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applepiesupreme · 27 days ago

Text

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 38

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/153076498

Savigne sat, drawing designs on the table, thinking that there were surely peaks and valleys to life. And the valleys of her life were long and deep. In front of her, the newspaper of last week and an empty glass of water with laudanum - courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw. First time, about a week ago when the older woman had shown up with it by her ramshackle wagon, she had known there were bad news in tow because Sadie had informed Ms. Grimshaw that the laudanum was to be used sparingly now. So Savigne drank the water without further ado and after that, stared at the newspaper that was placed in front of her.

Sister DuBois had been wrong after all, because the shoes kept dropping.

Saint Denis had been shaken by the bank heist and the newspapers had talked of little else since. Even speculation about Ecco’s demise had been pushed to the fifth page. Pinkertons had immediately revealed the identity of the Van der Linde gang. A few days later big news broke: a ship had rolled into the Saint Denis harbor and the captain had contacted the authorities. His vessel had passed another that had departed the city few days prior and this ship had alerted them via lights and Morse code that the Van der Linde gang was on board and had bribed their passage to Cuba. Pinkertons, frustrated that their search in Shady Belle had come up empty, then had focused their efforts on contacting the authorities in Cuba. There was no extradition between the two countries but when the authorities heard of the bounty amounts, they said they would gladly pick the outlaws up at port to deliver them back to the US.

That seemed to be the end of it - the gang was stuck on a ship, seemingly unaware that the captain had double crossed them and heading straight to Cuba to be arrested. Alas, things went sideways again because after a prolonged radio silence, the news printed in last week’s paper sitting in front of her was that the cargo ship had sunk before its arrival, still a good distance away from Cuba and the gang had perished.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Ms. Grimshaw had rapped her knuckles on the table as she dropped the paper.

That had been last week. She thought it was last week, anyway. Because since then she had had a few more glasses of bitter water and had stared at the same paper day in day out.

Arthur dead. Dead forever. She couldn’t even remember the last thing she had said to him. Probably something sharp and hurtful. Maybe it had been something rudimentary like “turn off the lantern” or “your boots are muddy”. Her mind was a maze and all the doors led to weird places. Here, reality and fantasy were indistinguishable. Had they really gone treasure hunting or was that a fantasy she had cooked up? Had they spent the night on that island she had rowed to or had they returned? Had they strolled through cabins as prospective buyers or was that just her daydreams? Memories branched off into alternative paths and forked into other trails and sometimes it was hard to tell what had actually happened and what she had conjured in her head.

Laudanum was a hell of a drug.

But at least it soothed the sharpness of her grief and wouldn’t let her linger on it for too long before it led her mind astray. Every time she thought of the warmth of his body behind her and her heart pierced, laudanum said “Hey, how about that time you sledged down the snowy hill with your friends when you took a field trip to the mountains?” Every time she missed waking up next to him, laudanum said “Do you remember Christmas at the orphanage? You used to love listening to the choir.” Every time she pictured the intensity of his gaze on her, laudanum said “That trip to New York was amazing, wasn’t it? You whipped that meringue like a true professional”.

On and on, her mind chased Arthur and laudanum chased her mind. In a way, she was grateful. Without it she would surely have had a breakdown. In fact, arguably she had. In the weeks she had been here, she had barely done anything but sit here on a chair and wait for nightfall and then go around to the other side of the wagon and lie in her bed. The times of an orderly, clean tent and the semblance of normalcy were in the past. She hadn’t even unloaded the crates - they were stacked up in the back and every time she needed something, she just rummaged through them and retrieved what she needed and put the lids back on. Her wagon - their wagon - sat close to the cluster of huts that served as camp now. Sadie wouldn’t allow her to camp far from everyone else like she used to, but at least she got to sleep alone.

People came and spoke to her and tried to console her, but nobody could understand the depths of her grief because nobody was in her shoes. Except perhaps Molly, who sulked around and drank and stumbled through her own head maze. "Sláinte to both of us fools!" she had raised her bottle at Savigne one day, on her way out of camp. "What we deserve for lovin' these men." Savigne had felt compassion and a strange kinship for her then and had nodded. This surprised Molly who was used to being pushed around and dismissed and she gave Savigne a long look, swaying on her feet. "At least yers loved ya back," she had mumbled before she had disappeared among the foliage.

She blinked and picked up the paper again. Every time she tried to reread the news, her mind detached a few sentences in.

“You okay, Savigne?”

She looked up to find Charles standing over her. “I don’t think so,” she said thougtfully.

He pulled out the other chair and sat to her right. “Been a rough few weeks,” he sighed. They didn’t speak for a while. Charles was one of those people with whom silences were never awkward. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s dead.”

She played with the corner of the newspaper, folding it, then unfolding it as he watched her patiently.

“I’ve seen that man walk away from worse odds,” he continued. “Please don’t give up.”

She folded the corner, unfolded it. Folded it, unfolded it. She observed the letters straighten and flip upside down, straighten and flip. “Did you bury Hosea’n’Lenny?” she asked, her speech a little slurred.

In the corner of her eye, he nodded. Another thing nobody had disclosed to her until later. The pregnancy nobody but herself was shocked by, the scandalous heist and the demise of Hosea and Lenny. All secrets and lies. Why should she trust anything they said now?

“I know this upsets you,” he guessed her thinking. “Not being told. But we were just mindful of your well being.”

“Everyone’s lyin’ to me ‘bout ‘vrything.” the sticky words tumbled out of her mouth. Another thing laudanum removed was that filter between your head and your mouth.

She startled when his hand folded over hers, stopping her from the folding and making her look up. “Not everything.”

It was all he said, but the way he locked eyes with her and the way he said it somehow soothed her heart. He looked at her a long time and she looked back. Eventually he removed his hand and she sighed and sat back.

“He’s strong. And stubborn. No lies,” Charles added.

As if it mattered to be strong or stubborn or whatever the fuck else when a ship sucked you to the bottom of the ocean. Often she was glad for the gang’s confidence and optimism. But when the drug wore off, she thought it pathetic. Like they were all clinging to a lie. Like even here, at their most miserable low point, sleeping among gators and water snakes, they stubbornly pretended that their glory days were yet to come. Like this was just a small setback. Like Arthur and Dutch would return and then they would roll their wagons to a breezy overlook so they can go back to robbing people’s heirlooms and inheritance to buy more whiskey.

“My valley is so long,” she drawled, pulling the shawl over her shoulders.

Charles didn’t ask what she meant or look at her strange, just sat with her. “I’m sorry,” he said what felt like much later. “Wish I could do something for you.”

“What happens now?” she asked, wiping her hands over her face.

“We hang tight until we hear more. Well...you do. Me and Sadie will try to break out John.”

She nodded and waited for the meaning of the words to float down to her. Like a seesawing feather, it eventually did. “Of prison?”

“Yes,” was his simple response.

“That’s good,” she sighed a minute later. She felt a stab of hurt and realized that she resented John being rescued while Arthur was gone, possibly dead.

“Lucky Abigail. Guess family was meant for her,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “Not for me.”

“Savigne…” He waited until she locked eyes with him again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Doubt that,” she snorted and giggled a little. “But that’s fine!” she waved her hand at the expression on his face.

He looked at her a moment, then rose to his feet and squeezed her shoulder. “Rest.”

It took her a while to realize he had left and she stupidly looked at the newspaper again, eyes growing heavy. Luther must be worried, I haven’t seen him in weeks, she thought to herself.

Nobody worries about you, silly girl, her inner voice scoffed.

Hands pulled up the shawl around her shoulders and she realized she had fallen asleep sitting there because the light was different now.

“Hey,” Abigail sank into in the chair Charles had vacated a minute ago…an hour ago? Time was fluid now; sometimes it stretched on for eons, other times it blinked by in a heartbeat.

“Is John back?” Savigne sniffed, wiping her sleeve under her nose. The laudanum had worn off and her mind was clearer again.

“No. They left a few hours ago, ain’t back yet.”

They hadn’t spoken since Jack’s return which felt like years at this point. The other woman was twitching restlessly with worry. At least she had something to worry about. All Savigne had was the desolate landscape of hopelessness. The resentment flared up in her again and she looked away.

“Did you need something?”

“Came to ask if you did,” Abigail’s eyes flicked up at her.

“So you’re not here to brag?”

“Brag?”

“I’m sure you knew about the child. I’m starting to think everyone knew but me. And possibly Arthur, because he was as dumb as me.”

Abigail bit her lip and shifted in her chair. “Course I knew. Not cause ‘m smarter, mind you, ‘m not. Cause I been there myself.”

“Another thing you didn’t tell me,” Savigne chuckled bitterly.

Abigail exhaled with frustration. “Really Savigne? We wasn’ even speakin’, did you expect me to drop by and tell you I think yer with child?”

She shrugged and hugged herself. She knew she would have been supremely upset and would have dismissed it as a cruel lie if Abigail had done that, but the flame of pettiness was burning hot in her gut.

“I’m sorry,” the other woman said carefully. “For not tellin’ the other thing. Or this. I am. Didn’ think was my place. Seems like whatever I do, I lose.”

“What exactly did you lose?” Savigne snapped. “They’re going to bring John back, then what are you going to cry about?”

Abigail was taken aback by that and looked guilty for a moment. “Arthur is comin’ back.”

“Will people please stop pulling this nonsense out of their ass?!” her voice rose and kept climbing. “No he won’t! He’s DEAD! And I’m FUCKED!”

Heads turned their way. She buried her face in her hands and shivered with righteous anger. Abigail was trying to make peace. But that was easy to do when your man wasn’t floating in the bottom of the ocean, wasn’t it? It was easy to be kind and generous, easy to preach hope and consolation when the winds of good fortune were filling your sails.

She remembered the rich families that used to visit the orphanage for adoption gliding around, smiling at the children like beatific deities. She remembered her friends brushing their hair and practicing their smiles in hopes of being noticed. She also remembered sitting in a corner, scowling with pride, watching these couples stroll around as if inspecting wares in a store.

Savigne, stop scowling, the Sisters would say. Why did you mess up your hair? What is this stain on your dress? Don’t you want to have a family?

One by one she had noticed the pretty girls leave. The taller ones with fair skin and nice eyes. “I have a family,” she would growl. “They’re dead.”

But don’t you want a new family?

“No.”

Savigne, everybody needs someone.

She had observed the men hoist up a child and grin with approval while their wives cooed and brushed the girl’s hair.

“Not me. I don’t need anyone.”

Every week she had messed up her hair and brushed dirt on her dress and every week she was passed on. A self fulfilling prophecy of her own making. In her grubby little heart, both righteous pride and something else - a hurt she couldn’t quite name. Pride and hurt, all those years her loyal shield and her trusted sword. Until that fateful day in the Bayou when she had let Arthur disarm her. Now her shield was cracked and her sword was broken, and in her heart: a deep compulsion to mess up her hair and muddy her dress.

“Please,” Abigail spoke up. “Let me help. I wanna help.”

“I don’t want your help!” she shot to her feet. “Go enjoy yourself! Go be with your family!”

“Young lady!” Grimshaw hollered from somewhere and she quickly fell back into her chair.

“You got to rub it in, congratulations,” she hissed and looked away. “Go away, leave me alone.”

Abigail’s eyes flared and her jaw muscles worked but when she spoke, her voice was careful and soft. “I know you don’ believe me but I’m your friend. Wanna be, anyway. I ain’t celebrating and I ain’t rubbin’ nothin’ in. I been where you are. I know you don’ wanna hear it but I’m very upset about Arthur, too.”

“Well that at least I can believe!” Savigne spat, but quieter, so Grimshaw wouldn’t march over.

“Ain’t like that! That was years ago. You wanna judge me for what I did, go ahead, ‘m used to it. Yes, I was a whore. Slept with men for money - the horror! But I been with John for years, I been loyal for years, and it hurts ya sayin’ ‘m lustin’ for another man! Behind John and Jack’s back! Shame on you!”

Savigne defiantly wiped her tears and looked away. She was jealous and every time she was jealous, she turned petty. Old habits died hard.

“I know yer head screwed on wrong right now. ‘M tryin’ not to hear yer poison but it’s hard Savigne! Really hard!” the other woman's voice wavered and she flattened her lips and sat back in an attempt to gather herself.

They sniffled quietly in their chairs for a while. Savigne fished out her stack of clean handkerchiefs and when Abigail held her hand out, grumpily slapped one into her palm, too.

“I been where you are. Lemme help. Least I can do to make it up to you. And least I can do to repay Arthur.”

“There’s nothing to help,” Savigne quipped. “I’m just waiting for this thing to go sideways like everything else in my life.”

Ms. Grimshaw came out of the hut and gave them an even look. They remained composed under her scrutiny and Abigail waited for her to glide away before she continued: “Don’ gotta be that way. You’ll have a kid, ain’t the worst thing. Jack is the best thing I done in my life.”

Savigne rolled her eyes. Abigail just didn’t get it. She was riding with outlaws and her biggest career ambition was to become a better pickpocket. And if John married her one day, Jack was set. Her own life was over. Her ambitions, dust. Her plans, ruined. An unmarried woman with child was a death sentence to all her dreams. Sure, she would survive - she could find the odd job here or there and put the semblance of a roof over her head and food into her stomach. But an illustrious career in a city? That was done. No respectable restaurant would hire her. Everywhere she went, women would look at her with disdain and hurry their husbands and sons away and men would treat her like an easy lay. Never getting married - that was manageable for a woman these days. But a child out of wedlock? Certain ostracism. And what would happen to the child? Rejection by nurseries and schools. Endless teasing and stigma for being a “foundling”. If it was a boy he would climb down chimneys for a living and if it was a girl her highest aspiration would be to become a maid.

“Also, like I said, Arthur is coming back.” Sometimes she wondered how John put up with Abigail’s one track mind. The woman just thought what she thought and nobody could convince her otherwise.

“Then what? You think we’re going to ride into the sunset after this bullshit he pulled?”

“You knew this what he does when you shacked up with him,” was the defensive response.

“And so did you with John. Didn’t stop you from complaining my ears off!”

“I complain he won’ leave this life, ain’t nothing the same! I ain’t blind, I know Arthur don’ feel that way about the gang no more.”

“Just spare me,” Savigne huffed. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m tempted to go to New York and start all over.”

“New York?! Why there?”

“Why not? They’re more open minded over there, I can pull it off as a single parent. More work, too.”

Abigail gave her a side eye. “Ya gonna pack up and go to a big city in yer condition? Where ya gonna be all alone? Don’ know a soul?”

Savigne knew how dumb it sounded and truthfully, had very little ambition or money to make such an upheaval right now. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to work in weeks, the notion that she would rise up like some glorious phoenix and relocate to New York was preposterous. But she shrugged anyway. “Might,” she said curtly. “I’m alone. No ties to anyone. I might as well start new. Could pass as a widow with a ring on my finger. Might even find a good man who’ll stick around.”

The other woman shifted in her seat. “Yer underestimatin’ Arthur’s-.”

“You know what - I don’t give a shit!” she spat. Then hastily looked around for that black bun and adjusted her tone. “He left me. He lost his vote by doing that.”

