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goodmorgan · 1 year ago

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Perfect Strangers

Chapter 6: A Ride to Remember

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

Series Summary: When a stranger appears at your homestead to steal from you, you set out to help him instead. What follows is a reckless relationship with potentially dangerous outcomes.

Previous Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Chapter Summary: Your relationship with Arthur deepens over the course of several weeks, when vows are made and lessons are taught.

Word Count: 13K

Tags: 18+. MDNI. NSFW. Smut, Porn With Plot, Mutual Pining, Angst, Fluff, Infidelity, Oral Sex (m! and f! receiving), Unprotected PinV Sex, Cowgirl, Semi-public Sex, First Times, Possessive Arthur Morgan

Taglist: @how-the-heck-would-i-know @pinkiec6-rubi

AO3 Link

A/N: I am soooooo sorry for taking this long to finish this chapter. But I've been through somethings in the past few months I hope you understand. To make it up for you, chapter is extra long with tons of smut! It's divided in several parts to ease reading.

You've never been on top before. None of your past lovers ever thought of letting you take charge, much less suggest you actually do it. So when Arthur asked if you could, it took you very much by surprise.

"Think you can handle it, missy? Hmm?" His eyes glimmer with a devilish spark as he invites you into his lap, his back leaned against the headboard of your bed. He squeezes the inside of your thigh in encouragement as you kneel by his flank.

"I think so." You hesitate, unsure if you'll be able to please him in a position you have no experience in. But then you look at his lustful eager eyes and you know you'll never be able to say no. And you have to admit, the idea of riding him has you pretty aroused yourself.

"Come on. I'll help ya."

His back temporarily leaves his rest as his hands reach the side of your waist, guiding you up as you climb over his legs, sitting atop his strong bulky thighs. Your core settles right in front of his fully hard cock, now slicked with his precum as it lies on his stomach, impatient for more after you've spent the last few minutes stroking it. You feel yourself twitching uncomfortably with titillation at the thought of taking it all in.

He removes one hand from you to catch the base of his member, tilting it up, ready for you to mount. "No need to rush, darling. Take your time." He means to put you at ease despite his obvious excitement as the mischief in his smile deepens, the tip of his tongue sneaking out, making you even more eager to start.

You settle your hands on top of his chest, pressing down for support as you raise your rear, angling your entrance above the tip of his cock as you kneel again. Arthur's hand tightens as you hover above him and soon enough you feel him prodding between your folds. You look at him to ask if you can go ahead.

"Easy does it, darling." His thumb caresses the side of your belly to relax you, but you feel his cock shift below you in ardent anticipation.

You move slightly downwards, enough to feel his member peek inside, stretching your opening to make your breath hitch. Arthur removes the hand from his cock, aiding you in your lowering motion with both hands on your hips, supporting your weight so you don't plunge too fast. Inch by inch you lower yourself as you take all of him inside you, your walls stretching in welcomed gratification. Both of you emit soft grunts of pleasure as Arthur's chest vibrates under your fidgety hands. You try to keep your eyes on each other as they flutter from the delightful feeling of carnal intimacy.

Your buttocks finally rest against his thighs when he finally fills you to the hilt. "Oh, fuck, missy." He grabs your ass greedily, as if to reward you for sheathing him inside you, his eyes darting to where your bodies meet. You peer down as you see your soft curls now tangled conspicuously with his. "Don't think I'll ever get used to you taking me like this."

You try to adjust to his large size as you coat him with the wetness he pried from you while fingering you earlier. You mirror his cheeky but sweet smile. "Maybe we just gotta practice a little more."

He chuckles as your hands move aimlessly all over his chest, warming him up before you move. His fingers lightly squeeze your behind to do the same. "I reckon we should. I doubt I'll ever get used to it though."

"Won't hurt to try." Your fingertips brush the area of his nipples. "I'm willing if you are."

"Yeah?" He raises a hand to your face to caress the side of your cheek with his thumb, biting down on his own lip. "Wanna show me how willing you are?"

He's ready to start when you are.

You rush your hands to the sides of his navel, moving your thumbs to pet the area below, twirling some of the black hairs you saw before. The teasing is enough to make the member inside you move and suddenly all you want to do is to countermove. "Seems I'm not the only one willing, am I?"

The first roll of your hips is barely visible but both of you feel it as his cock shifts gently against your walls, a satisfying taste of what's to come. He gets hungry for more as he lowers his hand to join the other, now blending his fingers with the curve of your hips. You take the chance to move them again, this time more noticeably as your folds almost touch the knuckles of your fingers, still skimming the sensitive skin of his groin.

It's the loud exhale he gives you that makes you start to lose your shyness, wanting to hear the sweet noises he makes for you over and over again, even if it's at the expense of your poise. You move your waist more forcefully, nudging yourself closer to his stomach, making you both puff out in delight. Each drag of your hips comes slow and gentle, but you can feel the gradual build of the fire in your core as you try to resist the urge to go too fast too soon.

"That's it, missy. You got it." His fingers press against your soft flesh as he assists your back-and-forth movements, the lechery of his eyes intensifying. "Keep going like that for me, angel."

His encouraging words only enflame your state of yearning, so you pick up the pace a little, moving your hands up to flatten them on his chest. As you move to the new angle, you fortuitously brush your clit against his pubic bone, the feeling so sublime you let out a whine of surprise and elation. You have no choice but to repeat it again, the result only more divine as you let your mouth hang.

"You like that, huh?" He grabs you more vigorously as you start to grind him wantonly.

You look into his eyes again, unsure if this is what he had planned when he asked you to be on top, wondering if he's enjoying it. "This alright?"

"Oh, it's perfect, missy." He lifts himself up to plant an affectionate kiss on your lips, his gaze even darker now. "Take what you need, darling."

His approval is all you require to move your hands even higher, clutching hungrily at his shoulders as your sensitive nub lies even flatter against his skin, the rubbing now so intense it keeps you from staying silent and cogent. You revel in your all-encompassing passion as you feel your walls fluttering against his own responsive arousal, filling you with the overwhelming sense that you are getting closer to the brink of endless wonder.

"Keep going, sweetheart. Almost there."

Arthur's sweet encouragement brings you back to a surprising state of awareness. You've only been intimate a few times, but they seem to have been enough for Arthur to learn when you're reaching your edge, aware of the effect his coaxing words have on you, prying a release from you every single time. Even when it's his choice of position, he still helps you rut yourself over him, making sure you chase your pleasure to completion first.

You must have slowed down your movements as he's compelled to spur you on. "Don't stop, missy. Not now. Keep going." His hands shove your weight forward to pick up the pace again. "Be my good girl and come around me." His wish is your command as you start to move unrestrained against him, your eyes closing shut as delectation devours you. "Come on. Need you to do this. Need to feel you, angel." His fingers bury themselves on your hips as he pushes you over the brink of deliverance. "Let me feel you feel good."

Your climax is heaven on earth as you arch back into the air, your head tilting back in victorious ecstasy as it hangs dreamily on cloud nine. In a thrilling change of pace, you soar up rather than sink your pleasure into the constriction of a worn-out mattress or the bumpy surface of a bale of hay. The only thing anchoring you is the firm build of Arthur between your thighs.

Your hands leave Arthur's shoulders to an aimless destination as you feel his own reach for your back, helping you ride your wave of pleasure, placing soft conciliatory kisses around your chest. Low soft grunts still leave your slack mouth when you slowly open your eyes, feeling your chest puff against an obstruction. When you look down, you see Arthur's face buried between your breasts, sucking gently at your damp skin. You take the opportunity to rest your head against his, feeling him hum with appreciation as he wraps you tightly in his arms.

It's a while before he comes up for air and even then he chooses to kiss your lips instead, his tongue still wet from nuzzling your bosom, hurried inside without ceremony. Rather than letting you come down from your high, it sustains itself with the extension of his enveloping kiss, making you tangle yourself against him in pure bliss.

"That was great, missy." His face slants to look up at yours as elated as you are, drunk on your own rapture as if it were his.

You take the chance to move slightly as you resettle on his lap, your core still sensitive as you brush against him. His member still pulses inside you and you're reminded of the pleasure you still have to bestow him. "It ain't over yet, cowboy." You push his shoulders to make him lean back against the bed, feeling very little resistance as he realizes it's his turn now, giving him a peck on his lips when he settles. "Show me what you had in mind."

His face turns somber, his eyes grow darker and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows your words, preparing to quell the overbearing lust running through his veins. His hands move to their previous place on your hips before you cover them with your own, encouraging him to move you however he desires. You feel the ridge of his knuckles shift as his fingers begin to knead your bruising flesh, his grip tightening as he finally starts to roll you against him. It's not long before your speed hastens and your pulse quickens again, needing to brace yourself on his shoulders, allowing close contact between your loose lips.

"Christ, missy. You're so good to me. You know that?" The meshing of your hips turns noisier by the second as they begin to slam into each other, his hands now directing you in up-and-down thrusts. "I oughta keep ya all to myself."

His member slides easily in and out of you with the blend of your fluids, his release approaching as he repeatedly hits your magical spot, both of you panting from renewed exhilaration.

Arthur keeps his eyes on you as if he's realizing something, you practically see a question form with the furrow of his brow. Suddenly he slows you down, limiting your thrusts without stopping them entirely. You know he's about to ask you something important if he's delaying his own release for it.

"You sleeping with anyone else?"

The question catches you by surprise, but you're quick to reply. "No."

It's the truth. You haven't slept with your husband in months and, when you did, there was nothing about it that was enjoyable or sensual. The last time was a brief tussle to get him off before he left for Annesburg, one where you didn't even pant and he didn't care if you did. You remember vividly feeling empty as he filled you up, the cracks on the ceiling as exciting as his thrusts. Just another passionless night with another heartless man in a list of too many few.

Now that you think about it, nothing can compare to what has happened between you and Arthur in the past few days. Not even close.

Your negative answer earns a purr of satisfaction from him, reaching for your chin with his fingers to pull you in. "Good. Keep it that way, yeah?"

You nod in agreement as you lean into his mouth, his tongue prodding yours to seal your vow of exclusivity as you surrender to the man who wants you all to himself, burying himself deeper within you.

His hands go back to your hips before they settle on your rear, grabbing hungrily as you both resume your lascivious pounding, the feeling intensified by the unceremonious binding of your union. Your breasts bounce wildly in front of him, earning his undisputed attention as he tries to land his lips on them. He stops when he begins to grunt disorderly, leaning his head against the headboard as he prepares to finish.

"Need you to rise, missy. I'm gonna--" He bites down on his lip, his teeth sinking hard as his hands promptly clasp your hips with all the will still left in him, with enough force to remove you from his cock, sitting you on top of his clenching thighs. He manages to stroke himself a few times before the white ropes erupt as he directs them to his stomach, his whole body trembling beneath yours. An earthquake of a deeply satisfied man.

He pants as he opens his eyes, his hands caressing your shoulders as he propels you forward to his kiss.

"So good to me.”

Your breasts dance against the sinful cadence of his heaving chest, his words reverberating close to your beating heart.

“And only me."

Your first ride on top is one to remember.

----

The weeks never passed so quickly before Arthur, much less this blissfully. You keep track of the days since you met for the first two or three weeks. But then the count becomes hazy, blurred by the consuming nature of your passion, the devouring nestling of your thighs, the countless collisions of your lips.

He visits you when he can escape from his other life, twice a week most times, three times if you're both lucky. He usually arrives with the sunset, his shirt still soaked from a hard day's work, his neck dusty from the ride over. You quench his thirst right away, first with your lips and then with a glass of water, watching as he heads to your bedroom to wash away his impurity in your vanity. Just like on the day when you first met.

You usually have dinner ready, repeating dishes he has previously enjoyed, always making sure you have extra potatoes. You try to have a cooled pie waiting for him, one he'll gobble up even after a big meal, regardless of its flavor. But apple remains his favorite, you can tell. He brings sacks full of groceries, bottles full of whiskey, and handfuls of game meat, enough food to feed the both of you and have leftovers. He stuffs himself until he can't take anymore, satisfying a bottomless hunger that only your cooking seems to appease. Just like on the day when you first met.

He makes sure to tap his belly when he finishes, the fabric of his shirt stretching as it swells. "I'm gaining weight from your fine cooking, missy."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't eat so much, Mr. Morgan."

"Can't help it when you cook so well."

"I know a way to burn it off." You know he loves your sly remarks as much as your cooking.

Once his tastebuds are satisfied, he usually grabs your arms, pulling you into his hot embrace or his fidgety lap, tugging from you fervent kisses to try to indulge his remaining need. Sometimes you're able to escape to finish the dishes, most times you aren't, his stomach not the only part of him that stretches after dark.

You always end the night holed up in your bedroom, the many phases of the moon depicted in your window as they change, your lustful connection never once waning. He stretches you out on the mattress, working you with his tongue or his hands, prying you open to receive him. He buries himself in your tightness, sometimes letting you stroke him beforehand, his size always a scintillating marvel when pressed against your fingers or your walls. He envelops you with his whole body or lets you straddle him with your thighs, hungry to feel your release, getting off on your seismic pleasure every time. He's careful to finish out of you, tainting both of your flesh with the white stains of a sinful tryst. You always end up in the iron grip of his loving arms, soothing each other before sleep tames you. Just like on the night when you first met.

He wakes up in the morning next to you, sometimes energetic enough to go again, sometimes satisfied enough not to attempt it, lavishing you with sweet tender kisses instead. He drinks your bitter coffee and eats your runny eggs, his gaze twinkling with the soft light of the morning sun. You brush his hair with your fingers before he covers it with his hat, the hanging ropes on the brim swaying as he kisses you goodbye, the sound of his parting boots heavy in your yard and in your chest. Behind he leaves his vow to come back. Just like on the day after you first met.

And just like a few days after you met, he comes back to keep his word, bringing with him the exciting promise of the sunset and the sensual touch of the night.

----

It is a particularly hot afternoon when Arthur arrives with his shirt covered in blood, the stench nauseating as the sun intensifies, the sight heart-wrenching as you think it's his own spill.

He can tell from your face you’re riddled with anguish. "I'm fine, darling, was out hunting is all." He unloads from his horse the deer he caught, already skinned and prepped for a fresh meal. "You in the mood for some stew?"

He places the carcass on your kitchen counter, chopping it up into sizable chunks as you prepare to salt most of it, leaving a few pieces to cook for dinner. He's thoughtful enough to remove his shirt right away and you draw him a bath to wash away the viscous blood still on his chest and shoulders.

When he's inside the tub, he's insistent that you scrub him. "I can't reach my back, missy. Think you can help me?" You try to hasten the washing as you still have to prepare dinner and wash his clothes, earning a reprimand from him. "Go easy on me, darling. I don't like it so rough."

You soften the swabs of your sponge, enough to hear him relax with deep breaths, his back sinking against the edge of the tub. "That feels real good, missy." You have no choice but to scrub his chest, which turns into a very bad idea once he starts pecking your lips, interrupting your movements as he gets bolder by the kiss. "God, I missed you, sweetheart." It’s been three days since you last saw each other. Your mouths entangle as you feel his wet hands dampen your back. "I miss these lips every single day. You know that?"

When he gets tired of you skidding away from him, ignoring his kisses so you can continue to wash him, you suddenly feel his hands reach the side of your hips, picking you up from the ground to land you with a wet crash on his lap, your skirt heavy with the weight of the water as you soak in his embrace. You try to contain your amusement as he attempts to kiss you, soon edging his tongue into the middle of your lips, satisfied only when you hum in unexpected pleasure.

He stares at you for a few seconds, tracing the shape of your mouth as if he's never seen it before, stretching your lips with a few soft rubs of his inquisitive thumb as if to test their malleability. "Prettiest lips I've ever seen."

"Well, they're all yours, partner." You think your remark is a rather lame flirtation but it turns into much more as his eyes suddenly darken and he inhales deeply before giving you the most selfish kiss, taking your words to heart as he takes what's rightfully his.

"Too pretty for an ugly old fool like me." You splash him with water to reprimand his off-putting self-deprecation, making him grab your hands so you can stay still to continue to ravage your defiant lips.

Somehow you convince him to let you go, promising a belated recompense if he lets you finish your chores. You try to leave the slippery tub with some difficulty, chuckling at his childish pettiness when he refuses to help you up. Eventually you manage to get on your feet, shedding your clothes before going to get some dry ones.

