“Hosea,” he replied, closing the book, “you’re back earlier than expected.”
“There were complications.”
This weren’t the time for fanfare. Weren’t the place for theatrics, and Hosea feared he’d all but lose his nerve if he ain’t come with it outright. Best to get it out there, before he fed into the temptation of avoidance.
“What sort of complications?”
Was worry there. Concern, perhaps. Something else he couldn’t quite get a read on, and despite that warning, Hosea continued. Knew he had to. Knew there wasn’t a choice.
“O’Driscolls.”
“Colm?” He spat the name out as though it were a curse.
“Him too,” he confirmed, hesitating just then. Before moving forward yet again, “and Arthur.”
Hurt to say. His breath near caught in his throat, the word coming out in a whisper. Felt like a betrayal, but there weren’t nothing for it. Nothing that could be said or done otherwise. The first step the most painful, though necessary if he were, if they, were to fix any of this. He saw the man’s eye narrow, the darkened expression cross his face, the man’s own words a vehement whisper as he returned.
“Is he with them?”
“No,” Hosea defended, but found himself stumbling on his words. “Maybe…I don’t know.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I'm not even that mad because this is hilariously bad. I don't even know where they want me to go. Like is that supposed to be discord? Who writes it like that? Is there a new app that I'm too old to know about?
I got two like that!! With the same name as well, and also that weird thing at the end, like, what is that 'zero spacesss adding'????? What does that MEAN
out of this world Tese words leave a warm aftertaste. I’m seeing a way to add something this fic has me considering so many different directions that a comment can't do them justicey come here D!s itsava s u n22) zeroo gappp while adding
That's the comment they left for me. Same (guest) user name too. Personally I love the 'justicey come here' like they expect me to follow them irl lol
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“You know, Arthur, I never end up in a place by mistake,” Colm finally continued, his words slow, chosen carefully. “I’m not a wanderer, nor a lost soul looking to be saved nor am I trying to shape the world or whatever shit it is that Dutch pretends to do. I prefer certainty over chance and seizing opportunity whenever it strikes. I know exactly where and when to be to get what I want. If any man is to get ahead in this world, he needs to carve his own path because the world ain’t going to do it for him.”
“Not sure I follow,” Arthur said quietly, scrutinizing his cards. He heard Colm chuckle.
“Sure you do. You’re smart enough. There’s a reason why I’m here; and I can’t but help wonder if it’s the same reason Dutch and them are here too.”
“Ain’t got no reason behind it,” Arthur sighed, folding as the pot was raised. “You know how he is; ain’t never gone in a straight line before.”
“No,” Colm agreed, “but sure is a rather strange coincidence, you lot showing up when you did. Been a year, more so, since we last ran together. Figured you boys were long gone and yet now you’re back, and I can’t help but wonder, of all places, you fellas set up in this area. At the same time we did.”
Arthur knew that were paranoia talking. He’d heard as much from Owen, just the day before. That Colm were focused on Dutch and to his reasonings as to why he were here. Never got him thinking as to why that paranoia existed, just the acknowledgment that it did, but now it set his mind racing, curious as to what were fueling it. Because that sort of thinking didn’t come from nowhere. Were a reason he were so focused, acting as though it were an itch that couldn’t be reached. Everything slow to come together, but the puzzle sorting itself out as Arthur watched him.
“Dutch ain’t chasing nothing but empty dreams,” he admitted, because it were true. The man ain’t had nothing going for him now save for the art scheme, which were destined to fail. “But something tells me that ain’t true for yourself.”
Colm were quiet a moment, before carefully splaying out his cards in yet another win. “So, he’s said nothing about a train?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Oh nooo I hadn’t noticed that my cat’s automatic feeder was getting low on food so as usual she dashed off when she heard the machine start but I couldn’t hear the usual sound of her food falling into the bowl so I went to look and my poor cat was just. Sitting there. Staring at her empty food bowl. Then for a second she glanced up at me then right back to her bowl with the biggest, saddest, most bewildered eyes you could ever imagine on such a small creature. I filled her bowl and the machine right away ofc but I still feel a little guilty 😭
Arthur knew he should get up. That he should be going. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t get himself to move, too worn and defeated to try. He weren’t even sure where the hell he were; he’d ridden too far and too fast to discern that, the night too dark and the land too wild to get his bearings from where he sat. But Colm, he knew, would wait for no man. Be hours, he knew, until he saw the ranch and the longer he stayed here, the less of claim he’d get for the bounty they earned.
A bounty he no longer desired. That nausea returning at the thought, the sourness climbing higher in his throat. Memories unwanted returning in force, fresh and raw, that same cloying panic threatening to consume him once more.
Arthur pressed his forehead harder against Athos’, eyes screwed shut as he forced his breaths to stay calm. To keep them slow. Drawing in one ragged gasp after another, trying his damnedest to hold it in.
