with her tea. “Open and read it...” she instructed.

I did open the envelope out of curiosity and read through the list. Her list of requests wasn’t so strange until I read some parts of it.

 “I want my own cottage with a workshop and a greenhouse not far from your estate or inside your estate”. 

“The cottage should look the same as the one I have here...”

“Whilst my cottage is not yet built, I want my own room and have it renovated to my taste”

“ We’re going to have children through artificial insemination”

The conditions she wrote made me cock my brows. Especially the last one. 

“What’s with these conditions?!”  I looked at her and gave her my most intimidating gaze, but her blue eyes looked right back at me, unafraid, when mosts would be looking away by now.

“I’m sure it’s not too hard? Right?” she answered. “ It wouldn’t probably be a burden to your finances, as I will be paying for the construction, nor do you have to force yourself to like me and force yourself to get stiff and intimate with me. And I think it we will have to do ‘conception’ repeatedly to have a child, and I don’t think we’re both capable of-  ” it was direct and frank, and I didn’t like it. 

“Stop.” I warned as I clenched my teeth and fist. This woman had just bruised my ego. She just insulted my capability financially and sexually, she quickly noticed my shift in mood, making her sit up straight. “ I’ll provide you you your own room and have it renovated to your taste. I will also provide you a space in my estate to build that cottage-workshop of yours, as soon as you send the blue prints. You don’t have to spend anything. As for the issue of having children we will talk about it when the time comes.”

“Huh? But why? I am well aware that I not your cup of tea, nor do you find me attractive. So let’s make it easier for the both of us, Sandro, and I will be out of your hair” she smiled. “Oh, I might as well add. Do you need my assistance in handling ‘things’, or do you want to me to be completely out of your hair?”

“Out of my hair would be good...” I said, not really wanting her to be involved in my life and get in the way of my work. As far as my experience tells me, mosts women tend to be unhealthy distractions. Like what my late father told me before, they are a hell for the soul. Though it seems that Tilly won’t be a distraction at all. I still don’t want anyone get in the way with how I do things.

“Well then... since you said it yourself why don’t you agree to my terms? It is simple, isn’t it? Since this is an arranged marriage. Let me add that you can still continue living your life as a bachelor, playing around with other women or go partying with your blokes and I won’t say anything. Just don’t let me know or catch you? Alright?”

I leaned back and looked at her, intrigued. If she wanted me to continue living my life as a bachelor after getting married, then why does she have a problem with it?  “Why?”

“What do you mean why? Of course, as a woman, I still have some pride...” was her simple answer. It was not satisfactory, but yet understandable.

“Well then, Matilda, I am looking forward to getting married to you, see you at our wedding day...” I stretched out my hand for a handshake and she took them, her grip was surprisingly strong as she shook them.

“Likewise...”

The Next Part of this story is here; ‘Addio Al Celibato’

A/N:  I will be editing this for grammar purposes. I hope you enjoyed the story. FYI. It will be a series of one shots

[crimsoncompendium]

“Are you okay?”

Tilly reeled away from the crack in the door.

When she’d heard the knock, she'd remembered she was alive; her heart had started thumping in her chest. But it wasn’t who she’d expected. Of all the people to show up unannounced at her door, it had to be her cousin. Ihana looked great. Of course she does. Tilly hid her face behind her hand.

Ihana pushed the door open and stepped in on clicking heels. “Holy shit, Tilly. What the hell is going on here?” She leaned to gape at the mess in the dining room.

Tilly regarded the remains of the liquor cabinet indifferently. “It fell.”

Ihana looked at Tilly. Her eyes were so bright, her curls so fair, her lips so pink, her skin so porcelain. Tilly envied her for it. Of course she's young and beautiful.

“Are you okay?” she asked again, softer this time.

Tilly found herself somewhat disarmed, but held her cards close to her chest nonetheless. “I, uh...” She looked at the broken glass glinting dully on the dining room floor and pushed thoughts of Nic out of her mind. If she started thinking about him, she would cry. “...It’s just been a messy few days.”

Ihana shut the door behind her. When Tilly heard the lock click, she shook her head. “Unlock it.”

Ihana paused, looking at Tilly uncertainly.

“Unlock it,” she murmured in repeat.

Ihana unlocked the door. “I brought you something,” she chimed, lifting a long black instrument case.

Tilly looked at the case, then at Ihana. “Let’s go to the balcony.”

Ihana slipped out of her heels and followed Tilly’s precarious path through fields of broken glass and over the mountain range formed by the overturned liquor cabinet. At the top of the stairs she discovered a nest of pillows and blankets in Tilly’s den. The fire in the hearth illuminated an open book with sketches of a man littering both visible pages. “Oh, Tilly.”

