#oh yeah. like just vaguely say arthur was like in heaven or some shit it’s weird when you just freeze him

[katnissgirlsmakedo]

i know that’s it’s because people who write gay fanfiction are like. atheists who don’t believe in heaven or afterlife. but i think the reason all post finale resurrection merlin fanfiction sucks is because everybody always freezes arthur in time. and i have beef with that.

[mauserfrau]

Bordertober - Time For Two, Part 1

Tyreen’s view of waking up at Dr. Black’s.  Contains medical/injury material, Tyreen being gross and some vaguely hinted at Troyreen.  Note that Part 2 is shaping up to be more obvious about this.  Probably nothing graphic, since I’m planning to recut all of the Dr. Black shorts into a single story.  Oh, and I put her H/C post at the bottom.

Waking up at Dr. Black’s had been embarrassing more than anything else.  She’d had no idea where she was the first few times she came around.  There were now two holes in her torso and two in her right arms.  She couldn’t do anything for herself. Ugh-- that part was the worst.  Troy gave her a bath with fucking people wipes.  She got sacks full of doped up skag pups and chickens for food.  She did not get to toilet herself.  Nope, stuck in bed except for leg stretches twice a day, no complaints, ring the bell if you need anything. 

And then that woman, leaning over her, poking her with clamps and sounds because she couldn’t use her hands.  Well, it took the fever rolling off of her for Tyreen to take notice of it, but Dr. Black seems to keep all of her dexterity in those fingers of hers.  The rest of her had some mild form of dyskinesia, probably an old injury pretty far down her spine.  It happened to make her look like easy prey, but Tyreen figurds not devouring the person who procured her pain meds might work out better in the long run.

Meds meaning she slept a lot.  Actually, Tyreen wasn’t sure that she’d ever slept so much in her whole life.  She spent most of the days under for a few restless hours at dawn or dusk spent ticking over a third-hand ECHO and feeling her guts lurch at random as the moon smirked down the operating theater skylight.  She made it to the bottom of a music swapping forum she’d been eyeing and listened to old school synth jazz while reading Vonnegut or something called “Pirate AU Fanfiction” which she didn’t realize was derivative until she found the one starring Arthur Gordon Pym of all characters.

So it wasn’t like she was bored.  Hell, the weird thrum of her body knitting back together could have kept her occupied.

The stillness in her bones though ached worse than her bullet wound.

Tyreen sighed.  She ran her hand down her torso to the sore, bruised place trailing off from her entry wound.  She pressed ever so lightly until her belly twinged and her toes curled.

This didn’t so much remind her of the fact she was going to be wearing a lovely S&S Munitions bullet for the rest of her life.  It reminded her of that other itch she couldn’t scratch, the one that was going to take talking instead of prowling to fix.

~*~

Dr. Black at least took hints.  Tyreen bitched at her about being woken up closer to noon than not exactly once.  Next time? Dawn hadn’t even cracked

She got her vitals taken and her bandages changed.  The IV came out and that was the only blood that leaked out of her that day.  Her wrappings still got all sticky and rheumy, but they weren’t brown anymore in that way that kind of made her want to suck on them.

So, a lot of next times later, it finally happened: “Well, you’re healing up nicely if I do say so myself.  What do you want to do first?”

Weird.  Tyreen never asked Troy what he wanted to do when he started improving after a spell or a fall.  She squinted at Dr. Black.  “Is that a trick question?”

“Well, I don’t recommend BASE jumping for obvious reasons, but no?” Not that Dr. Black sounded sure of this.

“I need my hair washed.  That dry shampoo made it all sandy and shit.  Then I wanna go outside and, you know.”

“I’m out of chickens, sorry.”

Tyreen rolled her eyes.  She’d actually meant piss on a fence post and scope out the best vantages for ambushes, but she was getting hungry too, so of course the woman had to mention.  “Whatever.  Hair first.”