“He ain’t left you. He went on a job, things gone wrong. Don’ ya think you should wait a little?”

“For what? A horrible, irresponsible man to come back? What’s he going to do? Save me?” Savigne snorted and crossed her arms, “Let’s face it: he’s more likely to hate me.”

“The hell?!”

“A child he didn’t ask for? Because I was stupid? Sound familiar?”

“Absolutely not!” Abigail gasped. “That was very different. He gonna be crazy happy!”

“Any other glowing defense of Arthur you need to throw my way while you’re at it?!” growled Savigne. “Touching how protective you are of him!”

“Stop it! I owe him a lot, that’s all. I have no feelings for yer stupid man.”

“If you have no feelings, stop fucking defending him.”

“Okay fine. Wanna make sure you sein' all your options, is all. Just a few weeks, Savigne. Charles said that what they discussed - sail off a few weeks and return. Hasn’t changed.”

“The ship at the bottom of the ocean disagrees!” Savigne clutched the paper and waved it in Abigail’s face.

“I ain’t a well traveled woman but even I know those have life vests and boats,” was the infuriatingly stubborn dismissal. “A few weeks, and if-”

Just then two horses rode into camp - Sadie and John on one and Charles on the other. The gang, hungry for any good news, erupted in a big pent up hooray. Abigail scrambled out of her chair and ran to meet John. Savigne watched them embrace and kiss as people flocked around them. The resentment, the jealousy that had been percolating in her before flared up so hot and bitter, it took her breath away. She shot up to her feet, swayed for a moment, then walked to the back of the wagon and fumbled with the single sheet of fabric of the tent that remained now. All the pillars had been left at Shady Belle so she just had a bed and a drape of fabric for privacy. She untied it and hurriedly hung it over like a mosquito net, then sat down on the bed, shaking with fury and dejection. She kicked off her boots and lied down, listening to the greetings and exchanges and hating everyone and her own jealous, spiteful, petty self most of all. It’s unfair, she cried silently. Unfair he’s back and Arthur isn’t. Unfair they’re happy and I’m miserable. Unfair they’re a family and mine is dead forever. Unfair, unfair, unfair!

Steps scrunched her way and she stilled, shuffling closer to the wagon. Leave me alone, she screamed in her head. I hate you and I don’t want your pity!

Whoever it was paused in front of the lowered drape for a while, then finally receded.

She inhaled the smell of the Bayou. I can’t be in this muck, listening to frogs and gators. What the fuck am I doing? I used to work a distinguished job. I have money. I have a friend. Instead I’m here, sinking into the damn swamp. Sleeping in this barely put together tent. Everything is dirty and ugly here, I haven’t bathed in weeks, I can’t even cook. I’m lying here waiting for a man who didn’t give a shit about me. Not enough to stop and wonder what was going to happen to me anyway.

There was a flutter in her stomach and she froze. “Sorry,” she mumbled and splayed her hand on it. “I’m sorry. You must be boiling in pure poison in there.” Shame washed over her. All her life she had missed a mother like an absent limb, and now, when the responsibility was laid at her feet, it was all “woe to me!”, and “what about my career?”, and “what about my dreams?” Doctor Polleux was right - ignorance was no excuse. Arthur didn't do this and the baby certainly didn't either. This was her doing and consequentially, her responsibility.

“Sorry I haven’t been a better custodian. But that’s all over now. No more laudanum.” she whispered to her passenger. “I was…sick, but I’m better now. Tomorrow we're going to go see Luther.” The thought calmed her heart. “Luther is my friend. Our friend. We’ll ask him what to do. If he’s mean, just ignore it, you hear? He just pretends to be mean.” She sighed and listened to the music of the Bayou for a while, gently tapping her belly. “We're climbing out of this hole. I put us in this hole and I will climb us out of it. This is not a fairy tale, no hero is coming to save us, and that’s fine because we don’t need one. It's easy, you'll see. All we have to do is put one foot above the other. And not look down.”

Hercule crouched next to Arthur as the other man watched the camp below with the binoculars. The moon shone full and bright tonight as voices of banter and ease drifted up to them. If the cowboy was distressed about the number of their enemies, he didn’t show it. Behind them, the rest of the gang was quietly inspecting the crates that Hercule’s men had smuggled over in the cover of dark. A few days from now, when the last reinforcements arrived, they were going to storm the camp and try to flush Fussar out. It had sounded like madness to Hercule, but as he was wrestling with indecision and doubt, Arthur had looked at him and had said “Run with me,” and to his own amazement, Hercule had found himself shaking hands.

When he had returned to his men to translate, they too had balked at this proposition.

“Hercule, how can you trust this blan, this white man?”

“A wolf is not black and a wolf is not white. A wolf is grey.” he had told them.

This had fazed them none, because even though there were no wolves in Haiti, there were wolves in America and this man was American, and his people were intuitive and knew that some things were meant to be understood with the heart, not the head. Their dark eyes had judged the cowboy up and down, had weighed his measure as they mulled on this between themselves.

Then they had said “Okay, we will run with this American wolf. But this plan crazy. We are few and Fussar is many.”

Hercule had shrugged. “Bondye fe san di. God acts and doesn’t talk. We did the talking, now we do the acting.”

So here they were, scouting the camp below them and fine tuning their plans.

“Bill,” Arthur mumbled, concentrated on the activity in the distance. “Ya remember where?”

“Sure.”

Arthur rose from his haunches and gave him a suspicious look. “Where?”

Bill shifted uncomfortably on his feet and glanced back over his shoulder to the camp below them. “There,” he pointed at the barracks, “…there” - the gun shack, “…and…and…” The slap on the back of his head startled him.

“The fuckin’ watchtower!” hissed Arthur.

“Was just about to say that!” was the sullen response.

Arthur stepped closer to him, “Listen here ya lumberin’ fool, you do this wrong, don’ bother comin’ back, cause ‘m shootin’ yer useless ass.”

“‘M just tired. And cooked. And hungry.”

The blue eyes blazed at him. “You do this wrong, ya gonna be dead, too.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch spoke up. He lifted a rifle out of the crate and checked the scope.

“Where you need us?” Hercule asked Arthur.

“How about you go ahead first?” Micah drawled. “Draw their fire.” Hercule didn’t engage with him. He didn’t care for this man. This man was lougarou - a skinwalker who dressed like a wolf, but he was no wolf. His heart was the wicked heart of men. He looked at Arthur and waited. “Hey, you deaf or what?” Micah pushed, annoyed that he was being ignored.

“You want us to draw fire?” Hercule quietly asked Arthur as if Fat Belly hadn’t spoken.

“Not you,” Arthur said, testing the sharpness of his blade on his thumb before he notched it on his belt. “You come with me. We gonna go in quite and kill the men aimin’ the gatlins.”

“Since when are you leading?” was Micah’s frustrated protest.

“Since always,” Arthur said, eyes cold as they shifted up to him.

“You okay with this, Dutch?”

“Arthur knows what he’s doing,” was Dutch’s distracted response.

“Wouldn’t know it by the job that landed us here,” was the muttering.

“What’s that now?” Arthur turned to him, voice deceptively mild and Hercule curiously observed the other big man, Bill, flinch and go white like someone had dunked his head in bleach.

“Hey!” Dutch hissed, stepping between Arthur and Micah. “Enough! You can handle your differences when this is done. Until then…” he gave Micah a side eye, “…Arthur leads.” It was obvious to Hercule that there were problems between these three. If he had to guess, the two younger men had a long standing issue. The leader liked Arthur and looked extremely pleased that he was back in the fold. No, more than that: Dutch acted happy and proud, as if his long lost son had returned to his side. Eager to reward him for his choice to return, eager to have his right hand back. This didn’t please Fat Belly who looked disgruntled for being asked to vacate his spot. Clearly there was a simmering power play here but one that only Micah was engaged in. Arthur filled the role naturally, organically and easily and didn’t even seem to be aware of the competition.

“Tell yer men to gather to the North,” Arthur told him, finger jabbing at the spot on the crude map. “When the dynamite goes off, they shoot and draw back. We’ll crawl in from behind and turn them gatlins on the fools chasin’. Tell’em to circle and come join the fight when they hear that.”

Hercule nodded and turned to translate what was asked. The men’s dark eyes shifted to Arthur as they muttered their “wi patron”s.

“What about us?” Dutch asked.

“You push Fussar to the beach. Micah and I will block his way out and meet you there.”

“Why the hell am I going with you?” Micah sneered.

“Cause what we doin’ more dangerous.” Arthur gave him a look. “And I figure if anyone’s gotta die, should be the worst of us.”

The blond man chortled as he reloaded his twin guns. “I like the way your mind works, cowpoke.”

Three days later and twenty minutes after Bill, Javier, Dutch and their guide had left to plant the explosives, Hercule lead the two Americans quietly to descend through the jungle towards the camp. They had waited for lunch to finish because these lazy bastards liked their fiesta and got all sluggish after eating and were prone to nodding off at their stations. Fussar ran a tight ship, but one man couldn't overcome generations of ingrained habits or the lulling power of the heat. Besides, not even the craziest of them would expect an attack on their camp. Given the small number of men he had at his side, Hercule had always resorted to terrorist tactics - a quick nibble here and there before they withdrew to the safety of the jungle. A full head on attack on the camp was crazy but he couldn't argue with the fact that at the very least it would catch the enemy off guard.

He glanced at the cowboy. Fussar was clever and had more firepower, true. But Arthur was really determined to get back home and Hercule had learned long ago that the steel resolve of determination far outweighed cleverness or a superior force. This other man he didn't trust at all because he knew the type. This wasn't a man to turn your back to. Arthur might not be loyal to Hercule's cause or the people of this island, but Hercule had no doubt that he was loyal to something; loyal to what he valued. He suspected that this man, this…skinwalker didn't even know the meaning of the word.

The gatling guns were on high ground and Hercule knew exactly how to get there. He knew the layout of this camp like the back of his hand. He guided the other two men around the low wall and behind the food hall. They carefully looked through the dust smeared windows and spotted a party of four inside: two cooks playing cards at one of the tables and two soldiers using the other cafeteria tables for an afternoon nap. Arthur doubled back and slunk to the backdoor of the kitchen. When he carefully parted it, there was just one guy washing dishes by himself. Hercule followed him in and marveled how quiet he was despite his size. Micah trailed as the third and gently closed the door behind them. When Hercule looked ahead again Arthur had the man in his clutch and his knife did a subtle slash across the throat. A spray of blood misted as the cook struggled to dislodge Arthur's big hand off his mouth. The dishes he had been washing colored red. There was a long moment of mumbled resistance, but ultimately he slumped in the American's arms and was gently laid aside.

"Go through the other door and take care of them cooks," Arthur whispered to Micah. Then added: "Don' do that shit you pulled in Strawberry. Quietly."

"I got it," was Micah's annoyed huff before he exited the door they had come through.

The kitchen was connected to the food hall with a set of swinging double doors, inlaid with two small windows. Arthur motioned for Hercule to stand behind it before he grabbed one of the dishes the man had been washing and threw it on the floor. Hercule peeked out and saw one of the soldiers stir when the plate shattered. A moment passed and the soldier called out:

"¿Qué pasa Antón?”

When no answer came he huffed with disgust and sat up. "Antón!"

It took some back and forth between him and his sleepy colleague to sort it out, but eventually the soldier slid off the table and trudged over to the door. He banged it open and walked in and Arthur gave him a skull cracking punch in the face and pushed him into Hercule's arms to be immediately wrapped into a choke hold. Before the door could even swing back shut, Arthur had smoothly slid out and was crouching towards the other soldier. Only when he jumped up to impale the other guys heart with a smack did the cooks startle and look up in his direction. They scrambled out of their chairs and inhaled to scream but by then Micah was behind them and stabbed one in the neck from behind. The other one turned at the sound and that was the last thing he did because when looked back again Arthur's blade was in his gut. He gurgled something unintelligible in Spanish and sank to the ground.

Hercule came out of the kitchen, panting. "The guns close by?" Arthur asked as he wiped his blade on the cook’s shirt before reholstering it.

The black man jabbed his head north. "Just up the steps there. But they'll spot us if we go now."

"We wait here 'til the dynamite goes off," Arthur said. "Then we make a run for it."

They didn't have to wait long. Minutes later the dynamite did go off and it sounded like the ammunition depot because the explosion was massive and shivered the ground under their feet. Hercule heard the splatter of mud and stones against the building they were in and thought they might wait for all three explosions or even wait for his men to engage first, but to his surprise, Arthur pulled his guns and was out the door, so him and Micah scrambled to follow. The camp exploded into action around them. By the time the barracks went off, all three had arrived by the gatling guns and had disposed of the soldiers guarding them. Hercule had a moment to marvel at the gunslinger's speed - Arthur's hands were as fast as bullets themselves and his shooting magnificently true - before he was told to man the gun. Despite never having used one in his life, the concept was pretty basic, so Hercule took over one gatling while Micah approached the other and Arthur guarded their back. The gun was like a bull under his hands - bursting and jerking with power as he swung it around and pressed the trigger, mowing down running soldiers and etching holes into the buildings. It had a deafening cough and the vibration quaked his spine but Hercule clung to it and tried his best to aim true. Just then the base of the tower went up and the metal of the structure screeched like a banshee as it leaned, tilted and tilted and tilted until it smashed to the ground.

A gust of sand erupted around them and billowed like tan colored sheets, making the camp momentarily invisible as Hercule tried to shoot through the dust storm. He pulled up his bandanna to breath and squinted as sand pecked at his eyes and settled into his hair. He glanced behind him and saw Arthur ducking low behind a barricade, killing anyone who was dumb enough to move through the streets or attempting to come up the steps for the gatlings. His hands were firing and reloading so fluidly, it was an uninterrupted stream of motion. He heard Micah to his left holler in joy as he fired his own gatling, bullet casings erupting around him and pinging off his legs and arms like fireworks. How long this went on he couldn't tell, but he startled when Arthur's hand smacked on his shoulder.

“Saw Fussar run off, ‘m gonna follow.”

“I’m coming with. Out of bullets anyway and the ammunition depot is blown, these guns are useless now.”

They sprinted from building to building as slugs ricocheted around his head like a hailstorm. He ducked behind the crude stone wall and tried to hear anything other than the sharp bark of bullets as he reloaded. His ears were roaring with the noise, his breath short from the running and the dust in the air.

“Come on!” Micah yelled from ahead of them, “I’m covering.” Hercule heard Dutch holler, pinpointed a direction and stumbled from behind the wall and ducked low, running alongside Arthur as Micah covered their advance. He crouched behind some crates and peeked up. A bullet whizzed by the crate but he got a clean shot and took it. Then another.

“Be sharp now!” Micah yelled and Arthur jumped up a little to rain a volley to cover the other man. From the corner of his eye he saw Micah run onwards and sit behind a low wall to reload.

“Arthur! Micah! This way!” was Dutch’s increasingly distant call.