He’s sore enough to complain as you leave the room. “Wish you could leave your lips as easily as you leave me.”

Despite the temptation of returning to his arms, you try to get a move on with dinner, the pot by the fire soon filled with softening venison and herbs. You scrub his bloodied shirt against the washboard in your yard, your hands turning frightfully red in the attempt. It’s pristine blue when you finally hang it on the clothesline.

You turn around to head back inside when you see Arthur standing on the porch, only a loose small towel hanging from his waist.

“Dinner ready yet?”

“Hold your horses, would you? I’m adding the potatoes now.”

“Well, if I can’t have your lips then at least put some food in my mouth, woman!”

You give him a defying look as you pass him on the way in, trying to ignore his clinging. “Running your mouth not enough for you?”

He’s quick to grab you tightly from behind, his breath hot as it blows in your ear. “Not even close, missy.”

You try to break from his embrace unsuccessfully. “Why don’t you put on some clothes and then we can eat?”

“You better eat quick then, 'cause I ain’t waiting long.”

His impatience seems to ease when he finally starts to eat the stew, sitting in his chair with a new set of clothes, still dented from the shape of his saddle. Despite his threat, dinner is not rushed and you actually enjoy it, soothed by the comfort of the food and the pleasure of your company. He even lets you do the dishes first, all while you enjoy some of his unbelievable tales of his time out West.

When you go to get the glasses from the table, he stops you in your attempt and you know you've gone far enough. His grip is strong on your forearms but he verbalizes his wish rather than pull you down. "Sit."

His lap is inviting, spread enough to cushion the width of your rear as you climb on top of him face to face, the feeling familiar once his kisses start pouring, your hands grabbing his neck as you always do. What you don't know is this time won't be like any other.

It's when he pauses the work of his tongue that you know something is off, his eyes staring as he gains the courage to ask you an intimate request. "I want to feel your mouth on me, missy." His thumb returns to the place it was brushing in the tub. "Take me with those pretty lips of yours."

Your face burns hot as you hear him, first from the lewd nature of his wish, second from the realization that you've never done it before. The eagerness in his eyes is ignited and you feel a tingling at the prospect of pleasing him as he desires.

An act so debauched it seems akin to blasphemy. Then again, you've gone this far in your adultery, why not please your lover as he desires.

“Think you can do it? Hm?”

You nod in agreement, ready to cross the threshold of the gates of hell.

"Good. Get on your knees for me, would ya?"

Arthur helps you off his lap, his hands clasping your hips until you're standing, then reaching to undo his pants. You lower your knees to the ground, supporting your hands on his thighs to ease the landing. His cock is in his hand by the time you're down, stroking to grow his size.

His free hand reaches the side of your head, petting you lovingly as he prepares. "You comfortable?"

You suddenly worry that your lack of experience will be too telling, unsure how to bring him to completion this way. You decide that perhaps it's best to be honest, giving him the chance to teach you how. "Arthur." Your hands caress the hard bone on his knees as he looks at you with interest. "I've never-" Your tongue is suddenly sticky with fluster. "I've never done it before."

His face turns somber as his hands suddenly rush to your upper arms, tightly grabbing them to pull you up. “Jesus, darling. Should’ve told me.” His grip is strong but not enough to move you. “Get up, sweetheart. We’ll do something else.”

You rise from your knees to sit on his lap while you protest his decision. “No, I want to, Arthur. Really.” His hands pull you closer to his chest as you sit on him sideways. “You just have to tell me how.”

He looks into your eyes to see if there’s truth in your words, his brow knitting in concern. “You sure? I don’t want you to do something you don’t want.”

“Yeah, I want to.” You kiss him on the lips to sweeten the deal. “Teach me how to make you feel good.”

The tip of his thumb returns to your mouth, swiping it lazily as he ponders how to proceed, making sure you don’t regret your words. His hardness is now resting on your leg, which makes you even more eager to go through with it, kissing him again to see if he makes up his kind. "Tell me how you like it."

“Christ, missy.” He gives you one last peck before he squeezes the softness of your thigh in encouragement. “Let me get up, would you?”

You’re a little confused as to why he’s getting up, but you rise anyway, sitting back on his chair as he directs you down with his hands on your shoulders. He pets the side of you arms and face before he inches backward, soon shedding his clothes unceremoniously, his member stiff as it protrudes from his nakedness. You watch as he clears the table in front of you, piling the remaining tableware on the other side of it, leaving his glass of whiskey behind. He’s so tall he easily sits on the table without barely the lift of his heels, his feet then coming to rest on the side of the chair by your thighs, his erection on the table right in front of you.

His lips glisten with the remaining shot of whiskey he takes, placing the empty glass next to his leg. “If anything don’t feel right you tell me, yeah?” His hand caresses your jaw as he assesses your psyche. You feel yourself getting wetter in anticipation, your heart beating a little faster and your palms getting a little sweaty. You hope to serve him well. “I don’t want you swallowing, ok? Just spit on this here glass. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

His free hand encircles around his member, pumping lazily to get him ready for you. You take the chance to spread your hands on his thighs, gently caressing him to help him relax, hopefully convince him you’re calm yourself, willing to carry on with his lesson.

“Just do what feels good, missy.” The grip on your jaw tightens as he slightly pushes you forward to him. “Nice and slow, darling. It ain’t a race.” You nod in understanding, his eyes blown with wanting as his thumb brushes your lips for the last time. “I'll let you know what to do. You ready?”

Your yes is enthusiastic and clear, your lips moving against his finger before he drops his hand, pulling himself closer to the edge of the table so you can access him more comfortably. His grip returns to the side of your head to lightly brush your cheek as the other hand guides one of your own to his shaft.

Your palm feels hot and damp at the same time with his slick slathered around the stiffness of his flesh, the one you’ve touched so many times in your erotic nights. His fingers instruct you to resume his ministrations as you feel the ridge of his veins between your heedful fingers, stroking so you get used to feeling him, preparing to take him with your mouth.

His hand guides your head upwards so your lips can meet, savoring you with his full intent, wetting your mouth with the drip of his tongue. When he eases his grip on you, you take the chance to dampen his chin and his jaw, soon reaching for his neck as you lean into the roughness of his beard, settling on the softness of his collarbone. You continue your passage downwards as he continues to brush your hair, his other hand now petting your sinking shoulder, leaving your hand free to fondle his cock in slow but pleasing strokes.

The kisses you leave on his chest are plentiful and dragged until you reach the hollow of his navel when you suddenly feel him grab your hair as his tip brushes against the skin of your throat, a hitched breath leaving his own. You push his member lower so you can begin to kiss the area of his groin, your hand stopping its movements when your chin gets in the way, continuing his pleasure by circling your thumb around his tip. The combination of movements is welcomed as he begins to breathe deeper, both of you quivering with anticipation as you begin to breach the gap between his cock and your mouth, pecking the skin around the base as you wait for instructions.

His thumb caresses your ear in tenderness as he finally speaks. "Use your lips first, darling."

It seems natural to continue to kiss him, your lips landing unhurriedly on his base, his warmth as delightful as the other parts of his skin. But it feels different for him as he takes a deep breath, his fingers curling close to your scalp, urging for more of your touch. You're quick to continue to peck him, leaving a trail of soft kisses along the top of his eager member, stopping before you reach his tantalizing crown.

Unsure how to proceed, you look up at him. You've never seen his eyes so dark, blown with need. The hand on your hair moves, his thumb brushing your lips as he parts them, reaching the inside of your cheek before he swipes the ridge of your salivated tongue, driving it out of your mouth.

"Use your tongue now, missy."

His wet thumb drags against your hair as his hand returns to the back of your head as you move down, both of you anxious to feel the brush of your tongue against his stiffness.

There's nothing gracious when you finally make contact, your taste buds coming alive with the bitterness of his flesh, the hot feeling against your tongue much like the one you felt on your fingers before, the sensation both familiar and new at the same time. You feel resistance against his hardness as you begin to move your tongue in unthoughtful movements, suddenly hungry to stretch it fully to slather as much of him as possible. It must be pleasurable enough for him as it earns his audible approval, his cock twitching underneath the roughness of your tongue, his hand moving with your head as you swirl aimlessly over the length of his shaft.

Your back and forth movements are amateurish, sloppy, crass even, but you hurry them along as you feel his breath hitch, a burning desire building in your own core, holding the base of his cock to hold it closer to your mouth, your other hand squeezing his thigh. You continue to lick him until you finally feel his fingers clasp your shoulder. "Slow down, darling. Easy."

You reduce your tonguing, aiming for a relaxed rhythm that's more attuned to his liking as you hear him grunt deeper and more frequently as his arousal builds. You notice he is particularly sensitive at his tip, his breath hitching further as you lick its underside repeatedly. Before you realize it, the circle of your lips begins to surround his tip as your tongue slides forward, soon taking him deeper into the tightness of your mouth, dragging his flesh along the hunger of your buds.

When a few inches of him are inside you, you feel his hand curl in your hair. "Take it out now, missy." It's the high-pitched breath he gives you when you retract that indicates what he likes, so when his tip touches yours again, you immediately set out to sink him inside you once more until you repeat the motion again.

His hands tighten around your skin and he huffs deeper as you suck around him, your head bobbing to bring him in and out of you, getting him closer and closer to a state of uncontrolled bliss. Somehow, he still has the presence of mind to grab your immobile hand around his base, urging you to pump him as you still work your mouth around him. "That's it, sweetheart." His words are muffled by the prelude of his peak. "Fuck. Don't stop."

As your mouth adapts to the feeling, you begin to ease into your movements, taking him deeper as your mouth waters, your chin soon dripping with excess. As your hand continues its work, you feel your own core swell, needing to slightly graze the seat beneath you to seek some comfort. When you feel none, you begin to rock in the chair, removing your hand from his thigh to your own as you begin to circle your bud. You are so aroused by Arthur's own thrill you're quick to pant yourself, your own moans now engulfing him too as they land on his hot flesh. But they're no match to his, your own pleasure so enticing to him he suddenly gets louder, beginning his ascent into uncontrollable madness.

"It's time."

His words are barely perceptible between his grunts, his muscles flexing and his hands now grabbing you, almost edging on pain as you steady yourself back on the might of his thigh. His release comes quick after that, his member twitching against your cheeks as you finally feel hot fluid reach your tongue, soon flooding the rest of your mouth in depraved novelty, tasting the curious elation of your gratified lover. His spill is bountiful and you're soon fighting back the urge to swallow it, remembering his wish that you spit it out instead.

Once he stops his effusion, it takes him a while to gather composure, his tip still inside you as his grunts overflow, growing quiet with each breath. His hands push you back until you reach the back of the chair, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet noise, dripping with his white release, a few drops landing heated on your thigh. Still overwhelmed with ecstasy, he reaches for the glass by his side before his thumb returns to your lips, either to wipe his seed off of them or to rub it on them more evenly. He then brings the glass right to them.

"Spit, darling."

You gather most of the slick around your mouth before you spit, his remnants still coating much of your insides as it mixes with your saliva. The milky fluid drips into his glass like molasses and he puts it away once he's satisfied with the outcome. His hand returns to your jaw, giving you a few pats before he unexpectedly leans in, taking your wet lips into his as he begins to taste himself on you.

"You did so well, missy." His eyes lock into yours, your hands clutching his hips as you hear his praise. "Such a good girl for me." Your lips smack with the sound of wetness. "Let me take care of you now."

You regret when he leaves your lips, moving backward as he reaches for your hands, removing them from him before his feet hit the ground. He stands as he looks down at you, giving you an extra peck before he places his hands at your waist, pressing your legs to wrap them around his torso, lifting you up without delay. He places you down on the side of the table where he sat, the wood still warm from his own thighs, his hands then moving under your skirt, pulling your bloomers all the way down.

"Take the rest off, darling. I wanna see you."

You're quickly naked for him, your bare bottom close to the edge of the table as he begins to dowse you with wet kisses, from your lips to your breasts to your navel, his movements hurried as you already groan from built-up arousal. When he returns to take one of your nipples into his mouth, you suddenly whine with vexation. "Arthur, please!"

He looks worriedly at you as you lead one of his hands to your core, showing him how wet you are for him, closing your legs around his hand when he begins to rub your clit. "It's ok, sweetheart. I got you."

Arthur gets on his knees in a swift determined motion, his hands stretching your legs open so he can place his head between them. He wraps his arms around your thighs, inching you closer to the edge of the table so he can have full entry to your needy core.

You’re already a slobbering mess when his tongue begins to lavish between your swollen lips, tightly bracing your thighs to hold you steady. You let out deep repressed grunts, your back falling restless against the table as he begins to suck you mercilessly, returning the favor of devouring your flesh, prying delectable pleasure from you. Eating you as famished as he ate his dinner right on the same side of the table.

You’re a sight to see if anyone were to walk into your yard. With the windows open, curtains swaying with the night breeze, the lamps illuminating the sinful romp unfolding inside. You’re splayed on the table, breast bouncing with each panted scream you let out, hands clutched around his hair, thighs and back undulating around him. His face is covered in your cunt, his arms flexed to hold you, his knees rocking against the floor where he kneels. The most sinful act unfolding at the place where you're supposed to say grace, not receive it.

The work of his tongue is overwhelming as you quickly reach the point of no return, further intensified when he teases a finger at your entrance. When it's finally curled inside, you begin to lose control, your unrestrained cries only stifled by the walls, your eyes closing shut in blinding gratification. Your hands leave his hair, flailing around to find some solace, finding none. Instead, you knock down Arthur's glass, his release spilling on the floor below as the crystal breaks. Soon after that, you break too.

Your climax is as ruthless as your journey there, prolonged by his unrelenting need to keep you writhing under his tongue, feeling your whole body quake for him. Your mutual moans of gratification coalesce into a salacious tune that is only broken when you beg for mercy. "Arthur!"

He looks straight into your eyes before he removes himself from between your legs, raising from his position to move to your side, leaning down to kiss you softly, caressing your arms as he attempts to bring you down from your delirium.

It takes a while for you to still, your legs still trembling as they arch on the table, your core still exposed to the breeze coming in, the coarse wood suddenly a nuisance against your bare skin. Arthur somehow manages to read your mind, sitting back on his chair before he pulls you down onto his lap again, resting your spent head on one of his shoulders, soothing your sweaty back as your breaths even again. You stay like that for a while and, when you move, you feel your skin sticky against his, like you're not meant to be pulled apart.

"I think we need another bath." You croon against his ear before you dare to press your lips against his beard.

"Mhm, I guess so." His fingers attempt to comb your damp hair. "You gonna leave those pretty lips of yours with me this time?"

It takes all your strength to pull your head back to see his glowing eyes again, his question still adrift in them. "Maybe I'll leave all of me instead. How about that?"

"Oh? You will?" His kiss tells you what you want to hear, his tongue soon prodding yours as he breathes you in. He breaks when he is satisfied, bringing his thumb once more to the cushion of your bottom lip. "Gonna have to clean the mess I made in you then. Leave you as pretty as I found you."

You nod, your smile widening as you remember the taste of him. But something behind him catches your eye as you look over his shoulder, seeing a wet splatter across your dining room floor. "You're gonna have to clean my floor too, mister."

It's the way he laughs, his joy reverberating on your chest, his hands moving gently along your curves, his hips jiggling you with contentment, his lips stretching into an undisturbed smile, his eyes looking into yours with fearless passion. It's the way he asked if you could please him as he wanted, the way he gave you the same thing in return. It's the way he holds you close after making you feel so euphoric. It's the way he makes you realize you're deeply in love.

----

It was too good to be true. The boundless joy Arthur's given you was bound to break, sooner or later. You'd just hoped it'd be later.

Fetching mail at the Valentine station was always dreadful, your heart always heavy as you climbed the wooden stairs, as you stared at the mustache of the station attendant, waiting for your loathed turn. You'd ache at the sight of another letter from your miserable husband, promising his eventual return, notifying you of a new deposit, defacing written words of inexistent love.

But this time the letter is different, not the usual sandy stationary he uses. Instead, it's a pristine white envelope and the handwritten address tells you immediately who it's from. Your Aunt Caroline always had the prettiest penmanship.

Your feet lead you unconsciously to the nearest bench, sitting down just as you pry open the envelope, smiling as you see your aunt's good wishes. I hope this letter finds you in unbridled joy, my dear. It really does.