“Well, your brother and me already figured out how to do that since you’re still not cleared to shower because germ transfer.  Get ready.”

The two of them maneuvered her onto one of the rolling stools and pushed her into the kitchen rather than any of the bathrooms-- for a woman living alone, Dr. Black had at least three according to her hallway.

Tyreen’s impression of the kitchen was what it smelled of some unfamiliar grassy-brown spice and eggs.  Most food didn’t tempt her anymore, but there was something about the whiff of a runny yolk that got her tongue to stir.  Anyway, the stainless steel sink had been scrubbed out and Tyreen knew where this was going.  She groaned.

She’d been all of four the last time anybody washed her hair for her, let alone in a sink.  Sink salons were for babies.

Troy’s hand rested on her shoulder.  “It’s just for a couple of times.  What else have I been doing for you? And did the world end, Ty?”

“Fine.  I want two washes and extra gooey stuff.” She meant conditioner, but she flicked her tongue over her lips pronouncing it gooey stuff like a drunk her.

Troy blinked way too hard, but he nodded and finished wheeling her over.

So much for innuendo getting her anyplace today.  He was probably stuck in his own head for a change.  Contemplating caring for her.  Like it was… like it was that big of a deal after all the trash that had happened.   

Just like when they worked on her, Dr. Black handed over the equipment and he used it, though this time, easy on the instructions.  

Troy bundled her up in a towel, wet her and worked the first round of shampoo in slow, scratching over the residue on her scalp and using the dish sprayer to double rinse.  The whole time he leaned over her, face tight with concentration.  He wouldn’t look her in the eyes and Tyreen couldn’t say she wanted him too, not even when he went for the wet/dry trimmer and neatened up her unintentional undercut.

“You want anymore off?” he asked the window and not her.

“Just get the really messed up part in the back.”

“OK, turn.”

The hum of the trimmer felt kind of nice on her damp skin; that and the way he combed his fingers over her fuzz after, even though the next spritz got her free of snibbles, would have without his intervention.

For the conditioner, he let that set and combed her out, streaking the remains of her bangs down her forehead, then rubbing them away from her eyebrows when they got too close.   

Tyreen sighed up at him.

Since she caught his eyes, he did manage something resembling a smile and his fingers dragged against her for the last round of rinsing.

With him and her both patted dry, she finally got hoisted back to a sitting position, her hair dropping once more down her cheeks before she reached up, scruffing it out and sneezing by some coincidence.

Dr. Black stifled a laugh.

Dr. Black

Dr. Black was a small, fat woman with a crooked jaw and a crooked smile and a penchant for wearing hoop skirts with no panties underneath. 

-Says her full name is Calvin Decker Black

-Has at least one ex-husband and is possibly using his name???

-Probably not a doctor, but close enough

-Good at working with what she has; absolute kludge queen

--Has an affection for out-of-date equipment, but can run almost any test off of her ECHO.  Somehow.  Don’t ask. ---Speaking of which, carries the Twin’s genomes around on hers and has heavily notated them.  Heaven forbid that got into the wrong hands.

---Recognizable ECHO device with a formal Delft print

--Sometimes uses medical equipment for secondary purposes, i.e. pointing with a sound, employing that nice steel vomit tray as a casserole

-Cheerful, enthusiastic, curious, bit of a spazz, insensible to gore.

--It’s possible to get her and Mouthpiece going at the same time.  Mind your eardrums.  

-Loves food.  Pretty good cook.  Rather more fond of food other people have prepared.

-No, she doesn’t eat her patients! Any human flesh stored in her fridge is from other people, you silly.

--Yeah, I can’t in good conscience recommend her ‘famous breakfast scramble’.

-What’s she doing in the CoV? She’s the person who walked Troy through patching up Tyreen after Satellite.  They couldn’t leave her running around after that.  Apparently joined their caravan without complaint and has been riding around with them ever since.  

-Has been known to dress up and give sermons or go out in the field for negotiations.  

