#help ive been thinking about Jack too much again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

say-hwaet · 18 days ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter Eight: Things Were Fine Until They Weren't Previous Chapters: VII VI V IV III II I Word Count: ~7,100 Summary: Life has somewhat resumed at camp, but the mundaneness fades quickly, for soon, you'll be on the move again. Warnings: Mature Themes, Language, Child death Next Chapter: IX

“If it involves the gun store, I can only imagine what it could be,” you laugh as you hang laundry to dry. You have been talking with Abigail to help make the chores go by faster, and with Jack running in between you, the laughter often drowns out most of what Abigail has been saying.

Despite the sunshine and banter, there’s a heaviness to the day—like the calm before a storm you can feel pulsing just beneath the surface of the soil.

“Jack!” Abigail chides. “You gotta find somewhere else to be.”

You don’t blame Jack for wanting to have a little fun. Ever since he went on that fishing trip with Arthur a few days ago, he’s been a little more anxious, running around and asking questions. And to be honest, so have you.

Arthur had come back from the fishing trip, feigning a smile as he returned Jack to his mother, and you could tell something was off.

You left feeding the chickens to meet him, but he quickly went into Dutch’s tent to speak with him, and so you had changed course, acting like you were busy cleaning off the nearby table.

That’s when you heard Arthur say it: he saw Pinkertons.

The news hit you like a bucket of ice water, chilling to the deep recesses of your spine. Pinkertons meant trouble — they were always trouble. You knew the gang was always on a thread-thin line, balancing between the law and complete anarchy, but this... this was a noose tightening.

And since, then, regardless of who heard it, the air has been thick with tension. Arthur didn’t share his news with you, perhaps to protect you, but it has only got you thinking more about your past, as if that didn’t consume your thoughts already.

Jack grabs your legs, leaning out and taunting his mother. “Aunt Kit doesn’t mind!”

But you reach down and playfully grab him and pull him away from you. “Don’t you dare pull me into this, Brouček,” you chuckle. “You best do what your mother says.”

His laughter rings through the air as he scampers off, a dust cloud marking his path. Abigail shakes her head, a weary smile tugging at her lips. “That boy will be the death of me,” she sighs, folding a sheet neatly and placing it in the basket.

You nod, feeling the weight of her words more than she can imagine. "He's a spirited one, that's for certain," you reply, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and watching Jack disappear between some of the tents.

As you return to your chores, your mind can't help but wander back to Arthur. His usual sturdy demeanor seemed fractured, like a well-worn leather strap finally giving way under too much strain. You remember the way he looked around nervously, eyes darting to the treelines as if expecting an ambush at any moment. That isn’t the Arthur you’re learning to know, the one who faces danger head-on with a cocky grin plastered on his face.

“Your mind went somewhere else again,” Abigail teases, taking the shirt that you have failed to fold out of your hands.

You shake your head, jostling yourself. “I’m sorry, Abigail, I just keep wondering what they’re up to?”

“I already told you. John is havin’ Arthur get a rifle from the gun store.” And then she lifts a brow. “That doesn’t really get your mind wanderin’, does it?”

You force a smile, your nerves tightening like the strings of a corset. "No, I suppose not," you lie smoothly, taking the shirt back and folding it with deliberate care. Your fingers tremble slightly, betraying your calm exterior.

Arthur getting a rifle should be simple, mundane even, yet nothing feels simple now. He could be out on a dangerous job, maybe even a secret mission to take out a Pinkerton leader, you don’t know, that’s what’s bothering you. “John didn’t tell you much else?”

Abigail furrows her brow. “He ain’t the type to talk.” She takes down a blanket from the line and begins to fold it. “Most of the time he just flaps his jaws and says somethin’ nasty.”

“What is going on between you two?” She gives you a look and then you add, “Amnesia, remember?”

She sets the folded blanket down in a crate. “What, Arthur ain’t fillin’ you in on all those details?”

You shrug. “We don’t talk about everything.”

“That’s surprisin’.” Abigail leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You and Arthur, everyone can see there's somethin' between you two. You ain't foolin' nobody, Kitka."

Your heart quickens at her words, but you don’t seem to be convinced. “I guess everyone knows something that I don’t.” You take the folded clothes back in your arms and prepare to deliver them to their owners. “If there was something between us, you’d think he would have said something already.”

Abigail sighs. “I don’t know, Kit, Arthur ain’t the outspoken type.” She points a thumb in the direction of Arthur’s tent, which is attached to the weapon’s wagon. “He usually keeps his thoughts in a journal.”

This gets your attention.

You nod, a plan forming in your mind. "I see.” You readjust the clothes in your arms, still moving carefully due to your healing wound in your side. “I guess I will go put these away,” you sigh, though it's more of a pained grimace as the confusion inside you, not your injury, twists tighter.

With the pile of clothes still in your arms, you make your way across the camp, dropping off each item to its respective owner with quick, polite exchanges. Your mind, however, remains fixed on Arthur's journal. It feels like an intrusion, a betrayal of the trust you're not entirely sure exists between you and him yet it might hold answers to the questions tangling up inside you.

Reaching Arthur's tent finally, the camp noises dim around you as if it is another realm entirely. Aside from dropping off clean clothes on his trunk, you really haven’t set foot in his tent, his space. Though now, you are tempted.

Setting his shirt and pants on the trunk, you let your eyes wander about his sleeping quarters.

It isn’t disorganized, but it exudes a lived-in warmth, with nuances of a man who has seen too much yet clings to remnants of a simpler life. There are old photographs pinned against the wagon’s side right above his cot, one catching you by surprise.

It is a photo of Dutch, Arthur, Hosea, and you. John isn’t in it, you aren’t sure why, but you are wearing the same outfit you wore when you robbed that bank.

You look so young, so serious with your unsmiling expression, but there is a light in your eyes as you stand beside Dutch and right behind Arthur as he sits in a chair.

He, too, is young. They all are. All handsome in their own way.

How did you end up with these folks? Did you find them intimidating at all? You don’t feel anything, except for the memories that you’ve already recalled, nothing seems to pop out at you, and your head doesn’t hurt.

You spot a mugshot of Lyle Morgan, who you deduce is Arthur’s father, and a photo of a dog. You can ask Arthur about it when you see him again.

You lean away from the cot and look around some more. You don’t see the journal, but you do notice two pictures on his makeshift end table. Looking around to be certain that no one is looking, you make your way over and pick the first one up.

The photograph is old. At least thirty years old. The woman in the photo has a soft expression on her face and light-colored eyes. Of course, the photograph is in black and white, but you don’t seem to recognize her anyhow. You flip it over and see there is some writing on the back.

Beatrice Morgan.

“Oh,” you say softly. “His mother…”

You place the photo back on the table, gently, as if the very act of touching it could fray the edges of Arthur's hidden vulnerabilities. Next to Beatrice's photo is another, this one smaller and the frame newer. As you pick it up, your fingers tremble slightly — perhaps from the cold that sneaks in with the breeze.

It is of another woman. Young, dark hair, pearl earrings, with a mole on her cheek.

You don’t recognize her, either, but you feel as though she is important somehow. You flip it over. Nothing. So, you don’t even get a quick answer. She had to have been someone important, otherwise he wouldn’t have put it near his bedside. You have a sinking feeling in your chest, an ache that seems to not have a place. You put the photograph back.

You see a flower on the nightstand, too, and a drawing from Jack, but there really doesn’t seem to be anything else here. No journal, no secrets, what else could there be—?

You see something beside some throwing knives. It looks like a newspaper clipping. It’s rather small, but you decide to pick it up and read it.

April 15th 1887 BRAZEN BANK ROBBERY THREE MEN AND A WOMAN SOUGHT

Major T.J. Bellard has been a cashier at the banking house of Lee and Hoyt for a number of years but nothing prepared him for what transpired last week. "It was about 2 o'clock. There was a commotion outside, and so three of my associates went out to see what was going on. It seemed to draw the attention of other clients out of the bank, leaving me the only soul inside. Then, three men, strangers to me, came through the door and walked up to the counter. One of them, the eldest of the three, was a fine talker and engaged me in conversation. Suddenly the largest, a big, sullen young man, brandished a firearm and held it up to my face.

"Throw up your hands," the third one said, who appeared to be the boss. The other two repeated the order with an oath and the leader said, "My fine patriotic friends and I are going to relieve you of that gold and introduce a few folks to the benefits of civilization." They came around the corner and the counter, and grabbed some sacks which contained $5000 in gold. They demanded to know where the rest of the money was, and I pointed out three sacks containing silver, but it was too bulky for them. They retreated and one warned against sounding an alarm. Once they left, the commotion outside ended, and I saw a flash of embroidered red and black run past the window. It was a woman, young and barefooted, and it was clear that she was with them. I was never so terrified in my life," Mr. Bellard told a reporter.

The robbers are reported to have lingered in town, and there are unproven claims that the men and the woman traveled to hovels and shanties and even a home for orphans and gave handfuls of the ill-gotten gains to the poor…

It is your first robbery. And it briefly mentions you. You stare at the clipping, the ink blurring slightly as your hands tremble. The memory of that day is still a bit foggy, but the rush of adrenaline and fear is something you can almost taste even now. The description of the woman in red and black–it couldn't be anyone else but you.

You look down at your feet. Your shoes have always felt cramped and hot in the leather, not because the boots are too small or are of bad make, they just feel…restrictive.

You set the clipping down, and leave Arthur’s tent.

And just as you come out, you see another set of red and black.

Micah, in his red shirt and black jacket.

“Leavin’ him a present, were you?” he asks, a hint of suggestion on his tongue. “Don’t he have to be here for that?”

You decide not to give him the satisfaction of an answer and decide to walk away.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you…!” And he reaches out to grab you.

Your reflexes, honed from years of darting through circus crowds and avoiding the grabs of rowdy spectators, kick in before you fully register Micah's intent. You twist away, slipping out of his grasp as smoothly as a shadow flits through the moonlight.

"Nemám ti co říct, Micah, leda v jazyce, kterému nikdy nebudeš rozumět… " you hiss. “Ty blázne z přírody!”

It seems to only interest him more, his laugh filthy as he takes a step toward you. “You can speak that way anytime, sweetheart.” And he tips his hat. “I got the gist of it…” And he backs away before you get the chance to scratch him.

You clench your fists, your long fingernails digging into the skin of your palms. If you weren’t so curious to get to the bottom of what happened in Blackwater, you’d be keen on being rid of him. But he knows something, something that could connect the missing threads of your past. You resolve to keep a closer eye on Micah, despite the distaste it stirs within you.

As you walk away, your thoughts are tumultuous. You can’t help but feel the weight of those unread chapters of your life pressing down on you. The sun is still high in the sky, but the day feels like it is dragging its feet. It seems that others are trying to keep busy, waiting for an attack from the Pinkertons.

Even Dutch and Strauss have gone into town. Dutch said he had some plans, as usual, and Strauss, of course, wanted to check in on the cures and how many have been sold this past week. You are just waiting for him to get back and confront you about giving one away for free to a desperate woman, but since you’ve grown more confident in your own skin, you aren’t worried about the repercussions.

You walk past the clothesline and see that Abigail is gone. The laundry must be finished, which means moving on to the next chore.

You see Susan, grinding some more herbs, and you decide to approach her. “Ms. Grimshaw?”

Without saying anything, she sets the pestle down and holds out a hand. “No, Kitka, I’m not lettin’ you chop wood.”

You had asked her that earlier today, but she told you no. You are getting bored with the same old thing, and since you’re still recovering, it seems that the delicate treatment you tried so hard to avoid is all that it has been. Your shoulders droop and you sigh. “I’m not here to chop wood, ma’am.”

“I guess you need more chores?”

“Yes.”

She thinks on it, then shrugs. “I don’t have anythin’ else for you to do.”

You blink. “What?”

She waves you off. “Girl, you’ve been chewin’ my ear all day about how bored you are and how useless you feel, all the while still with a wound in your side.”

You instinctively place your hand there, as though the mere mention of it will make it worse. “I don’t want to be taking advantage of your kindness.”

She chuckles. “Kindness? You’re like a daughter to me, Kit. It ain’t nothin’ to do with kindness.” You smile softly, understanding her meaning. If she ever did love you, this is the way that she is showing it. She waves you off again. “Now, go on and rest for a while. You’ve earned it.”

You decide to take your leave, far be it for you to argue with her. As you begin to walk about the camp, you spot Odliv in the distance and you get the urge to go for a ride. Smiling to yourself, you make your way over to her.

“M-miss Kit…!”

You stop and looking in the direction of the voice, you see Kieran walking up to you. You smile gently and wave. “Kieran…”

“I-I-I see you ride Odliv bareback?”

You look back at your horse and shrug your shoulders. “Yes, what of it?”

“I was polishin’ saddles, and-and came across one that nobody’s usin’. Maybe you can use it?”

You think about it. You don’t mind riding bareback, but you really haven’t been riding fast or for long distances. Perhaps a saddle would be good. You turn back to Kieran and nod. “Maybe. Can you show it to me?”

Your answer clearly delights Kieran, as he smiles broadly and motions for you to follow. “This way…!”

He leads you to a spot near the horses, where some other saddles rest near a crate. It looks like a makeshift workplace, and you assume this is where Kieran goes to do his work. You’ve noticed he keeps to himself, trying to stay out of everyone’s way, as most do show their indifference to him.

Well…aside from Mary Beth. Since his freedom, and his slow integration into the gang, she’s been keeping him company, making his face beet red most of the time.

Kieran bends down and picks up a dark leather saddle and turns around to show you. “What do you think?”

Your head feels a buzz as you recognize it. This is your saddle. The one you remember from your memories of riding Odliv with Arthur and the rest of the gang. You reach out a hand to graze your fingers across the floral embroidery, a traditional pattern from your home country. Did you make this? Was it your mother's? You don’t know, but it isn’t something you can easily purchase at a stable or from a catalogue.

“I’ll use it,” you say softly. Kieran nods and motions to give it to you. As he transfers it into your arms, you feel its lightness, which is surprising. It would make sense, given all the traveling your family must have done, no need to burden your horse. “Thank you.”

“Sure, Miss Kit.” And he turns to return to his work.

You turn around and make your way over to Odliv, her head perking up once she senses you. Her eyes follow you as you walk to her side and she remains still, clearly understanding what you are about to do. Putting on her saddle, you see how it suits her, her golden coat against the dark leather makes a beautiful contrast, like wheat against the dark earth. Your hands act as though on their own accord, securing the cinches and the breast strap. You back away to get the full picture, and your heart flutters a little at the anticipation of the ride.

After packing yourself a small lunch, and putting on your gun belt with your sawed-off, you mount up and ride Odliv out of the camp.

You decide to take the trail that leads to one of the roads you’ve traveled before. If you go westward, it leads you to Valentine. You don’t want to go that way, you’ve spent enough time over there, and after the incident with the working girls, you are afraid to be recognized. You look eastward and become curious as to where it should take you.

With a clicking sound from your mouth, you steer Odliv in that direction.

The ride is relatively quiet and peaceful. You find yourself relaxing in the saddle and letting your free hand hang down at your side. You regard the nature around you. On the left are high plateaus just in the distance, bushes and drying grass, the other is scattered trees that appear to slope down to a lakeside only several yards away. How diverse this land is!

The sun rides high in the sky, its light casting golden hues over the landscape, making the waters of the lake in the distance shimmer like a thousand tiny stars. It's a sight that nearly takes your breath away, and for a moment, you forget all about your past troubles and the empty spaces in your memory.

As you continue along the way, you begin to hear a strange thundering behind you, the sound soft but slowly gaining in volume. Tempted to look back, you turn your head slowly and see a rider coming at you at a full-blown gallop. In the distance, it is hard to see who it is, but by the way they move, you aren’t sure you want to find out.

Kicking Odliv’s barrel with your heels, she starts in a gallop and you grip the reins tightly, before nearly falling off. You haven’t ridden like this since returning to the gang, and you haven’t had much of a chance to adjust to it, but right now, you don’t have the time to practice.

Odliv is fast, and you’re grateful, but the rider behind you is gaining. You blame your rusty horsemanship and the late start you had on them.

You keep your eyes focused ahead, should you need to vault over some kind of obstacle.

And out of nowhere, they catch up to you. “OUTTA THE WAY…!”

Wait. That voice! You’d know it anywhere by now.

Just as you turn your head, you see the buckskin jacket and black hat rush past you.

“Arthur…!” you call out and upon hearing his name, he pulls back on the reins, and Montana skids to an abrupt halt. You slow Odliv down and canter up to him.

He's breathing heavily, drops of sweat beading on his furrowed brow, a look of urgent confusion etched across his rugged features. "Kitka," Arthur says, his voice thick with emotion and surprise. He looks at you as though you scared the living daylights out of him, but he speaks to you with an unusual calm. “We gotta go.”

“Go?” you ask. “Go where?”

He looks behind you and his breath hitches. “Follow me.” And before giving you a chance to respond, he spurs Montana on and they gallop off.

That’s when you hear gunshots in the distance.

Oh no. He’s in trouble.

But you aren’t about to stay and talk sense into angry lawmen. You aren’t that good at persuasion.

You gallop after him, your heart pounding in rhythm with the hooves of Odliv hitting the ground. The familiar exhilaration of a high-speed chase washes over you, tinged with a fear you can't shake—the fear of losing Arthur again, just when you've found him.

As his figure grows larger before your eyes, the landscape blurs into a mix of green and brown. The gunshots grow distant, more faded, as if the very earth is encouraging your escape. Dust kicks up from Montana's hooves, creating a storm behind him that you can barely see through. But you don’t need clear vision; you just need to keep close to Arthur, as you catch up to ride along beside him.

