#tree is bein soft

[an-albino-pinetree]

Lil bit of soft non-sentient, for everyone out there cravin’ some soft -v- 🩶🩶

[asexual-levia-tan]

actually its funny that the main reason (aside from how annoying he is) that cale didn't want to be the GoD's saint is that he doesn't want it to get in the way of his slacker life

but he's out here making several deals with the GoD and through that mirror the only god he talks to is the god of death. not to mention the mirror itself is something gifted to him by the GoD, and divine items are usually only able to be used by a god's saint.

cale i think you're just the god of death's saint at this point.

[ozarkthedog]

𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

summary: dbf!joel video calls you during a meal with your parents.

warnings: 18+ mdni. toxic dbf!joel miller x afab!reader. unspecified age gap. daddy kink. tit play. dirty talk. male masturbation. no beta. w.c: 641

author's note: spawned from the "who's your daddy?" clip and @mrsmando mentioning toxic dbf!joel. 😘

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Doin' the right thing pickin' up," Joel praises with a velvety tone as he moves his phone to rest in front of his chest.

The video screen displays his tan, aging face, slicked-back gray hair, and trimmed silver whiskers. He's reclined in a chair wearing a white t-shirt under a gray flannel button-up like he just got home from a job. "Be a good girl 'n show me those pretty tits."

Your eyes bug at his command. Thank god you stepped out onto the deck and shut the slider.

"Joel, not now. Please." You'd been eating dinner with your parents, and now you're on a video call with your dad's best friend, who's asking to see your tits.  

Not that he hasn't already seen them and every other inch of you.

"C'mon now, show me wha's mine," he pesters with a clipped, unwavering command.

You nervously peer through the glass slider and into the kitchen, praying your parents don't come outside before lifting your top and showing the older man your bare breasts.

"Thatta girl." A deep, tinny groan spills from the tiny speakers and nestles in your lower belly. Your cunt throbs at the sound. Sticky arousal leaks into the gusset of your panties as you squeeze your breasts together between your arms, propping them up for him.

"Jus' what I needed," he praises with ravenous eyes locked on the lower part of the screen, shamelessly drinking in the image of your naked chest. "Wanna get my hands on those fuckin' pretty tits. Suck 'n bite 'em until you're cryin'."

A chilly gust blows through the trees and races up your spine, making your skin prickle under Joel's heated stare. He darkly hums as your nips pucker and stands at attention for him. "Looks like someone likes bein' a slut."

Your chest heaves, breasts lightly bouncing as an intense wave of lust sends shocks rippling through your system. His body shifts, and you hear the click of his belt before his left, flannel-clad arm begins moving up and down out of frame. A gravelly moan pours from his pouty lips and drips through the speakers straight into your quivering cunt.

"Go on, give 'em a pinch."

You acquiesce, giving into his demand and your own greedy perversion, and palm one of your breasts. Your flesh prickles as you playfully circle a pert bud and lightly pinch it, letting a soft mewl tumble into the night.

"Who's your Daddy?" He asks with a throaty groan; the muscles in his neck pulse under his freckled, tan skin as he jerks his cock.

Your cheeks flame at his words, and you can't help but pathetically whimper.

"C'mon, say it, or else I'm comin' over," he states, cocking his head with a deadly smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. "'N we both know it'd kill him to see what a lil' whore his daughter turned into."

A gasp tears from your parted lips. He wouldn't-

"Best do as you're told, pretty girl. Don' wanna disappoint me now, do ya?"

Your eyes flutter, and you nervously lick your bottom lip, making it shine under the deck light.

"Daddy."

Syrupy slick flows freely from your cunt, drenching your panties as you softly chant the word "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy" over and over to the older man. Your cunt pulses in time with his movements, wishing he was fucking his cock into you instead of his fist.

He jerks his length greedily, faster and faster, until his neck flushes like a golden sunset, his eyes pinch tight, and he comes with a hoarse growl between gritted teeth.

Ropes of white land on his heaving chest, staining his button-up. The sight makes you lightheaded, and you fall back against the side of the house, breathless.

"Next time, I'm leavin' my mark on 'em," he gruffly declares before abruptly ending the call, leaving you to stare at your pathetic, wanton reflection in the murky black screen.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[daryltwdixon]

Can you do Daryl with an intelligent girl who maybe came from the same trailer park but went to nursing school or something

Summary: Daryl never could accept the fact that you were leaving him. He knew you were meant for more than the trailer park, that you were making something of yourself, chasing the kind of life he never thought he could touch. But that didn’t make it hurt any less when you got accepted into nursing school. So he did what he always did—lashed out with sharp, thoughtless words he didn’t mean, and let you walk away before he could ask you to stay.

|| angst, hurt with delayed comfort, tp!daryl, farm!daryl, kind of established relationship with no label, the man has a lotta feelings and has no clue how to handle them || notes: I'm so sorry this is probs NOT what you were expecting but god I love angsty Daryl. This is like what the ruins of us could’ve been if they’d just accepted their feelings.

The porch creaked when you stepped out, half-empty beer in one hand, the other bracing against the chipped doorframe. The air smelled like hot asphalt and cheap cigarettes—someone in the next lot over still had their music playing, something low and twangy.

Daryl was leaning against the railing, a nearly empty bottle dangling from his fingers. But he wasn’t where you left him—not lounged into the second rocking chair, hidden in the corner of the porch out of the baking sun like usual. He was standing now, stiff-backed and still, staring down at the paper in his hands.

“You weren’t even gonna tell me,” he muttered without looking at you, and he held up the paper.

Your opened acceptance letter.

You blinked. “I was. I am.”

His jaw tightened, like he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He dropped the letter onto the small cigarette littered table by the door. “So that’s it, then? You’re just leavin’.”

You stepped down from the doorframe to stand beside him, the wood warm from the sun even this late. “I told you I was applying. Daryl, they gave me a full ride scholarship. That’s not just—”

“Yeah, I know what it is,” he snapped. His arms folded across his chest like armor. “Ain’t gotta talk to me like I’m stupid.”

Your mouth opened, then shut. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretched out between you, thick and restless. The cicadas screamed in the trees. Down the road, a truck rumbled past with its headlights off.

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” you said after a long beat. Voice quieter now, uncertain.

Daryl let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well, guess I ain’t real good at pretendin’.”

You stared at him, trying to find the softness underneath all that bark, the boy who used to hand you bottle rockets and steal peaches from old man Gentry’s tree. The man who held you close at night, who kissed you in the bed of his truck on summer evening at the drive in.

“Why are you bein’ like this?”

He finally turned to look at you, and you wished he hadn’t. His eyes were sharp and wild and wounded.

“’Cause you’re actin’ like this place never meant nothin’ to you. Like I never meant nothin’.”

That landed hard. Your chest pinched around it.

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” His voice rose just a little. “You get to run off, play nurse, start some new life, and what? I just stay here? Fix Merle’s shit, watch Pop drink himself to death?”

“I never asked you to stay here.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t ask me to come with you, neither.”

That stopped you cold. Because you hadn’t. You hadn’t even thought to.

“Daryl…”

He looked away again, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Angry. Embarrassed. Small.

“You’ve always thought you were better than this place,” he muttered. “Better than me.”

You stood up then, heart pounding, beer forgotten. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve fought for everything. I worked my ass off to get outta here.”

He nodded, jaw working. “Yeah. And now you get to go patch up college boys and drink your little lattes and forget all about the rest of us.”

“You think I’m gonna forget you?”

“Ain’t that what you do?” he shot back, standing up, crowding your space. “Climb high enough, leave the rest of us in the mud.”

It hurt. God, it hurt more than you thought it would. More than it should’ve.

“I loved you,” you said, voice shaking. “I love you, Daryl. But I can’t stay here and rot just to prove it.”

Daryl’s mouth opened. Closed. He didn’t know what to do with that. With love. Especially not yours.

So he did what he always did. He lashed out.

“Go play nurse for all them rich boys,” he said, tone flat. “Bet they’ll eat that shit up.”

You flinched like he’d hit you. Over and over like each word he spewed as a hit to your gut.

The porch lights buzzed above you. Inside, the old box fan in the window rattled against the frame. You suddenly hated this place. Hated how it was in your lungs, in your clothes, how it would never let him go.

“I’ll call,” you said, softer now.

Daryl shook his head, not looking at you as he stepped off the porch into the Georgia night.

“Don’t bother.”

Daryl

Fourth day out.

The sun was high, thick in the trees. The air pressed down on Daryl like it had weight, clinging to the sweat on his back, his neck, the inside of his shirt. His legs ached, but it didn’t slow him. Nothing would. Not yet. Not until he found Sophia or dropped dead trying.

He hadn’t slept right in days. Couple hours here and there. Rested up in trees like he used to, one eye open. Rick kept saying they had to keep faith. Carol was hanging on by threads. And the others...hell, most of them didn’t believe she was alive anymore.

But Daryl did. Because she had to be.

The heat made his vision blur around the edges.

He’d been walking since sunrise, following signs—scrapes on bark, half a shoe print in the mud that might not’ve even been hers. But it was something.

His body was on autopilot now. Step, scan, step. Branches slapped at his arms. Sweat stung his eyes. He barely felt it.

He dragged the back of his dirty hand across his forehead, took another few steps up the ridge, eyes scanning the trail ahead. The air felt different here. Cooler. Stiller.

He paused.

Listened.

Something moved through the trees—soft, fast. Too light for a walker, too smooth for a deer. The trees were quiet. That kind of quiet that made his skin crawl, like the whole world was holding its breath.

Daryl raised his crossbow without thinking. “Sophia?” he called, voice rough from hours of silence.

No answer. Just another rustle. Closer. He moved toward it, careful.

And then... You stepped into view.

And the world stopped.

You looked like a ghost. Not clean, not untouched—no one was anymore. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not. Standing there in jeans stained at the knees, a pack slung over your shoulder, sun catching in your hair like it always had.

His lungs quit working.

Then you said his name.

And Daryl Dixon, who had gutted walkers, walked through fire, faced death over and over, had flinched.

He knew your voice. Knew it better than anything. Could’ve picked it out blindfolded in a storm, could’ve followed it straight into hell. And here it was, soft and real and saying his name like he hadn’t shattered everything the last time you stood in front of him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His brain went blank and loud all at once—static and screaming, every memory shoving itself forward like it had claws.

The memory of the last time he saw you, a memory he only saw in dreams now because he would shove it away every time it surfaced in the days afterward, was fresh behind his eyes. The things he said—sharp, stupid things—just to make you feel as bad as he did. You’d looked at him like he’d broken something between you, something that couldn’t be put back.

Now you were here.

And you didn’t hesitate. You ran.

Boots hitting the earth fast and sure, arms open, crashing into him like you were sure he’d catch you—and he did, though his feet stumbled back a step and his breath seized like he’d taken a hit to the ribs. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating. That maybe he was dying on the ground from heat stroke and you were some angel come to take him to hell.

But your arms were real. Solid around his shoulders. Your body warm against his. And then his own arms, slow and unsure, wrapped around you like they were remembering something they hadn’t felt in years. They settled there—tight, desperate, almost trembling—and then he buried his face into the curve of your neck, because there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.

You still smelled the same, now with the undeniable scent of dirt and sweat from months of survival on your own. But you still had that faint, warm sweetness that had haunted him on nights he couldn’t sleep. His fingers clenched at the fabric of your shirt, bringing you closer to him like he was scared you’d disappear again. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe. Let himself feel.

You held him like no time had passed. Like the years hadn’t hollowed both of you out. Like he hadn’t said the one thing he regretted more than anything in the whole damn world.

And that… forgiveness? That grace? That mercy cracked something open in his chest. Because maybe you remembered every word. Maybe you hadn’t forgotten a thing. But you were still here. Still choosing him.

He’d expected a reckoning if he ever saw you again. Silence. Distance. Maybe a slap. But instead, he got this. You pressed against him. Breathing him in. Holding him like coming back was never a question.

And he was surprised when it didn’t feel like punishment.

Because it felt like hope.

And when he finally opened his mouth, the words barely made it out.

“I’m sorry,” he shuddered into you.

“I know,” you breathed.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still warm where they rested on his shoulders. Your eyes searched his face, like you were trying to find all the pieces he’d buried and put them back together.

And then you did the thing he’d tried hardest to forget. The thing that twisted in his gut whenever it surfaced in the dark. The thing that lived somewhere just behind his ribs, where no one else could reach.

You kissed him.

And Daryl didn’t stop you.

Couldn’t.

He kissed you back, rough and aching, like something in him had come loose. Like all the time between then and now had built up behind his ribs, waiting to crack open the second your mouth touched his. There was no thought, no hesitation. Just instinct. Just you. His hand found your waist, pulled you in, desperate to feel all of you—solid, breathing, here.

The first kiss was quick. Too quick. Like he was afraid to take too much. But then you leaned into him, your hands curling into the back of his sleeveless shirt, and whatever hold he thought he had on himself snapped like dry twigs.

He kissed you harder. Messier. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of hunger he didn’t know he still had in him. You were warm under his hands, grounding. Familiar and different all at once. And God, the way you held onto him—like you wanted this. Like you still wanted him—it nearly dropped him to his knees.

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until you slid your hands up to his shoulders, steadying him. He pressed his forehead to yours between kisses, trying to breathe, trying to think, but nothing made sense except your mouth and your hands and the way your breath caught when he kissed the corner of your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, breathless, eyes squeezing shut like it hurt to say it. They were the only words he knew right then. Everything else was too big, too messy. But those—those three words—were the truth. They scraped up from somewhere deep, somewhere buried, and left him raw. “I’m sorry.”

He felt you nod, felt your hands curl tighter in his shirt, grounding him.

“It’s okay, Daryl,” you breathed, the words quiet but certain. He barely had time to register the sound of them before your fingers slid into his hair, fisting the short, sweaty strands around your knuckles. “It’s okay.”

He let out a ragged breath. His eyes stayed shut, like if he looked at you too long, it might break the spell. No one said things like that to him. Not like they meant it. Not without an edge, not without a catch. But you did. You always had.

The woods were quiet around you, all dappled light and heat rising from the earth. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. Not thinking about it, not trying to start anything—just needing that contact. That proof.

He finally opened his eyes, just a crack.

You were already looking at him.

Not with pity. Not with anger. Just that same steady gaze you’d always had when he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably. Like you saw straight through all the armor and decided to stay anyway.

He swallowed hard. His throat was tight.

“You’re really here,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling just a little. “I am.”

He let out a quiet laugh—barely a breath. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever find you.”

And that hit something deep. He dipped his head, pressed his forehead to yours. Just stayed there. Breathing the same air, feeling the same weight settle between you.

It didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It felt like a second chance.

And slowly—like you both knew there was nowhere else to go—you leaned in at the same time.

This kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about need.

It was about recognition.

About two people who had been carrying the same ache for too long finally setting it down.

[pinkmirth]

i need more cowboi reiner tryna knock u up pls 🥺 👉 👈

⸻ STUFFED!

SYNOPSIS ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ reiner just can’t seem to control how hungry he is for you. what better way to make you his than by stuffing you full of him?

CONTAINS ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ ( 2.5k+ words of . . . ) cowboy!reiner x fem!reader (black coded), nsfw/smut, modern au, countryside setting, established relationship, reiner has a big fat breeding kink, sex flashbacks, doggie style, standing sex, creampie, use of pet names (ex. mama, sugar, honey), reader calls reiner ‘papa’, mentions of pregnancy, lowercase intended, explicit language, minors shoo!

