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twola · 7 months

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To Name A Vista

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

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It's beautiful - this hidden place he's brought you - but you'd have to admit, nature is not the only view you're admiring.

When you awaken, blinking yourself back into the world of the living, it's only a moment before you arch your back against your bedroom that your body becomes your own again.

You yawn, stretching your arms above your head and your legs out straight, the small of your back bowing upward. As you settle back down on the rumbled bedroll, you run a hand down your face, brushing your hopelessly tangled hair from your cheeks.

As you stare up at the pitch of the tent, the morning light filters through the canvas as your hand settles over your stomach. A smile crosses your face.

Your cunt aches sweetly, a dull pain you're happy to feel within the cradle of your hips. A blanket lays discarded, twisted around one of your legs. Otherwise, your skin is bared completely within the tent, gooseflesh prickling as a soft morning breeze pushes through the hanging flap of the tent.

You roll over, yawning again, frowning slightly as you feel the stickiness of dried sweat on your back and something else entirely between your thighs.

Sitting up, you roll your shoulder backward to shake out the sleep from your body. Discarded clothing litters the ground, trousers and shirts, gun belts, and a chemise bunched up in the corner of the tent. A pair of men’s boots knocked over.

Your fingers grasp for the tent’s flap, drawing it open slightly to let the early morning sunlight in, birdsong becoming louder as you squint against the brightness.

It’s certainly picturesque, here along the banks of the Dakota River, tucked away from roads and trails, the gentle waters flowing south to collect in Flat Iron.

You grope for the discarded blanket on the other side of the bedroll and wrap it around your shoulders as crawl out of the tent to stand. Stepping past the campfire that’s been re-lit in the morning, you notice a pot of coffee heating up in that old beat-up percolator.

You’re drawn by some unseen string to the riverbank. Your bare feet slide slowly over weathered river stones to where your toes touch the water’s edge. Pulling the blanket around you closer, you smile as the birds chirp loudly overhead.

Arthur stands several feet out in the water, gently lapping at his thighs as he scrubs at his shoulder idly, staring off into the distance, Mount Shann looming large miles away.

Nude as the day he was born, you are transfixed, gazing unabashedly at your lover’s body. The lines at his neck and elbows where sun-kissed skin meets what’s usually hidden beneath his clothing. Scars, marks, a smattering of dark, wiry hair. That slash on his shoulder from a coach robbery in Colorado. The circular mark on his bicep when he was shot in Arizona. New, pink-red lines scratched into his skin on either side of his spine. No, those weren’t battle wounds, those were love marks - carved into his skin by your blunt nails as he thrust himself inside your body, over and over and over again last night.

A smile creeps over your face as you note a faint pink imprint of your hand on one of his ass cheeks.

He rolls his shoulder, still unaware of your gaze on him. Blading his body sideways, he leans over, cups river water between his hands, and brings it up to his neckline, splashing it to cover his chest, idly scrubbing at wet skin.

You cannot help but stare at his large cock hanging prettily between his legs. Even with how many times the two of you climbed into each other last night, heat flares in your belly as you feel wetness gathering in your cunt. You rub your thighs together absentmindedly as you trace the paths of the rivulets of water down his chest, down the muscles of his abdomen, as it weaves through the dark curls of his pubic hair and drips off of his cock.

You’re smitten, there isn’t any denying it.

This was all fairly new between you - and maybe it’s still those early days of a relationship where you can’t keep your hands off of each other. At some point when the gang was traveling from the west, the simmering tension between the two of you boiled over, and after a night around the campfire and a tad too much whiskey, you awoke in Arthur’s bedroll, thoroughly satiated and adorned with sloppy bite marks and suckled bruises across your décolletage.

That, of course, quickly devolved into sneaking into tents at night, groping behind wagons, and the occasional dalliance in the woods outside of camp.

When things had finally calmed down from the Blackwater mess, he grabbed you without much preamble, led you to the horses, swung you up on the rump of his new mare, and headed out of Horseshoe Overlook, muttering something about needing a break.

Not that last night was much of a break… the night was spent holed away in that little tent, between gasps and moans and cries of each other’s names for hours.

Arthur finally turns around completely and sees you, your hair spilling messily over the blanket you’ve wrapped around yourself. A grin slides across his face as he begins to wade toward you, unabashed in his nakedness.

“Get some sleep there, darlin’?”

You snort lightly as he steps closer to you, his arms reaching toward your shoulders, engulfing them in his large hands and rubbing them affectionately.

“You know me, need plenty of beauty rest.” You roll your eyes with a laugh.

Arthur snorts in return, bemused, “Y’dont need a lick of that to be a beauty.”

Oh, this man…

You give a smile as you let the blanket fall from your body and collect at your feet. You can hear him suck in a breath for a moment, then Arthur’s hands immediately dart to your bared breasts, his palms engulfing them as he squeezes gently. Your hands trail down his abdomen, fingers brushing the wet hair from just below his navel until it spreads out over his pelvis.

He smirks, “That getcha goin’?”

You grasp his cock, solid and warm even when he wasn’t aroused, and squeeze as gently as he holds your breasts, “So gentlemanly,” You stress the honorific by swiping your thumb over the head of his cock, and he shivers in response, blood rushing to his groin as he is coaxed to rigidity in your hand.

With an affectionate squeeze of his right hand to your breast, he quickly moves southward, reaching between your thighs as you begin to stroke him.

You step up on your toes and he leans down to press your lips together, opening your mouth immediately to him as a comforting rumble emits outward from his chest.

Your tongue presses up against his as his fingers slide between the seam of your body, collecting your dewy sheen as he rubs back and forth between that little nub of pleasure and the rim of your aching cunt.

Speaking of which, you jerk backward slightly when his pointer finger slips inside to the first knuckle. He pulls back immediately, hand landing on your hip. He blinks, a concerned look on his face.

“Y’hurtin?” Arthur whispers, patting your hip gently.

“Just a little sore.” You smile up at him and press your lips to his again quickly, “Been a while since we did that. And you ain’t exactly small neither.”

Arthur blushes, and you’re overcome with a fondness for him - for this, he blushes, considering every damn position he had you in last night.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t ever want to hurt you.” Your outlaw says forlornly, one of his hands moving to cup your cheek as a frown snakes across his face.

“Stop, stop it. You didn’t hurt me. Y’did nothin’ but please me last night,'' You shake your head with a smile, “Now let me please you.”

He cannot suppress a groan as you slowly let yourself down to your knees, the blanket saving you from being directly on the sandy soil.

“Oh honey - y’don’t -”

“You’re all clean and I’m still dirty. Let me.” You whisper in a sultry voice as you stroke his cock languidly. He swallows audibly as his hand moves to cup your jaw.

“Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me, my girl.” His thumb traces the apple of your cheek as you smile, turning your head to kiss his palm.

You move from his palm to the edge of his hip, where the hard-earned lines of muscle collect in a v-shape, tapering from his waist. Slowly, nearly painfully slowly, your lips trail across his body, from the crest of his bone to underneath his navel, where dark, wiry hair starts to curl.

Arthur cannot help but to gently rock forward against you, and you place your chin just below his navel, smiling up at him in complete adoration. He returns that smile as he pushes a strand of your hair behind your ears.

You grasp the base of his hefty cock with one hand and turn your head back to him, drawing the red tip of him to your mouth and kissing it gently before letting your tongue dart out against it. He hisses in pleasure as his fingers thread through your tangled locks to grasp your head. You take that action as permission to take him into the wet cavern of your mouth, inch by inch, tongue pressing against him.

Arthur groans aloud and throws his head back, slightly bowing his body toward you. You suck gently on the head of his cock before pressing forward to take more of him in, beginning to bob back and forth, taking him more and more with each movement. Your hand balances on his thigh, thick and corded with muscle.

He looks back down at you, breathing heavily, while you tip your head up slightly and make eye contact with him. Slowly, near aggravatingly slowly, you take him into your mouth, deeper, deeper, until you can’t look at him anymore, and your nose presses against his pubic bone. You choke slightly as the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, leaking precum

“Jesus fuck,” He curses, unable to stop himself from rocking forward slightly, and you moan around him, pulling your head backward to begin bobbing again.

You’re able to wrench the most beautiful sounds from him: pleads and groans and heavy, needy breaths as you suckle on him, the pain in your knees an afterthought as you continue to pleasure your lover.

“F- fuck-” he gasps, breathless and red-faced looking down at you, “I’m gonna -ngh- where…-?”

Your mouth releases from around his cock with a wet pop , a trail of saliva connecting you to him for a moment before it snaps.

He groans, panting.

“Wherever you want.” You purr.

Arthur whines, actually whines, this outlaw, this hardened criminal, this man hewn from the rough life he lives. His hand flies to his cock and starts pumping, obscene noises loud in your ear as his fingers slide over the wetness your mouth left.

“Lemme… lemme spend on them pretty little tits o’ y-yours.” Arthur gasps out, his hips rocking in time with the hand stroking his cock.

You smile, brushing your hair back over your shoulders and leaning forward as he begins to grunt, his free hand moving from your head to cup at his full, heavy balls as he strokes his cock faster and harder.

A groan spills loudly from his throat as his knees shake slightly, and warm spend splatters across your chest, slowly rolling down the curve of your breasts and between them.

Arthur pants, and with one last slow stroke, the pulsing of his cock ceases, a final lazy drip from the head of his member falls to the ground between them.

He stares at you as he staggers back half a step, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus Christ,” He breathes, a dopey, satisfied grin crossing his features.

Milky spend slowly trails down your chest, and he cannot help but stare. With a gentle shake of his head, he regains both his balance and wits, stepping back toward you and offering his hand to help pull you up.

“C’mon, my lady, let’s get you clean.” You’ve stood up for only a moment before he swings his arms down on either side of you and lifts you beneath your knees and back. You giggle softly as he pretends to exude an air of chivalry, wading slowly back into the river water carrying you like a princess - albeit a ‘noble’ lady with his spend splattered all over your chest.

The morning birdsong blooms along with the sunshine, near perfection in this small wooded area where the two of you are hidden away from the world.

Until your screeching voice cuts across the valley, that is.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur! The water’s cold as shit!”

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #twolafic

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moeitsu · 1 month

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Hi everyone! I have a new Arthur x female!OC fic I've been working on that's posted up on Ao3, so I figured I would share it here as well. Please let me know what you think! This story is currently still on-going :)

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Summary: Kate McCanon, a young widow from the north, meets outlaw Arthur Morgan. When the two cross paths she discovers a complex man wrestling with his own sense of right and wrong. As their unlikely bond deepens, Kate becomes determined to guide Arthur towards a brighter path, even as tensions rise within his gang led by the enigmatic Dutch van der Linde. With danger lurking at every turn, Kate must navigate treacherous territory to protect those she holds dear, all while finding love in the most unexpected of places. Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Chapter 1 - The Frost Gleams Where The Flowers Have Been

1890

Kate had never fancied herself a skilled woodworker. While she had lent a hand to her husband in constructing a barn, her role mostly entailed passing him tools and bringing him his lunch. But as she stood amidst the sawdust, tears streaking down her cheeks, she grappled with the daunting task ahead. She lacked both the sufficient wood and the patience to craft two coffins. Thus, the inevitable decision emerged: they would be laid to rest together.

The Reverend's suggestion to cremate the bodies, emphasizing the need to eradicate the disease completely, fell upon deaf ears. The mere thought of reducing her beloved husband and precious baby girl to ashes felt abhorrent to Kate. Instead, she harbored a tender hope that one day, perhaps, they would blossom into a magnificent Willow tree.

Amidst the melancholy chore, the vibrant symphony of birdsong provided a bittersweet backdrop, reminiscent of the lullabies she once crooned to her infant daughter. With a sorrowful melody humming in her heart, Kate toiled diligently, her hands blackened with grime, each wipe across her tear-stained cheeks a testament to her grief. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting their modest farm in a golden hue, Kate's work pressed on.

Night descended swiftly, cloaking the world in shadows that seemed to stretch for an eternity. Kate, perched upon her porch swing, found no solace in slumber. Her vigil was solemn, her gaze never wavering from the rough-hewn coffins that cradled her entire world within their confines.

With the break of dawn, the Reverend returned, his disapproval evident, yet tempered by resignation. Together, in a somber silence, they labored to fashion a final resting place. By mid-afternoon, the grave stood ready, a solemn abyss awaiting its occupants. With the Reverend's assistance, Kate tenderly lowered her cherished husband and daughter into the earth's cold embrace.

As dusk settled, the Reverend offered prayers and parting words before taking his leave. Left alone in her sorrow, Kate felt the weight of despair bearing down upon her. In a world forged by men and seemingly devoid of solace for a solitary widow, she found herself with no recourse but to depart.

Beneath the twilight sky, the epitaph etched upon their shared gravestone bore silent witness to her profound loss:

Here Lies My Beloved Noah, And Our Beautiful Daughter, Lorena.

May God Keep Their Souls.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

1899

As the sun rose over the horizon, casting its golden rays across the sprawling expanse of Emerald Ranch, Kate found herself amidst the ebb and flow of another day's labor. Nine years had slipped by since the tragic loss of her husband and daughter, a span of time marked by wandering footsteps and the pursuit of odd jobs on her journey westward.

She had once heard her father say they had family in California, he had many sisters but only kept in touch with one. Kate wrote to her after the death of her husband, seeking asylum with a relative with nowhere else to go. Her Aunt wrote her back and gave her condolences, she said Kate would be welcome with open arms.

However, the last she heard of her Aunt was 7 years ago. But still, she continued west. She had come too far and been through too much to stop now. What she hoped to find in the valleys of California, she did not know anymore. Over the years she became more cowboy and less of a woman, her once soft hands now calloused by years of labor. The untamed plains and cold hard ground had become both her refuge and her bed.

She came to Emerald Ranch only a week ago, her boss; Seamus, was reluctant to hire a stranger, let alone a woman, to help on the ranch. Kate assured him she was cheap labor and was only looking for shelter and a place to rest until she was on the move again. Kate was no stranger to odd jobs, she took any work she could get and saved as much as she could. But she was no criminal.

She heard Seamus talking to two men as she filled the troughs with clean water. The gentlemen said they were new in town and looking for a partnership, one in which they could both make money.

“Look I ain't no idiot, and I don't trust folks outta the blue. If you want to work together then you're gonna have to prove to me you’re worth my time.” Her boss's voice raised above the usual noise of the barn animals.

“Of course! We’re only interested in a partnership, just looking to make a little extra money.” Carried the voice of an older gentleman.

“No doubt. I do interesting very well. It's trusting that I don't do so well.” her boss answered, still not convinced by the two strangers.

“Look at us, we’re honest as the day is long,” said the other man with cheer.

“You really want us to prove ourselves to this clown Hosea?” said the other voice, sounding much younger than his partner.

Seamus scoffed, “good day to you, Hosea.”

“N-now wait a minute Seamus. Arthur can be rough, and quick with his tongue, but I swear you can trust him, you can trust me.” Hosea pleaded, following Seamus to the side of the barn. Kate now had a clear view of the new “business partners”.

Kate didn't know Seamus very well, but she could tell he was an honest enough man. Wise for his years, and liked to keep his nose out of trouble. “I’m an old man Hosea,” he began, “and you know why I ain’t dead yet?”

“Because you don't trust idiots,” Hosea finished.

“Exactly.”

“We’re not idiots, Seamus. Let us prove it to you.” Hosea had an air of confidence, he wasn't some runaway bum looking to make a quick buck. He was serious about a partnership. Although Kate wouldn't say the same for his partner, who loomed behind them like a panther ready to pounce.

“Okay…I’ll tell you what, old Bob Crawford and his boys just bought a beautiful stolen stagecoach from up north. It’s in their barn. Now you go get that,” he looked around for anyone who might be listening to his scheming, “then we can work together.” He said quietly, placing a hand on Hosea’s shoulder.

“Who’s Old Bob Crawford?” inquired Hosea.

“An acquaintance of mine…well, not just an acquaintance. He’s my cousin, by marriage.” Seamus explained.

“Oh so now we’re meddlin’ in your family business?” Arthur boasted with skepticism.

Hosea waved him off and continued speaking, “Where is he located?”

“Now hang on a moment, you boys could very easily take this coach and sell it yourselves for a pretty penny,” Seamus began.

“So you comin’ with us? I thought you didn't want to be involved in shady business?” Arthur spoke up again.

“Heavens no, if my cousin saw me it would be my death. I'm sending someone with you, as collateral.” Seamus turned around and saw Kate already watching them, he waved her over.

Arthur shook his head disapprovingly, “nah, I don't do babysitters Seamus.”

Kate was just as skeptical about her part in this, she told Seamus she was looking for honest work, and robbing his cousin certainly falls out of that line.

“She’s not babysitting . She’ll take you to my cousin's farm and let you do the robbing. Kate has been working for me for a few days now and she’s tougher than she looks.” Seamus said turning to Kate, “I want you to make sure that stage coach gets back to me. You don't need to take part in the robbery.”