You think to ask what happened, but you can ask when you are out of harm’s way.

***

After riding several miles, you have lost the law. You’ve stopped the horses in a thick forest up north, past a place called Moonstone Pond.

After dismounting, rather carefully, you remove Odliv’s bridle and let her drink from the water, letting the bridle fall with a metallic plop. Arthur had already dismounted and now sits on a nearby log, removing his hat and wafting cool air in his face.

He looks bulky, sitting hunched over like that, his large hand on the crown of his hat, his head down.

The air nearly crackles with tension, questions you have that need asking, but the immediate necessity of dealing with what just happened takes priority. It frustrates you, the need to be blunt, but you know that tact is the strategy here. You realize that this is your acting and con skills going to work. You have developed the ability to read people, or are at least relearning it.

“How’s your battle wound?” he asks casually as if you hadn’t just escaped the law.

“Fine,” you answer in the same manner. Feeling the need, you begin to remove your boots, pulling up your pant legs to get to the laces.

Arthur lifts his head and looks at you, his face expressionless. “What’re you doin’?”

You lift up your foot with skilled balance and pull off the boot with ease. Staying balanced on one foot, you switch feet and do the same with the other. Once your feet are free, you wiggle your toes in the grass and sigh. “That is so much better.”

Arthur lets out a chuckle. “Was wonderin’ when you’d do that.” He shifts on the log, eyes now scanning the expanse of trees shadowing you both from the late afternoon sun. His face, usually set in lines of determination or concern, relaxes for a moment as he watches you. "You always hated boots," he murmurs with a hint of nostalgia, his voice low and almost aching.

You look at him, your shoulders drooping. You want to just sit with him and ask him if he will tell you more, but first things first. “What happened in Valentine?”

His eyes flicker to the ground before coming back up at you. “We shot the whole town.”

Your heart sinks. “What?!”

“Leviticus Cornwall showed up. We robbed one of his trains a few weeks back, stole some oil, he’s riled up. Sent the Pinkertons after us. They nabbed John and Strauss…but I took care of that…” He rubs a hand down his face. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Arthur’s confession hangs heavy between the rustling leaves and the creak of the log under his weight. The sun is beginning to enter the dusk, the shadows turning his face into a mask of remorse and desperation. You draw a deep breath, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten—anger, fear, and concern mingling together like a storm cloud that has blocked the sun. You take careful steps toward him and sit down beside him.

“It seems that is what we are good at.” You look down at your hands, imagining how many towns did you shoot up throughout your life? You haven’t remembered shooting a gun, but you just got done shooting O’Driscolls without so much as a second thought. “Blackwater, now this.”

Arthur nods, not arguing with you. “Yeah.”

You turn to look at him, though he doesn’t meet your gaze. “We’re going to have to leave Horseshoe Overlook, aren’t we?”

He looks up, casting his eyes toward the horses as they rest. “Looks that way.”

You exhale, your body feeling more heavy than you had hoped to feel today. “This isn’t the way we used to do things.”

Arthur turns to look at you, his eyes reflecting a certain curiosity. “What things?”

You clear your throat. You aren’t about to tell him that you were in his tent when you came across the newspaper clipping, but you have to explain what you mean. “I mean, back then, when we used to rob the rich and give money away.” You tuck some hair behind your ear. “But now we just kill people.”

Arthur’s body tenses slightly, his tone coming out as defensive. “I shoot those as need shootin’. That’s how Dutch has always done it.”

You find that hard to believe. Not after what you’ve heard and seen. You think about Heidi and what had happened to her. As far as you can tell, she didn’t need shooting. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”

Arthur sighs, signs of fatigue coming out in his pinched brow and slumped shoulders. “I know that what just happened in Valentine weren’t good, but—”

“I’m talking about what happened in Blackwater, Arthur.” There is a silence that falls between you and after a moment, Arthur rises to a more erect sitting position. You exhale and look away. “It seems like nobody wants to talk about it.”

“I hear that.”

You pick at your long fingernails, getting dirt out from underneath them. “If I was on that boat, it means I saw what happened.”

“Yeah.”

You turn to face him, and his deep blue marine eyes meet yours, reflecting the uncertainty and confusion that you feel. He looks just as lost and in the dark as you are. “I just wish I could remember what happened,” you say softly.

Then his brow pinches, a pained expression crossing his face. “Why? Ain’t it bad enough just to know that things went to hell?”

You shake your head, not even sure how to answer. Your words come out jumbled, stammering as your emotions begin to swell. “I don’t know, I just…I just—I can’t—There’s just something deep in my bones, Arthur, deep within my soul that there’s something going on. I…can’t help but wonder…if…if that is going to make or break something.”

Arthur's gaze softens, the harsh lines of his face easing into a more thoughtful expression. He reaches out, his rough fingers brushing lightly against your arm, grounding you back to the present. "Kit," he starts, his voice low and gentle, a stark contrast to the usual gruffness. "Maybe it’s best that you don’t know…I see what rememberin’ things does to you. I—” he cuts himself off for a moment, his lips forming a flat line. “I hate to see you hurt.”

His words, though meant to comfort, only serve to stir up more turmoil within you. You nod slowly, trying to digest the gravity of his statement. It was true that each fragment of memory retrieved has sent a wave of pain and confusion through your heart, but the unknown seems just as menacing, if not more so.

"I appreciate that, Arthur," you say, patting his hand. “But I need to decide that for myself.” And seeing the expression on his face, you add, “You can’t always be there to protect me.” This seems to cut him even more, though that wasn’t the intention. Then, you remember what Mary Beth said, how he blames himself that you had supposedly died. “Arthur, I meant—”

He shakes his head, bringing his hand to his lap. “It’s alright, Kit.” And he swallows. “Not a delicate flower, right?” He feigns a smile and a chortle, but you can see right through it.

“Arthur…”

He rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “We need to head back to camp. We gotta pack and move somewhere else.”

You guess that’s that then. You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dirt off your pants. “Where?”

“Don’t know.” He avoids your gaze, almost purposefully this time. “We will just have to see.”

***

Clemens Point. Your new camp. Dutch had sent Arthur, of course, to go and scope out a new place to hide from the law and he took Charles with him. You were glad of that. It’s evident that Charles is one of the good ones, and you know that he wouldn’t put anyone in danger unnecessarily.

It was a long wait back at camp, even with spending the majority of the time helping everyone pack up their belongings, your eyes often drifted to the tree line, wondering when and if they’d be back with good news.

“We will be gone before the law finds out where we are,” Hosea tried to reassure you. “You’ll believe that once your memories come back.”

You figured this has happened more than once, which makes you realize that if things were better, you’d probably all be settled in a ranch or an actual house by now, enjoying the pleasure of riches, health, and safety.

Broken dreams, broken plans, and broken promises.

You continued on without saying much of anything, your mind going back to your last conversation with Arthur. He seemed really hurt by what you said, when all you were trying to do was to lighten his burden a little. You don’t want him to worry about you. If your head hurts in the cause of remembering, so what? You’d be whole again, and that seems to be what everyone wants for you.

At least, you think they all do. You want them to.

And before you were about to get the idea of going out to look for them, Charles returned to camp, announcing to all that he and Arthur found a spot better than the one that Micah had suggested. A place called Clemens Point. It was supposedly secluded, by a large source of water, and was near a town that could be promising.

That was enough for Dutch to make the call, ordering everyone to get moving.

You rode behind the caravan on Odliv, growing more comfortable on the saddle than you have ever in a wagon. She made an even stride as the landscape changed from arid and cool, to humid and warm, and you weren’t sure if you liked it. Your skin instantly felt sticky and hot, and you questioned if you ought to be wearing dark jeans and a red shirt with yellow flowers on it. But you like red, yellow, and black, so you were stubbornly going to stick with your decision.

As the gang turned off the road and into some trees, you got the feeling that you were close.

That’s when you heard Dutch loudly exclaim up ahead, “This is perfect, Arthur. Just perfect…!”

You’ve since begun to settle into the camp, everyone falling into their place as though you’ve been here for months already. You have your own tent now, covered and private, sequestered between two trees just behind the medicine wagon, much to Strauss’s delight. Any way to remind you to keep making cures, right?

But not too far is Arthur’s wagon, and beside his is Dutch and Molly’s. Just beyond the camp, is the lake, and the promise of fish to eat carries the promise that the gang won’t starve.

After a long day of setting up camp, you finally turn in for the night. You crawl into your tent and change out of your clothes into a nightgown made of cotton, which will help combat this heat, even in the evening.

Wanting to let in some air, you peek out of your tent just as the sun sets. Without affecting your side too much, you rest on your stomach and prop up your head on your elbows, and get a nice view of the lake. The golden orange hues blend into the darkening blue of the water, creating a tranquil painting that calms your unsettled mind. The sound of the gang’s laughter and the occasional clinking of bottles drifts over, a comforting reminder that you're not alone, even if part of you sometimes wishes to be.

You watch as figures move around the camp, silhouettes, and soft voices as people settle for the evening.

And there, on the lake’s edge, stands a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette, the glow of a cigarette illuminating his fingers. He brings the cigarette to his mouth and he nonchalantly looks over his shoulder. The light illuminating his face, you can tell that Arthur is looking straight at you.

His gaze holds something unreadable, a mixture of concern and an almost imperceptible longing, as if the distance between your tent and the lake was not merely physical. You realize that despite the chatter and laughter all around, both of you have been navigating a silent storm of your own.

Letting the flap fall back into place, you create a barrier that settles your heart a little. Then, turning around and laying into your bed roll, you fall asleep.

***

“You need to go, ségra…” Antek coughs, though he doesn’t try to move out of your arms. “You’ll die if you stay…”

Your eyes shine with unshed tears, the tightness in your chest increasing the longer you try to keep it all in.

You had to stop and rest. Carrying him on your back has taken its toll and after banging on the door of two doctor's offices, you are weary of begging.

It’s terribly hot, the sun beating down on you as you sit on a street corner, and you can feel the heat of Antek’s fever. You wish that your circus band could have waited just a little longer, but you know better than anyone, they have to keep moving. They are out of money and in order to make more, they have to travel. That’s the nomadic way of life.

“Kitka…?” your brother’s voice is growing weaker, not the spry, energetic voice that you know. He looks so small, so frail for a twelve-year-old. He could juggle heavy stones for hours without tiring, and walk the wire as well as anyone, but now…

You wipe the sweat from his brow, shushing him gently. “I’m here, bratříček. I’m here.”

You hear someone coming and you look up and see a man and woman, dressed in fancy daywear and noses upright. You try to lock eyes with them, but it seems as though they are purposefully trying to avoid you.

“Please,” you beg. “Help us. My brother, he’s very sick. Can you spare any change so I can get him some medicine?”

The woman averts her eyes, clutching her parasol tighter, while the man frowns and quickens his pace, muttering, “Immigrants. Nothing but lazy gypsy vermin…”

The sting of their rejection is more painful than any other slur they could throw at you. You aren’t a stranger to it, but you didn’t need help, then. You weren't subjected to the mercy of strangers, to the cold indifference that seemed as harsh and unyielding as the desert around you. But here you are, cradling your brother's feeble body against the backdrop of an unkind world.

Your parents, dying in that terrible fire two years ago during a fire-breathing stunt, you and Antek have been all that remains of the Petrovs. You stayed with the traveling circus, vagabonds and carpetbaggers with dreams, and the closest to a family that you have. But they clearly had their own lives to lead. And with the promise to reunite as soon as possible, they moved on.

Tears finally spill over as you rock Antek, murmuring comforts that feel as hollow and brittle as the street debris beneath you. You're not just out of options; you're out of hope. The ache in your heart mirrors the empty streets, where even the dust seems to settle with a weight heavier than before.

“Shh, bratříček, don't fret,” you whisper, though your voice hardly carries past your lips.

You begin to sing a lullaby, one that your mother had sung when she carried both you and your brother in her arms when bad dreams kept you up at night. The words come out whimpering, sorrowful, as the tears continue to fall. One tear falls and lands on his forehead, but he doesn’t stir.

You pause in the middle of your singing. “Antek…?” you ask, your voice so soft it hides beneath the stillness of the day. The world around you appears to dim, the sounds of pedestrians and wagon carts becoming faded and distant. Panic claws at your chest when you feel no rise and fall in Antek's chest, his breath as absent as the compassion in the eyes of the passersby. You shake him gently, your voice barely a whisper, broken by fear, "Antek, please."

But he doesn’t move. His eyes closed and his mouth parted from the last words he had spoken.

Antek is dead.

You bend and hide your face in his hair, holding him close to you as you cry. You do not care who sees or hears you, for grief has swallowed you whole, rendering the judgments of the world insignificant. The sound of your sobbing is a lone mourning cry in the bustling indifference of San Francis. You remember how Antek used to tug at your sleeve with a mischievous smile, urging you on to new misadventures. Now, the coldness of his skin is all that you feel now that his heart has stopped beating.

The minutes stretch like hours under the relentless heat of the sun, but you continue to hold him, refusing to move. What can you do? You can’t just bury him in the ground. There needs to be a ceremony, words to be said. You don’t have money or a way to do that. You worry you will have to dig a grave with your own bare hands.

“Miss…?”

The sudden voice startles you, but you’re so weak, that your head turns slowly to look up. You see a man, in his early forties, with blond hair and brown eyes. He doesn’t look like a regular San Fernandian, or anyone around here, for that matter.

You blink, feeling the tightness on your cheeks from the tears that have since fallen and dried. You try to speak, but your voice is too hoarse.

Without saying anything, he takes a canteen from his shoulder and offers it to you. “It’s water.”

You hesitate, the distrust woven into the fabric of your life makes you wary of strangers. But the parched feeling in your throat overpowers your caution, and you take the canteen with trembling hands. The water feels soothing as it flows down, quenching the thirst that had gone unnoticed amidst your grief.

Once you have had enough, you hand it back to him, your hand returning to hold your brother.

The man points to the boy, speaking hesitantly. “Is he alright?”

“My brother. He’s dead,” you say flatly, your voice still hoarse but you can speak now that your thirst is quenched.

The man's face softens, his eyes reflecting a sorrow that seems to go beyond mere sympathy. He removes his hat in a gesture of respect and looks down at Antek's lifeless form. "I'm sorry for your loss, miss. If you need help... with arrangements or anything,” he offers, hesitating as he comes closer. “I can help.” You only blink, but he must see something in your expression, an opening, a vulnerability that invites him to try some more. “My name is Hosea. Hosea Matthews.”

You swallow. He doesn’t appear to show any prejudice or malice. After what you have endured, you feel desperate for any bit of kindness and in your fatigued state, you are almost tempted to give it. “Kitka,” you say. “Kitka Petrova.”

He nods, smiling softly. “Ms. Petrova, if you’ll let me take your brother, we can see about laying him to rest. Properly, as he deserves.”

Your eyes roam over Hosea’s face, searching for any hint of deceit. But all you find is a genuine concern etched into his weathered features, something that almost resembles the kindness you had known in your parents before tragedy scorched its way through your life. It's strange and unsettling, this offer of unbidden help, but the temptation to accept is too great now.

You nod your head. “Okay…”

And with that, he bends down near you, and gently takes Antek from your arms. Your arms feel lighter, empty, and your eyes never leave his limp form as you struggle to rise to your feet. Hosea waits for you and once you’re standing, he motions for you to follow. “Come,” he beckons. “My child.”