Of course she's keen. Tilly cringed. She would’ve preferred to keep that detail to herself. She continued to her room to reach for a familiar container under her bed.

“That’s not necessary,” Ihana said first. Then, quieter, she asked, “Did you love him?”

She glanced at Ihana, angry. The air around her felt hot. She was already licking her teeth in preparation for the inevitable outburst when she looked at the tin. The thin grey light of an overcast day gleamed against it.

There on its surface slept the dark grooves of a thumbprint. It was bigger than hers, not her own. Confronted with the evidence of better times—times that would now never return—her rage cooled.

When she returned to the present, she knew her regret was written all over her face. “Yeah, I guess I did,” she finally answered. There was never any guessing involved (and the word did was another lie), but Ihana didn’t need to know that.

“Why aren’t you sleeping in your bed?” Ihana asked as she followed Tilly out of the room and up the stairs.

“There’s a leak.” She took a seat at the table on the balcony and, carefully preserving that salient pattern, began to roll Ihana’s clove spliffs.

Ihana stood awkwardly nearby, still holding her case. “Really, you don’t have to do that. Do you want to see what I brought you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tilly lied ineffectually, “sure.”

Ihana pursed her lips, but took a seat and set the case on the table.

Tilly popped each of its three latches and lifted the lid. Ihana was already prattling on about “hardware” and “specifications,” but it was easy enough to tune her out, considering what lay in the crushed red velvet lining of its custom case: a prosthetic, newer and sleeker than her current one.

“How did you do this?” Tilly interrupted.

“Dad still has all of his plans and notes from when he designed your old arm. I wanted to take a crack at an updated version.” She gestured at the prosthetic. QED.

Of course her father spends time with her.

“I got the idea when you came and stayed with us for a while,” added Ihana.

Tilly looked down. So much had happened since then that it felt more like a half-forgotten dream than a proper memory. Her stomach churned uneasily.

“I thought we could have it ready before you left,” Ihana continued with a chuff. “It was a big project, though. Ended up taking a much longer time than I ever would’ve guessed. But I’m glad we did it. We both learned a lot. And we’re happy with the end result.”

Of course she’s smart. Of course she’s generous. Of course she’s a good girl with a perfect life. Tilly didn’t want to hug her cousin. She couldn’t manage to feel any gratitude. But she stood up and embraced her perfunctorily while Ihana stayed in her chair. “Thanks, Ihana,” she said with a sudden pang of guilt for her insincerity.

Ihana passed Tilly a meaningful look. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tilly’s reproachful thoughts manifested in hard, hateful angles in the corners of her mouth. Even so, she found she lacked the energy for such searing self-loathing and breathed a defeated sigh. She had to start telling the truth to herself.

“You were in the Vigil, right?” Tilly eventually asked, depositing herself back into her chair. “You went to Maguuma?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you ever see anything out there that...” Unsure of how to put it into words, she did her best hoped Ihana would understand. “...You couldn’t come back from?”

She noticed how Ihana’s mouth took on those same hard angles that had tightened her own just seconds ago. “I quit, didn’t I?” was her answer, delivered with a cool smile.

Tilly’s heart ached. Tell the truth. She lit the spliff she’d finished rolling and took a draw, then offered it across. “I wanna know what you saw.”

Ihana’s face betrayed a flash of guilt. “I told Drake I wasn’t going to do this anymore after the baby.” Frowning, she finished: “But if this is what you want to talk about.”

They traded hits in the long silence before Ihana finally started talking, her yellow eyes fixed to some distant point. “There were a few mechanics aboard each ship just to make sure things kept running, but the bulk of the auxiliary unit didn’t show up until after the crash.

“I thought I was just going out there to patch up some airships and fix cannons. Turned out to be a search and rescue.” Her voice lowered. “Thing is, when an airship goes down, almost nobody survives. These ships got pulled down—if they weren’t crushed in the sky.

“So it was a lot of searching. Not a lot of rescuing. A lot of...piles of things. Remains. We still don’t know for sure how many of us we lost. In some cases there was just...nothing left.

“And then we won. Killed the Dragon. But all those people he killed...all those families with holes in them. Our victory couldn’t fix that.

“And for some reason, I lived. Me. Mothers, fathers, people much stronger, smarter, and faster than me. Braver than me. Purer than me. All dead. All irreplaceably, irreversibly dead. And there I was.”

Ihana’s voice wavered. “I would’ve given anything to trade places,” she said, hiding behind a spent spliff.

Tilly had forgotten not to stare. She’d watched her, watched her face, watched her hands, listened to her voice. She looked at the prosthetic lying in its case.