“You’re fine with them robbing your cousin?” She spoke in a hushed tone so only Seamus could hear.

“By marriage,” he added, “and yes, I would love it. The man’s been a thorn in my ass for years.” He said amused.

She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to get a good look at the two strangers. One was indeed much older than the other, with cropped white hair peeking out from under his hat. The other gentleman was tall and burly, and he hid his eyes under the brim of his hat. He seemed wary of strangers and kept both hands resting on his gun belt.

“Let me get my horse saddled and I’ll meet you boys at the intersection leading out of town.” She spoke, Hosea nodded and was already making his way to his horse. Arthur stood for a moment eyeing the woman, no doubt playing the intimidation tactic. But Kate had seen far scarier men than him in her days. “Y'know the quicker we get this done the quicker you fellas get paid.” She noted.

Arthur scoffed and finally followed Hosea to his horse, “don't need no damn babysitter,” he grumbled kicking dust.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate made quick work of saddling her black Hungarian roan, she calls Lorena. After her infant daughter. In a moments pass she was on the dirt road leading out of Emerald Ranch and toward Carmody Dell. She waved for the two men to follow her, they stayed behind her a short distance and made no effort for small conversation.

However, she overheard snippets of their own conversation as they went, “I thought you wanted me to be the strong arm? That's usually how it goes,” Arthur spoke.

“Yes but..” Hosea hesitated, lowering his tone a little, “you know how this works.”

“Cmon Hosea that fellers a joke, he don't even trust us enough to handle it ourselves. Now we got a chaperone.” Arthur complained loudly, at least he’s not calling me a babysitter , Kate thought.

“All the better, he won't cause us any problems. And I cant blame the guy for sending the girl. Two strangers looking for quick money? Hell, I’d want assurance too.” Hosea answered, “besides, if he’s sending protection that means there’s big money to be made. Seamus wants his cut.”

Kate came to the same conclusion, up until now Seamus had given her the usual ranch-hand tasks. Feeding and cleaning mostly. This was very different, there must be good money for this stage coach.

“I guess you’re right,” Arthur muttered.

Hosea mumbled something back to Arthur about “hanging up their hats” if they couldn't finish a job as easy as this. They laughed and began chatting about their travels in Emerald ranch, Kate tuned them out and began humming a song to her horse.

Her singing always pleased her horse and calmed the girl’s nerves. She was a strong and fierce steed, but jumpy and needy like a baby sometimes. Kate thought naming her horse after her daughter would bring her closure, instead, she was almost convinced that her daughter's spirit lived on in Lorena somehow. In all ways except biological, her horse was her baby.

Carmody Dell was a short distance north past the train tracks and Fort Wallace, Kate had passed it once before. They rode at a steady pace, the men behind her never coming too close. She wondered for a moment what their story was, and why they needed money so bad. Perhaps they were travelers like her, maybe they even had a caravan. She entertained the thought of traveling with a group again, but shuddered at the memories. Her previous caravan adventures had not ended well.

Once the ranch was in view she slowed and allowed the boys to catch up on either side of her. She led them to a grassy clearing off the road.

“You should continue on foot from here, I’ll stay behind with your horses.” She said dismounting. The two of them nodded and dismounted their horses, Kate was almost surprised to hear no objections from Arthur.

“C'mon son, let's see what we’re dealing with here.” Hosea commented walking towards a large rock in front of the house.

“Son”, so they are family . She mentally noted. Arthur gave his horse a pat, “be a good girl for the lady” he said, tipping his hat towards Kate. She was slightly taken aback by the sudden politeness.

She busied herself with the horses for a bit while the men laid out their plan, she gave Hosea and Arthurs horse a treat and was about to start brushing his horse when he approached her again. Startled, she backed away from his mare, she didn't want him to think she was snooping in his saddle bags.

“You can keep brushin’ her, she loves attention,” he half smiled reaching up and petting her snout. “I just came to tell ya’ we’re gonna wait till it gets dark. Less chance of getting caught that way.”

“Smart,” she replied, for whatever reason she suddenly felt very shy in his presence.

He stood a few feet away from her and she could see more of his features. He was around her age. He had short dirty blond hair under his leather hat, and bright blue/green eyes. Her eyes lingered over his body. He was big too, more than a foot taller than her and well fed and muscular. His bicep had to be the size of her head alone, and she could tell by the fabric of his button down he had a bit of a belly hidden behind his gun belt.

“What’s her name?” His voice broke through her awkward silence.

“Who?” She asked and looked back at him.

He chortled, “the black beauty you got over there,” he nodded to her horse.

Oh, duh! “Her name is Lorena, she also loves attention but she’s nervous around new people.” Kate answered, still a bit lost in her thoughts.

Arthur made a clicking sound with his tongue, reaching out a hand and slowly walking toward her horse. “It’s alright girl,” he cooed while she sniffed his palm. He pulled out a peppermint and gave it to her, which Lorena happily accepted.

Kate smiled at the interaction, “you introduce yourself to my horse before me?” she teased.

“My apologies ma’am,” he turned to face her, “names Arthur Morgan.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Morgan, I’m Kate McCanon.” She reached out her hand and he shook it. His grip was firm but polite.

“Likewise, Miss.McCanon. That’s Belle your brushin’, and that’s Silver Dollar.” He pointed at Hosea’s horse. “I saw this beauty when we first rode into Emerald ranch, had no idea she was yours tho.” He was talking about her horse again, “told myself I’d inquire about buying her if she was available.”

Kate smiled at the affection he was showing for her horse, she knew Lorena was a beautiful mare. She often received compliments on the road, and many have offered to pay for her purebred.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not for sale.”

“Well I can certainly see that,” he laughed, “she seems happy though. You must take real good care of her.” He said, his attention still on her mare as he scratched under her chin.

“You some kind of horse breeder Mr. Morgan?” Kate asked.

Arthur laughed, “no no. Nothing like that, though sometimes I wish I was.” He smiled as he said it but Kate noticed there was a sadness in his tone. “I just think they’re neat is all.”

They had only just met, and while Arthur was not initially the most pleasant, she found it incredibly cute how enraptured he was by her horse.

“I should probably also apologize for my rudeness earlier, it’s been a rough couple weeks for us and we uh- don’t always take too kindly to strangers.” Arthur took off his hat as he spoke and held it to his chest, a sincere gesture.

Kate was shocked, the man she met at Emerald ranch not even an hour ago seemed like a completely different person than the man before her. His cold demeanor was gone, or at least reined in at the moment.

“No apology needed Mr. Morgan. I understand,” She answered. “Although I wouldn’t call it rude, you were just skeptical. Rightfully so, can I ask what brings you to Emerald Ranch?”

Arthur looked away from her as he spoke, choosing to focus on her horse. “We’re just stayin’ in the area for a few weeks. Passin’ through and tryna make money.”

“By robbing stagecoaches?” Kate said in an amused tone, “you a bunch of outlaws or something?” She continued, half-joking.

Arthur looked at her with surprise, “What? No, we uh- got laid off from the railway. Up-north. Just looking for money so we can find a place to settle down again. That’s all.” He looked away again, avoiding her gaze.

“I’ll say it again, by robbing stagecoaches?” She kept her tone playful, but wasn’t entirely convinced by his story. But it felt good to be the intimidator.

“Wasn’t our idea, Seamus asked us to rob his cousin!” His voice rose slightly with anger.

“By marriage,” Kate retorted.

Arthur was about to speak again but only stared at her.

“I’m just pulling your leg Mr. Morgan.” Kate laughed. “It’s no business of mine. I’m only passing through here, same as you. What you do here and how you earn your money is your business. As is mine.”

Arthur scoffed, suddenly amused, did this woman just tease me?

He went to speak again before another voice interrupted them, “Arthur! Get over here!” Called Hosea. He pointed a finger at Kate as to say this isn’t over and walked away.

Amused with herself, Kate grabbed an apple and sat down against a tree. Watching the sun set as she waited for the cover of night so the two men could pull off their heist.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate woke suddenly to the sound of horses moving. She quickly got up and looked in the direction of the ranch. Sure enough the stage coach was steadily moving down the path away from its place in the barn. She quickly mounted her horse and trotted over to them.

“Nice work! Follow me back to Emerald Ranch and try to keep it in one piece.” She called up to Hosea who was driving the coach. With that she clicked her tongue and took off ahead of the coach at a steady but quick pace. Not wanting to get themselves caught.

Before Hosea could crack the reins he looked to Arthur as he was about to get in the coach, “you ride ahead with her. I got this.”

Arthur looked confused, “why wouldn’t I ride with you? The horses will follow.”

Now Hosea was giving him an amused look, “I heard you with her earlier.”

“And?” The cowboy replied slightly annoyed.

“You’ve never fumbled our cover story so bad!” He quipped, “it was like listening to a child tell it!”

Arthur shook his head, “now you’re playin’ match maker old man?” He teased, trying to hide his smile.

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to go talk to her son."

Without another word Arthur nodded and dismounted the coach, getting into the saddle and riding off to catch up to Kate.

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theshireisburning-so-mordoritis · 1 year

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HOUSE OF THE DRAGON FIC RECS

DAEMON TARGARYEN

ONESHOTS

You'll Be Waiting In Vain by @charnelhouse

Rise By The Birdsong by @author-morgan

When It Comes To You (My World is Deep Red) by @acrossthesestars

SERIES

A Song Of Heart And Blood by @sourcherryandsprinkles

Queen Of Ice And Prince Of Fire by @akittenwrites

High Tides by @happynerdtale

A Game of Westerosi Whispers // A Game Of Westerosi Chess by @houseofhyde

AEMOND TARGARYEN

ONESHOTS

Wolfsong by @tea--stories

Wolven Storm by @clints-lucky-arrow

Reckoning, Sublime by @revolution-starter

Bloodletting

The Road More Travelled

Both by @softcoreparadise

Longing by @farity

SERIES

Have You No Idea That You're In Deep by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Dragons Bane by @house-strong

Playing With Fire by @thesoftestirises

Prūmia Va Perzys (Heart On Fire) by @endless-ineffabilities

Inexperience by @aemonds-sapphire

#fic recs #house of the dragon fic recs #damon targaryen #aemond targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader

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wintersongstress · 10 months

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A Dream’s Winding Way

Part I — A Beetle in a Matchbox

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: sexual assault, grief (past loss of parents/caretaker).

A/N: This story is about surviving sexual assault. Over the past two years I’ve been writing this an effort to cope and process my own experience, but I also set out to write this for others who have suffered this as well. I wanted to craft a story that explored healing, finding a partner who understands consent, and feeling safe with them. Not every reader may be in the headspace to read this as I deal heavily with the wave of emotions that comes after an attack. The attack itself I did not desire to go into violent detail of, but it is there and it may be triggering.

Regardless, I want any reader who decides they aren’t in the right place to read this because of the triggers to know that healing is possible, that you are not broken, ugly, or worthless, and no matter how much trauma has taken from you, you can still live a good life. Arthur Morgan is a comfort character I imagine would be that partner who understands boundaries and vulnerability and sees a woman he holds feelings for as more than her pain.

Part Two | AO3 Link

In memory, the woolly tufts of a moon-white dandelion swayed in a long departed breeze. You held it close, contemplating your heart’s desire amidst the babble of brook and the music of birdsong.

I want my first time to be with someone I’ve given my heart to.

The wind sifted through your skirts and the trees, meanwhile the deepest hope of your heart unfurled with a wishful blow until all that remained of the dandelion was a bald stem. You cast it off into a pebbled stream for the water to claim. The seeds coasted in the air and a motherly breeze carried them in its gentle wake, cradling your wish to the future day it could come true. No spider webs ensnared them, and the canopy parted to admit their passage into the turquoise sky. On that bank you stood on the cusp of womanhood, your world lush with possibility and untouched by tragedy, allowing your young heart to nurture such a naïve fantasy in the spring sunshine.

~ * ~

~ I — A Beetle in a Matchbox ~

Sawtooth Mountain Range, Idaho. 1891

In the before, life was a fairytale. It was rising with the sun to a land still cold from a night beneath the mountains’ shadow, where wildflowers purpled the meadows and dawn trailed amber fingers through the abundant evergreens. Every day you opened your kitchen door little changed. Each morning, before you unlatched the garden gate, you enjoyed the music of singing birds alone, breathed in deep the thick and clean scent of pine, and cherished every place the sunlight touched in this little, precious corner of the world. From spring thaw to fall frost, the morning grass beneath your lively step held pinhead glitters of dew, dampening your hem as you would amble to the chicken coop, basket in arm and contented at the sight of a tawny rabbit nipping at the vegetable patch. It was the rewarding routine and rustic simplicity of tending a goat and digging your fingers in the fresh soil of your garden, the enjoyment of friendly society while working at the hotel in town and the privilege of sharing a cottage with your grandmother—the only family you had left.

A few years after you were born you lost your parents to cholera. You had no memory, fond or otherwise, tethered to them and the objects they left behind to unfailingly inflict the salt and sting of grief. Tucked inside your blouse you kept your mother’s ring on a chain, and on your bedside table a portrait of them sat framed and propped. The coolness of the metal and the sepia tone of the photograph made you smile with gratitude for what pieces of them remained. Pieces that were soft and unserrated, that you could hold on to, thumb the edges, and feel only the smooth ease of kinship. But the most comforting reminder of them all was your grandmother.

To you, she was a soft-spoken and welcoming woman, one who had lived a full life beneath the sun by the token of her laugh lines and the fan of wrinkles beside each of her eyes. With others she was sensible and solemn, and not a person to scam or underestimate.

Few saw the side of her you did: the kindhearted woman whose hair you helped pin up in a nautilus of braids each morning, whose dainty collar was kept mathematically straight. She often took you through the forests and taught you all about herbs and curative plants, instructing you to gather the roots of ginseng and the ruby heads of yarrow for teas and tonics and you took an instant proclivity towards it. She gifted you with a stack of field guilds on mushrooms, wildflowers, trees, birds, and everything else within the forest to prepare you. With a cattleman stowed on your hip she trusted you to venture out alone, and your horse, Willa, carried back your fragrant pickings in large, leather sacks that hung from her saddle on the path home. In the evenings, through the space in the boughs overhead, a scarf of smoke greeted you from the cobbled chimney of your home, where inside a stew pot waited, simmering with the fragrant steams of vegetable broth.

Those were treasured times, and you would never fully appreciate the true goodness of those days until your grandmother passed away, because for as much as she taught you to watch out for yourself, you still had so much to learn about the dangers of the world.

The people from town came by to offer their condolences and casseroles, and Mr. Greely gave you a week’s pay and time to grieve. You would get back on your feet, you knew, but you were grateful for everyone’s generosity and sympathies.

Winter came, a season of most cold reflection, and the solitude of trackless snows resembled the emptiness in you. Food turned to ash in your mouth, the pale and placid blue of the sunrise on mountain snow stirred no awe in your eyes, and you drifted through life as if it were a waking dream. Loneliness was a pit, and long had you trailed the span of its walls with unfeeling hands to a degree of familiarity and cold comfort, circling, circling, listless and hollow.

As snow did, melancholy mellowed with spring. A day came when you awoke and opened the windows of the cottage to a renewed earth, wherein the singing liberation of fresh streams and rosy birds suffused the air and lifted your spirits. A breeze stirred the curtains. A cloud melted in the sky. The serenest of sunshine warmed your cheeks and a wind cleared your lungs, and each breath you inhaled was like a sip of chamomile tea as it swept its balmy way through your body. Venturing out, steps bedded by clovers, the water you drew from the mossy well held your reflection, and within its silver glimmers you glimpsed a girl who had grown into womanhood and aged a year in the space of a season. You were not the only one to notice this change.

With the spring the surrounding woods grew replete with game, drawing in hunters from all around, of which included one familiar face: the town Sheriff. He rode a buckskin horse with syrup brown eyes and a tail so long it brushed the earth; a wild stallion he tamed himself. The horse’s dappled flank often carried deer pelts on his way back from the deep forest. A trail wound not far from your cottage and he loped up one day, checking on you. You spied the old cedar stock of his long gun, stowed in his saddle holster as he pulled up the reins, the fringe of his suede jacket rippling as he jounced to a stop.

A howdy was exchanged as you balanced a basket of currants on your hip. Hand cupped against your brow, the sun beamed warm through the straw of your hat and you offered a polite smile to the man with a neatly trimmed black mustache, his face otherwise clean-shaven. A few minutes of amiable conversation ensued—him discussing the heavy snowfall of the winter and you assuring him you managed the harsh season. He took a more meaningful tone when he inquired about living on your own, if you had a means to protect yourself, and if you happened upon any unfriendly-looking persons. You knew well how dangerous it was for a woman to live by herself, in the wilderness or otherwise, regardless of the presence of your father’s old hunting rifle mounted above the fireplace. His concern was not unwarranted, after all you supposed it was his job to keep the town and the people in it safe. Knowing that someone in the world was watching out for you was a small relief you welcomed, but you wished you peered past the cloak of concern to unveil the underlying intention behind his appraisal of your competence before it was too late.