Her pleasantries are plentiful as she details her new life in Saint Denis and how much it has aided your uncle's health, who seems much improved with the change of scenery. The heat was bothersome at first but now it seems to suit them quite well. Their social calendar has kept them busy as they have adapted to the city's high society, their connections growing with their substantial wealth. They seem to only want for one thing: the treasured company of their favorite and only niece.

She formally asks you to go visit them in Saint Denis, knowing well that your husband remains in Annesburg while you continue your simple solitary life in New Hanover. The invitation is endearing and for a moment you relish the idea of visiting your beloved aunt and uncle, the people who raised you after your parents passed. Spending a few weeks with them should be invigorating as they spoil you with their genuine affection, even if they might insist on parading you around in uncomfortable dresses at pretentious dinner parties and soirées. After months of solitude, it might be bearable, enjoyable even.

But then you remember Arthur. You suddenly feel the ghost of his hands on your hips, his lips on your neck, his thighs on your own, his breath hot on your ear as he tells you how much he wants you. The thrilling memories of the past few months come flooding in and suddenly your heart breaks at the thought of leaving him, the only lover who's ever treated you right. It'd be foolish to do him wrong.

But then you read more of the letter and your heart breaks even more.

I have written to your dear husband Stanley regarding your visit to Saint Denis. He has informed me that he would like to come see you once you are settled with us, requesting new correspondence once you have arrived. He will make his traveling arrangements then.

The trip is suddenly surrounded with gloom at the mention of seeing your husband, his presence the last thing you need back in your life. Your knee begins to shake involuntarily, the heel clicking and echoing around the unusually quiet train station. The notion of leaving Arthur to return to that scoundrel is revolting, like running from a safe haven to go chase unruly tornados.

But then you read your aunt's following paragraph and you realize you have no other choice.

I really do hope you get to join us here for a time. If not for my sake, at least for your uncle, who seems to yearn to hold his little girl in his arms again. He speaks so fondly of you every day. I'd be jealous if I didn't regard you with the same consideration. Perhaps you'd like to oblige the wishes of a sentimental old couple while you still can. I've never known you to be unkind. You were always the light in your woeful lives. I hope you get to be it once more.

And in that moment you realize your love for them is much bigger than your resentment for your husband. Or your passion for Arthur.

I look forward to seeing your sweet smile again, the one you happily got from your sweet mother. Wishing you were here already, Your Aunt Caroline

You take a deep breath as a sound grabs your attention. It's a little boy sitting down on the bench in front of you, his mother urging him to behave as they wait for the next train. Her caring hand is on his shoulder, petting him lovingly as he calms down, his feet hovering impatiently above the floor. He must be the age you were when your aunt and uncle went to pick you up and took you from the only life you knew, petting you lovingly on the shoulder too.

You rise from your seat, your mind made up as you walk to the station attendant so you can send a letter to begin preparing for your journey to Saint Denis.

You just hope Arthur Morgan forgives you.

----

It's a hot afternoon when you return home, your mare Amber back in the shade of your stable, your skirt brown on the brim from the Valentine mud as you tread up the stairs onto your porch. You're wondering how you might survive the Saint Denis heat when you see a bouquet of fresh flowers resting on your windowsill, begging to be primed on your prettiest vase. There is a note stuck on the closed door, a ripped page from a journal.

Sorry I missed you. A. M.

It saddens you to see Arthur was here and you weren't, unable to receive his eager kisses and his gentle embrace as you tell him how much you like the flowers. Your heart aches knowing that you may not have many chances to do it again.

Upon much reflection, your decision still seems sound as you think of the joy you'll give your uncle as he gets to hug you again, letting you win at cards when he thinks you can't tell. Your aunt will welcome you with her kind and trustful face as she begins her attempts to get you to eat as much as she can, her cakes as soft as the pillows where you'll sleep. It'll be heaven to be with them again.

But you can't shake Arthur from your mind. To pause your love affair seems crass, both to him and to you, especially now that you know each other so well. You can't even bear to think of ending it all together, a thought so cruel it robs most of your night's sleep. When you somehow sleep a wink, you wake up exhausted, dreading the moment you have to tell Arthur the news of you leaving him. Either for now or for good.

It's not surprising he comes to you in the afternoon, barely a day after he missed you, desperate to see you again. He doesn't bring you anything, just the sweet return of his arms and the hunger of his lips, his presence so comforting it makes you swoon with elation. Somehow your doubts dissolve when you feel him breathing you in.

His longing for you is clear as he leaves his saddle quicker than usual, kissing you hurriedly, not even bothering to lead his horse Titus to the stable, hitching him to your porch instead. When he returns to kiss you again, you see why. His pants are tented much more than usual for this time of day.

When your hips meet, his eagerness brushes directly on your waist but he has the need to tell you himself. "Sweetheart, really need you right now."

You toy with the seam of his pants, threatening to unbutton him right then and there. "Missed me, did you?"

"You know I did." He reaches for your hand, urging you to lower it, soon palming his growing arousal over the fabric of his jeans. He kisses you sloppily, shameless lust running through his veins. "Need you now, missy." His breath hitches as your fingers work your magic. "Needed you yesterday too. I can't wait any longer, sweetheart."

You suddenly stop your teasing, placing your hands on his shoulders so you can whisper close in his ear. "Inside."

You watch his confused expression for a moment before you grab him by the hand, walking him up the porch as you lead him inside to the living room, quickly beginning to undress as you sit on your davenport, your boots off as you throw them across the floor. You've never seen Arthur undress this fast, his cock is in his hand as you still work the buttons on your blouse, stroking himself as he watches you toss the remaining clothes.

His breath is already heavy when he settles on the davenport next to you, guiding you onto his lap before he kisses you deeply, once, twice, thrice. His hands run over your body to warm you up, tantalizing your skin with the sweet touch of passion before his fingers focus on your nipples, riling you up for what's to come. He then speeds up his usual slow approach as he begins to circle your clit, his member anxious as it falls on your thigh and you begin to stroke it.

Arthur begins to moan with built-up arousal and you see him getting more impatient by the minute, clutching one of your hips to try to contain himself, hoping he lasts long enough to sink inside you. One of his fingers enters you, trying to open you up for him so you can quench his intolerable ache. Two fingers are inside you when he finally admits defeat. "Missy, I- I need to-"

"Get inside me, Arthur."

He lets out a grunt before you feel his hands at your waist, clasping you tightly before he picks you up with all of his brute force, laying you down on the sofa underneath him, spreading your legs apart so he can place himself in the middle. His breath is loud and frantic as he brings a hand to his beading member, brushing it up and down your slit until he finally gives in and enters you, quicker than either of you had hoped, the feeling strained until you adjust to him, moaning into the thick air around you as he begins to move inside you.

His hands grab your thighs forcefully as he begins to slam himself against you, chasing a high that intensifies with each thrust. Even as he fills you to the hilt, he craves more, trying to deepen himself within you until he disappears completely. Unsatisfied, he places the back of your knees on his shoulders, bending you to his will as your thighs press against his chest, your knees on his shoulders, his face lowered against yours as he finally gets you in the angle he was craving.

Folded underneath his greed, succumbed to his complete will and desire, you feel every muscle in your body come alive with passion, blinding pleasure devouring your every sense in the most salacious position he's had you yet. Face to face in reciprocal vigorous lust, it's not long until both of you are consumed by ravenous sensations of ecstasy and release, unsure of how long you stare into each other's eyes before you both still in satisfaction, both breathing frantically as he rests his foreheads against yours. It takes a few moments before either of you ease on the tight grip you have on each other's flesh, your fingers only easing when your lips wrap in delightful gratitude.

When the time comes for unfurling yourselves, your knees crack from the stretch, your muscles aching with the strain of your stance. Arthur helps you onto his lap as he sits, rubbing pleasingly as he sees you struggle to extend your legs. After a few minutes, you're well enough to head inside to your vanity and begin to wash yourself, his seed sticky as it cools on your stomach. When you finish, you realize you still have to tell him you're leaving, a derangement after the proximity you just shared.

Your skin is still damp when you return to the living room in your nakedness, leaning against the wall as you watch Arthur collect his clothes from the floor, then sitting down once his pants are buttoned, all the while staring back at you.

"Seems I can't enough of you, can't I?" His forehead is still aglow with sweat, his locks darker from the exertion, contentment painting his face as he smiles. But your stomach turns violently.

Your face must show your worry as he suddenly frowns. "What's wrong?"

"We need to talk."

He instinctively holds out his hand for you to take, directing you to join him as he motions you to sit by his side.

And then you tell him.

----

Two weeks are all you have left until your trip to Saint Denis. The letter you get from your aunt a few days later confirms that a hired carriage will take you to the city a week from Friday, your departure from Valentine scheduled early in the morning so you may travel in the comfort and security of the daylight, the trip already paid by your eager aunt and uncle. You are to make use of the remaining time to put your affairs in order. But only one in particular matters.

Arthur took the news of your trip better than you expected. At least initially. He understood your need to take the trip from the moment you told him, encouraging you to do what is necessary to be a good niece. But you could see he was pained when you told him you weren't sure how long you'd be gone, that the trip might take you away from him for several weeks, months even. He looked at you with his disappointed opulent eyes, swallowing hard at the notion of losing you, even if temporarily. Yet his words were nothing if not supportive and unfazed, the hands on your hips claiming you could go.

But it is the way he lingers behind every day until your trip that tells you just how much he's dreading to see you leave. The first few days he leaves for his work in the morning, coming back at night to spend the evening with you. But the closer to the day, the more he delays his departure and hurries his arrival. One day he doesn't even leave at all, staying with you until the time comes to escort you to Valentine.

His presence is more than welcomed as your efforts to close down your small property pile on. He helps you take your chickens to a friendly farmer up north, then boarding up the coop so no wild animals nest there. He mends part of the fence that surrounds your homestead, ensuring it's tall enough so no one can break in while you're gone. He fixes the bent hinges on your front door, so it may close safely and hold until you return to open it. He helps you eat most of the perishable food you still have and helps you sell the rest of it so it doesn't spoil. He offers to help you pack, but he mostly just sits on the bed as he watches you pack your clothes, his sight watching your every move and every fold.

He mostly keeps his hands busy with work until he gets to put them on you, holding you so close to him you think you'll bruise and your aunt's maids will notice when they help you dress. He takes you everywhere he can. On your bed, on your sofa, on your stable, on your dining table again. On the floor of the kitchen when you were stubborn enough to attempt to clean up one night. On the back of your wagon after you sold your remaining supplies in Valentine.

"Someone will see us, Arthur." You whispered as you tried desperately not to come apart.

"Let them,” he dared as he sank inside you again, his own limit verging forward. "Let them see how pretty you are for me."

----

The last day is more emotional than you imagined. None of you speak much, the palpable tension hanging in the air like uninvited mist. You finish packing your bags, tidying up the rest of the house so you can find everything in its place when you return. Arthur is absent most of the day but you figure he must be close by as Titus remains at the stable. You're unsure of what he's doing but you realize how upset he must be if he doesn't even want to be with you. The soup you serve for lunch is as cold as the look he gives you, a man clearly dreading the change about to come.

Your chores are finished as the afternoon begins to unwind, the whole time dreadful as you both loathe the upcoming goodbye. Arthur shows up when you finish placing your bags on the porch, offering to hoist them up to the wagon now led by your mare Amber. You'll leave her to the care of the Valentine farrier until you return.

A bittersweet feeling invades you when you walk through your house one last time before you leave, making sure your windows are closed and the lamps are put out. Every room is flooded with memories of the irresistible time you've had with Arthur, one that is so regretfully about to end. You close the door on your now darkened house and you wonder how different everything will be when you open it again.

Despite his obvious sorrow, Arthur helps you climb the wagon, caressing your elbow once you're settled. "I'll come round here every once in a while. Make sure it remains closed."

His promise to guard your home is comforting and you smile at him, both as a thank you and as a hint to kiss you. But he shies away and mounts Titus instead, leading you out of your yard and into the road of a reality where your dazzling affair ceases to be.

The ride to Valentine is mostly silent, or at least one-sided as you attempt to tell him of your aunt and uncle's burgeoning life in Saint Denis. You barely get a response out of him, his short replies muffled by the raucous of the wheels of the wagon. You're almost at your destination when he utters his most verbose reply yet.

"Those rich folk in Saint Denis… Don't let them change you."

"I won't."

He nods his head swiftly at your affirmation, the leather of his hat shining with the last rays of the parting sun.

It's dusk when the muddy trails of Valentine slow down your wagon, making the trip to the hotel vexing. Arthur drops off your bags at your assigned room before you both head to the farrier, where you woefully say goodbye to Amber. You leave with the farrier's word that he'll take good care of her and you believe him as he begins to count the money you pay him in advance for his service.

Arthur invites you for dinner at the saloon before you retire to the hotel, paying for both your meals despite your insistence to do so. The ambiance is rather noisy as the pianist plays away and the town's drunkards begin to gather at the bar. Both of you eat quickly to leave before the unavoidable ruckus of the night begins.

When the door of your hotel room closes, both of your spirits are solemn and hushed, the tension of the day dragging inside, festering along with the dread of saying goodbye. Arthur stands by the door unlatching his belt before he sits on a chair, watching as you pretend to busy yourself with arranging the luggage, waiting for word on what to do next. You feel his eyes follow your every move, shifting in his seat as he tries to gather the courage to say something. But the impasse drags on as you keep avoiding him, afraid that his heartbroken gaze might break you. You fiddle with the dress you plan on wearing tomorrow, kneeling down on the floor as the tension between you grows to a suffocating standstill, neither of you prepared to end the affair between you.

After a moment that seems to last forever, you feel Arthur’s heavy feet on the floor as he moves towards you, his knees then sinking next to yours on the floor, his hands grabbing you by the hips, his chest warm against the curve of your back. Instead of speaking a single word, his lips find the crook of your neck, getting it wet with the start of his goodbye. You lean back into him to welcome his touch as you realize this is the start of what could be the last time he holds you like you belong together.

His lips busy themselves with whatever part of your skin they can find as you feel his hands roam among your peaks and your valleys, ruffling the cloth that keeps him from kissing the rest of your body. You clutch the side of his thighs as you open yourself to his advances, your head falling on his shoulder as his hands work their way south to pull up your skirt. A stifled groan leaves your throat when he glides through the inside of your legs, warming you up to the sin about to come.

Instead of leaving your thighs, his hands tighten around them, pulling you closer to him as he plants a hungry kiss at your collarbone, now grinding himself against your skirt, your nails clawing at his jeans. You’re lost in the euphoria of the moment as his arms flex and he suddenly picks you up from the ground, your legs going limp as you surrender to his brute tender force.

Before you know it he has you spreadeagled on the bed as he rises above you, his fingers gripping your waistband to remove your skirt in one swoop, returning again to remove your bloomers, the cold of the room hitting as your core and your wetness are exposed. Arthur looms, watching you for a moment before he gets on his knees again to begin kissing your inner thighs, staying on them for longer than you wish, hungry to be lavished but still dreading the departure. Impatient, you grab his hair with force to lead him to your center and he soon wraps his lips around your own, prying from you unadulterated bliss like always.

You are not sure if it’s because you are parting, or if it’s because he knows you so well by now, but your release comes faster than usual, leaving you a whimpering fool at the foot of the bed. Your feet steady on the edge of the mattress, your legs still shaking as you watch Arthur through them. He rises and undresses, his lips still shining with the taste of your cunt. He’s soon naked before you, working his arousal as your chest tries to settle, a futile effort as you realize you’ll soon be panting again.

The sweat still damps your brow when your eyes meet in tandem, the moment before either of you acts on the urge to surrender against each other. His throat contracts with the itch of desire as his hand still works, his feet bringing him closer to the bed. You unbutton the frivolity of your shirt, stripping yourself for him and exposing your breasts just as you expose your yearning for him. Your sore legs extend as you scooch higher into the bed, leaving them open for Arthur to ravish you.

Your eyes never part as he climbs the bed, his hands coming to caress your naked body as he pleases, starting on your knees, your thighs, your waist, your breasts. Like he’s trying to imprint in his mind what it feels like to touch you. His thumb travels up your throat with his usual softness, undercut only by the roughness of his calloused skin. He traces your jaw a few times before he dares to finally bend down to kiss you like it’s the first time. Or maybe the last.

Everything that happens next is both too slow and too fast at the same time as you begin to blend together. It’s both a bittersweet goodbye and an overjoyed gratitude for your time together. The perfect love affair that may never come again.