Just then a man jumped over the low wall and got tangled up with Micah. He pulled a big knife, the size of his forearm and went for Micah’s throat but the blond man tussled him to the ground and slapped the knife away. The man wrestled his way back up, hands clutching at Micah’s guns to point them away from himself. Arthur reloaded and checked quickly over his shoulder to make sure there would be no fire from behind before he aimed and shot the man in the back of the head.

Micah barked a triumphant cry and pushed the body off himself. He scrambled to put his back against the low wall again. Hercule ran to squat next to him and peeked up quickly to see if anyone else was coming over. When he turned to urge Arthur to sprint on, he was startled to find him sitting on Micah’s lap, their faces so close that their noses almost touched. He saw Micah flinch with surprise, those flat blue eyes widening for a split second before he spat “Cowpoke…”

But he couldn't finish the sentence as he got distracted and dropped his head to look between them. He blinked at the hilt of the dagger he had slapped out of his assailant’s hand a minute ago sticking from his gut and his eyes followed it up to Arthur’s hand, his arm, all the way up to his face. When their eyes locked, Arthur looked on and gave the hilt a sideways push. He coolly watched Micah gasp.

“Shot that guy,” Arthur said quietly, moving closer still. “So I can do this.”

He jerked the dagger further right and despite the mayhem around them, Hercule somehow heard the wet tearing of flesh. Micah just blinked on in confusion and his only reaction was a small cough. A few more bullets rained around them, singing against the wall but most of the fight was following Dutch, Bill and Javier and those men sounded even further down the beach.

Hercule’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“Help me you idiot!” Micah sneered at him. “He’s gone mad!”

There was no madness in Arthur’s eyes when they flicked up to Hercule. But he did look very dangerous.

“Patron?!” Hercule stammered.

“This man assaulted my woman,” Arthur said calmly, his blue eyes boring into Hercule’s. His hand jerked again to the right and the blond man he had pinned against the wall moaned. “And means to, again.”

The Fat Belly’s low chuckle drew his eyes to him. “You need…me you…idiot,” Micah's eyes bored into his over Arthur's shoulder. “Gonna risk…Fussar…gettin’ away over…some whore?”

Hercule’s face distorted with disgust. It didn’t surprise him what Micah was accused of. And neither did it surprise him that a man of such low character would think the same of him. He spat to the side. “I’ll cover you, patron,” he growled to Arthur and peeked up to shoot.

A flash of movement as Micah’s right gun came around. He was fast, faster than he should be, but Arthur was ready and gripped it with his left hand before it could turn his way, his other hand on the blade handle seesawing across the belly. The gush of warm, sticky blood was followed by the ropes of intestines.

Micah snarled with renewed vigor and tried to bring his left hand around. But it was caught under Arthur’s knee and wouldn’t budge. He moaned with frustration as his guts boiled out of his stomach and unfurled like glistening coils. Arthur set his cool eyes on the blond man whose gun started to shake with the futile effort to turn. “Think I forgot 'bout ya, you filth?” Arthur drawled, watching his eyes flutter with the loss of blood. “Think ‘m gonna let you loose so you can do what y’aimin’ to do?”

Micah’s right hand unfurled from his gun and gave a weak slap at Arthur’s cheek. “Fucking…coward,” he hissed. “I paid…for what…I done,” was the hiss as the blade serrated on and scraped a rib bone.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

Arthur threw Micah’s released gun over his shoulder as he watched the the pupils wavering, wrestled the other one of his weakened grip from under his knee and checked the chamber. The commotion had moved further east. “Should 'ave done this after Jenny. Should 'ave done it in Strawberry. Should 'ave done it after ya touched my woman. Well…” he sighed, eyes crawling over Micah’s rapidly blanching face, “…’m doin’ it now.”

Micah growled in anger and twitched about. A shudder shook his frame and he panted and coughed blood when Arthur took a crouched step away.

He placed Micah’s gun against the man’s chest and waited for those dead fish eyes to flutter up to him. “Let’s find out if ya got a heart in there.”

When he pulled the trigger, Micah convulsed and his eyes rolled up in his head. Arthur released him and he keeled sideways, dead weight.

Hercule watched the cowboy reload his own guns before their eyes met. “Couldn' risk him returnin’ home if I die here," he explained calmly. "But Fussar ain’t gettin’ away. Gave you my word.”

Hercule nodded in understanding. Some things were clear to all men. "Tell me when.”

Arthur cocked his guns. “Go.”

They seesawed through a rain of bullets, covering each other. Hercule’s heart was beating against his rib cage and his lungs burned. But he wasn’t nearly as worried as he should be. Because the man next to him was like death incarnate, shooting people so rapidly, that they fell with their faces twisted in surprise at their own demise.

By the time they arrived at the beach, he was nauseated from the adrenaline and the running, his chest heaving in the humid heat. Arthur spat to the side and sank to his knees next to Dutch.

“He’s stuck behind those rocks,” Dutch said, looking haggard and worn down himself. Arthur managed to nod, hands reloading reflexively, without thinking.

“Where’s Micah?”

“Dead.”

The leader’s head snapped around, eyes big with disbelief. “What!? How?”

Arthur’s cool orbs flicked up to him, then around the rock they were hiding behind. The other two Americans froze with this news.

Dutch’s gaze shifted to the direction they came from, then back to Arthur. Hercule could tell the man was suspicious by nature. A man who moved pieces on the board just to see all happenstances so he would never be blindsided. Obsessed with thinking his way around corners. Hercule could see the clockwork in his head spin and tick.

“He took a bullet to the heart,” he said to Dutch and made certain not to flinch away from Dutch’s scrutiny.

Dutch looked at him for a very long moment and Hercule stared back. No doubt Dutch was clever, but the art of staring back at white folk and hiding what’s in their heads was second nature to his people.

“I’m sorry for your loss. My people will honor him when this is done,” he lied smoothly.

Just then there was a call from behind the rocks:

“Americans! Amigos! Let’s talk.”

A short silence ensued.

“Unless you want to talk about where to be buried, I don’t see the point,” Dutch called back with a lilt of amusement.

“How about we talk about money, eh?” was the response. This surprised everyone, but not Hercule and his stomach dropped. “I got lots of it. No good to me dead. We can come to an arrangement!”

Hercule glanced at Arthur’s unreadable face, then at Dutch’s which was an open book.

“What kind of arrangement?” Dutch sang.

“No talking!” Hercule hissed. “This man must die! He killed and tortured hundreds!”

Dutch gave him a look that twisted his gut. “Don’t worry, he will pay.”

“Quite literally, it seems,” Javier chuckled. It turned Hercule’s stomach that only weeks ago Javier had been tortured and imprisoned by Fussar, and yet here he was, tempted to make a deal with the man.

“I promised a boat for his death. We had an arrangement!” he pleaded. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did but when Dutch’s gun swiveled to him, he was startled anyway. Because a man could live a hundred lives and still not learn treachery.

“How about we take both?” Dutch mused. “Tell your men not to shoot,” was the cool addition.

Hercule squared his shoulders and pressed his lips together.

“I don’t want to shoot you my friend,” Dutch reasoned amicably. “But we are pretty short right now. I need this for my people. You’re young, if you’re smart and decide to live, you can kill this bastard next time.”

“You will never get a boat from me or any of my men if you do this.”

There was a long standoff. Hercule glanced at Arthur but his face was as unreadable as stone, the gears in his head well hidden.

“Don’t be a hero, son,” Dutch urged and cocked his gun. “Live another day.”

He hated these men, but more than them, he hated his own treasonous heart that saw the logic, that shriveled at the idea of saying no. He fought himself for a full minute as Dutch watched, eyes calm and curious. A better man would say no and die here. But what would happen to his men? If they got into a gunfight with these Americans, surely they would perish, too.

”Pa tire!” he shouted out. Disgust tore through him and his shoulders deflated. A patronizing “Good man,” was his reward for this treason. A jab with the gun to throw his weapon down. He complied. What was another betrayal after the first one?

“Come out, Fussar!” Dutch called. Then to Bill: “Keep your eyes on our friend here.”

Fussar hesitantly stepped from behind the rocks and cringed as if expecting a hail of bullets. When it didn’t come, he blinked at his luck and walked out further, arms raised. Seeing him right there after chasing this man for so many years singed Hercule’s heart. Dutch rose and holstered his weapon.

“Where’s this money?”

“In America of course,” was the pompous response. “You think I’m keeping it in this shithole? Or in Cuba? It’s in dollars, my friend.”

“You have a boat?” Bill yelled over his shoulder, eyes locked to Hercule.

“Not at the moment,” admitted the other man. He wet his lips and pushed his chin up to Hercule. “But I bet your friend here does.” He did a flimsy twirl with his upturned arms and a smile tugged at his lips. “You give me some time with him, I'm sure I can convince him to hand it over. Then we can all-”

The gunshot that ruptured a hole in Fussar’s face made almost everyone jump. Everyone but Arthur, who was the source of it. There was a long moment of stunned disbelief as Arthur calmly holstered his weapon and his compatriots and Hercule gaped at him with slackened jaws.

“What the fuck…!” Bill started, eyes as big as saucers.

“I ain’t kill a hundred people so this man gets us to fuck over the very same folks we promised to,” was Arthur’s calm explanation.

It was hard to argue with that and Hercule’s heart bloomed with hope and renewed respect. The stares of the other Americans, however, turned sullen and angry.

“You can’t make that call for us, Arthur!” Javier moaned with frustration.

“My bullet in his head says differently.”

“Son...” Dutch’s voice quivered. It was obvious that he was shocked by Arthur’s rogue behavior. The pleasure he had shown just days ago for having him back by his side dissolved in front of Hercule’s eyes. Hercule was proud to notice that for all his cleverness, Dutch had a blind side: He thought he knew Arthur well, was confident in this, but he hadn’t seen what Hercule had: that Arthur was his own wolf. Maybe now more than ever. “...we needed that money.”

Arthur notched his hands on his gun belt, gazing back at him. “We always need money. But ‘a man’s word is his bond’ - that sound familiar, Dutch?”

“Of course,” the hands waved softly in placation. “Of course! I know I taught you that, but we could have-”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur interrupted him, eyes hard. The distance between them was merely a few feet, but to Hercule, they looked miles apart.

“What?”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur's sharp gaze was unflinching. “Was Hosea.”

There was another long pause as the leader searched for words that never came. Arthur’s eyes shifted to Hercule. “We good?”

“Wi patron,” he nodded firmly. “Boat be here in few days.”

He received a grunt of acceptance as the man walked past him the way they came.

Hercule lowered his hands. When he bent down to pick up his gun, nobody objected. His men gathered around him and they threw the other three Americans baleful looks before they turned to follow.

“Your friends not happy.” Hercule said when he caught up to him.

Arthur strode in silence for a while as Hercule’s men fanned ahead to check for survivors.

“But you are,” was the late response.

“Sure,” he chuckled. “More than happy - I’m grateful! But I’m just a stranger.”

Arthur inspected his shoulder that had the shallow streak of a bullet on it. “Someone once told me ‘bout this kid who bullied a town. Bad kid, rotten seed all around. Like me.” He sighed and squinted ahead as they approached the ruins of the camp. “But, came a day, he did right by just one person.” The blue eyes flicked at him, then away. “Guess I gotta believe sometimes that’s enough.”

They arrived by the low wall behind which Arthur had dispatched of Micah and walked on. Neither looked in that direction but Hercule spat the grit in this mouth in remembrance.

“Bet your woman is gonna be happy when you return.”

“For a minute, if ‘m lucky,” the cowboy snorted. “Then she gonna be whole lotta mad.”

Hercule grinned up at him. “Well you have to stick to her tight anyway, patron.”

“Why’s that?” was the amused question.

“Because everybody know this: sticking with your family is what makes it family.”

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan smut #low honor arthur morgan #mid honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #fluff #smut #fanfic #dom arthur morgan

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neverlearnedtoread · 11 months ago

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Uprooted

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐; my favourite kind of fantasy - classic fairytale with a side of 'dont worry about the details' and 'you gotta believe in the heart of the cards!'

Oh?? 👌😉😏

a really sharp, quick-witted, and willful female protagonist going 'fuck it!' every few chapters or so and doing something crazy (crazy fun) to drive the plot forward, off a new exciting cliff

a soft magic system that really shows off in the best light what makes soft magic systems so valid. its all about the metaphors!! you have to measure the chocolate chips with your heart!!!

nature is so magical and beautiful and deadly. specifically if you treat trees bad they will form a sentient vengeful forest to raze your civilization to the ground and salt the earth with your bodies

kasia. i love an atomic blonde unkillable bad bitch with the strongest queerplatonic vibes with her best friend from birth

a CLASSIC grumpy 'beastly' male love interest. he seals himself away in a lonely tower, makes girls hang out with him for 10 years at a time, and unironically calls himself 'the Dragon'. he even has the audacity to be offended that everyone thinks he's creepy!!!!!!

No.. ❌🤢🤮

if you like having explanations for how magic works and any semblance of a hard magic system in your fantasy, put this book back. 'round here we operate on Vibes Only, babey!!

similarly, if your love language is words of affirmation and/or you think that fanfic-style romance plotlines should stay in fanfic, this romance is Not For You. this is not a judgment, only a warning

Summary: Agnieszka loves her home in her little village in the valley - you know, except for the evil forest simply known as the Wood that's been around as long as there have been people in the valley, with terrible creatures and sentient walking trees. And the century-old wizard known only as 'the Dragon' living in the tower overlooking their land, who takes a young woman every ten years to serve him. But what Agnieszka dreads the most is that her best friend, Kasia, will be chosen next, and that Agnieszka is helpless to save her. Until the day of the choosing, when the Dragon picks Agnieszka instead.

Concept: 💭💭💭💭 I've never gotten along that well with a book blurb, but this one does its damn job - gives me enough plot premise to get me interested without giving it all away, and doesn't make me feel like I've been lied to once I start the book! some stories really don't do what they say on the tin, or take ages to get there at all, but Uprooted starts off exactly at the spot the blurb said it would - with a girl, in a valley, scared of a terrible wizard, about to be whisked away to a tower.

Execution: 💥💥💥💥💥 This story is EXACTLY what it says it wants to be, down to the cadence of the prose - a Polish folklore-inspired fairytale. The rhythm of Novik's narration even fits right - one day I'll get the audiobook for this and get to hear it the way I read it in my head, like a grandmother's bedtime story with twists and eddies and crescendos at the all the right bits. I was in love with the aesthetic of every character, they fit perfectly into the backdrop of what this story was.

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤❤❤ This book aligns to my tastes much the same way An Enchantment of Ravens does, and shares of lot of the same elements without ever feeling derivative - smart girl meets magic boy, causes all kinds of irreversible political upheaval, and lives happily ever after being just as they are - a Girl with The Audacity. its a tale as old as time, and i'll hear it told just as often

Favourite Moment: you know its a good book when you really can't choose a favourite moment - one that comes to mind is agniezska choosing to save sarkan from being grafted onto the heart-tree in the Wood instead of setting fire to it. the 'fuck it!' energy agniezska brings to her moments of crisis is SO good, plus the motif of her always reaching out to sarkan to cast magic together - 'hey real quick, cast a spell with me while you're being pulled into an evil magic tree trying to twist your magic and life force against us. couldn't hurt, eh?' and then it WORKS

Favourite Character: now yall know i love a sarkan-esque character - pathetic wet cat men who are so offended by their own squishy feelings are a great time! and kasia is SO bad bitch extraordinaire, her and agnieszka's love for each other literally makes the plot go - every time, every time without hesitation she puts herself as the last thing standing between agnieszka and the Wood. but agniezska herself is really Something. the way she uses magic, her connection with nature and her refusal to be anything else than what she is - a grubby young woman who wields kindness as her weapon against the world, who holds onto her humanity with both hands and teeth - she shapes this fairytale to be the story she wants it to be, one of connection and empathy. and im still thinking about her introducing the lord of the whole valley to her mother 🤣 power move!!