He visited weekly. Oftentimes he brought a bundle of wildflowers he had collected on his journey over; bluebells, because they were his late wife’s favorite. And no shortage of compliments accompanied him, either. Both you accepted awkwardly, not used to receiving this sort of attention as you handled the uprooted, bent stalks with the utmost care. He was on his way with a tip of his Stetson before long, and you pushed all thoughts of men far from the forefront of your mind as his horse’s hooves thumped off into the waning afternoon.

You wished you paid more attention when the Sheriff spoke of his wife’s passing and tried to relate his grief to yours. He loved her, and the naïve part of your mind believed the love in his heart would remain and never dwindle, because the love you held for your family endured despite the tragedies. He made you laugh on occasion, made you look forward to his visits, and worst of all, he got you to trust him. But he began to ask things of you, about you. Questions too personal. Would you be looking to get married since you were of age? Were you sweet on anyone? Questions that made you stammer in a way he mistook for something other than being flustered.

For as long as you dreamed, you dreamt of what falling in love would be like. It was the momentous landmark you looked forward to reaching the most in life. Something worth treading the painful slopes and crumbling scree of loss. To disclose that dream to him would be to give the wrong person the right piece of yourself, so you guarded your answers to his intrusive questions with ambiguity. He would huff, thwarted, but somehow, in some inadvertent way, he took it as encouragement to think his forwardness was welcome, because maybe he never would have come to you that night.

An invincible storm had rolled in. Rain poured wild and cold against the windows in veins of silver mined from the ore of thunderclouds, battering the panes and drumming the roof. Dark through the wilderness shone the sheer slanting waves of the downpour, lashing against the trees until their branches bowed in submission, moonlight devoid throughout. Flows of water sluiced through the baskets of geraniums hanging in the eaves and ran off the shingles, splashing down upon the ground in rippling puddles that danced with each new drop. Droplets and branches tapped against the other side of the cool glass against your hand, meanwhile, at your back, your dinner popped and hissed in its pot. You turned and drifted away from the window pane at length, and let the lacy curtain fall back in place.

After supping, you draped a knitted throw around your shoulders and settled near the fire at last, to doze and drift in the peace of falling rain while tucked inside, safe and warm. As logs of cedar and birch snapped, sadness tapped against the window of your mind, as it often did, and your gaze was lost to the flames in rumination, the book in your lap forgotten as you reckoned with your circumstances. You were as content as you were able to be without the ones you had lost, but in the hollow of your heart your grief was a wound that never healed and yawned at times. Your grandmother’s perfume of heavy, dark red roses still clung to the soft weft of the blanket you held close—a smell that made you tender towards the past. So many traces of their life upon the Earth remained.

A horse’s whinny broke your reverie. Your book fell as you jolted from the chair, seeking out your gun on the table before investigating the disturbance. Willa was situated in the small stable, and if someone was outside—

Rigorous knocking rumbled through your door frame, followed by a familiar voice, pleading.

You set the gun down and yanked open the storm-pelted door. At the same time, a boulder of thunder rolled through the night. Across the land lightning flashed through the sky to illuminate the weathered face standing at your threshold.

“Sheriff? What on Earth—“

He barged past you without invitation, shotgun ready in hand. For all of an instant you stood frozen in bewilderment, until the gusts of wind billowing in prompted you to shut the door and your gaping mouth. He was on a mission, it appeared, because he ignored your protestations.

The Sheriff blustered his way through your tranquil home in a whirring of spurs and a splatter of muck. Dirt ankle-deep caked his riding boots, his feet muddier than a pig’s hooves as he searched about the main room in a frenzy, yanking open doors and shoving aside furniture. Each of his intrusive footsteps quaked the floors, shaking the fine dishware in its special cabinet, the copper pots hanging above the dry sink, and the shelves of jarred fruits and jams. He carried rainwater and the look of a storm in his wake, shattering the peace you found earlier this evening completely. From his ebony gun belt a hunting knife and a freshly-oiled Schofield hung prepared beside his Sheriff’s star.

You stood waiting, arms folded, for an explanation.

When the last place for him to search were the floorboards you stood upon, he sagged and sighed with relief, deflated. He removed his hat, his face no longer obscured to reveal the grim line of his mouth and a hard determination simmering in the umber of his eyes. At last, he explained himself.

He said he came as soon as he heard to make sure you were safe. Safe from what? you asked. Bad men were about, he stated. Outlaws, murderous train robbers and thieves wanted across two state lines. Men devoid of a human conscience. The words sunk in with a weighty silence of understanding, silence in which the rain filled and your imagination could wander to gruesome places. Strangers seldom passed through here, let alone outlaws, you commented.

“Now you understand my lack of decorum. I hope you can forgive my negligent manners.”

Solemnly, you nodded. The hairs along your arm had risen, skin prickled, and you sought the ring hanging from your neck out of habit. To hold it against your heart and trace its comforting shape kept you grounded in moments of uncertainty.

In his hands he fiddled with the brim of his hat. A puddle formed on the floor where he stood.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” you ventured. “I’ll pour you some whiskey.”

“That’d be mighty fine of you, miss.”

Your hospitality indicated a hesitant welcome, but the Sheriff was clueless to your apprehension. The rain subsided to a light tapping on the roof and window panes; he could have his drink and be on his way momentarily. You turned to busy yourself with finding a glass. Meanwhile, the click of his spurs trailed over to the wall hook. Fabric rustled as he hung up his Stetson and shed his dripping coat.

With no electricity, you relied on oil lamps to keep your cottage illuminated. The steady, amber glow cast from the etched glass sconces always imbued the acorn brown stain of the woodwork with warmth and charm. However, the Sheriff’s presence in your home inverted all the comfort you found within it. The dried herbs hanging in the rafters offered no rich and earthy smell, the bowl of fruit on the counter promised no sweet taste in the gleam of their ripe skins. But you ignored all of these perceptions and the insect crawl of wariness creeping along your spine and retrieved the bottle of rye whiskey you kept for medicinal purposes.

You kept your back to the Sheriff as you perused your selection of glassware for a suitable tumbler. Touch skipping lightly along the wood, dust coated your fingertips as you drew from the top shelf. In the pit of your stomach dread curdled. Outside, the storm had lessened, but another one of unease was brewing inwardly. Through the reflection of the cabinet doors you caught the Sheriff’s stare as you shut them, latched to your form. The shameless indulgence in his gaze provoked a flare of ire through you and you cleared your throat with an air of reproach.

“Where was this gang of Dutch van der Linde’s spotted?” You turned to him, shoulders and chin raised in an effort to appear untroubled. The question hung for a moment as the Sheriff considered where to place his undue shotgun. The stock settled against the table leg and he straightened at your approach, smoothing a hand over the broom of his mustache.

“Near Taylor Ranch,” he answered.

You blinked. Without a hat, shadows no longer concealed his pockmarked cheeks and the bushy, ungroomed lintels of his eyebrows. His shirt was wrinkled and damp from riding in the storm, clinging to his skin. The top two buttons were uncharacteristically undone, peeking wiry chest hair.

You had paused, but not because of his unkempt appearance. The whiskey shivered in tones of gold and brass as you set it on the table absently, along with the glass. Light from a lone, flickering candle caught the ginger liquid like a brazier.

“That’s only two miles from here.”

A log fell in the fireplace, spent, embers spitting.

“Indeed.”

He thumbed the curling petal of one of his bluebells, a faint smile dangling on the corner of his mouth. You had arranged the latest cluster of his in a porcelain pitcher set on your table. Below, your eyes dropped to where a few of the flowers had withered and fallen upon the table runner.

Pondering, wood creaked as you retreated to the fireplace, leaving him to his drink and odd fascinations. Meanwhile your fingers worried with your cuffs, twisted in your skirt as you swirled in the eddy of your thoughts. The Taylors. Closing your eyes you remembered the smell of their home: fresh baked bread and strawberries. All of your visits had the flavor of berries and apples. A cross-stitched picture of a goose wearing a bonnet hung in their window and welcomed any who knocked on their door, which Mrs. Taylor would swing open with a smile and a gingham apron around her waist.

Though she had a square jaw and chapped lips, crow’s feet and a stern demeanor, her hugs were the warmest and most welcoming. No one was a stranger at her doorstep for long, for she was quick to invite them in and fuss over a pot of tea and offer her finest plate stacked with shortbreads. Her motherly hospitality and friendliness of heart healed a wound your parents' loss opened. Taylor Ranch was a place you sought in the hours you yearned for solitude and contemplation, amity and freedom. Within their prized orchards resided plentiful avenues for you to explore in the summer and stroll through in the rustling Octobers, twisting from the trees the honey-sweet pendants of autumn to bake into pies.

Marveling at the filigree of branches through which the sun cast its lemony light, it was in this enchanting place you first met the Taylors’ youngest son, Gideon. And what a meeting it was, all those years ago: he fell for you, literally—off an orchard ladder to a ground strewn with windfall apples, his collarbone snapping in the process.

In a rush you swept to his side, apples thudding to the leafy ground. The boy roiled in pain, his face contorting, and you rose to action. His family came running when you called for help, and you did your best to haul him back to the house until his older brother retrieved him from where he leaned against your shoulder. Together you gingerly delivered him to the sofa in the sitting room and his father galloped to fetch the town doctor.

You stayed at his side, this strange boy, noticed the dimples set in his pale cheeks and his russet hair—the rings of which his mother swept aside soothingly. Such soft features garnered an unfamiliar attention from within you. You had stared.

The doctor arrived and set the bone, the grimacing sound and sight of which you closed your eyes against. Standing aside uselessly, you fidgeted with your mother’s ring for lack of occupation. Mrs. Taylor registered your worry and assured you that you were blameless for his injury.

For days you thought of him. Though no words had passed between you, the glance you first shared with each other stilled time and lingered in a meadow of memory. Curiosity was all it was—towards a feeling, an interest in another. Gideon was the first boy to capture your attention in such a way.

At the end of that week you returned to the ranch bearing a basket of sourdough biscuits. Slathered in honey, warm from the oven, your recipe yielded the fluffiest batch perfect for sharing. When she answered the door Mrs. Taylor had the most knowing smile on her face before calling over her shoulder. Gideon appeared a few moments later, a sling around his arm and a thumb hooked in his suspender. He had a hard time meeting your eyes and shifted on his feet when you offered to lunch with him. You sat on the porch together, enjoying the sight of chickens scratching at the fenced-off squares of dirt, of barn cats lazing in the sun, observing the last of autumn’s spell fading in the air.

You visited him while he recovered, kindling something pure and sweet with him. He admired you a great deal. But afterwards, when he was well again and you had no excuse to see him other than the obvious, a kiss was sealed. How peculiar and unexpected it was, the moment he leaned towards you. Sitting beneath a giant oak tree while acorns dug into your hands, you found you dreaded it: the nearness of him. In your mind a kiss was a lucent dream of falling blossoms and a soft blue haze of light, like the very action were a twist of a key, unlocking your soul to another. At least, that was what you had wanted it to be, had always imagined it.

When Gideon the boy kissed you it was a wet slide of his mouth—hungry, rushing, pressing hard and then sucking while his hands groped, seeking parts of your body you had yet to grow into. You sat frozen, eyes wide, not knowing how to move as his tongue roamed. So you took it. Afterwards, you wiped the ring of spittle around your mouth with your sleeve. He had smirked as he leaned away, and you no longer admired the dimples in his cheeks. You made an excuse to leave and when you returned home your grandmother asked if something was wrong, but you never overcame the shame of it to tell her.

A revulsion built and simmered within you for the next few weeks. In town—for you had ceased to visit the ranch—he would press you against the clapboard behind the general store and beg for your lips and your hand to hold as he humped your hips, and he would tell you what he wanted you to wear when he next saw you. He was a foolish, over-eager boy, and he had no notion of romance or how to properly treat the one he was fond of. He knew so little about you and what your heart wanted, and you were disinclined to share any more of yourself with him. Unable to bear it any longer, you broke his heart, and he blamed you for every unhappiness henceforth.

Throughout the passage of ten years his face and the unwelcome manner of his caresses remained unbearable to picture. No longer a boy, Gideon had grown from a clingy and imprudent child into a snobby and spiteful specimen of a man; an arrogant prig who filled his role of deputy at the Sheriff’s office exceptionally. You had long cast him from the forefront of your mind, but the Sheriff’s mentioning of the Taylor’s home and the threat posed to it brought the unpleasant recollections rushing back, and it took a moment before you recovered your composure.

The heat of the fireplace fanned across your cheeks. In the night thunder cracked, calling you back into the atmosphere of the room, where you knelt at a stone hearth, ash on your sleeves. Wood gathered, logs clunked in the grate and scattered sparks as you tossed them in. Your thoughts of the past reached a conclusion at the glug of liquor filling a glass; with your back to your guest you broke the long lasting silence.

“You should be checking on them, not me. Are you rounding up a posse?”

A pouring of liquid answered. His eager lips approached the brim of the glass and swallowed it as if it were a fount of water in a desert. You turned to him as he filled it again.

“I can’t do anything in this storm, and neither can those reprobates,” he pulled out a chair at the table, settling into it as happily as a worm in an apple. “‘Sides, Ned has hired guns and four strong boys to protect his property, whereas you‘re all alone out here—” A cough interrupted him. He blew an appreciative whistle once his throat was clear, sniffing the bottle. “This is some strong stuff you got here.”

Irritation flared within you at his blatant display of indecorum, evident by the propping up of his booted feet on your table. With his bandana pulled down low, the V of his throat gleamed with sweat as he tipped the full glass back. His Adam's apple bobbed, big as a turkey egg.

“Sheriff, while I am grateful for the trouble you’ve…” A drop of mud splattered on the table from his boot. You blinked at it. “—taken on my behalf, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” Not bothering to hide your annoyance you poked and prodded the logs in the grate with a fire poker, leveling his gaze afterwards. His expression held not a drop of seriousness or concern.

“I can see that,” he chuckled. The key of his voice rang clear with condescension. With a great sigh you hung the poker back on its stand and dusted off your hands, looking about the room with a curled lip. His earlier theatrics had displaced much of your furniture.

Your throw blanket laid in a soft puddle on the floor. You bent and folded it in a neat square, draping it over the back of your armchair, and setting that straight, too.

“You don’t need to worry. I’ll make sure those men don’t come near here. By high-noon tomorrow, they’ll be human fruit for the buzzards.” Trouble must have lined your expression, for the aura of pride radiating from his demeanor softened, and you found his gaze fixed moonily upon you. His words painted a grisly image of the scaffold in your mind, which dispelled with a shake of your head.

“What are they looking for, do you think? There’s nothing for men like that out here.”

You wandered over to the window. Behind you, the Sheriff capped the whiskey.

“The law is after them. They pulled a heist near Salt Lake and now they’re on the run with some big score, looking for a place to hide and wait for the heat to die down. But they’re fools,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “And get this, they apparently give their money back to poor folk, like some sort of Robin Hood gang. They think they’re hero outlaws doing good deeds.”

You had no idea what to think of that. The clock on the wall ticked. Some minutes had passed since the last rumble of thunder, and your hand had naturally sought the ring hanging around your neck in the course of staring off into the night; the rain only pattered, no longer drumming hard on the roof.

“The rain is stopping,” you said.

Chair legs scuffed across the floor. “I suppose I’ve worn out my welcome?”

Turning, you rallied a tepid smile. He had risen to his full height, his clothes still damp and wrinkled. Looking at you, he passed a knuckle across his lips, the hairs of his mustache scritching and the gold of his wedding band flashing. Across the room dark eyes descended from your face, fixing on the hand near your breast. You dropped it and squared your shoulders. To bring his attention back to your face, you called out his name in question.

After all of these years, you wished you could have forgotten it. It would have been a small mercy to your memory.

“I’m sorry, I forget myself sometimes. It’s just…you’re so pretty, standing there in the firelight like that.”

His voice was but a murmur. It was so strange—hearing those words from him. They were supposed to be soft, and from any other man they could be, but his brash voice and hungry stare ruined anything gentle about them. Like putting lace gloves on a fishmonger, they were all wrong and unsuitable for him. They prickled the cold kind of goosebumps down your arms, making you shiver like a rabbit caught in a trap.

At your speechlessness, he took a step in your direction.

“Sheriff,” you started, putting your hand up. Pressing on, you measured the tone of your voice to be as low and as serious as you could muster. “I think you’ve had a drop too many.”

He smirked at you, hooking his thumbs in his belt, beside his badge and his gun. One of his eyes crinkled and the crooked slant of his mouth revealed the stains of tobacco on his teeth.

“No,” he continued on. His steps, as they advanced, grew more condemning than the ones before it, maintaining his slow and leisurely gait. “I’ve noticed it before. I’ve noticed for a long time.”