She had envied and hated Ihana for as long as she could remember, even when they were children. She’d hated how everyone doted on her, the baby of the family. She’d hated how Ihana had wound up more talented than her, hated how Ihana’s marriage wasn’t in shambles, hated how the baby hadn’t ruined her body. She’d hated how perfect Ihana was, but more importantly, she’d hated how flawed she was in comparison.

Somewhere in Ihana’s recollections, Tilly had begun to see the human in her—the scared thing, the small thing, the fallible thing. She’d glimpsed that same human loneliness in Ihana as she had in herself and understood that, on some level, Ihana was just as flawed as she.

Through years of envy and enmity, Tilly reached for Ihana’s hand. Tears stinging her eyes, she asked, “Will you please stay?”

[period-dramallama]

A skim read of jean plaidy’s St Thomas Eve

For @thalassodromid bc this is our Niche

General thoughts on quality (TLDR)

-First off, I should give this book something of a pass because it was written 60+ years ago. Historical research, like science, Marches On.

-I skimmed it because i was not loving the style. There’s very little description, the pacing feels like This Happened And Then This Happened. With this story, you should have a sense of the stakes, the tension. It lacks atmosphere.

-This book really didn’t spark much emotion in me. I was heartwarmed and amused, but never frightened, horrified, fascinated or upset. I felt no panic when Meg got the sweat. 

-Honestly i was so bored I started wondering if maybe this is too difficult a story to tell, because i came in loving these historical figures and wanting content. How bored must the unobsessed reader be?

-Show don’t tell, Jean! Don’t tell me everyone’s very upset, show me them upset. Don’t tell me Meg loves Thomas, show their bond. Don’t tell me everyone loves Thomas for his honesty, show me him helping his neighbours.

-To be fair, there’s a lot to get through in 260 pages.

-I just love how historical fiction pulp novels have Book Club questions at the back. It just feels rather cocky, imo. Like you think your book is Deep enough for me to sit and ponder the characters. Like there was a question that was something like: “do you prefer Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn” which was kind of hilarious because the whole book it was Poor Loyal Old Ugly Katherine and Six Fingered Anne Boleyn Is A Minx And Wants Thomas More Dead

Pet peeves

-at the beginning of the book, it says “Secretly Henry VII was unbothered by his wife’s death” or something along those lines. Given that Henry VII locked himself away after Elizabeth died and his mum had to step in and rule because he stopped functioning, this left a bitter taste in my mouth. Henry VII in this book is a Mean Evil Miser so of course he can’t love or be loved by a Good Woman.

-John More jnr being described as the family dunce. To be fair, maybe the book came out before we knew he was a translator too, but STILL. Don’t put John down to raise the girls up. He is valid too. 

-the language is what my old tutor would call ‘mock Tudor’. I think it was expected at the time that you had to try and make the language authentic- The Blanket of the Dark and the Man on a Donkey both use Tudor language. It really made the dialogue annoying. Lots of ‘tis and ‘twas and it was this close to beshrew me verily and hey fucking nonny nonny. Every time Alice said fuckign ‘Tilly valley’ I went AAAARGGGH. JUST HAVE HER SAY THE WORD ‘NONSENSE’. There’s a happy middle, imo, between too Tudor and too modern, and it’s quite a broad middle, you can move around a lot in it, but there are limits. 

-SPEAKING OF ALICE. Her character introduction was so good- first described as ‘an authoritative feminine voice’ *chef’s kiss* she stops a fainting Jane from being trampled at Henry’s coronation, accompanies her home and cares for her while simultaneously lowkey roasting her interior decoration. But then she becomes a bit of a caricature. When Meg gets the sweat she nags her for going near anyone who might have the sweat. The book club questions say ‘there’s more to her than meets the eye’ THEN SHOW ME MORE THAN ONE SIDE OF HER. Also Thomas loves her even though she’s ‘rude and stupid’ but Meg doesn’t understand why. Grr. 

-”mistress middleton will hear you [2 year old John] crying and box your ears” NO NO NO NO NO!

-also i get a 1950s Spanking Children Is Good Parenting vibe because Alice hits the Morelings with a slipper if they don’t study, and Tm’s described as too much of “a coward” (literally the word coward is used) to hit his children other than with peacock feathers.

-Utopia being described as an ideal state...it’s really more than that. I don’t like the idea that Meg and Thomas were okay with religious toleration but then Thomas became Consumed With Hate and he says “well religious toleration would be great in an IDEAL state...”

-Meg being horrified by heretic burning. Maybe the evidence of her views wasn’t yet available and so social mores of the 50s meant that writers and historians assumed that Of Course Being a Delicate Woman She Would Have A Natural Desire For Peace And Mercy. Grr.