--Ugh.  Torture takes so long.  Don’t make her do that.  We could have steak instead.  

-Is mostly still around for Troy mending purposes nowadays.

[whentommymetalfie]

Homeward bound

A/N: Aka: The fic where I just threw decency and good taste out the window, and wrote the thing that finally made the last of my teeth fall out. There's a child here, because there had to be. I'll leave it up to you to figure out how it came to be. Adoption? Perhaps. Witchcraft mpreg? Maybe. It just fell down from the heavens above? Who knows! Also: I give exactly zero fucks about anything, I need Alfie and Tommy to be allowed to call each other husband. So that's a thing. I made a slight age alteration, because I have a crippling fear of death in connection to old age that I can’t deal with right now. Hope you enjoy it anyway, anon! Also, strap yourselves in: after this fic, I’m bringing one with violence and angst. Sharp turns on this blog, people. 

Summary: About fifteen years later, in a house in the countryside, everything is alright. Except Arthur still hasn't learned to knock, John is failing in his pursuit of Eradicating All Birds, and the Shelby children are on the slippery slope of illicit treehouse-building.

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: Some explicit/strong language. 

Wordcount: 2000

Read on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13370709

Alfie Solomons is a lucky bastard. That’s a thought that often crosses his mind. At least once every morning, when he gets to wake up in a bed with Thomas Shelby sleeping next to him.

This morning is no different. He wakes up to the sound of a bloody magpie in the tree outside the window. Fucking birds. Who knew the whole countryside was infested with ‘em? Though John sure does his best to change that, partly because Arthur is in a constant loop of complaining about the critters picking at his vegetables, and everyone is getting very tired of hearing it. Pity John such a lousy shot, otherwise it may have been a sound plan. Alfie helps him, mostly to give Cyril some exercise, but apparently Tommy has this aversion to killing animals unless necessary. He doesn’t admit it outright of course, but Alfie definitely notices the disapproving looks. So for the sake of peace in the household, he makes sure not to take any of the birds home. Perfect solution.

Alfie settles on his side to rest his eyes on Tommy. It’s a pleasant sight, alright. The years have been kind to him, there’s this eternally youthful look to his face. A few more lines around the eyes perhaps, and the shaved sides of his hair are silvery, but other than that, he looks very much the same as that first time he stepped into Alfie’s office all those years ago. He just smiles a bit more. Alfie would like to take partial credit for that.

Tommy sleeps a bit longer these days, too. Some of that crawling restlessness that’s always been etched in his bones has been chipped away over the years. It’s good for him. Maybe the horses help too. For all their stupidity, the animals do seem to have a calming effect on him. He vaguely remembers that conversation from so long ago, in the Garrison. Alfie’s always been of the opinion that in the choice between working with animals and people, you chose the animals. He decides that he’s been proven right in this theory.

Sometimes, he likes to make the insinuation that getting thoroughly fucked every night is also a factor in these prolonged periods of sleep. Mostly because Tommy gives him sharp glare whenever he does.

Tommy shifts a bit, rolling over onto his back, and Alfie catches eye of the scars as the blanket slips down to his waist. He’s got quite a few, granted, but his attention is always focused on the ones on his chest, right below his heart. And right next to it. Close fucking call. The last one, before Alfie made the statement that this was it: there was such a thing as running out of luck. And he was getting too old for this shit. Could’ve been the start of a whole debacle, but Tommy just nodded from the hospital bed. Maybe he was finally getting tired too. That life wore you out quickly. You got out. One way or the other. And the most likely way was a fucking coffin, which Alfie had no fucking plans to fix. Not for a long while.

The scars could’ve been a reminder of how bloody awful the world could be, but instead they just serve to remind him that yeah, they lived a dangerous fucking life, but somehow got out in time. But just barely. They remind him that things could’ve been a whole lot worse.