Thank you so much for reading!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x fem!reader #Arthur morgan x you #the mc is gaining some memories #here we go to clemens point #this is getting good

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quinnfebrey · 6 months ago

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pls give me your review of Next to Normal London youre the only one i trust

do i want to talk too much about next to normal? yes, i do.

some disclaimers: first, i am extremely specific about my opinions on next to normal, so if you're thinking "that's a dumb thing to say!" well sorry but remember ive been marinating in this show for over a decade. also, this is just going to be a review of the principle cast! i did see a cover run but i wont talk about them here (feel free to ask about them though if you like)

alright, without further ado here are my thoughts on each actor + the staging/general thoughts:

diana (caissie levy):

i thought she did a great job overall, but i didn’t love some of the vocal changes she made to the songs. she has a beautiful voice, but her version of i miss the mountains was a little too “i’m performing!” for me. missed the needed rawness of alice here

i did really like her change of softening “can” in “i love you as much as i can” though

her acting was phenomenal, the moment with gabe's baby clothes was heartbreaking. she also had AMAZING chemistry with natalie, and i think her version of so anyway is my favorite that i've ever seen

i’m interested to see how she develops further into diana because i think there’s room for more understanding in the more nuanced parts of her character. she improved a lot as the show went on which tells me she struggles with the humor and manic side to diana that is more prevalent in act 1

dan (jamie parker):

i think his singing voice is perfect for dan, but his speaking voice was so strange to me. i don’t know if it was him trying to act around the accent or his true interpretation of the character, but a lot of his dialogue didn’t work for me the way his songs did. like i would be absolutely in love with a number and then he'd speak and i'd be thrown out of it i don't know

his acting was great though, i really enjoy this goofier version of dan than the original version. he's more playful and i really like that it humanizes him more and also helps bridge the dan that fell in love with diana and the dan of today

he's also i think the first dan i've seen play the role with so much anxiety? like clinical anxiety, he's basically having a panic attack at the end of i'm alive reprise/during the break. i really really liked the nuance that it brings to dan

gabe (jack wolfe):

his voice is great for the role, and the way he looks too just fits with the character idk really good casting here

he was definitely less creepy than i felt the original version wanted him to be, i haven’t decided if i like that or not. i think it added more to gabe’s development as a character, but i think took a little away from the fact that gabe is not actually a real person

he seems like less of a comfort object for diana in this version as well, which again i don't mind but changed the dynamic. this gabe felt more attached to the whole family

REALLY good solo in light, heartbreaking sweetness in i dreamed a dance

natalie (eleanor worthington-cox):

i absolutely LOVED her. she was by far the standout for me in this cast. her acting was perfect, she clearly understands natalie incredibly well, and her voice is wonderful too. very good understanding of the purpose of the songs.

she made a couple dynamic changes during catch me im falling that i thought were strange, but i could also see that coming from her trying not to copy the original

i think her natalie is the most scared that i've seen it played, which worked well with this interpretation of dan. it all built up really well to her breakdown in hey#3

i also felt a stronger connection between dan and natalie in this version more than i have with any other, so light hit a lot harder

henry (jack ofrecio):

i feel bad about this one but honestly i really did not connect with his interpretation of henry. that’s the nicest way i can say it

he seems like such a sweet guy and his voice is absolutely gorgeous, but... that's kind of where my likes end

he didn’t seem to understand any of the jokes he was telling because he couldn’t make any of them land (and he’s a very comedic character so what happened bro 😭)

he was too “nice guy." henry is written in a way that can come off really insensitive and whiny and it takes the actor bringing it to life to get away from that. he just didn't seem to add another side to it

for example, when he says “then i’m sure they will be” during catch me i’m falling i wanted a little more… i don’t know, hesitation or disbelief in himself? and when he says “why do i get denied” i was just like my god bro she’s dealing with real shit, get over it. acb’s delivery of that line comes across way more as like. im hurting because i don’t know how to help you, please let me help you. this guy was just a whiny boyfriend.

again, great voice, but everything besides his singing either just felt very flat or was aggravatingly annoying to me.

madden/fine (trevor dion nicholas):

honestly i don’t usually have strong opinions on this guy. his voice was great, he did a solid rockstar.

his biggest part for me is at the end when he’s trying to convince diana to stay in treatment. it’s the first time you see his douche doctor mask fall and you realize he genuinely believes his way is correct and doesn’t understand why it isn’t working. i think he did it really well, i’ve never seen a madden/fine do it with so much anger but it actually worked for me

staging:

honestly i applaud them for being brave enough to change this much. having a real set already helps me separate this revival from the original run

i think the lack of true set in the original adds to the tone of the show, though, so this production did feel very different and more concrete which made some of the weirder blocking not work as well (like during my psychopharmacologist and i). instead of feeling more abstract and conceptual it was like oh They're In A House

but i don't necessarily think it's a bad thing, i just think it makes it a slightly different show and a person's preference will probably just be which one they saw first. i'm sure people who see the london version for the first time will see the original and wonder where tf everything is lol

i also seriously missed dan wiping up during i’ve been (i know he still does it but the double bucket is SUCH an effective stage trick)

and i missed gabe's general parkour, again him really just owning the stage like that helps him feel like not a real person

my one criticism of the staging is that in my opinion it felt cluttered and busy at times

general pros:

the kids felt younger, particularly gabe (even tho the actor is older than aaron and kyle were?? he just looks like he’s 14 i guess), which i think changed the tone a little for the better. makes them more sympathetic

the band ROCKED. slight mixing differences but not unwelcome

i loooooved this version of maybe. literally every second of it was perfect.

general cons:

i don’t know if british people are just irritating or something but the jokes were not hitting unless it slapped them in the face. they also seemed to miss a lot of references like the one to macgyver, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest, sound of music, but they laughed at the portland joke EVERY TIME? lmao idk

why the balloons lol cut that pls

i’m probably missing soooo much so pls send specific asks about anything in the show (with or without my opinion attached lol) and i’ll do my best!

#anyway. let's discuss #asks #next to normal #next to normal london #next to normal west end #next to normal uk #jack wolfe #caissie levy #eleanor worthington cox #jamie parker

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honeyynymphh · 2 years ago

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I had a thought for a fic and bc I love ur writing…

copia x mile high club

first of all, thank you so much!! mile high club certainly is not something I would have ever thought of but it did give me an idea so here it is! Inflight Meal Papa IV x FemReader rating: E words: 2600 tags: dom copia, cunnilingus, sex, fucking on the job, drinking on the job, dirty talk, cheesy af, there is no resemblence to canon like anywhere in this story lmao AO3

summary: as an air hostess you are used to strange people, especially when they have their own private jet. but this was definitely the strangest one.

also Copia still has his moustache because I said so! I know nothing about flying, this is pretty silly and it is not checked so sorry for any mistakes!

Straightening your skirt you stand waiting for the passengers to board the plane. Last minute you’d been called in to help on an overnight flight to Italy by Jack—the usual pilot you flew with. Apparently, some priest was travelling back to his hometown for an important ceremony and his crew were short a few staff members. You would have refused at such a late request, especially as you had to wear a completely different uniform. It wasn’t the airlines—apparently the priest had insisted all the crew fit in with the rest of his staff.

What an arrogant prick.

But the money had been way above the norm and you rarely were asked to do private flights. And the uniform was not much different than your usual skirt and jacket. Except it was cerulean blue with little embroidered golden details—and a strange inverted crucifix emblazoned on the chest. You were just grateful it wasn’t a nun's habit.

You heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to board and straightened your back, plastering on the practised smile. Many a jerk you’ve had to deal with and today would be no different—no matter how fancy an aircraft it was. You’d had a little snoop before. The whole aircraft was dark wood and detailed with the same shade of blue and gold. The jet was fitted with a main bedroom, kitchen, office and then the main seating area. God must be real generous, you think with a roll of your eyes.

The first person aboard is an older woman, her blonde hair styled to perfection and wearing a severe yet fitting suit jacket and skirt—all in black but detailed with the same hints of blue and gold as your uniform. She smiles at you and you gesture for her to enter, giving her a welcoming smile as you bid good evening. Next is a man…at least you think it’s a man. The smile on your face falters a moment before you right it again on your perfectly painted lips.

His dress is fine. He’s dressed all in black—though his jacket has the same little crucifix on it as yours—it’s the mask he wears that throws you. It’s silver, demonic and completely obscures his face.

Weird. But you were here to serve drinks and food, not care about the passengers and their odd choice of attire. The…man walks past you without a glance and settles into a chair before pulling out a rolled-up magazine from his trouser pocket.

You’re too busy still looking at him when a voice says, “Buonasera, Signorina.”

When you turn towards it, you’re met with a pair of mismatched eyes set in a face painted like a skull. But despite it, it’s still an attractive one and the man’s voice is pleasant—the Italian lilt to his words makes your smile genuine, if not a little bemused. He’s dressed in a dark blue suit, way too tightly fitting that it’s almost indecent.

He takes your hand, the soft leather that encases his hand is buttery soft and warm. He kisses your hand, moustache tickling your skin. He introduces himself as Papa Emeritus the Fourth before he gives you a smile and heads into the plane. You watch, bemused, as he greets the other two—the woman talking quickly and hovering around him like a mother hen. He waves her off with some words in Italian and disappears down to the back of the plane.

That cannot be a priest, you think. Maybe Jack got the information wrong. He looks too…you don’t even know. You rub at your hand. At least he didn’t seem like a complete asshole, nor had he started preaching—and really, that was all you cared about. You kept staring off down towards the back of the plane, mind still fixated on the mysterious man.

“You ready?” says Jack, ducking out of the cockpit.

“Huh?” you say distractedly, head snapping to look at the pilot.

Another crew member has appeared, she’s wearing the same uniform as you and she’s standing there patiently waiting for you. You had only briefly spoken to her earlier, she had said her name was Sister Hayley you think. A nun. Not that the woman looked anything like a nun.

“Arm and crosscheck?” he says.

“Oh, yes, right.”

When miles above ground and flying somewhere over the Atlantic ocean you’re giving out drinks. The man in the silver mask declines anything, choosing instead to lounge on the plush seating like an overgrown cat while the woman—who had politely introduced herself as Sister Imperator—sat in one of the comfortable chairs at a small desk. You’d given her a drink—a gin and tonic—and then headed down to go find the enigmatic Papa Emeritus.

The office is empty and so you head to the bedroom, the door is closed and you knock politely before sliding it open. You find the man propped up on the bed, book in hand and a pair of glasses perched low on his long nose. He glances up at you and the darkly painted lips quirk into a pleased smile. It makes your stomach flip.

“Sir, would you like a drink?” you ask, standing there with your hands clasped in front of you. “Or something to eat?”

The man gives you a smile, easy and smug. Again you wonder why he was wearing such tight trousers. What the hell kind of church was he from?

“Si, wine, per favore. Anything from the stock in the kitchens. Pick something.” He gives you a long look. “Two glasses.”

“No problem, sir, anything to eat?” you ask. Fuck you wish he’d stop looking at you like that.

His painted lips quirk but he shakes his head. “Just bring the wine, signorina.”

You head to the little kitchen and randomly grab a bottle, simply picking one based on the label. You grab two glasses and then walk back towards the suite. You smile politely as you enter and place the glasses on the little table next to him.

“Is this to your liking, sir?” you ask, holding out the bottle for him to inspect.

“Papa,” he says, leaning over to peer at the label before he nods. “Not ‘sir’.”

You pour him a glass and place the bottle beside it. “Is there anything else?”

He closes the book he is reading a throws it on the bed, you catch the cover—it’s in a different language but it has a picture of a goat and a pentagram on it. He waves a hand at the other glass.

“Pour yourself one as well, signorina.”

You frown at him. “That is kind of you, but I am working.”

The man winks at you, grabbing the bottle himself and pouring out a measured amount. You watch the liquid slosh in the glass.

“I promise I won’t tell,” he says, extending it out to you.

You take it and hold it awkwardly, the smile on your face fixed. You did not want to get in trouble with Jack and lose your job. But a glass couldn’t help and you’d attended to everyone. You sip it and Papa smiles.

Somehow you end up two glasses deep. It’s not enough to make you drunk but damn it’s enough to make you feel far too relaxed. And you’ve somehow found yourself sitting next to him on the bed. You really should go back though. But it’s been lovely chatting to him, he talks of his flock with affection and mentions Sister Imperator fondly.

“This might be a stupid question,” you ask, the wine having loosened your tongue, “but what exactly are you a priest of?”

He laughs and it’s such a pleasant sound that you can’t help but smile. You’ve grown used to his strange face and it’s somewhat endearing to watch the lines on his face move as he chuckles.

“Not a priest, dolce,” he says. “Once upon a time, si, but now I am Papa.”

“You say that like I should know what you mean,” you reply.

“Like the Pope.” He grins. “Less preaching about the good of man and much more sinning.”

You cannot help but laugh, it sounds ridiculous. “I thought god said sinning was bad.”

“We do not worship a false god of fabricated mercy,” he utters, voice low. You stop laughing at the serious expression on his face, but it melts away when he adds. “We worship the lord below who relishes in sin. We are human, si? So we should take comfort in the pleasures it provides.”

“You’re telling me you worship the devil?” you ask, breath hitching when he leans in a little closer.

“Si,” he says, eyes fixed on you. “And I fear I have not worshipped in his name today at all. Perhaps you can help me, dolce?”

Suddenly his mouth is on yours. You freeze a movement but when you respond, his hands hold your face and pull him flush against him. His mouth is urgent and hot against yours, tongue delving into your mouth while your legs tangle together. Your lipstick is smudged red over his face and you’re certain he’s covered yours in black—you can taste it on your own lips but it doesn’t matter. He kisses like he is worshipping, hungry and possessive. It makes your head spin and you completely forget that this is certainly a breach of conduct. Especially when he’s flipping you onto your back, dragging your legs to the edge of the bed as he pushes your skirt up to bunch around your waist/

“Sorry, dolce, but now I’m feeling rather hungry.”

You hear the snap of your garter belt and feel the tension ease around your stockings so he can pull your knickers down your legs. Before you can draw another breath his face is between your legs, his breath skating over your wet folds before his tongue is flicking against you. You moan, hands instantly grabbing tufts of his peppered hair between your fingers as he works some sort of ungodly magic on your aching cunt.

Fucking hell.

Your back arches as he draws the tension out, leaving you panting on the edge of delirium. His arms move under your thighs and pull you closer to him as he devours you. You pull at his hair and grind against his face, unable to stop yourself from seeking more glorious threads of pleasure to wind tighter around your core.

His mouth breaks away as he can come up for air. You stare at him with a heavy-lidded expression, taking in that wicked mouth all glistening and smeared with paint by your own slick. He looked like the fucking devil and you were more than willing to sell your soul if it meant he wouldn’t stop.

“Cazzo, your pussy is delicious, dolce,” he breathes, nipping at the inside of your thigh.

His face returns to press against your cunt. And that nose! It’s pressed against your clit, mouth wet and tongue searching while his moustache tickles your skin. You arch back and your hands grip the sheets as the plane suddenly rocks—turbulence. Fuck.

Jack’s voice floats through the plane’s intercom system, certainly a mood killer, but Papa doesn’t stop.

“Please return to your seat, we are experiencing some mild turbulence.”

The craft rocks again but your eyes are too busy rolling into the back of your head as he eats you out like he’s on death row and you're his last meal.

You moan when you feel fingers, leather-clad ones, pressing into your pussy and stretching you. You bounce on his hand when you hit another pocket of turbulence, and his grip on your thigh tightens while the other hand is busy pumping into your wetness. Another pocket and another moan have you on the edge and trembling.

It doesn’t take much to have you rocking along with the aircraft as you come. You try not to moan too loudly and shove your fist in your mouth but Papa leans up and pulls your arm away from your face, that devilish visage hovering over you.

“Don’t silence such pretty sounds, dolce.”

You sigh, luxuriating in the waves that still ripple through you while the plane rocks again. Fuck. You feel his body move away from yours and you sigh. Your eyes had fallen closed as you relaxed but they snap open when you feel him crawl on top of you. He’s rid himself of some of his clothes—well, most of them. A heavily unbuttoned shirt was the only thing on him. You can see the hairs on his firm chest and when you feel his cock pressing between your legs you immediately spread them for him.

When he sinks into your welcoming pussy you moan. The stretch feels incredible and you desperately tilt your hips so he can sink in further. When he bottoms out, you both sigh. Papa has removed his gloves, and his large hands hold your hips, creasing the fabric of your uniform even further as he starts to pump into you.

You’re already so worked up and sensitive that you are already ready to come again quickly. Your walls are squeezing him and the sounds it draws from his lips are downright demonic. Your hands reach up to grip his shoulders so you can thrust up to meet him, both of your movements becoming hurried in your desperation for release.

“Do you want my cock so badly, signorina?” he growls, leaning over you and thrusting into you roughly. Your pant out a yes, or something that was meant to be a yes and only comes out as a string of incoherent nonsense as you nod your head fervently. “You have to come for me first, dolce.”

A hand moves between your bodies and he's rubbing at your swollen and sensitive clit. You cry out, not giving a single fuck that the entire plane can probably hear you. The plane rocks one last time and you hear the seatbelt sign turn off. But you are barely paying any attention to anything else except his cock buried inside you.

The tension in your core tightens again and with another deep thrust he has you coming apart for him. Your eyes shut as it crashes through you but he doesn’t stop. Your hands are gripping feebly at his shoulders, then the nape of his neck, his hair and then fistfuls of the front of his shirt to bring his mouth against yours.

You feel his cock swell within you as he growls against your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lips as his hips jerk. You feel him come, painting the inside of your cunt as he continues to thrust into you while his tongue does the same to your mouth. It’s desperate and you’re sweating in your uniform but you don’t care. It feels far too fucking good.

When the high finally eases and he rolls off you to lie beside you, you sigh in relief. Fuck that was something, you think.

“You call that worship?” you pant, turning your head lazily to look at him Your makeup and hair must be absolutely ruined because his is completely ruined. He looks deranged with his hair falling in his face and his paint all smeared.

He hums. “Si. My lord believes in the power of the female orgasm. Is there anything more divine than pleasure?”

You shake your head, mind still foggy with bliss. You utter the only words you can think of.

“Did you still want your inflight meal?”

He grins at you. “Maybe in an hour or so, signorina. I just ate.”

#this probably isnt what you meant anon lmao #i looked at a lot of interiors of private planes and it made me depressed #wish i were stupid rich #fly to see the mutuals #the band ghost fic #the band ghost #papa iv x reader #papa iv x female reader #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #popia x reader #inbox <3 #my-writing

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mockerycrow · 1 year ago

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ive only seen like... 3 jack mitchell fics so how about jack mitchell x fem!reader with the prompt “I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.” ?? :3

ONLY ONE CHOICE (Mitchell x Fem!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

authors note; anon. i’m actually going to kiss you so hard on the forehead!!! i did NOT expect any advanced warfare asks!!! this is short i’m so sorry </3

[WARNINGS; Overthinking, advanced warfare spoilers, fluff.]

MITCHELL HATES BEING away as often as he is. He hates only being able to talk to you through a speaker most nights and not face to face. He hates the fact that he can’t feel your skin against his most of the time, that you’re not there to help him through his phantom pain spells, or when he’s reliving that one day. That one day. The hushed conversations at night, the quick “I love you”s and deep talks are nothing compared to actually holding you, actually kissing you and genuinely looking into your eyes and not staring at them through a screen.

So when one day, you’re uncharacteristically quiet on the phone and he asks if something is the matter, he’s absolutely fucking baffled. Mitchell has to ask you to repeat yourself to actually process that you ask if he’s happy with you. You begin to ramble about how he technically has so many choices of women to choose from, and that you’ve been wondering if he’s unhappy—if you have been holding him back.

