#it wasn’t supposed to be this long

[littlexdeaths]

i am almost done with this spencer fic i’m actually so proud of myself 🥲

[lailuhhh]

No Good + Very Bad + Murphy’s Law

Mac didn’t believe in luck. He believed in science, so there had to be a reasonable explanation on why everything was happening to him

Or

Mac has a no good, terrible, very bad day

Read it here!

[selttiks4313]

Every time I go to work on this fic I think “let me re read this quick.” To be sure I’ve got the vibes right, and every single time without fail i end up adding more to the beginning. Why do I do that? Why can’t I wait until it’s finished to add more to the beginning??? Whyyy can’t I finish this fic ugh

[remxedmoon]

y’know what? fuck you. *UNGRAYSCALES YOUR ISATS*

no wait come back there’s greyscale versions under the cut :(

[weirdglassthing]

LOA Shiptober Day 4: How They Met

October content month was ambitious..

This one took me. Shockingly long. Whoops! I’ll probably end up jumping around the prompt list and it might extend into November 😋

I’ll try to do day 31 on the actual date of Halloween though 🫡

[wtftaylr]

I love Companion Benny. I love the idea that he gets huffy-puffy and “just a little” jealous if you switch him out for another companion. He simply cannot cope with the fact that you’d toss him aside like yesterday’s trash for… what, some scribe in rags? A boring-ass first recon guy? A vaquero ghoul? (ok he thinks Raul is kinda cool actually but he won’t openly admit that)?? Benny has STORIES, baby. Interest. Intrigue. You wanna know all the juicy strip gossip? Guess what, you CANT now because you DISMISSED him. How DARE you.

Benny is VERSATILE, baby. His tagged skills are guns, melee, and unarmed. Good luck finding another companion that can do what he can. Yeah Craig “Frowns” Boone can headshot a cazador from a million yards away or whatever, *mumbling* show-off, he would’ve seen that cazador eventually *end mumbling* but Benny can shoot, stab, AND punch. Hey courier, watch this. I’m gonna punch the fuck out of this deathclaw. He does it (you gotta administer a few stimpaks) BUT HE DID IT. And he was only at half health. 400+ health honeybaby, Benny can take a few whacks from those deathclaw freaks. What was that? Showing off? Benny doesn’t have to show off, sugar plum. He’s just that good.

He also won’t complain that his feet are getting tired. Yeah he’ll complain about minor inconveniences and wants you to do something about them regardless if you realistically can or not, but at least he’ll walk miles upon miles in a day and not complain. He also won’t complain about going back to the Lucky 38. (he’ll just complain about not being able to get in there before the Courier showed up.) What, no one else complains about their feet hurting? Uhhhh BOOT-RIDERS. Silly name. But that’s how they rode the Mojave, dig? On their feet. He’s done this before. Experienced.

AND ANOTHER THING. how many companions shout words of encouragement during a fight. Go on. He’s waiting.

You’re doing great, baby! Show these punk losers what you got!!

I bet all the caps in Vegas you’ll miss that while getting shot to shit by the Fiends or whatever. Grumble. Benny hopes you come back in one piece, of course. He’d just rather see to it himself that you remain in one piece. Uhh BECAUSE HE’S JUST THAT GR-

(The courier left with their choice of companion hours ago. Swank is trying to work but Benny won’t stop gabbing his ear off. Dear god Benny just go be the Head of The Chairmen somewhere else. Swank is trying to do actual work here.)