#uprooted #naomi novik #books #book review #booklover #bookblr #reading #sarkan's refusal to bind himself to the valley is SO. one day agnieszka will stop for breath mid-bickering and really come to grips with #unpacking why he was so unokay with tying himself to the land. an orphan with incredible magical ability growing up surrounded by #power-hungry nobles? yeah that guy has trust and commitment issues. need agnieszka to fuck that out of him #i mean OF COURSE teach him that the valley is a home and not a cage (that no one will ever force him to stay not even her #that he can come and go as he pleases and still be theirs) and its ok to be tied to the people that love you and vice versa etc etc etc.#but also like. he deserves to be dommed into feeling safe enough to put down roots. as a treat.#anyway kasia x agnieszka x sarkan throuple with agnieszka as the homing beacon and kasia + sarkan as the migrating birds always circling #always knowing the way back home

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arklay · 1 month ago

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a lesson in temperance.

pairing: diana afanasyeva x alex wesker words: 6.5k warnings: nsfw, mild degradation [read on ao3]

Vanilla and orange blossom. So heady, so sweet, as it swam out of the bathroom and filled the air surrounding Alex. She couldn’t help but breathe it in, wishing to be closer to the cause, to really smell all that lived on her partner’s skin; where jasmine thrived on her neck, down her chest and to her wrists, laced with gardenia and sandalwood.

Alex hummed to herself, directing her mind back on task when the loud whir of the hairdryer ripped her from her thoughts. She leaned down and plucked a small box from the back of her bedside drawer.

Wrapped in a pale blue silk ribbon, the little black box contained a surprise for only one other set of eyes to see, and that made her shiver in anticipation. She could already imagine the look she would receive. An amused laugh, or a pointed glare. Perhaps both. And that only served to encourage her plan for the day.

In only a few strides she stood before the bathroom, eyes landing on Diana clad only in a towel with the cause of that incessant noise in one hand and a comically large round brush in the other. So focused she was in tackling the thick, dark strands, it was as if Alex didn’t exist. Only when the blonde chuckled, low and velvety, did her eyes dart over to the doorway, and not a second later, the press of a button granted them silence.

Diana lowered the hairdryer and brush, discarding them on the counter as her eyes roamed over Alex. From the smug smirk painted on red lips, to the small box cradled in adorned fingers, she could only wonder what her partner was up to this time.

“Do I want to know what that is?” she asked, the jest hardly hiding the curiosity that clung to it.

Alex let out another rich, breathy sound, rounding the apples of her cheeks. The raised brow and inquisitive stare was already a reward in and of itself for her. But not enough.

She walked into the stifling room – no matter how many times she told Diana to turn on the fan, she never would – and closed the distance between them. Then, her forefinger began a slow, methodical trace of the top edge of the box, drawing Diana’s gaze for but a moment.

“You didn’t really think I would forget about last night, did you?” That earned a dramatic roll of blue eyes, followed by an amused grin. One that deepened the indents on her cheeks so deliciously. But she didn’t speak, only locking her eyes onto Alex’s and letting her continue. “Punishment is in order.”

“Can’t win your forgiveness through your stomach anymore, can I?”

Alex pursed her lips, drawing her brows inward in a look of mock sympathy. Then she lazily shook her head. “No.”

The breakfast she had made her was quite sweet, but it didn’t make up for the fact that Diana had come last night before Alex had given her permission to. She had been far too lenient in the past it seemed, because this behaviour only appeared to continue. Although, it did bring about a warm glow beneath Alex’s breast at how much Diana got off on pleasing her.

With her partner’s attention drawn so close, hanging on in anticipation, Alex closed two fingers around the ribbon to direct her gaze. A gentle pull and it came free. Yet she lingered, grasping the lid and doing no more, and Diana’s eyes raised to meet hers. It was almost desperate, the look in them. How much she wished to know exactly what was in store for her.

She finally opened the box. Letting the lid sit back on her palm, she plucked a bullet-shaped toy from pale blue satin. Diana wet her lips as she stared at the silver between her pinched fingers, and Alex turned it slightly. As if to show her more. As if Diana wasn’t already well aware of what it was.

“You, my sweet,” Alex drawled in velvet, smooth enough to make Diana almost drop to her knees right then and there, “are going to wear this all day for me.” At the flutter of dark lashes over half-lidded eyes, she leaned in closer and lowered her voice even more. “And… you are not allowed to come.”

The sharp inhale told Alex all she needed to know.

When Diana leaned back on one hip and crossed her arms, it did little to hide the effect she had on her. Even with the teasing smile pulling at her lips, the promise of challenge, arousal warmed porcelain cheeks and reduced blue to barely a thin line around blown pupils.

And yet Diana still raised a brow in defiance. “And if I do?”

Alex let out a heavy sigh. “I asked myself that many times. What should I do if you were to once again disobey me?” She tilted her head slightly to the side, clicking her tongue. “Would I procure a chastity belt, of all things? Would I confiscate all of your toys until further notice?” Diana shifted, opening her mouth as if to protest, but Alex only went on. “Would I have you scrub the place top to bottom? But no. None of that would suffice.” She closed her eyes and took a deep inhale, before releasing. “For a whole month, you will not be permitted to touch me. In any form.”

A loud laugh of disbelief left Diana as she threw her head back. Thinking it a joke was her first mistake; Alex’s eyes narrowed and her jaw set, emphasising the sincerity in her claim. That seemed to do it.

Diana lifted one of her crossed arms and scratched above her lip, looking down her nose as she seemed to be processing the severity of such a punishment. Then, she abruptly extended said arm and held out her hand in acceptance, meeting Alex’s gaze once more. “A month is absurd.”

Never one to back down, her Diana.

Alex let a soft smile pull on her lips, not quite an apology for the past harshness of her tone, and she placed the bullet in her partner’s palm. Her lashes fluttered again at the brush of Alex’s fingertips against her soft skin, but she regained herself just as quickly.

“Well then, you should start being more grateful and less greedy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Diana replied while rolling the bullet up to the tips of her fingers.

One hand brought the silver to her lips, while the other parted her towel, and Alex found herself rather conflicted in where to direct her attention. Ultimately, her gaze settled on Diana’s face when the hand at her hip did no more than rest at the opening she created. Wet, rosy lips parted then ever so slowly closed around the toy. She still held onto the end with her fingertips. Alex watched as her cheeks hollowed while her tongue swirled, and she couldn’t prevent the warmth blooming at her hips even if she tried.

Her gaze wandered from her lips to her jaw, then down the elegant column of her throat. A droplet sat in the dip between her collarbones. Countless others littered her chest, but one took Alex’s attention more than the rest. It rolled down damp skin at a tantalisingly slow pace, until its journey was interrupted by the towel at her breast.

The movement of Diana’s arm brought her back to her senses, though she did find herself wishing to lean in and kiss over the peak that bobbed as Diana swallowed. Or lick the droplets from her skin. But all that followed was her lover’s hand lowering to the part in her towel before she slipped the toy easily inside herself.

Their eyes met again, and Alex offered a pleased smile her way. She all but purred, “Good girl.”

Her own hand disappeared into her pocket, and she pulled out a device not too dissimilar to her phone. One of Diana’s brows quirked at that. It wasn’t the typical remote control she was used to seeing in her past, and little did she know Alex had far more freedom with one such as this.

“I’ll be able to monitor your pleasure at all times with this,” she said, barely flashing the screen her way so Diana could take a look while she ensured the toy was connected. Satisfied, a rather wicked curl pulled at the corner of crimson lips. “Do remember, I will know if you’ve taken it out. And that will warrant further consequences.”

Diana gave her a slow nod, long past accepting what was to come, and opened her mouth to speak, but Alex had already turned on her heel, pocketed the device and left the bathroom. She could only laugh to herself at that, the notion that anything she had to say, or do, was all but irrelevant.

Not even a kiss this morning.

It was already past lunch and Diana had been at the edge of her seat all morning, wondering – waiting for – when Alex would turn the vibrator on. The possibility that she had forgotten about it altogether, swept up in her work, or by some new problem one of the researchers had brought to her attention, was entirely out of the question.

Diana knew the only explanation was that Alex wanted this.

She wanted her to sweat a little. To grow restless. To wait for the other shoe to drop and wish to be free of such suspense. That, in itself, was as much a punishment as what was truly in store for her.

And it worked.

For the third time in this report alone, Diana crossed out what she was in the middle of writing. More like violently scribbled over, in this instance; her pent-up frustration pressed the pen harder and carried the strike over innocent sentences, free of mistakes. Whether it was her cadence, a misspelt word, or merely a letter looking wrong, Diana was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her head.

With a heavy sigh, she freed the paper from her clipboard and crumbled it up into a ball, merely discarding it beside herself. It was ridiculous she was letting this get under her skin so much. Maybe she had been too eager for the challenge, holding herself to such high standards in wanting to prove Alex wrong – that she wouldn’t break from a little toy. But she had not accounted for this.

Diana brought a new sheet before her and slotted it into position. All of a sudden, the toy came to life. Her fingers fell free of the clip, letting it snap, and her mouth hung open of its own accord. The slow, rhythmic pulse was actually relieving.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she sank into her chair, pressing her thighs together on instinct. She would get back to their little game in a moment, but for now… For now, she needed to feel it.

It wasn’t one of her wisest decisions. Her mind wandered back to that morning, to the feeling of Alex’s hot breath on her skin when she whispered in her ear; the way she had purred praise sent a shiver down Diana’s spine, tingling across every nerve and stoking the warmth at its base. A hand lifted, found its way to her chest and simply lay there, fingertips either side of her neck, ghosting over the spot her lover had teased.

The pulse between her legs switched to a soft continuous vibration, pulling her back to the present. A slow exhale escaped parted lips.

If she truly wanted to get through this, she had to find some semblance of focus. There were actual stakes this time around. If that lack of a kiss before work was a taste of what she was in for, for an entire month, she might just lose her mind.

They may have spent long stretches of time away from one another in the past, on opposite ends of the globe, but that would be nothing compared to this. To live with Alex, to see her, and smell her, day in, day out, and not be able to do so much as press against her… To have to sleep beside her and stop their legs from brushing, pass her in the bathroom or the kitchen and not catch her hand or lean in for a kiss. That was torture.

She could get through this stupid little test. Or else a pillow wall may have to be built. Even worse, she would sleep on the couch and avoid her partner until one of them cracked.

Deep breaths, Diana. Slow, deep breaths.

It was much easier to try and ignore the toy nestled inside her with this setting. Diana was determined to show Alex that not only could she control herself, but she would excel in her work while at it. The discarded report was rewritten and completed, with not a flaw in sight. Not even the couple of times Alex had switched back to the gentle pulsing could put an end to that. She proofread it, not once, but twice, and analysed her next set of data from another experiment. It was, in all honesty, a rather remarkable motivator. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to keep her composure.

Or so she thought.

Diana swivelled around in her chair to reach for the stack of papers on the bench behind her when the toy doubled in speed, causing her to jolt in her seat. A breathy little chuckle escaped her, a result of such surprise. Then she blew out a long exhale, longing for composure. Warmth bloomed deep within her core, and she had to fight the urge to let her eyes fall shut. Doing so would only sabotage herself, and amuse Alex in the process.

And she really wasn’t about to let that happen. Diana glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, knowing full well that Alex was watching her every move. She picked up the stack of papers, turned right around, and dumped them on her desk rather unceremoniously.

In direct response, the toy picked up speed again. Her thighs clenched together as she shifted in her seat, and that only made it worse; the bullet pressed right up against that sweet spot within her. No longer a benign teasing, the buzzing was insistent. Relentless. Diana meant to reach for the edge of her desk to steady herself, but shaky hands fumbled and found knees instead. It felt as if someone had lit a fire under her skin, making her flush head to toe. Somehow, she forgot how easily these things could send her into such a state.

She needed to do something, anything, to distract herself from the feeling. Focusing her leaden gaze on her hands, she shifted them slightly higher, settling firmly on her thighs for better leverage. Then she sunk her nails into nylon-clad flesh.

Mistake. That was a mistake.

Sparks shot up her thighs and to her hips, joining the vibrations, and she almost doubled over. What in the world possessed her to do such an idiotic thing? Of course the sting of her nails would only fuel her pleasure, not offer the distracting sensation she’d intended; she was better off stubbing a toe.

Her heart had only quickened, pounding at its cage as if begging her to let the pleasure wash over her. But she wasn’t going to give in. To do so would grant Alex the satisfaction she was looking for. In Diana’s mind, the consequence of her succumbing to her desires wouldn’t benefit Alex in any way either. A whole month without being loved on? What a miserable rule to set for oneself. But Diana knew it was merely a slight against her; she was tactile with lovers, it wasn’t her fault. A hand on a hip when she passed by, on an arm when she spoke. It was the little things Alex knew she could catch her on.

Diana dropped her hands to her sides and let her head fall back against the headrest of her chair. It was time for a different approach. She stared up at the ceiling and tried to focus on counting the number of metal bars making up the ventilation panels. It shouldn’t have been difficult, it was a simple task, yet she lost count and had to start over multiple times; the buzz of the fluorescent lights behind her kept stealing her attention, telling her to pay mind to the one between her legs.

She may have underestimated her capacity for restraint.

As though taking pity on her plight, the toy changed patterns once more. Back to that soft, sweet pulsing. It was so jarring compared to the torment she just endured, Diana couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her face as she buried her head in her hands.

Then the phone started to ring.

Could she not catch even one moment of peace today? Diana raised her head enough to catch sight of the phone on her desk, simply staring at the offending device and watching the light blink as someone tried to reach her. She let it ring.

The pulse between her legs sped up, informing her who was on the line, and she rolled her eyes much too dramatically. Reaching forward at the last possible moment, she lifted the receiver off the hook and brought it to her ear. “This is Diana speaking.”

A low chuckle sounded on the other end, stoking embers. “What’s the matter, darling? You sound quite frustrated.”

“Oh, shut up,” Diana replied indignantly. She secured the handset on her shoulder, holding it with her cheek, and gathered the papers still sitting on her desk. Needing to keep her hands occupied, lest they wander elsewhere with that voice in her ear. “I’m busy. Is there something you wanted?”

Alex sighed, and Diana heard a loud bang from somewhere behind her, followed by an unsteady rattle, like metal-on-metal. A trolley being wheeled off, most likely. Alex cleared her throat once it was almost out of earshot. “You’re needed in the Upper Spire.”