“No, just—stop talking,” Mitchell utters into the phone with a laugh, hearing you stutter. “Baby—baby. I don’t give a damn about the distance. Do I wish I could hold you? Sure, but it’s my choice to stay in the service.” Mitchell murmurs. “I wish I could hold you, kiss you and rub your back like you ask me to when I’m home.”

You try to interrupt him, but Mitchell continues without hesitation. “I wish I was with you so I could wake up next to you, have you in my arms—have you run your fingers through my hair since you like it so much,” He pauses, voice getting quieter as he gets a bit choked up. “I wish I was with you so you could help me tie my tie like when I first got my arm. I wish I was there so you could kiss my forehead when I wake up from my nightmares—I wish was there to do the same to you.”

Mitchell hears you sniffle over the phone, and he isn’t sure if it’s a good sign, but he continues nonetheless. “Do I wish I was with you right now? You bet your ass I do, but there is no one else I want. I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.” You let out a sob. “Fuck, you’re such a sap. Shut up.” You let out a broken laugh, earning you a loud chuckle from Mitchell. “I love you, and I don’t know why you question me about it, but..” Mitchell hums. “..I’ll always be here to remind you that I do.”

“I love you too,” You reply, your voice shaky. “I just.. all of the women in your company are so beautiful. I hear so many stories about military men cheating and I trust you, babe, I do, I’m just.. I’m me, and they’re them.” Mitchell replies without skipping a beat, saying, “And that’s why I love you, okay? You’re you and I don’t think I would ever be able to love anybody else. What’s that one saying about the.. the worm?”

You bark out a laugh, covering your face as your boyfriend is trying to remember. “What, the question of ‘would you still love me if I was a worm’?” You question, which Mitchell agrees enthusiastically. “Yeah! That one. I would buy a mason jar, build you a home, keep you with me. Attach you to my exosuit, baby.” You feel your face burn as Mitchell sounds serious. You giggle until you’re full on laughing again, forgetting about the tears staining your cheeks. Mitchell’s chest feels warm and fuzzy from your laughter over the phone—he could fall asleep to it, it’s so soothing to him. His favorite sound.

Your laughter soon dies down and you yawn. “Tired?” He murmurs, earning him a sleepy “mhm” from you. “Go to sleep, hon. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#call of duty #cod #advanced warfare #cod aw #cod advanced warfare #advanced warfare x reader #jack mitchell x reader #mitchell x reader #jack mitchell x fem!reader #mitchell x fem!reader #atlas #advanced warfare fanfic #crow’s 4k celebration #cod fic #cod fanfic

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echoingbirdsofprey · 2 months ago

Text

Take Me Back To Eden

One - When We Were Made

Pairing: ii x OC Violetta Kastor

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: swearing as usual for anything I write and this is not a slow burn, so there's immediately flirting and talk of an ex

A/N: Out of respect for the band and their crew, I've decided to use made up names, as it gets a little taxing writing the Roman numerals over and over. It is clearly explained who everyone is. I've also made up physical details if needed, some true (eyes that we know of), some not. The actual plot and storyline is entirely fictional except maybe some of the tour dates but those are also mostly rough estimates so don't come after me! Enjoy!

Violetta had no idea that the first thing she was about to do at her new job was tech for a ritual. Fresh out of school, she'd been hired on a recommendation by her favorite band, which was the craziest shit that could've happened to her. What band, you ask? Well, Sleep Token of course. Yes, the masked and mysterious collective hired Violetta to be a guitar tech. And she could tech with the best of them. She'd majored in music production and recording and she was top of her class. Her professor knew the record label owner and sent him a message because she wanted Violetta to be successful.

Well, what a way to start. She'd been thrown to the fucking wolves the very first ritual. Theo, their tour manager and lead on the soundboard met her and immediately pulled her toward the stage during soundcheck. He went over everything quickly and concisely as the sultry sound of Vessel's voice was overheard through the microphone.

"You're gonna hang with Jack tonight and he'll show you how everything works. We've got in-ears. We'll get you a pair to use for now and then the boys will want you to have a custom pair once we've decided to let you stay." Theo explained, placing a hand on her shoulder and smiling. Violetta knew this was her audition for the rest of her career. She was used to pressure but she couldn't have imagined the amount put on her in that first night.

Luckily, everything ran so smoothly that instead of coming out in a state of panic thinking she wasn't good enough, she'd been congratulated so many times she couldn't even count. She hadn't done much but noticed the mics sounded off just before the set, then restringing IV's 8-string Jackson when the top two strings gave way, faster than she'd ever restrung and tuned a guitar, and that made it all worthwhile.

The funniest thing that had happened that night was her becoming fast friends with Jack. He was just like her friend at home, Brian, except Jack wasn't gay as fuck. Not that she had a problem with that, but it could be a lot for people just meeting him. Jack was nice, down to earth, could joke about anything, and would take a selfie at the best moments. She really liked Jack.

Everyone had been stupid nice to her. It was later on, after the ritual, that she had her second dose of reality dished to her when she headed backstage. She'd helped pack away all the gear, and mind you, getting to help put II's drums away was the highlight of her life until she entered that green room. There, sitting and looking very normal, with a water bottle in one hand, phone in the other, was Vessel.

"Hi, you must be Violetta. You were top-notch tonight, darling." He said, the rumble and rasp in his voice so evident after singing. He looked like a dang noodle of a man, floppy brown hair and a clean shaven face, with crystal blue eyes that wrinkled at the corners with happiness. She smiled and thanked him, going to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. She kneeled down, taking one from the bottom rack and surveyed what else was in the fridge. Fruit, lots of energy drinks, cans of soda, sushi, and finger sandwiches of all different kinds. "Feel free to eat anything too, hun, that's all for us and the crew."

She wasn't terribly hungry, but she thanked him again and sat across the room from him at a foldable table that was set with several folding chairs. She took a few sips from her bottle and took out her phone. She scrolled through the pictures that had been taken that night by their photographer, Alex. One in particular she quite liked was of II, the drummer. He was for sure in the moment, sticks blurred in the air, and his head thrown back as if in ecstasy. Speaking of the drummer, that was who came through the door next, taking a can of Coke and a bottle of water out of the fridge. He took up residence on the couch that was facing where Violetta was sitting. He glanced over and smiled.

"You must be Violetta." He said, soft spoken and slightly higher timbre than Vessel. She nodded and he smiled again, his deeper blue eyes lighting up. He looked tired and still fairly sweaty, even though she was sure they'd cleaned up, but maybe he hadn't just yet. He was the shortest member of the band, but still taller than Violetta as she was a short five feet tall. He popped the Coke open, placed it on the floor by his feet, then unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water and chugged half of it before putting the cap back on.

Jack swooped in, gave Violetta a bear hug, then swooped out with water and some food on a plate. He poked his head in again, realizing he'd forgotten to tell Violetta something.

"I think you're rooming with one of the guys tonight, if that's okay? They're not too annoying." He said, a lilt of humor in his tone as he smirked at Vessel and II. "But ask Theo again, he'll be able to tell you." He said and then he was off.

She glanced down at her phone just as she received a text.

Unknown Number: hey 👋

She tilted her head and sneakily looked over at Vessel, then II. They were both on their phones. The timing of the text was rather conspicuous.

Vi: hi, who you?

Unknown: wouldn't you like to know 😏

Vi: yes. I would in fact

Unknown: who do you think I am?

Vi: honestly, don't know, but you're timing is awful fuckin weird

Unknown: is it?

Vi: yeah 🙃

Unknown: Oh c'mon, just guess

Vi: are we using real names or the numbers that Sleep gave you?

Unknown: clever girl

Vi: you're in this room with me, you have to be, otherwise you're standing out in the hallway

There was a pause in messages. She hadn't thought to listen for a text tone, but she looked up just as IV walked into the room. He didn't have his phone out.

"Hey, I really appreciate how quick you restrung my guitar. You did a great job, babes ." He said and she couldn't help but smirk at his use of very British slang. He walked to the fridge and stood in front of it, surveying the food and drinks available for a few moments before grabbing a few things on a plate and sitting down at the table next to her, but sort of across from her.

Unknown: well?

She didn't hear a text tone. She glanced at Vessel, and typed a message back.

Vi: you all have blue eyes

Unknown: okay?

Vi: is it a requirement to be in Sleep Token? Have pretty blue eyes?

Unknown: possibly, you think my eyes are pretty?

Vessel and IV hadn't typed anything. Vessel was scrolling. IV had just sat down. She averted her eyes to II, who was also scrolling.

Vi: floor tom

Unknown: kick drum

She watched as II's thumbs typed fast as fuck.

Vi: snare

Unknown: you like?

Vi: I have questions

Unknown: shoot

Vi: how the fuck did you get my number

Unknown: Theo

Vi: are you flirting with me?

Unknown: are you?

She looked up and straight at II. He smirked but didn't look at her. He typed something back.

Unknown: hi, I'm Cal, am I your favorite?

She stood, going to throw her empty bottle of water away.

Vi: it's always the quiet ones

She clicked the number and saved it as "Cal" with a little drum emote in the notes. She received a text.

Cal: ✨️

Vi: did you just use a sparkle ✨️ emote?

Cal: I did, yes

Cal: im your roommate by the way

Her heartbeat picked up and she full-on stared at him, lips parted for a split second, then she bit her bottom lip and took a breath.

Fuck .

Cal: is that okay?

This time, he turned and she gazed deep into the ocean blue of his eyes, her very emerald ones seemingly lit with fire behind them. And not a rageful fire, but a very lust filled one.

Vi: how'd you know you were my favorite?

Cal: im good at guessing

Vi: guess my next move then

Cal: why don't you guess mine?

Vi: nope

She grabbed another bottle of water, a can of Coke, said "good night" to the guys, then headed out into the hallway, running into Theo. Cal stayed seated for a few moments before deciding to do the same and try to catch up with Violetta. Theo stopped her for a moment.

"Hey! You were awesome tonight. I meant to tell you earlier, Cal's your roomy for tonight. I figured that might work for you since he's pretty quiet and easy to get along with. I gave him your number so you could get the room key from him when you were ready for it." He explained and Violetta nodded and thanked him. He pulled her in for a hug. "Welcome to the crew."

She smiled wide and then headed down the hallway. She became aware very quickly of the drummer's footsteps behind her. He caught up to her, grabbing for her hand.

"Hi." He said, same soft tone as before. Violetta smiled and she could feel her cheeks getting redder by the second. He was...cute...no...he was hot. He was both. He had a little bit of facial hair, matching dirty blond hair on his head and through his white t-shirt she could see some of the dark, traditional, and colored tattoos that painted his chest. He had two full sleeves of tattoos as well that crawled their way onto his hands. The black body paint really did a great job of hiding it all. She glanced down at his hand that was still holding hers.

"Sorry." He said, going to pull away but she stopped him.

"Still flirting with me?" She asked, intertwining her fingers with his. She felt him twitch like he was going to pull his hand away but he stopped himself, mesmerized by the way his hand fit in hers and the tattoos on her arms.

"Do you...want me to?" He asked sheepishly. His heart was pounding out of his chest just being by himself with her.

"I was kind of enjoying our little text dialogue. Never had that happen before." She said, a wide smile forming on her lips.

He studied her for a few moments, before bowing his head and pulling her toward the exit door. The hotel was just across the street, so they walked, acting like a normal couple, but she could tell he was slightly on edge, by how his grip on her hand tightened slightly. He didn't want to be recognized, she surmised.

He led Violetta to the elevator, going up a few floors before they exited and walked down the hall to room 409. He fished in the pocket of his shorts, tapped the card on the sensor, and the door clicked open and he allowed her in first. He flicked on the light. To her surprise, someone had thoughtfully brought her bags up and placed them on the single bed.

There's only one bed. Fuck. Oh, wait, there's a couch.

"You can have the bed, sweetheart . I'll take the couch." He said, touching the small of her back before taking a pillow from the bed, saluting, and diving onto the couch with an audible " fuckin' hell".

She felt her temperature rise again at the use of the pet name. She wondered what III's nickname for her was going to be, since he was the only one of the boys she hadn't met yet.

She sat on the bed and glanced over at II...or Cal. She placed the can of Coke and her bottle of water on the night stand that filled the space between the couch and the bed. He was laying down, arms behind his head, his phone on his chest, and his eyes closed. He'd kicked off his shoes and his legs were propped up on the arm of the couch. Violetta leaned back against the pillows, turned the light off and took out her phone, setting the brightness as low as possible.

Vi: you don't have to sleep on the couch, it looks uncomfortable

Vi: also that can of Coke is for you

She waited and glanced over as she saw his phone light up. He took a second, opening one eye, typing a slow response then sending it.

Cal: really?

Vi: really what?

Cal: you can't just talk to me?

Cal: also thanks, how'd you know?

Vi: I can, I just kind of though this was cute

Vi: I guessed

Cal: very cute...sweetheart, if I come in that bed, we're not sleeping

Vi: is that a threat?

Cal: it's a fuckin promise

She sat up, her heart racing. What a fucking player. She didn't think he was like that. She responded back.

Vi: that's awful forward of you

He shifted, turning on his side with a loud sigh, then typed back to her.

Cal: im staying on the couch...not a good look for your first day if we fuck around

He'd been able to relax a little and feel confident in his words, as he wasn't saying them out loud. If he'd had to, he wouldn't be saying any of this.

Vi: maybe my second? 🤭

Cal: you're fuckin adorable

Violetta smiled and closed her eyes. Her phone vibrated again.

Cal: let's get to know each other first...not saying I'm not interested... I'd just like to know you better ...makes the sex better

Violetta let out a little squeak and laughed quietly. She kind of hoped he didn't hear her, but he probably did. She put her phone down next to her and rolled onto her side, letting her dreams take her to places she'd never been before, with the drummer hot and heavy in her thoughts.

¤ ¤ ¤

Conveniently enough, the next morning was not a show day, so the boys and the crew could relax. Violetta was still a little in college mode, so even though she'd gone to sleep past one in the morning, she still woke up at six a.m. her body ready to go for a walk like she did every morning for the past four years. She opened her eyes and it wasn't as bright as she'd thought. She certainly wasn't going to go for a walk in a country that she didn't know, without people she knew, so she looked over to the couch. Cal was gone. She looked down at her phone, which had two texts.

Cal: left you the key, text me when you're awake

The other was another unknown number.

Unknown: mornin, girlypop, waiting in the next room for you when you wake up

Violetta shook her head and smiled. This kept getting weirder, but more exciting. She dressed quickly, black leggings today, and a maroon Sleep Token sweatshirt over a navy Northlane tank top. She tousled her hair, putting it up in a claw clip, letting her bangs fall over her eyes. Now she knew III's nickname for her.

She took her phone and the key card, and headed out into the hallway. She texted the unknown number, who she was pretty sure she knew who it was.

Vi: uh, which next room?

She only had to wait a few seconds before she heard a door click to the right. A short girl with black long hair had stepped out, followed by the tallest, lankiest, most British looking guy she'd ever seen.

"Hi, Violetta. I'm Piper. I'm the merch manager. This is Steve." She outstretched her hand for Violetta to shake and then she shook Steve's hand after. He smiled wide, the smile reaching all the way up to his eyes, making the corners wrinkle.

" Girlypop , huh?" Violetta said with a smirk. Steve's laugh bellowed through the hall and Piper smacked him on the arm.

"You're so loud." She said and he grabbed her around the waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Yeah but you like it. C'mon. Girlypop , breakfast time." Steve said, gently pushing Piper toward the elevator and making a come here motion with his hand at Violetta. When they stepped inside the elevator, Violetta took out her phone and texted Cal.

Vi: you didn't sleep much

It didn't take him long at all to respond.

Cal: mornin sweetheart, I'll meet you at breakfast

Vi: how do you know where we'll be?

Cal: you're not hard to find 😉

Violetta smiled as they left the elevator. They walked down a short hallway and entered a large dining room with several buffet tables set up. There were a lot of bands playing last night and a lot of them had stayed at this hotel. She followed Piper and Steve as they went through the line and grabbed food. Violetta wondered if she should get a plate for Cal.

Vi: food?

She waited a moment before scooping some scrambled eggs onto her plate, then bacon, some sort of sausage patties, and two muffins.

Cal: I'll share with you

She loaded the plate up with a few more things and saw that there were the big ass cans of Redbull. She took one of those and a big water bottle also. She followed Steve to a table, where Piper was already seated. Steve scooted in as close as he could to her and put an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Out of seemingly nowhere, Vessel and IV showed up. Vessel sat on the other side of Piper with a muffin and a bottle of water, certainly not as close as Steve. IV sat next to Violetta with a full plate. He began devouring his food, glancing at Violetta every so often as she was slow to begin picking at her food.

Then she felt a presence beside her, a warm body touching hers. A tattooed hand reached out, stealing a piece of bacon from her plate to eat. He chewed happily and then placed one arm around Violetta's shoulders.

"Hi, sweetheart ." He said, low enough that only she heard it. No one seemed to notice him sitting, or putting his arm around her. Or eating from her plate the whole time. He even drank from the same can of Redbull as her, which made her chuckle a little the first time he took a sip, because he took it out of her hand and took a long sip right after her, then placed it back down.

Once everyone had finished, Vessel had volunteered to clear everyone's plates. Steve and Piper decided they were going to go down to the festival so they headed out soon after finishing. Violetta made sure she saved his number in her phone as "Steve" and put " Girlypop " in the notes. Cal still had his arm around her when IV sat back down.