-Too romancey. To be fair, Jean Plaidy wrote a lot of historical romances so maybe that’s just what she’s comfortable with (and these are historical figures that never get a chance to shine) but between Meg and Will, Clement and Mercy, Joan and Thomas, Giles and Cecily... it’s a bit like Pearl Harbour in that it’s hard to care about the cute romance when men are getting burned alive in the background. A good historical romance is more like Titanic: the lovers are directly connected with the Big Historical Events ongoing. Skip!

-in this book, Mercy thinks to herself that Meg would have Tm sign the oath, but Mercy would prefer tm to do as his conscience dictates...that feels like the wrong way round.

-Erasmus and Thomas More speaking in English...Doubt.jpeg. 

-Thomas More muses on how Complex men are because there’s Proud Cold Thomas Howard who is Soft for Simple Launderess Bess Holland...yeah given the multiple colossal power imbalances in that real-life affair, I’d be very surprised if it never strayed into abuse.

-baby Meg is a lil too precocious.

-dying Joan tells Meg to look after her father, no Joan stop I love you but don’t give a six year old responsibility, I don’t care if she’s six but acts eleven, looking after TM is Alice’s job not Meg’s. 

-Tm using the phrase ‘our little secret’ with Meg. The context is not abusive, but the phrase is so weighted, it’s like referring to something as “a final solution”: the famous meaning is too horrifying to feel comfortable with that combination of words in any context at all. 

-Joan’s younger sister being described as beautiful and flirtatious, and the whole bit about More fancying the younger sister but going for the older out of honour. The book says that More’s fascination with joan’s sister is the reason he realised he couldn’t be a priest. Given Joan’s 16, her sister’s 15 at the oldest, possibly 14. So a 26 year old can’t be a priest because he’s lusting after a 14-15 year old girl who is attractive and who has been flirting with him. Squick. 

-also no mention of erasmus at the end of tm’s life. Boo. I think a dude in the tower would think about his BFF of 30+ years who he hasn’t seen for 10+ years 

Good bits

-It’s obviously unintentional, but given how the word ‘gay’ has changed, i gave a little cheer every time a character was described as gay. Cecily and John are both gay, Thomas More is very gay, and later in the book wishes he could go back to being gay again. Loving the accidental representation 

-”a boy who is not worth the tossing” i have a dirty mind ok

-Joan getting something of a personality! She even feels insecure because she’s a normal person stuck in a family of geniuses.

-George Boleyn is described as being ‘a bright boy’ and later the girls joke that if they meet him they’ll probably fall in love THIS SO REFRESHING. Otoh, Mary Boleyn is slutshamed and Anne is a scheming minx so the double standard does spoil it a little. 

-Thomas More makes puns! At one point Alice says “more’s the pity” and then immediately says “don’t you dare make a pun out of that. i know u will. DON’T I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR PUNS” Granted, Plaidy stresses that his wit is never cruel or mocking (Doubt.jpeg) but i think this is maybe the funniest More. 

-It acknowledges the heretic burning! Not bad for 1950-something. At the end there’s a sort of Hm Thomas More Is A Complex Dude How Do We Approach Him page from H8′s POV.

-More’s father getting all misty-eyed when his son becomes Chancellor

-Henry VIII kissing tm’s forehead

-the flogging of the mentally ill upskirter being depicted

-Wolsey not being a caricature but a worldly and practical man. He’s explicitly described as “not a bad man”

-”He [TM] was no Erasmus, who, having thrown the stone that shattered the glass of orthodox thought, must run and hide himself lest he should be hurt by the splinters” not a very fair way to depict Erasmus (as he spent a lot of the last decades of his life arguing against Luther and trying to mediate between religious factions, esp in Basel) However, I like the metaphor

-Meg talking about how she and her sisters will always compare men unfavourably to their father... understandable.

-More explaining why Heretic Burning is Good Actually is done well

-Meg pointing out that More and Erasmus both criticised the Church, only it’s a bit half-baked because More never experiences any doubt or crisis over it. 

-Meg being torn between the Lutheran and the Catholic men she loves is at least some conflict and stakes when it finally shows up.

-Alice standing trial for dogknapping on page 195. A Big Lipped Alligator Moment, and I’ve no idea the source (i doubt Plaidy would make it up completely, it’s so out of nowhere) but it’s fun. It feels like one of More’s ‘merry tales’

“[Erasmus] read aloud to Thomas when he came home; and sometimes Thomas would sit by his friend’s bed with Margaret on one side of him and Mercy on the other; he would put an arm about them both, and when he laughed and complimented Erasmus so that Erasmus’ pale face was flushed with pleasure, then Margaret believed that there was all the happiness in the world in that room.” my emotions! my emotions! my ship is sailing, i repeat, the ship is sailing!

-”Meg, this is one of the happiest days of my life. it is a day I shall remember on the day i die. i shall say to myself when i find death near me: ‘the great erasmus said that of my daughter, my meg.’”