For what possible reason? The highest point of the Monument was still under construction; there was nothing of value up there that would require her assistance. Unless Alex was going to turn around and demand she pick up a toolbox and get to work. They both knew that was never going to happen.

Diana took hold of the phone again, then switched it over to the other ear. “Did I not just tell you that I am in the middle of something?”

“It wasn’t a request,” Alex bit back. Her voice slipped into one that radiated sheer power; it could so easily bring someone to their knees. It had, many times for Diana, as well-acquainted as she was with such a tone in their bedroom. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck bristled with the shiver that coursed through her, all while the toy still pulsed within. “Now, hurry along. You can finish sorting your paperwork later.”

The little mocking remark she threw in there managed to break Diana free of her spell. She thought it only fair to respond in kind. “Yes, ma’am.”

Without waiting for any further comment, she lowered the phone from her ear and moved to hang up. But again, she was stopped in her tracks.

“Diana,” Alex called, beckoning her to crawl right back to her. And she did, bringing the handset up to its former position in a rather lazy fashion. “Watch your tone.”

With not even a second to possibly respond, Diana was met with a click then nothing more. Dead air. It was at times like this she was convinced she had fallen madly in love with the Devil herself. Though she was not without mercy it would seem; the vibrator lowered back down to that soft, persistent hum and brought with it relief.

The journey to the Upper Spire wasn’t necessarily a long one from where she worked – if she discounted the elevator ride, that is. But Diana would still need to brave a rather lengthy flight of stairs. In frustration, she threw her head back against her headrest a couple of times, then abruptly stood. The papers remained on her desk, a filing cabinet drawer was left ajar, only her handbag was forcibly removed and the door locked behind her.

Once she was but a few steps down the hall, the toy sped up again. It wasn’t unbearable, no, but it did challenge her to keep her balance as she walked. One wrong shift of her hips and she might just send the bullet pressing against a spot that would not hold back from making her legs tremble. That didn’t change the fact that she could already feel a bead of sweat threatening to roll down her back.

Diana let her feet carry her towards her destination, the world around her fading away in a blur of bright lights and dull greys as she passed through winding walkways and platforms, not even registering how many turns she’d made. All her focus was on putting one foot in front of the other and hoping she’d end up where she needed to be. And trying desperately to ignore the constant vibration in her hips.

It felt so much louder now and she wasn’t sure that was possible. The hissing of doors sliding open for her, the humming and beeping of machinery, the clicking of her heels with each stride was all but amplified by the pounding in her ears, resounding from the toy in her core. Was it always this noisy? Every time there was a new sound thrown into the mix, it sent her heart racing, so fast she could feel it in her fingertips. She truly thought walking was going to be much easier to deal with than sitting in her lab, but this was a new type of hell.

Then there was the case of the stairs.

Deep breaths, Diana reminded herself from where she stood on the landing. She could do this. The effort of her journey left her flushed and weary, but not any less determined to reach her goal. The elevator was so close she could see it, sitting in the centre of the open room; her only obstacle was but a flight of stairs.

She reached out and laid a hand on the railing, fumbling as the cool metal sent another shock through her system. Diana clenched her teeth and held it firmer, steadying herself before she could topple over. Then she began her descent.

One step at a time. That’s all there was to it, no different than any other day. She just had to get out of her head, focus on where her feet landed, and not on that dogged assault on her nerves. With another shaky breath, Diana lowered her eyes to make sure she didn’t miss a step with how unsteady she was, how heavy her legs felt with each footfall. The last thing she needed was to slip and make a fool of herself.

If she did fall, she hoped it would bring about a swift end and let her escape this torment.

Halfway down the stairs, a flicker of movement danced at the corner of Diana’s eye. Her gaze darted over to follow the blur over the railing only to see Stuart, Alex’s loyal little servant, rounding the side of the staircase.

Don’t come this way, she pleaded, voiceless, hoping he wouldn’t notice her and simply carry on with his day. The last thing she needed was to speak to anyone in this state.

But Stuart, the ever so irritating Stuart, sporting his finely-tailored suit and rectangular rimless glasses, seemed to be heading right where she had come from. Luckily, he seemed to be in a hurry, taking two steps at a time, so he shouldn’t bother her for long. But she knew him well enough. The man could talk up a storm if you let him. Just keep going.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there,” he exclaimed, followed by a slight bow of his head. The toy ramped up in intensity and stole the breath from Diana’s lungs. To try and stifle a whimper, she bit down on her lip hard enough she thought she might draw blood, and Stuart paused. He let his eyes scan over her, from her face down to her white-knuckled grip on the railing. “Are you alright, Dr. Afa—”

“Fine,” Diana snapped. She wasn’t even able to take a full breath, her words coming out rushed. “I’m fine. Thank you, Stewart.”

She left him standing there, bewildered, as her need to get as far away from him as possible carried her down the rest of the dreadful staircase unharmed. She didn’t know if he’d heard the buzzing of the toy, she hadn’t bothered to take in his expression at all, really. Maybe she was just imagining the vibrator louder than it actually was, or maybe the thrumming of machinery echoing off the endlessly tall walls of the tower saved her an awkward conversation.

The walk to the elevator wasn’t far once she hopped off that final step. The doors opened automatically for her upon her approach and she practically fell into the safe haven of steel.

With a slam of a fist against a button, she was off. Diana let herself sink against the wall, dropping her bag from her shoulder and resting trembling hands on her knees. She couldn’t even get a moment of reprieve; the insistent teasing between her legs wouldn’t subside any time soon.

The way warmth built in her core, radiating across her hips and threatening to rush down her legs to curl her toes, had her biting back a moan. She took slow, deep breaths, trying to focus on calming her heart as opposed to how blissful the waves of pleasure felt. She couldn’t let herself unravel. Not here, not now.

Diana gripped the handrail beside her and turned, resting the side of her head against the wall. The coil in her belly only wound tighter, and she cursed Alex. Cursed her for playing with her like this, for watching her struggle on every camera she passed, for pressing all those stupid little buttons that left her shaking and longing for air. But truly, she cursed herself; she was the only one to blame. Why did she ever agree to this?

She needed to breathe.

With each slow inhale, and exhale, the twist in her belly began to recede, pulling her from the haze. It did nothing, however, for the shake of her hands, the heavy feeling in her limbs, or how aware she was of her blouse brushing against her chest with each rise and fall.

It was the elevator’s turn to catch her cursing. Just as she was about to question how long it was taking to reach the Upper Spire, the lift jerked and shuddered, before coming to a halt.

“Oh, fuck,” Diana whispered under her breath. The rumble that sent through her did nothing to help the state she was in.

She aimlessly reached around for her bag, not wanting to look down in fear she might lose her balance. Finding leather under her palm, she hoisted it up and onto her shoulder. She would be fine. Her hips ached as she lifted herself to stand up straight, using the handrail as leverage. One last rest against the wall, one last moment, then she would be on her way. Then she would face Alex and try not to fall apart at her feet.

Just beyond another walkway, then she could hopefully sit again. Somehow that was much easier to handle.

The clicking of her heels was a welcome sound, distracting her from the heat simmering in her belly. She didn’t dare look over the edge of the railing along the walkway either – another thing she wished to push to the back of her mind; she was so high up, one wrong step and that was the end of her.

A foolish thing to think about given what she was dealing with right now.

After a short walk, the hiss of a door granted her access to the area Alex had been fussing over for months. Wanting to get it perfect, she said.

Odd, considering the large room Diana entered was completely bare. And dark. The only thing she could make out was maybe some type of stand near the far end of the room. Alex hadn’t exactly divulged what she was planning to do up here, other than having her own personal laboratory.

Off to the side, cool white light emanated from an open door. The only clue she had to go on as to Alex’s whereabouts. She ventured forth, then, as another set of stairs came into view, audibly groaned.

After today she might just develop a personal vendetta against staircases.

The stairwell was interesting, to say the least. The overhead light did not offer much in way of brightening the room, but rather, it was the individual strips set into each step, along with the columns in the corners of the room. Not four, as expected, but rather six. What really caught her attention though was the latticework in the centre of the stairs, much like that of the supports surrounding the elevator.

Diana steeled herself and, once again, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, watching her feet the entire way up the two flights of stairs. It wasn’t any easier than her trip to the lift, but she couldn’t allow herself a moment to falter. Even as the toy shifted with each step, the railing remained her lifeline.

Once she reached the landing, the door slid open for her before she even had a chance to catch her breath. This time, revealing a sparsely furnished bedroom. But Diana did not care much to look around; her eyes settled on the source of her anguish. Sitting on a black leather couch was Alex, dressed in white and gold, with wine red at her feet. Her attention was on the wall opposite her, and Diana glanced over to see a large screen, filled with camera feeds. That didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

Alex looked toward the door, and a smirk threatened to pull at the corner of her lips. She stood, turning the monitor off with a remote in the process, before tossing it aside. “Ah, there you are.”

As if a puppet on a string, not quite in control of her own limbs, Diana made her way over to Alex. Whenever she was near, there was a certain pull to her, always drawing Diana in. The need to hold her, to touch her in some way and breathe her in, was a constant. That is why she couldn’t afford to misbehave this time around; the stakes were too high. Or else, she would’ve chased her release just to spite her lover and get a rise.

Her handbag was taken from her by cold, gentle hands, discarded on the coffee table at her side, while Alex’s eyes were busy slowly scanning over her form. She hummed. “Stuart just called. He was quite concerned, honestly. Said you looked rather unwell.”

Diana glared up at her. She wasn’t that much taller than her, and yet she felt larger than life itself. The way she spoke only added to that; there was no denying the smug air that clung to each of her words. She was so proud of herself for humiliating Diana in such a way, making her look a fool in front of her staff when she was only ever composed.

“Yes, well, I wonder why,” she said through clenched teeth.

A melodic little laugh spilled from her partner’s lips and tugged at her heart. “Look at you… So cute when you’re all riled up.”

Diana held her gaze, wanting so desperately to remain annoyed with her. To show her she wasn’t amused with her antics. But her body betrayed her, unable to focus on such trivial things with a more pressing matter between her legs. Lips pulled in a warm smile, one she tried and failed to hide, and the heat in her hips rushed up to her chest.

Alex never took her eyes off of hers, not helping in the slightest. There was so much warmth in those icy blues of hers it almost made Diana dizzy. She had to be the first to look away.

Letting her gaze wander around the clearly unfinished room, she cleared her throat. Well aware of the fact that Alex was still staring at her. “What was it you needed me for?”

“Oh, it’s not ready yet,” she said, sounding almost disinterested, and Diana’s head snapped to look back at her. Alex gestured vaguely at her side with a sigh. “It won’t be for many months yet. I still need all of my equipment brought up here, and well… It is looking rather drab, as you can see.”

“You’re telling me I walked all of those stairs, and took the longest elevator ride of my life, for nothing?!”

“Nothing?” Alex brought a hand to her chest in mock outrage, drawing her brows in a frown. “Did you not wish to see me?”

Of course she wished to see her. She always wished to see her. One of the many side effects of having found your match. But in Diana’s current state, that had been the least of her concerns. It was near impossible to stave off the longing in her core with her so near.

Pent-up frustration trickled over and dripped from every word. “I cannot believe you.”

Diana brought her hands up to cover her face, the tips of her fingers carving along the curve of her brow bone. Her skin was so hot, she wouldn’t be surprised if she was flushed pink up to her ears. The toy sitting pretty inside her hummed away, more of an annoyance than anything at this point. Or maybe she was just annoyed, full stop. But she was so high-strung, she couldn’t deal with these little games anymore.

A shaky breath left parted lips, then a soft tsk reached her ears.

The intoxicating smell of Alex’s perfume swept over her senses before touch even registered. Woody, spiced, rich with amber and musk – a hint of plum lingering. Diana couldn’t help herself but lean into her lover’s touch, to drink in all that flowed from her wrist. Fingertips danced across her temple, causing her hands to fall from her face as she looked up at Alex again. Her head was tilted ever so slightly as her eyes followed the path she traced along Diana’s hairline.

“I’m impressed,” Alex admitted, then tucked a strand behind Diana’s ear. “I thought for certain, in the lift, away from all but my eyes to see, you would”—her fingers trailed down the side of her neck—“take care of yourself.”

Her touch was exhilarating, addicting even, sending a pleasant shiver down Diana’s spine to reignite the pleasure. When her fingers reversed the motion, letting nails scrape along her skin, her legs almost buckled beneath her.

Then Alex cupped her cheek. She leaned in and whispered against Diana’s lips, “You’ve done so well. But can you keep it up?”

Too entranced, Diana had missed when Alex pulled the remote from her pocket with her other hand. A quick tap and the toy sped up even more, knocking the air from her lungs. This had to be the highest setting; there was no way it could get any worse than this. Warmth rushed from deep within her core, over her hips and up into her chest. It was stifling.

There was nowhere she could grasp onto for support now, save for the woman before her. Her hands found Alex’s sides, gripping her blazer before she could even think about what she’d done. But Alex didn’t seem to mind. It was when she hung her head that Alex suddenly gripped her chin, tilting it back with force to look into her eyes.

“Do you think you can last?” She all but purred, her breath hot on parted lips. Diana was well and truly at her mercy now; waves of pleasure rolled over her, pulling her from her surroundings in a lust-addled haze. Yet she still managed to lazily nod in her grip.

Alex hummed then slotted a thigh between trembling legs, causing a soft whimper to spill from Diana’s lips. Though it offered support, it pressed too sweet, too deliciously. She didn’t know how long she could fight off her oncoming climax at this rate.

“Really? The greedy little slut you are…” She applied more pressure with her thigh, drawing a choked sob. “You’re not going to come?”

“No,” Diana said with firmness she didn’t even know she could muster, even if it wavered in the end.

The chuckle that followed barely registered. Her heart was beating so loud she could hear it in her ears, feel it throughout her entire body. It drowned out every other noise. The grin that pulled on crimson lips as Alex gripped her chin even harder sent molten sparks across her skin. The coil in her belly wound impossibly tight, begging for release, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt.

Diana shuddered in her lover’s arms, eyes fluttering shut. The toy continued its relentless pace against that sweet spot within her, a low whine built in her throat. She didn’t know how much longer she could handle of this. She blew out a long exhale, trying to halt her panting, but her breaths only came faster.

Stars began to form behind her eyes, signalling her impending release, and she couldn’t even fight it anymore.

Then it stopped. The buzzing stopped altogether. So abrupt, it drew a loud gasp and she fell against Alex. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, clouding her vision even further, and she had no idea whether she was crying from relief or frustration. She was so close, teetering right on the edge, only to have it ripped away from her.

“Shh,” Alex shushed her, then wrapped her arms around Diana. She carefully lowered her onto the couch, pressed up against her side. Then she smoothed back her hair. “Very good, my sweet girl. Have a rest.”

Diana buried her face in the crook of Alex’s neck, trying desperately to calm her breathing. Despite the toy no longer teasing, the throbbing between her legs persisted. Longing for more.