The truth. So plain before you; it dawned dreadfully like a blood-red sun at sea, shone clear like coins in the murk of a well. The authenticity behind his hebdomadal visits and floral offerings rippled into clarity with those few words: for a long time. How could your eyes have looked everywhere but at the black heart of him? That moment, too, was no exception. You sought salvation from the sight of him by glancing around the room, meanwhile chiding yourself for not being more distrustful and vigilant and for overlooking his true intentions.

Graciously, his foot knocked against something. You caught your breath. For a moment, you had the chance to scope out your options, and put some distance between you and him.

The Sheriff picked up the object impeding his path. Your book—the one you had been trying to read before his fists pummeled your door. The embossed title flashed beneath his passing thumb.

Wuthering Heights.

Long ago the thundering storm and crackle of flame ebbed away, especially within those pages. Branches captured in the sway of a breeze adorned the cover modestly for such a tale of the nature of love and bitterness.

“You’re lonelier than I thought,” he said, quiet and drifting like an afterthought. You tensed. “There’s another reason why I came here tonight.”

He set the book aside and stood. The sideboard rattled as your back bumped against it.

“I think you should leave.”

“Leave? Is that what you really want?”

In one devastating blink, he was before you, so close the thin and pale violet skin beneath his eyes was visible. The fumes of alcohol on his breath stung your nostrils and you wrinkled away as he tipped the sharp beak of his nose to sniff the crown of your head.

You could not help the sharp breath you took at his sordid deeds, the sound of which only pulled his gaze to your quivering bodice and your knuckles, tightened on the edge of the sideboard. He had you blocked in, like a beetle trapped in a matchbox, skittering from corner to hopeless corner. He licked his lips.

“How long are you going to play at this?” A touch meant to be soft and reassuring singed your wrist. “Always looking so pretty and proper, the picture of a perfect wife,” the touch of his hand turned into a vice grip, so total and absolute your fingers could not move. A numb feeling overtook your limbs, your senses held hostage by fear. “Then actin’ all innocent as if you don’t want me too.”

Another touch, this time seizing your cheek coldly as the statue that you wish you were not. At the imminence of his hot, wet mouth seeking to devour yours you found it within yourself to move. A wave of urgency swelled up and carried you away, towards the door, but he had you in his grasp before any hopeful seed of escape could be planted.

The kitchen table with its cheerful lace runner and softly burning candle jostled as your front was bent over it, knocking the pitcher of bluebells to the floor. Porcelain cracked and you watched the water pool, petals floating, darkening the wood, and you wished the night that passed would fall apart into similar pieces, to leave the memories scattered and unstrung like the beads of a broken necklace across a floor.

“What’s it going to take with you,” he had hissed in your ear, his spittled words dripping black, wicked and vile. Metal jingled. Fabric lifted. Cold air met your legs. Buttons freed their hold.

Stop.

“I always knew you were a—”

Stop remembering.

“—pretty thing.”

Absorbed in his vice, he little cared for his actions, entranced by his insidious deed. Foul words and heavy breaths hissed through his teeth and echoed for years after.

Your mind left your body. But you remembered all of it.

And you were so tired of remembering. You hated how easy it was for him to take everything from you. You hated the lust that drove him, your body for being an object of his desire, and yourself for being unable to stop any of it from happening.

The ringing report of rifle fire split the night, and it was the only thing that made him stop. But the damage was done. He tucked his shirttail in, buckled his belt. Left; a promise to return the next evening finalized by a vulgar squeeze to your backside, stinging your flesh.

Wood scraped along your nails as you slid to the floor, clutching the table leg, trembling. At once, with an empty stare and shaking limbs, tears blurred your sight as all of your remaining strength relinquished. You curled into your body, disconsolate. Hugged your knees. Sobs, sobs, sobs wrenched your jaw apart in mourning what was lost and what was done to you.

It would follow your every other thought, that scene of despair in the lonely dark of night. You were cold for so long afterwards; for months, in a way no blanket or bowl of soup could remedy. The misery nested so deep within you. Further than the marrow of your bones.

Every day for the rest of your life you would remember his hands. On you, squeezing, guided and distorted by depraved intent. Darker and drearer fell the night, and the full tide of your thoughts consumed you in a bitter, burning woe.

Until dawn there was nothing but the pale, dead gold of the moon. You saw nothing. You felt nothing. Your mind only replayed it all, over and over.

The violent tint of dawn crept in between the curtains. On the end of your lashes the last of your tears hung, and as the light came upon you, so softly bright, the deep-welling sorrow that sunk your heart yawned into something else. An emotion that braced your hands against the wood floor, collected you to your knees, and drove you shuffling forward. Shame.

In your bedroom you gathered soap and new clothes into a basket before stepping foot outside. A glorious morning announced itself in every sound, from the sweetest music filling the trees, to the wind that gently stirred their nascent leaves. But it all fell on deaf ears. Your senses were lost to grim contemplation.

Along a forest path rippling waters wandered. To their source they led, and alongside its flow you followed.

Ties loosened, you dropped your skirts to your feet at the riverbank. All over, your skin spidered with memories of how he had touched you. The fastenings of your clothes came undone mechanically. You pretzeled arms behind your back to yank at your shirt buttons until all of your body was bare to the misty morning. Silver water whispered its coldness between your toes as you stepped forward onto the pebbled, silty shore, walking without seeing, feeling nothing but the cold encasing your ankles, your knees, rising up until the river embraced your shoulders in a purging chill. With a breath you dipped under. In a blink you escaped.

Beneath the surface, the feelings and the memories dimmed. Slippery rocks brushed your feet and you grasped a slimy branch to sink farther. Little white bubbles floated up as you let the wintry temperature of the water numb your mind into blessed silence. The sensation calmed you, and that was all you wanted; the only thing you could seek within your tremorous reach. Quiet, and a state of unfeeling. Until that moment all of your thoughts were a repetition of the same statement of instability and unease: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Teeth chattering; every pore over your body squirmed with the taint of his violation every step of the way to the river. Only beneath the current had it stopped. At last you ceased to think.

Your heart seized and your lungs begged for air. And again, something brought you up. From the kitchen floor, from the bed of the river. With a gasp you broke the surface and your eyes fixed upon the sky. The great blue bowl of it was ringed with treetops, eagles circling—the world around you, going on as it should while droplets trickled down your spine. Clouds of river foam gathered around the stagnant driftwood you stepped over while treading to the bank. Taking a seat upon a rock, you scoured your limbs with soap until the skin squeaked and your fingers pruned, the bubbles drifting downstream. From your hand, ice cold, help deep in the river, the water fell over your knees and your shins, down your shoulders and in the hollow of your back, cleansing and numbing. With the print of the Sheriff’s fingers no longer pressed into your skin, you dried and dressed, ready to face the scene inside the cottage once again.

Too often in this world girls become women before they are ready, before they are strong enough, before they know enough to endure all of the trials womanhood entails. Losing your family to sickness so young, being on your own completely, you thought your world was as bleak as it could be. Until the night that passed—when the universe peeled back another layer of darkness to descend over your life.

Upon approaching the front gate of the only home you had ever known, something changed. The familiar consolation of its shelter was absent. No smile tugged your lips at the dance of dragonflies in the air, at the tulip bulbs in your garden plot sprouting toothy stalks from the dirt.

Within each season resided a singular wealth unique to the forest, the remembrances of which carved fond grooves in your mind to touch over in times you sought comfort, the niches imbued with a sense of belonging and safety. You reached inwards for them.

For the trinkets of winter, silver, blue, and white—the sugaring of snow, the glittering of frost, the river’s music silenced by ice. Leading to the light of the sun warming once again, stout icicles dripping onto emerald moss, coaxing the golden crocus from the thaw. How, slowly, the days grow longer, April rain moistening the lichen on the roof tiles, darkening the soil, spawning the green scent of an Earth renewed.

It was as if every page of memory were ripped from the book of your life, leaving an empty tome. There was no story left for you here.

The door threw a trapezoid of light when you opened it. Standing in the threshold, a five-leaf cluster wandered down from the sky and landed on the floorboard, dotted damply with the night’s rain. Inside, everything was the same, yet changed, like some place in a dream. The house was as dark as a tomb, haunted with the echoes and dust of people taken from you, and someone who took from you. Nothing but a vacant chair welcomed you.

On the mantle rested trinkets from your parents. A pocket mirror of your mother’s, silver and elegant, and a rosewood pipe of your father’s, smooth and genteel. To hold them in your palm, curl your fingers over their edges and clasp them to your skin as if wringing out the last ghosts of their touch, as you so often did, would only bring you to your knees. You needed to move forward and leave it all behind. You needed—

A chip crunched beneath your foot. You stepped away, revealing the obliterated piece of vase. What a helpless, fragile vessel. Admired throughout its lifetime, only to be thrust into ruin. Your hands shook beside you, the bones of your fingers tingling with riotous nerves all the while anguish swelled in your chest to a volcanic boiling point.

A wrenching, piercing roar split your throat apart.

In a rush the desecrated table toppled over. Screaming, you kicked it harder and harder until your toenails bled and the whole thing scudded ten feet across the floor. Your arms swung wildly about with each effort, fighting the images of yourself bent over it, helpless and frozen, and unable to beat them back. More and more you screamed with outrage, but it was not enough. You were not strong enough. Your limbs alone could not prevail.

No man would ever know of the darkness their touch leaves behind. Meanwhile you would carry it forever.

It was not fair.

Your rage conducted you outside, sustained you in the search of some outlet, some tool to deliver greater destruction than your feeble body could convey. Leaving the table behind, pools of last night’s rain splashed beneath your blazing step on the path to the shed where you kept your father’s axe. Jabbering cardinals flurried away to the trees at your storming approach and the sun graced your forehead through the lacings of the leaves they found shelter in.

Ordinarily, the sight of so much emergent green abounding after one rainfall would stoke wonder in you. In one place, in one wind, the new leaves sang wavily while a cloud passed over the glare of the sun, bringing a cooler depth to the shades of the earth until all brightened and warmed again once the cloud melted away. After the longest winter, it was what your soul needed to fill the holes in your heart. Grief was becoming a part of your landscape, however. You stopped short on the path.

A wind-cloven branch warped the roof of the shed. It must have fallen in the night. The severed limb was great and heavy, and in the place where it was once joined to its life force the splintered wood was a tender, meaty white, darker in its center. Bugs skittered along the scales of lichen patching their once steady home; in days the leaves would wither and wilt.

With gravity and a few tugs the branch came down. As it lay upon the stone path, uprooted, your simmering rage found its outlet. This was something you could destroy. You reached inside the shed, and with it in your hand, the axe dragged across the ground. The curved edge shone sharp in the sun as it scraped along stone.

Raising it above your shoulder, your limbs quaked before you released it all at last. Swing after swing, hack after hack, again and again you heaved the hatchet into the log, pieces splintering as memories of him came free as well. Him, his voice. How his acts of kindness were all a lie—a ploy to get you where he wanted you. Bent over a table.

Crack.

Alone. No one to help you. First Gideon with his groping hands, then the Sheriff with the smoldering fire in his eyes.

A split.

You braced your foot against the branch and twisted the hatchet free. Deeper and deeper down into the wood you burrowed, gathering venom with each reflection. As the branch fell apart and wood chunks flew your resolve stitched itself together.

He.

Swing. Your skin is so soft here.

Had.

Breathe in. Forget his words.

No.

Bury them.

Right.

With a momentous strike the tree limb cracked asunder. A final scream tore your throat raw. The birds split free from the sunlit canopy, and the forest was still as your shriek petered to a shriveling wail, then nothing.

The line of thought looping through your head quieted too. The uncertainty and fear of not knowing what to do, how to move forward from this, was gone. While the thread of anger and veins of sadness and shame still pulsed within, it all flowed together, steady and purposeful. The axe hung from your hand, dangled a scant inch from the ground, and your breathing relaxed as the sweat dried cool on your brow.

Lightning had struck this tree twice before. Each fracture diminished its once formidable heights, an august maple which sheltered your childhood in the sweltering summers and cast familiar shadows in your room at bleary midnights. But every spring it flourished in a robe of green, the ruptures healing, new branches broadening their offshoots, and marched onwards to the grand vault of the heavens. However lightning-struck, it lived on, not dying of ruined hopes alone.

The time to dwell had passed. You were done crying. You were done blaming yourself. And you were done with asking yourself why. What you were ready to do was protect yourself from ever getting hurt again. You could not let the pain stop you. So you finished chopping up the tree to break down into firewood later.

A whicker sounded from the stable. Willa, your sweet, gentle mare. Until that moment you had forgotten her. Putting the axe aside, in a dash the door clanged open at your hand and you found her thoughtful eyes in the slanting ribbon of daylight. You sighed in relief. Safe and sound, your only friend left in the world shuffled in her stall, the space smelling of wood and hay. You approached her with an open palm, smoothing it over her black and white coat.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Animals could be so intelligent and perceptive at times. Willa nudged your shoulder, sensing the sorrow molding your heart, and you pressed your cheek to her warm neck. Smelling sweetly of grass and hay, her black mane slipped through the comb of your fingers like a shadow melting back into shade. You drew it away to uncover the white star on the center of her forehead. Her long lashes dipped somberly. You took a comb from its niche behind a joist and brushed along her coat for a long while. Without words, you found a way to speak to her of the events that unfolded the night before, thinking of them deeply and shutting your eyes as she remained close.

In the evening he would return. And the next, and the one after. On and on it would go, and you could live a whole lifetime in fear and hatred and pain, unless you stopped it. He said you were the picture of a perfect wife. No man would have you now. A word from him and the whole town would condemn you if you refused his wants. Deviously, he had made sure it was impossible for you to say no to him and once again you were backed into a corner, that beetle trapped in a matchbox with no way out.

You needed a place to think. After scooping Willa some oats you donned a hat and your father’s old hunting jacket, a garment fashioned from a durable brown suede with deep front pockets and elk horn buttons. It was familiar and warm, and a comfort.

You hefted your horse’s saddle off the hook and over her back, commenced cinching the straps and adjusting the stirrups, and led her outside. Fetching your gun belt and a waterskin from the cottage, you mounted up and loped down the forest path.

Deep in the woods, where the mountain air of spring violets and dew-spangled moss came sweet upon the senses, Nymph Lake rested like a jewel in a chest lined with evergreen velvet, a treasure to the eyes and ears. A glassy calm transfixed the sleeping waters, an aquatic scent lingering. Lily-pads shouldered its reeded edges, rocks shone brown beneath the changeful sheen of the serene ripples, and minnows balanced themselves among the underwater grasses which wavered and streamed in the natural flow of the pond. All around, the timberline hemmed the lone mountain lake in, with the sun scarcely streaking the treetops at the early morning hour. A woodpecker clung to the knot of a treebole and drilled for insects, and along the water a frog added its voice to the song of the wilderness.

Thompson’s Peak rose up in the azure of the sky like the spires of an Arthurian castle. Seams of snow dwelled in the vast fissures of the mountainside and thrived in the shadows of the rock, a granite tapestry striated with the grays of smoke and storm clouds with canals of rust between. Willa’s hooves sunk into the soggy ground as she shifted on her feet. You swayed in the saddle, giving her some rein and leaning back as she began to climb uphill past a pile of rocks, out of the tree line and towards the sunny side of the bouldered mountain trail.

For all of its sentimental worth to you, and as safe as any place you could find, Nymph Lake was not the refuge you sought. The times ahead and the path you were about to embark on was uncharted and uncertain territory. The trusting, pure chapter of your life would have to be left in shadow.

Through the notch between Willa’s ebony ears, you aimed yourself towards the rugged slopes and mounds of the Sawtooths, the earth coarse, shifting with detritus and scree, with few and far pine trees taking root between. Long, bare logs and trunks of trees, parched and decaying, strewed the land, slowly sliding away and downwards, the old bending back into the earth as the new prospers, rising up in the form of saplings.

Your grandmother’s words came to mind. Always do what your heart tells you. In the bare wind you listened; for one, for the other. The world to you once, the presiding presence of Thompson’s Peak filled your vision, steady as a lighthouse.

If it were any other man, you could go to the law and report his crime. If you did nothing, you would crumble into a shell of yourself, something brittle and hollow for the wind to sweep away like the exoskeletons of summertime cicadas. If not you, it would be another. Picturing him luring and coercing another unwise girl, grinning at the prospect of her ruination, was enough to temper your insides to steel, your heart to adamant.

You pulled Willa to a stop and dismounted on the gravel trail, unlimbering your gun. Six bullets occupied the cylinders in the loading chamber and you traced the notch in each one, twisting the mechanism around and around, acknowledging its life-altering clicks, small and clear. Your finger brushed the cool, curved steel trigger. For your protection, grandmother once said. In case you’re in the forest, lost in your foraging, and maybe you’re not watching your step, and you unwittingly stumble upon the hunting grounds of a predator. A beam of sunlight glinted along the barrel like a blinding star. I would have more peace of mind knowing you have some way to protect yourself and how to use it. I’m getting old, you know.