-”So the King likes verses!” said mistress middleton, her voice softening a little. 

“Ah, madam,” said Thomas. “What the King likes today, may we hope Mistress Middleton will like tomorrow?” Do I smell... flirtation...

-”His face was pleasant and kindly, [Alice] concluded....She would like to feed him some of her possets, put a layer of fat on his bones with her butter.” Does this version of Alice have a feeding kink I definitely think, in this ‘verse, Tm and Alice are 100% having sex.

-John Colet’s in it, though described as tm’s confessor (who i think was actually grocyn or linacre)

-Alice clearing a path for a fainting Jane with “Stand aside, you oafs.” alexa, play X gon give it to you. 

[howtobeapersonwithfibro]

Disabled Sci-Fi: Meet the Greens, and interplanetary, inter-ability family

Four-year-old Adalia Green has climbed up into bed for the night, a small cot with the standard-issue pillow, sheets, and white blanket. All around the Greens' compartment, her father Michael sees cold, gray metal, and hears a non-stop machine hum underneath his daughter’s cheerful babbling.

Adalia thinks it’s the coziest place in the world. She’s put unicorn and princess stickers on the wall beside her bed, and her stuffed pink cat Tilly keeps her company at night. A bucket with her small collection of toys sits next to the bed, and they come in quite handy when she wakes up before her daddy. 

She’s cozy, but she’s not ready to sleep yet. “Tell me a story,” she begs Michael, as she does nearly every night. 

“Okay.” He strokes his stubbled chin as if deep in thought. “Any requests?”

“One about Mommy.”

“Ah, okay.” He tucks the blanket a bit tighter around his daughter as she lays back. “Your mommy… well, you already know this, but she was the most wonderful person I ever met. She was always making the smallest things fun. Once, on a weekend, she decided she wanted to try making a cake with her extra rations.” 

“A cake?” Adalia has a general concept of cake, but it was mostly just from stories and shows. The only real cake she’d ever seen was for the Captain’s birthday, but she hadn’t gotten to try any. 

Michael laughs at her enthusiasm. “Yes, a cake. But the problem is, there weren’t a lot of different foods in the rations, just like now. There was no milk, no fresh fruit, no sugar. Hardly any butter. But she was determined.”

Adalia keeps her eyes trained on her father, determined to make it to the end of the story this time, but a yawn creeps up on her. 

“She spent hours mixing it to get the batter just right, and then baked it. She even found some chocolate to put in the ‘frosting’.”

“Was it good?”

“Oh, Dallie, it was so bad.” He laughs, and she does too. “Worst cake I ever had. But she was so excited about it, so I told her it was great.” 

“Did she believe you?”

“Of course not, once she took a bite! But we still had a good time making it. She had a way of making everything fun.”

They sit in silence for a minute or two. Adalia is sleepy, but now she’s thinking about her mommy. “Will Mommy come see us on the new planet?” she asks. She’s asked before, but she’s hoping maybe she forgot or that the answer has changed. 

He sighs, and his eyes get that sad way they always do when he really thinks about his wife. “I don’t know, Dallie. I hope someday.” He pauses, deciding how much to simplify the story for his four-year-old. “Everyone had to get tested to make sure that they were healthy enough to travel through space to the new world, and your mommy was too sick. I wanted us to stay behind with her, but the Earth is getting more broken and dangerous, so she wanted to make sure you grew up in the best possible place.”

“So we went on the ship, me and you.”

“That’s right. And in a few more years, we’ll land on the new planet. Me and the other scientists are going to make things grow there, and the builders will make us brand new houses.”

“I think I’ll like the new planet,” Adalia murmurs sleepily. “Especially if there’s flowers. Especially specially if mommy can come.”

“I’d like that too, princess.” He walks toward the sliding door that separates the small bedroom compartment from the rest of the apartment. “Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

That night, Michael can’t sleep. His mind is on Carmen. 

He writes letters to his wife all the time, even though there is nowhere to send them. Communications with Earth are difficult, fragile, and expensive, and thus reserved only for the ship’s officers and their official reports. But he writes the letters as if Carmen will get them. As if she’ll reply. 

Dear Carmen,

Dallie was asking about you again today. I know she was only two when you left, but I feel like she knows you from all the stories I tell her. It doesn’t make her too sad, though, because this ship is all she really knows. 

I, on the other hand, miss you every second of every day of the two years we’ve been here, and I will continue to do so. You are the light of my life, and even though you’re not here, I will always keep you in my heart. 

I hope things are okay down on Earth. They haven’t given us reports of the home planet since a few months after we left. I worry about you every day -- the food shortages, the violence. What has our beloved homeland become since I’ve last seen it? Are you safe? Can you be happy there?