She had no doubt Alex knew how close she had gotten to failing, to suffering the consequences. But the absence of any scolding let her melt against her partner, wrapping her arm around her waist and taking in that sweet scent of hers once more. If this was the last time she was to hold her for a month, she wished to savour every second of it.

A soft kiss was pressed to the top of her head, yet the words that followed held no semblance of such tenderness.

“Do not think this means you’re forgiven. You still have the rest of the day ahead of you.”

#okay to rb & kudos appreciated ♡#writing.#pair: diana x alex #i suppose they'd get a tag now 🫣#oc: diana #setting: mid 2000s // not too much going on here plot-wise if i'm honest #it's diana's birthday today so i present you all with some old lady yuri heheheh #as i said in post the other day i have been playing around with them this year and i'm really liking it...#they originally started off as an au but oh...... i fear they may end up becoming canon at this rate #I KNOW...like. i know. i just feel like for me at least with both of their characters i can build such a stronger story #like there's so much in my head with them already and i haven't even set out a proper timeline or things like that #i just know their dynamic and backstories and just so much more in ways of little intricacies could fit so well with one another #rambling again but aughghg i love the ewskers i really really do but something about these two together has frazzled my brain #also the lesbianism took over and i had to write some sapphic girlies (i hc alex as lesbian <3 and diana is bi)#another thing...i think this is the only sort of topping alex would do if i'm honest. she's not eating or wearing the strap sorryyyy #remote control things only me thinks cause i see her as such a dom bottom. okay anyways <3

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sluparchives · 1 year ago

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#ID 5037 #black #mid agg #low brv #mid dom #high nrg #high nrv #low sym

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christinered · 1 year ago

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I miss my Pretty Gritty New York City. I liked her dangerous and dirty. I Love New York!

They call me ~Red

#christinered #sub for dom domme for all #wisdom of a redhead #aggressive redhead #vintage photo #1970s new york city #curvy bouncy redhead #brooklyn t-shirt #must be red #rooftop #i love new york #up on the roof #fear no one #natural redhead #bell bottoms #mid town Manhattan #pretty gritty New York City #concrete jungle #dangerous city

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kaidanalenkosprmanager · 8 months ago

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THE BEST OF PRIORITY: PALAVEN

Featuring: Cmdr. Sophie Shepard, Lt. James Vega, Dr. Liara T'Soni, Garrus Vakarian, and EDI With: Flight Lt. Jeff "Joker" Moreau, General Corinthus, Primarch Adrien Victus, and Councilor Tevos War is your resume- and at a time like this we need leaders who have been through that hell. And honestly? Uniting these races may take as much strength as facing the Reapers. Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021)

+BONUS:

#mira makes gifs ✨#james vega #sophie shepard #liara t'soni #garrus vakarian #EDI #jeff joker moreau #general corinthus #primarch victus #councilor tevos #mass effect #mass effect 3 #me3 #mass effect legendary edition #dailygaming #did i finally finish cutting the palaven footage into gifs? the answer to your question legion: is yes #was it a bitch and a half to color correct bc of the ridiculous lighting and blue filter on palaven? maybe :)#me3's ridiculous blue filter you will NEVER be famous #also the bonus is bc this is all i could think about when soph was eating up garrus in the vakarian set #comes to palaven just to steal garrus’s look and wear it better #cleric’s guardian armors for shepard you will ALWAYS be famous! ❤️❤️‍🔥#also james looking fine as HELL in his titan armor! that's my baby boy killing it over there!#and EDI MY BELOVED #the best part of palaven is the EDI reveal and you cannot change my mind #like i love all the early game missions but i miss kaidan and ash so the only thing that satiates me is my love of like james EDI and wrex #for the first like 20 hours of the game i just focus all my energy on them until i can get towards like the early-mid game #will i be gif'ing grissom next? yes bc prime EDI james and jack content #also my dumb ass figured out hair streaks and heterochromia with cleric's help when i was working on my mshep sculpt so stay tuned for that #SPEAKING OF THE MSHEP SCULPT I WILL BE SHARING DOM GIFS #soon™️

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ladytauria · 1 year ago

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trick or treat!!! 🎃🎃🎃

(and thank you for your comments on my lil drabbles!!!! i loved reading your tags & thoughts<3<3)

(<3 i'm glad! i love reading your stuff!! it's always so good! & ty for ur tags on mine, i appreciate them sm <33333)

this is a snippet from a wip i've been working on for... i think about a year now, lol. working title is "slipping tongues" & is v loosely inspired by that one panel, where jason calls himself "daddy" while defusing a bomb xD

i shared a slightly earlier snippet of it here~

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the things he could have said—

It’s all Tim’s fault. He’s been driving Jason crazy all night. It’s Jason’s fault, of course, for agreeing to Tim’s idea all those weeks ago in the first place. He’d been complaining, again, about his nights at the lounge, and at the time… Well. He hadn’t seen how Tim playing as Hood’s arm candy could go wrong.

Big mistake.

He’d forgotten just how much effort Tim put into his undercover identities.

Or—

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Jason had been expecting Tim’s identity to cater to their audience. And in a way, it did. There was nothing threatening about his appearance, the act he put on. The amount of conversations that had taken place right in front of him, as if he wasn’t even there would be infuriating if it wasn’t playing right into their hands. But the appearance of the disguise…

That was tailored specifically to Jason.

Subtle makeup to soften his face; just enough padding to give him the illusion of curves. Small breasts, a black wig, just a bit longer than his natural hair—and jewelry to draw the eye from anything he couldn’t disguise. And—look, okay. Jason is biased. He thinks obsessive, 72 hours no sleep, wearing his rattiest clothes, caffeine-addled gremlin Tim is hot. This Tim? Dolled up in provocative outfits and sultry make-up? He’s a goner.

And Tim knows it. He walks a fine line, teasing just enough to drive Jason mad without also compromising his persona as Hood. It’s maddening… and hot as hell. Could anyone blame him, if maybe his brains were a bit addled? Or if maybe, just maybe, he wanted to turn the tables on Tim, even if just for a moment?

Jason doesn’t think so.

If Tim asks, Jason will tell him it was a slip of the tongue. He got too deep into the Hood headspace. Otherwise—they can just… forget about it. Pretend it never happened in the first place.

Yeah. That sounds good.

#immediate next line:#Of course; if Jason had been thinking straight; he would have realized that Tim wouldn’t just let it go #and that he would be willing to play dirty to make sure Jason couldn’t wriggle out of talking about it.#semi colons subbed for commas #its just tim domming jason in a dress while calling him daddy #i still have no idea where the idea came from lmao #but the set-up is giving me trouble #maybe im overthinking it!#but nothing feels ~right~ lol #anyway!#thank u so much for asking~#slipping tongues #asks and answers #mid-nightowl #also i did hunt around to see if i had anything non-jaytim to share bc i KNOW i like other pairings but #nothing substantial im afraid #well. there was some gen stuff but i couldn't find any like... snippets i wanted to pull out #also ik the trick or treat stuff mentioned more than just snippets but i have fun with snippets lol #tauriawritesfanfic

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tentacleplains · 7 days ago

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how are y’all getting cute scenes with whitney like going to her room n meeting her aunt/uncle(??) and stuff all she does to me is tell me to strip

#original post #i have her at high love and. i think high/mid dom right now but it fluctuates. i should knock it down some more tbh

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horsegirlhob · 2 months ago

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In a lot of ways having sex with me is like having sex with a befuddled dolphin.

#dylan says things #in that I am unbelievably sweaty (and therefor damp) have little control over my limbs and also I cannot hear a fucking word you're saying #do you know how humiliating it is to ask a dom mid-scene to repeat their dirty talk/instructions because you didn't hear it the first time?#because I do!

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applepiesupreme · 1 month ago

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American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Chapter 37

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/152613556

She crated everything of importance, then lingered around for a bit, equally relieved and sad to finally leave Shady Belle. Relieved because she had never liked it here and sad because this time she was definitely losing the tent. Sadie had told her that they were going to move fast, so they would only take the important personal items. Aside from Charles, there were no other men left to lug the big stuff - Uncle wouldn’t touch anything due to his lumbago, Swanson was perpetually stumbling around drunk and Strauss argued that if he had been built to do this kind of work, he wouldn’t be needing a collector for his debts in the first place.

She sat at the table as the day was still bluish, her breath misting a little and wondered where Arthur was and how he was doing. It felt a little ironic that she had arrived in this country on a ship in less than pleasant circumstances and now he was leaving on one the same way. Like a silly relay team, they had connected and brushed fingers for a second, then they were thrown hundreds of miles apart. Anger and longing mingled and intertwined in her heart. She thought of how he had explained to her in the Bayou that he didn’t have any other means to make money and that he needed money to break off. She understood that this was his only trade and yet, in her heart, she also resented him for it. Arthur was a smart, capable man. Most people in the gang were. They could do a million other things. Instead they were all addicted to easy money, and the funny part was that it wasn’t even easy.

She approached the horses and patted Frost's neck, cooing to him that his owner would be back, then climbed on Cricket and rode this particular route for the last time. Despite hours of thick, dreamless sleep, she was tired and worn out. Like a bucket brimming with water, she had reached the limits of her capacity. Every added drop now just slid off because there was no more room in her. Sister DuBois used to say bad news come in threes so if there was one more shoe to drop, she expected it to happen soon.

Work was surprisingly boring. Despite their promise the previous day, the detectives didn't return. But the lunch crowd doubled in size, full with with people who wanted to mingle and gossip about the robbery. She fulfilled order after order, her plates meticulous and perfect but also repetitive and boring. When her shift ended and she walked out of Antoine's, Sadie was leaning against a lamppost nearby.

"Did you find a spot?" Savigne walked up to her.

"Did. Ain't great but it's well hidden. Pinkertons are in a frenzy. ‘M sure they gonna find and swing by Shady Belle soon."

Savigne exhaled with frustration. Ever since the Heartlands, the gang's prospects were continuously declining. It was obvious to everyone but themselves. Every spot they picked was worse, with every move the noose drew tighter. If it wasn't for Arthur, she would have moved a long time ago, but here she was schlepping her stuff around with them and living off crates. Why even work in one of the most prestigious restaurants in the country if you're going to live like a fucking homeless person?

"You ready, Sugar?" Sadie straightened.

"Yeah, let's go. I still don't know what we're going for, but I guess you would have told me if it wasn't private."

"Feel crabby," Sadie rolled her shoulders.

Savigne blinked up to her and half chuckled. "I thought that's just the way you are."

Sadie gave her a side eye. "More crabby than usual."

They checked Cricket out of the stable and tied him and Sadie’s horse a block away from the clinic. Then they filled out forms and waited in the small lobby. Sadie paid upfront and asked Savigne to get checked first when prompted and she relented. Maybe she would get some candy out of it and hell, even that would be an improvement to her current mood. Finally they were guided into a small, spotless room and she looked around with approval. You would expect all clinics to be clean, but in Saint Denis if that was your expectation, you were in for a rude awakening. This, no doubt, was one of the fancier ones. The clinics in the poorer neighborhoods stank worse than the neighborhood itself, which was an impressive feat. She poured herself a glass of water and inspected the books on the shelves - a mixture of medical works in French, German and English.

A few minutes later a stunningly handsome, tall man with sandy hair, a slim mustache and soft hazel eyes walked in, their folders at hand. Savigne did a double take - in another life she would have been smitten with this man. Impeccable suit, well picked spectacles, an attitude exuding professionalism, discipline, precision and care.

"Ladies!" She heard the slight French accent in his perfect English. "I'm Doctor Polleux. Welcome. Who goes first?"

"My friend here," Sadie ushered Savigne into the chair.

She sat down, enchanted by the turn of events. She liked clean, well kept, professional, beautiful people and she liked watching them display their art whether it was food or medicine or something else entirely. His hands were silky and warm as he shook hers - clearly the hands of a man who handled delicate skin and turned book pages and wielded intricate tools instead of guns.

“So…” the doctor said and pulled a chair to sit closer. “…nice to meet you, Miss Ricci.”

“Likewise,” she breathed and took another sip of water. Up close, he looked even more handsome. There was a bit of yellow in his hazel eyes and his lashes were long and dark. She sat up a little and hoped that she didn't look like roadkill after the day she had yesterday. Was it odd to be enchanted by some stranger while Arthur was fleeing for his life, fate unknown? Perhaps. Had Arthur made that choice without even talking to her and practically abandoned her? Absolutely.

“Can you state your complaints?”

“She fainted a few times,” Sadie stepped up to stand behind her chair. "Overall tired. Gained a little weight. You get the picture.”

"W-what?" Savigne stammered up to Sadie and and turned back to the doctor. "Just a tiny little bit," she said hastily. "Also, the fainting - more like I was a little dizzy.”

“We had to carry you,” Sadie crossed her arms and threw a foot out. “And, like I said, y’aint exactly light no more.”

“That’s bull-” Savigne bit down the rest of the word, cleared her throat and glanced at Polleux sitting in front of her. “My friend exaggerates.” She glared up at Sadie, irritated. She was perfectly well and only here to do this woman a favor and there was absolutely no reason to mention any weight gain.

“I see. Let’s get your blood pressure and all that. Please take off your coat.”

The doctor checked her vitals, her eyes, her ears, then put on his stethoscope and listened to her heart and her lungs. His touch was light and soft and she enjoyed his sharp attention on her, even if it was purely professional.

“You seem a bit anemic, but otherwise fine.”

“Thank you,” she smiled and wished she had met him when she was cleaner. Judging by the immaculate white of his shirt collar, he was the kind of man who would have noticed that.

“Any unusual complaints?”

She inhaled and thought on this, milking her moments in the chair. "Well...I have a weird flutter in my stomach sometimes.”

He paused. “A flutter?”

“Yes, right here," she pointed to her abdomen. "It's not painful or anything. Feels like bubbles.”

Savigne was pleased when he didn't give her a dismissive look and instead asked “May I see?”

"Certainly, doctor." She unbuttoned the bottom buttons of her blouse and pulled it up to reveal her chemise underneath. When he leaned in she smelled his cologne - very faint but vibrant and fresh, like his hands and his eyes.

He inserted the earpieces, held the bell of the stethoscope against her stomach and listened for a while.

“When was the last time you bled?”

This gave her pause. “I don’t bleed very regularly,” she explained as she tried to remember. "Never have. But it’s been a few months. Maybe…three?” It occurred to her then that for a long time now she had been expecting a period that had never come. He moved the bell around, listened attentively, then folded it away as Savigne flitted through her memories and tried to pinpoint an approximate date.

“Any nausea?”

“Sometimes. I threw up a few times, but the last one was weeks ago and..." Ecco's memory floated by and with it, her stumbling to the street and finding a dark corner to unload her stomach like some homeless wretch. "...I'm a cook," she explained as she wiped the memory away, "and I could have tasted something off." Then, eager to gain his approval, or any reaction whatsoever beyond the mild disinterest he was gracing her with, she added: "I work at Antoine's." If he was impressed he didn't show it, which bruised her ego a little.

“Your friend mentioned weight gain?”

“Just a little,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Her dresses had been adjusted twice now but that wasn’t because she was enormous, only because she enjoyed a perfect fit.