"Sorry. I didn't actually introduce myself yesterday. I was so fuckin' tired. I'm Jesse." He said, offering his hand for Violetta to shake. She did and he smiled warmly back at her. Cal leaned forward and raised a brow at him. Jesse took Violetta's phone and put his number in by himself, then texted her.

Jesse: hey babes

She smiled and shook her head, then checked the little note next to his name. It was a winky face emoji. She immediately texted him back.

Vi: hi flirty

Jesse: you bet I am

Violetta raised her brows at him and he gently touched her shoulder before leaving the table, leaving her and Cal together. He leaned back again and took the last sip of the can of Redbull. Vessel sat down across from them.

"You can call me Roman if you want...instead of Vessel. Or call me Vessel. Or Ves. Doesn't really matter to me." He said, catching Violetta's eyes immediately.

"How are you going to give me your phone number, because everyone else's attempt has been an experience." She said with a grin. He also smiled and held his hand out. She put her phone in it, and he typed his number in the box at the top then gave it back. He'd left the name part blank.

"I leave that up to you, darling." He said, his super low baritone sending a shiver down her spine. She now had all four of the boys' numbers. She saved his as "Roman" but put "Vessel" in the notes.

"Anyone ever gets my phone they're gonna know all yalls identities." She said and glanced at Cal. He was scrolling on his phone, not paying much attention to their conversation, but his arm was still around her. It had fallen slightly and was more situated near the middle of her back now. He'd unconsciously begun drawing small circles there, which she had not realized until now. Her cheeks heated and she sighed, trying to put away any unwanted horny thoughts, but they just wouldn't stop.

"That's alright. We're on our way to revealing ourselves anyway." Roman said, finishing up the water he had grabbed.

"You are?" Violetta asked and he just nodded.

"We're healing. We've become something new." Roman said, then gently reached for her hand, placing his on hers for a moment before leaving her and Cal to each other again. She turned to him and he looked up from his phone immediately.

"You're healing?" She asked, brows knitting in concern.

"That's why I said I want us to get to know each other first. I have...some baggage...and I want you to be sure you wanna deal with my shit." He said, reaching for her other hand. He put it on his chest and she could feel his heartbeat was fast. Faster than it should be for sure. "This..." He motioned between her and himself, "is so unbelievably fuckin' nerve-wracking for me right now."

"Why?" She asked softly, spreading her fingers under his. He took a deep breath and she felt his heart kick up a notch more and his breathing quicken slightly as well.

"I had...an ex...batshit crazy. Trying to out us all among other things...which I want to tell you but I can't right now...but...she fucked us all up." He explained, trying to stay calm and not trip over his words.

"You don't have to tell me anymore right now." Violetta said, feeling his grip on her hand tighten. She saw hesitation in those ocean blue eyes of his. She could even catch a twinge of fear. "I won't pretend to understand what you went through...but I'll be here for you if you want to talk about it...and if you don't...we don't have to."

He smiled warmly at her admission and pulled her close for a hug to show that he appreciated it. When he pulled away, he caught a glimpse of her emerald eyes and he could've melted at how pretty they were in the morning light. Violetta leaned closer, the tip of her nose touching his and he closed the last few centimeters, letting his lips just graze hers, a ghost of a kiss. When they parted, Violetta noticed he was shaking slightly and she embraced him once again.

"What the fuck did she do to you?" She asked softly, not necessarily at him but just in anger toward his ex. She'd beat the shit out of the girl if she ever met her.

#sleep token #sleep token fic #sleep token ii #vessel sleep token #sleep token band #iv sleep token #iii sleep token #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token ii x oc

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itsaspectrumcomic · 1 year ago

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man ok idk if youll be able to advise on this or something but like. do you know anything regarding dealing with like internalised ableism?

i live in a rural part of ireland, right? and idk what it is about rural ireland but some of the people are heinous. my school is in a small miserable-ass town and like. God, man. not everyone sucks, of course but like. jesus lol additionally i have a ~mildly ableist~ mother (a "we're all a little bit autistic" and "erm. youre not disabled because youre not in a wheelchair or blind/deaf" etc etc type stuff. + "npd = bad person" which isnt particularly good for me specifically because i have npd (that i both Cant get an official diagnosis for, for various reasons, and im not really Looking for one either because i know what i am and its not like you get support for it because ~ooh scary narcissist~.)

and like. idk if this is Obvious but that can kinda cause a weird-ass relationship with You (being Me in this case, yk how it is with the second person perspective when. ranting) and The Concept Of Being Disabled. like, objectively. im disabled. im autistic, ive definitely got adhd (that im hopefully going to get examined for at some point cause college stuff requires it for the disability forums and stuff. gotta love that. fuckin 80% comorbidity right?), ive got a laughable number of repetative strain injuries, i have a sensory processing disorder, an endocrine disease that effects my Entire cardiovascular system, a spine that felt a lil quirky and bent in too much. so on a so forth

but also like. it feels wrong to call myself disabled. yk, like im doing a disservice to all the other ~actually~ disabled people (being Anyone but me lol) (none of this is At All helped by the fact that my mother refuses to listen to me regarding Jack Shit about my health in Any way. "oh you nearly passed out on top of a hill because of your cardiovascular condition? erm youre just not exercising enough actually" "you dont have depression [said while i was filling out an assigned mood diary after being forcefully brought to camhs for Reasons" like. shut the fuck up and Listen to me please. at least Entertain the idea that i could be right about something for fucking once lmao. cause ive been right about EVERYTHING regarding my mental health so fucking far so. fuck off /nay ofc) (also man. like, even if you ignored the physical issues ive got im still disabled on account of being autistic. like, motor function is fine, despite being a lil clumsy and/or unsteady sometimes but like. my emotional needs are Fucked. think of the response youd get if you asked a. fuckin. 8 year old or something to do algebra. but with a very emotionally stunted and traumatised 17 year old lol. lmao, even /lh)

so like. if youve got. any advice or whatever on any of this thatd be Super cool + no pressure obvs. sorry this is a whole. like. fucking essay's worth of Random Guy Complaining To You On The Internet lol

-🐢 <- just so i can find this again if you respond. i Like Turtles. i am Normal about the tmnt and also turtles The Creatures. i wont talk at length about turtle mutant anatomy (i am deceiving you)

Internalised ableism is a really hard thing to deal with, especially when you're surrounded by people who constantly re-enforce it. I've also spent a lot of time worrying that I'm not disabled 'enough' to deserve certain accommodations, that I'm making an unnecessary fuss. But the truth is, autism IS a disability and if there are accommodations that can help support you, you deserve access to them. You're not taking away from others with disabilities by advocating for yourself.

It's taken me a long time to understand this and I still worry sometimes. What has helped is talking about my experiences with people I know understand, like my therapist or best friend, and learning about the experiences of other autistic people through books, social media, YouTube and even real life.

I'm sorry your mother and others aren't being understanding - remember that's a them problem, not you, and try to spend your time with people who do understand.

🐢🐢🐢 <- the turtles wish you luck

#🐢#ask #anon ask #autism #actually autistic #advice #autistic #autism is a disability #its a spectrum #long post

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crushedsweets · 1 year ago

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Can you talk more about Eyeless Jack? I really love him😔❤️

holds him in my hands... yes i can.. yes. i . can..

ive already gone on about his sacrifice and whatnot.. ok . ok. what to talk about. im gonna repeat hella stuff prob.

jack nyras .. mid-late 20s... human sacrificed to a demonic deity. . cute guy overall.

as i mentioned, similar to the proxies, he has a rando cabin in the woods. slenderman actually sees him as a good utility, so while he's not a proxy, he's kept around and allowed freely in the forest without any uhh... chaperone, i guess.

his cabin is even smaller, 1 bedroom 1 bathroom, small kitchenette, small living room, etc. there's a bit of an underground bunker, sort of like a tornado bunker. he keeps 2 freezers down there. u can imagine whats in them.

the main sort of ummm... like, driving issue and character 'arc' for jack is his guilt and battles w his own humanity. he was technically possessed by a demon/deity for a year straight, and while the demon is now 'resting', he still committed the atrocities he did, and he still relies on humans. for a while after he regains consciousness, he's really skinny bc its really hard on him emotionally to eat. eventually he just gets sort of numb to it (with the help of the other creeps.. not intentional help moreso 'dont be a pussy do what u gotta do man') . jeff is especially the one telling him to 'man up and do it' so he lives. toby and ben are more understanding of why its so hard for jack.

again jacks the eldest of many siblings. i'm thinking perhaps it goes.. jack>daughter>daughter>son>son>daughter. 3 sisters, 2 brothers. he was driving and working by time he was 16, his parents had too much pride to let him help with bills but he was getting groceries and cooking a lot of food for the house.

family meals were kind of a thing in the nyras household. jack was a good cook, lots of traditional meals, etc. he's been cooking dinner for his siblings since he was like 11. his dad always thought it was odd that jack took that on, esp since he had a sister a few years younger than him, but he legit just liked it.

there was a good bit of parental pressure to be a doctor, but if that weren't the case, he'd love to go into culinary. you know. before he had to cook human meat.

he can digest raw meat, and he has a theory that he goes longer between meals if he eats raw meat, BUT he often still cooks it and tries to make it just. more normal for him.

also he can and does still eat normal food, but it lost a ton of its taste for him. he relies still on human meat, but he can go like a 1-2 weeks between meals before he starts getting violent and dealing with severe pain. sort of like tokyo ghoul style ?

mmm.. he still has a missing persons case file open. his mother still tries to get the police to keep looking, and his brothers have even tried doing crazy shit like going into creepy parts of the city alone to figure shit out, but his sisters and dad eventually gave up and assumed he was dead. his mom still believes he's alive fully. none of them know what really happened to him

he works as human remains disposal for some rando guys that ben helped him find off the dark web. thats how he pays for the cabin, but the cabin is under brian's name since...... well. um. lol. jacks missing and presumed dead and he sure as hell isnt human enough to have a house.

cute guy !!!

#hcs #creeped #asks

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quodekash · 2 years ago

Text

ITS ABAAB EP 7 TIME and i am sorry

warning: lots of happiness, too much happiness. take a shot of water every time i say any variation of ‘HAPPY’. stay hydrated, folks.

wait what happened to cher? did i miss something?

i dont remember how the last episode ended so its very possible that i missed something

awh 🥺

thE BED IS STILL ON AN ANGLE WHY IS THE BED ON AN ANGLE SOMEONE FIX THIS IM BEGGING YOU, ITS GOTTA BE A SAFETY HAZARD

pls they look so comfy

it looks like theyve been married for a thousand lifetimes

so comfyyyyy

rIGHT, THEIR GROUP HAD A FIGHT, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED TO CHER, I REMEMBER NOW

YEYEYEYEYEYEYEYEYEYEAH BEACH EPISODE = PURE HAPPINESS AND DOPAMINE

THREEZO AT THE BEACH

WE’RE GONNA GET THREEZO AT THE BEACH

IM LITERALLY ABOUT TO CRY IN ANTICIPATION OF BEACH

i know i already said it like four times BUT THIS LOOKS SO FREAKING COMFY WHAT THE HELL

THREEZO THREEZO THREEZO

HELLO MY LOVELIES HOW ARE YOU TODAY

theyre literally in the middle of the frame omg

little babby

i love him

he’s tall but he’s smol

his HAIR

LOOK AT IT

THE HAIR IS SO FLUFFY

i think my favourite things about this series are jack’s hair and threezo

and theyre both tied for first place

three’s apology to jack is so freaking sweet omg

i love him too much

he struggles with words and communicating but he wants everyone to be happy and he doesnt want conflict and he feels responsible for everything and he is perfection and also he’s either adhd or asd or both, i dont make the rules

HAPPY

omg his awkward laugh is so cute why was that so cute

his sweet little ‘hah hah’

HIS FACE MAKES ME HAPPY

HAPPYYYYY

(damn i did gun/force dirty on that screenshot)

his freaking face

its making me happy

this is a happiness overload

im not used to this much joy in my system

what do i do with it

HAPPYYYYYYYYY

dads.

everyone can see you btw. just letting you know. you’re just standing there, holding hands

i mean that’s great, good job, not being scared is funky (but its also funky to be scared), it’s just that. you know. if your friends ask questions later and you dont want them to suspect anything then like. it’s your fault.

altho maybe they dont care if their friends find out, idk at this point

ignore me

HAPPY

everyone ganging up to push gun in the water. that’s what friendship truly is

HAPPY

they teleported

three was next to zo, jack was between cher and zo. they switched.

hOW?

HAPPYYYYY

THE HAIR

LOOK AT THE HAIR

they always figure out a way to squeeze it in

OMG

SOBBING

IM SOBBING

THATS SO CUTE

HELP

DAMN RIGHT

his hair is a mess lmao

bRO

HE SAID IT

HE SAID THE THING

ZOGUN FRIENDSHIP BONDING SCENE OMG HAPPINESS

he’s known from the very freaking beginning

before cher even knew

the gaydar is strong bro

HIS FREAKING FACE

HAPPY

HE HAPPY

PFFFFFFT

i love their friendship so much omg

(that screenshot looks like hes about to punch him lmao)

“zo, what is love?” i can feel it, im about to punch a wall or smth bc something threezo is coming

“what is love for you?” “three.” yUP I KNEW IT OMG IM GONNA FREAKING CRY

HAIR

FLUFFY FLUFFY FLUFFY ITS SO FLUFFY

i think i love this man (and his hair) a little too much but its fine

GJK3BERKJGBVRKEBGR

GUN WHAT THE HELL

AGAIN, THEY LOOK SO FREAKING COMFY

well shoot. thoop is mad at cher for being involved with gun.

good news is: i dont think its homophobia

it’s just that he doesnt want cher to move on from tian (thoop himself cant move on from tian) and he doesnt want cher to find a relationship because that means, in thoop’s eyes, he’s letting tian go, and thoop cant really deal with that because he’s ✨mentally ill✨

get some sleep my man

I LOVE HOW MUCH HE LOVES HIS FRIENDS

HES SO FREAKING CARING

HE WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HIS FRIENDS

HED PROBABLY NEVER ADMIT IT BUT HE’S A REAL FREAKING SOFTY ON THE INSIDE

1. ive never seen more serious finger guns

2. you’re not bi, sir, why are you doing finger guns

3. finger GUNs

that is all

FINAL THOUGHTS:

if they dont give us a threezo kiss by the end of this show i will scream.

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time-is-restored · 2 years ago

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more whinging bc i got negative hours of sleep last night and i need to stay awake somehow lol

cw: discussions of misogyny + abuse

god the more i think abt it the more exhausted i get by the gender politics of ted lasso.

like god i do genuinely think that rebecca's arc in s1 is one of the best depictions of a mean + cruel woman ive ever seen on TV specifically bc it manages to thread the needle so well? like they never tilt her balance too much and doom her to being either totally fucked up + evil OR totally soft and sweet and harmless. and ted's 'divorce makes u crazy' response to her apology STILL makes me crazy wrt the sheer. understanding and empathy there, and she's just. given so much more depth than ive come to expect, especially for an ensemble cast sitcom w a (then) p short run time.

but my fucking god. we literally don't learn a fucking thing about michelle. im pretty sure the one (1) concrete thing we know about her comes in the fucking finale, and it's that she's a teacher for... something. the two most important people in ted's life and we don't know anything abt them! they're literally just empty symbols representing the importance of Family™, and that vacancy does nothing but weigh ted's storyline down!

like, i liked michelle's episode/storyline in s1, bc the blinding novelty of a woman instigating a divorce not being the Actual Devil, as well as a just. generally very empathetic + nuanced take on how divorce shakes out between two ppl who really care for each other, was so 'WAIT TV CAN DO THIS??' that i felt satisfied with that being Her Arc™. divorce happens, life happens, people fall out of love, and it hurts but its ultimately okay. the show, at the time, was ultimately abt a football club and how caring abt that football club helped everyone around it.

but then the show sticks around, and her continued absence just... raises a lot of questions? how did the conversation abt ted going overseas happen? what conversations did they have abt henry? how long term was it intended to be? did money really not factor into it all? like it's one thing for a character's backstory to be vague when it's not really the focus of attention (s1 was ultimately rebecca's story before anyone else's), but when it's the load bearing stone of their '''''''arc''''''' in s3...????

like. god. and then it fucking infects every other woman on the show!

sassy + nora? well sure we'll give you a softball - you can have one (1) scene where a woman is able to resolutely and firmly reject a man asking her out without immediately being seen as cruel or gameplayey (not that the audience will see it that way! she's already a lecherous temptress for them!), but neither of them will ever be able to speak to rebecca onscreen again, even after the heart-wrenching scenes in s1 CLEARLY establishing them as a beating heart of rebecca's arc.

shandy? nope, don't even think abt her motivations/drives, just forget her. simi? LMAOOO imagine a black woman getting a personality beyond righteous anger. jack? three-four episodes, and we learn so little abt her that her conflict with keeley - which SHOULD'VE have been a huge emotional beat - just feels like a kick in the teeth (and while, yes, i absolutely agree that in a real world context, jack's rejection of keeley would be largely motivated by class, in Ted Lasso Land™ rebecca is just as rich - if not richer? - and we're never once encouraged to interrogate her priorities).

barbara's the one that really makes me miserable, bc i feel like on a show with less run time, she could've played REALLY well. she's a great contrast to keeley, has an amazing delivery, and the scene where keeley + her first discuss the snowglobes shows that she has the potential for some really moving vulnerability + pathos. but instead they give SO many of keeley's scenes to characters who ultimately get written out, so when barbara stays it's like... okay? sure? like, i was so stoked that barbara survived the Mass Exodus of side characters that i didn't wanna look the gift horse in the mouth but... wasn't the last thing we saw of her and keeley's relationship like. general resentment + distrust abt the shandy debacle? when did that improve? how???

