Darling Things

If he weren’t such a useless cripple…

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55638514/chapters/141223009%23workskin

One of the hardest things about existing is comparison. You walk a mile, you see someone else walking two. You bake a cake, and there are a dozen cakes that look and taste better in the grocery store. Post a chapter on Ao3, someone else has better stats and a more well-written fic.

You post a sketch on tumblr, and you’re bombarded with a million sketches that are a million times better and you think—what’s the point?

Unfortunately, according to my therapist, we just have to suck it up and do it anyway. Or at least I do—I’m the dumbass who has “exposure therapy” on their treatment plan.

“Like Moses through the sea, like a knife through soft fat, like a dog through a flock. Its throaty bellow trailed into the cold air like smoke.”

The Unyielding North

[ https://archiveofourown.org/works/55638514/chapters/141223009#workskin ]

On the advice of my wonderful therapist (and my ever-supportive @emmithar-blog ), I’ve decided to try easing back into some of my hobbies, hopefully without the whole “crippling rejection sensitivity” part this time.

Plus bonus concept art for you lucky tumblrers 😎

I am INSPIRED by @emmithar-blog‘s recent Digital Bob Ross series, so I tried my hand at one… and then added Arthur just for kicks. Love me a good cowboy.

Beaver Hollow was unbearably quiet. There were no stories by the fire, no gentle strumming or low, muttered songs. Folks drifted. It was as if the life had drained away from each of them and… and maybe it did. 

He could feel it draining from himself, at least. 

A hell of a thing, the doctor had said.

He and John had taken to sitting in the puddle, making mud pies. Rather, Jack made mud pies. John just sort of sat there and patted the mud, which wasn’t really making mud pies. Jack had tried to teach him, but John never got any better, so he stopped. 

John stared and reached a small hand out, grasping. Arthur felt the bloom of fondness in his broken ribs.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to John, who was a raccoon and couldn’t understand a damn thing, “I’ll be alright, I promise. You ain’t gotta worry none about me.”

Oddly enough, he believed it. 

“He ain’t my damn brother—c’mere you fat bastard—What d’you want?”

Dutch waved him over; Arthur struggled to keep John from wiggling out of his hands, but manage he did. He stood in Dutch’s tent, only momentarily put off by the thick scent of cologne. 

Dutch took a thoughtful draw from his cigar, “I need you to do me a favor. Hosea told me ‘bout some sheep headed for the auction in Valentine. Could fetch a good bit of cash if we were to… emancipate them from their captors. And take John with you, he’s antsy today.”