MY LOVE NOTE! ౨ৎ ₊ ⊹ it’s undeniable that cowboy reiner’s got a raging breeding kink. thanks so much for sending in your thoughts, my love! now here’s rei-rei bein’ a shameless feen for his pretty girl! 🎀

reiner’s terribly distracted.

the last thing he wants to do is lay blame, but in a way, you’re the reason why. the mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild. rei-rei swears he usually has more self control, it’s just that you strip him of all common sense.

you, pretty little you, make him all scatterbrained. his head’s been filled with nothing but romantics and vulgarities ever since he took you on a date seven months ago. you’ve turned him into some fool in love, for goodness’ sake.

memories of last night’s escapades come to mind. his mouth practically waters when remembering your plush ass; how you tossed it onto his pelvis with an arching back and swaying tits, peering at him with the sultriest smile, not to mention those glimmering bedroom eyes of yours. he recalls having to hold you still, so you wouldn’t be able to squirm away if his pounding were to become too much. you were soft, he remembers, so soft. the flesh of your hips would squish beneath the imposing pressure of his callous fingers, digging tighter into your sides whenever you’d flutter around the girth of him. he remembers the way he came inside with a rumbly moan, leaving your pussy full and the sheets wet . . . he wants to do it all over again.

with all that’s going on in that perverse little mind of his, he can hardly bring himself to focus on feeding the cattle. the only thing that can solve his problem is its source; you. and just like that, reiner’s dropping whatever he’d been doing before. his chores can surely wait, but this surge of desire can’t be overlooked. not a thing matters as much as finding you, fucking you, filling you.

he rounds the barn, passes by the apple trees and the horse stables in search of you. his cock pulses with every step, prodding stubbornly against the soft cotton of his boxers, now smeared with sticky precum. reiner brings a hand down to provide himself some relief, palming his boner with a low grunt. he’s so fucking hard that it almost hurts. that’s what he gets for fantasizing about you for the past thirty minutes and doing nothing about it until now.

with heavy steps, reiner makes his entrance into the farmhouse and is met by the sight of you lounging in the living room. you’re seated on the floral-print recliner with your pedicured toes propped up, all nice and comfortable. you’re wearing the dainty string of pearls he bought you for your birthday earlier in the year. pride flushes throughout his chest when seeing how prettily it rests on your collarbone.

you greet your man with a glossy smile, one that makes his dick throb beneath his hay-specked coveralls. reiner wonders if you’ve taken note of just how red he looks, rosy heat scattered across his face, from the highs of his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. he can feel his skin blazing with complete and total need.

reiner elicits a weak mumble of ‘hey, sugar. . .’, a stark contrast to your tone being all light and cheery as you ramble on about the cute little mini-skirt you’re crocheting for yourself. ‘since the weather’s getting warmer,’ you chime.

reiner loves you. he really, truly does, but he simply isn’t in the headspace to pay mind to the mundane task you’re occupied with at the moment— not when he’s this close to tearing off your summer dress, bending you over, peeling himself out of his spurred boots and pumping you full of every drop of cum he has to offer. fuck, he’s breathing harder now. gradually, he feels his resolve slip.

“you alright, honey?” you set down your crocheting hook, staring up at him with big, curious eyes. your voice, soft and consoling, grounds him just a little. reiner pulls off his signature cowboy hat, sets it on the nearby coffee table, and ruffles his hair so it falls into place. “yeah, i’m just—“ a pause amidst his sigh. truthfully, he’s here because he wants to fuck you pregnant. “i wanted t’see you, is all.” he settles on saying that instead. it’s much sweeter, all the more more romantic. less fetish-y. you probably would’ve looked at him funny if he admitted to crossing the entire farm by foot just so he could fill you up.

“aw, rei! you were missin’ me?” you laugh out of flattery. oh, your reiner. he’s so sweet in his own right. your boyfriend wants to ‘see you’, as he claims, like he hadn’t woken you up with nibbles to your neck, taken a (somewhat long, fairly busy) shower with you this morning, and ate breakfast alongside you before heading off to tend to the farm. you assume he can’t help but cling to you and want more.

it’s sudden, but welcomed, how reiner closes in on you. he draws near like a magnet, until the space between you no longer exists. he’s crouching down to the level of the chair, hovering over you to press a kiss on your lips. “mhm. missed you so bad, mama,” he mumbles against your mouth. in reply, you whisper onto his lips, something about how he’s always ‘so eager.’ he leans into you, desperate for more, and the chair creaks underneath the addition of his weight. he’s a large man, anyone can tell. his brawny build and imposing height never fail to make you feel safe underneath him. 

reiner dips his head low and plants one, two, three sloppy kisses along your warm neck, and it gets you hotter than the southern heat. he leaves saliva in his wake, trailed by the lightest of bruises from his suctioning lips. he tries to undo your clothes and his, but the small space that this decade-old chair provides won’t allow for it. besides, it wouldn’t be wise of him to make you squirt on a family heirloom. “this won’t do,” he clicks his teeth, decidingly picking you up. your legs wrap around his torso like second nature, arms circled around the back of his muscular neck.

“reiii, baby wait!” you draw out the call of his name, but all it does is coax him further. can’t you tell that your voice is only making him harder? that your whines urge him to fuck you silly? 

“wait?” he reiterates, grinding up into your clothed core. you shudder upon contact. “what for?” from beneath the denim he wears, you can feel his stiffness poke against your flimsy panties. “don’t you wanna head to bed first, honey? hm?” you whine into his neck. it takes a good eight seconds for him to respond.

“uh-uh,” reiner gives you a half-hearted grunt, with his gaze fixed on your cleavage that the low neckline of your dress presents to him. obviously, he’s interested in other things. “here’s just fine, sugar.” he’s strong enough to fuck you standing up with nothing else supporting him, and you know that. he doesn’t need a goddamn mattress.

reiner’s large hands grab at your underside, using your ass as the perfect leverage to press you close to him. this is your third time fucking this week, and it’s only tuesday. you’d mention it, but he’s too busy kissing down the valley of your breasts. impatience seeps through his every movement, from how he grasps at your thighs to keep you upright, to eagerly feeling along your lower half like it’s his first time touching your body.

“slow down, rei.” begrudgingly, reiner removes his lips from your chest. he finally calms for just a moment, so that he can meet your beautiful eyes. your face has been overtaken by a subtle pout. “m’sorry, honey,” he murmurs between a deep kiss, all wet and tongue-filled. you assume that’s supposed to be his form of an apology. his toned arm re-fastens itself around your body, holding you tight, while the other bunches up your dress and pushes down his bottoms, “but i need you. so fuckin’ bad.” you could never deny him and that sweet southern drawl. he knows that his smooth mouth works magic on you— he always gets what he wants from his pretty girl. 

now freed of any confines, reiner lowers his hand to stroke at the base of his dick, tugging himself with a low hiss. involuntarily, his hips buck. “you can finish up that skirt later, hm?” he releases himself and appoints his attention to you, the pads of his fingers circling your clit in just the way you like. your head falls forward onto his broad shoulder. “hell, i’ll even buy you some o’those frilly ones at that fancy mall you like goin’ to . . .” he utters partially to you and a little to himself, still occupied with keeping pressure on your bud. by now, with your head thrown back, you’ve already forgotten what you were working on in the first place.

having done this countless times before, reiner’s quickly able to find your dripping entrance. the drag of his tip through your puffy folds causes a ‘shlck’ sound to elicit. reiner smiles to himself; you’re embarrassingly wet. your hips begin to swivel and writhe, that’s how he knows you’re getting as needy as he. choosing not to waste any more time, he pushes himself inside with one swift motion. you cry out from the stretch, already fluttering around the first few inches he gives you. so far, it's just the tip and some, but he's so wide.

“goddamnit, baby . . . i fuckin’ love this pussy,” reiner grunts through clenched teeth. he’d usually start off with a shallow thrust and ease you into it, but he isn’t feeling as patient. every thrust is fast-paced, almost rushed. the impact has you bouncing in his arms, all as he continues his unrelenting efforts.

“s’good, rei— so good,” wavering moans spill past your lips. he hisses when your manicured nails dig into the hot flesh of his firm, round biceps. you squeeze around him until his eyes go rolling back. “i know, mama. i know,” reiner whines and groans, because it’s all he can manage to do. if he was air-headed about you earlier, surely he’s braindead now. he pumps into you rapidly, restlessly, but he still finds a way to make it feel so thorough. that’s probably because he’s fucking huge; incredibly endowed, like every other big and buff part of him. with a cock this thick, how could he not strike every nerve and hit every spot? 

he rolls his hips up into you with breathtaking fervor, fucks into you until he’s balls deep within your pulsating cunt. sweat dripping down his furrowed brow, he rasps out, “can’t wait to fill you up,” sloppy kisses follow, and his tongue slides across yours as he mumbles on about cumming inside, stuffing you full, making you his. you finally know what he’s doing, you should’ve known all along— he’s going to pump his cum into you as deep as he can get it to go. thrust his seed into your pliant womb until he’s fucked a baby into you. 

the mere thought of makin’ you a mama has his head spinning. reiner’s breath catches in his throat, and your sounds heighten in pitch— the pair of you can tell that you’re bound to reach ecstasy. he squats a bit lower, goes a little faster, attempting to propel you both into your orgasms. it’s coming on like an impending wave; your belly tightens, toes curling from where your heels dig into reiner’s strong back.

he knows you’ve come undone once your smooth, ridge-like walls begin to spasm around him, to the point where he can hardly pull back or push in further. he likes to think that it’s your pretty pussy’s way of begging for his cum. still, he doesn’t let up, not until you’re thoroughly impregnated. “jus’ a lil more. hold on ‘fa me, honey, m’kay?” he pleads through throaty whimpers. weakly, you nod. the overstim makes you pant and mewl, biting onto the damp skin of his exposed jugular to try and quiet yourself.

reiner slams you down onto him, the veins in his forearms bulging as he desperately grasps onto the globes of your ass. the resounding slap of skin rings around his tingling ears, lewd sounds floating throughout the otherwise quiet farmhouse.

“g’na let papa fill you up? yeah?” you cry out a weak ‘mhm!’ along with other pleas of how much you want it; want him. his balls twitch and his abdomen goes tense. “m'close,” he gruffly whispers. you decide to spur him on: “g-gimme your babies, papa, i need it!” that’s all he needs to topple over the edge. “oh fuck, mama— m’gonnacum,” reiner’s words jumble together when he comes, coating your insides with warm globs of white. though his thighs never cease their trembling, he still maintains a steady hold on you, keeping your limp frame upright. 

reiner stays inside as a means of keeping all his seed plugged into you, just for good measure. he doubts that he’s got enough energy remaining to round up the cattle after this. his chest heaves slowly, and his hair’s a mess from all that pulling you were doing, but he’s more than satisfied. he's even got this dumb, blissed-out smile on his face to show his content. you're sure he's knocked you up thoroughly by now.

he’ll make sure to buy you a pregnancy test by next morning. 

[puttersmile]

Join the HeartnSol community!

Heart & Sol Month Days 2 & 18

Prompts are "Teasing" and "Lazy"

Oneshot and pics!

The Workaholic's Downfall

After three long days of helping Picky Piggy on her farm, Bobby Bearhug, Hoppy Hopscotch, and Catnap had finally decided they had earned a break.

Dogday, however, had other ideas.

“Come on, y’all!” Dogday barked, standing over the others with his hands on his hips. “We still got hay to stack, fences to check, and the water trough needs cleanin’! We don’t have time to be lazy lumps under a tree!”

"We're not under a tree. We're in a barn." Hoppy complained.

"It doesn't matter!"

Bobby, sprawled out on a soft pile of hay inside Picky's barn, barely cracked one eye open. “Dogday, we’ve been busting our tails for three whole days. We deserve this.”

Hoppy flopped next to her, stretching her ears. “Yeah, cmon, Day! We’ve earned the right to be lazy.”

Catnap, already half-asleep, flicked his tail. “Mhm.”

Dogday huffed, tail lashing. “Y’all are givin’ up! What happened to helpin’ Picky?”

Bobby yawned. “She told us to rest.”

Hoppy snickered. "What happened?! What happened to your voice? What is that accent?"

Dogday blinked confusedly. "What ya'll mean?"

Hoppy sing song mocked playfully. "Old Farmer Dogday-a-skippin down tha lane. We've been workin hard for three days, so stop bein lame!"

That got a laugh from Bobby and Catnap.

Dogday's face turned red.

"I don't...know what you're talking about." He coughed. Hoppy continued.

“But yeah, Bobby's right. So technically, you’re going against Picky's orders, mister hard worker.”

"Cattle Dog."

"Turbo Pup."

"He is absolutely rest-phobic." More giggles.

Dogday's brow twitched. That felt like a challenge.

Bobby patted the ground next to her. “Sit, Dogday. You worked just as hard as us. Just lay down. Five minutes.”

Dogday crossed his arms. “I don’t need a break.”

Catnap flicked his ear looking his brother up and down. “ You look like you do.”

Hoppy grinned. “Maybe the nap thief will come for him if he keeps resisting.”

Dogday narrowed his eyes. “Y’all -uh- you're makin’ stuff up again?”

Bobby shrugged. “Nope. It’s true. The nap thief loves stubborn critters who don’t rest when they’re supposed to.”

Hoppy wiggled her fingers ominously. “He sneaks up, waits ‘til they’re exhausted—then boom! Snatches ‘em right into dreamland.”

Catnap yawned. “He doesn't need to drag me. I go willingly.”

Dogday stared at them. “…That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Bobby rolled onto her side. “Suit yourself.”

Hoppy stretched. “Look if you still need to work. Didn't a sheep girl just move in. Go...I dunno. Herd her around or or something.”

Dogday’s tail wagged low. Irritated.

For a few long seconds, he stood there, fists clenched, tail flicking.

And then—he flopped.

“…Not ‘cause I need a break,” he muttered, curling his arms behind his head. “Just figured someone should guard y’all- ugh-you guys..."

Bobby smirked. “Sure thing my faithful ranch hound.” she couldn't hold back a light hearted giggle.

Hoppy snuggled deeper into the hay. “Toughest guard dog ever.”

Catnap flicked his tail. “I give him five minutes.”

Dogday lasted three.

By the time Picky Piggy came to check on them, all four of them were snoring in an adorable tired heap.

Picky just shook her head. “Took ‘em long enough.”

[leatherfaggotgayscally]

The New Life

Martin had always been the quiet, unassuming type. A software engineer by trade, his days were spent coding, sipping black coffee, and meticulously planning every moment of his life. His evenings were reserved for gaming marathons, vinyl record sessions, or quietly nurturing his bonsai tree. Moving into a small flat on the outskirts of Birmingham was supposed to be a practical step, a chance to save money and focus on work.

The flat wasn’t much, but Martin liked its simplicity. The only peculiar thing was the landlord, a man he had never met. The lease was finalized online, and the key had been left in a lockbox. Every question Martin emailed received curt, almost cryptic replies signed simply, “J.”

One late night, after staying up to debug an infuriating piece of code, Martin collapsed into bed, still wearing his plain grey hoodie and jeans. He drifted off immediately, his laptop humming softly on his desk.

When he woke, his world had changed.

The first thing he noticed was the weight on his chest. Groggily, Martin looked down and saw a thick, gleaming gold chain resting against a black Nike tracksuit. The outfit was completed by a black puffer jacket and a pair of pristine white Nike TNs on his feet.