His kisses turn hungry but deep and slow, his body now overbearing you with the crushing weight of losing him, the only man that has ever made love to you rather than possess you. Your hands pull him closer to you, roaming his physique for a possible way to make him fused into you so you can never let him go. But there is still a part of you that aches for him to go deeper.

His full size is hot rubbing against your stomach, tantalizing you with the remaining part of him he still has to give you. You moan into him as his tongue delights with yours, your hips undulating against each other, rocking the flame of hot desire running through you both, itching to burn into ashes. Your hand slides down from his chiseled back, entering the tight space between you, soon finding a way to the hard pulse of his member. Your fingers resume his efforts to excite him, his mouth opening in surprise as it still wraps around yours, trying to swallow you as he tries to contain his elation. Your hand is steady, enough to get him to open his eyes so he can see yours, begging him to slide down so he can enter you once more.

His strong hands are quick to grab the thickness of your thighs, placing them beside his hips as he positions himself between them, his erection now pressed against the lips he has kissed countless times in the past months. He rubs himself against your folds, tantalizing you with the depth of ecstasy your whole soul desires, eager to feel him pulse inside you, a feeling to be recalled once you're back on your own. His hands settle close to your buttocks as he angles himself down, prodding your entrance with eagerness in his proud but roaming eyes.

The stretch is pondered as usual, perhaps even slower as somehow you feel it more achingly, your body coming alive with the tip of his carnality, soon devoured by breathlessness as he settles deep within you. His chest is high above yours before he moves to close the gap, his lungs soon reverberating atop your breasts, his hands now holding onto your shoulders to finish his burial. A somber pause follows as you look into each other's eyes, closer than two bodies could ever be, the silence only broken by the beating of aching hearts, now realizing the time has come to end their unwanted goodbye.

The sad realization is only broken by your mutual restlessness, the will to finish what you started. The first roll of Arthur's hip comes as natural as the tears forming in your eyes, which manage to escape after a few more of his thrusts. As he picks up the pace, somehow holding you in his arms as you hold him in yours, the sex seems miraculously paced, not too fast so you can’t savor it, not too slow that you can’t quiver with every move. The perfect farewell of an imperfect romance.

The bittersweet rhapsody is only broken when Arthur suddenly speaks.

"Come back to me, missy." Another crash of your hips. "Come back to me."

The weight of his words is not lost even as you start to lose control. In fact, they seem to unravel you faster as you realize his desire for you runs as deep as yours for him. His complete surrender to worship your body and his fixed gaze on you tells you he means it. He keeps his tempo steady to inch you closer and closer to another heavenly release, struggling hard to contain his own. You watch as his muscles flex in restraint, his eyes adamant to watch you unfold into expected bliss, his member repeatedly crashing into your sensitive spot. You try to savor the high as much as you can, wishing it could go on forever, but it becomes unbearable to hold it in. You have no choice but to surrender to Arthur’s parting wish to see you come for him.

You hope that one day you’ll be able to grant him his wish to come back.

----

Valentine grows incredibly quiet once the noise from the saloon quiets down, the night perfectly still for a few hours before the sun breaks, the perfect lullaby to fall asleep. But when the dawn comes, the racket on the street below your hotel window gradually wakes you up as you lie on your side of the bed. The other side is empty.

Arthur’s belongings are gone, his clothes no longer crumpled by the foot of the bed, his gun belt no longer hung by the door. But his aroma lingers behind and you inch closer to his pillow to bury your nose in it. The image of him reaching his peak flashes in your mind, his mouth agape, his eyes strained. You feel the faint sensation of his cock still buried inside you, your walls clenching at the memory. The sheets are stained with his sweat, which left behind a musky smell, now the only evidence of his passion for you during the night. He held you in his arms for a long while after your romp, but neither of you uttered a word, knowing full well there was no better way to say goodbye. You looked into his piercing longing eyes before you fell asleep to the lulling of your quiet valentine.

His absence this morning tells you how hard this is for him. He’d rather abandon a comfortable bed with your naked body than watch you leave, unsure if you’re ever returning to your side of the bed. You can’t tell how he slipped out so quietly, his footsteps are always as heavy as his build. Perhaps he tiptoed until he left the room, scared he’d beg you to stay if he saw you awake. Or maybe the sex left you so satiated your sleep was deeper than his escape, maybe clanging his boots loudly on the floor in the hopes that he’d wake you.

You want nothing else but to seclude yourself under the covers, shielded from the outer world with nothing but the memories of Arthur to keep you company. But by the way the sun begins to shine you can tell it must be a little before seven, so you must not have much time before you are to be ready. You stay still for a few more minutes, his pillow still underneath you, the duvet entangled on your legs as if they were his own. His words still ring in your ears. Come back to me.

Getting dressed is easy even if the dress is not, something more formal so you can enter Saint Denis in a more reputable fashion. Your aunt ought to love the paleness of its blue. It can’t take you more than half an hour to have everything ready, your luggage and your hat ready to put on by the door. You figure you still have a while before your carriage arrives. You give in to the craving of laying back down on the bed, thinking of him right where he had you. You don’t remember closing your eyes when a knock on the door rouses you and you’re still yawning as you go down the stairs, your last piece of luggage being carried by your driver. The smell of Valentine hits your nose as soon as you step outside and you become fully awake.

The carriage is small but very comfortable, the cushions soft but sturdy enough for a long voyage. Since you’ll be traveling alone, there’s room enough to stretch your legs and sleep sideways. But only after the stink of the town stays behind. For now, you think you’ll read the novel that has sat by your nightstand for the past months, untouched since the day a stranger stole an apple from your yard.

As soon as the carriage starts moving you know you’re not gonna be able to read, the words soon becoming blurry by the sway of the wagon. You look outside the window as the farrier comes into view and you hope to get a glimpse of your mare Amber but all you see are brown and black horses inside. She must be kept on the other side of the stable. The Valentine mud gets stickier as the road continues, but the buildings get scarcer and the smell quells once you cross the railroad track.

Nothing but thoughts sit with you inside the car. Thoughts of your aunt and uncle and their faces when they see you arrive, the sweet tender moments you’ll have in the upcoming weeks. Thoughts of a classier life in Saint Denis and how much you’ll miss the perfect solitude of your cabin, the magical stillness of the nature that surrounds it. Thoughts of your husband and the disgust that comes with them, a bitter ache that you might see him again, a painful reminder of a loveless marriage that you’d like to escape.

But more than any other thoughts, thoughts of Arthur. Thoughts of the months you have spent together crowd your every inch as you recall moments you’ve shared, embraces you’ve exchanged, kisses you’ve borrowed, passion you’ve stolen. A lover you’ve earned. He has made you come alive again and again and suddenly it hits you how vital he has been in your life. It’s no longer a question of how much you’ll miss him but how much it’ll hurt to be apart from him. It’s a question of how long your heart will ache while the muscles of your body still recall the respite of his healing touch. Will it be long enough for you to reach Saint Denis? Will you make it there and still feel him on you? Are you doomed to feel him forever? Has the memory of his lips turned into unending despair? The New Haven scenery stretches out before you but your eyes see a blank veil as the wheels of your mind turn in fallen sorrow, crippling thoughts consuming you, setting you on a ride to remember.

The ruminating of your mind is broken when the carriage suddenly slows, stalling when two men on horseback cross the intersecting road. You look out to the right side window and see the edge of the woods. A dead tree stands out, half broken as it lays snapped in half on the ground. The gentlemen emerge from view as they make their way past the carriage. The first is a sullen man, his face covered in deep scars that make him even more menacing. The second is Arthur Morgan.

It’s as if he materializes from your thoughts, as if he knew you needed to see him again. You try hard not to blink for fear he’ll scurry from you again. He slows his horse steadily, his eyes never leaving yours once he finds them, his chest immobile despite the breath he takes as he watches you pass, his leather gloves tightening the grip on the reins. In a few microseconds you feel your throat close and your hands going limp, your body and your soul dumbstruck by the mere sight of your lover.

You both remain still as you watch each other pass, frozen by the flames of passion still burning between you. A few seconds feel like hours as the carriage turns on the road, until suddenly his figure disappears from your window. You snap, swiftly turning your head to look out of the back window, your knees steady to hold you in position as you stare at him once more. His position has moved to watch you leave, his own horse wondering whether he should follow behind you.

But it’s his eyes. His unyielding radiant eyes strike you mad, his irises fixed on your own like he’s trying to tell you something.

Something only you can decipher. Something only you can fulfill.

Come back to me, missy.

Come back to me.

A/N: The next chapter should be out soon enough. It has been written in my head for months now. It is after all, the reason why I made this fic in the first place…

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan smut #goodmorgan #thank you all to those who have given me feedback hoping for more #it has helped me continue :)

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kyra45 · 1 year ago

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Donation scams

For pet donation scam information, go here.

What is a donation scam? - This kind of scam occurs when someone is asking for money but isn’t being genuine/honest for why they need it and upon closer inspection you’ll often find out their fundraiser information is stolen from someone else who needs support. For example, the text itself would pull up someone else’s fundraiser that’s posted on another site such as Facebook or Gofundme with names that don’t match up or certain details edited out or added from something else entirely. In a sense, the post doesn’t make much sense or seems to be mashed together from other places. These are scams because money given to them isn’t going towards their goal and also not going to the one who needs it.

Was there an ask sent? - Asks for these scams are varied with no common theme but they usually seem poorly worded and link you to their post which may be pinned. Usually they’ll be sent immediately after following you with no prior interaction even when they call you their friend. Sometimes they’ll say they see you share mutual aid posts too but that’s generally just some excuse they’ll use so you won’t be too suspicious of them. Legit people be warned: Spamming these asks will get people suspicious of you and asking you questions instead. If someone tells you to please limit them, it’s advised you try to. Don’t send these asks to anyone who has stated they don’t like them.

Is the account new? - Another common thing to check is the posting date of the posts on the blog. An account with a massive amount of posts dating across many years is generally a legitimate person if they have several original posts and overall appear to be a person. Unfortunately, scammers tend to backdate posts to make their blogs look older then they may be but rarely have that many original posts. By turning on timestamps, you can see the original posting date in other notes if they have shared posts. Usually the backdated posts are only a few days old but have been made to look years old. What is post backdating? Please refer to this post.

Does the story make sense? - Basically, how well does the story they give sound and does the information it has seem reasonable. Is there anything in it that seems too far fetched to be applicable to a situation? Such as stating they need money for someone’s funeral but the images they supply seem to be photoshopped. Or they have their name on a paper but there seems to be a filter over it which may be obscuring minor details from the original unedited image. You may notice the story also doesn’t give much information out that would be anything important like if a law applies to their situation but they don’t supply a general idea of what country their in. Sometimes the story changes after a few days too.

What else should you do? - If you still can’t figure out if someone’s legitimate, then you may try to nicely ask them questions related to their situation. These questions don’t have to be anything needing personal information; It can request clarity about something your unsure of or further explanation regarding a detail that doesn’t seem to make much sense overall. Most people don’t mind answering these questions as long as your being reasonable and friendly. Most usually will answer you. Unless they ignore you.

What if it is a scam? - Once you have gathered enough resources to confirm the post is by a scam account, it’s necessary to compile it into one place then make a post showing it or show them what you found as well. The scammer will most likely get really angry and deny your evidence and then block you and continue scamming people. Unfortunately it’s suggested to post the information yourself before confronting scam accounts.

Other stuff to look out for? - Asks being spammed; Mass tagging accounts who share mutual aid posts; Replies/reblogs are missing; Harassing people who proved they are scamming

How to report these accounts? - Report -> Something Else -> Illegal content or use -> Phishing

—

If you like this guide, feel free to check out my blog as I report on these scams nearly daily among other kinds of scams that I post about. If you like my hobby, feel free to drop some pocket change as thanks! However, all I really want you to do is share this post to help me bring awareness of tumblr scams. Send it to people who might not know what a donation scam is or link to it in posts you make! Thanks. Hope this information is helpful!

#scam #donation scam #how to spot a scam blog #long post #longpost

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ladyniniane · 13 days ago

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The worst Greek mythology retelling?

Unless you live in a cave (lucky you), you can't have escaped the wave of Greek mythology retellings. Some are bad, some are good and most of them are mediocre. Among those I've read, one was particularly bad and cringe and we are going to dissect it today.

PSA: As you can see, I didn't include the book's title in the post, nor use specific tags. This post is primarily aimed at me and my mutuals. If you disagree, feel free to block me and mask my username. You're the master of your ship and the only one who can curate your internet experience. Rude comments will be sent to the Tartarus blocked. And I mean, you aren't going to change my mind anyway so don't bother trying😎.

Now that we are done, let me introduce you to this book.

I already see some of you in the back rows being like "But Niniane, why did you bother with this? It's obviously going to be bad!". Well, sometimes I need things that are light and easy to read. Everyone needs to turn their brain off from time to time.

And besides, it looked inoffensive. The idea of modern women being isekaied during the Trojan War is fun. As a writer and enjoyer of OC fanfics, I absolutely love new takes and dynamics with existing characters.

Except that...it wasn't fun at all! Let's dive! And I hope you're prepared because it's gonna be a ride.

-So it starts with the goddesses being fed up with the Trojan War and male egos (Lego des Zhommes if you're French). They decide to find a way to stop the war. So far, so good.

-And their solution is to...send modern women back in time. Yeah, because they think that ancient-era women are too weak and meek. Only independent modern women will be able to handle those strong warriors:

"modern mortal women are different from ancient women [...] they're independent and smart and not used to bowing down and taking orders [...] maidens from the ancient world are not equipped to handle such a man, but I know that modern mortal women are different ---stronger, smarter, more independent."

Yes, you've read correctly.

First of all, it reeks of victim-blaming. If the Trojan women had been more assertive, they could have stopped this. It could have prevented them from being raped and enslaved! They just had to lean in and...Stop, stop. And I'm sorry but those ancient women are more equipped with dealing with that sort of men because they live with them every day. Idk the goddesses could have just...empowered the Trojan women so they could resist? Send the Amazons to help (with more success than in the original myths)? Give them a safe place where they could be protected?

-So, anyway, the heroine is transported in the body of a Trojan princess. But there is another problem. The heroine's friend who transmigrates with her is black. And she gets turned into a white woman. The reason? "Jacqueline’s lovely dark skin would be too hard to explain among the golden Greeks"(sic.). Here, we can see that the author didn't bother doing her research. Many stories regarding the Trojan War have an African king come to the Trojans' aid. The ancient world was furthermore interconnected. So yes, it would have been f*cking easy to explain. And to add insult to injury, our black woman turned white becomes the servant of the main character and is treated as her property.

-So anyway, MC becomes Achilles' war prize. And being a war prize is such a cool and fun life! You can wander around the camp, with no fear of being sexually assaulted!

-MC is a therapist and wants to try to help Achilles. She thus practices hypnosis on him and decides to have sex with him while he's still in that state. So, she basically rapes him. The worst thing: she knows it's wrong, but she does it anyway and she isn't sorry.

-Then, Achilles tells the MC that he has frequent bouts of berserk rage and that he even raped a woman. But he didn't mean to do it. Poor meow meow.

Needless to say, I stopped here. This wasn't fun, this was downright insensitive. The ending is predictable: MC ends up with Achilles and MC's best friend with Patroclus because no one can stay single!

Anyway, that was, imo, the worst Greek mythology retelling.

#book thoughts #livres #i wanted to have fun today

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shadowfoxsilver · 7 months ago

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How many scams are on tumblr? A lot, actually! Much like other social media platforms, tumblr is also home to accounts who only joined to get money off people via stealing content from other websites. This can range from various sources sometimes even private ones that are not as easy to locate! Even when trying to locate the real fundraising post that they took from, you don’t often easily find it if it wasn’t publicly posted. These accounts usually try their best to look like a regular tumblr user but there are a few easy ways to tell somthing isn’t right. I’ll explain them below under the readmore.

For short version, a brand new blog asking you for money should be treated with caution since it’s highly unlikely they are a real person needing mutual aid. If they sent you ask after you shared a certain post, it’s probably just a scam. If you are needing mutual aid, please don’t spam asks to users all at once.

If you like this post and found it useful, feel free to use it when you get an ask and also share it to your friends!