Amidst the painful contemplation of your fate, fighting your last fight for the principles of your youth on that crumbling mountainside, Willa nosed a cluster of plants growing alongside the trail and set her teeth over their leaves, intending to munch, and everything stopped, suddenly sharpened. In a blink you tsked her away, and as you snapped the revolver chamber back into the loading gate, it all clicked into place, the sound like that of a key sliding in the lock of Death’s door.

From memory, the page from one of your field guides on plants emerged in your mind’s eye. Death Camas was a member of the Liliaceae plant family, discernible for its grass-like leaves from which sprouted a raceme of white flowers with yellow anthers, as well as its distinctive onion scent. Fifteen different species thrived throughout North America, inhabiting mountain valleys, grassy plains, forests, and dry land alike, all of which grew from a white bulb with a fibrous root system. An unknowing passerby could easily mistake them for wild onions. A mere bite of one would invariably cause weakness and convulsions, vomiting and difficulty breathing, impair their muscles and nerves. A meal of them would stop their heart altogether.

You crouched to the ground, stones grating underfoot, and your shadow fell over the colony of unassuming plants as you idled over them. Hands gloved, you grasped the base of the stems and pulled firmly. There was a snap as the pearly bulb relinquished its hold in the dirt and emerged in the light of day. One after another, dozens more ripped free without protest, clods of dirt clinging to the Camas’ stringy, tenuous roots.

Indomitable and unwavering, as you reaped your bounty your resolve cemented to the same rock-hardness of the impassive mountain you stood upon. A mountain formed ages ago from the molten caverns of the Earth, transmuted through pressure and fire; a voyage that began with a roar, a rupture, a rock rending itself from an Archean mountainside which hurdled, crashing, into a valley to be carried down, down into the depths of the sea to slip beneath the subterraneous folds on the ocean floor, only for the process to begin again.

This journey of tumult and upheaval was a natural cycle, one whose path was familiar to your tread through grief, and, newly, violation. The decision was final as you straightened to your full height.

You were not going to live with fear. You were going to live with guilt.

He had you helpless, flat on your stomach with a rope of terror binding you in place. You would have him the same, and he would learn an inkling of the measure of pain you would forever carry throughout your life while he realized the end of his.

I hate leaving it off here and the next part is so so close to being finished, but I was about to lose my mind if I didn’t post something I’ve written. I also thought it would be better to break it off here instead of part one being 22k words.

I've worked so hard on this, drawing from my own well of pain, and I know this game came out in 2018 and fandom traffic has died down considerably, so if any part of this story sticks out to you I would love to hear your thoughts <3

Also a big fat thank you to every person who has encouraged me to keep writing. Y’all have no idea how many times you have saved my life. My betas, Jessica and Sara, as well my other mutuals on here 💗 Thank you. More than I can say.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan fic #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption fic #rdr #rdr fic #arthur x reader #*my writing

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harehearts · 9 months

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KILLED! AT CAMP SMILING TRAILS — little excerpt, word count: 768

"Don't do that," Morgan moved, propping herself up on her elbows to get a look around them. "What if someone sees us?"

Kit let out a sigh and shoved Morgan back down with a hand to her chest. Only a little more forceful than she was playful as she boxed the other in with an arm on either side of her. "Nobody's gonna see us, nobody even wants to be out here," she said, leaning in to kiss at her face. "Besides, I think this is the last place we'll get jumped for it."

"Right, I forgot everyone thinks gays are soooo cool here, why don’t we just go passionately swap spit in the dinin’ hall like Scotty and Reese do. Mhm?”

“Don’t be a dick. I just think this place ain’t the worst place to, hell, what’d you say? Swap spit? I mean, you’ve seen how Ruger is with that groundskeeper, we’re probably in good company.”

They were awfully close now, nose to nose, and despite her prior insistence, Morgan sat up a little just to press in and took every chance she could to brush her lips against Kit’s in sporadic half-kisses that made the muggy weather closing in on them almost pleasant. “Maybe.”

“Feels like more than just maybe—was I convincing?”

“Nah, ‘m bein’ intentionally unaware but you’re mighty easy on the eyes so it ain’t that hard if I’m real honest.”

A flash of Morgan’s shit-eating grin and Kit was sitting back with a scoffed laugh. “Whatever,” she said, narrowing her eyes against the sun beating down something nasty, shirt clinging to her skin from sweat alone and selectively damp around the sleeves. “We should get back, Reese’ll kill us if we’re not there for roll call.”

“We gotta get back after I fold, really?”

“Good way to keep you enticed, yeah?”

A sharp psssh left her, loudly, but she abided by the waved hand gesturing her up, groaning to her knees before stopping entirely, peering over the dock into the glittering, murky water. Morgan pulled the brim of her baseball cap down and leaned further in, the dock creaking with the movement, and her looking like she could dive forward about any second. “What’s that?”

“Jesus Christ, back up, if you fall in you’ll come back with like ten diseases.”

“Not,” she mumbled, absentminded, stretching awkwardly for something in the water. Kit loomed a bit away, hopeful to avoid the lukewarm splash back but standing all cross-armed and uncertain as she looked around at the sprawling woods encircling them, it dripped an itchy unease down the back of her neck she avoided by giving herself the task of moving forward and holding onto the end of Morgan’s shirt. “If I fall in now we’ll both get ten diseases,”

“Tight, wanna tell me why you’re fuckin’ fishin’ with your bare hands before I start to feel goofy as hell?”

Morgan didn’t answer. All she heard was the sound of water sloshing and the distinct absence of any other noise. No birdsong, no chittering katydids, no frogs or toads croaking away, hell, she couldn’t even catch the usual knocking of a woodpecker or two somewhere in the distance. Kit swallowed hard, focused on the opening in the woods that led to the path back to camp, shadowed and dappled in erratically shaking streaks of sunlight.

Sometimes those streaks converged. Warped. Twined around the shape of what she swore was a person staring back but then the wind would blow and the shadows scattered out again, vacancy returned.

She shivered, twitched away to—

—Morgan jerked her forward then pushed her back with a soaking wet hand, drip, drip, dripping to make dark dots across the wood. Kit stumbled sideways, clutching at the wet hand marks left on her shirt. “Fuckin’ hell, dude!”

“Sorry! Sorry, I tried talkin’ to ya, you didn’t say nothin,” she said, staggering to her feet. “You alright?”

“I’m - I’m fine,” Kit wedged a finger between her throat and her bandana to loosen it up a little and then she saw what exactly Morgan went searching for. Drenched, dripping, and donning the distinctive green smiley face on the tongue of the too-little shoe. “Is that…”

“…Yeah, I thought you said nobody comes out here?”

“Nobody does. We don’t even have a kid small enough to wear it here, anymore, at least.”

“Anymore?”

“First week of camp, some kid went home early, Ruger said he was bad sick. Wasn’t even around long enough for me to see him so I doubt he came out here,” she told her. “So where the hell’d it come from?”

#killed! at camp smiling trails #did we really think waya could write a story without lesbians in it.... no fleeting romance that gets SLASHED....#anyway. waahoo! build up! build up! love that love building up things < dying

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klausbens · 7 months

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birdsong and seafoam

collection of OPLA drabbles inspired by this year's writober prompts. multiple ships, multiple characters, multiple moods. not sure how many of the prompts i'll fill using this fandom, but here we are anyway. (ao3 link)

from stump (shuggy)

Buggy is many things, yes, and considerate is not one of them. He acts first, thinks later. Touches first, asks never. So that’s what he does now, with Shanks—he reaches out to grab at his stump, a mad glint in his blue eyes. Part of him is expecting the other half of his arm to fly back to its owner, like his does all the time. Part of him hopes it will. Yet, it doesn’t. Shanks’ stump is just a stump, and there is no making it into something else.

from cage (helmeppo)

Axe-Hand Morgan never wanted a son, he just wanted others to know he had one. So that he would look more human, less machine, but only when it served him. And Helmeppo, oh, Helmeppo wanted a father. He wanted one so much that he made one up.

from mutual pining (kobymeppo)

If Koby is the sun, then, that must make Helmeppo the moon. Whatever brightness he possesses, whatever light he sheds, if any, he knows exactly where it comes from. It’s a reflection, a replica. He steals it from Koby and pretends it’s his, so that he might feel closer to him. A twin star. Truth is, they are nothing alike. And truth is, Koby has his own sun to squint at, to recklessly reach for, uncaring of its potential to melt skin, turn bone into dust.

#opla #one piece live action #shuggy #kobymeppo #helmeppo #koby #red haired shanks #buggy the clown #one piece #writober2023 #writober #frankie writes

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felikatze · 1 year

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You awoke to blood in your mouth and birdsong in your ears.

Grima's closest servant followed the Shepherds into the past. Alone and injured, Morgan makes a vow. To save the world, to save their family, to save their father.

Even if it means becoming the Grimleal's new hierophant.

(Hierophant Morgan AU, without amnesia and a Future Past adjacent Morgan.)

#Feli writes #fire emblem awakening #morgan fire emblem #yeah i love morgan (hits them with an axe)#something possessed me to finish this #how'd i write 4k in two days. what happened. bro.#but by god i got the prologue done at minimum now i can die

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rinatthemin · 1 year

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Journal of Charlotte Hammond - 18th of April, Æ 7.99

This date of the ACS Felicity's departure was the morning upon which the tall and tuft-eared woman introduced herself at last, and explained to me both her vocation and the reason Capt. Morgan had spoken of providing a score of oysters for payment.

She is a druid by the name of Isla Tallighain, and her business in the port district of Rilway is to serve as its Birdkeeper. Her colony of vyrnix, when not roosting in the aviary at the far end of the quay, deliver parcels throughout the Avinn Sea, connecting shores and ships along its postal corridors. I had offered to deliver the oysters that Tallighain charged for her service, enticed by the prospect of seeing her aviary in return, and she agreeably led the way there.

The building easily distinguished itself from its neighbors, looking very much like a great glass conservatory that housed a sprawling sessile oak. Drawing nearer, it became apparent however that there were no panes of glass filling the lead came structure. Birds flew freely in and out, and clambered like lizards along the tree boughs or clung to the delicate latticework of the outer frame.

Tallighain gave a throaty call in Birdsong as we approached, and a mass of dull black feathers swooped down from the aviary's upper scaffold to alight in the crook of her elbow. She introduced the vyrnix on her arm as Rook, the matriarch of the colony and our soon-to-be courier for the coming weeks at sea.

"The most seasoned and reliable in the business," she told me of Rook's qualifications.

I was allowed to record several sketches of the creature, the first vyrnix I have had the privilege to view up close. She was content to occupy herself with the oysters in the meantime, inspecting each one with intelligent grey eyes before prying it open and consuming it in a flash of needle-like teeth.

It has since become far harder for me to deny the druidic claim that today's wyverns share a distant grandmother with today's birds. Their very own vyrnix easily bridges what had once seemed an insurmountable divide of familiarity.

#my art

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theofficersacademy · 2 years

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TEAM QUIET WOOD

Lachesis Celica Micaiah Leif Lucius Kiragi Morgan (M) Arvis Ophelia Askr

ACT I [August 4th - August 10th]

Tag: #UnscriptedQuietWood2022

Summary:

Dawn breaks slowly over the village, haloing the mountains in a ring of burnt umber. Between the night’s orchestra of crickets and daybreak’s birdsong, a rare silence has come to settle over the forest and a dense fog has rolled in from the river. Apparitions and ghostly fox fire dance between the trees.

Ji wakes Kiragi first. They had made a promise, after all. They gather their bags, stuffed full with food and supplies “borrowed” from Kin’s general store, retrieve their weapons, and sneak quietly to the village gates. Celica, Askr, Micaiah, and Lachesis surprise them there.

Out in the forest, Ophelia and Lucius have managed to get some sleep between the endless bickering from Daimon and Khalkós. It’s daybreak by the time they set out. Khalkós insists that there is something strange going on in the forest, though she won’t say much within Ophelia and Daimon’s earshot. Daimon claims to merely be tagging along for the ride.

By afternoon, Leif, Morgan, Arvis, and Dhanvi have established a camp deeper in the woods in pursuit of the herbs Arvis has hired Dhanvi to find; however, Dhanvi seems to have a goal of her own as well. They’re well-stocked and can afford to spend some time resting before moving on. Leif wanders out from camp to stretch, but discovers that the path they had taken to get here... isn’t there anymore.

What you know:

Quiet Wood is highly superstitious and avoids angering the spirits of the forest at all costs. A protective barrier has been erected around the village, maintained by rites and prayers, but the priest seems to have been rather shaken up that one of their own would have been stolen away despite it.

Although the villagers were deadset on stopping Ji from leaving the village to find his sister, he still managed to slip out before they noticed.

The local god enshrined in Quiet Wood is named the Shield of the Divine Guardian of the Great Tree.

Humans can use magic by forging a pact with a spirit, but a spirit must first be tamed before it will agree to a pact.

Micaiah has learned a purifying rite from Soh, the priest.

The doll in Ophelia’s shack is Daimon’s “disguise” to avoid being questioned by less open-minded humans. Despite being a spirit of the wood, he refuses to make a pact with Ophelia. Nevertheless, he does protect them.

Dhanvi is respected well enough in Quiet Wood, but several of the villagers do think she’s rather eccentric. One can tell by the way she talks and interacts with others that she’s a highly accomplished merchant, however.

What to do (suggestions):

Follow the Quiet Wood sideblog and check out the cast page. NPCs can be interacted with through this blog or with Tupper in your Discord team channel.

Acquire your team maps and instructions for this segment of the event. They will be posted and pinned in the Quiet Wood channel.

Interact with your teammates in paralogues.

You may wrap up threads from the Prologue segment.

Talk to Mod Ree for additional information.

#TOAUnscripted2022 #UnscriptedQuietWood2022

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shittyclive · 2 months

Note

we currently have two planned!!

1 - does not have a name yet bc names are hard but the main book, the important one, good for world building and so naturally the one I want to write the least. affectionately titled “big oc loreverse” atm. follows the stories of 3 adventurers and their separate quests that all bring them to 1 girl boss they need to kill

2 - BIRDSONG. A book following Gabriel Aurum, an aeravis with a knack for curiosity, and the Mirror World, an alternate version of reality that is corrupted and twisted. The Mirror World is currently more distorted than usual, and it’s up to Gabriel, his childhood (ghostly) friend Morgan, the mirror native Kyla and the reclusive Zip to stop whatever is going on before it can have true consequences.

sorry I went insane

VERY COOL AND FASCINATING...

#never apologise i love hearing about things..

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twola · 4 months

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Devil's Backbone - Owanjila V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila V: Respite in the Valley

After the return to Owanjila, settling into a routine proves to be difficult for several members of the gang.

cw: smut, post-traumatic stress, heartache (a lot of that last one)

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You awaken softly in the morning light, not all at once, like the blooming sun far in the eastern horizon. Birdsong wafts through the window, even through the pane of somewhat cloudy glass, the chirps of tanagers and cardinals fill the air.

You stretch your back in the bed, blinking as you feel the rumble of your bedmate behind you, the long, warm line of a body curled up next to yours, an arm thrown around your waist.

Chapped lips touch the back of your neck and you smile against your pillow. A calloused hand moves under the sheet from your waist up, up, to cradle your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple as it hardens.

A breathy moan escapes you as you press yourself backward against him, the both of you bare under the sheet, skin running hot, and against your rear, you can feel him stirring.

“Ruth…” A sleep-hoarse groan of your name is whispered into your ear as the hand slinks downward to the meeting of your thighs, and your legs open of their own accord to welcome him in.

“Mmm…” You moan as strong fingers press against your folds, parting them and tracing the seam of your body. You jolt as he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it as you begin to pant.

He’s thick and ready with arousal behind you, and your slick begins to come, readying yourself for him as you press your small hand over his own, guiding him to press harder against you, then guiding him the blessed few inches from your clit back to your entrance. He slides a long, thick finger inside you and you do not even attempt to suppress the high, flighty moan, accompanied by his low one as he begins to work his finger in and out of you. His hips press against your rear in time with his thrusts.

“God damn, Ruth.” He groans into your ear, pressing his middle finger into your cunt and you mewl, grasping the sheet for dear life between your fingers.

“P-please.” You whimper, feeling as if you’re going to burst, that you need this burning desire quenched in your very core.

“I gotcha, I’ve gotcha-” He pants, extracting his hand and moving it to tilt your hip, pressing his cock to your weeping entrance and gently pushing inside.

You moan outright at the feeling of being filled, stuttering breath on your neck from behind you as he begins to thrust.

“God,” You cry out, causing him to groan aloud as he moves his pelvis against yours, hand tight over the curve of your hip.

“Ruth… Ruth. Here we’ll build our town,” He rasps, his voice hoarse as he pants with exertion, “Here we’ll build our family.”