Panicking, Martin stumbled out of bed and caught his reflection in the mirror. His neatly combed hair was gone, replaced by a sharp buzz cut. His room, once spotless, was a wreck—empty takeaway containers, cans of lager, and scraps of paper were strewn everywhere. His laptop was missing, replaced by a battered Bluetooth speaker blaring grime music at low volume.

His heart racing, Martin snatched his phone off the bedside table, only to find it completely wiped. All his apps, contacts, and files were gone. The only thing left was a single number saved under the name “J.”

Trembling, he pressed the call button.

“’Bout bloody time,” a deep, gravelly voice answered on the first ring. “Come ‘round the back o’ the block. We need a word.”

“Who are you? What’s going on?” Martin stammered.

“Quit yappin’ and get yer arse down here, mate.” The call ended abruptly.

Martin didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to obey. Pulling on the puffer jacket, he stepped into the cold evening air and walked around the back of the building.

There, leaning casually against the wall, was a man in a black puffer jacket and trackies. He was smoking a cigarette, his buzzed head gleaming in the faint glow of the streetlight. His posture was relaxed, but something about him radiated authority.

“’Ere he is,” the man said with a smirk, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Sleep well, bruv?”

Martin stared. “Are you… J?”

“That’s what they call me,” the man said, tapping ash off his cigarette. “So, what d’ya think of yer new look?”

“I hate it!” Martin snapped. “What is this? I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this!”

Jay laughed, his voice rough and mocking. “Come off it, lad. Don’t act like you’re not buzzin’. I’ve seen yer socials, seen all them scally pages you follow. Don’t lie to me.”

Martin’s cheeks flushed. He had spent hours scrolling through photos of lads in tracksuits, admiring their swagger and confidence. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be one.

“This isn’t me,” he insisted, backing away.

Jay took a slow drag of his cigarette and stepped closer. His voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. “Stop pretendin’, mate. This is who you’ve always wanted to be. Now, take a drag o’ this cig and let it sink in.”

“I don’t smoke,” Martin mumbled.

Jay raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Didn’t ask if you did, did I? Now, stop bein’ soft and take it.”

Martin hesitated, but Jay’s imposing presence was too much. Slowly, he took the cigarette. He brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke burned his throat, making him cough, but as he exhaled, everything began to shift.

A strange warmth spread through his body. His muscles tensed and grew, filling out the tracksuit. His back straightened, and his posture shifted to one of casual confidence.

Jay chuckled, clapping Martin on the shoulder. “There ya go, lad. Told ya it’d suit ya.”

Over the next few days, Martin’s life unraveled completely. He quit his office job without a second thought. “Desk jobs are for nerds,” he scoffed when Jay asked him about it. Instead, he took up a hard labor gig at a nearby warehouse. The pay was awful, but Martin didn’t care. He liked the physicality of it, the way it made him feel strong and capable.

Every night, Jay would knock on his door, and they’d head out together. They’d hang around the estate or outside the local chippy, blasting grime music and chatting with Jay’s mates. At first, Martin felt out of place, but as the nights went on, he began to embrace it.

He started rolling cigarettes with ease, perfecting his swagger, and adjusting his tracksuit to show off his gold chain. He even picked up a thick Brummie slang, finding himself talking more like Jay and less like his old, nerdy self.

His flat became a reflection of his new life—messy, lively, and filled with the sound of music and laughter. The Martin who once prided himself on his orderliness and ambition was gone.

One evening, as they leaned against a wall under a dim streetlight, Jay passed him another cigarette.

“Told ya, lad,” Jay said with a smirk. “This is where you belong.”

Martin lit the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke as he nodded. His gold chain glinted in the light, and his buzzed head shone faintly. “Yeah,” he said with a cocky grin. “You were right, mate.”

The transformation was complete. The quiet, bookish Martin was no more. In his place stood a confident scally lad, unbothered and unapologetic.

[moonlight-joy]

Stubborn as Hell

Fandom: Yellowstone

Summary: After getting injured, you insist you’re fine, but Ryan isn’t having it. Frustrated yet gentle, he tends to your wound, refusing to let you push him away. As he carefully patches you up, his quiet concern speaks louder than words. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs, and for the first time, you let him stay.

Pairing: Reader/Ryan

The sun had long since dipped below the Montana horizon, leaving behind only a soft amber glow fading into the darkness. The air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the faint hum of the wind rustling through the trees.

You leaned against the fence, one hand clutching your side, the other gripping the worn wood for support. Blood seeped slowly through the fabric of your shirt, but you ignored it. You could still stand. You could still breathe. That was enough, for now.

Ryan stormed toward you, his boots kicking up dust as he closed the distance between you in long, purposeful strides. His hat was tilted low, but not low enough to hide the anger and worry burning in his eyes.

“Stop pretending that you’re fine! You need first aid!” he snapped, his voice rough with frustration.

You forced a smirk, though it felt weak even to you. “It’s just a scratch.”

Ryan let out a sharp breath, shaking his head as he reached for your arm. You tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, his fingers firm yet careful against your skin.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “Don’t act like you have to handle everything alone.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” he cut in, his tone brooking no argument. “And you’re gonna let me help.”

Without waiting for permission, he pulled a bandana from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your wound, eliciting a sharp hiss from your lips. He didn’t apologize, but the way his fingers lingered against your side, steady and warm, spoke volumes.

“Let’s get inside,” he murmured, his anger giving way to something softer, something deeper. “I ain’t lettin’ you bleed out in the damn dirt.”

You sighed, the fight leaving you as exhaustion settled in. Maybe, just this once, you could let someone else take care of you.

Ryan led you slowly toward the ranch house, his arm hovering close, ready to catch you if you stumbled. You hated feeling weak, hated the vulnerability pressing against your ribs like an iron weight. But Ryan wasn’t letting go—not tonight.

As you reached the porch steps, he paused, his free hand pressing gently against your lower back. “I mean it, darlin’. You scared the hell outta me.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Didn’t mean to.”

His jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply. “You gotta stop thinkin’ you’re invincible.”

A small, tired chuckle slipped from your lips. “I never thought that. Just didn’t want to slow down.”

Ryan shook his head, leading you into the warm glow of the house. “Ain’t about slowin’ down. It’s about stayin’ alive. And I plan on makin’ sure you do.”

He guided you to the couch, kneeling beside you as he unbuttoned the bloodstained fabric of your shirt. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. You let your head fall back against the cushion, watching as he carefully cleaned the wound.

His hands, rough from years of hard work, handled you with more care than you thought possible. Every swipe of the cloth, every careful press of gauze, felt like something more than just first aid. It felt like a promise.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said finally, his voice steady. “But you need to stop bein’ so damn stubborn.”

You smirked, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. “No promises.”

Ryan chuckled, shaking his head before leaning in just a little closer. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep lookin’ after you.”

And for the first time in a long while, you let someone.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

(requested by @silenthopper)

The first time he saw you, Bulkhead never planned to get so wrapped up in you. Damn, he didn't even plan to walk in the park that night, but Sari insisted since there were some cool activities in Central Park. Of course she never mentioned something like a ballet representation and didn't even plan on seeing it.

The first thing that caught Bulkhead's attention was the structure, an open-air theater installed just at the side of the artificial lake, and, of course, the music. Bless his heart, he wasn't so invested in knowing every detail of earth, but he had enough to recognize something beautiful when he heard it. When he finally got his attention towards that structure, he saw a young man, armed with a crossbow, running in a forest made of fake trees, meeting another, dressing something that reminded him of those black birds that he saw sometimes here and there. Prowl had called them crow? He didn't know, but that man had a strange, ominous look. They moved strangely, but it wasn't a strange bad; they moved pretty! Like seeing some birds moving here and there on the concrete, it wasn't made up; it had a purpose.

Then the lights went off, and the forest scenery changed; now the bright and full moon reflected its entirety on a lake made of fabric and glitters. The ruins of an old structure were covered in fake vines and wildflowers. Then, something white appeared, something soft, light, and swift.

Your white tutu stood out on the dark scenography; the small crown on your head shone like a star in the cold space, alongside the diamonds on your gown and your small slipper.

His jaw dropped open, amazed by the scene.

He decided to stay and observe, near enough to see and hear the music but not too close to bother anyone; he just sat there, observing. Bee and Sari, of course, couldn't understand what was so interesting about some people in costumes that like to dance, but there was something captivating for Bulkhead, and that something was you.

Were you real? You seemed pretty real, but you look so…non-human. Up on those two small feet, your graceful movements on the wooden floor, your expression too was completely different. He couldn't describe it, but the only thing that he was able to come up with was beautiful; everything about you was beautiful.

"What is it?" he asked, concentrated but curious.

"Ah, the opera house does these shows every summer. It's ballet…"

"Ah…and…what are they doing?"

"Dancing, of course. It's a kind of dance; I would never do that, but some people like it."

"She seems scared of that man, the one with the black feathers…!

"Uuuuh… It's the Swan Lake, I guess. A girl is turned into a swan by a bad wizard, and a prince tries to save her."

He wasn't sure that he had understood the thing; what he knew was that the curious man with the black feathers was bad because you, the princess, who has the crown and it seems logical, were scared of him, while the other male was protecting you from him… So in the end, Sari's story seemed true!

He had stayed there, curious and fascinated by this curious activity that humans seemed to have created on their own. He wondered if Prowl was able to move like that; he was the most agile of the team after all, and so he stayed there, now curious to know how the story ended, while his group decided to head up to some more interesting activities.

At some point the story had come to an end; the music roared stronger than all the night, all the dancers on the stage, the bad man, the prince, and the princess. Previously, something bad had happened because the prince danced with another one in a black dress, and you seemed like you were crying. He tried to understand the integrity of everything until…. YOU JUMPED? He stood up, panicking, starting to run to where he thought you must have landed! BEHIND THE STAGE!

Poor Bulkhead, he hadn't thought that this was all part of the show like he had missed the finale! He was so genuinely concerned about your well-being that he completely forgot that everything was just fake!

Behind the theater, while the orchestra started to play again after the roar of the applause, you and your companion were slowly getting down from the mechanic scaffold after the last scene; Odette and Siegfried unite in eternity by love in death. You both were completely breathless, just like everyone around. The cheers covered the laugh and the screams from the dancers, everyone so helplessly enthusiastic for the good result of tonight's show.

"Everyone! Everyone!" The maestro tried to hide his happiness too, but he was clearly over the moon: "All of you have been GREAT! But the show is not over! We must end the"

"MOVE MOVE MOVE!"

Suddenly the sound of metal steps startled you all, and the presence of one of those Autobots suddenly changed the atmosphere of the crew.

"Where's she?! Is she okay?!" He started to look around, everywhere! The maestro tried to stop the frantic searching of the bot.

"W-wha-whaT-STOP! Hey hey hey QUIT THIS!" he finally intervened, holding a ballerina all dressed in white, but putting her down gently noticing that she didn't had a crown on her head.

"CUT IT OUT! You can't stay here, out from the backstage!"

"She jumped! How can you not be panicking?! SHE JUST JUMP!"

"WHO JUMPED?!"

"The princess! THE PRINCESS HAS FALLEN! Is she hurt?!"

Everyone needed to make two plus two to realize what he intended and about who, the maestro had enough time to make the orchestra take some more time, excusing himself for some troubles.

"First, no one here is hurt. Secondly, of course she's fine! It's just a spectacle! Look!"

The maestro showed you and the other male looking confused at Bulkhead. Ah…it was true…you were fine! Thanks, Primus! He sighed in relief.

"Oh… Oh, I thought… Primus, I thought something bad had just happened!"

"Oh…" you finally took some courage to speak. "It's…fine. I mean, you must have been influenced by the story and—"

"Yes, yes, yes, everything here is amazing! NOW MOVE AWAY! Hero or not, you're stopping us! EVERYBODY BACK ON STAGE!"

He muffled an apology while everyone moved between his legs trying to get on stage on time, trying to look like it was just a small delay. That wasn't even backstage, he thought; it was the park ground… That grumpy man had no right to tell him to not stay there… Nah, those were some silly excuses; he was just too embarrassed to admit that he had looked like a fool.

You, on the other hand, have found this event quite cute.

The next day he came back; he found out that this kind of event was supposed to stay for a few more days, and he decided to take this opportunity to properly apologize to you and, of course, to the rest of the crew.

"Bring some flowers! And launched them!" said Bee, laughing. "On TV, they do this every time!"

And of course, that day, just a few hours away from the starting of the spectacle, everybody in that half-made backstage found himself under a curious rain of flowers.

"Look!"

"What's happening?"

"Some prank?"

By looking around, you spotted the figure of the same giant of the previous day, occupied by throwing flowers… A lot of flowers—the cargo of a small truck was full of them!

When you approached him, he was still focused on that, not acknowledging your presence from the other side of the small fence that delineated the area.

"Hi!" He jumped, throwing on himself a bunch of those flowers, surprised by your sudden appearance.

"Oh, um… Hi!" He scoffed away a few flowers. "Haven't seen you there… You're very good at sneaky!"

"First time someone said that to me." You chuckled a little, noticing then his nervousness. "But I'll take that as a compliment! So… Are you still checking if I'm hurt?"

"No, no, no! I…wanted to apologize about yesterday; I didn't mean to ruin…whatever thing that was; I was just so so worried!"

"It's alright! Even heroes can make mistakes, right? ...so…" You moved away a few petals from your shoulder. "About the flowers…"

"Oh yes! My friend Bumblebee told me to throw them!"

"…AH! Oh my!" You started to laugh; Bulkhead still looked confused. "At the end of the show, not during the rehearsal!"

"Oh…,he scratched his head. "I had mistaken…again…"

You took one of the flowers, one of the few blue ones that stand alongside those sugary pink that prevail on the multitude, and put it on your ear.

"No, it's just the cutest thing that could have happened to us… So… Bulkhead, right? Can I presume that you enjoyed the show?"

"Oh! Enjoyed?!" His face converted into a giant grin, especially knowing that you knew his name. "I loved it! You were amazing back there! I don't need to breathe, but WOW, you were breathtaking! You were like…flying on that thing; you were…you are…um…"

He felt the weight of his words, feeling a rush of awkwardness on him, realizing that he let his mouth move faster than his thought.

"…I think you were so pretty…"

Your mesmerizing look was on him, and…you started to laugh again, mostly for the nervousness and the cuteness that this big robot had brought you. You were used to compliments, critiques, or children that think of you as some kind of fairy, but receiving a big amount of them from a big robot that saves the day as an occupation? That was…new! For a moment, he thought that you may have found him ridiculous, but then you offered him your hands for a handshake.

"Thank you, Bulkhead… I'm Y/N, by the way!"

From that day on, the biggest of the Autobots became the biggest of you fans, too.

You couldn't resist, but besides the fact that he was able to destroy everything thanks to his herculean strength, he was surprisingly adorable for his way of acting around you. When facing an enemy, he was unstoppable, courageous, and prone to the attack more than the thinking. But around you, he was completely different!

He was shy, unsure about how to say things and how to express them. He was clumsy, things that you had found almost cute, but he had tried several times to be careful about things that he knew people cared about.

You had tried to invite him to some of your shows, but he had to decline many of those invitations, with a heavy heart too. The theater was too small for him!

Well, he didn't know that the first ballerina of the opera house had a few friends here and there! And how could they deny the desire of one of Detroit's protectors to enjoy one of their spectacles?! When he found out that they did recreate a nice place just for him, he couldn't hold his joy!

You even found time to spend with him on some dates, as you love to say, just to tease him a little, a thing that made him look even more cute than ever!