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 4: Haunted

[svtswhorehouse]

BRAT TAMER! JIHOON — nsfw

brat tamer! jihoon who you know you’ve finally pushed over the edge and is pissed when he goes silent and stops what he is doing.

brat tamer! jihoon who has such a powerful and dominant aura, all he has to do is look at you to get you to shut up and submit to him.

brat tamer! jihoon who keeps his words and responses short, ordering you to get on the bed or on your knees, but his voice holds so much authority, you do so without a second thought.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes sure you know your safe word and makes you repeat it a few times to him until he is sure you're not going to forget it.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes your stomach do flips and turns in excitement, fear, and anticipation because of what he might do to you.

brat tamer! jihoon who doesn't so much as spare you a glance or speak to you as he rummages through the drawers and pulls out a red bullet vibrator.

brat tamer! jihoon who orders you to spread your legs wide, hands on the back of your thighs pulled up to your chest so your bare pussy is on full display for him.

brat tamer! jihoon who ends up manhandling you into the position himself after you refuse to do it because of how much of a vulnerable and pathetic position it puts you in.

brat tamer! jihoon who spits on your cunt, causing you to let out the filthiest moan.

brat tamer! jihoon who gives you no time to prepare or process before he sets the vibrator on the highest setting and places it against your clit.

brat tamer! jihoon who holds you in place and smacks the insides of your thighs when you try to close your legs or escape because of how intense it feels.

brat tamer! jihoon who quietly listens to you beg for him to let up, but doesn't say anything besides telling you to use your safe word if it really is too much.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes you cum not once, not twice, but MULTIPLE times from just the vibrator alone.

brat tamer! jihoon who doesn't seem to care about the tears running down your face or constant apologizing for misbehaving earlier. brats deserve to be punished and he stands by that.

brat tamer! jihoon who FINALLY puts the vibrator away and tells you to get on all fours.

brat tamer! jihoon who smacks your ass when you take too long and smirks at the way your legs are quivering from your intense orgasms previously when you're finally positioned.

brat tamer! jihoon who has to hold himself back from thinking with his dick and just slamming into you already.

brat tamer! jihoon who runs a finger through your folds from behind you, causing you to whine and jerk due to sensitivity.

brat tamer! jihoon who lets out a small laugh when your elbows give in and you fall chest forward towards the mattress because he slammed two fingers into your dripping hole out of nowhere.

brat tamer! jihoon who keeps a brutal and steady pace, occasionally adding fingers as he thrusts them in and out of you causing your eyes to roll into the back of your head and for you to start muttering gibberish.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes you squirt, completely soaking his shirt and the sheets below you, but you can't seem to care because everything just feels too good and so intense. (too bad he's not done with you yet though.)

brat tamer! jihoon who once again tells you to use your safe word if it's too much when you start to mutter how you can't give him another orgasm when you hear his belt unbuckle.

brat tamer! jihoon who wraps his hand up in your hair while he lines himself up with your entrance.

brat tamer! jihoon who takes in your moans of sensitivity as he rubs his tip through your folds and tears of pleasure falling down your face before slamming into your cunt.

brat tamer! jihoon who groans at how easily he slips into you because of your previous orgasms practically turning you into a waterfall.

brat tamer! jihoon who is relentless as he’s pounding into you, not caring that’s he’s overstimulating you.

brat tamer! jihoon who brings you to an orgasm so quick that he’s yet to cum which means he’s not done with you yet.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes your mind go completely blank from how good he’s making you feel and the only thing you can even bring yourself to think about or say is his name.

brat tamer! jihoon who makes you cum yet again except this time he cums right along with you and inside of you, filling you up.

brat tamer! jihoon who kisses your head and takes good care of you after.

brat tamer! jihoon who would hold you close for the rest of the night while you slowly fall asleep in his arms.

[mi-spark]

pla doodle page i did in a 1am–7am frenzy + smth that was originally intended to be anniversary art

[elizabethzoopzoop986]

I hate this fucking manga how am I supposed to have a life and write essays about shit when I sit down start to think and all that comes to mind is some gay little toilet freaks istg it’s a hard knock life

[zona-doing-art]

hold on you guys my favorite game is on

[bonesashesglass]

God, I’m just so mad and upset and I need to rant for a minute:

I live in Wisconsin, where the last several years winters here have been scarily mild. It’s not uncommon for us to have a mild winter every few years or so, but we’ve been having milder and milder winters for the past several years in a row. Winters here are supposed to be long and snowy. It’s supposed to start snowing in November, sometimes October, and the snow doesn’t melt all the way till April, sometimes early May.