Are they sending more missions to follow us? I know they will likely wait for news of success before wasting more resources, but our population is so small here. Just thirty or so families - mostly scientists of some kind and their families. 

It hurts to see my peers have their whole families here. I wish the Board understood that just because you’re disabled doesn’t mean you’re “nonessential” and “too much of a risk.” There’s not even stairs on the ship, by the way, except maybe ladders into different maintenance areas, so it’s not like the chair would be an issue. You’d be amazed at how accessible spaceships can be, haha. 

Anyway, I ought to stop writing you and go to bed, because I’ve got some important sims to run with the biodiversity team tomorrow. And, of course, a little girl that likes to wake up as soon as our pretend sunlight comes on. 

Miss you and love you lots,

Michael

******

Millions of miles and thousands of stars away, Carmen García Green spends her evening on her small balcony, looking for the stars as she does every night. The smog isn’t particularly brutal lately, and she can see a few stars peeking out from behind the misty clouds. 

I wonder if they’ve passed that star yet, she always wonders when she spots one. I wonder how far away it is. How far away they are. 

When it grows too chilly, she wheels herself back inside to the apartment she shares with her mother and sister. Just as she is beginning to feel at peace with the night, she hears shouting and gunfire outside. 

The peacekeeping force has hardly been peaceful lately, and the insurgents are doing more harm than they are good they were trying to bring about. 

As much as she would give anything to hold her little girl in her arms, she knows that she made the right decision. They had to go without her. Adalia will never know the violence, the hunger, or the fear of the world down on Earth.

In the room she shares with her sister Melinda, Carmen has covered an entire wall with photos of herself, Michael, and Adalia. Well, the wall is covered more in notes than photos - photographs are extremely expensive to print these days, and anyway, her notes pile up. She writes one nearly every day on a tiny piece of colored paper from Adalia’s old coloring supplies. Miss you. Love you both. How is space food? Is it cold up there? Is it boring on the ship? What is Dallie doing lately? What is her favorite color, her favorite story? What does she look like? How long is her hair? Please, Michael, tell me you at least try to do something with her hair. 

She writes a sad one today on a light green piece of paper. She has to sharpen the pencil twice, because it breaks after the first time. 

I know I made the right choice, but it still hurts and I still miss you.

I wish and hope every day that I will see you again.

She pins it to the wall near a picture of a bald-headed, six-month-old Dallie smiling at the camera. She remembers Michael behind the camera, making funny faces and babbling to her, waiting for just the right moment to get the biggest smile on camera.

Her heart aches as she goes to bed millions of miles from her husband and baby girl for the seven hundred and eighty-eighth day in a row.

[gadgetgirl71]

Amazon First Reads for June 2020

I know I say this every single month, but I can’t get over how quickly the last month has gone. Meaning that for Amazon Prime Members we get to choose which Amazon First Read were going to download for free. Again this month as most months there are eight books to choose from.

This months choices are:

Suspense 

The Bone Jar by S W Kane, Pages: 328, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: Two murders. An abandoned asylum. Will a mysterious former patient help untangle the dark truth?

The body of an elderly woman has been found in the bowels of a derelict asylum on the banks of the Thames. As Detective Lew Kirby and his partner begin their investigation, another body is discovered in the river nearby. How are the two murders connected?

Before long, the secrets of Blackwater Asylum begin to reveal themselves. There are rumours about underground bunkers and secret rooms, unspeakable psychological experimentation, and a dark force that haunts the ruins, trying to pull back in all those who attempt to escape. Urban explorer Connie Darke, whose sister died in a freak accident at the asylum, is determined to help Lew expose its grisly past. Meanwhile Lew discovers a devastating family secret that threatens to turn his life upside down.

As his world crumbles around him, Lew must put the pieces of the puzzle together to keep the killer from striking again. Only an eccentric former patient really knows the truth—but will he reveal it to Lew before it’s too late?

Contemporary Fiction

Someone Else’s Secret by Julia Spiro, Pages: 363, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: Here’s the thing about secrets: they change shape over time, become blurry with memory, until the truth is nearly lost.

2009. Lindsey and Georgie have high hopes for their summer on Martha’s Vineyard. In the wake of the recession, ambitious college graduate Lindsey accepts a job as a nanny for an influential family who may help her land a position in Boston’s exclusive art world. Georgie, the eldest child in that family, is nearly fifteen and eager to find herself, dreaming of independence and yearning for first love.

Over the course of that formative summer, the two young women develop a close bond. Then, one night by the lighthouse, a shocking act occurs that ensnares them both in the throes of a terrible secret. Their budding friendship is shattered, and neither one can speak of what happened that night for ten long years.