But mostly, he loved when he could find some time to see you practice. He loved how concentrated you were when you needed to practice one of your performances; he loved the passion that you emitted from your eyes! You were a contrast, delicate and strong, gentle but powerful, elegant and passionate. He couldn't not stare at you, admiring your tiny foot supporting your entire body without a trace of fatigue.

He could have never even dreamed of doing something like that.

He had found himself, in his alone time, painting things that reminded him of you, like flowers, river streams, or those animals that gave the name of the first spectacles that he had seen you in. And yet, he never found the courage to give you one of those, too embarrassed that you could find them silly or stupid…damn, you would have found him stupid.

"You know, Bulkhead," you spoke on one of those many walks in the park near him, "I was wondering, would you save me from a deception if it was the case?"

"Uh? Why do you say such a thing? …ARE THEY TARGETING YOU?! ARE THEY NEAR?!"

You calmed him down, caressing his giant servos.

"No, no, Bulky, no! No one is targeting me! It's just a guess! It's just that you remind me of a knight… so strong, so brave… It just makes my heart bump a little!"

You made his spark completely go shut down… He scratched his head again, coughing a little.

"I'm…not sure if I'm a knight, but...I'm pretty sure if one of those boozos tries to hurt you, they'll face me first!"

He truly was your knight!

[splatashahowlett]

outcasts

logan howlett x reader

you've always been on your own wavelength. always on another planet; in your own little world. you couldn't help it, what you could create in your head was far more interesting than whatever people around you could say or do.

your favorite hobby was to try and find poetry in everything you could see: a willow tree? Do you mean the reincarnation of zeus's nurse? the same one ophelia died under when she realized hamlet could never give her the love she needed?

seeing life this way was way more fun, and if being made fun of was the price to pay to keep your internal peace intact then it was worth it. kids weren't really kind or comprehensive toward your unique mindset. now that you were a grown-up; nothing really changed. you were still enjoying what life gave you with your own approach and people still made fun of you.

except for one person: logan.

which was quite paradoxical because he was known for his judgmental stares and mocking scoffs. he never grew any soft spot for anybody and then you came around, and he fell down the rabbit hole quicker than ever. he was completely mesmerized by you and threatened anybody who dared to even think about mocking your... behavior. at first, you didn't even notice him but you started enjoying his presence more and more. and you finally joined him in the love spiral he was a prisoner of.

logan was standing on the school's porch, cigar in his mouth, watching the students run inside as the rain came pouring down.

the storm was near.

but you didn't care; you stayed still.

"come inside," he called over his shoulder. "get outta the rain." logan called out.

you stayed silent, not even paying attention to him. you were looking at the sky.

"you're gettin' soaked." he grunted. everybody else could have heard a flicker of annoyance in his voice but you knew it was concern and care.

logan glared at you, the annoyance on his face growing. he knew you could be stubborn, which he loved about you, but he didn't want you to catch a cold.

"stop bein' so damn stubborn and get yer ass inside." he growled, his voice commanding but still gentle.

you finally turned around and acknowledged his presence. "I like the rain" you simply answered.

logan frowned, his brow furrowing. he didn't like the fact that you were willingly getting drenched in the downpour.

"you're gonna catch a cold." he grumbled, the gruffness in his voice masked his worry.

"I'll heal"

logan couldn't help but smile softly; he fell harder for you each day. "come with me" you added

the wolverine sighed, his annoyance faded slightly at your request. he can never say no to you, despite his gruff demeanor.

"fine. but we ain't gonna be out here long." he grumbled, stubbing out his cigar on the porch before walking over to you.

he walked down the steps and stopped beside you, his broad frame blocked part of the rain. his arms folded over his chest, and his yellow eyes surveyed the storm.

"I thought you'd be inside, dry and warm." he commented; knowing you liked to stay under the covers, safe from the harsh reality of a world against mutants.

"Isn't it soothing? standing under the rain. knowing you cannot escape it; feeling like it washes you clean?" you said, still in your own bubble.

"guess I hadn't thought of it like that." he admits gruffly. he listens to your words, actually pausing to consider what you say. his eyes roam over your face, studying your expression as you speak. his thoughts wander, remembering how he found your ability to detach from reality strangely comforting. It made you seem almost ethereal.

"you're different from anyone I've ever met before." he spoke up, his deep voice barely above a whisper, almost lost in the howling of the wind.

"you're different from anyone I've ever met before" you said back, looking at him lovingly. he smiled, a rare sight if anybody asked him but something quite common if they asked you. he was still struggling to get used to the softer side of himself that you seemed to bring out, even after all this time.

the storm was raging around you but seemed to fade into the background as he looked into your eyes.

his heart quickened, the gruff exterior faltering as he held your gaze.

"thank you for not making fun of me"

his expression softened even further, his rough exterior crumbling even more. He knew that you've been ridiculed for who you are, and he hated that.

"of course, I won't make fun of ya." he replied "I like you the way you are."

you wrap your hands around his middle; burying your face in his chest.

caught off guard by your unexpected embrace, it took logan a moment to reciprocate. hesitantly, he wraped his arms around you, holding you against him.

he could feel your head resting on his chest, his heart rate increased as he realized how intimate this moment was. the rain continued to fall around you, each drop adding to the surreal atmosphere of the moment. It created a strange sense of intimacy, the cool water running over your bodies while you held each other. he tightened his arms around you, pulling you closer to him.

"could you stay with me?" you pleaded

he hesitated for a moment, not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't used to being asked to stay.

"Yeah." He said gruffly, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. "I'll stay."

"no, I mean, forever." you raised your head, looking at him. "I don't think I can live without you anymore" you confessed.

logan's heart thunders in his chest, the unexpected declaration taking him completely by surprise. his eyes widened slightly, revealing the depth of his emotions.

"forever...?" he repeated, his voice soft and almost unsure. he never thought you would ask that, but hearing those words from you, it ignited something deep within him. he looked down at you, his hand moving to gently cup your cheek.

you slowly nodded. "now that I know what it's like to be loved by you and to love you in return I don't think I can manage not to"

your words hit logan like a ton of bricks. he's never heard anyone say something so raw and heartfelt, and it hit him right in the chest. he went speechless, his heart hammered in his chest. but then, his expression softened, and he pulled you even closer against him.

"I feel the same way, darlin'," he muttered. "can't imagine not havin' you in my life anymore."

and you just smiled, because in your world, words weren't required to translate a soul. and logan wanted more than anything to be part of it, so he stayed silent and held you tightly against him, his fingers gently tracing small patterns on your back. the storm continued to rage around the both of you, but it felt right: being in his arms felt right.

logan honestly had no idea if what you just said meant that you two were an official thing but he couldn't bring himself to care over such a foolish detail. as long as he could hold you as much as he wanted, he was a happy man.

[goldenherc9]

I’m a gay college student with a tendency to get depressed. My friends have been suggesting I start exercising as a way to keep myself from getting too depressed. This new gym that opened in my neighborhood sounds cool….

Herculean Gains: The Ultimate Transformation

Ethan hesitated at the entrance of Herculean Gains. The gym was massive, filled with the sound of clanking weights and deep, masculine grunts. His friends had urged him to start working out to help with his depression, and this place had just opened nearby.

He swallowed nervously, adjusting his hoodie. The guys inside were huge—tall, broad, powerful. They radiated confidence, unlike him. Still, he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Yo, new guy!” a deep, commanding voice called out.

Ethan turned and nearly stumbled. Towering over him was Hercules Gold, the gym’s owner—a massive, bronzed alpha with thick, bulging muscles barely contained by his sweat-drenched tank. His cocky smirk sent a shiver down Ethan’s spine.

“You look lost, bro,” Hercules said, crossing his massive arms. “You wanna lift, or you wanna change?”

Ethan frowned. “I… I just wanna get in better shape. I get kinda down sometimes, and—”

Hercules cut him off with a booming laugh. “Yeah, nah. You don’t need therapy, lil’ dude. You need Himbo Juice.”

Before Ethan could react, Hercules shoved a massive green shaker into his hands. The liquid inside glowed thick and powerful.

“Drink,” Hercules ordered.

Something about his voice made Ethan obey without question. He tilted the bottle back and chugged.

BOOM.

Heat erupted in his core, spreading like wildfire. His hoodie split down the middle, revealing his chest ballooning outward, pecs inflating into thick, heavy slabs of muscle dusted with hair.

His arms surged in size, biceps bulging into thick, veiny powerhouses, triceps swelling to match. His skinny legs exploded with mass, his jeans shredding apart as his quads became tree trunks of pure strength, thick gym shorts forming in their place.

His face sharpened, jawline squaring, lips curling into a cocky, arrogant smirk. His soft, styled hair transformed into a short, messy jock cut. His mind... shifted.

No more overthinking. No more sadness. No more gay thoughts.

Only gains, chicks, and pure alpha dominance.

Ethan—no, EJ—flexed, admiring his godly physique in the mirror. His new deep, confident voice rumbled out.

“Haha, fuck yeah, bro! Look at these fuckin’ gains!” He grabbed his pecs, bouncing them arrogantly. “Ain’t no room for weak shit no more!”

Hercules smirked. “Atta boy. Welcome to the alpha life.”

EJ grinned, rolling his massive shoulders. Depression? Gone. Thinking too much? Fuck that. He had only one mission now—lifting, smashing chicks, and being a fuckin’ alpha king.

Yo EJ glad ya made it to the gym brah, keep up those gainz and smashin those chicks and bein the fuckin Alpha u are! Remember to recomend this gym to all ur college fags and get em on the gainzformation train broski! - Herc

[shadowcitrine]

Sunbathing

Before the outbreak there's a girl who keeps teasing Daryl.

Daryl's pov. Angry Daryl. Daryl and named OC. Kind of dirty.

18+ You're responsible for the content you consume.

First post nerves.

Of course she was here! She was everywhere he fuckin’ went. It was like she knew when he needed space and had some sick twisted need to devour what little time he carved out for himself. That stupid fuckin’ Mather's girly is just laying out by the river bank, arms beneath her head like she owns the whole god damned river and the sun is shining down on her over the tree tops like it agrees with her.

Picking up the fishing pole, Daryl's fist tightened around it, his face screwing up in anger makin’ his whole head hurt twice as much. He lets everyone walk all over him, but not anymore, not today. Especially not stupid Mercy who parades around in her dumb tiny shorts and ugly cut off shirts.

Taking the pole over to a shady spot he throws himself down, landing with a grunt. Digging through the little box of feathers he keeps in a tin till he finds a few small ones to tie on. If Mercy is watching him behind those dark glasses of hers he can't tell, not that he was lookin’ anyway. Not that he cares.

He cast the line, sticking the pole in the ground to light a cigarette and wait. She hasn't said a word and it's so unlike her that he thinks she has to be asleep. It's the only time she ain't asking him a million questions or trying to order him around. He stamps out the first butt and lights another. Takes him nearly all of the second one before he can hear the water trickling by beyond the anger pounding around in his head. Takes him even longer to realize his line has too much slack. The reel clicks quietly, a familiar lullaby that usually helps empty his head but not this time, not today.

Mercy still ain't talking. It's the longest they've ever been around each other without her at least sayin’ hi and now it's bothering him. He came out here for peace and now her silence is eating him alive. Not like bein’ around her does him any good. Never has, not even when they were kids. Just to try and take his mind off of her he starts reeling in the line, puffing on the smoke between his teeth but the harder he tries not to think about her the more he does.

That girl sighs and it draws his attention away from his half hearted attempt at fishing. She's still just layin’ there, knees now bent. Her shorts are digging into the upper parts of her thighs making little dips there that make his fingers itch to touch. She's just some annoying girl that he doesn't even like.

Then she moves again, rolling to her knees in the dirt, dead grass clinging to her back she's digging in a small cooler. Picking out some red white and blue ice pop she stuffs the wrapper inside before flopping back down on the ground. Still, not a single word out of her. She sick? High?

The more he looks at her painting her lips with the cherry end of the ice cream the more he's bothered by her silence because he can't help but see something else in his head. The way her tongue swipes across her bottom lip collecting the sticky sweetness there makes him tense in a way he shouldn't be around her but can't seem to help.

“Why ain't you sayin’ nothin’?” He asks. It just sort of bubbled up.

She takes her time answering sucking on the end of it making a soft lewd noise that makes his dick twitch. “Thought I talked too much Dixon?” there isn't even any anger in it. She's acting like she isn't even bothered by him being there watching her suck half the ice cream in to her mouth like she suckin’ cock.

“You do.” He drops the spent butt on the ground, his fishing pole forgotten.

She hums again around her snack, lips making a slurping noise around it like they do on titty channels that come on late at night. “Want me to ask you how you got that shiner?” She turns her head to look at him and if she notices him move his leg to hide his half chub she doesn't say.

Mercy runs a tongue along the underside of it catching drops of it before it can land on her tits and he's silently hoping she misses just one. Then his dick is coming alive thinking of her swearing the melted sugar water across them, swirling the red end over a nipple until it's rock hard. He don't need to be thinking about her like that but he can't look away.

She sits up holding in her mouth, cheeks hollowing around it and he swears she's doing it on purpose. No, she knows what she's doing and this–this tease is secretly eating up the attention. Mercy grabs the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She isn't wearing a bra or even one of her bright colored biking tops, no, she isn't wearing anything at all now ‘cept them frayed shorts of hers.

“Put your shirt back on Mercy!”

She lickin on the end for a moment, watching him watch her. He can't not think about how her ice cream is smaller than his dick. “Stop actin’ all mad.” She drops her head back.

Stop actin’ mad? Stop actin’ mad! She's doing this to fuck with him cause he doesn't wanna talk to her. He can see it in the way she smiles at him before biting off the last of the cherry flavor. Knows it when she leans back on her elbows to push her tits out on full display. She does all this shit just to fuck with him and he can't even figure out why! She treats him like he's nothin’! Tryin’ to push all his god damned buttons! Fuck her and fuck this!

He has to readjust himself as subtly as he can just to stand up. Even being mad at her doesn't stop his cock from throbbing, doesn't stop the ache. Then he's mad all over again because this is Mercy he's thinking about. Bitchy, awful, needy Mercy who comes over and smokes pot with Merle. The same girl who laughs whenever his brother calls him some stupid girl's name. This same girl who tries to lay against him on the couch when Merle leaves to go get more beer because she's lonely.

He's shaking his head. “I ain't in the mood for your shit. ‘M goin’ home.” He hates her. Hates the pink strip of colored hair that falls over her shoulder. Hates the way his brain has already memorized the trail of blue melt that's dripping on the swell of her breast and racing for her dusky nipple.

“If you stay–” she shouts loud enough for him to hear. “I'll let you touch em'.”

He even hates himself at this moment because now his feet are planted in the ground. Needing a distraction he lights a cigarette he doesn't even smoke. “The fuck you think I wanna touch your tits for?”

Mercy shrugs. “You keep staring.”

He snorts a breath of air through his nose. None of it even means anything to her, she's just messing with him. Always messing with him and he was tired of being nice. “You're the one who whipped em’ out to get me to look. What did you expect?”

Her face twists up. “I'm sun bathing asshole! I was the one who was here first!”

“And you ain't pretending to give the world's shittiest blow job with that thing?” He takes a hit off his cigarette nodding to the sweet melting in her hand. Her face is turning red, the tips of her ears are burning in embarrassment. He's turned the tables on her, called her out on her little game and she can't take it. Some distant part of him feels an inkling of pride at that. Her lip curls and he's moving towards her one slow step at a time.