i don't think i'll ever have enough mental real estate to explain how disappointed keeley + rebecca's 'arcs' in s3 made me, and at least there's the saving grace that. virtually no one other than jamie got a coherent arc this season, so at least it was on some levels an egalitarian screw up. but fuck dude. keeley was just forced to react to bad things that were happening to her, and we got to see her do her job (which, unbelievably, does actually involve things other than being an awkward manager!) precisely one (1) time.

i even like rebecca's arc on paper - i think it's really cool to see a character backslide so intensely in terms of obsessing over and struggling to come to terms w a past relationship, especially an abusive one, bc like. yeah! that shit sticks with you for longer than a season! and beyond that, seeing her regain her sense of self and what SHE actually gives a shit about was oftentimes just as sweet as s1. but her scenes were poorly connected, and she had to carry WAY too much of a burden as the Resident Speech Giver for any of her internal characterisation to make sense. like, sorry, but it's kind of hard to believe a character's Going Through It™ when they have to spent near 100% of their screen time giving Take It From Me, Kid, speeches. and then she's not even given a real opportunity TO fuck up + sabotage her relationships, even when she starts getting really weird w ted! it's all just so meaningless and like nothing that she does is ever going to matter. she never speaks to zava again, we don't get to see her interact w bex or kate, her pleas to ted get COMPLETELY shut down...

but the thing that REALLY makes me sick is this complete lack of interiority absolutely butchers the characters of jade + jane, who are otherwise RIFE with potential. like, jade is a completely unflinching, unapologetic asshole to nate + his family, and that's never interrogated. even in Sitcom Land™, it's more than reasonable to view jade's actions as racist, especially when she doesn't give the same treatment to others (at least not as i recall? honestly i usually watch the taste of athens scenes while peeking out behind my hands, so i could 100% be wrong here). and yet, suddenly, and completely inexplicably, she's charmed by nate. she wants to give him the time of day. she finds him attractive, and wants to date him, and generally take control of his life and force him into a decision that is literally the exact opposite of what he expressed wanting to do. except even that LAST thing isn't allowed to be interrogated, bc god FORBID a woman is enough of a fully realised creation to actually be culpable of the terrible shit they do!

and fucking jane??? beard's so head-over-heels for this woman that the emotional abuse + extremely controlling tendencies don't even make him bat an eye, and we don't get to know anything about her? she's literally just the suggestion of an alluring woman! good at sex! good at chess! fuck you if you wanna know more, even though the show ENDLESSLY hits you over the head with how painful their relationship is for beard - beard who is given virtually no other storyline. like, i literally can't read brendan's refusal to label jane as abusive as anything other than like. that bio-essentialism shit where ppl 'women are better than men <3' so hard that they end up genuinely and wholeheartedly arguing that someone's sex defines their morals - or worse, that their sex is a deciding factor in determining whether someone's actions are good or bad. not context, but a legitimate 'add points if woman, take away points if man' variable.

like that's so feminism 101 it's legitimately almost worse than nothing. that's like getting as far as 'hey so you know how we're all inundated with both implicit + explicit messaging abt what is Valued and Good for women vs men to-' before shoving ur earplugs in and going 'if you are oppressed by society we'll automatically stamp a 'good person' label on ur head and now we don't have to think abt any of our biases + internalised beliefs ever again <333'. the most useless and fucking pointless stand against the patriarchy ever, especially coming from the same show that ENDLESSLY slots characters into the 'loving gf/wife' archetype and then give them Literally Nothing Else. my comrades you have literally just done madonna/whore 2: oops all madonnas! this is not liberation!!!! this is a miserable cage!!!!!!!!!

im just. higgins' wife. mae. trent's daughter and anonymous 'her'. the women at the hotel and the restaurants and the firm and the fucking physios, fuck - dani's gfs! who are they? what do they want? where do they go when the camera stops rolling? can anyone hear me?? hello??? hello???? brendan hunt i am OUTSIDE YOUR HOUUUUUUSE

#ted lasso spoilers #ted lasso meta #ted lasso critical #dead girls by p.enelope s.cott has been stuck in my head for approximately a month bc of this fucking show #its so fucking nuts being treated to rebecca + keeley in s1 and then slowly realising w dawning horror that its literally only down from #here. and also listen nothing but respect to my comrades out there who can take michelle + henry as written #and immediately + painlessly extrapolate from their significance in ted's life to viewing them as like. important figures narratively #but to me they literally never got beyond the carboard cutout stage? like. yes thank you if u love ur family its sad when u leave them.#why'd he leave them then lol.#LIKE. if both michelle AND henry are just these. passive vessels who are neither invested in ted staying OR leaving london #and the only motivation we're EVER given for ted's move is 'michelle wanted space'. like sorry for wanting an actual deconstruction of ted'#motivations rather than the worst mystery box of all time! if i wanted a story abt 'man misses family :( please don't ask any questions abt #the family in question-' i could just close my eyes and imagine a stock image of a sad business man.#wagh. ted bud they gave you so much potential + so many demons and then just wiped them away w no exploration outside of like. two #scenes w sharon. u are also in this cage king but at least u got a good two seasons of mc character energy before they locked the door :(#something something sorry for having an ace attorney witness stand breakdown when the show i liked Was Bad. do u still want to be mutuals

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jjtheresidentbaby · 1 year ago

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im SO excited u reached 800 followers jj!!!

ok ive got a ton of ideas but firstly id LOVE a reconciliation fic with stiles and his dad with the prompt "i never want to fight with you. i love you too much to put you through that." i guess the context would be that Noah used to drink a lot but since finding out stiles uses age regression to cope with life hes been sober and trying to be the best dad he can be for him!

<3 @bebbie-bilinski

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ dump it out ⋆ﾟ⊹ ➢ event masterlist

|| stiles stilinski & noah stilinski

warnings: past alcoholism, alcohol, talk of Claudia’s death, hurt/comfort, this turned so sad whoops

After finding out Stiles regressed Noah’s been careful about his behavior, not swearing as much, trying not to share as many gory details of the job with his son, even if he searches them out on his own. But he’s never taken into account what happened after Claudia’s death, not until right now.

Stiles is standing wide eyed by the doorframe leading to the kitchen, his face is one of shock mixed with discomfort. It takes Noah a few moments to deduce what the issue is but then it hits him, he’s got a glass of whiskey set out in front of him, and the bottle sits opened on the table. He pauses and runs over what to do next, Stiles cuts his thoughts off before he can decide.

“Dump it out.” His voice is hard but has that signature slur to it that he gets when regressed, the one Noah’s never heard so upset. Stiles is usually such a happy little, he just wants to cuddle, to draw, to watch cartoons, he rarely gets fussy and never angry.

“Stiles-.” Again stopped.

“Please dump it out. I don’t- I can’t- dump it out or I’m gonna call Scott to come get me.” It’s paired with a sniffle Stiles is quick to cover but Noah still catches. His heart breaks hearing his kid so distressed, even more so when he knows it’s his fault.

After Claudia Noah was a mess, he’s not afraid to admit that, but it’s hard to see the consequences play out firsthand. He remembers yelling in Stiles’ face, finishing bottle after bottle, having so much grief that it turned him cruel. He never got to the point that Rafael McCall did, but he was close, and he knows Stiles and Scott have both talked about their experiences together. If Scott came to get Stiles tonight Noah’s not sure Stiles would ever come back home, not if Scott could help it.

“Okay, okay I’m getting rid of it.” It’s the only answer and even after the horrific case Noah saw today, he doesn’t need the drink. It’s not nearly as important as Stiles is.

The bottle of Jack gets tipped to lean against the side of the sink, spilling down the drain along side Noah’s half drunk glass that he tips over to empty. Stiles is watching his every move so intently it’s a little anxiety inducing.

“Kid I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have poured that drink.” He says as reassuringly as he can. He didn’t think before picking up the bottle of booze from the cabinet above the fridge, he just figured he needed something to calm himself, he should’ve thought about it more. He should’ve gotten rid of that bottle months ago.

"I never want to fight with you. I love you too much to put you through that.” Noah steps to put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, fingers gripping the sleep shirt Stiles has on that he recognizes is actually his own. It makes his chest warm to think that his kid wants to be like him, wants to have something to remember him by while he’s at work.

“I don’t like it when you drink, it makes you scary.” Stiles’ head stays ducked down as he mumbles the words come out. Stilinski freezes in that moment. He never thought he scared Stiles, of course he knew Stiles was upset about his drinking, mad at him, more distant, but never scared.

His arms wrap around Stiles within seconds, hugging his son as tight as he can. There’s a small moment of hesitation before Stiles hugs Noah back, sinking into the familiar feeling of his father holding him.

“I’m so sorry Stiles, I never meant to scare you, I promise I’ll never drink again. I love you so much.”

“It’s okay, I love you too.”

#jj writes #jj events #teen wolf agere #little!stiles #caregiver!noah stilinski #noah stilinski #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski & noah stilinski

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say-hwaet · 14 days ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter Nine: Lovers of Fire and Moonshine, Part I Previous Chapters: VIII VII VI V IV III II I Summary: Without wasting much time, Dutch has already got another plan and, surprisingly, it involves you. Warnings: Mature Themes, Violence, Explosions, Angst, Language, Dead bodies Word Count: ~9,500

It has been about three days, and your dream plagues you from time to time. A piece of your past is more clear to you, you have found that your personality is revealing itself as well. You are more blunt, you are silent and observant, always watching the dynamics between gang members unfold before you.

You have been healing well, to the point where you can bend backward without feeling a twinge. No doubt there will be a scar there, but it doesn’t bother you, it isn’t like you expect anyone to see it, except for you.

And since you are feeling better, you have the desire to get back to work. With most of the members, you’ve proven yourself as a valuable outlaw, and most seem to think you are your old self again, even if you still struggle to remember everything.

But Arthur, you sense, knows differently. He watches you with those deep blue eyes that seem to carry entire oceans of secrets and sadness. At times, when the firelight flickers across his face, you catch him staring at you from across the camp, a thoughtful furrow knitting his brow. You wonder if he thinks about your identity, that maybe you aren’t your full self. You can’t help but think that he holds you at a certain standard, though he only restates over and over that you should take it easy, and stop asking questions. Let it all come to you, naturally.

But time isn’t on your side. Things are changing in the gang, and no amount of running is going to change that. The sooner you find out what happened in Blackwater, and the months leading up to it, the better.

You need to go back to work.

Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea have left to go fishing. You are passing the time, again, by doing chores and helping Abigail keep tabs on Jack. He is an energetic brouček, a little beetle, one that is constantly moving, buzzing around, asking questions, and trying to get his father to play swords with him.

You remember your brother, and the things you used to do with him when he grew to be underfoot. Even when your parents were alive, he was your responsibility.

Passing by Pearson’s wagon, you stop to grab three apples and hear Sadie grumbling to herself. She has a knife in her hand and is chopping vegetables.

Sadie has maintained a sour expression since you’ve known her, that isn’t new, but there is something about the way she handles the knife, how she keeps her head down and brow furrowed, that you know something is different. You have a feeling that it won’t be long before she kills something…or someone.

And you aren’t about to let it be you. You take your three apples and walk away calmly, looking for Jack.

Walking toward the water, you spot the boy, drawing shapes and lines in the sand.

You approach him carefully, not wanting to startle him in his intense focus. "What are you drawing, Jack?" you ask, kneeling beside him in the sand. Your voice is gentle, a soft murmur blending with the sound of the lapping waves.

Jack looks up at you, his face lighting up. "It’s a horse…!” he looks down at the drawing and frowns. “At least…I tried.”

You tilt your head and eye the drawing. It doesn’t look too bad. He is still only a boy and can only improve with time. “I can tell what it is, Jack! It reminds me of Odliv.”

Jack looks back up at you, his face beaming. “That is what I was thinking, too!”

You hold up the apples in your hands. “Can I teach you something?” And you motion to sit down on a nearby log. “Come sit by me.”

Jack sees the apples in your hands and compelled by curiosity, he sits next to you. You turn at the waist and you give him one. “Watch this,” you say and scooting back to give yourself some room, you toss one apple in your hand and then catch it. You repeat this action a couple of times before you take the second apple and juggle them together. You watch Jack’s eyes as they go round and round, following the apples as they leave your hands, go into the air, and come back again. “Okay, Jack, can you toss me the next apple?”

Jack eagerly holds up the remaining apple, his small hands gripping it tightly. He tosses it toward you with more force than necessary, but your quick reflexes save the moment. You catch it just as it seems destined to hit the ground, and deftly add it to the rotation of the two you’re already juggling. You manage to keep it going for a few more seconds, before you fumble it and the apples fall from your hands. “Oops,” you chuckle, and you bend over to pick them up. “Antek was always much better than I ever was…”

“Who’s that?” Jack asks.

You look back at him and smile softly. “He was my brother.”

Your voice fades as the memory of Antek tugs at your heart, a sharp reminder of the pain that still lingers. "He used to juggle," you continue, picking up an apple and feeling its weight in your hand, almost as if it holds a piece of your past. "And now I am going to teach it to you.”

Jack’s eyes light up and he takes one of the apples from your lap. “Can you really teach me to do that?”

You nod your head. “We can certainly try!” And so, you begin the lessons. “First thing is to practice your reflexes. You want to be able to catch objects really fast.” You set the other two apples on the ground and open your hands to him. “Toss me the apple.”

He looks down at it, his brows pinched in thought, and he tosses it to you. You catch it. “See? Now, I will pass it to you. You ready to catch it?”

Jack nods, his face a mixture of determination and delight. As he reaches out his small hands, you gently toss the apple back to him. He fumbles briefly but manages to secure it in his grasp, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Good job," you encourage, your heartwarming at his enthusiasm. "You want to be able to catch it without hesitation before moving on to the next step.”

You see a small shift in his lips, turning downward. “How many steps are there?”

You chuckle. “What? Did you expect to juggle three apples today?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe.”

You don’t want to discourage him, but you also don’t want to give him false expectations. “It’s like your drawings, Jack,” you explain. “You don’t think Arthur got to be good at drawing without practicing, did you?”

He shrugs again. “I guess not.”

Your head begins to ache at the base of your skull, and you blink at that thought. How did you know that Arthur draws, anyway? You haven’t seen him do it. Or, maybe you have? The aching feeling in your head tells you that there is something to what you said. Maybe he draws in his journal…?

What if you’ve seen his journal before?

Oh, this changes things. If you can get to those memories, maybe you can find more answers.

You shake your head, you will have to think about it later. Right now, you are spending time with Jack. “See my point? But if you practice, you will be able to juggle way better than me.”

This seems to encourage him, for his sweet, little smile returns. “Really, Aunt Kit?”

The warmth in your heart spreads to a gentle glow as you nod and reply, “Really.”

***

After a good while of teaching Jack to juggle, feeding the horses, and mending some pants, you decide to take a break. You haven’t put on a pair of shoes since you took them off near Moonstone Pond that day, and the lake’s glistening water is quite tempting. Swatting at some mosquitoes, you walk between Arthur and Dutch’s tents and reach the lakeside. The sun is dipping low, casting a sheen over the surface that dances with every gentle ripple. You walk along the dock and sit down at the edge, letting your feet dangle into the cool water. It’s refreshing, a stark contrast to the sticky heat of the day. As you watch tiny fish dart around your toes, you hear a faint sound in the distance.

You lift your head and look to your right, down the lake and in the distance, you see a boat. You discover that the sound is singing, and the singing is possessed by three men on that boat.

You tune into the sound of their voices, tempted to stand and rise to your feet, but the coolness is such a relief. You don’t sense a threat, as the voices do sound familiar.

Then you see the silhouettes. The hats and build of the three men.

It’s Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea, and they are singing like school boys being let out for the summer.

To them we dance this 'round, 'round, 'round To them we dancе this 'round, 'round, 'round And he that is a bully boy Come pledgе me on this ground, ground, ground Ground, ground, ground, ground…!!

Their laughter reaches you and it is quickly hushed as their boat nears the dock. They don’t seem to notice you yet, but you decide that you might as well get up. You lift your feet out of the water and carefully rise to your feet.

Arthur rows the boat up near the dock and lets out a sigh.

“Alright…!” Dutch exclaims, his voice sounding more relaxed than it has in the last few days. “I think…I…well, I mean we are gonna be okay…!”

Arthur first steps out of the boat, his back turned towards you as you remain on the dock. Hosea, draping a canvas bag over his shoulder, steps out of the boat and sees you, nodding in silent greeting. You wave at him.

Dutch continues as he gets out of the boat at last. “I always know…Whenever I got you two by my side, things are gonna be just fine.”

Hosea and Arthur share a glance with each other before Hosea turns to head into camp. Dutch walks off as Arthur takes hold of the boat and pulls it more onto the shore.

You find yourself watching him, his movements deliberate and strong, the muscles in his arms flexing under the strain. He hasn't noticed you yet, too caught up in securing the boat. The sun as it continues its descent casts a golden hue over the scene, touching Arthur's body with light, making it seem almost ethereal against his rugged features.

Your heart clenches and you decide to leave, lest you find yourself standing there all day. The sound of your wet feet padding on the old wooden boards of the dock finally alerts him of your presence.

He turns around to see you. “Hey, Kit.”

You wave at him as nonchalantly as you can. “Hello, Arthur.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

You shrug. “Aside from this humidity, I am doing fine.”

He kicks at a rock and watches it plunk into the lake. “Your…side doin’ alright?”