Until now. Lindsey and Georgie must confront the past after all this time. Their quest for justice will require costly sacrifices, but it also might give them the closure they need to move on. All they know for sure is that when the truth is revealed, their lives will be forever changed once again.

From a fresh voice in fiction, this poignant and timely novel explores the strength and nuance of female friendship, the cost of ambition, and the courage it takes to speak the truth.

Mystery

Never Look Back by Mary Burton, Pages: 332, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: Expect the unexpected in this gritty, tense, and page-turning mystery from New York Times bestselling author Mary Burton.

After multiple women go missing, Agent Melina Shepard of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation makes the impulsive decision to go undercover as a prostitute. While working the street, she narrowly avoids becoming a serial killer’s latest victim; as much as it pains her to admit, she needs backup.

Enter lone wolf FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey. Stonewalled by a lack of leads, he and Melina investigate a scene where a little girl has been found abandoned in a crashed vehicle. They open the trunk to reveal a horror show and quickly realise they’re dealing with two serial killers with very different MOs. The whole situation brings back memories for Melina—why does this particular case feel so connected to her painful past?

Before time runs out, Melina must catch not one but two serial killers, both ready to claim another victim—and both with their sights set on her.

Thriller

Find Me by Anne Frasier, Pages: 286, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: A bone-chilling family history is unearthed in a heart-stopping thriller by New York Times bestselling author Anne Frasier.

Convicted serial killer Benjamin Fisher has finally offered to lead San Bernardino detective Daniel Ellis to the isolated graves of his victims. One catch: he’ll only do it if FBI profiler Reni Fisher, his estranged daughter, accompanies them. As hard as it is to exhume her traumatic childhood, Reni can’t say no. She still feels complicit in her father’s crimes.

Perfect to play a lost little girl, Reni was the bait to lure unsuspecting women to their deaths. It’s time for closure. For her. For the families. And for Daniel. He shares Reni’s obsession with the past. Ever since he was a boy, he’s been convinced that his mother was one of Fisher’s victims.

Thirty years of bad memories are flooding back. A master manipulator has gained their trust. For Reni and Daniel, this isn’t the end of a nightmare. It’s only the beginning.

Book Club Fiction

The Lending Library by Aliza Fogelson, Pages: 295, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: For fans of Jane Green and Loretta Nyhan, a heartwarming debut novel about a daydreamer who gives her town, and herself, an amazing gift: a lending library in her sun-room.

When the Chatsworth library closes indefinitely, Dodie Fairisle loses her sanctuary. How is a small-town art teacher supposed to cope without the never-ending life advice and enjoyment that books give her? Well, when she’s as resourceful and generous as Dodie, she turns her sun-room into her very own little lending library.

At first just a hobby, this lit lovers’ haven opens up her world in incredible ways. She knows books are powerful, and soon enough they help her forge friendships between her zany neighbours—and attract an exciting new romance.

But when the chance to adopt an orphaned child brings Dodie’s secret dream of motherhood within reach, everything else suddenly seems less important. Finding herself at a crossroads, Dodie must figure out what it means to live a full, happy life. If only there were a book that could tell her what to do…

Historical Fiction

Opium and Absinthe by Lydia Kang, Pages: 379, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: From the bestselling author of A Beautiful Poison comes another spellbinding historical novel full of intrigue, occult mystery, and unexpected twists.

New York City, 1899. Tillie Pembroke’s sister lies dead, her body drained of blood and with two puncture wounds on her neck. Bram Stoker’s new novel, Dracula, has just been published, and Tillie’s imagination leaps to the impossible: the murderer is a vampire. But it can’t be—can it?

A ravenous reader and researcher, Tillie has something of an addiction to truth, and she won’t rest until she unravels the mystery of her sister’s death. Unfortunately, Tillie’s addicted to more than just truth; to ease the pain from a recent injury, she’s taking more and more laudanum…and some in her immediate circle are happy to keep her well supplied.

Tillie can’t bring herself to believe vampires exist. But with the hysteria surrounding her sister’s death, the continued vampiric slayings, and the opium swirling through her body, it’s becoming increasingly difficult for a girl who relies on facts and figures to know what’s real—or whether she can trust those closest to her.

Epic Fantasy

Scarlet Odyssey by C T Rwizi, Pages: 534, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: Magic is women’s work; war is men’s. But in the coming battle, none of that will matter.

Men do not become mystics. They become warriors. But eighteen-year-old Salo has never been good at conforming to his tribe’s expectations. For as long as he can remember, he has loved books and magic in a culture where such things are considered unmanly. Despite it being sacrilege, Salo has worked on a magical device in secret that will awaken his latent magical powers. And when his village is attacked by a cruel enchantress, Salo knows that it is time to take action.