“I changed my mind. Get fucked!” She throws down her ice cream in the grass.

Letting out a soundless laugh he's next to her now. Daryl's looking down his nose at her, the blue melt finally falling off the tip of her breast. “You wanna suck cock? Here it is.” Then he's grabbing himself through his jeans.

He blames the fact that there's no blood left in his head for why he's acting like this. That he needs her good and pissed off and disgusted all so she'd quit trying to get on his nerves all the damn time. He wants her to hate him as much as he hates her. Only, she ain't pushing him away. No, she's licking her sticky lips as she looks up at him behind those big ugly glasses.

“What? Can't figure out how a belt works?” He asks her. He's goading her to yell at him, but she hasn't yet. He sticks the smoke in his lips bending down to grab her hand. He pushes her fingers against the buckle when he stands back up. “C'mon! You want it so bad you're going to have to take it out yourself.”

Mercy bites her bottom lip as she twists to sit on her knees in front of him. His heart stutters in his chest when she begins to tug on the strap and he nearly laughs. She was so desperate she was actually going to suck him off. She's silent for probably the second time in her whole life as she undoes his belt.

[love-toxin]

Sightseeing -> Navia

plot: you only came to Fontaine for a vacation, but you may not be leaving without some added baggage.

(cws: yan!navia, gn!darling, implied friends -> forced lovers, navia bein a bit weird & creepy, neediness, mention of drugging, preamble to kidnapping)

wc: 1.4k

At times, you often wished you had been born in this beautiful place. The cool, clear waters of Fontaine lapped at the sands just down the hill from where you stood, the same crystal-blue colour as the cloudless sky that passed overhead. The people and the city were one thing, they were impressive in their own industrious and elegant ways; but the sea was the real reason you came to Fontaine. You couldn't live the rest of your life without getting at least a glimpse of the exotic beauty of such a place. 

The call of your name soon broke you from your reverie however, and you turned your head to spot the golden-haired doll of a woman you had been travelling with thus far. She was kind, and she was a beauty all in her own right, but you tensed at the sight of her hurrying up the hill with her handlers at her sides. Your chin tilted back to face the open waters, and you took in one last deep, cleansing breath of fresh air before you would be set upon by your tour guide and newest friend. 

“There you are!” Navia puffed from the exercise with a smile on her soft, ruby-stained lips. “I worried for you, you know! I was afraid you'd gotten lost. Why did you just wander away, my sweet?”

Those adoring pet names were endearing, of course, if not just the slightest oddity from a woman you didn't know particularly well. But you just offered her a smile and an excuse off the top of your head, not wanting to pain such a lovely, generous soul as she. 

“I just saw a good view and wanted to take it in. My apologies, miss Navia.” 

She shook her head with a huff. “Oh! You and your formalities. I told you, the ‘miss’ isn't needed! You can call me by my name, darling.” She sidled up close to you, her dress clinking with all manner of jewel-studded trinkets as she moved. With a wave of her hand, she sent her handlers further down the hill to ease up and give both of you some space. “Well, let's see this view, then.” 

Overhead, the breeze whistled gently as it flowed through the trees at your backs. You turned your gaze away from Navia and back towards the sea–but you felt hers drift towards you instead, the beautiful view lost on her as she focused her gentle eyes on you instead. 

“...You know, if you ever wanted to live in Fontaine-”

“My home is elsewhere, Navia.” An ill feeling fell over your heart at cutting her off so abruptly, but you knew her enough by now to know that she wouldn't stop once an idea was in her head. She would keep going and going and going until she achieved whatever goal she decided on, and unfortunately for her your permanent residence here was not up for debate. You had family back home, friends, a life; and no matter how much you enjoyed your time with her, that would not supercede the loves and responsibilities you had back home. “I'm sorry.”

She turned her head away, effortlessly concealing the fall of her expression as she finally focused her gaze towards where yours was. With a sigh, she said nothing, just stared out at the ocean's crystalline waters and the smooth stone arches of the aquabus lines, all converging on the magnificent palaces of Fontaine's capital city rising out from the blue. Between the sky and the sea, the city much resembled a pearl cushioned between two halves of a giant, aquamarine oyster shell. 

The two of you stood there for quite awhile, looking out across the rippling sea. Even from up high you could smell the salt from where fresh and seawater mingled together, and the splashes of ocean birds and fish hopping up and out of the water each caught your eye. It was as if every moment you watched something new was unfolding. That was why you loved the sea, and why you were sure Navia was trying so desperately to pull you back towards it. 

“I'm leaving for home tomorrow morning.” From your peripheral, you caught sight of her flinching and whipping her head to stare at you, eyes wide with panic for only as long as it took you to return her gaze–by then she had steeled herself, though she still couldn't contain her tight-lipped frown. “Will you take me to the port? I'd like you to be the last sight I take in before I leave.” You smiled at her, and though the thought of you leaving so soon clearly still disturbed her, she could barely help the giddy twinkle in her eyes at having you show her such a beautiful smile. Just for her. That was how she saw it. 

“When will you be back?” Her voice rang so timidly now, so unlike her usual boldness that it took you aback. But you offered her some meager reasoning of ‘whenever you next had time’ and ‘so long as you had the mora’ and she believed everything she wanted to believe. In her mind, you were sure the best day for you to return would be the soonest you could possibly manage. She agreed albeit sadly, and you nudged her shoulder in a bid to cheer your new friend up. 

“Hey, it's okay. I'll return soon, alright? Maybe you can even come visit me in my home sometime, when things cool down over there. Then I could show you around my own hometown.” Emboldened, perhaps by Navia's own friendliness and candor she'd shown since you'd arrived, you reached out and swept a strand of her golden hair from her eyes. Your hand came to rest just by her cheek–but before you could pull it away, she reached up her own and held yours there, her breath hitched on her parted lips. 

“Promise?” She pleaded, eyes wide and so sweet your heart ached. “You won't leave me?”

“Not forever.” You shook your head, a bit surprised at her eagerness but still not without your comforting smile. “We had too much fun together for me not to come back.” 

You could've sworn she mouthed “Oh, thank Archons,” as she tilted her head back in bliss, only to tilt it back down with an eruption of laughter that–for some reason–left you with a sense of unease at how erratic and played-out it was. But again, her oddities seemed just that to you, and you would once again brush off a warning sign that you would later learn the terrifying consequences of. She squeezed your hand harder, and a soft yelp off your lips was the only reason she let it go though her grip felt like it would never loosen otherwise. 

“Then come! Let's return to Poisson–we must have a celebration in your honour. Snacks and all! We have to send you off the right way, don't you think?” Navia linked arms with you as the moment passed, and before you could get one last look at the view you'd been longing to see for this whole trip, she began dragging you down the hill back towards her handlers, who would then guide the two of you back down the path towards the little, hidden village. 

You were such a sweet, gentle soul, the most tender Navia had ever had the pleasure of meeting. You were more intriguing than the Traveler, more elegant than the Justice; beautiful and glorious in equal measure, more poised than even her own Archon. Yes, it was on par with blasphemy, but it was truth in Navia’s eyes–you were more than all of Teyvat’s most incredible people combined, none of them could even hold a candle to you. And for that, she would ensure you would not slip out of her grasp. She would find a way. 

She had a whole night, a whole banquet, and plenty of trust from you that you would never suspect your friend of anything. Something poured in your drink, a well-timed execution of play-acting to frighten you, and perhaps you would fall into her arms without her even having to lift a finger. 

[jam3sacaster]

“What do ‘ya want me to do to ‘ya?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Hellbent on pleasing you after an argument, Declan allows you to take control…

18+ FANFIC / SMUT! Short work! Something a lil different for Declan 💋 Reader character aged at 21.

Observing the most magnificent view from the bedroom window of The Priory, your heart leaped at the wintery scene — blankets of glacial snow covering the vast lawn, snowdrops billowing in the arctic breeze & tiny badger prints making a path under the grand oak tree. “Feeling better yet?” A familiar voice spoke from behind you. No, I am not, you thought to yourself. It was often that you and Declan had arguments, but they were monumental when you did — thunderous screaming matches that often ended in Declan having one too many a whiskey and you, retreating to your bedroom in a rouge mass of tears. “Ahh, come on. You’ve got to speak to me at some point.” He huffs, puffing on his briar wood pipe. No, I don’t, you think to yourself again.

Eagerly catching sight of the badger that had created the tiny path, you gasp in amazement and shuffle to the end of your bed. “If ya’ won’t speak to me, at least let me make it up to ‘ya.” Declan tuts, sitting next to you now, clouding your vision with pipe smoke. Not waiting for your response, Declan takes hold of your arm and lays you down on the bed, drinking in as much of your body as he could from under your thick, emerald-green woollen jumper and black trousers. “What do ‘ya want me to do ‘ya?” He asks, voice gruff and wanting. “Oh, come off it, Declan. You hate not being in control.” Eyes rolling as you mumble. “But you love bein’ bossy. Just tell me what to do.” He urges you, kneeling beside you.

“Hmm, well. I’m not in the mood, really. So, maybe lick me to get me ready.” You begin shuffling out of your trousers, but Declan takes over, removing them and subsequently peeling your vile paprika-orange pants from your cunt. Lying between your legs, Declan wrapped his rugged arms around your thighs, drawing your heat closer to him. “How do ya’ want me to do it?” He asks, hazelnut moustache bristling against your folds, making your thighs tremble in anticipation. “Gentle and slow. Like how you did it when we first got together.” You respond, grabbing at your own breasts lustfully. Declan began to circle your pink bud with his pointed tongue, flicking haphazardly after a moment and waiting for your soft whimpers. His coated lips took your clit between them, sucking softly. Your slender hand gripped firmly around his ringletted curls, moans increasing in frequency. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” You groan, back arching in ecstasy. “Good.” Declan spoke through a mouthful of your wet cunt. “No, I don’t want to cum yet. I want to sixty-nine.” You moan, prompting Declan to free himself of his beige outfit. “Top or bottom?” He questions, devilish smirk creating tension in your stomach. You point to your soft belly, and Declan lowers himself onto you, being careful not to apply all of his weight.

The scene that played out was nothing short of heavenly. Declan’s cock was buried inside your throat, restricting your breathing and releasing a stream of tears from your glassy eyes. The Irishman, however, was treating your cunt like the most delectable banquet, grunting under your heat and leaving a trail of saliva hanging from his lips. Gyrating your hips towards his mouth, you rode out your orgasm in deafening moans — or the most you could manage through the girth of Declan’s cock. Thereupon, your moans were stifled by the emergence of Declan’s hot, sweet load pumping into your throat, making your eyes bulge from the sockets with pleasure. His orgasmic grunts rose to the most magnificent crescendo.

Pulling back to lie next to you, body sticky with sweat, Declan lit a cigarette and panted in exhaustion. “You’re rather good at following orders.” You joked, eyeing up his cock, still proudly at half-mast. “And you’re fuckin’ good at being bossy. Like I said.” Declan replied.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 19 - We Loved Each Other Then

Summary: The Gilded Cage. Kate and Arthur attend an exclusive garden party hosted by the Mayor of Saint Denis. As the night progresses, their mutual desire intensifies.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

A/N: This is a long one folks, and I must admit I’m very proud of it. 15k words! Technically this chapter is unfinished, but I've been in a slump lately so I want to publish what I do have instead of making everyone wait (for god knows how long it'll take me to finish this)

TW: Slight NSFW. Adult content 18+.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

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

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Bang!

Shot and a miss. Exhaling sharply, Kate repositioned her stance, squaring her shoulders as she steadied her grip on the revolver. Her thumb gently pulled back the hammer until it locked with a soft, almost inaudible click. Closing one eye to better focus, she zeroed in on her target—a cluster of glass bottles that dangled from a weathered tree branch, swaying gently in the breeze like strange, delicate ornaments. The soft clinking of glass was a stark contrast to the tense silence that enveloped her. She exhaled slowly, steadying her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

Yet another miss. 

From behind her came a faint chuckling, disrupting the quiet concentration. Frustrated, Kate lowered the revolver and turned around to face Arthur. He stood a few feet away, a bemused expression on his face, his hands nonchalantly resting on his gun belt as he observed her attempts.

"It’s useless," Kate grumbled with irritation. "I’m just no good at hitting moving targets. Why can’t I stick to my bow?"

The revolver felt foreign and cumbersome in her hand, more a symbol than a tool she could claim mastery over. Although she knew the basics of shooting, her true proficiency lay in close-quarters combat—wielding lighter, more agile weapons that felt like natural extensions of her body, not the cold, impersonal steel of the gun she now held.

Arthur’s chuckle softened as he walked towards her, an understanding smile playing on his lips. "The world’s changin’, Kate," he began, gentle yet firm. "These days, everyone’s got a gun, and out here, bein’ quick on the draw can mean the difference between life and death. It’s not just about being able to shoot, but being able to do it under pressure."

He reached for the revolver, his fingers deftly opening the cylinder to check the empty shells. "Let’s reload and try again," he suggested, pulling a handful of bullets from his belt. "You’ll get the hang of it."

The afternoon had stretched long and hot, the sun a relentless observer as Kate and Arthur stood in the secluded clearing. They’d been at this for hours—ever since the day Kate made that promise to Arthur, he had been adamant about her shooting practice. The sessions began with large, immobile targets that seemed forgiving, but as the days wore on, the challenges increased. Now, they were onto the smallest, most unforgiving targets of all: glass bottles swinging unpredictably from a gnarled oak branch.

Kate had managed to clip the tree itself a few times, its bark chipped where her bullets had strayed. But the elusive bottles, dancing in the gentle breeze, remained intact. Frustration was evident in her stance, her shoulders tense and her grip on the revolver overly tight.

As she prepared for another attempt, Arthur closed the distance between them. His presence was a palpable heat at her back, his chest touching her as he leaned in to adjust her stance. "Keep both eyes open," he murmured, his voice a low rumble near her ear, sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the day. His large hand slid down her arm to adjust her grip gently. "And give your dominant arm some slack to brace for the recoil," he instructed, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin, causing her to inhale slowly.

Her heart hammered in her chest, the closeness of his body overwhelming her senses. The rough timbre of his voice, the heat of his breath tinged with the scent of gunpowder and the wild, earthy musk that was uniquely Arthur, filled her with a dizzying mix of concentration and desire.

"But the target keeps moving," Kate protested weakly, almost a whisper.

Arthur's hands then moved from her arms to her waist, his fingers splayed wide over the fabric of her shirt, anchoring her. "Watch the movement," he advised, his lips nearly grazing the shell of her ear. "Don't turn your body, just pivot your arm."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kate tried to focus on the swaying targets. Arthur's hands on her hips spread warmth through her body, it was comforting yet arousing. 

“And always shoot on empty lungs,” his deep voice was low in her ear.

With a determined exhale, she squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

The shot rang out, a sharp crack in the quiet of the clearing. Wood splintered from the tree, just a hair's breadth from a bottle. A near miss. She let out a frustrated sigh and turned to face Arthur, his proximity suddenly more pronounced as she looked up into his eyes, their blue depths flickering with amusement and something deeper, more intense.

“I’m starting to think you’ve given me an impossible task just to watch me suffer,” she said with sarcasm and a playful challenge.

Arthur's smile was slow and knowing as he took the revolver from her hand. “It ain’t impossible, darlin',” he spoke, voice deep and reassuring. “Just takes some practice.” His fingers brushed against hers as he took the gun, sending a spark of electricity through her. He stepped back, leaving a cold void in his wake where his warmth had been moments before, his eyes never leaving hers as he prepared to demonstrate.