Last year, I felt like we barely even had a winter. There was snow on the ground for maybe two months total, it kept melting and then coming back, which isn’t supposed to happen. The snow will maybe melt after the first couple times, but once you get to December, it’s supposed to stay on the ground until Spring.

Same thing is happening this year. It’ll snow for like two days, stick for maybe one day, and melt. It’ll stay that way for a couple of weeks. It’s January now. The fact that there’s no snow on the ground, in fucking Wisconsin, is alarming. The fact that this has been happening several years in a row now is alarming. I’m seeing it happen right in front of me. We’re all seeing the effects of climate change now, and we’re seeing how it’s directly destroying and harming the planet. We can see it with our own eyes.

I’m thinking about the fires in LA right now. I saw someone talk about how they were alarmed they were getting these kinds of winds in January. (I’m not familiar with LA climate but this person talked about how abnormal it is).

Everything the scientists have been saying about climate change is coming true. It’s happening right in front of us, for the whole world to see. And still, the people responsible, the right-wing politicians and businesspeople that profit off of this just deny deny deny. How can you deny what’s happening right in front of everyone? They are destroying our planet, and they still think they can deny it happening. It just makes me so angry. That a handful of people have the power to destroy our planet and refuse to even acknowledge it. They act like the words “climate change” is liberal propaganda. As if it’s not something we can see happening right before our eyes. They pretend it’s political, they pretend it’s a conspiracy, because they have no other way to justify being against protecting the planet.

One thing that angers me most is that the only thing people seem to do about this is complain on social media. (I know, that’s exactly what I’m doing, but hear me out). LA is burning to the ground because of climate change, and what’s anybody going to do about it? Make a post on Twitter? Maybe write an article about it?

That doesn’t change anything. We need change. We need direct action. It’s only going to get worse if we keep letting companies and governments continue as they are. They cannot continue as they are.

If you haven’t heard of the book How to Blow Up a Pipeline, go look it up. The author talks about a lot of the stuff I want to get at here, but he puts it a lot better.

My hope is that these LA fires will start a movement for stopping climate change. Not just a general shift of opinion like we’ve seen the past few years, but a real movement where people show up in person to do something. We exist in a time where Luigi Mangione is seen as a hero for his actions, I hope people will get inspired to take more direct action in regards to climate change. (That doesn’t mean shooting more people, I’m not advocating for murder, but we need to start taking action beyond just complaining on social media).

I’m going to start researching resources to help myself and others to get more involved with preventing climate change. I hope one day, we’ll have an actual winter in Wisconsin again. To everyone in LA, please please stay safe❤️

[ravxe3n]

WWW NEWEST SEASON EPISODE 1 SPOILERS

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

read on ao3 here | masterlist

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “��Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

[remxedmoon]

i hit 1k followers recently!!!! yipee!!!!!!! thank you all!!! so in celebration here’s all of my completed isat doodle pages, from oldest to newest. go nuts with them!! and maybe don’t look at the first doodle page too closely. it’s Old.

(no greyscale version below for once! just some mushy ramblings. you don’t have to read them don’t worry)

hhhhhha?? so many people. where did you come from. how did you all find me.

ok but seriously, thank you all so much for all the support. i never really. expected to make it this far? like, ever?? i’ve mentioned it a few times on here, but i’ve been a lurker for the past… 2 years, i think? and even before that, i never gained much traction outside of a couple posts. so this has been. very new to me!! in a nice way!! it’s weird to feel like an actual member of a community!! that people know about!

the idea of finally coming back to social media was Daunting (i literally got stress hives writing my first post lol) and the warm reception really. meant a lot?? i don’t think i would’ve ever gotten the courage to come back if i hadn’t been encouraged to by the people over at the isat discord!!

the fact that people actually care about my art still doesn’t feel real?? seeing people take inspiration from my art is just. surreal. just. auagssh. thank you all so so much for everything, i really do appreciate it!!! i’m really glad to be in this community. sorry if this all sounds sappy and long winded i’ve just got a lot of emotions about this whole thing!!