You find yourself looking down at it, as if that is the way to assess it. You look back up at him and nod your head. “It’s healed well. I can bend backward and twist without hurting.”

He manages a smile. “That’s good.”

You gesture toward the camp with your hand. “You’ve been busy with Dutch and Hosea.”

He nods, his eyes looking out over the lake. “Shoah. Got some fish to eat.”

“That will be good. People seem to be getting tired of rabbit stew.”

Arthur chuckles. “There is also Rhodes, so we can get some supplies. Maybe some canned strawberries and such.”

“You’ve been to see it?”

Arthur nods and then looks at you, his eyes carrying a shyness that you’ve only seen a handful of times. “If…you’re willin’ to sit with me for some stew, I can…tell you about it…?”

Your heart gives an odd, unexpected flutter at his invitation, and you find the corners of your lips curving into a gentle smile. "I'd like that," you say, your voice softer than you intended, carrying the faintest trace of vulnerability.

Arthur's smile broadens, almost a look of relief painting his features. He gestures towards the camp and you continue to walk off the dock. You hop down and he looks down at your feet. “Still not wearin’ any boots?”

You chuckle, tucking some of your long hair behind your ear. “Wish I had done it sooner, it didn’t occur to me that the bottoms of my feet were rough for a reason.”

He nods, biting his lower lip.

You both walk together over to the large stew pot. You notice Mary Beth and Karen looking at you funny and you tilt your head at them. They share a giggle and turn around with their stew plates to go eat at the round table.

Arthur lets you serve yourself first and you scoop up a large helping before stepping aside and letting Arthur have his turn. Waiting for him, you let him lead you over to a more private spot, the log that you and Jack had been sitting on earlier.

You glance back toward camp. “Don’t you want to sit with everyone else?”

“Nah,” he says bluntly. “They will hear about Rhodes from Dutch and Hosea, anyway.” He steps over the log and sits down. “C’mon.”

You mirror his action, stepping over the log and then smoothing your skirt, you sit down beside him. Your eyes are drawn to the lake water and you ready your fork to begin eating the stew.

Arthur takes a forkful of the stew, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. You do the same, savoring the warmth that spreads through you with each swallow. There's a comfortable silence between you two, punctuated only by the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

After a couple of bites, you decide to initiate the conversation. “So, Arthur, tell me about Rhodes.”

Arthur explains how he, Dutch, and Hosea ended up there in the first place, spotting the sheriff and his deputy while transporting criminals. They came across a familiar face, Josiah Trelawny, and that name didn’t ring a bell. Arthur explains that you and Trelawny got along really well, and despite his proclivity to vanish, you always welcomed him when he would come waltzing back, and it wouldn’t be long before you and he would have a scheme lined up. You nod your head as you process this, as you’ve begun to understand what your role has been in the gang.

He also explains that the town Rhodes has two feuding families: the Braithewaites and the Grays, and according to Trelawny, it has been going on for decades. Dutch seems really interested in them, and wants to find out the reason for the feud, be it gold, or some other untold riches.

You feel somewhat excited by all of this, as it could mean more jobs for you and more potential to unlock key memories.

“Where is Trelawny now?” you ask, almost too excitedly.

Arthur studies you. “He’s with a caravan. Been stayin’ with them a while.”

A caravan. “You mean…nomadic people?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

This, too, excites you. While it may not be your people, to know there is a group that moves around like that...it’s strangely comforting. It reminds you of the circus, the thought of the open road and the familiar churn of travel stirs something deep within you.

Arthur watches you closely, no doubt seeing the distant look in your eyes, the way your gaze softens at thoughts of a life once roamed, a life enigmatic yet full and vibrant. "You always loved the road," he says softly, the corner of his mouth uplifting in a half-smile. "Said it were always like it were callin’ to you, whisperin' secrets only you could understand."

The notion tugs at your heart, a blend of nostalgia and connection. You look at him. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

He leans away from you, and you can tell he is about to brush it off. He shrugs. “Just know, I guess.” His eyes tell a different story, one of profound connection and unspoken words hanging between you like the heavy Southern air.

“Maybe we should visit him,” you suggest, trying to anchor yourself to the present rather than drift into the past's inviting arms. “Trelawny, I mean. And maybe I can help Dutch find out more about these two families.”

You see him tense up as he uses his fork to stab some meat in the stew. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You furrow your brow. “I said I’m feeling better, Arthur. And I’ve been learning more about myself. I can do things. I can help.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t just be throwin’ yourself at things like you did with John. He weren’t thinkin’ about you.”

“And you are? Arthur, at least we can go see him. What harm would that do?”

You watch him carefully for any sign that he may give in. Arthur looks down, the lines around his mouth deepening with worry. After a long moment, he sighs and meets your gaze again. “Alright, Kit," he says, his voice low and even. "If it’ll ease your mind, we’ll go. But we gotta be careful, there’s a lot more comin’ from different sides. It ain’t like Valentine.”

You nod, already excited for the prospect of doing something other than chores. “Thank you, Arthur.” And you face forward to continue eating your meal, your left hand holding onto your plate instead of having it sit in your lap.

You can see Arthur from the corner of your eye and his eyes suddenly fall to your left hand. “Why are you still wearin’ that?”

You turn to look at him and after swallowing your food you ask, “Wearing what?”

He points his forefinger at your hand. “That.”

Setting your plate down on your lap you lift your hand in front of you. Oh. He means the ring. Your mother’s ring.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You know people will start talkin’,” he says solemnly. “Strangers will think you’re…” He blinks, his words coming out soft and slow. “You’re…”

You offer to fill in the blanks. “Married? Engaged?” You shrug. “So?”

Arthur's gaze hardens slightly, and he looks away, out towards the dimming horizon. "It ain't about what they think, Kitka. It's about keepin' you safe. If folks start askin' questions—"

"How does that put me in danger?" You interject, feeling a little frustrated with his questions. “If anything, this might protect me. Strangers who would dare yell slurs at me or hurt me might think twice if they suspect that I have a husband or fiancé.”

Arthur's eyes flick back to yours, the blue of them almost steely under the fading light. "Maybe," he concedes, his voice gruff with worry. He sets down his plate and takes off his hat, holding it in his hands. "Or maybe it gives 'em more reason to come lookin'. You know how these towns work, Kit. Secrets don't stay buried for long."

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling bold to speak freely. “Exactly, Arthur.” And as you look at him, you see something in his eyes. Guilt, or perhaps fear. “There are things that I am still trying to figure out, and I know that you have secrets just as much as everyone else.”

Your words hang between you like the humid air, suspended and poignant. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his hands fiddling with the rim of his hat—a gesture you've come to recognize as his way of grappling with unease.

And after a pregnant pause, he looks away from you.

You’re done here.

Taking your now empty plate, you rise from the log and step away. “I’ll speak to Dutch in the morning, you’re more than welcome to come with me to see Trelawny.”

And with that, you leave him to his stew.

***

You’ve risen up quite early this morning, too excited to sleep. Taking some food and a canteen with you, you walk over to Odliv and cinch her saddle. You look out and see the sun beginning to rise and the soft rustling as others begin to wake.

You had hoped that Arthur would join you, and knowing that he’s an early riser, you now come to realize that he won’t accompany you to see Trelawny.

You let out a long exhale and Odliv reaches with her neck to nip at your shirt. You laugh and pat her neck. “I’m fine, Odliv, really.”

You decide to drag out your departure just a little longer, reaching into your saddlebag and pulling out a brush. You make generous sweeps down the mare’s coat, watching dust and short hair shed fly into the air.

You find peace in it, a soothing sensation that fills your mind, and as slow and gentle as the strokes of the brush, a melody is found deep in your throat, and you begin to hum it softly.

You’re swept away in the music, your hand still guiding the brush along Odliv’s dock, her coat nearly glistening in the morning light.

The tune, a fragment of a song your mother used to sing in the evenings under the canvas tent, rises and falls with each stroke, weaving old memories into the new light of the day. Just as you're about to loop the melody again, you hear footsteps approaching. Not wanting to appear startled, you continue your grooming, and don’t turn around.

“Never heard that tune before.”

Your heart betrays your intended calm, and you look over your shoulder to see Arthur standing behind you. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’ve never sung in camp.”

This surprises you. It seems that your life has always been surrounded by music, so why wouldn’t you express it with your voice? “Why?”

He comes up beside you, standing by Odliv’s head and stroking her muzzle. “You said that after your brother died, you wouldn’t ever sing again.”

Arthur's words weigh heavily on your spirit, dredging up grief that you've been trying to accept. You pause in your grooming, the brush momentarily frozen in mid-air, as if suspended by the poignant reminder of promises made in sorrow.

"You remember that?" Your voice is barely a whisper, tinged with a soft sadness. “My brother died a long time ago.”

He nods his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t forget.”

You feel the song still in your throat. If you vowed to never sing again, you aren’t sure you feel that way anymore. But at the same time, you so desperately want to be the way you were. What are you going to do?

You resume your grooming, the brush now gliding slower as you ponder. The sun casts a soft glow around you, as if trying to ease the weight of your thoughts. "Maybe it's time I healed from the pain," you murmur, more to yourself than to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't reply right away, his eyes lingering on the horizon before they return to you, filled with a mix of understanding and something else—perhaps hope. "Maybe," he agrees quietly, his voice rich with the same warm tone that often carries stories around campfires.

"You think it's possible?" You ask, turning to face him fully now, searching his eyes. “Even if I can’t remember it all?”

He shrugs. “It ain’t for me to say, Kit,” he admits. “But I hope that it will be worth it.”

“It will,” you say confidently and finally let your arm fall to your side with the brush in hand. “Are you coming with me to see Trelawny?”

He pauses for a moment, as if weighing the question, then nods. "Yeah, I reckon I will," he replies, his voice rough like gravel yet soothing in a way that only familiarity can bring.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and begins to walk toward Montana, when his name is called in the distance.

“Arthur…!” It’s Hosea and he comes over with quick steps.

Arthur, taking Montana’s reins, leads him as he walks a few paces toward the older outlaw. “What is it?”

“Dutch wants you and Kit to meet him in Rhodes. Bill is with him.”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “Kit, too?”

You are surprised that Dutch is already in town. You didn’t hear or see him leave this morning. When did they head out?

Hosea’s brow furrows, unamused by Arthur’s question. “Yes, Kit, too. Dutch said they could use her knowledge on dynamite.”

Dynamite. You are remembering your chosen weaponry, but you’ve only recently handled incendiary buckshot and handmade explosives. Not dynamite. That’s wires and switches and such. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” you ask.

Hosea lets out a chuckle. “Is everyone losing their faith in me?” He gestures to Odliv. “Just go on. Take your guns with you.” And before you can respond, Hosea turns to leave.

You feel a little miffed, you want to see Trelawny, not interact with Dutch and his plans. But, on the other hand, he is giving you a job. This could mean danger, and more chances to remember.

You meet Arthur’s gaze, he seems to be waiting for you to say something.

You raise a hand and place it on the saddle. “I guess we are going to see Dutch?”

He nods. “I guess we are.”

***

The first thing you’ve noticed about Rhodes is the red dirt. It coats everything, from the sides of wagons to the hem of women’s dresses. You imagine your feet will be caked in the red soil by the time the day is over.

You follow Arthur as he leads the way. Once you pass by the train station, you quickly spot the general store on your left and the bank on your right. You can already see opportunities here, even before speaking to anyone.

Arthur stops just outside of the sheriff’s office and dismounts Montana. “Wait here,” he tells you, and you don’t find it necessary to insist you go inside. Your eyes follow him as he goes up the old, white steps, and lets himself in. Just as the door opens, you catch Dutch’s voice, loud and boisterous as ever, before the door closes.

You feel Odliv shift the weight on her back hoof and toss her head. You don’t like to wait, either, but it gives you a moment to look at the town some more.

There is a strange air about the place, and it isn’t the humidity. It could be from the rooting tension between the two families, like the old Romeo and Juliet story. You just hope that the ending will be different.

Your thoughts are interrupted as a man in a dusty suit and a wide-brimmed hat approaches you. He tips his hat, revealing a thin smile. “Miss, you’re new here, ain’t you?” he asks, his voice laced with a curious tilt.

You nod, returning his greeting with a cautious smile.

He gestures down to your feet. “Ain’t seen a woman go around without any shoes.”

You arch a brow and decide to use your quit wit against him. “Never seen a man in a dusty suit approach a lady without introducing himself.”

The man chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes you uneasy. “Fair point, miss.” He tips his hat. “Just call me one of the few remaining patriots of the South.” And just as you hear the door to the sheriff’s office open, his eyes flicker and he backs away. “You have a good day now, ma’am.”

You hear the footfalls go quickly down the steps and come right beside you. “Who the hell was that?”

You look down and see the scowl on Arthur’s face, his tone protective and alert. “No one that I couldn’t handle,” you answer confidently.

He looks away from you, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the man in the dusty suit, but he's already disappeared into the throng of townsfolk. "You shoah?" Arthur's voice carries a hint of concern that belies his rugged exterior.

You nod, and confidently reassure him. "I can handle it, Arthur. Probably just some local trying to get into our business.”

Arthur grumbles under his breath and turns. You see Dutch, Bill, and two other men come out of the sheriff’s office, their movements purposeful and direct.

Dutch spots you and gestures in your direction. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to Katrina MacDonald.”

You blink, but figure they are all using aliases in this town. And just like instinct, you smile and nod your head in greeting.

The older of the two, with a strawberry-blond mustache, looks clearly inebriated as he stumbles. “A Scottish maid, if I ever did see one…” he drawls. “Sheriff Gray at your service…”

“Pleasure,” you state.

The younger, practically flashes his badge in your direction, tipping his hat. “Deputy Archibald MacGregor, ma’am.”

You smile, at least he isn’t drunk.

Dutch goes to mount The Count with a grunt and gestures to a nearby wagon that is parked. “We are going to ride along with the deputy! Got some shine to dispose of.”

Shine? He means moonshine.

Your heart flutters for a moment, one of your treasured ingredients for incendiary buckshot. The feeling it gives you when it bursts out of the barrel of a shotgun is an adrenaline rush like no other. That was clearly awakened when you raided the O’Driscoll hideout almost a month ago.

And Dutch tells Arthur to ride with the deputy, the rest will follow. Readying yourself on Odliv, you steer her around as Archibald drives the wagon on. As you regard the men that you ride beside, you notice something peculiar. All of them are wearing badges. Since when did Dutch, Bill, and Arthur become deputized?

You want to ask, but hate to interrupt Archibald’s yakking on, as it catches your attention. “…And your friend is behaving himself?”

Trelawny. He’s talking about Trelawny.

Arthur nods as he sits beside his fellow deputy, oblivious that you are listening in. “Oh…yes, I-I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“Congratulations on becoming a temporarily deputized citizen of Scarlett Meadows County…” He begins to talk about hierarchy, reminding you all that he’s in charge here, and that is when you start to lose interest.

You look around as you pass through town and take a road that leads through humidity and tall trees that have witch’s hair dangling from the branches.

“…I did tell you about the Braithewaites?”

Sacra! You should be paying attention. You steer Odliv closer, approaching Archibald's side as he continues to drive.

“Old cotton family who had a fortune at one point, now they are dealin’ in moonshine. As soon as we destroy one, another pops up. Not to mention that Catherine Braithewaite has an expensive horse breeding operation that she needs to maintain…”

Arthur asks a question you are about to ask, “I thought there was gold that these families were fightin’ over?” You would have had a little more tact, but it gets the point across.

“That’s the rumor, but it happened so long ago, I don’t know for sure if it’s true.”

Arthur chuckles. “Must be tough bein’ rich, huh?” You can hear the edge in his voice, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Then suddenly, Archibald’s voice rises, and he pulls back on the reins. “Woah…! Do you see that?”

You look up ahead, and just off the road is a fallen wagon and debris scattered.

“Let’s have a look,” Archibald says as he begins to descend from the wagon. “Keep your eyes open.”

Arthur, too, gets down, and your own curiosity causes you to swing your leg over and dismount.

You feel the soil beneath your feet, somewhat clay-like and damp, and you stroll over to the wagon while Arthur and Archibald take a look around the wreckage.

You see a suitcase and a trunk, already opened and pilfered through. This could be an accident, or intended. Your heart sinks a little as you see that the straps that would hitch the horses have been cut away.

“This was a robbery,” you say softly.

Arthur caught part of what you said and he turns to look at you. “What?”

“Hey!” Archibald calls to you both. “Come look at this.”

You and Arthur walk over to Archibald, who has a card in his hand as he’s crouched over a dead body.

Your breath hitches and Archibald looks at you. “You probably should have stayed on your horse, ma’am.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He looks at you nervously, as though he’s unsure how to respond. But Arthur nods at him. “Who is it?”

“Looks to be important. Suit and tie…and a clean bullet to the forehead. Looks like the work of the Lemoyne Raiders.”

You blink. “Who?”

“They’re what’s left of the war. Men who still think we are still fighting the north. They hate the government, or anyone in authority. They call themselves patriots.”

Patriots. You think back on that odd man who came to greet you.

“I think…” you begin to say, but keep your mouth shut.

Archibald tucks the card in his vest pocket. “We should carry on, I will send someone out here to clean this up.”

Without a proper burial? You bristle at this. Cleaning up isn’t properly putting someone to rest.

But you see everyone, including Arthur, get ready to leave.

Looking at the face of the dead man one more time, you return to Odliv, mount up, and continue on your way.