Arthur glanced back, with hint of a challenge as he readied himself. "Watch closely now," he said, voice low and teasing. He raised the revolver, his posture relaxed and confident. Within moments, he swiftly pulled the trigger three times in quick succession.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each shot rang out, sharp and clear. One by one, the bottles exploded into shards of glass, glinting as they scattered in the afternoon sun. He turned to Kate with a triumphant smirk, holstering the gun with a flourish that made her roll her eyes.

"Show-off," she chided, her annoyance mixed with reluctant admiration. She crossed her arms, watching as he basked in the glory of his flawless performance. He was enjoying himself, and there was something incredibly attractive about his playful confidence.

Since settling into Shady Belle, Arthur's days were a whirlwind of activity. He was constantly on the move—securing provisions for the gang, filling the camp's coffers, and executing the myriad of tasks Dutch dictated. Moments of leisure were few and fleeting, often just quick exchanges over dinner where he'd share the day's events with Kate, or the precious few minutes each night when they could find solace in each other's arms on their cramped cot. For Kate, these snippets of time together were bittersweet, underscored by a yearning for more—more time, more closeness, more of a life beyond the relentless demands of gang life. Their commitments left scant space for the intimacy and tenderness both desperately needed.

Arthur chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Just proving a point, sweetheart. It’s all in the technique."

Kate's competitive spirit flared up, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. "Alright, then. If it’s so easy, how about a challenge?" she proposed, her tone light but her gaze intense. "Bet you can't handle my weapons as well as I can."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so? What's the wager?"

"If I hit the next target, you'll let me teach you about my knives. And not just the basics—I mean really learn them," Kate stated confidently, her previous frustration now fueling her determination.

Arthur’s smile widened, "alright, you’ve got yourself a deal," he replied, his voice tinged with genuine eagerness. “But if you miss, you have to spend the whole day practicing with the revolver, no complaints." He teased.

Arthur's fascination with Kate's weaponry wasn't just about adding another skill to his repertoire; it was deeply personal, a gateway into understanding the complexities of the woman he loved. Her weapons weren't merely tools of survival—they were relics of her past, each one carrying stories of necessity and regret. He had seen her wield them with terrifying precision, her movements as fluid as they were lethal, during the chaos of a raid. It was a side of her that mingled brutality with vulnerability, revealing the depths of strength she possessed.

This was more than just a friendly wager; it was an opportunity to connect with Kate on a level they seldom explored—the raw edges of their pasts that they both tended to shield from the world.

Kate grinned, excitement coursing through her veins. She picked up the revolver again, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Arthur stood a respectable distance away this time, watching her intently but not crowding her.

She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to find her center. With a steady hand and a clear mind, she aimed at a new bottle, swinging gently in the breeze. She remembered to keep both her eyes open, and follow the bottle with the pivot of her arm. Time seemed to slow as she focused, the world narrowing down to her, the gun, and the target.

Bang!

The bottle shattered, the sound of breaking glass music to her ears. Arthur let out a holler, “atta girl!” He encouraged with a clap of his hands. She lowered the revolver, turning to face Arthur with a victorious smile.

"Looks like you’ve got some learning to do, cowboy," Kate teased, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and victory as she deftly holstered her weapon. Arthur's stride was confident as he closed the distance between them, his grin broad and unabashedly proud.

"I never doubted you for a second," he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he leaned in to brush a soft kiss against her forehead. A blush crept across her cheeks, the warmth of his lips igniting a flutter in her chest.

Emboldened by his affection and her own burgeoning confidence, Kate reached up, her fingers playfully catching the edge of his neckerchief, pulling him closer. Her lips met his in a bold, teasing kiss that quickly deepened as Arthur responded with equal fervor. His hands found the small of her back, pulling her tightly against him, his touch firm yet tender.

"I do have a good teacher," she whispered against his lips, her breath hitching as his kisses migrated from the corner of her mouth down to her jawline. His lips traced a burning path down her neck, each kiss planting the promise of deeper pleasures. The slight scratch of his stubble against her skin sent a thrill through her, her laughter mingling with a soft moan.

Arthur's voice was husky as he spoke, each word laced with tantalizing arousal. "Maybe it's time I teach you some of my other skills..." His implication was unmistakably suggestive, his desire clear in the deepening timbre of his voice.

"Arthur!" Kate's exclamation was half shock, half delight, as she playfully attempted to wriggle free from his embrace. Yet, the heat building within her belied her protests, drawing her closer instead of pushing her away. Arthur knew how to be a delicious tease.

"What? You started it," he taunted, his breath warm against her ear, his feigned innocence betrayed by the intensity in his eyes. "And you do look damn good shooting that gun, sweetheart."

He captured her lips once more, his kiss deep and consuming, leaving her breathless. "We only have a few hours of daylight left, and you did lose a bet," she reminded him, her voice thick with need. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate rummaged through her saddlebag, her fingers finding the familiar, worn texture of a small, leather pouch. Pulling it out, she untied the strings with practiced ease and rolled open the flap, revealing an assortment of small, meticulously crafted knives and other tools. Each piece was uniquely made from various animal bones, their handles polished to a smooth finish, reflecting the dying light of the sun.

She laid the collection out on a nearby stump, each weapon catching the light as she arranged them in order of size and function. The smallest was a fine-pointed push dagger, designed for precision work, while the largest, a jaw-bone club, bore the marks of many uses. Between them lay a variety of throwing knives, daggers, arrow-heads and an intricate bone-handled tomahawk, the edge sharp and deadly.

Arthur noticed that among the weapons, there was one that was not. A red feathered headband lay neatly folded and intact, as if it were a precious relic. Kate gently placed the object back in the leather sack before he had time to ask. She continued to pick up her first blade. 

“This one was my favorite,” Kate said, glancing up at Arthur to ensure he was paying attention. She picked up the tomahawk, turning it in her hand to show off the craftsmanship. “Made this from the bone of a bear I tracked many years back.”

Arthur stepped closer, his fascination evident as he surveyed the array of meticulously crafted tools laid out before him. The sunset cast a milky-orange glow on the blades, enhancing their lethal allure. "They’re beautiful," he said, his tone rich with admiration not just for the weaponry but also for Kate's adeptness as both a hunter and an artisan. "You used that tomahawk during the skirmish with the Lemoyne raiders, didn't you?"

Kate nodded, her movements fluid as she placed the tomahawk back onto the weathered stump that served as their makeshift table. She picked up one of the smaller throwing knives. "I used some of these too. I gave my firearms to the Marstons, so these were my best option for long-range," she explained, her voice carrying a hint of pride. 

At the time of the raid, Kate had long abandoned her old weapons. Her bow had remained unstrung for some time as she traveled through the west. But now, she couldn't deny the nostalgia and sense and pride that came with her craftsmanship, and being able to use her tools to hunt and protect the gang. 

Arthur observed intently as she expertly balanced the blade on her pointer finger, the blade catching the light and glinting sharply. It was a diminutive weapon, its blade no longer than his pinky, yet its design spoke of deadly precision. With a practiced flick of her wrist, Kate caught the blade deftly between her fingers and offered him the hilt.

He took it carefully, aware of the fragility and lethality it embodied. "They’re made from deer bones. They break pretty easily, but they're light and effective for throwing. If you hit a target deep enough, the bone usually breaks off, leaving the sharp edge embedded inside," Kate detailed, painting a vivid, albeit grim, picture of the knife's capabilities.

Shivering slightly, Arthur imagined the sensation of such a weapon puncturing flesh, a reminder starkly similar to the bullet wound he once nursed on his shoulder.

Kate’s next demonstration involved a push dagger, ingeniously crafted from elk ribs. She held it up for him to see—the ribs had been sharpened into a trio of protruding points, while the connecting bone fit snugly between her knuckles. When she made a fist, the weapon resembled the ferocious claws of a panther, ready to strike.

Arthur chuckled, his intrigue peaking as he compared it to a familiar weapon. "Like brass knuckles but with blades," he observed, his expression a mixture of awe and humor.

Kate’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling with amusement at his comparison. "Ah, so you are familiar with the art of ranged weapons," she teased, enjoying the easy banter and Arthur's genuine interest in the deadly crafts she had mastered.

She placed the weapon down and Arthur followed the gesture, placing the fragile yet deadly throwing knife down with ease. 

Arthur listened intently as Kate shared the origins of her unique weapons, each piece not only a tool of survival but also a work of art, reflecting the cultural heritage and personal histories entwined with her past. The weapons, with their meticulously crafted blades, ornately decorated handles, and leather-bound grips were testaments to the traditional skills passed down through generations.  

“It’s impressive, how you created these from the materials you have around you. They remind me a lot of the weapons Charles has made,” he commented, his eyes scanning over the array of weapons.

“Yes, Charles's mother was Indian, if I remember correctly,” she responded, linking her knowledge to the familiar. “I learned a lot from River, many years ago. His ability to work with what the land offered was incredible,” Kate continued, her voice carrying a tone of deep respect mixed with a trace of sorrow.

She carefully lifted a knife whose handle bore intricate carvings that spiraled around its length, creating patterns that danced in the orange light. “This one’s inspired by a Lakota design,” she explained, a softness entering her voice. “It signifies one’s role as a hunter within the tribe. It was River’s favorite pattern.” Her fingers traced the carvings tenderly, as if each line connected her back to moments long passed.

Arthur sensed the complexity of her emotions as she mentioned River. Although she had spoken of him before, it was always with a certain reservation, as if he were both a cherished memory and a chapter long closed. It was evident that River had been a significant figure in her life, someone who had shaped her understanding of the world and her place within it. Yet, there was an unmistakable hint of sadness, a lingering sense of what might have been if not for the harsh realities that eventually drove them apart.

He admired her for the strength it took to make such a choice, to step away from someone who had been a cornerstone of her existence. It spoke volumes of her resilience and the burdens she carried, choosing survival over a shared path that led to destruction. 

Her fingers brushed over the intricate carvings on the handle of a knife that seemed to hold countless stories. "You must miss him," he said softly, his tone respectful and curious, aiming to bridge the gap between their shared experiences and her concealed past.

Kate's eyes briefly clouded with a mix of fondness and sorrow, her voice carrying a weight as she replied, "I do, every day." She paused, her gaze settling on the old, weathered pouch that lay beside the weapons—containing the headband from her time with River.

Arthur sensed the depth of her connection. "Think you'll ever see him again?" he asked, cautiously aware of the emotional terrain he was navigating.

Kate paused, her eyes clouding with a mix of hope and realism. "It's unlikely," she finally said, voice tinged with resignation. "Our paths diverged too sharply. His fight was different from mine, tied to a place and a people I could no longer stay with."

Her memories of River were laced with both fondness and sorrow. Arthur sensed there was much more she held back about the man who had played such a pivotal role in her past. The man who had once stood by her side, shielding her in ways Arthur was only beginning to understand. He wanted to know more—not just about the weapons or the skills she had acquired but about the bond that tied her to River, the bond that still tugged at her heartstrings

Arthur explored further, the question revealing his deep interest in every layer of her past. "Could he have ended up on a reservation? With the other Natives?" His inquiry was gentle, probing without overstepping.

Kate responded with a wry half-smile, a mix of respect and sadness in her tone. "River? On a reservation?" she chuckled softly, more to herself than to Arthur. "He would rather have died than let himself be penned in like that. River was too free a spirit; he couldn’t stand being confined, not by anything or anyone."

Arthur nodded, appreciating the fervor of her words. "Sounds like he was one of us then," he remarked, drawing a parallel between their own restless spirits and the boundless life River had led. "Always searching for freedom in a world that’s too eager to cage the wild ones."

Kate's eyes softened, reflecting a bittersweet nostalgia. "Yes, in many ways, he was," she agreed. "River was more than a survivor; he was a guardian, a steadfast ally. He didn't just teach me how to live through each day; he showed me how to live with purpose, even when it seemed the whole world was against you."

Arthur’s voice lowered to a contemplative murmur, resonating with the gravity of their shared loss and the battles they’d fought, both internally and against the world. "Sometimes, dying does seem easier than living, doesn't it?" he mused, his eyes briefly tracing the outline of the weapons before returning to meet hers, acknowledging the weight of the life they had chosen—or perhaps, that had chosen them.

Shifting their focus back to the lesson at hand, Kate handed Arthur a small dagger with a handle wrapped in rawhide for grip. The blade, polished to a gleaming shine, was affixed to the handle with sinew. 

“The weight is perfect for close-combat. The natives prioritize harmony with their tools, believing each piece should feel like an extension of the body.”

Arthur tested the weight, giving a few practice swings that cut through the air with a satisfying swoosh. “Almost feels alive,” he remarked, genuinely impressed.

Kate chuckled, watching him handle the dagger with an awkward yet keen interest. “They also believe that the weapon chooses the warrior, not the other way around.”

Arthur's expression shifted between concentration and hesitation as he rolled the dagger between his fingers, feeling the weight and balance of the weapon. "Do you think this one's choosing me, then?" he asked, half-joking yet intrigued by the notion.

"Maybe," Kate replied with a playful glint in her eyes. "Or it might just be testing you, seeing if you're worthy." Her tone shifted to one of challenge. "I want you to try and strike me with it," she dared.

Arthur looked up sharply, his eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of alarm. "You outta your mind woman?" he responded immediately, his voice firm.

"Why not? You don’t trust my ability to handle myself?" Kate teased, her tone light yet probing, watching him closely for his reaction.

Arthur's awe was palpable; he shook his head, a mix of admiration and concern etched across his face. "Kate, I've no doubt you'd make short work of me with this. But there’s not a chance in hell I’d raise a hand against you, even in a game," he declared earnestly, his deep affection and respect for her shining through his words.

Kate's face softened, touched by his sincerity and the depth of his care. She knew he meant every word, his gentle nature ever-present in their interactions. Yet, the challenge remained, and she was not quite ready to let it go. Standing up, she took the dagger and held it with a confident grip.

"Alright, if direct combat isn't on the table, then let's try something different." Her voice was laced with excitement, a new game forming in her mind. "I want you to try and take it from me," she declared, positioning herself in a stance that was both inviting and defensive, a spark of mischief dancing in her eyes.

Arthur watched her for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his face as he accepted the challenge, ready to engage in a different kind of dance with Kate—one that involved wit, speed, and perhaps a little cunning.

The sun traded shifts with the moon and soon the playful contest between Kate and Arthur quickly escalated. The night air thick with the thrill of their chase. Arthur, larger and stronger, found himself surprisingly outmatched by Kate’s swiftness and agility. Her body danced around him, a lithe and teasing presence that ducked beneath his outstretched arms and spun away from his grasping hands with the grace of a trained warrior.

"Is that all you've got?" Kate teased, her voice breathy and light, a stark contrast to their intense exertion. She darted close, her body momentarily pressing against his as she feigned a strike, then spun away before he could react, her laughter mingling with the rustling leaves.

Arthur's heart raced not just from the chase but from the electric touch of her body against his. Each brush of her hand, each time her body aligned with his, sent a jolt of desire through him, making the game far more tantalizing. "You're quicker than you look," he grunted, feigning annoyance but secretly delighted by the challenge and her laughter.

The dance of evasion and pursuit continued, their movements a blur of shadows under the moonlight. Kate's speed had her slipping through his fingers like water, but each failed attempt only drew him closer, their bodies colliding with increasing frequency, the shared heat palpable between them.

"You’re going to have to do better than that, cowboy," Kate chuckled, her eyes alight with mischief as she narrowly evaded another of his attempts.