Salo’s queen is surprisingly accepting of his desire to be a mystic, but she will not allow him to stay in the tribe. Instead, she sends Salo on a quest. The quest will take him thousands of miles north to the Jungle City, the political heart of the continent. There he must gather information on a growing threat to his tribe.

On the way to the city, he is joined by three fellow outcasts: a shunned female warrior, a mysterious nomad, and a deadly assassin. But they’re being hunted by the same enchantress who attacked Salo’s village. She may hold the key to Salo’s awakening—and his redemption.

Children’s Picture Book

Kat and Juju by Kataneh Vahdani, Pages: 40, Publication Date: 1 July 2020

Synopsis: An unlikely duo star in a charming story about being different, finding courage, and the importance of friendship in the first book in a new series from an award-winning animation director.

Kat likes doing things her very own way, but sometimes she doubts herself. So when a bird named Juju arrives, Kat hopes he’ll be the best friend she’s always wanted. He’s outgoing and silly and doesn’t worry about what others think—the opposite of who she is. Bit by bit, with Juju’s help, Kat discovers her strength, and how to have a friend and be one—while still being true to herself.

*** Which book will you choose? I chose “Opium and Absinthe” as soon as I saw the cover I knew that was this book I had to choose. Let me know which book you choose. ***

[ead13]

Kieran x Mary-Beth: Starting a Family Headcanons

I’ve seen so many of these headcanon lists and they are so much fun to read! Usually I turn my headcanons into short one-shots that get posted over on AO3, but I’m not sure how to turn all this into dense text, so...here we go

-They talk about this before they get married, and happily they are on the same page: they want a large family

-It’s definitely got something to do with both growing up as orphans, missing out on that experience

-Mary-Beth makes it clear that she is not going to sacrifice her writing for this, but Kieran doesn’t hesitate to offer his help in raising the kids so she has enough time to work in peace

-It surprises them both how quickly she gets pregnant with their first; she jokes about how lucky they are that Kieran confessed without the gang needing to use those gelding tongs...

-It’s a girl! Mary-Beth is exhausted, but it amuses her how Kieran is in tears as he holds their daughter for the first time. He never dreamed he’d be a father. He feels so lucky.

-He offers Mary-Beth the opportunity to name their daughter, seeing as she went through all the work. She quickly decides on her mother’s name: Rebecca

-They both decide that because they have no families, they will just make Arthur/SO and Tilly/husband the godparents of all their children.

-Baby number 2 is also a girl! Kieran does the honors of naming her after his own mother: Leah. If she thought he’d be over the crying thing, she was wrong.

- By this point Kieran has quit working at the stables to stay at home full-time. They used the profits from her first book to buy some land outside of St. Denis, and he does board and train horses. He had a strong reputation, after all.

- Number 3 is...also a girl. Now that they have no obvious names, Kieran starts thinking about Irish names. Talking with Sean all those years ago put the idea in his head. He suggests Molly, but Mary-Beth quickly shoots that down for some reason... Emma it is.

-When Mary-Beth gets pregnant AGAIN, her friends are certain she’s crazy. Her second best-selling romance novel is evidence that they are wrong. Maybe this one will be a son?

-Spoilers: It’s not. Neither of them mind though. Kieran is still crying over it... They settle on Rachel

-Kieran keeps getting customers, and now Becky is old enough to help him take care of the horses. Mary-Beth teaches her to read and write just like she taught Kieran all those years ago.

-Baby number five is a boy! Kieran feels bad for the way this excites him. It’s not that he doesn’t love his little girls to death, but something about knowing there will be a next generation of Duffys just gets him in the feels.

-Probably because of that, he timidly offers the name Kieran Jr. It legitimately surprises him when Mary-Beth accepts this idea.

-A third novel, and some additions to the house to make enough room. Now Leah’s helping with horses too, and Mary-Beth is spending more time than ever helping with studies.

-The sixth one is the last one. Kieran is the one who comes out and says it, because he doesn’t like how hard this pregnancy was on her. She doesn’t argue, because she knows she’s about hit her limit. No regrets though.

-Their final child is named Hannah. They joke that Hannah was the proof that they weren’t just having kids until a boy came along.

-Mary-Beth laughs, because mother of six doesn’t exactly match up with the profile of a romance novelist. Still, she knows she wouldn’t be a mother of six if she hadn’t fallen so deeply in love with this man, so she must know romance better than anyone.

-It is one happy, chaotic house, and when it becomes too much and Mary-Beth needs to focus on her writing, she shoos them all outside to bother Kieran.

-And when they hit an anniversary, they send the kids off to Uncle Arthur’s or Aunt Tilly’s so they can..erherm...map out some scenes for her latest book ;)

And they all live happily ever after, the end.