***

“How’re we gonna handle this…?” Dutch asks with a low rumble. Archibald started rambling again and as you all are crouched in between two trees that stand as pillars, you can tell Dutch’s patience is wearing thin.

You have your shotgun, rifle, and sawed-off, and you’ve never felt so heavy before. You caught the deputy by surprise, carrying all that ammunition and still walking barefoot, and you’re surprised he hasn’t said anything.

Archibald changes the course of his sentence, replying to Dutch’s question. “Well, the way I see it—”

“Actually, let the lady here decide. She’s familiar with stills and has a knack for finesse when silence is preferred…” Dutch turns to look at you and you feel those dark eyes of his burn into you with an intensity that almost makes you falter. But you hold his gaze, your own expression unreadable. “Katrina, see if you can interrupt their operation before we get our hands dirty.”

“Her?” Arthur asks, and you can tell where he is going with this.

Dutch pushes, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, her.” He readjusts his crouching position to shift the weight to his other leg. “I was going to have you go with her, but since you have doubts, maybe Bill can join her?”

Bill seems excited at that. “Oh yeah…” And he reveals sticks of dynamite, pulling them out of his coat pocket. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this.”

“Just like with that train back near Colter?” Arthur asks with a smirk.

Bill’s eyes narrow at Arthur. “Can’t you just let it go?!”

“Gentlemen…!” Dutch chides, his voice sounding more frustrated by the second. “Miss MacDonald, go by yourself. Think you can handle that?”

Not wanting to come off as inadequate, you move over to Bill and quickly take the dynamite from his hand. "In moments like these, Bill, cunning is required," you start, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart. You glance back towards Arthur for just a fraction of a second, seeking a sliver of reassurance or perhaps affirmation. But instead, you get an emotionless glance. “Just the stills, right?” you ask, clarifying your objective.

“I guess. You let us handle the men. Let’s remember to leave them alive,” Archibald says quietly.

Turning around, you continue on your way.

The goal is simple, destroy their stills. You aren’t sure why Dutch said you have expertise with these sorts of things, the still you used for your tinctures was small, not something used for moonshine. But he’s giving you a chance, and you’re going to take it.

You see a man, his back turned, as he is getting something out of a wagon. To get past him without being spotted, you get into the murky bog. Your skirt grows heavy as it absorbs water, but you remain crouched and move slowly.

Once you're close enough, you steady your breath and reach for the smallest stone at your side. With a practiced flick, you send it skittering across the mud, drawing the man’s attention from his task. As he turns his head, you seize the opportunity to slip past him and make your way towards the still, if he needs to be knocked out and tied, you will leave that to the men.

And just as you’re about to cross the water onto land again, you hear a thud behind you. Turning quickly, you see Arthur and he has just taken care of that moonshiner and is hogtieing him.

One down.

You continue on your way, your feet barely making any sound, rendering you undetectable. You hear a small hissing sound, and you recognize it immediately. Following the sound, you peek around a moss-covered tree and see another man as he looks over a large still.

It is a big one. No doubt, it produces a lot of moonshine. Explosive moonshine.

You remember the dynamite you snatched from Bill and your heart races with the thrill of seeing flames and sparks fly. But first, you need to be rid of this man. Seeing a barrel, you spot an empty beer bottle. Perfect.

You carefully make your way up to the man, and he still hasn’t noticed you. Once the bottle is in range, you pick it up, stand, and swing down onto the man’s head.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious, without a sound aside from the soft thud of his body meeting the earth. You quickly check his pulse, ensuring he's still alive; Archibald’s orders were clear, no unnecessary deaths. Satisfied, you move towards the still.

The large copper contraption emits a sour stench that makes you scrunch your nose. If this is moonshine, they may as well be using the bog water and rotted lemons as their base. No matter, you have a job to do.

You take the man by the shoulders, and drag him until there is a good distance between him and the still. This is about to get loud and ugly. You walk back to the still, readying the dynamite and you place it in the crook of the still where the pipe meets the barrel. A strategic position, ensuring maximum damage. You light the fuse, its spit sizzling softly, then you retreat back to the safety of the trees.

Your heart thumps in your chest—heavier than when you danced atop tightropes with the circus or when you swung high above audiences, who never knew the weight of your performances. Memories flash through your mind, quick and sharp as the dynamite’s fuse.

The explosion isn’t just sound and fury; it's catharsis. The boom rolls over the landscape like thunder across the open plains, and the once sturdy still erupts into a concoction of metal, fire, and smoke.

Any normal person would high tail it and run, but you stop to turn around and see it, your eyes scanning over the entire scene.

That’s when you hear gunshots.

“Hey! That belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders…!”

Oh no. If you were wondering if you had already met them, you don’t doubt that anymore.

You need to help take them out, especially considering bullets are flying. You see a large crate and running to it, you slide behind it just as bullets fly after you. You remove your rifle, and ready yourself for the fight.

You hear quick footfalls behind you and the sound of their body making contact with a wall. “You alright, Kit?”

It’s Arthur. You peek from over the crate and seeing a raider blow his cover, you aim and fire. The bullet rips from the barrel and makes its mark, and the man falls to the ground.

“Just fine!” you reply. You see a crate of dynamite near a group of them and switching to your shotgun, you check that it is loaded with your favorite bullets. Aiming carefully, you pull the trigger, and a burst of flames erupts from the barrel. Once it reaches the dynamite it explodes, just in time for more raiders to ride in on a wagon. But, of course, their little plan to increase their forces is quickly diminished.

“Think I still need protecting?” you ask, your words with a little edge to them.

Arthur advances and takes out two more raiders. “I didn’t say all that to make you feel weak, Kit!” he says, his voice carrying out amongst the gunshots and battle cries from the raiders.

“Then what was it?!” You aren’t sure why you’re bringing this up now, but with the intensity of the moment, you might as well. It seems this is the only way you two can ever have the chance to talk.

Arthur reloads his rifle, glancing over the top of the knocked-over wagon with sharp eyes as he covers another angle. “It was because I care, Kitka,” he shouts back, ducking as a bullet whips past his head. “And part of that means I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

You grit your teeth as you use the last of your incendiary buckshot. You switch back to your rifle and advance forward. You reach some old shanties and you see the debris of dead bodies. You take cover, just as another raider bursts out a door and takes a shot at your head. The bullet whizzes right past you, and suddenly, there is another pain in your temple.

A memory.

But you remember the last time this happened, if John hadn’t been there, you’d be killed.

You grit your teeth and try to fight the memory that wants to force its way in. “No! Not now!”

Your heart races in your chest, making you want to give into it, to seize it. It could be important, but you just can’t let it happen.

And as you try to fight it, the headache gets stronger.

It’s one of the worst you have felt in a good while.

You try to aim at a raider as he makes his way to Arthur but the weight of your sawed-off feels like a ton of bricks. Your hand falls and you try to call out to him, but no words come.

And just as you see him spot the raider and shoot him, the world around you fades to black.

***

The world feels dizzy as you complete a fourth backflip. Your eyes are painted, your lips red like a pomegranate, Your body is dressed in red, gold, and black.

Men gasp in awe as you spin in a circle, your dress billowing out in waves.

Another distraction, another ruse, you’ve done this hundreds of thousands of times, and after a few more twirls, flips, and leaps, you know that the job is over.

With one simple dip in the shadows, you disappear.

You walk out of the saloon, laughing to yourself. And navigating your way to your horse, you mount and ride off.

The darkness is only in the shadows, but for the light of the moon, you can see everything. You are on your way to the rendezvous point, where Arthur and John will meet you with the money they had taken.

But as you continue to ride, you feel something is off. It is too quiet, as though it were a silence before the storm. Your horse senses it too, his ears twitching nervously, nostrils flaring as if he could smell the danger lurking in the serene night.

You urge your mount to quicken, the rhythmic gallop syncing with your heightened pulse. The moon casts long shadows that dance ominously about you and you look back.

Just as a bullet flies past you.

“Come back here, Romani!” a grim voice calls after you. “Your bounty is mine…!”

Had you thought to look and see the bulletin near the saloon, you would have seen your wanted poster. Though the amount is only fifty dollars, it is enough for ambitious bounty hunters to get their feet wet.

“I’m more valuable alive!” you call back, still hoping to outride the hunter.

Another shot is heard, and you realize that he doesn’t care how he brings back your body.

And in your realization, you near the meeting place, but also, the edge of the cliff.

Your horse slides on his hooves, neighing loudly, but the rock is too slick after the rain, and he rolls on his side, you falling off and rolling over the edge.

Your hand instantly reaches for a young tree that is growing in a large crack, and if you weighed more than you do, it would surely break.

“Ah…!” you cry, and you hold onto the tree for dear life. You try to pull yourself up, but as you do, the tree shifts in the crack and you know now that the best thing to do is to remain still.

You hear the boots of the bounty hunter as he slowly walks over to the edge. He looks down at you, and the glow of a cigar is the only way you can see the conceited grin on his face.

“Well, well, well…” he chuckles. “Looks like you are at my mercy.”

You still feel a bite on your tongue and decide not to give him the satisfaction. “I’d rather let go and let you be short fifty dollars.”

But this doesn’t seem to change his mind, as he crouches down and points his gun at your head. “No difference to me, sweetheart.” Then you hear the sharp click. “A dead Romani is a good Romani.”

You feel your heart drop. This is the first time you have ever stared into the barrel of a gun. You cling to the tree and try to come to terms with your impending death.

Then a shot rings out.

You stare into the eyes of the bounty hunter, as he falls forward and over, passing you and falling to the ground below the cliff.

Your breath is choppy, your arms feeling weaker and weaker. You don’t know who just killed that bounty hunter, it could be another one for all you know.

You hear spurs jingle and the footfalls of boots on the rock, an almost satisfying click-clack.

The figure leans over and after a pause, they speak. “Since when did the Kitka Petrova fall from great heights?”

The low timbre and little joke amongst the threat of peril reveal all that you need to know.

“Just help me up, Arthur…”

Arthur’s hand reaches down, strong and steady, grappling yours with a firmness that belies his gruff exterior. With a heave that speaks of his unyielding strength, he pulls you up and over the edge, back onto the rocky ground. Your legs wobble slightly as you regain your footing, but he doesn’t let you go.

You look up into his eyes, and a sense of gratitude overwhelms you. Without even thinking, you reach behind his neck and pull him into a kiss. You feel a hint of resistance, perhaps by surprise, until you feel the press of his lips melt softly into yours.

The world around you fades into a blur, the crisp air and the stark rock face all but disappearing as Arthur's arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His kiss deepens, and for a moment, you forget the dangers that led you here, the cascading troubles of a life on the run.

You’re twenty years old, and your first kiss is with Arthur Morgan.

The moment is fleeting, as you feel him pull away gently and you open your eyes to see a look of discomfort crossing his face. You are taken aback, feeling confused and embarrassed as he looks away and clears his throat.

“Erm…” His voice is hoarse and uncertain. “Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your gaze. What was a moment of whimsy and romance, now feels awkward and fleeting, leaving you wondering what had just happened.

“Arthur…?”

He scratches the back of his head. “There’s…there’s somethin’ you should know…”

“What, Arthur?”

“Well, I’ve got—”

“Morgan!”

You and Arthur turn around and see John riding up to you both. “Why didn’t you wait for me, huh? I could’ve gotten shot at or somethin’!”

Acting as though nothing has happened, Arthur waves John off. “Quit your whinin’, Marston!” Then he turns to look at you and smirks. “This is why we shouldn’t take him on jobs.”

“I can hear you, you know!” John barks.

Arthur tucks his chin, clearing his throat again. “We should get back to camp. Bessie will start worryin’.”

You decide that it is best to let it go. If he isn’t going to encourage it, or talk about it, you may as well account your kiss to moon sickness. “When does she ever not worry?”

Arthur chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

***

You feel a gentle pat on your cheek, sounds around you becoming more clear.

“Kit…!” Arthur calls out to you. “Kit…?”

You open your eyes and your head throbs heavily. You smell smoke and feel the heat of fire.

“C’mon, sit up.”

With a hand supporting you, he helps you to a sitting position. You bring a hand to your head and apply pressure to massage the ache.

Arthur’s hand doesn’t leave you as he searches your eyes. “What happened?”

And you counter with a question of your own. “How long was I out?”

“A couple minutes. I took care of the rest of the raiders.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” he asks again.

You open your eyes again and look at him, your gaze falling to his lips. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind and body craving the feeling you felt when your memory flooded through you.

It was like a chain reaction. An explosion, and that reverie has ignited a spark.

And you are still delirious, coming out of a high.

You reach for him, take him by the collar, and pull him to you.

“Kit—?” His question is instantly silenced, as your lips collide together.

You expect him to resist, to gently push you away like the time before, only you are prepared for it, you expect it.

But instead, his hands support your head, his body presses into you as your back is against the wood siding of the shanty. You hear his deep inhale, exhaling a guttural moan that would send shivers down the spine of any less emboldened soul. A passion reborn, stoked by the fires of near-death and raw survival. His fingers weave through your dark locks, a contrast to the dusty grime on his hands. He pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes searching for something, his marine irises cascading hope.

He parts his lips to speak, but you don’t want to talk, your hands taking his face and pulling him back, feeling no resistance from him at all as his lips surrender to your insistent mouth.

“Morgan…!”

He pulls away from you quickly, and you instantly feel that familiar confusion and dread as he rises to his feet and walks around the shanty. He spots someone and calls back to them. “Here, Bill!”

“Well, hell! I thought you was dead! Is Kit alive?”

Arthur continues to catch his breath. “Yeah! She’s…she’s alive.”

“Good! Bring that moonshiner back to the wagon. Dutch is havin’ me take the shine back to camp!”

“Where’s Archibald?”

“He’s takin’ the moonshiners to jail!”

You still sit up against the siding and watch Arthur pause before turning to look back at you. You see something in his eyes, perhaps a desire to continue, or maybe something else.

He walks back to you and offers his hand. “Let me help you up.”

You don’t hesitate to take it, and when he motions to let you go once you are on your feet, you hold it tightly as he starts to walk away.

He looks at you, down at your hand, then back to you.

“I was twenty,” you start. “On that ledge, remember?”

You can swear you see the light in his eyes go dim. “Yeah, I remember.”

You swallow and continue to look deep into his eyes, your grip not loosening. “You were going to say something to me, do you remember what it was?”

His eyes shift as he searches your face. You feel the suspense in the air acting like the locomotion of a train to your heart, pumping faster and faster, soon to run out of track.

He speaks softly. “No, I don’t.” He then licks his lips. “Is that why you kissed me?”

You admit, you are feeling something else for the rugged outlaw, but there is so much distance between you, secrets and lost memories, you don’t feel it is right to jump into something while he hasn’t told you it all.

You swallow thickly. “I kissed you because…I remembered, and I…” You feel your face grow hot and you blink softly. “I wanted to feel it again, the way it felt back then.”

He takes a deep breath, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You…feelin’ alright now?”

You nod. “Yes.”

After another moment, he pulls his hand gently out of yours. “That’s good. We should meet up with Dutch.”

And this, like your memory, feels the same. “Right.”

You pick up your sawed off from the ground and follow behind Arthur as he walks back to the tied-up moonshiner that you had knocked out. He picks him up with ease and has him draped over his shoulder and you both continue to walk until you cross the boards used as a bridge and join Bill, Archibald, and Dutch.

Dutch sees you both and grins. “There you are! Good work, you two.” And he turns to the deputy. “And that is how it is done.”

Archibald nods his thanks, his face misted with sweat though he hardly lifted a finger. “Thank you, gentlemen…” And he looks at you. “And ma’am. It won’t be long before we are rid of all moonshiners and their ilk!”

Dutch opens his arms and claps Archibald on the shoulder. “Indeed, we will, sir! Indeed we will!” And in a majestic way, he sweeps his arms over to the wagon as Bill sits at the reins. “We will take care of this refuse for you and we will see you back in town real soon.”

Archibald nods, and after cutting the ropes on their feet, and with his gun firmly in hand, he begins to escort the moonshiners back to the paddy wagon. “Get goin’, you no-good-piece-of-white-trash…!”

And once the naive deputy is out of earshot, Dutch turns to you. “I had my doubts, Kit, but you really do seem to be like your old self. You handled yourself well out there.”

You nod your thanks, the headache slowly ebbing away. “Thank you, Dutch.”

He gestures to Odliv, a content expression still etched on his face. “Why don’t you go back to camp and tell Hosea the good news? I’m sure he will think of something we can do with that shine, and no doubt he will want to include you in it.”

Your eyes fall on Arthur, who hasn’t looked at you since carrying that moonshiner over.

Not getting a response from you, Dutch speaks again, his voice more pushy. “Well, go on, then! Bill ain’t gonna tell it like you will!”

You decide to go, your bare feet making small swishing sounds as you walk through the mud and grass.

You hear Dutch say something to Arthur, but you’re too far now. You hope he isn’t talking about you, telling Arthur that you are nothing but a big distraction, but you will never know.

You reach Odliv, who has been waiting patiently for you.

Climbing onto Odliv's back, you feel the steady rhythm of her hooves against the earth as if they might pound the confusion from your mind. The ride back to camp is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. You find comfort in the monotony, feeling it as more of a need than a pleasure. There needs to be silence in between the chaos and the volume of explosions.

There needs to be a balance.

There needs to be a truth and a lie.

There needs to be forgetting and remembering.

You just wish you knew what to do with this feeling in your heart.

Thank you so much for reading!

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#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #kaboom #flashbacks again #dutch van der linde is sus as usual #bill williamson #moonshine #oh the angst #oh the tension #poor arthur #i can't help it im sorry #it will get better i promise #sweet boah arthur

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