Wait…

His arms clutch around you as you stiffen, unable to turn around, feeling like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thumps like a war drum in your chest, less from arousal and more from the sense of dread building up in your belly.

He whispers in your ear, throwing his hips against yours in finality, driving himself into you and shuddering.

“Right here in Limpany.”

You rocket up from your bedroll, hand splayed over your sternum, gasping for air. You look around, the camp on the hillside is still dark, and the other women are all still fast asleep in a line next to you under the protective awning. A campfire several feet away glows softly, down to embers before the breaking of the dawn. Far to the east, the sky begins to burn red.

You get up, grabbing your checked shawl and wrapping it over your shoulders to stave off the morning chill, harsh once you shed the blankets of your bedroll and quietly pace away from where the women sleep. Your bare feet collect morning dew as you descend down the hillside, unable to stop the flow of tears down your cheeks, trying at least to stifle the sob trying to claw itself from your throat. You try to ignore the damp feeling of the seam of your bloomers against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily, eyes overflowing by the time you reach the lakeside, bare feet freezing as cold lake water flows over them.

The sob you were trying to hold back works its way out, and your shoulders heave as you wrap your arms around yourself. All of this, the death and the misery and being alone, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you just wake up from this nightmare?

You weep, standing there ankle-deep in the cool waters of Owanjila. You weep for your child, your husband, your friends. You weep for your former life, never to be lived again.

Above the sound of your shuddering breath, unheard by you, a match is struck in the night to light a cigarette. Arthur Morgan stands back on the hillside, observing your shaking shoulders and the soft sound of your cries.

He thinks of how he wrapped himself around your small frame, how you sank back into him, and how he seemed to assuage your tears. How you looked at him like he was some heaven-sent savior pulling you from the fire. He wants to walk down there and draw you in, to pat down your sleep-addled hair, and whisper words that could tamp your shaking shoulders.

But nothing good can come of this desire - Micah’s words slither into his mind like a snake, ready to strike at the remnants of his beating heart.

You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want is her sweet little cunt.

No, Arthur Morgan simply takes a drag of his cigarette, nothing good would come of it indeed.

The widow Adler is in a fugue state of grief. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and bloodshot, there along the hill overlooking Owanjila.

Fortunately, the girls were able to scrape enough clothing together for her. Mary Beth tries to offer her coffee, but it is two days before she even accepts. She gazes out at the lake, silent in her suffering, not speaking to any of the other women who try to keep her company. Even Grimshaw gives her a wide berth as her bruises and cuts heal.

You will certainly admit to yourself it is far too long before you approach the woman alone, her silent stoicism near standoffish as she does not acknowledge your presence as you sit down on the hill next to her, some yards away from the shoreline.

“Missus Adler-”

“Sadie.” She croaks, not turning toward you at all.

“...Sadie,” You are corrected, and pull your knees up toward your chest to loop your arms around them, “I know there’s nothing any of us can say to make it better or get your husband back-”

“My Jakey - he was a good man- and they butchered ‘im.” Sadie’s voice goes low, hoarse, and angry as you can tell she is gritting her teeth, “God damn O’Driscolls…”

You swallow, staring ahead at the still waters of the lake. Sadie sniffles next to you, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Dutch thinks it was O’Driscolls that killed my husband… I never saw who did it…” You say softly, your chin on your drawn-up knees, not trying to discount her loss, but trying to establish a connection through your own.

Sadie sniffles again, her jaw setting hard as she swats at her eyes, remaining quiet at your admission. Her ill-fitting clothing and bruised face are a reflection of her frightful state in the morning light.

Several moments of silence sit between the two of you before you stretch out your legs again to get up.

You stand up, dusting leaves and dirt off your skirt. “I know it isn’t going to change anything, but I’m here, Missus Adler, if you ever need anything.”

Sadie doesn’t reply, staring off at the lake once again. You hold in the sigh you feel like letting loose until you are far enough away that she won’t hear you. Walking back up the hill, you move straight towards the tent to the side of the camp, just past the bubbling coffeepot over the main campfire.

You let another sigh out as you sit down in an empty chair, rubbing at your eyes tiredly before turning to look at the person occupying the next seat over. Hosea inhales deeply over his steaming cup of coffee as he sits in the rickety old chair next to you. “My dear…”

You frown, looking back toward Sadie as she stares off into the distance, northward into the Grizzlies, to the life she used to have. You know that stare, should you travel back toward the ice-blue waters of the Dakota, you would have that same grief in your eyes.

“I was like that… the first few days.”

“Better than I was when my Bessie passed,” Hosea continues to sip his coffee, “Stayed drunk for the better part of a year.”

You frown, looking down at your hands. It was humbling, though you knew that certainly, you weren’t the only widow in the world, that you are now surrounded by people who have keenly felt that kind of loss. Part of you feels silly for your breakdown the other morning, thankful that no one saw that moment of weakness.

“Missus Adler will have to work things through her own way,” Hosea continues, “All we can do is try to offer her some kind of solace.”

“Indeed.” You reply, watching forlornly as you see her shoulders crumble into sobs.

“Sure you don’t have anything to tell us about Colm?” Dutch eyes the prisoner with disdain. The poor man, unkempt and unshaven is a frightful mess, terrified and stumbling against the rope tying him uncomfortably to a tree along the edge of the camp.

“Jus- jus that he’s hittin’ the train in Ambarino - I s-swear, that’s all I know.” He sputters, wide-eyed and fearful, surrounded by men who look like they’d love to torture him in any bodily way possible.

“I dunno, Dutch,” Arthur blows smoke in the young man’s face from his cigarette, “He ain’t entirely convincin’ me.”

Dutch runs a hand over his mustache, exaggerating the idea that he is mulling over the prisoner’s fate, “Bill, what do you think?”

The slide of metal on metal pierces the air as the prisoner’s wide eyes move from Dutch to the larger, burly man beside him.

“I think he don’t need some parts on ‘im, Dutch.” Bill replies, the large tongs in his hands loudly opening and shutting.

“Please- please, I don’t know anything more!” He screeches as Bill gets closer.

Dutch gleams with a predatory glare.

“That’s a shame there, O’Driscoll. I am running out of reasons to stop ol’ Mister Williamson from gelding you.”

“You’re goddamn lucky you have people that give a shit whether or not you die.”

John wishes he could escape. But he’s bedridden still, nearly a week after the journey down the mountains and his unfortunate run-in with enemies of the canine variety. The long ride did his body no favors, keeping him in the cot in the sick tent for days longer. His stitches itch across his face, and his bruised and bloody body still wracks in pain when he tries to move.

Abigail breathes out heavily in frustration as she wrings out the warm water from the rag over the steaming bowl of water set at the side of his cot. She leans over him, pulling back the blanket to expose his bruised chest.

“Hell if I need you to bathe me, you damned-”

“You smell worse than horse shit, you worthless-”

John curses aloud, lurching upward as Abigail swipes the rag across his collarbone, not exactly gently, over red and inflamed skin.

“Jesus Christ, Abigail, that shit hurts.” He snarls up at her, and for a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks like regret before they harden again.

“Stop your bellyachin’.” Abigail sneers, and turns back to the bowl to dip the rag in the water again, muttering under her breath as she wrings it out. John’s scowl deepens as he can’t make out what she’s said.

“What now, woman?”

“You’ve got a son, John Marston. Y’cant… you can’t be goin’ off doing shit like you have a deathwish.” Abigail sighs, dabbing the rag more gently over his collarbones and shoulders.

“I ain’t doin’ anything like I’ve got some deathwish, Abigail.” He retorts, laying back on the cot and wincing as he tries to get comfortable again.

Abigail pulls the blanket down further, exposing his lean waist. John has always been skinny - half-starved and hunger panged through his difficult life.

“I told you, you don’t need to-”

“John, ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Numerous times.” Abigail cuts him off, pulling the blanket further down his torso against his protests. He immediately looks at the pitch of the tent as the blanket moves over his hips, trying to think of anything other than Abigail stripping him down to bathe him with that rag.

“Yeah but-”

“Just be quiet. Ain’t gonna submit any of the other women to have to deal with you stinkin’ like shit.”

John wishes he could escape. He wishes he could not feel Abigail’s hands on him. He wishes he were anywhere else… and god almighty, he wishes he could see something else behind his eyes when he closes them than Abigail climbing over him like she used to.

Arthur grumbles to himself as the old Walker trots back up the hillside along Owanjila before the afternoon sun dips behind the cliffs. He knew better than to trust one of Micah’s leads. But no, he went along with this one - robbing a stage outside of Riggs Station - too damn close to Blackwater. And the stage had guards that Micah hadn’t planned on.

So of course, it turned into a mess that Arthur was forced to remedy by emptying his revolver. At least the lockbox on the stage had a decent amount of cash and a large bag of jewelry. Also, Micah had the good sense to slink away to Strawberry instead of riding the whole way back to camp with him - Arthur was vexed enough as is to have spent any more time next to that snake.

The golden light of the setting sun glints off the lake as Arthur glances toward it before he pats the Walker’s mane, pulling a sugar cube from his satchel and feeding it to the horse. The horse had a good temperament - maybe Arthur wouldn’t sell him and keep him around camp and just spring for a new mount. He needed to get over toward Valentine at some point.

He swings himself down from the saddle before tying the reins of the Walker to the makeshift hitching post on the edge of the camp. Tapping the horse’s flank, Arthur grimaces as he rolls his shoulder, the tightness in it betraying his aging body. He clears his throat before readjusting the hat on his head, walking through the camp toward Dutch’s large tent and the gang’s cash box to unload his ill-gotten gains.

“Oh, Mister Morgan - do you mind if…”

The outlaw looks up to find you standing a few feet away from Dutch’s tent, fiddling with the wrist of your blouse nervously, staring at your feet.

“Missus Shaw?”

“I was wonderin’-”, You stumble, “wonderin’ if you might be able to spare a chain from that pile of jewelry you’ve got there.” You nod upwards at the large bag in his hand, hovering over the camp’s cash box.

“It’s just the chain I need, no pendant or anything.” You finally make eye contact with him and he curses himself that he finds the blush dusting your cheeks endearing.

“Course, Missus Shaw.” He places the bag down on Dutch’s table and pulls out a necklace with a delicate gold chain. Dangling it out toward you, you step closer and grasp it. You undo its clasp and slide off the pendant, a solitary pearl drop you place back in Arthur’s gloved hand. As you stick your hand into your skirt pocket, you try to ignore where this necklace came from.

Arthur tosses the pendant into the box, turning back toward you as you find what you’re looking for in your pocket.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“Don’t worry abou’ it.” He says softly, his eyes on your hands as you thread the chain through something small between your fingers.

When he finally sees what you’re working with as you move to hang the chain around your neck, he feels as if he’s been shot in his chest, trying to maintain composure as you lay the gold around your neck and clasp the necklace.

A gold wedding ring adorns your throat, and your delicate fingers press over it quickly before you let your hands fall back down to your sides. The pit of his stomach opening up becomes too much to bear.

Arthur nods, stepping toward his own tent, trying desperately to escape the situation unscathed. “Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You call out softly as he retreats.

By the time he reaches his tent and yanks the canvas shut, he breathes out an angry, frustrated breath out his nose as he yanks his hat from his head, throwing it on the side table next to his cot.

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, letting out another breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He looks back to the table where he set his hat. A piece of paper lies on the table. He grasps at it, unfolding what he sees as a letter, with proper, looping handwriting.

His arrow-shot chest cracks again.

Dear Arthur…

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan smut #twolafic #rdr2 fanfic #devil's backbone #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female oc #red dead oc #red dead smut

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moeitsu · 20 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: The Course of True Love and other Revelations

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: ~8k words, I want to start tagging people in the next chapters. So if you'd like to be tagged when I post let me know!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Ch 10 - Since Last I Held That Hand In Mine

As the soft light of dawn filtered through the trees, the melodious chorus of birdsong stirred Kate from her slumber. Rising from her cot, she welcomed the new day with a sense of purpose. Arthur's unexpected kiss last night had left her reeling, yet she felt its undeniable reality like the solid ground beneath her feet.

From the moment they first met, something about Arthur had intrigued her—an unspoken vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. She glimpsed it again last night, in the tender way he cradled Jack and the gentle touch of his calloused hands against her cheek. His kiss carried a longing, a shared ache that resonated with her own soul.

Despite the stories she had heard about Arthur's reputation as an outlaw, Kate refused to believe that violence defined him. She sensed a yearning for a better life within him, much like her own. He desired a world where strength did not equate to brutality, where he could shed the role of a hardened outlaw for something more tender and genuine.

With a satisfying stretch, Kate rose from her cot and cast a glance toward Arthur's tent, finding it empty—an indication that he was already up and about. Determined to catch him, she made her way over to the chuck wagon, exchanging greetings with others in camp as she helped herself to breakfast. Despite her hopes of a shared meal, she realized Arthur must have been out working already. Slightly disappointed, she sat alone, her thoughts lingering on their fleeting moment and the desire for another chance to talk.

As the day passed swiftly, Kate kept an eye out for Arthur's return, but to her surprise, he hadn't shown up by dinner. Contemplating waiting through the evening, she hesitated, feeling the ache of sore muscles from chopping wood and hauling buckets of water. Eventually, she resigned herself to the night, hoping for a better opportunity in the morning.

The following day mirrored the routine—Kate rising early, only to find Arthur's tent deserted once more. Concern gnawed at her as she asked Karen, who had been on guard duty the previous night, if Arthur had returned. The answer was no, leaving Kate troubled and wondering about the cause of his absence.

By the evening of the third day, Kate's worry had escalated into a swirling storm of thoughts. Had she said or done something to upset him? Did Arthur regret their shared kiss, causing him to avoid her? Unable to find solace in uncertainty, she tossed and turned that night, her mind racing with possibilities and unanswered questions.

The next morning, Kate was roused from sleep by the rhythmic sound of approaching hoofbeats. Her heart quickened with hope, expecting to catch a glimpse of Arthur's brilliant white mare, Belle. However, it was Charles arriving on Taima, dismounting with a few pheasants in tow. Kate rubbed her temple, frustrated with herself for feeling so eager. Since when have I become such a lovesick maiden? She thought bitterly, pushing the thoughts aside. Determined to appear nonchalant, she pulled on her boots and made her way over to Charles by the hitching post.

"Morning, Charles," she greeted, leaning casually against the post.

"Good morning, Kate," Charles replied warmly.

She couldn't hide the uncertainty in her voice. "Have you seen Arthur lately? I, um, wanted to talk with him about something."

Charles glanced back toward the trail. "He should be back any minute. I ran into him on my way in. I think he was out with Trelawny for a bit, robbing a stagecoach or something," he muttered, focusing on his hunt.

Kate blew out a breath and turned back toward camp, searching for some work to distract her while she waited for Arthur's return. To her surprise, she noticed Hosea waving to her from the center of camp. He sat comfortably in a folding chair, a newspaper folded in his lap.

"How's the heat treating that bullet wound?" Hosea asked, his tone friendly yet concerned.

Kate placed a hand over her stitches. "Aside from sweating through all the cloth, I'd say it's healing just fine," she replied with a smile. "And how are you feeling?"

Hosea waved off her concern with a chuckle. "I'm as good as they come, sweetheart, just an antique in need of a little polish, is all." He motioned for Kate to take a seat across from him, and she obliged.

"I've been thinking," Hosea continued, "you're a smart woman, and we could certainly use your help in this mess we've found ourselves in between the two dumbest families in Lemoyne."

Kate was about to voice her concern when Hosea cut in again. "Now, Arthur's told me you like to keep your nose out of trouble, and I don't blame you. Although it's not that easy when you're surrounded by a bunch of half-wits," he chuckled dryly.

Her mind lingered on the second part of their conversation. Arthur talked about me with him?

"I was thinking you and Arthur could go explore the Gray's plantation, talk to some folks, see what you can find out. Nothing illegal, no harming anybody, just gathering information."

Kate's face brightened at the prospect of spending the day with Arthur, even if it meant work. "I'd be happy to help, Hosea. I'll do my best to gather whatever information we need," she replied eagerly, a spark of determination in her eyes.

"Atta girl," Hosea nodded approvingly before calling out to Arthur, who had just returned to camp. "Arthur! Come join us. We're discussing a little venture for you and Kate. Think you two can handle Caliga Hall today?"

Arthur approached them with a warm smile, leaning casually against the post of the awning to escape the relentless sun. "I'm gone for three days, and suddenly you wanna run with the outlaws?" he teased, nodding towards Kate. "I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble."

Kate leaned back in her chair, a hint of smugness in her tone. "Last I checked, I've been running with outlaws for the past three weeks. Besides, there's no harm in talking to folks," she retorted confidently.

Arthur chuckled and shook his head. "Well, Miss McCanon, wherever I go, trouble always seems to find me. You sure you want to go?"