“What are you staring at?” Tommy’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

“You, of course. It’s what I usually do.” Alfie wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close. Tommy is still drowsy enough from sleep to allow it, but in a few minutes, he’ll start complaining about ‘having things to do, and life can’t be spent in a bed’. But as of now, he just lays his head on Alfie’s chest.

“There’s been a lot of that over the years,” he says. “You should be sick of it by now.”

“Not by a long shot. Plan on doing it for quite some time yet.” Alfie professes. “I could look at you every second, of every day, for the rest of my fucking life and not get sick of it. See, you were blessed with that face, and I was blessed with these eyes that function at least decently in good lighting. So, it’s just the way it’s got to be.”

Tommy lifts his head slightly and gives him one of the signature ‘one eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed’-looks. “If you want to fuck, you could just say so.”

“You know me better than that after all these years, love. I am a man of many words.” Alfie strokes his back. “But fine, since you lack my romantic finesse: Thomas, I’d like to fuck you. Preferably right now.”

Tommy braces his arms on his chest and leans down to kiss him, mostly to shut him up, Alfie guesses.

“Well, I happen to be in the mood. So, you can keep me in bed for a bit longer, if you make it worth my while.”

Alfie isn’t the one to say no.

“You know I always do.” He rolls them over and trails kisses down his neck. “I have my faults, hubris being one of them, but you could never accuse me of not taking good and proper care of you in bed.” Tommy’s breathing becomes deeper and he parts his knees to allow Alfie to settle between his thighs. Alfie grinds against him, just because he can, and lets out a satisfied moan.

“I could spend my entire bloody life like this.”

“In bed, or between my legs?”

“Both, obviously. Good place to be. If I by some mistake end up in heaven, it’s going to feel just like fucking you. Just that sensation, constantly. I’d bet my good leg on it.”

“If you don’t stop talking, you may find out sooner than you’d thought.” Tommy pushes his heels into the back of his thighs. “Just get on with it.” Alfie chuckles, sits back a little and reaches into the drawer of the nightstand-

The sound of a dog barking, and a pair of small feet drumming against the floorboards makes them both freeze. And they just about manage to straighten their features and get back under the cover before Charlie comes running into the room with Cyril in tow. The dog immediately tries to jump onto the bed, but Alfie is quick to push him down. There’s no better way of making sure Tommy will most certainly not be in the mood anytime soon, than letting that dog into the bed. Charlie rambles excitedly.

“Me and Emily and Sibyl are going to work on our treehouse, and I need help with breakfast because you say I can’t go anywhere in the morning without eating first and-“

“Slow down there, lad,” Alfie chuckles. “Remember to breathe.”

Tommy shakes his head and their eyes meet. He gets this from you.

“But Emily is already here, and she wants to go now!” Charlie is practically vibrating on his feet. “We’re going to meet Sybil by that big tree to see if the badger is still there. We think that maybe it’s dead and Sybil want’s to poke it with a stick to see and if we’re not there she will-“

“I’m sure she and the badger can wait a little while.” Tommy sits up. “Go to the kitchen, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Charlie is out the door in an instant, Cyril following close behind, barking happily.

Tommy swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and Alfie attempts to catch him by the waist.

“Yeah, this isn’t happening anymore,” Tommy states and dislodges himself from his grip. Alfie lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“So close, yet so far away.”

“And you call me dramatic.” Tommy shakes his head and starts getting dressed.

“You know, he may get the talking from me, but that boy couldn’t be still if you kept him on a leash. Reminds me of someone else.”

Tommy pulls on his jacket and indulges him in another kiss. Again, most likely to shut him up.

When Alfie comes down to the kitchen a while later, the children have already disappeared. Together with the dog apparently.

“I got him to bring a sandwich at least,” Tommy explains with his back turned against him as he makes tea. “Don’t think we’ll be seeing him until it gets dark again.”

“Independence is the best thing you can give your child. Especially if the worst thing they can get up to is steal poles from the neighbour’s fence for a treehouse.”