"Trust me darlin’, I’m just getting started," Arthur replied, his voice low and teasing. His strategy shifted from capture to simply prolonging their closeness. His hands lingered, his touch a deliberate stroke against her side or the small of her back, drawing her closer, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

Finally, Arthur managed to corner her against the rough bark of a tree. His body pressed firmly against hers, his hips instinctively rolling against Kate's, eliciting a shudder from deep within her. In that charged moment, her focus faltered, her grip on the dagger loosening enough for him to snatch it away, tossing it aside as their bodies melded in the shadows.

His breath was hot against her neck, his voice husky with desire. "Got you," he whispered, not just in victory but as a promise of what was to come. His lips found hers, hungry and insistent, his kiss deepening as if he could consume her soul.

Kate responded with fervor, her body arching against his, her hands pulling him closer. The rough tree bark pressed into her back, but all she could feel was Arthur, his body aligned with hers in a perfect symphony of desire.

Their kiss was a clash of passion and need, their bodies a tangle of limbs and whispered promises. Arthur's hands roamed, exploring her with a mix of reverence and urgency that made her head spin. Kate's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, her own moans mingling with his in the cool night air.

As they finally parted, breathless and flushed, the world seemed to stand still. The forest around them was silent, holding its breath as if in reverence to the passion displayed. Their eyes locked, a silent agreement that this was just the beginning, a prelude to a night where they would explore the depths of their desire without restraint.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

It was late in the evening when Kate and Arthur rode into Shady Belle. They had shared a makeshift dinner beneath the sprawling branches of the bottle tree, where empty glass bottles dangled like bizarre fruit, catching the last light of day. Their plan upon arriving had been simple: a brief moment to clean up followed by an early retreat to Arthur’s room for a private continuation of the day's intimacy.

The camp was bathed in the tranquil hues of yellow moonlight as they returned. A few of the gang's members were scattered around a dying fire, their silhouettes illuminated by the occasional flicker of flames. They nursed bottles of whiskey, attempting to quench their thirst amidst the humid evening air. Over the murmurs of conversation and the crackle of the fire, Javier’s guitar strings hummed with the melodies of his homeland, his voice a gentle undertone that added to the night’s calm.

Kate and Arthur dismounted with practiced ease. They were just untying their saddlebags when Dutch and Hosea approached, their figures emerging from the shadows. Hosea, ever the gentleman, tipped his hat to Kate, offering a warm but weary smile. Dutch, however, had that all-too-familiar intensity in his eyes, a prelude to the storm of plans brewing in his mind.

Placing a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder, Dutch drew him slightly aside, his voice low as he outlined the contours of yet another job. The quiet of the evening was pierced by his hushed, strategic directives, which seemed to hang heavy in the sticky air. Arthur's face, caught in the flickering light of the nearby campfire, was a mask of resignation—a stark contrast to the relaxed demeanor he had held moments earlier with Kate.

Kate stood a respectful distance away, her expression a blend of disappointment and resignation. The romantic evening they had envisioned was slipping away, superseded by the gang's relentless demands. She watched as Arthur nodded slowly, his shoulders set in a familiar slouch of burdened acceptance.

Arthur caught her eye, his expression apologetic. He mouthed a silent promise to her, "Soon," his voice almost audible in the quiet night. Kate nodded, her smile weak but supportive. “I’ll wait for you,” she mouthed softly, her voice barely above a whisper, lost in the crackle of the campfire.

With a kiss on the snout of her mare Lorena, she bid her a goodnight. Her companion whinnied softly and slipped into the darkness to find her friend. Kate turned on her heel and made her way toward the manor, the old structure loomed ominously against the night sky, its walls weathered and weary from years of neglect. The wooden floorboards creaked under her feet as she stepped onto the porch, the sound echoing hollowly in the empty hallways. 

The manor's interior held a silence that seemed to swallow sound, turning the chatter and music from outside into distant whispers. As Kate reached the foot of the staircase leading to the room she shared with Arthur, a faint, unsettling cry echoed from the depths of the old house. She hesitated, her hand on the banister, half-expecting the sound to be a trick of the wind. When the cry came again, followed by a clear, unmistakable sniffle, it was evident someone was in distress.

With a quiet tread, Kate moved toward the back of the house, her steps careful on the creaking floorboards. The hall felt longer than usual, shrouded in shadows that made the familiar feel foreign. She considered the possibility it might be Jack; the boy was often put to bed early, though it was rare for him to be left alone. The thought of him crying in the dark, possibly after an argument between John and Abigail, tightened her chest with empathy.

Softly, she called out, "Hello?" Her voice felt too loud in the oppressive quiet, and she rounded the corner with a gentle wariness.

The back room was dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp set upon a battered coffee table. The weak light cast long, dancing shadows and revealed the outline of a figure curled up on the couch. "Are you alright?" Kate's voice softened as she stepped closer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

At her inquiry, the figure stirred and sat up, revealing herself in the wavering glow. It was unmistakably Molly O’Shea, her disheveled head of bright red curls and puffy green eyes framed her pale face in the ghostly light.

As Kate entered the room, the dim lamplight cast long shadows, deepening the somber atmosphere. Molly sat up from her huddled position on the couch, hastily wiping away tears and attempting to compose herself. Her voice was faint, slightly tremulous. “Hello, Kate,” she managed to say, the surprise evident in her tone. It was clear she hadn't expected company, especially not Kate's.

Kate had always held a soft spot for Molly since the days at Clemens Point. Back then, Molly had divulged crucial information that ultimately saved Arthur’s life—a gesture of bravery that had not gone unnoticed by Kate. Since then, she had made efforts to draw Molly out of her shell, inviting her to join the circle of women at camp for coffee or late-night chats. However, Molly usually kept to herself, often found alone with a book or lost in thought near the edge of camp.

“I’m sorry for barging in,” Kate began, her words tumbling out as she navigated her awkwardness. “I heard someone crying and thought it might be Jack. I was worried that maybe he—”

“It’s alright,” Molly cut in, her voice a mixture of resignation and faint irritation.

A heavy silence hung between them, filled with the unspoken complexities of their acquaintance. Kate, feeling both intrusive and concerned, hesitated before taking a step closer. “Is everything okay?” she asked softly, her tone laced with genuine concern.

Molly turned her gaze away, her eyes shadowed by the flickering lamp light. She took a deep breath, her posture stiffening slightly under the scrutiny. “Couldn’t be better,” she replied with a sharp edge of sarcasm.

Kate recognized the defensiveness in Molly’s response. Known around camp for her sharp tongue and aloof demeanor, Molly was often perceived as ornery or distant. Yet, Kate couldn’t help but remember the act of kindness Molly had shown, an act that hinted at a depth not often displayed. Molly was an enigma, wrapped in layers of self-preservation and subtle grace. Despite the brusqueness, Kate felt a pull of empathy, a desire to bridge the gap between them, to understand the elusive woman before her who was so integral, yet so misunderstood, within their gang.

“Should I go get Dutch?” Kate suggested, she wasn’t entirely familiar with the complexities of their relationship. But he was the only one Molly preferred to talk to. 

Molly's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she dismissed the notion with a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "No, Kate. It wouldn’t make any difference," she said, her voice a mix of resignation and bitterness. 

Kate sensed that there was something deeper going on between them, “do you want to talk about him?” She approached the subject lightly.

Molly was silent for a minute, her mind racing with uncertainties and the suffocating loneliness she felt. With a sigh she turned her gaze back to Kate’s. "I left everything behind for him—my family, my home in Ireland... all for what? For him to ignore me as if I’m nothing more than a ghost."

Kate felt a pang of sympathy for Molly. It was clear how much she had sacrificed and how deeply she was hurting. She moved to sit beside her on the worn couch, the cushions sagging under their combined weight, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I’m so sorry. It’s not right, what he’s putting you through."

The young Irishwoman took a shuddering breath. “I just feel like I’m going crazy,” she whispered meekly. 

Kate squeezed her shoulder, “Molly, you are not crazy.” 

Molly looked at her, a mixture of surprise and relief in her eyes at the acknowledgment of her pain. "I love him, you know? Really love him. Gave him everything, thinking it meant something to him."

Kate's voice was gentle, her eyes warm with empathy. "I know how much you've given, and you deserve so much better than this. I'll speak with Arthur and see if he can have a word with Dutch. Perhaps he can help him see things more clearly."

Molly exhaled slowly, her expression resigned yet touched by Kate's kindness. "Thank you, Kate. I don't have much hope left, but I appreciate your effort," she murmured.

Kate gave Molly's shoulder a gentle rub with her thumb. "You're not alone here," she reassured her. "We're family, and we take care of our own. I'll do whatever I can." 

Rising to leave, Molly called her name softly, “Kate I–” Kate paused at the doorway. “I’m–” the words caught in her throat and she heaved a sigh, “oh, nevermind. Goodnight then.” 

Kate turned back with a soft smile. "Try to get some rest, okay?" she suggested gently, Molly replied with a faint smile that quickly faded back into sorrow.

Weary from the day's events, Kate ascended the stairs to the room she shared with Arthur. Her movements were mechanical as she shed her gun belt and boots, each thud against the floor echoing her exhaustion. Peeling off her clothes, damp with sweat from the day's labors, she reached for a cloth in the wash bin. The cool water was a small relief as she wiped the grime from her skin.

She then slipped into one of Arthur’s shirts, the fabric still carrying his scent. It enveloped her like a comforting embrace, grounding her amidst the swirling thoughts of the day. The soft, familiar smell brought an immediate sense of comfort, weaving memories of Arthur around her in the dimly lit room.

Exhaustion tugged at her as she approached their small cot. It creaked under her weight, the sound a stark reminder of the makeshift comfort they shared. The cot, cramped with Arthur’s broad frame, somehow always felt just right with him by her side. The intimacy of their shared space was a small sanctuary in their chaotic world.

Lying back, she gazed through the broken balcony window, watching the moon ascend in the night sky. Its light cast ghostly shadows across the sparse room, the silvery glow a silent companion as she waited for Arthur. Kate's eyelids grew heavy, her mind adrift between wakefulness and sleep, holding onto the promise of seeing him again. Despite her best intentions to stay awake, the rhythm of her breath slowed, and she succumbed to sleep, not noticing the exact moment she drifted off, lost in dreams tinged with longing for her partner's return. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The first tendrils of dawn crept silently across the horizon as Kate stirred to the gentle melody of distant birds. A cool morning breeze slipped through the open windows, its chill a fleeting reprieve before the day's heat enveloped everything. She luxuriated in the refreshing air, a rare pleasure in these early hours when the world was still hushed and the heavy humidity of the day had not yet taken hold.

Inhaling deeply, Kate allowed the earthy scent of the old wood surrounding them to mingle with the distinct musk that was uniquely Arthur. A comforting reminder of his constant presence. His arm, heavy and warm, was draped protectively around her, anchoring her to the moment.

Leaning back into Arthur's embrace, Kate's contentment was briefly interrupted by a peculiar pressure against bottom. Instinctively, she thought of Arthur's gun belt, perhaps carelessly left on. Her eyes flicked to the corner where the cold gleam of his pistol caught the first light, resting over the back of a chair. A flush warmed her cheeks as she realized the true nature of the hardness pressing into her. With a quiet chuckle, she couldn't help but smile to herself at his need for her. Even in sleep his body craved hers.

These mornings together were a rare gift. Arthur typically rose with the dawn, often before the sun even painted the sky with its first strokes of light. But today, by some gracious allowance of the universe, he remained beside her, his breathing deep and even in sleep. She treasured these moments of shared stillness, a precious pause in the relentless pace of their lives.

As Kate gently shifted to face Arthur, his breath hitched slightly in his sleep before settling into a deep, even rhythm once more. She took a moment to study him, the soft morning light casting delicate shadows across his face, smoothing the rugged lines that daylight and duty often sharpened. His features, usually set in a stoic or pensive expression, now relaxed in sleep, offered a rare vulnerability that tugged at her heart.

Tracing her fingers lightly along the line of his jaw, Kate marveled at the rough texture of his stubble, contrasting with the softness of his skin. She leaned in and placed a tender kiss on his chin, feeling the slight indentation of a scar beneath her lips—an imperfection that only added to his rugged appeal. Her lips found his next, savoring the familiar taste and texture—chapped yet surprisingly gentle, parting ever so slightly to reveal a hint of teeth behind them.

Rising slightly to reach his nose, she brushed her lips across the bridge, pausing to admire the light dusting of freckles that seemed to dance across his sun-kissed skin. The early sunlight, now a soft golden hue, highlighted the tiny marks.

Arthur, with his thick lashes resting softly on his cheeks and a faint smile curving his lips as if he sensed her love even in sleep, was undeniably beautiful.

Feeling her love overwhelm her, she sat up and leaned down to place a deeper kiss. Her hand traced his chest, fingers gliding softly over the hair. Arthur breathed deeply, and stirred from his sleep with a soft noise of surprise. As soon as he registered what was going on, he snaked his hand to her back and pulled her close to his body. Jolting himself with a groan of pleasure as he quickly realized the state he was in. 

As Arthur slowly began to regain his senses, Kate's movements brought a rush of heat and desire that mingled with his lingering sleepiness. Before he could form words, a soft moan escaped him, his mind swirling with a delicious blend of daze and arousal. "Kate…" he murmured as their lips met in a slow, intoxicating kiss.

With a gentle but firm hand, Kate eased him onto his back, leaning on her elbow as she positioned herself above him without breaking their deep connection. "G’morning," she whispered, the sound husky with sleep and desire.

Her fingers traced a path across his chest and down to his stomach, her nails lightly grazing his skin, sending tingles spreading through him, igniting a heat that pooled intensely between his legs. She shifted, sliding her leg over him, drawing herself closer so that the hard press of his arousal was unmistakable against her thigh.

"Late night?" she breathed, her voice warm against his lips. Arthur could only nod as they resumed their tender exploration, their kisses deepening, pausing only when their breath became short. Their conversation was sparse, their bodies communicating much more profoundly as their tongues danced together languidly.

Arthur's hand traveled up the side of her body, savoring the feel of her under his touch. Starting from her thighs, he admired the contours of her figure, his fingers wandering under the shirt she had claimed as her own. His rough palm cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. The delicate touch of his calloused skin against her sensitive flesh was both soothing and electrifying, deepening their connection in the quiet dawn.

Kate's movements grew more deliberate as she sought her own relief, her hips subtly rocking against him. She slid her thigh firmly across his arousal, feeling him respond beneath her with a growing intensity. Arthur's breathing turned ragged, a raw edge to his gasps as her hand wandered lower, tracing a path through the curls below his navel. With a knowing touch, she explored further, her fingers finding him over the tented fabric, mapping the length of him with a bold, steady stroke from tip to base. Twitching hard at her touch.

Arthur's response was a moan of pure bliss, a sound that filled the room with a tangible heat. This moment was more intimate than any they had shared, even more profound than their secluded night in the privacy of a steam-filled bath. It was a revelation of comfort and desire, a relief that he was truly finding solace in his own skin again.

Encouraged by his reaction, Kate pressed down with her palm, her movements becoming more assertive. Her thumb brushed over the tip, feeling the damp evidence of his need. She stroked him again with increased confidence, squeezing gently, delighting in the way he arched into her touch, moaning in a tone that was both vulnerable and deeply hungry.

"Fuck, Kate," Arthur groaned, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through her. His hand clutched at her waist, his grip firm and encouraging.