Kate wasn't sure why Arthur was using formalities with her all of a sudden. Was he being playful or trying to create distance? Whatever his intentions, she was determined to find out. "I think you know better than most, Mr. Morgan. I can handle myself just fine," she replied, emphasizing the formality of his name.

Arthur chortled as he gestured for Kate to follow him towards the horses. "Well, c’mon then woman. We've got work to do!"

Kate glanced back at Hosea, who wore a knowing smile as he returned to his newspaper. It seemed as though everything had gone according to his plan. She began to wonder if he had invited her on purpose, giving the two of them a chance to talk alone.

Kate felt suddenly nervous as she followed Arthur towards the horses. His playful demeanor and the sudden use of her formal name had sparked a whirlwind of questions in her head. Was he trying to keep their interactions professional, given their recent intimate moment? Or perhaps he was trying to mask his own feelings, unsure of how to navigate the situation himself.

As they reached the horses, Kate grabbed the reins of her mare, Lorena, and glanced over at Arthur, who was securing his saddlebag. She couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that lingered between them. A part of her felt a flutter of nerves. What if she misread the situation? What if their connection meant more to her than it did to him? She longed to talk to him about it, but found herself unsure how to broach the subject.

As they rode through the bustling streets of Rhodes and then onto the dusty road leading to Caliga Hall, Arthur began to fill Kate in on his recent adventures. The past three days had been eventful, to say the least. Trelawny had tipped him off about a lucrative stagecoach passing through Rhodes, but tracking down the informant had taken longer than expected.

Arthur's voice was tinged with gravity as he recounted the ordeal. "Took me nearly two days to track down Trelawny. Turns out, the poor bastard had been snatched up by bounty hunters. They roughed him up pretty good too." His words were laced with concern, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for her earlier assumptions.

Kate listened intently, the rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves matching the steady pace of Arthur's story. The reality of their lives as outlaws became all too clear in that moment. Here they were, riding through the sunlit countryside, but the shadows of danger loomed ever closer. Trouble always seems to find me, and he wasn’t lying.

As Arthur finished recounting the past few days, some of Kate's concerns melted away. She realized how trivial her worries about their recent encounter had been. Arthur had been preoccupied with far weightier matters, yet he was here now, by her side. Perhaps his mind had raced with a million thoughts as well.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Kate said softly, her gaze fixed ahead on the winding road, “I hope your friend is alright. It sounds like you two have been through a lot.”

Arthur turned to her, his expression softening. "No need to apologize, Kate. S’just part of the life we lead. Besides, it's good to be out here with you, away from all the chaos."

A soft flush crept up Kate's cheeks at Arthur's compliment, and for a fleeting moment, she entertained the idea of abandoning their mission altogether. The notion of spending the afternoon riding together, engaged in easy conversation, tugged at her thoughts like a gentle breeze. She longed to feel his lips on hers once more, the memory vivid in her mind—the taste of his mouth, the comforting scent of his presence.

With a bashful smile, Kate turned her gaze away, her attention drawn to the dusty road ahead. The path was flanked by open fields, the sprawling land filled with tobacco plants. As they approached the grand entrance of Caliga Hall, the imposing structure loomed in the distance, a reminder of the task that awaited them.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate marveled at the ease with which they slipped past the guards, thanks to Arthur's clever use of his newly acquired Sheriff badge and her guise as a journalist. The ruse seemed to fit naturally, lending an air of legitimacy to their visit. Their pretext? To delve into the rich history of the Gray family—a tale that promised intrigue and secrets.

Navigating through the vast estate, they engaged with a few hesitant workers, who reluctantly directed them toward Beau Gray, the youngest son of the family. The workers seemed wary, reluctant to speak openly about their employer, but they hinted that Beau was known for being talkative, perhaps to a fault.

They finally located Beau outside a tool shed, engrossed in scribbling a letter on an open book, seemingly evading his labor duties. His demeanor suggested a man eager for distraction, a perfect opportunity for Kate and Arthur to unravel the mysteries veiled within the Gray family legacy.

"Mr. Gray?" Arthur inquired, breaking the young man's focus from his notes.

Beau looked up with curiosity, setting aside his notation, “that would be my father, you can just call me Beau,” he replied, extending a hand towards Arthur before acknowledging Kate. “Hello miss,” he greeted with a nod, “what can I do for you friends?”

Arthur, ever the jester, retorted, "Oh, we's friends now, are we?"

Beau chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Not yet, but here's hoping," he quipped, flashing a friendly smile. "You know, we don't get a lot of traveling men around here, and suddenly there's a whole phalanx of mysterious, yet strangely helpful Yankees about the place."

Arthur's hand unconsciously drifted to his gun belt as the other scratched his chin. "Is that so?" he replied, intrigued by Beau's sudden observation.

Sensing the tension, Kate interjected, "Mr. Gray—sorry, Beau—we'd just like to ask you some questions about your family. You see, we're writing an article for the paper about your tobacco fields. The plantation has been quite successful, especially since the war."

Beau eyed her with suspicion, snapping his book closed. "And what did you say your name was, Miss?"

Kate hesitated, feeling the weight of her fabricated identity. "I'm Madeleine. Madeleine McCanon," she stammered, her confidence waning.

"Miss Madeleine, you're either a terrible journalist or an exceptional bullshitter," Beau teased with a grin. "Nobody in this old dust bucket town gives a damn about our tobacco fields. They're too busy getting drunk off the Braithwaites' moonshine."

Kate gawked, “I um, well we—you see we’re just,” she stumbled over the words. Arthur eyed the young man with a threatening gaze.

Suddenly, Beau burst into laughter, slapping his book against his thigh. "I'm just messin' with ya, Miss! I can tell you're looking for something. And it ain't some groundbreaking story. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," he assured with a wink.

Kate flushed with embarrassment, unsure if she had just blown their cover. Was I really that obvious? Perhaps they weren’t the first travelers to sniff around their family feud. Arthur smirked under his hat and hid his gaze from Kate, it amused him to see her so flustered on her first job. Especially since she had teased him so many times with her own playful jabs.

Arthur maintained his facade as a simple sheriff. "I don't know nothin' 'bout a secret," he replied casually, playing along with the charade.

"Well, I got a secret of my own," Beau announced, setting his book down on a nearby wooden crate.

"You secretly normal?" Arthur quipped under his breath, shooting a quick glance at Kate.

Beau raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Nothin’," Arthur muttered, scratching the back of his neck. Kate swallowed a laugh at Arthur's impatience with the boy—a side of him she hadn't seen before. When he wasn't being gruff or soft, he could be surprisingly playful.

Unfazed, Beau continued, "The thing is, I don't care if you kill the whole lot of us," surprising Kate with his nonchalance, "and the Braithwaites too," he added in a hushed tone, checking around to ensure they weren't overheard.

Kate raised her hands defensively. "We ain't here to kill anyone."

"I love her, you know," Beau declared earnestly.

Arthur exhaled. "Love who?"

"Penelope," Beau replied dreamily, then shook his head. “But it's impossible, she’s a Braithewaite.”

Kate couldn't help but smile at the young man's lovesick dream. "Love tends to be complicated," she added sympathetically.

"I'm the son of Tavish Gray, nephew of Leigh Gray, and the grandson of old Murdo Gray," Beau paced with frustration. Arthur crossed his arms and leaned against the wooden shed, letting Beau ramble.

"We Grays have been loyal to the state. We've been murdering Braithwaites for years," Beau explained, revealing the deep-seated family feud. Kate's nerves prickled; this feud was more than stolen goods and moonshine—it was generations of bloodshed, and could get very ugly if they were not careful.

"Why are your families so hell-bent on killing each other?" Kate asked, intrigued.

"Who the hell knows! It was so long ago nobody even remembers," Beau exclaimed, his hands waving through the air.

Kate shot a glance at Arthur. This feud was messy, and they were tracking mud through their own home. "Sounds like a lot of blind loyalty and stupidity," she remarked.

"Exactly!" Beau exclaimed with emphasis, relieved that someone understood. "Why should I be loyal to some nonsense while she—" He paused, breathless, as thoughts of Penelope overwhelmed him. "Oh, Miss Madeleine, she's amazing."

Arthur chuckled at Beau's lovesick revelations as he continued. "She's like a woman from the future! Like tomorrow… if tomorrow turns out fine."

Kate smiled warmly, a glimmer in her eyes. Oh, to be young and in love again, she thought. She had missed that feeling—the rush of emotions, the intensity of desire. It was as if Beau and Penelope were characters straight out of Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet, caught in the throes of a tragic family feud. Yet, despite the adversities, nothing could sever the deep bond they shared. She silently hoped their story would have a different ending than the fairytale.

Arthur stepped away, shaking his head slightly. “Kid, I’m sorry for your predicament. But there ain't much we can do ‘bout that. We don’t wanna get involved in your family’s feud.” he said firmly as he started to walk off. Beau looked crestfallen, and Kate hung back for a moment.

Turning to her with pleading eyes, Beau implored, "Please, Miss, will you help me?" Arthur halted at his question. "I'll pay you. The Grays, we always have money."

Taking Beau's hand in hers, Kate spoke confidently, "Of course I'll help you, Beau, and please, keep your money." Arthur shot her a disapproving look, but she paid it no mind.

Beau's face brightened as he hurriedly finished addressing his letter to Penelope. “oh thank you! Thank you miss, I know she loves to sit out in the gazebo on the edge of the Braithewaite property,” he explained, sealing the envelope with a lick. He then pulled out a small blue box from his pocket and handed it to Kate gently. “Will you give her this bracelet too? It's real sapphire, a brilliant blue, just like her eyes.”

Kate nodded, tucking the items into her bag. Her heart ached as she looked at Beau, wishing she could pluck the two lovebirds from their tangled nest and set them free. They deserved happiness. Families could be complicated, and blind loyalty only served to clip wings and poison blood. The least she could do was deliver a letter for him.

As they mounted their horses and set off towards Braithwaite Manor, Arthur finally voiced his thoughts on Kate's new approach to the family feud.

"So, now we're running errands for the boy with puppy eyes for some Braithwaite woman?" Arthur remarked, a tinge of bitterness in his tone. He seemed agitated that Kate had agreed to deliver the letter, for free nonetheless. "We were supposed to be gathering information, not delivering little trinkets and love letters."

"We can do both, Arthur," Kate responded calmly, her gaze steady. "We've learned that this feud runs deep and has a lot of history. We also know how influential the Grays are in this town, and they've got money—according to Beau, at least. Besides, this gives us an opportunity to speak with a Braithwaite. If Penelope is anything like Beau, she might shed some light on this mess."

Arthur sighed and shook his head. "This just seems foolish. Sneakin’ onto their property, looking for some young maiden. What if we get caught?"

Kate chuckled. "Oh, don't tell me you and Mary never snuck around," she teased. Arthur's head snapped in her direction at the mention of Mary's name. "Yeah, the girls told me all about that. You would sneak out of camp just to see her. Abigail even mentioned her father catching you two in the barn once—"

"Alright, that's enough," Arthur interjected, clearly embarrassed. "That's different. And remind me to tell the girls to quit gossipin’ about my love life," he muttered.

"It's not so different, Arthur," Kate continued, her voice softening. "It's young love. Delivering this letter is the right thing to do, the kind thing. And it might benefit us too. And don’t give me that 'what if we get caught' nonsense. You're a damn thief!" She grinned.

Arthur chuckled, a smirk playing on his lips. "Can't argue with that, I reckon.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As they approached the grand white manor, Arthur led the way with purpose, and Kate followed closely behind. They dismounted their mares and hitched them to a sturdy tree just shy of the estate's property line. With a finger pressed to his lips, Arthur gestured for Kate to follow him quietly.

They moved between small sheds and dense trees, keeping low to avoid the prying eyes of the guards patrolling the area. The shoreline provided some cover as they made their way toward the back of the manor. Then, just as they had hoped, they spotted a picturesque white gazebo adorned with bright yellow and pink tulips.

In the middle of the gazebo sat a young woman with a plait of golden yellow hair—Penelope Braithwaite. She was a vision against the backdrop of blooming flowers, her delicate features illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees as she fanned herself in the heat. Kate could see how a young man like Beau would be enraptured by her.

The two messengers approached Penelope as she sat on a chair in n the gazebo, Arthur taking the lead. "Are you Penelope Braithwaite?" he inquired politely.

"Why, yes I am," Penelope replied with a warm smile. "Who might you folks be?"

Arthur introduced himself, "Names Arthur, and this is Madel—"

"Kate," she interjected smoothly, correcting him. "Beau asked us to deliver a letter for him." Kate reached into her bag and produced the parcels, handing Penelope the letter first, followed by the small blue box, “and a gift.”

Penelope's eyes sparkled with delight as she clutched the letters to her chest. "Oh, Beau!" she exclaimed, "he is just so—"

"Strange?" Arthur blurted out, earning a light smack on the arm from Kate and a pointed look.

Penelope giggled softly. "Well, yes, he is a bit strange. But also so human," she mused, rising to pour tea from a nearby pot. "Our families are stuck in the Dark Ages, or cave people perhaps. I don’t know," she explained, handing them each a cup of tea, which Kate accepted gratefully.

Penelope continued, her tone becoming more serious. "Beau, he's different from all that, you know? But if they found out about us, my family would kill him. And probably send me to live someplace horrible like… Ohio," she added, clearly disliking the idea.

Kate listened intently, settling into a wicker chair across from Penelope. Arthur stood to the side, leaning casually against the railing, sipping his tea as if he were content to let the women handle the conversation.

"Have you ever been to Ohio, miss?" Penelope inquired, her expression thoughtful. Kate shook her head in response.

"Well, neither have I, but my Uncle has a factory there. He was the only one to leave the family. But he’s still a vicious snob," Penelope sighed, clearly frustrated. "Families are... are..."

"Complicated," Arthur finished her sentence, his tone understanding. He placed his empty cup down on the railing and leaned back comfortably, arms crossed.

Penelope turned to Arthur, sitting up in her chair with curiosity. "Have you got a family, sir?"

Kate noticed the brief glance exchanged between them, Arthur's eyes darting away when they met hers. "No... not really, miss," Arthur answered softly, his gaze distant.

"Well, my family can’t stand me. They say my ideas are above my station," Penelope huffed, her grievances evident. "They can all rot," she added sourly.

Kate sympathized with her, she was feeling suffocated by her family, misunderstood and invisible. From what Beau had shared about the ongoing family feud and the rigid divisions between the Grays and Braithwaites, Kate could understand why Penelope felt trapped. The feud seemed to extend beyond mere disputes over land or assets; it was ingrained in their identities, dictating their choices and relationships. The gravity of their circumstances painted a vivid picture of the isolation and despair that came from being caught in such a divisive and long-standing conflict.

As a woman of Penelope's status, Kate understood that her family would likely orchestrate a marriage, selecting a suitor deemed suitable based on social standing and economic advantage. This prospect robbed Penelope of her agency, relegating her fate to the whims of her kin. It was not a fate she wished upon anyone, unable to choose whom you love.

Penelope pulled a delicately sealed envelope from her purse and slid it across the table toward Kate. "If you see Beau again, could you please give this to him?" she asked earnestly.

Kate smiled warmly and took the letter without hesitation. "Of course, Penelope. I'd be happy to," she replied, her eyes reflecting Penelope's joy.

The young woman beamed gratefully. "I can't thank you enough!"

After bidding Penelope farewell, Kate and Arthur retraced their steps back toward their waiting horses, moving with stealth to avoid drawing attention from the vigilant guards. As they reached the safety of their mounts, Kate turned to Arthur, anticipating his response.

"I know what you're gonna say, Arthur," she began, her tone determined. “But we still have all day. If there’s something else you need to do, I can manage here just fine." Sensing he may disapprove of another letter delivery.

Arthur mounted his horse, turning to her with a genuine smile, and fondness in his eyes, “I’m right where I need to be Kate,” his voice carrying a warmth that caught her by surprise, “lead the way.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As they rode back towards Caliga Hall, the late afternoon sun bathed the landscape in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows across the rolling hills and reflecting off the surface of the nearby lake. The air was filled with the soft sounds of birdsong and the rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves. Kate and Arthur rode side by side, their horses moving with an easy familiarity. Occasionally, their eyes met for fleeting moments.

Approaching the stables, the rustic wooden buildings came into view, surrounded by the verdant greenery of the estate grounds. Amidst the bustle of stable hands and horses, the figure of Beau Gray emerged, his attention wholly focused on grooming his chestnut mare.

Kate dismounted gracefully, her boots landing softly on the packed earth. Arthur followed suit, swinging down from his horse with practiced ease. With a confident stride, the two approached Beau.

The young man looked up from his task, surprise lighting up his features as he recognized Kate and Arthur approaching. A broad smile spread across his face. "You're back so soon! Did she give you anything for me?" Beau asked eagerly.