“Mood swings? Cravings - that sort of thing?”

“Yeah but I have a stressful job,” she tried to gloat again. "It can be hectic at times." Again, he didn't react other than a mild "hmmm" which was disappointing. God, how much weight did I gain? she thought, a little deflated. Sure, I'm no staggering beauty like Sarah but I’m practically invisible to this man.

“A fluttering you say…”

“Yes. Like bubbles.”

“Hmmm…”

Polleux gave Sadie a look and Sadie looked back, silent and unblinking.

“Miss Ricci, I think it’s safe to say you’re pregnant.”

Savigne blinked at him, then grinned and giggled with childish delight. “Very funny. I know you read my file, doctor.” He was flirting with her after all and that gave her a hefty boost of confidence.

His brows pinched and he opened her folder again. “What did I miss?”

“I was told the ship I arrived on had a typical outbreak of cholera a few days in. But the real kicker was the smallpox that broke out after.”

“Yes, I see.” He looked up at her with raised eyebrows as if he expected further explanation. “I mean…I almost died. Most of the passengers died.” His expression didn’t change at all. “Doctor Polleux," she cleared her throat. If he had a sense of humor, it was as dry as the Sahara. "I'm sure you're pulling my leg because we both know I can’t get pregnant.”

Those cool professional hazel eyes assessed her for a long moment.

“Who told you that?” was his late flat question.

“I’m sorry?” she stammered.

“Who told you that…” he repeated calmly and added “…nonsense?”

This threw her off and she struggled to find a response. Either he was exceptionally gifted at delivering dead pan jokes or he wasn't nearly as good of a doctor as he pretended to be.

Clearly ‘Sister Rodriguez’ would be a ridiculous answer so instead she opted to mutter a defensive “Everybody knows that.”

He gave her an owlish blink and closed her file.

A short silence ensued.

“There is no direct correlation between smallpox and female fertility,” he said carefully.

Something coiled around Savigne’s throat and started tightening.

“W-what?”

“There is no link. Scientific link. I know there are some midwives tales, but they’re incorrect,” he said calmly. "It might have made you less fertile but clearly it hasn’t made you sterile. While not the only criteria, the fact that you bleed indicates you’re fertile.”

“I bleed very irregularly,” she quickly countered.

“Indicates perhaps low fertility. But not infertility.”

She looked at him like he was speaking in tongues. “That’s…you’re clearly mistaken.”

He shifted in his seat, gently reached out to place the files on a nearby table. “I understand this comes as a surprise to you,” he said slowly, “and I’m trying to be…delicate. But there is no in between or 'a little bit' here. You are pregnant.”

“I can’t be!” she lobed back, now skidding dangerously close to irritation and panic.

His eyes, soft and warm when he had entered, hardened a little. He seemed to take her objection as an affront to science itself.

“Miss Ricci, I’m going to be direct…”

What the hell were you until now? she thought sourly.

“…unless you swallowed a pocket watch, there’s an extra heartbeat in your abdomen.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

He calmly studied her as her hyperventilating picked up speed.

"Check again! Please!"

"Certainly." The stethoscope was pulled out again and he meticulously listened to her abdomen as Savigne watched him with hawk-like attention and a growing sense of dread.

He cleared his throat and put it away.

"I stand by my diagnosis."

The room darkened and brightened back up as if something monstrous had flown in front of the sun.

“This is...can't be," she panted.

"Would you like to hear?" he held out the earpieces to her and she recoiled as if he had slapped her. "No!"

"I would," Sadie spoke up.

She crouched down as Polleux offered her the headset and under Savigne's disbelieving stare, listened intently, then grinned up at her. There was a forlorn look in Sadie's eyes and it only disappeared when Savigne angrily slapped the bell on ther stomach aside. Sadie cleared her throat and moved back to her spot as the man sat back in his chair.

"Judging by your reaction, this was not planned," he remarked. "I'm sorry to hear that. I’m going to give you a few minutes with your friend.” He rose to his feet. “I will be back.”

The monster flew across the sun again Savigne felt herself go boneless on the chair.

“You faintin’ again?!” Sadie remarked above her and next thing she knew, she had grabbed a book from the shelf to fan her face. “Listen here,” she hissed, then softened her tone, “Savigne, honey, calm down, okay?”

“I can’t be pregnant,” she mumbled. Moving her lips was an entire endeavor. The dark spots were back.

“Well…” Sadie chuckled nervously, “…gonna have to go with the doctor I paid fifty fuckin’ bucks for on that one.”

Savigne tried to speak but words wouldn’t come out. Her mind went blank every time she tried to think about it; like it was so big, it wouldn't fit into her head. “I can’t,” she tried again. She hadn’t bled in a long time and she had gained weight and also her breasts had been sensitive for months now, but these were all fragments, tiny brush strokes on a painting, how could they add up to a child? She had been sexually active since she was a young girl. True that it hadn't been nowhere near as rampant and consistent as it was with Arthur, and true that her previous partners had pulled out more often than not…but still!

“Remember, children,” droned Sister Auchter in her spinning head, “the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. It is vain to do with more what can be done with less.”

“Calm down. It’s fine.”

“How…the fuck…” Savigne panted, “…is…it fine?!”

“Don’ make me hit you with this book,” Sadie hissed, fanning furiously. “Will, if I have to.”

She wheezed for air and loosened her top buttons, too. Impossible, she thought and yet, deep deep down, in the dark folds of her gut where instinct ruled, somehow it rang true.

She almost erupted into laughter at the absurdity of her situation. A child out of wedlock! Worst thing a woman could do to herself. A scarlet letter that she had hung around her own neck. And now of all times! The room did a full flip and settled down again.

The other shoe, she thought then as her humor curdled into misery. Has to be. Bad news come in threes.

“It’s okay,” Sadie crouched down and grabbed the back of her head to press her face against a shoulder. “It’s fine. Breathe.”

Savigne exploded into sobs. “Oh my god! I want to die.”

“The hell?!” was the other woman’s gentle scolding. “Settle down. What if it was TB or somethin'?”

“At least that would kill me,” she cried harder.

“Hush sugar, just calm down. We’ll think of something, okay?”

“That’s right,” Savigne whispered hastily as she pulled back, “I heard there are places we can go! Doctors that will-”

Sadie gave her a look. “No.”

Savigne’s face fell. “What do you mean, no?”

“You know how many women come out those feet first?!” was the vehement hiss. “Ya gonna have to shoot me before I let you go near!”

“But…but…I can’t shoot!” Savigne wailed.

"Just breathe. Easy. Calm. Breathe."

Sometime later the door opened and closed again.

“Miss Ricci,” said the doctor, settling in his chair across from her again as Sadie vacated it. He handed her an immaculately clean handkerchief. “I understand your worries. You might think this is the end for you, but you’d be surprised how many women come here in your condition. You are not alone.”

She wiped her face furiously and cried harder. “Can you give me something? A…a remedy?”

“No. You’re too far along. Heartbeat audible with a stethoscope means at least twelve weeks, probably more. Any concoction someone might offer you is likely to kill you. Do not - I repeat - NOT drink it.”

“Hand the damn thing over!” she sobbed.

The doctor and Sadie exchanged a look. “I’ll never understand why this country is so damn…puritanical,” he sighed and scraped his chair closer. “Young lady,” he started as if he wasn't a only a year or two older at most. “I understand you’re not married. Personally, I don’t give a damn. I’m a doctor, not a priest. Now…let’s be pragmatic. Is the father still in the picture?”

“He will be. He’s away,” Sadie piped up.

“That’s good,” he remarked.

“I will kill him when he returns!” Savigne yelped.

“I would rethink that strategy,” Dr. Polleux said drily. Then he turned to the blond woman: “Does she have others to lean on? I know she doesn’t have a biological family,” he sifted through the file.

“Course she has,” Sadie said, clenching her shoulder.

Savigne just cried and let them talk it out. Her head was reeling, everything was is shambles. Someone was standing in the room that was her mind with a sledgehammer and meticulously smashing every piece of furniture into smaller and smaller pieces until there was nothing but dust.

“Excellent! Women with experience in the matter?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. A little laudanum if she gets too worked up but keep it on the low end. I know it’s passed around like candy these days, but personally I don’t think it’s good for the baby. I recommend regular check-ins. And she is a little underdeveloped.” He eyed Savigne with some scrutiny. “There are maternity houses…”

“She ain’t goin’ there,” was Sadie’s sharp interruption. “Like I said, she got people.”

“I admit…I wouldn’t recommend it,” Polleux said with some resignation. “One hears barbaric things. But it would at least be a safe birth and if she doesn’t want the baby…”

“No maternity house for Savigne,” Sadie squared her feet as if she was going to get into a fistfight with the doctor over it.

“I’m glad for that. If money is an issue…I have sent many unwed mothers to the workhouse.”

“She good,” Sadie growled. “We got money, too.”

“I know she’s working but she might not be able to much longer. In this country, for whatever reason, that’s a scandal. I’ve seen mothers work in fields all over the world but here we get hung up on such things.” He turned to Savigne again. “You will start to show soon,” he said calmly and ignored her whimper of disbelief. “Only reason you haven’t already is because you’re undernourished and it’s your first. Your stomach muscles haven’t expanded before. But that will change very quickly. If you must, stick a ring on your finger and lie would be my suggestion. Wouldn’t fly in a small town but in Saint Denis, nobody knows their neighbors’ name.”

He watched her cry for a while longer, his face calm and composed. No sympathy but also a complete lack of judgement. “Of course I suggest you do it for real when the father returns, so he can claim the child. Otherwise things might get…complicated for both of you.”

“But I can’t have a baby!” Savigne sobbed miserably. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a baby?”

“Miss Ricci," he pushed his spectacles up with the faintest impatience, "I hope you’re not making a case for immaculate conception.”

“No but…”

“Or claim that you don't know how babies are made.” Savigne decided that she didn't like Doctor Polleux after all. Not even a little bit.

"I want a second opinion!" she spat.

"Sure, that's your prerogative. Like I said, I stand by my diagnosis."

His complete confidence made her panic even more. “But…”

“Good news is that it’s only six months out - give or take.”

“Oh my god,” moaned Savigne, dizzy with overload. “What’s the fucking bad news?”

The doctor didn’t even flinch at the vulgarity, just looked at her, cool as a cucumber.

“Bad news is the same.”

“Thank you doctor,” Sadie said hastily and started to button up Savigne’s blouse. “We'll be back.”

The blond woman pulled Savigne to her feet and stuffed her arms into her coat, then hustled her out of the room. They stumbled through corridors and then back through the waiting room where Savigne’s clearly unwell state alerted the waiting patients and scared a child enough to make him burst into wails. Once they exited the clinic, Sadie turned her by the shoulders and propped her up against a wall. “Now listen, I need you to pull yerself together here! You’re pregnant, you ain't dyin’.”

“I can’t be! Sister Rodriguez said-”

“Bitch lied. Let’s go.” She grabbed Savigne’s arm and dragged her towards the horses.

The Saint Denis crowd parted around them, a sea of eyes brimming with curiosity, revulsion, sympathy at her state. Nothing felt as lonely and humiliating as being in a vulnerable state in a big city. People glanced at her like she was rude for crying in public, for making them uncomfortable and marring their perfect day. Women tsked with disapproval as they glided by and men averted their eyes, reluctant to shame her further. Don't you understand that it's crude to be upset in public? they said silently. That it's uncivilized to cry and moan out in the open? That’s what closed doors are for.

“Cheer up, sweetheart!” someone yelled.

“I'll cheer you up..." Sadie’s head snapped back, "you son of a..."

“She was a nun,” Savigne sobbed. “Nuns can’t lie.”

“Doctor didn’ even give you nothin’ and you gone stupid anyway.”

Savigne stopped in her tracks and forced her to stop, too. “What are we going to do?” she whispered with urgency, grabbing Sadie’s jacket.

“We gonna go back to camp,” she growled, peeling Savigne’s claws off herself, “Then we gonna eat. Then we talk.”

“But…”

“Asked n’ answered. Let’s go!” She dragged Savigne further down the street. For her size, Sadie was remarkably strong.

“Oh how dreadful!” was a tittering whisper from nearby.

“Then look away you ugly cow!” Sadie yelled before she turned back to Savigne and jabbed her head at Cricket: “Up you go. Preferably before I shoot someone.”

Savigne wiped her palms over her face, took a deep shuddering breath and put a foot in the stirrup. Then she blinked and looked over her shoulder: “How come you’re so calm?”

“I knew,” was the dry retort.

“W-what?”

“I know what a woman with child looks like,” she glared. “My babies never grew full. But I been there. Three times.”

Savigne slowly climbed up the saddle and somehow found the decency to feel a little abashed. “I’m sorry.”

There was a curt nod. “‘M sorry too, Savigne, I am. Sorry y’aint ready. Sorry yer dumb man ran off. Sorry you had nobody around you honest. Or nobody to teach you. Cry about it, sure. I know I did. For my babies and Jake. Cry about it long as you need. But then you get up and go on. Life comes at you and you got no choice.”

“I can’t do this,” Savigne whimpered.

“You can and you will. Women been doing it since dawn of time. Your mom did it.”

“My mom wasn’t alone,” she hiccuped. “She had a husband.”

”First of all, y’aint alone. What the fuck am I? Furniture? Second, Arthur gonna come back.”

“We don't know that!” She flinched a little at the hard reaction in Sadie’s eyes.

“He ain’t dead," the blond woman hissed and inched closer to Cricket, her eyes blazing. "He was dead, I would have to give ya his bag, don’ I?” She shook Arthur’s satchel in Savigne’s face, her sisterly patience clearly running thin. “Y’aint gettin’ it cause he ain’t dead. Maybe will be by my hand or yours when he come back, that’s a different story. Now…” she swung herself up into the saddle and gave Savigne a fiery glare that didn’t brook arguments. “Camp. Food. Talk. Let’s go!”

She rode on and Savigne swayed on the saddle and turned Cricket to follow.

He had never been homesick before. Probably because, discounting the hellhole he had ran away from as a child, he never actually had a home. His home had been the gang and for over twenty years, he had never been apart from it. Even now, in this godforsaken place, he was with them. And yet, he was homesick. A deep painful yearning was burning through his gut, threatening to bore a hole through him as he longed for his tent. Not the old cot he had slept on for years. His tent of barely six months.

He sat apart from the others, elbows on raised knees, back against a crumbling ruin of a wall, trying to to ignore the sunburn that was blistering his skin and the dizziness dancing behind his eyes. That proved to be easier to ignore than Dutch's incessant droning in the background and the homesickness in his gut.

Turns out, washing up on a shore a thousand miles away with nothing but the clothes on your back and the bruise of colossal failures in your heart gave you a hell of a perspective.

Hindsight was cruel; there was little of value to be found in that garden of regret. But, spurred by his thirst for pain, he went digging anyway. He thought of Luther and he dug that bitter soil every day, every hour of every day. And just like Luther, he reached the same revolting truth:

Vanity.