For example, these scam accounts often share a few popular trending posts or a few popular tagged posts they find when browsing the ‘For You’ page. These are often accounts who regularly post content that gets several thousand notes in a short span. Usually these posts are constantly then shared by scammers who use them to populate their account with posts of a certain theme or topic that is relevant to what may be going on at a certain time. Occasionally the posts may just be random posts to mix it up a little.

Additionally, the accounts who scam people will have a relatively new account with their first few posts only being a few hours old at best or even a week old otherwise. Keep in mind some accounts may backdate their posts to look older then they really are. For example, a reblog may be dated April 24,2021 but when you use timestamps and check the notes it’s actually dated April 20, 2024. This is a way for scammers to make their posts seem much older than they should be. While this may have a legitimate purpose for writers, it doesn’t really have much of a use outside of that even if someone does it to be funny. If someone catches you backdating posts, it’s better to come clean instead of ignoring the evidence.

At times, these scam accounts also take images off legitimate fundraisers and use them as their own even if a watermark on the image shows it’s been stolen from somewhere else. Scammers will edit these images to make sure locating the original is difficult and then get evasive if you show them the source they got it from. They may even claim that the source stole it from them and that your being mean to them when all you did was provide proof that they don’t own the image their posting and claiming is theirs. These images may range from a veterinarian bill to a hospital bill or images took from news sources about assorted issues going on at that point in time.

Usually, these scam accounts also claim the links they’re using is something it’s not. Or say the link is to a fundraiser, but it’s to something entirely different. Occasionally the link may be made using multiple colors for no real reason so don’t do that of you had the idea to. This isn’t a common thing among scam accounts! But it’s been seen across a few here and there.

Lastly, these scams accounts may pretend to be part of a minority in order to get more sympathy from those who see their accounts. They will also pretend to have some kind of health issue such as claiming they need medicine to stop their lungs from collapsing or medicine to stop their nose from freezing. Usually not much of a common scam attempt, but you’ll usually spot the issue with their claims. Most commonly these scams relate to saying they can’t afford insulin and ask for prices that ,while plausible, can be made cheaper with available resources.

As a bonus point, scammers may yell at you if you call them out so please make sure to take proper care to ensure they can’t do that.

#scam #long post is long #how to spot a scam blog #psa #important info

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fandom-hoarder · 10 months ago

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Ok, so I got an ask for mutual aid. Of course, it's human to want to help someone in need, even if all you can do is reblog their post. But you also don't want to be scammed, or help spread a scam. So you look for clues, or you only reblog your mutuals' aid posts because you at least know they're *real*, or you don't reblog aid posts at all.

So, what are the tells? (I'm not an expert, this is just what I've learned through osmosis.)

Do they follow/interact with you, outside of the mutual aid request?

Is their username weirdly generic?

Does the blog look like a real tumblr user, and not just someone who made a tumblr to ask for aid? How old is it? Is it involved in any fandoms? Does it seem staged?

Does their aid ask and needs description make sense? Is it overly vague, or bogged down with unneeded details?

If you quote-search the body of their aid ask, do you get any similar hits for scams on other sites or under other names?

Does the account for donations look legit?

What do you find when you reverse image search?

So, having received an ask that sounded very much like someone whose mutual aid I would want to support if they're real, but already having two red flags from the jump (not following me and not in my notifications, weird wording and grammar on ask), I endeavored to suss them out.

Screencaps of my adventure under the cut.

Like someone else has said, please don't go harrass this blog. Even if it's a scam, at some point there's a person behind that screen.

So here's the ask.

Red flags: they don't follow me, I don't know them, the ask is long, the grammar and punctuation are bad, word choices are odd or misspelled. These don't mean it's automatically fake, but it looks more like a weird AI than someone using google translate to communicate in English.

So I check their blog.

Their pinned post is this (click to read, it's a longass pic):

I don't take any links yet.

I take a block of their post and check it in google; all I get are snapshots of tumblr reblogs for their aid post. I click the "buy me a coffee" link, and it looks...idk, fine I guess. There's a tumblr logo, but clicking it seems to do nothing. (I'm on mobile)

A quick search of their name on tumblr gives me 2 posts mentioning them spamming this same message to people.

I read the one with the readmore linked here

After reading wannursyafiqah74's post about it, I got on my laptop and went back to casualdonutfire.

Mostly random reblogs; cats and other random reblogs of mostly pics, many with comments that could've/should've been tags, and no actual tags whatsoever. Like set dressing that says, "See? I'm a real person! I'm leaving comments about my reblogs that show I'm not a bot! I interact! I know what I'm I'm reblogging!"

It gives me a creepy vibe. I try google again to see if I can find their presence elsewhere on tumblr. The returns are still all snapshots of their mutual aid post. I open their archive. Ok, their tumblr has archive on...?

There are no fandom-esque posts until the very first reblog, a comment on One Piece fanart on October 18, 2023.

Their first post about needing aid was on November 7, 2023. Nearly the same wording as their pinned post, except they don't mention having a child. Zero specifics on what amount is needed for what or a timeline or anything. Not even anything about Christmas coming up. Tagged generously for trans surgery and other visibility words.

Oh. AND. The buymeacoffee is different. Adela, not Adella.

Then their next post for aid is fresh on January 11, 2024; nearly the same wording, except now there's a daughter and a birthday -- no date for the birthday, though, is there?!

[reblog linked here] If you go to their January 12th reblog and click on the "video proof," it's an audio-only black screen upload to imgur, with no identifying info for what's going on other than what they describe (and it doesn't really sound like what they describe; it sounds like a kid ready for christmas but not disappointed, like idk what more you're supposed to get out of it)

Then I clicked on their buymeacoffee link and noticed something. When I hovered my mouse over the tumblr symbol under their blurb, the link embedded there showed up at the bottom of my screen. And it was NOT casualdonutfire.

It was deepeagletimetravel. And, of course, it's a nuked tumblr. Hence doing NOTHING for me on mobile.

So I went to google again!

And lo, what do I find in those lurking reblogs?

ANOTHER MUTUAL AID POST IN EVERYONE'S REBLOGS. WITH A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSONA AND STORY. BUT THE SAME WALL OF TEXT + BAD PUNCTUATION STYLE

Using a stock photo for their initial "bio" that seems awfully misleading when you don't say it's a stock photo.

And with stolen/uncredited art by thetransformistress as a thank you.

And, of course, the buymeacoffee page it linked for Ameera (buymeacoffee.com/AmeeradelzC) is blank. 👀 Totallynormal, nothing to see here.

But this makes me think. I go back to that Nov 7 casualdonutfire post, with their first buymeacoffee link to "Adela" (buymeacoffee.com/adelladomil)--

and what do ya know, the tumblr that opens is casualdonutfire!

So did they forget they made an adela account, and change their ameera buymeacoffee account to adella for their new post, forgetting to change the deepeagletimetravel tumblr name?! 🤷‍♀️

#possible scam #scam alert #scam likely #casualdonutfire #deepeagletimetravel

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moeitsu · 6 months ago

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 13 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 2)

Summary: Arthur’s life is ebbing out like the tide. Kate must work quickly and diligently to reverse the cruel hands of fate. She is aided by the help of an unexpected ally.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

TW: Blood, Body fluid. Injury recovery.

A/N: Low-key made myself tear up writing this one. ~7k words.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

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

The journey back stretched on endlessly, each passing moment burdened with the weight of exhaustion and despair. Kate's body grew numb with cold, the blood from Arthur's wound staining her clothes, a chilling reminder of their ordeal. Arthur's once-warm body now felt icy against hers, his warm breath the only sign of life as he rested his head on her shoulder, his panting offered a fragile reassurance.

Exhaustion etched lines of stress and fear on Kate's face, her features reflecting the toll of their harrowing journey. Arthur had succumbed to unconsciousness shortly after they set out, leaving Kate to bear the weight of his limp form behind her. With trembling arms, she struggled to keep him upright, her own strength waning with each passing moment.

Lorena, too, felt the strain of their journey, her steady gait faltering under the weight of fatigue. Belle, injured and weary, added to the challenge, requiring constant coaxing to keep moving forward. Each tug on the reins filled Kate with guilt, knowing the mare's fear and exhaustion mirrored her own. But they couldn't afford to stop, not when time was their most precious commodity.

During their frantic journey back to camp, Kate made the decision to flick off the switch of her emotions. She knew that upon their arrival, she needed to confront the situation with a clear conscience. Despite her fear, she understood the gravity of suppressing her emotions and presenting a facade of strength. This was a matter of life and death, and she couldn't afford to let her trivial feelings interfere.

River had instilled in her the necessity of shutting off her emotions long ago, albeit unintentionally. He had warned her that her empathy would only serve to endanger her life, emphasizing the need to remain cold, unforgiving, and fully present in the moment. Following his advice, Kate embraced this mindset wholeheartedly.

As they burst back into camp, Kate's demeanor was that of someone leading a charge in battle. She disregarded any semblance of decorum, screaming for the others to wake up and rallying them to action. Her urgent cries echoed through the night, disregarding any concern for the late hour. With determination, she guided Lorena directly to Arthur's tent, paying no heed to the camp rules about horses in living quarters.

The first to respond to the commotion was Miss Grimshaw and the other women, their tent positioned adjacent to the camp's entrance. The shock on the old woman's face was palpable as she gasped, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth at the distressing sight before her.

Kate dismounted Lorena with a determined yet gentle grace, her arms already reaching out to lift Arthur's heavy body. He stirred from his sleep, groaning softly at the sudden movement. In an instant, Hosea and Charles appeared by her side, their faces etched with equal parts concern and fear. Together, they silently maneuvered Arthur to his cot, their actions speaking volumes of their care and solidarity.

As if summoned by the urgency of the situation, a small crowd gathered around the back of Arthur’s wagon. Composed of Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen, their nightgowns billowing softly in the night breeze. Fear and horror danced in their eyes, mirroring the turmoil of the moment.

"Is he going to be okay?" Tilly's voice quivered with worry, breaking the tense silence.

"Kate, what the hell happened?" Mary-Beth's question was laced with urgency.

"Jesus, is he even still alive?" Karen's comment hung in the air, heavy with concern.

Kate felt the weight of their questions pressing down on her, but she couldn't afford to be distracted. "Not now girls!" She replied sharply, her tone unintentionally dismissive. She knew they were only expressing their concern for their friend, but she couldn't allow herself to be pulled away from the task at hand. Despite the pang of guilt that stabbed at her heart, she pushed aside her own emotions, focusing solely on Arthur's well-being.

"Miss Grimshaw, I need you to bring me hot water and as much clean cloth as you can find," Kate instructed urgently, her voice carrying the weight of conviction. She turned to Hosea and Charles, her gaze unwavering. "Hosea, gather whatever tools you have for cleaning and stitching wounds. Charles, grab me the strongest alcohol we've got," she dished out her orders swiftly, each word heavy with a sense of importance. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. "And find me something he can bite down on," she added hastily, her mind racing ahead. The two men nodded without question, already moving into action.

Kate wasted no time, swiftly lighting the few oil lamps beneath Arthur’s makeshift room. Miss Grimshaw returned moments later with a bucket of hot water and wads of fresh cloth. She placed them on the table behind Arthur’s cot, efficiently clearing the space for Kate to begin her work.

A nod of appreciation passed between them as Charles reappeared at her side, a large bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pair of Arthur’s leather suspenders in the other. "I can fetch more from the chuck wagon if you need," he offered, his concern evident in his voice. "The leather will be the most gentle on his teeth," he suggested, his eyes searching hers for approval. Kate accepted the supplies gratefully, taking the suspenders and folding them in on themselves to create a thicker object for Arthur to bite down on.

Arthur stirred, his groans morphing into soft cries as pain flooded his senses in relentless waves. He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, the whites of his eyes still tainted a violent red. "K-Kate... I-I have to w-warn–" he managed, his words fragmented by shallow, forced breaths. Confusion and agony clouded his mind, a lingering aftermath of his torment.

"We're home, honey. You're safe now," Kate reassured him gently, her voice a comforting anchor in the midst of turmoil. With efficiency, she retrieved her hunting knife from her belt, swiftly cutting away the remnants of his union suit. Each movement deliberate yet tender, exposing the rest of his battered form to the humid air of Lemoyne.

Arthur recoiled, a feeble protest escaping his lips. "Ngh–n-no, stop... p-please stop," he pleaded, his voice laced with anguish. Memories of humiliation and shame flooded his mind, unseen hands groping and poking his wounds, violating his most vulnerable spaces.

Undeterred, Kate continued to strip away the blood and filth soaked fabric, revealing his raw, wounded flesh. With a sheet draped over his torso, she shielded him from prying eyes, her touch gentle yet purposeful. "I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. But I have to. I need to see the extent of what they did. These hands won't hurt you, sweetheart," she murmured soothingly, guiding him through each step with care.

As she worked, Kate fought to suppress the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm her. Just a week ago, she had stitched a small wound in his side, marveling at his strength and resilience. Now, under the dim light, she beheld the extent of his suffering, his once robust form marred by bruises and scars. Shuddering at the stark contrast, she longed for the sight of him untouched and whole, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Uncorking the weighty bottle of whiskey, Kate poured a liberal amount over her own soiled hands, tainted with dirt and streaked with his blood. "Arthur," she began softly, angling her head to meet his gaze directly, "we're home now," she reiterated like a sacred chant, "I'm going to take care of you, but I need you to bite down on this hard, okay?" Before he could object, she gently pried open his jaw and slipped the leather between his teeth. "It's going to hurt, but it will be over quickly. I just need to disinfect your wounds."

Hosea returned, clutching a small black box containing lock-picking tools, along with a needle and thread. "I've already sterilized them over a flame. They should be ready for use now," he explained briskly.

"Thank you, Hosea," Kate acknowledged, motioning for him to position himself on her other side. "I need you to hold him down if he starts to move." Hosea nodded in urgency, his hand already resting firmly on Arthur's uninjured shoulder, his gaze lingering on the gaping wound on his other side.

Taking a moment to steady herself, Kate drew a deep breath. Picking up the bottle once more, she held it poised over the wound in Arthur's abdomen. This was the most critical issue; she needed to staunch the bleeding first. "Take a deep breath, Arthur," she instructed, waiting until she saw the rise of his chest before pouring the whiskey over his stomach.

Arthur gasped sharply, his body recoiling at the searing pain coursing through him. Charles swiftly maneuvered to the foot of the cot, securing Arthur's legs to provide stability. Meanwhile, Kate seized a bundle of damp, warm cloth, swiftly commencing the task of cleansing the area surrounding his stab wound, a grisly mix of blood and filth. Biting the leather straps, Arthur let out a muffled groan, his jaw clenched in agony. "Keep breathing, Arthur," Kate coached, her voice steady and reassuring. "You're safe now. We're almost through."

As Kate worked, the sting of whiskey on his wound drew another pained whimper from Arthur, yet she pressed on, discarding soiled cloth as Miss Grimshaw replenished her supply with fresh cotton. Hosea, in his resourcefulness, passed her a pair of tweezers from his lockpicking kit. Beneath the faint glow of the oil lamp, Kate meticulously cleared the wound of debris, extracting dirt and tiny fragments of grass until it gleamed as clean as possible. With a final cleansing douse of alcohol, Hosea deftly threaded a needle, handing it to Kate who skillfully began the task of stitching him closed. Though the wound spanned a mere two inches, its depth hinted at internal damage. Kate silently prayed that her efforts had stemmed the bleeding, if only temporarily.

Approaching Arthur's tent, a new set of footfalls announced Dutch's arrival. "My son..." his voice trailed wearily, concern etched into every syllable. "Is he going to be alright?"

Annoyance flickered within Kate as Dutch finally showed concern, likely stirred by Arthur's cries that had surely pierced the night, rousing the camp from its slumber. They now loomed in the shadows behind Dutch, silent spectators unsure of their place.

Without lifting her gaze from her task, Kate's response was curt. "I'll let you know you when I'm finished," she retorted sharply, her exhaustion seeping into her tone. Her circle was reserved for those who truly showed care for Arthur, those who stood by him, aiding her in his need.

If only Dutch had said something about Arthur’s absence, perhaps this all could have been avoided. She placed a partial responsibility for his tortment on him. Why hadn’t he said something? Did Hosea know Arthur was supposed to meet them? Arthur spoke highly of Dutch, and Kate knew in a way he was like a father to him. Her questions festered in the back of her mind as they remained unanswered.