(also as a bonus for reading all this or whatever. here’s a concept page for isatscryption! it felt a little out of place next to my normal canvases so i’m putting it down here! yipee! sorry my notes here are so disjointed auauau…)

[kindaasrikal]

The ninja think Lloyd has a twin brother after seeing an old photo of a pair of blonde and brunette teenagers in an old album.

They completely forgot about the fact that the (really old) picture held two teenagers and is a photo they don’t remember. And that Lloyd didn’t become a teenager under the most normal of ways.

After theorising for an entire night after sending Lloyd on a random mission, they came to the conclusion that Lloyd’s long lost twin must be living on the streets, like Lloyd once was. And since Lloyd was evil on the streets before living with the ninja, only to then become the most good person alive, then by magical twin logic Lloyd’s twin is the actual evil one with a traumatic backstory.

In hopes of not letting Lloyd remember (they assume he either chooses to hide those memories in pain or he has amnesia) of his evil and having left him behind family member number 2 (3 on the second one) they go out searching for a brunette teenage evil whose trying to take over the world in a random village.

After a whole week of searching they found squat and Lloyd and Wu got tired of it all, and cornered them to spill the truth. Shockingly enough, it was Zane who was feeling the most pressure over the secret and blurted it out with a little of pressure. Before crying out apologies over not finding his evil twin brother and saving him from the “DARK VISCOUS PATH GARAMDON WAS FORCED DOWNNN IT WAS ALL OUR FAULTSSSSS” as he sobbed.

Wu and Lloyd, rightfully confused, and very concerned because to be perfectly honest this would be expected of their family after Morro was hidden from them (Wu please don’t have any more secret hidden children) and how they are in general, call Misako and Garmadon.

Garmadon screams and Misako is very much prepared to murder everyone, because she can remember her own pregnancy thank you very much. Until, well, she remembers the family she joined. And the job she has. And then when the Ninja are convinced something is up, and even Lloyd is nearing the same state his father and Zane are in, with Wu questioning he should actually go through that old scrapped plan to kidnap Morro from the Departed realm if this random twin is also dead, Misako yells at them all to be quiet and wait for her and Garmadon to show up. Harumi can be heard cackling in the background when they all end the call.

When Misako and Garmadon arrive, the ninja and co are found completely silent. Misako is already sick of it all and Garmadon look like he might strangle the ninja for answers, so she just straight up asks them what made them convinced Lloyd has a twin.

Lloyd, Wu, Garmadon and Misako all stare at the ninja, who in turn sweat. Slowly, Nya gets up to grab a book off the shelf they hid it between.

And when they opened it to the page the picture was in, they were all silent as they absorbed it all in.

Then Wu snorted, and it became chaos after. Garmadon was both laughing his ass off and cussing them all out. Misako was muffling her own snorts behind her hands, shaking as she struggles to hold herself up on a wall, the ninja are staring completely baffled as Wu is giggling into his hat, and Lloyd is glaring confused between the two people in the picture, before slowly looking up and asking “is…is this?…”

The ninja are even more confused and even a little offended by that, and Kai starts pointing at it all like “Its your evil twin! I swear it!! Who..ahem, looks a lot like a certain old classmate right-”

And Wu just gets up, grabs the album, looks at Garmadon, and says “Lloyd really does look similar to us, doesn’t he?”

And Garmadon, who was wondering if he should stab the ninja after giving him such a huge scare, scoffs and says “Of course he doesn’t, he looks exactly like Misako!” And then looks at the picture and says “…Though, he does have my amazing hair, and your ugly eyebrows.” Lloyd takes zero offence and believes it a compliment when it comes to him.

It takes a second more of silence before Misako begins snorting again at the ninja’s faces when they realise.

Jay’s jaw is dropped, Cole is staring between Garmadon and Lloyd, Zane begins scanning the photos with Wu and Garmadon’s face, Nya is trying to ask for an actual explanation, Kai is frozen, and Lloyd.

Lloyd literally falls on the ground in relief. He’s had enough family drama to deal with, no more is necessary.