The fuck was wrong with him?
He’d robbed before. Many of fools, a hundred times over. Had killed, had soiled his hands in blood, had done things far worse than what he’d done today. Weren’t no reason to be so bent out of shape over it. What was done, was done. Weren’t no going back.
Weren’t no time for regrets. No time for guilt, nor for shame. Weren’t no salvation for him; just damnation. A fate he’d long ago accepted. But still it sat wrong. It settled deep into the pit of his stomach, threatening to drag him down to the depths of hell early.
What a weak fool he was.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
… I did, and regretted it because holy mother of artist’s block, I couldn’t get anything to work for me on actual paper. It got so bad that I was advised to give up, so this is me giving up (and just putting what I’ve got out there). Submitted for the approval of the Salamander Society: a 5x8 gouache portrait of 👯The Twins 👯 on 110lb cold press paper. Maybe someday I’ll bother to take a decent photo of it, but today is not that day.
To compensate for the smudges and shitty lighting, let me introduce to you my muses: Baby and Fiver.
Baby and Fiver came to me as little tiny larvae rescued from being used as bait, and now they make my life hell. They’re inseparable, unfortunately. A package deal. 2-for-1 special on dumbass wet lizards.
Contrary to popular belief, she is NOT a freelancing website. Fiver got her name from the fact that she has five fingers on her right hand (most ‘phibs have four. She’s special ✨) She’s the big sister and her favorite hobbies include biting and using Baby as a chair. She has a college degree in architecture with a minor in bloodline curses.
(Great choice, Fiver. I hear they’re opening a new Bloodline Curses Factory in the next town over! 🙄)
Baby is the baby (obviously). He morphed a few days after Fiver did, and he is the sweetest, gentlest, babiest boy. He likes sitting on my hand while I do tank maintenance, eating worms longer than he is, and being sat on by Fiver. When I’m working on bigger projects I’ll often sit on the floor by their tank, and I think Baby thinks if he digs hard enough, he’ll pop out the other side and land in my lap (at which point I will shower him with worms for being So Smart). He is wrong. He just fucks up my scaping. RIP to my moss 😭
Fun facts about these criminals:
Baby once went on a Worm Strike for a full summer because I was stupid enough to feed him a cricket once. Baby no longer gets crickets. He has yet to forgive me for keeping him from his beloved Crunchy Bugs. I have yet to forgive him for the money I spent just to figure out he was being an asshole.
Fiver once escaped temporary containment and nearly gave me a heart attack. Can you imagine how scared you’d be, sitting on the floor, sorting through your dirt, when suddenly something cold and wet crawls up your bare leg? My soul departed from this world.
if you ever doubt that your ao3 comments matter or mean something: i have been struggling with my writing for 6 months straight, crying myself to sleep afraid that i will never be able to write again, that the thing i love most in the world has left me, that my writing is just gone
this morning i got this comment:
and after i stopped blubbering over it, i picked up my writing notebook, and re-read all my fic research, and opened up my document again for the first time in weeks without being afraid of it
you have no idea how much writers treasure every single comment we get. you have no idea how big an impact you can have. sometimes, just sometimes, your one "insignificant" comment changes everything
The silence hung between them, thick and unbroken. Hosea allowed it a moment, before pressing. “Talk to me Arthur. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
He’d always been able to get him to open up. Always been able to find a way in. Figured it would be the same here. That all he had to do was extend the invitation, and he’d all but confess those hurts that weighed on him so heavily. Weren’t no secret that Arthur’s thoughts could be just as dangerous as they could be volatile, a long history of self-depreciation and doubt etched into his very being, fueling each and every dark thought he kept well and truly buried.
Yet there was another beat of silence, and then his words came. They were thick and rough in the manner Hosea had grown accustomed to whenever he were trying to hide himself. “Forgive me if I ain’t exactly come to terms with where I stand.”
“Arthur,” he chided, letting a sigh. “Now you ain’t thinking right. You ain’t feeling well and it’s messing with your head. Just...come on back to camp. We’ll get you fixed up right and we can discuss things then.”
There was something pitiful in his laugh, almost broken as he responded. “You ain’t get it, do you? There ain’t no going back; least not for me. Dutch made that quite clear.”
He let out a measured sigh, trying his best to keep his frustration out of his voice. “You and I both know he was heated. He ain’t mean what he said.”
“Man says a lot of things,” Arthur agreed quietly, “but you were there. You saw what he tried to do.”
“And he were wrong,” Hosea acknowledged, “I ain’t going to argue that. He’s a stupid as he is stubborn, but even he can see where he messed up. You come on back, talk it out like men, and you’ll see—he’ll welcome you back.”
“He will, will he?” Arthur broke into a series of coughs, “You think he’s gonna let me just come riding with him after running with the O’Driscolls?”
“And you think you’re going to last long riding with them?” Hosea wondered, staring him down