Arthur casually draped his arms over the stable gate, leaning his weight against it as Kate retrieved the parcel once again from her bag. She handed it over to Beau's anxious hands, and he snatched it eagerly. "Oh, thank you!" he exclaimed, pushing past the gate and causing Arthur to stumble backwards.

"Easy, kid. Your woman ain’t goin’ anywhere," Arthur said with a chuckle, attempting to calm Beau's excitement.

Beau tore into the letter as he moved into the sunlight, finding a seat on a nearby wooden crate. Arthur shook his head with a smile and reached up to pat the boy's horse. Meanwhile, Kate moved to where Beau was sitting and leaned against the stable wall beside him while he read the letter.

"You two make quite the pair, you know," Kate mused, her gaze softening.

Beau glanced up briefly from the letter, his eyes filled with adoration. "Penelope is my sun and my stars, Miss. I count myself lucky to be graced by her light," he said poetically. It was clear that he loved her dearly.

Beau's eyes returned to scanning the handwritten letter, and after a moment, his voice grew concerned. "My god… this woman, she is going to get herself killed," he added, his tone grave.

Kate perked up at his comment, and Arthur turned around to face them. "What did she say?" he asked, curiosity etched on his features.

Beau sighed heavily, his distress evident. "The women’s suffrage march is today. 'Round here, they don’t even like the idea of men voting. They’d bring back the monarchy if they were given half the chance," he said with a bitter tone, placing a hand on his forehead in distress. "Progress is a dirty word in these parts, unlike incest," he added bitterly, folding the letter and sliding it into his back pocket.

He paced the floor of the stable, biting his nails eagerly as he continued to rant. "They want me to marry my cousin Matilda!" Kate grimaced at the idea. "I want to marry Penelope!" Beau's movements quickened, displaying the helplessness he felt in his heart. "They’re gonna—oh, her family will kill her if they know she’s at the rally!"

Kate intercepted his movements and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Take a breath, Beau," she urged, her voice calm.

But he seemed unable to calm down, continuing his lamentation and shaking his head at Kate. "They’ve done it before, miss. They locked her older sister in some old shed and left her there to die, all because she tried to run away."

"Shit," Arthur muttered under his breath, his expression darkening with concern.

Kate nodded understandingly, masking the fear that rose in her own heart. Their families were brutal, not only killing each other but murdering their own kin. Beau was not lying; Penelope would be harmed if something was not done. "What can we do?" she asked calmly.

"You’ve gotta help me," Beau pleaded, desperation clear in his eyes.

Kate nodded firmly, her resolve clear. "Of course we will, Beau. Where is the rally? We should get moving quickly." The young man eagerly nodded in response, slipping from her grasp to immediately start saddling the horse he had been brushing just moments ago.

Arthur stepped closer to Kate, his expression no longer one of annoyance but of genuine concern. He spoke in a low voice near her ear, his tone serious. "You know this is more than just runnin’ love letters now. This could get real ugly," he warned.

Meeting his gaze with determination, Kate replied firmly, "Nobody is dying today if I can help it. And I can’t in good conscience let them take this on alone. They’re just kids, Arthur."

He nodded with a solemn smile, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. "You're a good woman, Kate," he said quietly.

Their moment was interrupted by Beau's urgent voice. "We're losing time, mount up!" he called out, already heading down the dirt path.

Kate and Arthur swiftly climbed into their saddles, ready to follow. "Slow down, kid!" Arthur shouted after Beau, who was racing ahead.

"If we don’t get there in time, my true love might be shot!" Beau retorted, his voice filled with worry as they tried to close the distance.

Arthur nudged his mare forward to catch up with Beau. "Listen, Beau. If she wants to rally, you gotta let her rally. It’s her choice," he advised.

"As good as the cause is, Mr., I can’t let her become a martyr for it," Beau replied earnestly. "I can’t marry some statue built in her honor."

"She's a smart woman, I'm sure she knows what she's doing," Arthur reassured him, his voice calm yet firm.

With Beau leading the way like a knight in shining armor, the trio left the plantation behind, galloping down the road toward Rhodes. The urgency in Beau's movements reflected his determination to reach his beloved in time.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

They swiftly approached the wagon at the intersection leading into Rhodes, where women gathered around the sides holding up signs, preparing to march for their rights. Kate was awestruck by the turnout—a formidable group of determined women, their resilience and strength on full display.

Beau nearly threw himself out of the saddle and approached Penelope eagerly, who looked shocked at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?” she said earnestly.

Beau took her hands in his own, pleading, “I cannot let you go through with this, my love,” Penelope pulled her hands away disapprovingly, “they’ll kill you!” he urged.

“I’m ready to die for the cause,” she said rather dramatically, puffing out her chest and standing tall.

The young man gawked, his head turning between Penelope and Arthur before focusing on him altogether. “Do something, please!”

Arthur chuckled with a shake of his head, “Do what? Fight this mob?” He gestured to the group of women as the leader of the march gave a speech from atop a soapbox. “They’d eat me alive,” he quipped.

“This is not a laughing matter, sir! They need protection, mostly from my family. My uncle is the sheriff of this town, remember?” Beau said earnestly, turning his attention back to Penelope. “My darling, I beg you.”

Kate stepped between the two squabbling love birds, a determined look on her face. “I’ll tell you what, why doesn’t Arthur drive the wagon for you? That way you can focus on making your voices heard,” she suggested with a warm smile. “Beau and I will ride alongside you, keeping our eyes peeled for any signs of trouble.”

“Sure thing,” Arthur agreed, adjusting his hat. “I can handle that for you.”

Penelope beamed with gratitude. “That would be wonderful!”

Beau looked down, defeated, and Kate gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before they headed back to their horses. His lover climbed into the back of the wagon with the other girls as Arthur took up the reins.

Kate paused beside Beau, offering him heartfelt advice. “Beau, that woman of yours is like forged iron—strong, resilient, meant to withstand the heat. But if you try to hold her back, she'll start to rust. Let her show her strength, encourage her resilience. Support her, and you'll both turn out just fine.”

They followed along the back of the wagon as it began to steadily move down the dusty streets of Rhodes. Beau looked up at Kate with gratitude. “Thanks, Miss. I really appreciate that.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate found something profoundly captivating about forbidden love. It defied all reason and logic, drawing strength from adversity. Their love was a testament to resilience, a beacon of hope amidst turmoil. Despite every obstacle life threw their way, their love persisted like a flame in the dark, unwavering and enduring. It was a reminder of the spirit of young hearts, yearning for connection and understanding in a world fraught with division. The human desire to be loved would stretch across any ocean, face any storm. Kate wondered if Arthur's heart had felt like a hurricane the night they kissed, much like hers did.

As the wagon reached the end of the road near the bank, Arthur smoothly dismounted from the driver's seat and extended a hand to assist Penelope down. They had drawn quite a crowd—angry, drunken men stumbled out from their homes, shouting lewd remarks at the women.

“Mr. Morgan, I present to you the male of the species,” Penelope remarked sourly.

Arthur chuckled and rubbed his neck. “It’s a pretty dumb specimen, I’ll grant you that.”

The leader of the march ascended the stairs and resumed her impassioned speech. Arthur scanned the crowd and spotted Beau and Kate standing to the side of the building. Kate kept a watchful eye on the proceedings, while Beau's attention was solely focused on Penelope. Arthur noticed two men approaching them and decided to intervene.

“What are you doing here, boy?” demanded a balding man with a large gut, addressing Beau.

Without turning to meet his gaze, Beau replied sarcastically, “Hello, darling cousin.”

The man raised his hand as if to strike Beau. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that! Now answer me, what are you doing here?”

Beau sighed, showing annoyance but remaining unfazed by his cousin. “Trying to listen, I suppose,” he answered casually. Kate edged closer to Beau, assessing whether these men posed a threat. She shared a quick glance with Arthur, who was making his way towards them.

“Haven't you got something better to do? You cocky little—” The man raised his fist again, only to find Arthur gripping his wrist firmly. “What the?”

Swiftly, Kate positioned herself behind the second man and gently squeezed his shoulder. “We were just leaving,” she said calmly. “No need to get up in arms.”

“Who the hell are you?” the other man demanded.

“Like the lady said, we were just leaving,” Arthur repeated, guiding Beau away from the confrontation. They moved quietly to the back of the bank, out of earshot of Beau's relatives.

Once they felt they were out of immediate danger, Arthur chuckled and clapped a hand on Beau's back. “You know, I ain’t never voted before, but I'm kinda gettin’ hot for voting rights,” he joked.

Beau pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his smile. “I don’t know whether to take you seriously, Mr. Morgan,” he sighed. “My cousins are a cause for concern. If they found out about Penelope and me…”

“I think everyone already knows about Penelope and you,” Arthur said sympathetically. “I just met you and I already know about Penelope and you.”

Kate turned to them, adjusting her hat. “Beau, I think it's for the best if you just rip the band-aid clean off. The sooner it's out, the sooner it's resolved.”

The young man sighed deeply. “Our families, we bury our secrets and we bury them deep. If we come clean about this, we would both end up buried under some silo next week. That’s our family's idea of resolved.”

Kate and Arthur exchanged a sympathetic look. “Listen kid, I think you and the girl need to leave. Get out of here while you still can,” Arthur advised reassuringly.

The trio made their way over to their horses, the sounds of the women's rally having died down in the bacground. “I will,” Beau said hopefully. “Once I have enough money. My family, well, they have plenty of money. But I don't.” He glanced back toward where Penelope mingled with the crowd. “I love her, I truly do.”

“Well, if you stay long enough, maybe you’ll die for her too,” Arthur said gravely.

“I thought you were trying to make me feel better,” Beau quipped with a smirk. “But I should probably go before my cousins find me again.” He reached out a hand and shook Arthur's firmly. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Morgan.” Then he turned to Kate and did the same. “Miss, I can’t thank you enough for your kindness. I hope I see you again sometime.”

Kate placed her hand over his and smiled warmly. “And I hope that when we do, it's far away from this nonsense,” she added with a wink.

Beau mounted his horse and took off down the dirt road back toward the plantation. Turning her attention back to Arthur, a satisfying smile tugged at her lips as the two climbed into the saddle of their own mares and made their way out of town.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As evening settled in gracefully, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Arthur and Kate found themselves in a secluded haven about a mile from camp. They nestled into the soft grass near the serene shoreline of the lake, savoring a well-earned meal together. The air was filled with the delightful aroma of flowers, and the melodic song of mourning doves mingled with the soft rustle of leaves.

They laid out a simple feast of canned strawberries, crackers, and cheese, enjoying each bite amidst the tranquility of nature. The sun, now dipping toward the horizon, painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, casting a warm and comforting light over the scene. The gentle breeze carried with it the whispers of the day, bringing a sense of peace and contentment.

Their horses, nearby but unbothered, grazed leisurely on the lush grass, grateful for the treat after the day's journey. As they shared this quiet moment together, the beauty of the surroundings seemed to mirror the warmth and closeness between them, creating a space of solace and connection away from the chaos of the world.

Arthur removed his hat and laid back in the grass, he watched as Kate sat next to him, her eyes fixed on the changing colors dancing across the water's surface. In the warm glow of the sun, Arthur couldn't help but admire Kate's profile—the graceful curve of her nose, the delicate sweep of her eyelashes, the soft contour of her lips. Memories of the night they kissed stirred within him, a rush of nerves mingling with a sense of doubt. The past three days his mind had wrestled over the moment.

As if sensing his gaze, Kate turned to meet his eyes, her own radiating warmth like the sun's gentle embrace., “I had a great time with you today,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of shared moments. “Thank you for staying with me, and helping those young love birds.” She smiled.

Arthur nodded, a slight breeze tousling Kate's hair. They sat so close the wind brought her scent right to his lungs, he could smell the lavender shampoo she used, and the sweet smell of strawberries on her breath. His heart began to thump loudly in his ears, the familiarity of her presence stirring something within him. “You certainly make it hard to say no,” he remarked with a faint smile, “those two make quite the pair. You think they'll be alright in the end?”

Kate sighed wistfully, stretching out on her back beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly. "I know they'll figure it out," she said, her gaze drifting upward to the evening sky. "They're smart kids. They deserve happiness, especially in the midst of all they’ve been through."

Arthur glanced skyward too, clouds morphing into shapes above them. "If only it turned out that way for everyone," he murmured quietly.

Turning her attention back to him, Kate watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and studied the rough features of his face. She noticed the small scar on his chin beneath his beard. The dimple at the bottom of his nose, and the way it was slightly crooked. No doubt from a bar fight. Feeling bold, she snaked her hand through the grass until she felt the gentle warmth of his fingers. Sliding her own beneath his palm, seeking his touch.

Arthur turned to her, his expression slightly surprised. The air between them felt charged, filled with unspoken words that seemed to hang in the balance. As Kate sat up, she extended her hand to stroke his cheek, feeling the softness of his beard beneath her fingertips. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she summoned her courage.

"Arthur," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I want to kiss you again."

Arthur's throat tightened, his thoughts obscured by shadows of uncertainty. He gently released her hand from his cheek, but retained it in his own grasp, his touch conveying a mix of affection and restraint. He looked into her eyes, which held a sea of anticipation and vulnerability.

Kate blinked, her breath caught momentarily. The response she received was not what she had expected, and a flicker of disappointment passed over her features.

"Sweetheart," Arthur murmured softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her skin, "you're a good woman. I know that. But I’m not some starry-eyed, lovesick teenager anymore." His voice carried a raw honesty, revealing a vulnerability rarely seen. "I–I’m not a," He faltered, avoiding her gaze, his thumb seeking reassurance along the ridges of her knuckles. "I'm mean, nasty, and ugly. You, you’re kind, honest, and beautiful. I ain’t the kind of man you deserve."

Kate's eyes traced the shadows on his face cast by the setting sun, her heart heavy with understanding. She couldn't bear the weight of his self-doubt. "I don’t think that's true at all," she said softly, her voice a blend of compassion and conviction. "Arthur, you’ve got a good heart. Maybe it’s been hardened by life, but I see the man you are beneath it all."

Arthur glanced down, and Kate lifted her hand, placing it gently under his chin to urge him to meet her gaze. "We’ve all got our scars," she continued, her eyes reflecting unwavering sincerity. "But those scars don’t define who we are. You’re strong, and you’re capable of kindness. I see it in you."

Arthur's expression softened, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of gratitude and doubt. “Kate,” he murmured, his voice wavering. “I’ve seen things. Done things... I ain’t proud of. It’s just who I am, and I know I’m only gonna disappoint you.”

“But I’ve seen you stand up for what’s right,” Kate replied, her voice steady.

The air around them seemed to hold its breath, the evening sunlight filtering through the trees casting dappled patterns on their intertwined hands. Kate's touch was a silent reassurance, a gesture of unwavering support amidst the unspoken fears that haunted Arthur's mind.

As they sat there, a tranquil moment enveloped them, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. Kate continued to hold his gaze, her eyes conveying a quiet determination. She believed in the goodness that lay beneath Arthur's hardened exterior, in the man he could be if given the chance.

Arthur had built walls around his heart, layers of protection forged from past regrets and hardships. But Kate was stubborn, undettered to find the cracks in those walls and gently chip away at them, revealing the heart within. She knew that beneath the rough exterior, Arthur deserved to feel the love and acceptance he had denied himself for too long.

“I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t drag you down with me,” Arthur finally confessed, his voice heavy with regret, his inner turmoil laid bare by the words he spoke. He sat up abruptly, and Kate's hand fell into her lap. She longed to speak, to plead with him to stay and open up, but she sensed his nerves, his vulnerability. This was difficult for him, and he was struggling with his own demons. She realized this wouldn’t be easy. Real love takes time, effort, and patience.

“It’s getting late, we should head back,” he said standing, mounting Belle a moment later. Kate followed closely behind, settling into Lorena’s saddle.

As Arthur led the way back to camp with a steady gait, Kate rode behind, her gaze fixed on the broad back of the man she was beginning to understand more deeply. Shadows lengthened in the fading light, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape, but within Arthur's heart, she sensed a darkness that transcended the approaching night.

She noticed how his shoulders tensed and relaxed with each movement of Belle beneath him, as if he carried the weight of the world on his broad frame. The air seemed charged with unspoken emotions, heavy with the weight of his doubts and fears.

Kate's heart ached with a newfound ambition. She knew Arthur wanted to be held like a knife—sharp and unyielding—but she was determined to hold him like water, gentle and patient, allowing his ambiguity and unease to slip through her fingers. She longed to reveal what glimmered beneath the surface of this complex man, to show him the capacity for tenderness and love that he believed himself unworthy of.

As they rode on, the setting sun painted the sky in hues of gold and amber, the trees casting a long shadowy figure across the path. Kate's thoughts swirled like the breeze around them, grappling with the intensity of her feelings for Arthur and her resolve to break through the walls he had erected around his heart, and reveal the silver lining.

"I've got nothing but time, Arthur Morgan," she murmured, her voice a whisper on the wind, "I'm not giving up on you."

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