Vanity had watched him from the corner of the room as he argued alongside Hosea to Dutch, all the while smiling coyly at his hubris. Vanity had cooed encouragement into his ear as he had lied on the bedroll the night before, thinking the plan was solid and doable and most importantly - his ticket out. Vanity had squeezed his shoulders and cheered him on as he sat that morning to watch Savigne ride away and Vanity had insisted all would be well. No trouble, Vanity had whispered, no worries, no hesitation. Hesitation is defeat. It had held his coat as he dressed up, had sat on the saddle behind him on Frost as he rode out, had followed him step by step when he fled from the gunfire and had crouched next to him in that deserted building as they waited for nightfall, purring that it wasn't over yet. Vanity had aided his steps as he boarded the ship and the next morning when he stood at the banister to watch the endless stretch of water, drifting away from everything that had any value to him, Vanity had stood with him and soothed his regrets. Vanity had woken him on a strange shore and urged him to go on, to fight, to try, to live. For what? To amuse me, little boy, Vanity smiled. To entertain me. To please me.

The colossal pompousness of thinking his participation was going to prevent another Blackwater! His gut had advised caution but his arrogance had won out. In the end, his arrogance always won out.

Now it was time to feast on the fruit of that arrogance: the loss of his home; the loss of a future with the woman he loved; the loss of a friend and last but not least: the staggering loss of a parent.

But, in this vast dark ocean of despair, a single source of consolation: Savigne didn't need him anymore.

Truthfully, she never had. Her independence had been the source, the inception point of his desire for her in the first place. The way she had come and gone to camp, full with her own purpose. Her steadfast march through life. He was just the brute who had saved her from other brutes. And now that the last of them was rotting in a swamp, his mission was complete, his role fulfilled. She could finally ride on and prosper. Perhaps she would get that dinner shift. Perhaps she would go to New York. Maybe she would meet a man like Dunham. She had Luther, she had Sadie, she had his money and she would be happy. Hosea had told him that making her happy would make him happy and in a twisted, ironic way he had been right. He just hadn't known that the price of making her happy was removing himself from her life.

In this, at least, he had accidentally succeeded.

A hand landed on his shoulder and a water canteen appeared in front of his face. "Son," Dutch sighed and dropped down next to him. "How are you holding up?"

"'M fine," he rasped and took a swallow.

"What a shithole," Dutch muttered, leaning his head back on the broken wall.

"Don' like islands no more?" Arthur chuckled bitterly as he took another mouthful.

"I have to admit," the older man drawled, "The plan is going to need changing."

They sat in silence for a long while. The heat was as bad as Lemoyne heat because it had a habit on settling on everything like dust. There was no escaping from it in the shade, in the open, wet or dry. It was in your eyes, your lungs, between your toes.

"We need to get off this island," Dutch said at last. "Hercule says he can provide us a boat."

Arthur didn't answer. He wasn't interested in getting off the island. He had made peace with the fact that this was his final destination.

"We need to get back to our people."

They better off without us, he thought but didn't say it. It was simply too hot to argue.

His silence must have bothered Dutch enough to push on: "They need us."

They need us like they need the plague.

His huff of amusement stirred Dutch: "You disagree?"

He sluggishly scratched his beard. "If you say so, Dutch."

"I know you're tired. God knows I am, too. But if we stay here, we will die."

That's the plan. Better than any of yer shit plans, that's for sure. Turns out, better than mine, too.

Dutch flustered a little at his non engagement. "He was like a brother to me," he offered at last. It was a seldom moment of sincerity for Dutch and Arthur took a deep breath and nodded and hoped that would be the end of it but of course he wasn't that lucky. "But we have people depending on us! You have people depending on you!"

Any other day, this would infuriate him. This cheap attempt to dangle Savigne in front of his nose to make him get up and trudge on. Today it only amused him. That's the thing, he thought, she don’ depend on me and she don’ need me. In fact, she better off without me. I played my part in her life, I killed that asshole and cleared the ladder for her. Now all she gotta do is climb and all I gotta do is die.

Dutch prattled on and on but Arthur hardly listened. There was a vast sadness in him, for things that would never be, but also gratitude for things that were. He hadn't managed to touch that untouchable thing - a family of his own - but he had come very, very close. And somehow, in the mayhem that was his life, he had stumbled upon a woman to allow himself to be vulnerable with; and when he had unwrapped his heart to her, she had handled it with care and tenderness. If that was all that was in store for him, so be it. It was more than he deserved.

Night crawled in and the music of the jungle changed. Dutch left his side at some point and at some other point he was given something to eat and he chewed on it listlessly. He wasn’t hungry but it helped to pass the time. Then true dark set in and he was looking forward to it, because night meant sleep and sleep meant dreaming. The same dream he had had since he had fallen into this hellhole. He wasn’t interested in escaping from the island, but he was very happy to escape from reality.

He stumbled to his hammock and lied in it, swinging and watching the stars, waiting for his eyes to grow heavy. Waiting for sleep to end the nightmare that was the day. And eventually, it did.

Their tent stood before him, in this perpetually repeating dream, location unspecific and unimportant. What was important was the tent and what it stood for - home. White drapes hitched to the ground, firm enough so they wouldn’t blow in the summer breeze, but loose enough to let the air in. The thicker maroon canvas rolled up and tied off. In his dream, it was always summer. Maybe because that’s when he had built it. Some indeterminate time between twilight and the earliest hours of daybreak.

Instantly he was in front of it, pushing open the flap to step in. The light in here was a muted blue, as if the tent was encased in ice. The covers on the bed were piled up and he knew she was there. A feeling of deep pleasure surged through him, cool in contrast to the hot flare of his homesickness. He unbuckled his gun belt and in the dream, it didn’t jingle. Then the belt of his trousers. One by one he peeled off all his clothes.

Then he carefully crawled on the bed and lifted the covers. A flash of her toffee skin, the curve of her buttocks, the slope of her hip. In reality, Savigne rarely slept naked. She claimed that if something unexpected happened and they suddenly had to run out, she would die of shame if she was naked. He remembered bursting into laughter at her admittance and he also fondly remembered how annoyed she had been at his mirth. But in the dream she was always naked. He moved the covers further: the gentle indentations of her spine, the soft shoulders and the waves of dark locks. He slid in behind her and settled against her back. This was his favorite position and maybe that’s why he dreamed about it so often. She was smaller and fit perfectly into his chest. He tucked an arm under his pillow as his other hand glided over her hip, her waist, up an arm, then down to rest against a plush soft breast and he spread his fingers to gently grasp it.

She stirred a little and took a deep breath. Her skin was smooth and soft. He kissed her neck as he shifted to adjust behind her with little to no gap. Her hair smelled of lavender, the way it had when she had first approached him in Valentine way back when, but her skin smelled of lemon drops and that was new. He paused at the change, cautious. The dream was precious to him and the last thing he wanted was a deviation, a disfigurement, a change to it. Because it was perfect as it was.

She sighed and dreamily grasped his forearm, her clutch weak with sleep. In his dream he somehow knew it was Sunday and the whole day was ahead of them, so he didn’t want to wake her yet. But when she did wake, he would make love to her, slow and lazy and he felt his cock between them harden at the thought. Then they would sleep some more, eat breakfast and go to Valentine. And there, in that warm pool of water he would make love to her again - this time rough and aggressive. His appetite and need for her never waned and he was fascinated by that. Why had that first tryst in the woods not been the end of it? Why had he circled back again and again, unable to stay away? It had to be the curse of good things in life.

“Welcome back,” she mumbled as he kissed her shoulder.

Then suddenly the dream diverged again, sharply this time, because she said “You’re late, Arthur.”

He froze for a moment, finding himself in unfamiliar territory and not happy about it. This was all he had left and he liked it fine the way it was. Although it wasn't unpleasant, he didn't like that she smelled like lemon drops and he didn't like that she spoke those words. Before he could dwell on it though, she mumbled “Don’t smush the grub”.

He blinked in confusion. “What d’ya mean?” he whispered, alert and wary.

She sleepily tugged at his hand resting on her breast and guided it to her belly. She pressed his palm flat on her pear shaped bump and folded her hand over his to keep it in place. He rose on his elbow in surprise. Under his fingers, the tremble of a rabbit heart, soft and hurried.

“The grub,” she murmured.

In his gut, currents turned, collided, swirled, spiraled and converged to form the point of a vortex. It grew and grew and expanded into a maelstrom that yawned open with quiet force. And in its dark center blossomed a dazzling flower of understanding.

Arthur flinched awake and the hammock rocked wildly as he struggled to sit up.

“Can’t be,” he mumbled softly into the thick cacophony of bug chorus. A sharp shake of his head to disperse the spell of sleep followed. The dream unfurled and blew apart like an apparition as he clutched at it. “Can’t be,” he said again, mouth dry.

And yet, in his gut, it felt true. An instinctual certainty, like lining up cross hairs on a moving target and knowing the exact moment the bullet would fly true.

He fell back into the hammock and gulped deep breaths of the soupy air. He ran his hands over his face and then wiped the sticky film of sweat on his shirt. His heart hammered in his chest as the dream lifted and evaporated. It was still dark and the only sounds were the chirping of bugs, the croaking of frogs and the snoring of the other men. He shifted in the hammock and straightened a little to settle back in, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again. He lied there and thought and thought, and the more he thought, the more it seemed true. He thought on the little things and he thought on the big things. His mind flooded with memories, by themselves subtle and tenuous like wispy strings. But when he lined them up and coiled them together, there was a solid, firm rope in his hands. No wonder my plans derail, he huffed a quiet chuckle of disbelief to himself, 'm blind as a bat.

It’s a dream, let it go, his head tried feebly. You’re just spinning tales.

But his gut held firm: you're going to be a father.

Rapture exploded and expanded in his chest and he took a slow, deep breath as it burned through him with blinding heat. He lied dazzled and faint as a tidal wave of pleasure rolled over him. And then another. And then one more.

But underneath those waves: a dark undertow:

He had left his woman and his child behind, defenseless and alone.

Again.

The notion prickled the hair on his arms like the advent of a thunderstorm.

Years later the spiral voyage of his life had turned the same bend. Maybe the mere irony of fate. Or maybe a test of capricious gods to see if this time he would choose differently.

And he had chosen the same.

He scrambled out of the hammock, fully awake now and stood weak and trembling for long minutes, grateful that everyone else was fast asleep. Then he grabbed the half empty packet of cigarettes and walked away from camp on shaky legs.

Dark thoughts clawed at him. All this time he had convinced himself that she didn't need him. That his part in her life was complete. That she was better off without him. For days now he had taken countless casual risks, had tempted death, even chased it every time he had popped out behind a wall or a tree to shoot back just a little too early or had remained in the open just a little too long. His steps faltered as he realized that an enormous calamity had swum by him like a great shark in dark waters and he hadn’t even known, merely now felt the wake of its departure. His vision blurred with the afterthought. Because alone maybe she would have moved on and prospered. But a woman with child? His child?

The shark hadn’t swum by after all. It was merely circling.

What man would darken their door? Micah? O’Driscolls? Another group of drunk vagabonds? Come to bruise and smother what he had neglected and abandoned. Come to hurt what he loved.

He stood breathing the thick air of the jungle and watched the blue of daybreak settle around him. A new day was dawning. The fever dream of the past week shriveled and dissolved and the fool who had wallowed in aimless self pity gasped his last breath. A great weight rolled off his shoulders. He shifted on his feet and and straightened his back. Made a promise to an asshole in a swamp, he thought. And ‘m damn right gonna keep it.

Hercule heard the approaching steps and rose a little to see who it was. It’s the runt of the litter, the sickly man, he thought when Arthur strode out from under the trees and headed towards him. Only he didn’t look so sickly today. Today he looked like a whole new man. Taller and bigger somehow, with a different gait. “Can’t sleep?” Hercule asked as he fished out a cigarette from the offered package.

The American grunted affirmation as he lighted first Hercule’s cigarette, then his own.

He was curious why this blan, this white man approached him now. All these past days as they marched to lose the men following them, he had barely spoken, rarely eaten, never even met his gaze. He had just trudged around with the rest of the group and whenever they ran into trouble, his friends had slapped a gun in his hands and he had shot back. His marksmanship was spectacular, but it was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it. He just did it reflexively, as if this was his second nature, something he could do in his sleep. His compatriots treated him like a formidable warrior, but Hercule had been convinced he would die within the week. He had seen people give up before. They had that particular look in their eyes.

So when Arthur’s cool blue gaze locked with his now, he was naturally startled to see a different man looking out. His curiosity turned into intrigue.

“Different climate?” This wouldn’t be the first man who looked tough until he met the Jungle.

“Got things on my mind,” the other man grimaced.

“Your people back home?”

The man exhaled out a long cloud of smoke, nodded, then quickly glanced over his shoulder before he said “My family.” The timbre of pride was palpable and pulled a grin of approval from Hercule:

“Lucky man.”

They didn’t talk for a while, just watched the day break as they smoked. The jungle sloped downwards ahead of them, lush and thick as he watched a flock of parrots take flight. Hercule had run into all manner of folk in his life and he liked to think that he was a good judge of them. These Americans acted like a band of brothers, a pack. The fancy man, the cunning one was the leader of the pack. But interesting enough, this man here was no follower. No, he was his own wolf.

“You got kids?” he was asked suddenly.

“Unfortunately no,” Hercule mused. “My life too crazy for that right now. Some day, I hope. When all this is behind me.” Then, just because it was the polite thing to do: “You?”

Arthur squinted into the distance and took a moment before he uttered a confident “I will.”

Hercule resisted the urge to smack him on the shoulder. He got the feeling that this man didn’t like being touched. “Congratulations.”

The cowboy nodded, then turned and gave him an intense look.

“Tell me ‘bout this boat.”

He sobered at that. “I need a favor first.”

“Name it,” was the flat response.

“Fussar. He’s enslaving people. Exploiting them, using them. They live in horrible-”

Arthur’s hand waved away the rest like it was unimportant. “Name it,” he repeated.

He hesitated. A no nonsense man. Not interested in plight and tragedy, just here for a transaction. So be it, he thought. “I need him dead.”

A nod as he smoked and scanned the horizon line. “Anythin’ else?”

Hercule huffed a half chuckle despite himself. “My apologies,” he laughed. “I think I made it sound too easy. Fussar has a small army in his command.”

The blue eyes flicked at him and his grin dissipated. Yeah, forget the others. Forget the fancy leader. Or the one with the cruel eyes and the big belly. This was the man he needed in his corner. Because, if he asked it, this man would burn the world and light his cigarette on the embers.

“You got guns?” was the casual question.

“Of course,” he licked his lips.

Another silence ensued. He watched the bigger man smoke and wondered if he had had a heatstroke earlier. He had looked pretty miserable and spent. Now he stood shouders rigid, oozing competence and confidence. In truth, Hercule had offered the boat in a moment of desperation and hadn’t been too concerned with keeping his word. Now he thought he damn better made sure to arrange it for real, because it wouldn’t do to cross this man.

”Get me them guns,” Arthur said as he crushed his stub under a heel. “And that boat. Fussar is dead. He just don’ know it yet.”

Hercule watched him turn and stride back to the ruins of the church. Over the years, he had met many who vowed the same. But this was the first time he actually believed it.

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