With each discarded cloth, Kate worked diligently, ensuring the wound was clean enough to be wrapped. Charles and Hosea delicately maneuvered Arthur's body, allowing Kate to envelop his torso completely in the protective layers of cloth, securing it tightly above the injury.

Seated on a chair thoughtfully provided by Miss Grimshaw, Kate afforded Arthur a brief respite from the relentless assault on his body, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. With gentle care, she reached out, tenderly brushing the sweat-dampened hair from Arthur's forehead, his distress evident in the beads of perspiration and the furrow of pain etched upon his brow.

"You've been incredibly brave, Arthur," she murmured, her touch soothing against his tear-stained cheek. His bloodshot eyes sought hers desperately, finding solace in her presence, as if she alone tethered him to reality, a lifeline amidst the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. With a reassuring tone, she continued, "I'm going to clean your shoulder now, alright? I'll be right here beside you, every step of the way." In that shared gaze, a silent pact formed, an unspoken trust that his life rested in her capable hands. Arthur's response was a subtle nod, a fleeting acknowledgment of their connection.

"Keep breathing deeply," she coached, demonstrating with a slow inhalation, Arthur following suit, never breaking their gaze. "That's it, good. You’re doing great honey," she encouraged, her words a balm to his weary soul, wrapping him in a comforting embrace of reassurance amid his fear and exhaustion.

Once more, she seized the bottle, its pungent aroma of whiskey assaulting his senses before a drop even touched his skin. Arthur clenched his eyes shut, fighting back the flood of memories, anchoring himself in the present. Here, with Kate by his side, he was safe.

As the icy liquid cascaded over his shoulder, a fresh wave of searing pain tore through him, igniting his nerves like flames licking at his flesh. The mingling scent of whiskey and agony turned his stomach, each inhalation a struggle against the bile rising within him. His bite on the leather tightened as he clenched down, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. Yet amidst the turmoil, Hosea's reassuring touch pressed against his chest, grounding him. "Deep breaths, son," came his gentle whisper, a reminder to draw in each breath despite the growing discomfort. With effort, Arthur obeyed, each inhalation a battle against the rising tide of pain and unease.

Kate's voice drifted to him once more, a soothing melody in the chaos. "That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, “the worst is almost over,” her hands working diligently on his shoulder, the warmth of wet cloth cleansing away the layers of blood and grime, revealing the rawness beneath. Another pour of alcohol elicited a primal scream from his throat as his back arched in agony, the bullet wound laid bare and vulnerable.

With steady hands, Kate poured whiskey over the set of tweezers, the bullet still stubbornly lodged within. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness; perhaps Arthur's left arm would yet see use again.

Through panting breaths and tears, the overwhelming pain threatened to engulf him, each sensation pulling him closer to the precipice of unconsciousness. Kate's voice, a lifeline amidst the tumult, echoed in his mind. "You can let go, Arthur," she whispered, as if sensing his perilous dance with darkness. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

With those words, Arthur surrendered to the bliss of sleep, his weary mind finding solace in its embrace. His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his jaw releasing as he placed his trust in Kate's capable hands. In her words lay the promise of a future, each syllable a gentle encouragement driving every beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Picture a man. Like a speck out at sea as you gaze upon him from the shore. He’s swimming beyond the breakers, like he’s done this all before. He sees the coming of the swell, and knows it will drag him out a greater length. Far beyond the shallows of the bay. But he knows his strength, he tries to gather it. And he swims on, turning back to shore again. He feels the rising of the wave and knows at once he will not withstand it.

Like that man, Arthur sinks down into the depths. The water burns his lungs, his body aflame as he exerts himself to stay afloat. The darkness engulfs him, a starless night lost at sea. He fears he will drown, but then, her voice returns to him. Ushered down from the sky above him. Like a beacon in the night, a melody that lights the path before him. A distant lighthouse, guiding his willing soul to shore.

Her words flow through him as he swims against the current. All of his loss threatens to pull him under, but all he can think of is her. The light that leads him, and the air that fills his lungs. Command a new life that breathes into him.

Amongst the shadows, he witnessed two figures upon the shore. They gaze upon his struggling form. But he feels no fear, he swims on towards them. Kate's words command his every movement, keep breathing Arthur. All of her goodness is with him now. This woman, who never once asked him about the wrongs he committed. So persistent in her devotion.

He was housed by her warmth; transformed, reborn. Like a bird he flew to her now, swimming against a sea of fire. The blinding light of her voice shown upon the figures in the sand. Arthur could see a large shadow, next to a much smaller one. They held out their hands, frozen like angels beneath her radiance.

Their spirits reached for him, unfazed by the darkness of his heart. The waves leapt and violently crashed at their feet. Arthur could feel their love, though mere aberrations, their hands were warm and strong. Pulling him swiftly back to land.

They laid him down soft and sweet, in her low lit light beyond them he could finally see the features of a man and a young girl. He blinked, realization dawned that a mere child had rescued him. Though their faces remained unrecognizable.

The man reached down and helped him to stand, keeping a steady arm on his back. The young girl looked up at him with a familiar warmth in her smile, she took her small hand in his.

“My momma is gonna take real good care of you Arthur.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate toiled tirelessly through the night and into the early embrace of dawn, the gentle symphony of birdsong heralding the arrival of a new day even before the first rays of sunlight graced Clemens Point. Sometime amidst the evening, Miss Grimshaw had taken it upon herself to gather extra canvas cloth, draping them around Arthur's makeshift abode, providing a semblance of privacy to his recovery

After extracting the bullet from his shoulder, Kate meticulously tended to the wound, carefully wrapping it in cloth to secure it tightly. Already, signs of infection were beginning to manifest, but she remained hopeful that with diligent cleaning, she could impede the progress of bacteria before sepsis set in.

As the night wore on, Kate turned her attention to Arthur's other injuries, dismissing Charles and Hosea to their rest. Though they hesitated to leave her side, she reassured them with a determined nod. Rest was a luxury she couldn't afford until she had assessed the full extent of Arthur's injuries, strategizing for his slow recovery. His life hung precariously in the balance, and Kate was resolute in her commitment to remain by his side, in his hour of need.

With steady hands, Kate fashioned a splint for the broken fingers of Arthur's injured left arm, the paleness of his skin betraying the severity of the damage. Despite the faint pulse she detected, she couldn't shake the fear that his arm might be lost if the sensation in his hand failed to return entirely. The bullet, though mercifully, hadn't shattered his shoulder completely, which still offered a flicker of hope.

Turning her attention to his feet, Kate's heart sank at the sight of the swelling and the telltale blackness of his toes. Lacerations from shackles bruised his skin. The harrowing signs of prolonged suspension and the loss of circulation. She dared to pray that with time, the swelling would subside, though the realization of how long he had been hanging upside down twisted her stomach.

The bullet wound in his ankle presented its own challenge, having narrowly missed the bone yet tearing through muscle. It spared him the ordeal of shattered limb, but promised a long road to recovery, rendering walking a daunting task.

After cleansing his body with the last remnants of cloth, Kate reached for a salve crafted from sage, honey, and pine. With gentle strokes, she massaged the soothing balm into the myriad of cuts and burns that adorned his skin, paying particular attention to the rope burns on his wrists and the torn flesh around his ankles. It was a homemade remedy passed down by River, renowned as a 'Cure-All' within their tribe for its effectiveness in treating various skin injuries.

Satisfied with her ministrations, Kate settled back in her chair, her own needs forgotten as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. Her eyes, heavy with dark circles, never left him. Slowly, exhaustion enveloped her. Attempting to blink back the darkness, she succumbed to its embrace, her head lolling as she drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Mere hours later, the soft glow of early morning seeped through the cracks of the small room, casting a gentle light upon the stillness within. The usual hustle and bustle of the camp was conspicuously absent, the tension of the previous night lingering in the air. Kate stirred from her sleep, roused by the faint sound of Arthur's muffled cough.

Blinking away the heaviness of fatigue, Kate's body protested against the soreness and hunger that gnawed at her. Arthur, writhing on the cot in discomfort, sought to sit up, his face twisted with pain. "Easy, Arthur, you're alright," she murmured wearily, her voice a tired yet comforting presence as she reached over to ease him back onto the cot. Knowing his agony must be unbearable, she thought to brew him an elixir, one of the remedies River had taught her, to alleviate some of his pain.

With sudden force, he pushed against her. “Mmf…m-ove,” his groans muffled yet urgent. Confusion furrowed Kate's brow as Arthur's movements grew more frantic, his right arm struggling to lift his heavy frame from the bed. Before he could tumble to the floor, Kate swiftly caught his head in the crook of her elbow.

"Arthur—" she began, her voice tinged with concern, her hands moving to guide him back onto the bed to prevent any further harm.

But Arthur's breathing escalated into dry heaves, his grip on her arm tightening as he pleaded, "Kate... m’move!" His words were strained, pushed out with desperate force. Before she could react, his head jerked forward, a guttural whine escaping his throat as warmth spilled over her arm, coating her lap and legs in sticky heat.

A chill washed over Kate as she looked down, her heart freezing at the sight of dark red blood mingling with the acidic contents of Arthur's stomach, forming gruesome clots. Her efforts had not been enough; he was bleeding internally, and there was nothing she could do.

Kate's breaths quickened, shallow and panicked, as she held him close. Arthur's body trembled with violent shudders, tears and bloody drool mingling as they cascaded down his chin. "M’sorry…m’so-sorry Kate," he mumbled, voice muffled against her arms. As he hid his face in humiliation.

Frozen with fear, Kate's arms trembled as she clung to him, a silent witness to the cruel fate that now enveloped them both.

Like the steady light of a distant train cutting through the quiet of a forest on a moonlit night, fragments of Kate's past came hurtling down the tracks of her memory. She couldn't help but recall her late husband, his figure fading in the dim light of their shared bedroom. His body was ridden with disease that cruelly spared her. Months of relentless coughs had ultimately led to the collapse of his lungs, his final breaths accompanied by the heavy wheezing that echoed hauntingly in her mind. Countless nights were etched in her memory, each one marked by his desperate struggle for air, the taste of blood staining their shared existence.

It was happening again.

With a heavy heart, Kate sat up, her hands tenderly cradling Arthur's head as if he were a fragile newborn. Slowly, she guided him back onto the cot, her voice trembling with emotion as she sought to offer comfort in the face of impending tragedy.

"S’alright, honey," she cooed, “not your fault.” Her words a fragile attempt to reassure him, though tears threaten to betray her facade of strength. Despite the weight of her own grief, she desperately tried to remain calm.

The clamor lured Hosea to the tent, concern etched on his features as he approached. "Kate, what hap—" His words trailed off as he caught sight of her blood-stained attire and Arthur's bloodied mouth. With swift determination, he reached Arthur's side, quickly pulling the sheet from his torso, revealing the gruesome display beneath. Kate's breath caught in her throat.

Pale white, mottled skin surrounded his knife wound. Dark spider-like veins branched out like a twisted oak tree.

As the walls of her resolve crumbled around her, Kate felt fear and trepidation seep into the cracks of her psyche. She fought valiantly to suppress tears, her gaze pleading with Hosea for guidance. "Hosea..." she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty, "I-I don't know what to do." The words choked out as the dam of her emotions finally burst.

Hosea, sensing the urgency of the situation, took in the sight of her with a gentle yet urgent tone. "We're getting a doctor," he declared decisively, wasting no time as he rose to his feet and strode towards the entrance of Arthur's tent. With a firm hand, he pushed aside the flap and called out to Lenny and Sadie, who sat nearby at a table. "You two, go to Rhodes and find a doctor! No excuses, spare no expense. Bring him back here, by any means necessary!" His words carried the weight of authority, a stern directive from a father to his wayward children.

Lenny and Sadie sprang into action, disappearing into the distance with a sense of urgency. Meanwhile, Kate struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving with each sob that wracked her body. Emotions boiled over, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure.

Returning to her side, Hosea gently grasped her arm, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the turmoil. "No. No, Hosea, I can't leave him," Kate protested hastily, her eyes pleading for understanding even as her heart screamed for reassurance.

"You need to rest, Kate," Hosea's gentle voice broke through the haze of exhaustion, his concern palpable in the warmth of his suggestion. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the last reserves of her strength before nodding in acceptance.

With his steady support, Kate rose to her feet, allowing him to guide her towards the entrance. His reassuring squeeze spoke volumes, a promise of gratitude and solidarity in the face of adversity. Retrieving his bandana from his vest pocket, he whispered softly, "You've been so strong for him. Thank you." As he tenderly wiped away her tears, Kate offered a tremulous nod, her lips quivering with emotion.

In a daze, she made her way to her own tent and bedroll, each step heavy with fatigue. Discarding her boots with weary resignation, she found herself lacking the strength to remove her soiled clothing. Instead, she stumbled towards the shoreline, the cool embrace of the water beckoning to her.

Sinking to her knees in the shallows, Kate began the arduous task of scrubbing away the blood that clung to her skin, each stroke fueled by a fearful urgency. Her nails scraped against her flesh as her breathing quickened with the intensity of her movements. The blood, stubborn and unyielding, seemed to taunt her, clinging to her body like a relentless specter of the past.

It was happening again.

Quiet sobs escaped her lips as panic tightened its grip around her, her body tensing with the effort to hold herself together. Her heart pounded in a desperate ritual of purification.

Kate remained lost in her torment, oblivious to the sound of Charles's approach as he waded into the water. A startled gasp escaped her lips as he enveloped her in a comforting embrace. "It's alright, Kate, I've got you," his deep, reassuring voice washed over her, instantly recognizable and soothing in its familiarity. His arms encircled her, offering solace and protection.

In that moment, Kate allowed the walls she had built around herself to crumble. She sobbed openly into Charles's arms, her anguish pouring forth unchecked. "You did everything you could. It's okay," he murmured gently, his words a balm to her wounded spirit. "Arthur owes his life to you," he added, a testament to her unwavering dedication.

With a hiccup, Kate confessed, "It's happening again, Charles." Emotions long suppressed surged to the surface, memories of loss and grief flooding her mind, her late husband's foremost among them.

"Shh, don't speak like that. We're getting a doctor for him," Charles reassured her, his voice a steadfast anchor in the storm of her emotions. "Arthur is resilient, Kate. He's a fighter."

"When will it be enough?" she pleaded, her voice raw with anguish. In response, Charles simply sighed and pulled her closer, offering silent support as she wept in his arms, their shared grief binding them together in solidarity.

As Kate's sobs gradually subsided, Charles continued to hold her, the gentle lull of the water surrounding them like a protective barrier against the outside world. Sensing the weight of her burden, he spoke softly, his words infused with understanding and compassion.

"Kate," he began, voice tender, "you don't have to carry this alone. You've put on a strong arm for so long, but you don't have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Kate's breath hitched at his words, a mixture of relief and uncertainty washing over her. For years, she had believed that strength meant shouldering her burdens alone, but now, in Charles's embrace, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to seek solace in the arms of those who cared for her.

"I'm scared, Charles," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as if seeking an anchor in the tumult of her emotions.

"I know, Kate," Charles replied, his tone gentle yet resolute. "But you're not alone in this. We're all here for you, for Arthur. Every step of the way."

With a shaky exhale, Kate allowed herself to lean into Charles's figure, finding solace in the warmth of his presence. In that moment, surrounded by the soothing embrace of the water and the unwavering support of her friend, she felt a sense of relief ease off her tired soul.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

With just enough time to change her blood-soiled clothing and hastily consume a small meal of dried meat, Kate had brushed off Hosea's well-intentioned advice to rest. Though Charles's comforting presence provided some measure of relief, she knew that sleep would elude her unless she was by Arthur's side. His condition could turn on a dime, and she wanted to make sure she was there to comfort him. As the distant sound of approaching hoofbeats echoed through the camp, she emerged from her tent, her gaze fixed on the large wagon rumbling towards the entrance, its contents jostling on the uneven terrain.

Lenny's figure emerged from the midst of the commotion, leading a man towards Arthur's tent—the long-awaited doctor had finally arrived. Without hesitation Kate lept to greet them.

The sudden disruption caught Dutch's attention, his annoyance palpable as he emerged from his tent, demanding an explanation. Before he could voice his protest, Hosea intercepted him, offering a gentle diversion as he ushered Dutch back into his tent to address the matter in private.