“He did what?”

“Oh, it’s alright. Griffiths is fine with it. I talked to him. He’s the sort of man who appreciates a sense of entrepreneurship in the young ones.”

“He’s only fine with it because he’s terrified of you. We can’t have our son running around terrorizing our neighbours.” Tommy says disapprovingly.

Alfie laughs at this. “Have you ever heard that thing about not throwing stones in glass houses? Fine expression that. Reminds us all to consider our past sins at any given point in our lives.”

“I’ll throw one at you, if you’re not careful.” Tommy mutters.

“You know, we could always take advantage of the empty house,” Alfie walks up behind him, slips his hands down his waist, over his hips. “I’m sure May can handle things at the stables for a while longer.”

“I just got dressed,” Tommy protests mildly, but is already leaning into the touch. One of those days, apparently.

“But if you think about how many times in life you will get dressed, doing it one extra really isn’t something to fuss about.” Alfie whispers as he kisses the back of his neck. “Especially if it’s for your devoted husband, who would like to show his appreciation of you by doing all kinds of unholy things to your body.”

With a soft laugh, Tommy turns around to face him, and Alfie kisses him, pushing him up against the counter until he ends up sitting on top of it. Seems like he may get lucky after all. He unbuttons Tommy’s trousers and reaches in between his legs, drawing a moan from him. And God, if that sound doesn’t make him hard-

“You have a fucking bedroom! Why is this necessary?”

Arthur is standing in the doorway and Alfie is overwhelmed by that very familiar feeling of wanting to sort-of, maybe, shoot someone. Saying a silent prayer for patience with this man, he removes his hand, and thinks he can even hear Tommy breathe a sigh of frustration.

“There's just no escaping you, is there?” Alfie exclaims and glares at Arthur. “Why have I surrounded myself with you lot? Can’t even get some peace and quiet to fuck my husband in my own kitchen.”

Arthur blushes bright red.

“Morning Arthur,” Tommy says, calm as ever again, gets off the countertop and buttons his trousers, before continuing the disrupted process of making tea. “You know that concept we’ve been talking about; knocking? You should try it sometime.”

Arthur grumbles something and looks rather displeased.

“You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Stop sulking and have some tea.” Tommy puts out an extra cup. “Your daughter is out poking a dead badger with a stick by the way, did you know that? And apparently stealing Griffiths’ fence poles.” Arthur sits down.

“Of course I know. I followed her here. Or, tried to at least. She outran me about halfway.”

“We have to do something about them scheming like this.” Tommy states. “They can’t steal things from our neighbours. You’ll have to talk to Emily.”

“How do you know it was her idea? Could just as well be Sybil. John is way too lenient with her, she is getting to be as wild as Esme that girl.” Arthur says. “And it’s just for a treehouse! Can’t be that big of a deal.”

“We both know it starts off that way, and then it spirals.”

“Spirals to where? Setting up a bookmaking business in the treehouse?” Arthur chuckles at his own joke. “Illegal betting on the ducks down in the pond?”

Alfie pours himself a cup of tea and smirks. “Careful Arthur, Thomas may get ideas.” Tommy doesn’t dignify him with an answer, but gives a ‘look’, before he goes back to the topic of the children’s decent into crime.

Alfie sits down by the table and listens as the two brothers argue over the possible, eventual consequences of treehouse-building using illicitly acquired materials. And he sort of forgives Arthur for barging in, as usual, and ruining his chances of getting some this morning. There’s always tonight. And Tommy will definitely be up for it then.

At the moment, he is pretty content just watching him. Tommy is busy with his now rather heated discussion with Arthur, and can’t tell him not to gawk. Alfie is happy to be able to gawk: he always enjoys it when Tommy gets riled up. The way he gestures, and how his eyes get that sharp look to them.

Yeah. Alfie Salomons is a lucky bastard alright.