Meanwhile, a young black man clad in a gray suit, adorned with a vibrant purple vest, dismounted from the wagon, his demeanor professional yet compassionate. Kate was surprised at his age, most doctors she knew were older. She noted the side of his wagon; Dr. Renaud’s Traveling Medical Company.

As they approached Arthur's tent, Lenny briefed the doctor on the situation. "Kate brought him in last night. He's in bad shape, Doc—bullet wound to the shoulder, knife to the stomach," Lenny explained tersely.

The doctor nodded solemnly, acknowledging the severity of the situation. With a sense of purpose, Kate accompanied them into the stuffy makeshift room. Lenny bid them farewell and goodluck before departing, leaving Kate alone with the newcomer, the supposed savior who held the key to Arthur's survival.

Surveying Arthur's broken form, “oh my lord,” he muttered to himself. The doctor pressed his fingers to his neck, checking Arthur’s pulse, then turning his attention to Kate. "I presume you're Kate?" he inquired, his voice carrying a mix of professionalism and empathy. Kate offered a hesitant nod in response.

"Dr. Alphonse Renaud," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Kate accepted the handshake, her movements awkward and uncertain, her mind racing with apprehension. Arthur's fate, and by extension her own, hung in the balance, resting upon the skill of this newcomer.

"Are you his wife?" Dr. Renaud's question jolted Kate from her anxious reverie.

"N-no," she stammered, her nerves palpable. Gathering her composure, she clarified, "I'm not his wife. Just a friend." The weight of responsibility settled heavily upon her shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the magnitude of the situation. "I managed to stop the bleeding last night. But I'm afraid he's still bleeding internally, he was vomiting blood this morning." Kate explained, her words rushed and urgent, wasting no time in conveying the severity of Arthur's condition.

Dr. Renaud clicked his tongue in response. "A knife to the stomach will do that to a man. How did this happen to him?" he inquired, gently shifting the sheet covering Arthur's abdomen to assess the extent of the injury.

Kate hesitated, unsure of how much to disclose about their precarious circumstances. After all, Arthur was a wanted man. She couldn't just disclose to a stranger the details of a violent gang feud between outlaws, he would surely leave in a heartbeat. "Tortured," she replied tersely, her tone brooking no further discussion.

“Oh, my deepest sympathy for your friend,” he replied with a solemn nod. Dr. Renaud moved to open the flaps on the side of the tent, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the extent of Arthur's wounds. As he gazed upon Arthur's face, now bathed in the soft afternoon glow, a flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Wait a moment," he murmured, gently turning Arthur's face towards him, "I know this man... Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Morgan."

Fear gripped Kate as she processed the doctor's unexpected recognition of Arthur. How could this man possibly know him? A myriad of troubling scenarios raced through her mind—had he seen the wanted posters plastered across towns? Or worse, had Arthur crossed paths with him in a less-than-favorable manner? The weight of uncertainty bore down on her, her heart pounding with dread. If Dr. Renaud refused to help them now, Arthur's fate would be sealed.

To her relief, Dr. Renaud's expression softened with understanding. "Mr. Morgan saved my skin a few weeks back," he explained, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Some racist fellas, calling themselves Lemoyne Raiders, stole my wagon. I knew if I went after them myself, they would surely lynch me. So Mr. Morgan set out to retrieve my belongings." Kate's breath caught in her throat as she released a shaky exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"He wouldn't even accept payment for his troubles," Dr. Renaud continued, his determination evident in the clasp of his hands. "Now, it seems fate has afforded me the opportunity to repay his kindness." Kate felt a surge of emotion welling within her. She wanted to cry; tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of heartbreak. Because of course, of course, Arthur had gone out his way to help this young doctor. That was just the kind of man he is. So clouded by his own demons, he still can’t see the pure heart that glimmers beneath the surface. By some twisted dance of fate, his kindness would grant him the opportunity for a second chance at life.

In that moment, Kate knelt beside Arthur's cot with renewed purpose, her gaze fixed on Dr. Renaud with determination. "What can I do to help, Doc?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. This was their chance—a chance for Arthur to receive the care he so desperately needed, and for Kate to play her part in ensuring his survival.

Dr. Renaud carefully examined the wound on Arthur's stomach, his fingertips gauging the heat of the inflamed skin. "I can stop the internal bleeding," he observed, "but you'll need to keep a close eye on his recovery. Regularly cleaning the wound is crucial. Sepsis can be deadlier than bleeding out." Kate nodded eagerly, absorbing his instructions.

His focus then shifted to Arthur's shoulder wound. "You've done a commendable job stitching this," he acknowledged, but pointed out the yellowing skin around the starfish-shaped crater. Pressing gently, he noted the alarming signs of infection. "The infection's already taken hold here. It's eroding the muscle. If it spreads to the ligaments, he could lose his arm entirely.” Kate nodded quickly, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Taking Arthur's injured hand, the doctor examined it closely. Kate watched as he ran a fingernail over the calloused skin of his palm. Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, prompting a glimmer of hope. "That's promising," Dr. Renaud remarked. "And the bullet?" Kate nodded silently, confirming its extraction. "Excellent. You have a natural talent for this, Kate," he praised with a reassuring smile. Though Kate tried to reciprocate the smile, her concern for Arthur remained paramount, her gaze fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, each breath a testament to his battle to remain alive.

Returning his focus to Arthur's abdomen, Dr. Renaud placed an open palm on his stomach, tapping it lightly. A swishing hollow sound reverberated in the air. "Hear that?" he asked, glancing at Kate. She nodded, her brow furrowed with concern. "It’s filled with fluid, most likely more blood. After I close the wound, his stomach will be sensitive for some time,” his tone gentle and informative. “He might struggle to keep down food and water, so make sure he stays hydrated, okay?" the doctor advised. With practiced ease, he retrieved a small vial of orange iodine and a pair of rubber gloves from his briefcase.

"Put these on and start applying this over his stomach. I'll go grab my tools from the wagon," he directed, handing Kate the supplies. She nodded in acknowledgment and began spreading the iodine as instructed.

As they worked, a gentle breeze wafted through the makeshift room, carrying with it the scent of lake water and grass. It offered a brief respite from the heavy atmosphere of blood and sickness. Refreshing her lungs with strength and clarity. Dr. Renaud administered a shot of morphine to Arthur, providing temporary relief from the pain. In focused silence, Kate followed the doctor's lead, handing him tools and meticulously cleaning the wound.

Kate's breath caught as Dr. Renaud delicately reopened the wound on Arthur's stomach, using a slender blade to extend the incision. She gripped the forceps, holding them open. Steadying herself as he meticulously stitched the lining of his stomach back together. The tension in the air was static with urgency, each movement of the doctor's hands deliberate and controlled. Kate watched in silent admiration, marveling at his skill and composure amidst the lethal task ahead.

An hour later, Dr. Renaud had painstakingly resealed the wound, layering on another dose of antiseptic before dressing it in clean cloth. He then turned his attention to Arthur's bullet wound, methodically cleaning and rebandaging it. Explaining that he may never regain complete mobility of his arm again.

He examined Arthur's eyes, reassuring Kate that the swelling and bloodshot appearance would gradually subside over time. Concluding his service by informing her that his feet should return to their normal color, but he may have difficulty walking on the ankle even after it heals.

Kate’s heart throbbed with his every word. Arthur would never be the same after this, if he even survived. He was a cowboy, a gunslinger. His skills on horseback were carved into his identity. His quickdraw was paramount for the survival of his kind. Kate knew he prided himself in his work, afterall he was Dutch’s second in command. She understood what it felt like to have your integrity challenged in the face of death. To say goodbye to a part of yourself.

Dr. Renaud packed his things as he prepared to leave once he was satisfied with Arthur’s care. "It's going to be a challenging road to recovery," he remarked solemnly, "I can't make any promises, Kate. It's ultimately up to Arthur to fight through this."

"But what about the infection?" Kate interjected, her voice tinged with concern. No amount of determination on Arthur's part would matter if the infection spread unchecked throughout his body.

Dr. Renaud retrieved a small bottle from his briefcase and presented it to her. "This is a new antibiotic called penicillin," he explained, handing her the glass bottle containing small white pills. "It's groundbreaking medicine, but still in testing. I advise you, use it cautiously."

Kate nodded gratefully, clutching the vial of hope close to her heart. "Thank you, Doc. Please, let me pay for it," she insisted, reaching for her satchel.

Dr. Renaud halted her with a gentle touch on her wrist. "As I've said before Kate, the debt is already settled. Medicine is my calling, and meeting Arthur breathed a new life into me. He gave me a second chance." He shook her hand firmly and bid a farewell, “we need more of his kindness in this world.”

Kate remained seated beside Arthur, her ears catching fragments of Lenny and Sadie's conversation with the young doctor. Their voices drifted like distant echoes, discussing Arthur's condition and treatment plan. A surge of gratitude swelled within her, a profound appreciation for the doctor's expertise and the reassurance he provided. It was a stroke of luck, she thought, a lifeline thrown to them in their darkest hour. Kate couldn't shake the disbelief at their fortune, it was as if her prayer had been answered.

The depth of human connection astounded her, the way lives intersected in unexpected ways, offering solace and support when it was needed most. It was a testament to the human spirit. Kate knew Arthur was not a bad man, no matter how much he believed himself to be. So blinded by self-hatred he couldn’t see the kind loving man beneath it all. She longed to bring out that side of him.

Tears pooled in Kate's eyes once more, a bittersweet blend of grief, relief, and gratitude. Leaning closer to Arthur, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her gesture a silent declaration of love and unwavering devotion. "Someone up there is on our side, Arthur," she murmured softly, her voice choked with emotion. "We’re going to be okay.” A widow's vow to remain by his side, till death do them part.

---

AN: I'm pretty proud of Kate's development in this chapter. I feel like we see a lot more of her emotional struggles.The next chapter will include a lot of recovery as well as interactions with the other camp members as Arthur is healing. Lots of fluff and comfort too :)

(pls ignore how inaccurate the medical stuff is to the time period, I'm lazy)

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wutheringheightsfilm · 1 month ago

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”Do you believe things will be less terrible under Trump? If so, can you explain why, and for whom? Alternately, do you see any path to a third scenario with neither of them in office next year? Finally, I can't tell if these critiques are meant to inspire a particular action (e.g. voting for a certain candidate or abstaining entirely), or if the acknowledgment of Harris's flaws is the end in itself. Could you clarify what you're hoping other people will do differently, if anything, after reading your post?”

genuinely can you please answer this. i can’t vote but i literally don’t know what to do anymore. i’m in complete despair and i would kill for anyone to please offer a solution as to what to do. if either election outcome results in more death does it even matter

I'm going to be honest with you anon. I said, in response to a previous anon that asked me this exact same question, that I was never going to answer this question again because frankly, I was--and am--exhausted of hearing this. I am not an experienced activist. I am not even as well versed in theory as people seem to think I am. I am still learning, and to have people ask me this question in this manner is... not my favorite thing in the world.

That being said.

Read this post. And read this one. And if you really want to go through my entire #resources tag.

People have BEEN providing solutions. Please read up on and even try to meet or speak to black feminists, indigenous rights activists, palestinian activists, learn about historical revolutions even if US propaganda has indoctrinated you into thinking they're scary and evil. There are entire instagram accounts (and even tumblr accounts) dedicated to activism and education.

The point is community. Stop lending credence to individualism. Find out what your community needs. Stop being scared of homeless people on the street. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Learn first aid. Meet your neighbors. As my mutual 2spirit-1spoon in the link post above put it, "Show them you don't need them." Go through said mutual's #direct action tag to learn more shit.

Get up and read some Fred Hampton or Che Guevara or George Jackson or Kimberlé Crenshaw.

#vero.txt #t #asks

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moodr1ng · 4 months ago

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repeating it periodically: the majority (though not all!!) of mutual aid fundraisers spread via massively copypasted asks to random users i have seen have been scams, and theyre usually easy to spot if you take a minute to check.

(edit: i forgot to say this specifically, but palestinians are one of the few exceptions where most of the fundraisers being spread through asks ive seen are legit and not scams. the following criteria does not apply; many palestinians have very recent blogs with little information, but are still legitimate. fundraisers vetted by palestinian users are trustworthy.)

signs to look out for:

- the blog is very recent, usually a couple days old (presumably, the scammers need to keep creating new blogs each time one loses momentum from being recognized as fake), and there are no indication that this is because the user just remade or lost their previous account.

- the blog has been filled with one, two, or maybe a small handful of pages' worth of reblogs. the reblogs are all directly from the source and are either of popular posts or posts all on the same subject - the scammer is filling up the blog with innocuous-looking posts so it won't look brand new at a glance, either by reblogging whatever is on the trending page, or reblogging from a couple of tags (usually fandom tags).

- the blog either has no bio, or has a very short, sterile, impersonal bio: a name, an age, maybe some slogan like 'blm', but no other indications of a personality or identity present.

- there are no personal posts whatsoever on the blog, aside from the post promoting the fundraiser.

- information about the fundraising is vague and non-committal: the reason given for needing funds lacks any details (or the details make no sense), no updates are ever posted regarding the situation, and/or the amount needed is never specified.

- the photos used as the blogs avatar or as "proof" in the fundraising post are stolen from somewhere else. this one is blatant, but back-searching a stolen image unfortunately doesnt always work and you may not find the source that way.

- you were sent an ask about this fundraiser despite being a small account with no particular reach: why is this person sending hundreds and hundreds of the same copypasted ask to random small blogs rather than going for popular blogs or relying on their mutuals and followers?

- the fundraising is being done through paypal and the name of the paypal is completely different from the one used on the blog (while many people on tumblr dont use their legal name online, you may still notice stranger discrepancies, like the fundraising blog giving a last name which isnt the last name on the paypal account, or the scammer claiming to be a person of color and using a clearly non-white name on their blog while having a very white name on paypal) - and if you look up the paypal name on tumblr, you find post after post warning people about this being the account of a repeat scammer.

while some of these alone may not mean someone is scamming, if most of these are there... its a scam. just looking up the persons url on tumblr is a quick way to find out if this person is being called out for scamming all over the place, as well.

if youre tempted to assume a fundraiser is probably real without checking because the story being told is so serious and no one would be fucked up enough to make up such a heartless scam, please know i once had to contact a father on facebook to tell him someone had stolen a picture of his toddler currently suffering with a life-threatening illness lying in a hospital bed, switched out the little girls name while copypasting her actual story, and had started a gofundme to make money off her and spread it on tumblr, while the real parents were themselves trying to raise money to keep their child from dying. there is no degree of depravity that these scammers will not stoop down to. just take a minute to check.

#97 #long post #child death m

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illumiera · 11 days ago

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OC in Fifteen

I saw some of my mutuals (💖) posting fifteen lines of dialogue that showcased the personalities of their OCs, so I thought I'd try my hand at doing this for my Elentari in i fear no fate! 🌟

“I have slain the World-Eater, crossed into Sovngarde a living woman, and returned alive. Surely I am beyond fate by now.”

“Devious? You ought to have expected the Arch-Mage to have some tricks up her sleeves.”

"I think we are each the sum of our choices, and mine is to know myself, shadows and all, and to strive each day to be better.”

“Where I grew up, every plant had a meaning, and highborn daughters were expected to know them by rote. Snowdrops are the first flowers to bloom at the end of winter, so they symbolise hope and rebirth. There’s also a myth where a king trapped in a curse sought the aid of the flower-goddess Druagaa, who had him pick a snowdrop at midnight and keep it close to his heart for three days and three nights until the spell broke. There you are: hope, alleged magical properties, or just a nice thing to have. I’m sure you can find some use for it.”

"Thinking of you? I have better things to think about before bed than the latest person out to kill me for one reason or another.”

“In that case, I am glad to be a fool. You should be glad for it, too. If I didn’t keep faith in the face of impossible things, I would be dead—and the world you’re so desperate to return to would have died with me.”

“If you’re planning on waxing poetic about how you’ll have all of that and more when you finally take my life, you may as well save your breath. As unenviable as your situation is, I still have no intention of dying to you.”

“I already told you that you can offer me whatever you like, and none of it—none of it—will be worth the cost of my soul.”

“You want freedom and to be remembered, but how would you go about it, if you had the chance? Would you storm into Solitude or Windhelm and name yourself High King? Seize the Ruby Throne and rule all Tamriel as Emperor? Come up with some scheme or another to become a god? You don’t know, do you? You say you’ve had nothing but your want for thousands of years? I believe you, and I also don’t believe you know who you are without it.”

“What are we if not living bearers of memory? The people you spared won’t last forever unchanged like stalhrim, that’s true, but they’ll learn, and grow, and love, and create. Even if they live the simplest of lives, their children, their friends, those whose hearts they touched over the years—they’ll all go on as a testament to who they were, so that in a century, in a millennium, there’ll be a tiny piece of them left on Nirn still.”

“The winged shape of your soul is a mirror of mine, and the name Stormcrown belongs to me as much as it does to you. Maybe destiny stained you—that much I will not deny. But has it not left the same mark on me, too?”

“I have met many terrible men, men who knew they had fallen and thought only of falling farther. Your actions were not the actions of one of those men."

“I don’t think any of the gods ever forsook you. I once thought the same, a long time ago, and then they showed me just how wrong I was.”

“The food is owed to you as it is to any guest in my home, and if it will assuage you, we’ll call the clothes a gift. You need not repay me other than by putting them on so I can see if they fit. As for your life, Diist Dovahkiin, all I ask is that you live it well.”

"It's all right. I'm a healer. You're safe now."

this was fun! I tag @bostoniangirl21 and @kiir-do-faal-rahhe to do it for their OCs, too! 💖

#oc: elentari #i fear no fate (for you are my fate)#otp: i fear no fate (for you are my fate)#tag game #ellie has such a dry sense of humour when she wants to—an inevitable consequence of growing up in daggerfall's noble circles!

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petrichorium · 2 years ago

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To Serve

in which crown prince chigiri hyoma wants to reward his loyal attendant.

chigiri hyoma x gn!reader

word count: 3k reader: neutral/slightly masc (they/them pronouns, clothing not described, neutral terms, performs a masc role) tags: fluff, royal au, mutual pining, non-sexual intimacy, navigating an odd relationship, fun prince/servant devotion note: my first commission omg!!! this was truly so fun to write, thank you so so much to the lovely incredible @syddisheep for reaching out to me ♥️ if you enjoyed this, or any of the rest of my writing, and would like to commission me, check my commission sheet to learn how & see if any slots are open!

“Is there something wrong, your highness?”

[Name]’s words snap him out of the reverie he’d wandered into. He blinks, shaking his head and feeling the weight of his wet hair heavy against his nape. He wishes quietly that [Name] were the type of person who would allow him to hug them; would perhaps even hug back, allow him to melt into it. But he knows they aren’t, just as he knows they’re fully taking in his slack jaw and starry eyes aimed at them, which is why their brow is furrowed and their head cocked.

“You’re too good to me,” he tells them, and they give him a muted smile.

“Impossible, my prince. I am merely here to serve you to the best of my ability. Now, let me finish your hair. I won’t have you complaining to me all day if it dries poorly.”

Hyoma returns from his hunt victorious. He doesn’t carry his quarry himself; he’d handed it off to a knight, who is now long gone, delivering it to the kitchens dutifully. Later, he will provide Hyoma with the antlers. He’s not entirely sure yet what he’ll do with them.

[Name] stands waiting at the stables, that pristine posture—spine stiff, shoulders back, arms clasped behind them—striking a familiar silhouette before Hyoma and his party draw close enough to see any features. They greet him with a bow.

“Welcome back, your highness,” they say. “How was the hunt?”

“Fair,” he says in turn. “I caught a stag. It gave me a good chase.”

He chooses to abstain from telling them of the wild boar downed by the Wanima brothers. They raise a gloved hand, palm up, for Hyoma to take and allow them to brace his descent from his stallion. He does so without hesitation.

(And then, as his knee twinges in pain when he lands on solid ground, he is thankful for the aid.

He hides his wince. [Name] sees it nonetheless.)

Hyoma lets his eyes slide over to them, voice light as he continues. “You wouldn’t happen to be in need of anything made from antler?”

They shake their head. “No, my prince.”

“Ah.”

The pair makes their way to Hyoma’s chambers swiftly. In the privacy of his bedchamber, with servants preparing the bath in the adjoining room, [Name] helps him out of his overclothes. The brushing of their hands against his shoulders is brief, their fingers nimble as they pull off his coat and kneel to remove his riding boots, careful with his knee. He’s quickly left in his loose linen undershirt and his trousers; they’ll be removed soon enough as he makes use of the bath waiting for him.

It’s now that they give him a more thorough once-over. They take care not to touch him now, eyes scanning his form attentively, arms tucked behind their back even as they lean in close. Yet when they make a gesture for him to move he ignores it, determined to force them to reach out again.

They sigh as if aggrieved. Still, they lower to bend before him and move closer. Hands still gloved, those deft fingers wrap gently around his lame knee, turning his leg slowly to test his mobility, keen eyes leaping from the limb to his face to gauge his reaction.

“Do you ache?” they ask.

“Always.”

The response earns him only the hint of a smile and a mildly exasperated shake of the head, and he fights down the wholly undignified grin that threatens to spread across his face. [Name]’s thumb and forefinger tighten just minutely upon his knee, not enough to pinch, but the motion sends a little thrill through him.

“I shall tend to your knee, of course,” they say, “but where else?”

They shift him more, precise in their grasp to force him to move his entire body, and he winces at the growing soreness in his thigh and the harsh pangs in his lower back—the result of compensating for his injury, [Name] tells him. He certainly believes them.

“The typical places,” he settles upon reporting, and they nod in satisfaction.

“Very well. I have a salve I’d like to test out, it ought to soothe some of the pain.”

They hold out a hand as always to help him up from his seat. Then, once he stands, they turn and exit, heading for the bathing room ahead of him to dismiss the servants.

They’re the only one inside once he enters himself.

The motions of allowing them to disrobe him fully are ingrained so deeply within him that he thinks of nothing while he raises his arms to help them remove his tunic and then steps out of his underclothes. They lend a helping hand, too, when he steps into the bathtub, bracing his weight as he balances gingerly on his sore legs.

He settles quickly, leaning back against the edge and allowing the hot water to soothe his aches and pains. He feels more than sees, with his eyes blissfully closed, [Name] pull their stool up closer, surely perch on it with that ever-perfect posture. They shuffle, making just enough noise that it beckons him to blink his eyes open to look.

Those pristine white gloves lay perfectly folded next to them on the stool. At just the sight his breath hitches minutely—hopefully too minutely for [Name] to notice, though he doubts it. His eyes snap away just as fingers find his hair; he closes them again swiftly, but that doesn’t stop his mind from conjuring up the image of their bare hands.

He still leans back into the touch, unable to stop himself, as [Name] undoes the knotted ribbon holding his locks back from his face. Folding it up just as diligently as their own gloves, they set it aside and comb their fingers through his hair just enough to loosen it. They don’t speak to request he dip his head back into the steaming water but rather they guide him physically, palms pressing against his scalp to press him down softly.

Often, Hyoma is content with this. Often he allows himself to enjoy it; the quiet, the company, the tending. Today, however, it isn’t enough.

“One of these days, [Name], you ought to join me in here,” he says when he comes up, as [Name] reaches out with dried hands to wipe the water from his eyes. The first thing he sees is their face, the barely-there roll of their eyes. He leans in close. “How rude. You dismiss your prince’s words?”

“I would never,” they say, but they make sure to roll a strand of hair around their finger and tug just enough to hurt as they ease him to lounge back against the edge of the bathtub once more. “You read too much into things, your highness.”

Hyoma hums at that. Their fingers thread through his locks again, more thorough this time, scratching at his scalp and then pulling down to the ends, occasionally dipping back into the water with a cup to wet it again. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation. If he were a cat as [Name] so often compares him to, he should think he’d be purring.

They retrieve his favorite comb from a shelf behind the tub and continue detangling. It runs through easier and easier with each stroke; long after the final catch of a knot they continue, slow and steady, a soothing rhythm. A part of him—the fanciful, admittedly romantic part of him—likes to think they’re prolonging the experience, that perhaps they enjoy it just as much as he does. The logical part of him says they’d never do something so indecorous.

Still, this is the nicest part of the process. His hair is smooth and silky now, just as he likes it. There’s no yanking. [Name] is always gentle, purposeful, careful not to tug too harshly, but a certain amount is always inevitable, especially after strenuous days such as a hunt.

(For a time, he refused to let any attendants tend to his hair. For many months that included [Name], so guarded and cautious he was even towards them.

It was a particularly taxing day, wherein any motion caused searing pain in his knee, which changed his mind—[Name] had stood faithfully by the bath politely averting their gaze as he sat there, stiff and cradling his knee, before finally stepping forward to kneel and plea, in that unruffled tone, that he allow them to aid him.

He’d acquiesced.)

Now they set down the comb, retrieving in turn a simple hair clip which they use to tie his wet strands up off his neck and away from his face.

When the task is done they shuffle their stool further down the length of the tub—but not before pausing for half a moment to lean in and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, giving him a rare smile that meets their eyes. Then they turn their attention to his body.

Those hands, he thinks, work miracles. He no better understands why his mother insisted upon an attendant with medicinal knowledge than when [Name] is skillfully massaging the tender parts of him. They’re able to pinpoint which muscles are worse by the way they twitch beneath his skin, or how he moves to compensate. Within minutes, between their expert fingers and the steaming water, the pain dulls to something far more bearable.

They wash him then, meticulous and tender. He feels as if his mind is floating as they move him around and lather him with soap only to wash it off; it’s a hazy, dreamlike feeling and he relishes it.

Far too soon they’re pulling back to help him up and drying him gently, then leading him back to his bedchamber and dressing him in just his underclothes. Already the ache is returning—less than before, but still more than he’d like. He hopes this salve might extend his relief.

They set him down in his chair and retrieve the container, kneeling before him and beginning to apply it. The largest portion goes to his knee; it’s cool to the touch, soothing on that point alone, but it tingles and leaves a numbing sensation as well that sinks quickly through his skin to the muscle beneath. They give a smaller application to the other places, and it truly helps, especially as they rub it in with precise movements like they use in the bath.

Soon enough they’re helping him to his feet again, draping a fresh linen undershirt over his shoulders and fetching a tunic. Careful with his hair, they dress him fully, brushing the fabric smooth and tugging his leggings free of wrinkles.

They kneel before him to lace up his boots. He watches, eyes keen, their own gaze fixed so closely to the task before them that they don’t notice his staring at first, until they look up.

Their eyes meet his, and they widen slightly, perhaps due to the intensity of his staring. He’d like to say he can’t help it, that they’re so mesmerizing when they’re concentrating it draws him in, but the words catch in his throat. Instead he looks away bashfully.

Their hand finds his lame knee, squeezing just barely in silent question.

“‘S fine,” Hyoma attempts to say, but it comes out hoarse. He clears his throat, lifts his head to stare at the ceiling for a moment to catch himself, and then attempts again. “It’s fine. Better.”

“How much better?”

He tests, lifting his leg and bending his knee, swinging it forward and to the side and tensing different muscles. “Not insignificantly. I’m impressed.”

[Name] nods in approval and rises to their feet.

“Where did you get the salve?”

“I made it,” they say breezily. “I’ve been working on it for many months now. Nearly a year, I’d say.”

Nearly a year. He realizes with a mild start that it’s coming up on a year since [Name] had been assigned to him—had they truly been developing such a thing since then? Even in the early months when he’d been cold and dismissive?

“Is there something wrong, your highness?”

“You’re too good to me,” he tells them, and they give him a muted smile.

“Impossible, my prince. I am merely here to serve you to the best of my ability. Now, let me finish your hair. I won’t have you complaining to me all day if it dries poorly.”

Hyoma’s eyes fall to the side again, not entirely accepting of the claim but aware he would never win the argument, and [Name] finally rises to their full height to round the chair. Hand coming forward to find his shoulder, they pull him back and guide him to tilt his head back once again with another hand along his jaw. The touch leaves a gentle warmth, even as it’s disappointingly fleeting; it still has his eyes fluttering closed.

They remove the hair clip and the sopping strands fall limply at his back, immediately dripping water. [Name] pats it dry with a towel just as he’s long instructed them. They meticulously continue until his hair is left more damp than soaked, and then turn to fetch a set of ribbons from his dresser.

“Do you have a color in mind, your highness?” they call to him before the drawer is even opened.

“I trust your judgment for the day,” he replies easily, knowing already which ones they’ll choose. Given the opportunity, they will always gravitate towards the pretty sky blue ones, bright but not garish, gifted to him by an ally: Jyubei, crown prince of a nearby kingdom. [Name] has often mentioned how well the color compliments his hair, and has on more than one occasion praised Prince Jyubei’s eye for such things.

(Hyoma now pushes down the bitter taste in his mouth when they mention it. He might console himself by informing them that Jyubei likely sent a servant to buy them, but he knows better. [Name] is correct, he has a good eye, and would never be the type to allow anyone to purchase pretty adornments for him.

And they’re very correct that the color compliments him well, plus he can hardly be too bitter about the way they smile at him when they catch sight of the pretty blue they chose among his magenta locks.)

Sure enough, they return swiftly with the very silk strips in hand. As with everything, they fold them to set them upon the table next to them. Another comb—one which was once used in the bathroom, but has since fallen to the wear and tear of utilizing such a thing daily—lives upon his dresser. [Name] already has it in hand, though they hardly need it as they run it through his hair easily.

They don’t need to ask him what hairstyle he wants. He long trusts them, full confidence given in their taste, and therefore merely lays back and keeps his eyes closed to rely solely on the sensations.

Their hands are as skilled as can be expected for someone who has been braiding his hair daily for many months on end. They’re careful not to tug too harshly, just as when they’d washed it, plaiting the strands with care and ease. The style chosen is one he often enjoys; they braid one side in rows against his head, leaving the other loose, letting the hair fall to the side in a soft curtain. They tie it off expertly with those ribbons, small enough for detailed use and opulent enough that the bright color only draws attention to their elegance—he raises a hand to run his fingers along their handiwork, admiring the care put into it.

“What would you like from me, [Name]?” he says finally, hand falling slowly from his head.

Their face is still, seemingly impassive. If he didn’t know them as he does he wouldn’t see any emotion—but he does know them, and so he picks up on the tiny furrowing of their brow and minute pout of their lip. They shake their head, and Hyoma rises to his feet quickly, catching their hand—not too tightly, not grabbing, but gentle. They freeze at the contact.

“Anything,” he says, and as their gaze pans up to him he knows they comprehend his meaning. Those eyes crinkle, shoulders falling slack, leaning in towards him and turning their gloved hand to grasp his own.

“I want nothing more than to serve you, my prince,” they tell him, and he wishes he could kiss them.

But that is that.

[Name] stands awaiting their prince’s arrival weeks later, watching him approach from a distance.

They find it a wonder how he can sit so elegantly upon that horse, knowing how much pain he’s in when he rides. They can only hope that their salve helps—and they think it does, from the changes in his expressions. Any improvement, they suppose, is better than nothing.

He only becomes prettier as he draws closer. It isn’t a hunt today; he’d gone into town to retrieve a mysterious item from an artisan. [Name] figures it’s about the antlers. It isn’t their duty to ask.

Prince Hyoma smiles broadly when he catches sight of them. He’s antsy, excited; he holds a small box in his hands and clutches it as he takes [Name]’s offered one to help him down. The stablehands take his horse away. He curls his fingers around [Name]’s and tugs them away to dip into a hidden alcove nearby.

“I asked if you were in need of anything made from antler,” he begins, and hushes them when they shake their head, dashing from their lips yet another assurance that no gifts are necessary. “I hope this is sufficient.”

He opens the box. A comb sits there—a replacement, they realize, for the worn one in his bedroom. And beneath it…

Two hairpins. A matching set, decorated in union; one larger, more elaborate, fit for a prince, and the other more understated. [Name] brings a gloved hand to their mouth in realization.

“One is for you,” their prince states in a low whisper, as if he needed to clarify. “The other for me. I hope this is enough.”

Their eyes jump to meet his, finding the pink watching them keenly for a reaction. The motion they choose is entirely on impulse.

They step closer, hand flying out to pull his own from the box and, at the same time as them bowing slightly, pull it up to their mouth. They press lips to the back of it, tender and lingering, brushing against the soft skin as they speak.

“Thank you, my prince.”

#chigiri x reader #chigiri x you #chigiri x y/n #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #blue lock x reader #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x you #commission #char.🌧 chigiri #mine.🌧#commission.🌧#fic.🌧 to serve

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