Fueled by his responses, Kate felt a surge of boldness. She continued her explorations, each stroke and squeeze drawing him further into a haze of pleasure. His body relaxed into the mattress, his breaths quickening with each soft moan that he tried to stifle.

Finding his lips again, Kate couldn't resist biting down gently, her own whimper mingling with the heat of his breath. Arthur's hand ventured daringly into her bottoms, their mutual desire building a bridge of fervent, unspoken words between them.

Arthur's fingers slid through the tousled dark curls, finding their way to the delicate nerve hidden amid the folds of her skin. Already damp with her need for him. Her gasp—a soft, melodic burst of pleasure—encouraged him, and he began to trace slow, deliberate figure eights. Each touch was precise, designed to unravel her composure thread by delicate thread.

Kate's response was immediate; a breathless pant escaped her as her hand grasped him again, feeling the eager throb of him beneath her palm. Arthur inhaled sharply, followed by a deep, ragged groan that resonated in the quiet room, sending a wave of heat cascading through her body. His fingers teased her, circling with practiced ease, drawing nearer to her entrance.

Exhaustion and arousal mingled within Arthur, pushing him dangerously close to the edge. Already teetering on the brink of an orgasm. His body was starved for touch, craving the intimacy and pleasure he had denied himself for far too long. Once despising his own body, and finding fleeting relief in his own personal attempts at pleasure. He slowly began to surrender to the euphoria. 

Kate's body was a perfect echo to his own, her arousal palpable as the slick warmth of her welcomed his exploring touch. Their shared breaths and soft moans filled the air, a symphony of affection and longing that tied them closer with each passing second. He ached to claim her fully, to lose himself in the welcoming heat of her body. Carving a space for himself between her legs. 

As he slipped a finger inside her, Kate's soft whimper broke the last of their restraint. She withdrew slightly from their kiss, her expression one of exquisite pleasure. Her lips parted, and she bit down softly, eyes fluttering closed as he moved within her with a gentle, insistent rhythm. Despite the overwhelming sensations he provoked, she maintained her own rhythm, her thumb caressing him tenderly, circling the sensitive tip where his desire was most evident.

Arthur intensified his touch, adding a second finger and expertly curling them to stroke her most sensitive spot. Kate's response was passionate—a sharp intake of breath followed by a breathy utterance of his name that resonated with pure ecstasy. “Arthur.” Hearing his name spoken in such a rapturous tone pushed him past the brink.

Overcome by his escalating desire, Arthur felt the taut coil of restraint within him snap. A deep groan escaped him as he tensed and surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure, and Kate felt the warmth of his release seep through the thin fabric of his underwear, marking their entwined bodies with traces of his climax.

"Shit," Arthur muttered, his voice thick with both frustration and satisfaction, as his body continued to shudder under the aftershocks of his release. It had been an age since he'd allowed himself such unguarded surrender to his desires.

Embarrassed by the premature conclusion, especially before he could satisfy Kate, he felt like a fool. “M’sorry,” he mumbled moments later. His breath was still ragged. Kate, ever understanding and tender, smiled and reassured him by resuming her gentle strokes, eliciting another groan from him.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she murmured, her voice laced with affection. "I enjoyed waking up to that." She leaned in to seal her reassurance with a soft kiss, her lips meeting his in a gentle connection.

Realizing he was still within her heat, Arthur refocused his efforts. With less distraction, he was now more determined. He resumed the rhythmic motion of his fingers, driven by the desire to return the pleasure she had so openly given. The thought of bringing her to climax rejuvenated him, and he felt his cock stir once again.

As Arthur's fingers traced intricate patterns inside her, Kate's response was instinctive and profound. Her moan transformed into a delicate whimper, the sound a tender symphony in the quiet room. She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, her voice a soft crescendo filled with unspoken pleas. "Arthur," she whispered like a prayer. Her breath hot against his skin, each syllable punctuated by the rhythm of his touch.

"That's it, baby," Arthur murmured, his voice low and husky, breath teasing the delicate shell of her ear. He felt the gentle flutter of her walls around his fingers, a testament to the rising tide of her climax. With each calculated stroke, he grew more attuned to her body's subtle signals, reveling in the discovery of her deepest pleasures.

Kate's breathing grew shallow and rapid, a wild cadence that matched the urgent thrusts of her hips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if to merge their bodies into one. Each of Arthur's movements was deliberate, pushing her closer to the brink. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out, her body tense with the effort to remain silent. The stillness of the early morning hung around them like a thick blanket, punctuated only by the sound of their synchronized breathing and the quiet slick of desire.

In the dim light, her eyes locked with his, intense with a silent communication passing between them. She was close, so close, her body coiled tight with anticipation. Arthur increased the pressure, his fingers moving with a precision that was both tender and insistent. Kate's grip on his hair tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the exquisite pressure building within her. With a few more skillful movements, she was on the edge, ready to tumble into an abyss of euphoria.

When a heavy knock came from the door. 

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The soft, desperate whine that escaped Kate's lips as Arthur paused his movements reverberated through him like a siren call. She was teetering on the brink, her body tensed in exquisite anticipation, each of his calculated strokes pushing her closer to release. He longed to hear his name whispered in a rush of ecstasy, to feel her body clench around him in a sweet, shuddering climax, giving her the same profound pleasure she had so generously offered him.

Kate's expression was one of torment; her cheeks flushed a vivid pink, and her lush hair cascaded around her face in disheveled waves. Her eyes, heavy with sleep and thick with desire, also betrayed a touch of frustration at his sudden stop—a frustration Arthur knew all too well. 

He leaned in close, his voice a soft murmur against her temple. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing her skin in a tender apology. "I’ll make it up to you, I promise."

With a reassuring nod from Kate, Arthur reluctantly swung his legs off the bed to dress. He was just shimmying into his jeans when the persistent knock sounded again, this time accompanied by Dutch’s unmistakable, booming voice. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty, we have a big day!”

Arthur exhaled a heavy sigh as he pulled his jeans up, his frame silhouetted against the early morning light streaming through the window. The sun bathed him in a warm glow, highlighting the contours of his muscular back and shoulders. Kate watched from the bed, her gaze admiring the sheer physicality of him, appreciating the intimate and vulnerable moments they had just shared. Despite the interruption, she cherished this new closeness with Arthur, dreaming of a time when they could fully explore their connection without the omnipresent eyes of the gang.

Arthur flung the door open with a brisk tug, his tone laced with irritation as he confronted Dutch. “This couldn’t wait until breakfast?” His annoyance was palpable, his voice rough with frustration as he addressed the interruption. Clad only in his work jeans, with leather suspenders dangling at his sides, he stood framed in the doorway, the morning sun casting a halo around his imposing figure. 

Arthur’s expression was a mix of irritation and resignation as he blocked the doorway, the morning light outlining his broad frame. "Greatness, waits for no man," Dutch quipped, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, clearly enjoying the disruption of Arthur’s morning tranquility.

"I never knew you to be so ornery in the mornings, Arthur," Dutch teased, his voice carrying a jovial undertone that contrasted sharply with Arthur’s evident annoyance.

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought I had at least a few more hours. Kate doesn't even know the plan yet." he asked, glancing back towards Kate.

“What plan?” Kate interjected sharply, rising from the bed with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Clad only in Arthur’s shirt, which modestly covered her to just above the knees, she seemed oblivious to her appearance as she stepped closer.

Seizing the moment, Dutch stepped fully into the room, his eyes briefly sweeping over Kate before refocusing on his mission. “We're attending a ball, Cinderella, and we need to find you a dress,” he announced with a theatrical flair, then turned to Arthur with a smirk. “And a suit for you, son.”

“Wait, what ball?” Kate asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece together the sudden news with her still groggy mind.

Arthur leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “We’ve been invited to a garden party hosted by Mayor Lemieux,” he explained, though his tone suggested he was less than thrilled about the prospect.

“We were?” Kate’s voice rose in disbelief, skeptical of why they, a notorious band of outlaws, would be invited to such an event.

Dutch chuckled heartily. “Indeed, we are guests of honor, thanks to our dear friend Angelo Bronte,” he said, the sarcasm in his voice barely masked.

Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Bronte? The same Bronte that took Jack? Why on earth would we go to this party? It sounds like a trap.”

Dutch’s demeanor shifted; the usual charming façade faded into a calculated intensity. “Because, my dear, the mayor is blissfully unaware that we’re anything but upstanding citizens. Bronte and I have orchestrated a little... arrangement,” he divulged, his smile thinning into a cunning line. “Where there’s affluence, there’s ample opportunity to lighten a few heavy pockets.”

Kate's mind reeled at the audacity of the plan. Attending a grand ball populated with the city’s elite, wealthy benefactors from across the state, and undoubtedly, a scattering of vigilant lawmen, presented a staggering risk.

Sensing her apprehension, Arthur quickly added, “We’re not there to rob anyone—at least not tonight. It's about mingling, gathering intel on the mayor and the city’s movers and shakers.” He attempted to reassure her, his tone earnest. “Nothing risky, I promise.”

“But why involve me?” Kate’s brow furrowed in confusion. Historically, Dutch had never directly enlisted her in such schemes, and she had remained a background figure in their more delicate operations. His insistence now implied she had little choice but to participate.

Dutch’s reply came with a strategic flourish. “Bringing a lady along makes a man look less suspicious. Tonight, you and Arthur are Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore,” he declared with a dramatic wave of his hand, as if he were bestowing royal titles.

The suddenness of it all left Kate grappling with the reality of the situation. A ball, tonight? And she was to act as Arthur’s wife? She had never graced such opulent events, her own wedding being a modest affair far removed from the sophisticated galas of the wealthy urbanites.

“Who else is attending?” she asked, her mind racing.

“Dutch, Hosea, and us,” Arthur replied, his voice a steadying presence.

Kate pondered Dutch’s strategy—bringing a companion to appear innocuous. Yet, her thoughts drifted to Molly O’Shea, weeping alone the previous night. Why not include her? She was Dutch’s girl after all. Molly, with her refined high-class Irish upbringing, was tailor-made for such events, having likely graced countless balls and galas back home.

“I’ll agree to this on one condition,” Kate asserted, her tone firm. Arthur’s eyebrow arched, intrigued by her audacity.

“Oh? Is that so?” Dutch’s interest was piqued.

“Yes,” she said resolutely. “Molly comes with us.”

The room tensed at her declaration, her proposal hanging in the air like a challenge. It wasn’t just about blending in—it was a statement, a chance to give Molly an opportunity that could mend her relationship with Dutch.

Dutch's face shifted from amusement to intrigue as he considered Kate's unexpected condition. His sharp eyes studied her for a moment, then a small smile crept up his face. "Well, that's an interesting twist," he mused aloud. "I suppose having another proper lady could indeed add to our cover."

Kate felt a surge of relief mixed with apprehension as she registered the gravity of what she was about to undertake. She was not just going to a ball; she was stepping into a lion's den dressed in lambskin. The stakes were high, and the play had to be perfect.

Arthur, seeing her resolve, added, "It’s all about appearances tonight. We need to blend in, gather intel, and leave without raising suspicions." His voice was steady, aiming to instill confidence in her. "Think of it as more of a reconnaissance mission than anything else. We're just there to observe and listen."

Kate nodded, processing the information. "And Bronte? What's his part in all this?"

Dutch clapped his hands together, the sound echoing slightly in the sparse room. "Ah, Bronte is our gracious host. He's the one who got us the invites. Through him, we're 'respectable citizens' for the evening," he explained, his tone dripping with irony. "This could open up some lucrative opportunities for us if we play our cards right."

Kate felt a flicker of excitement at the challenge, tempered by the realization of the complex dynamics at play. "So, we're Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore for the night, hobnobbing with Saint Denis' elite," she said, trying to lighten the mood with a faint smile.

Arthur caught her smile, returning it with a reassuring nod. "Exactly,” his gaze held hers, filled with a mixture of pride and earnest affection. “And I don’t think I could survive this night without you at my side." He said quietly with a subtle wink. 

Dutch broke the moment, his energy shifting towards preparation. "I’ll arrange for Molly. And we better get moving if we're to find you two something suitable to wear. Time is of the essence."

As Dutch exited the room to set the plan in motion, Kate's mind raced with the implications of the evening ahead. Playing the part of Arthur's wife, infiltrating a high society event, the risk of exposure—they were all elements of a dangerous game. Yet, underpinning it all was a deeper trust and partnership with Arthur that felt more real and vital than any role she might play. She knew they were in for a long night, and her reluctance was replaced by excitement at the thought of attending such an event with her lover. 

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Kate's image in the softly lit, dusty mirror was a vision she scarcely recognized—transformed by the exquisite gown borrowed from Molly. The gown was crafted from a sumptuous velvet, rich and deep red, that clung to her form and cascaded elegantly to the floor. It's off-the-shoulder design highlighted the low-cut neckline, with small ruffled sleeves that grazed her arms, leaving her shoulders and the expanse of her upper chest exposed. The careful stitching was lined with black and white lace, adding to the grandeur of her attire.

A striking gold brooch was affixed at the center of her bust, drawing the eye to the gentle curve of her neckline. This touch of opulence was complemented by a simple yet elegant pearl necklace, which lay delicately against her skin, its simplicity a perfect counterpoint to the richness of her attire. Her hair, pulled up into an intricate mass of curls and twists, added a final note of sophistication, completing the transformation from rugged cowgirl to a lady of subtle grace and formidable presence.

The room was a flurry of activity, each woman contributing to the transformation. Molly, sharing this critical evening with Kate, was more than a wardrobe consultant; she was a quiet presence, guiding Kate through the intricacies of high society etiquette. They dressed side by side in camaraderie, preparing for an evening that felt more like a strategic mission than a social outing.

As Molly delicately fastened the final button on Kate's gown, her reflection in the mirror bore an expression of earnest intensity. "Tonight is about poise and presence. You must embody both," she instructed crisply. "Watch my actions closely and avoid any gestures that could be deemed unladylike." Kate nodded, absorbing every word, her throat tightening with nervous anticipation.

"You are a woman of refined class this evening," Molly continued, her voice firm yet not unkind, her eyes meeting Kate's in the mirror. "Project confidence, but temper it, you don’t want to appear overbearing. We need them to find us charming—be yourself, but avoid being crass."

Just then, Tilly entered with a timely interruption, offering Kate a glass of water with a reassuring smile. "Ease up, Molly, you're making her jittery," she chided gently before leaning in to whisper to Kate, "You look absolutely stunning."

Taking the glass, Kate's hands shook slightly, the coolness of the water a small comfort against the flutter of nerves. "Thank you, Tilly," she replied, her voice a soft murmur of gratitude. "Molly means well. I'm just out of my depth with high society," she admitted, her eyes reflecting her vulnerability.

Karen, busy tidying up the space, laughed heartily from the corner. "I bet Arthur's feeling just as out of place. Imagine him trying to mingle with the upper crust," she remarked with amusement, her laughter echoing warmly in the room.

Arthur and Hosea had earlier been whisked away by Trelawny to find appropriate suits, leaving the women to navigate their own elaborate preparations. As Kate sipped her water, Abigail applied a delicate blush to her cheeks, her touch gentle yet precise. "Don't fret, Kate," she murmured, catching Kate's gaze in the mirror. "Arthur will be by your side tonight. Just stick close to Molly, and you'll manage just fine."

Mary-Beth, ever the optimist, added her own sprinkle of encouragement as she packed away a few last-minute essentials into Kate's clutch. "You’re going to shine tonight, Kate. Let the evening unfold naturally. The boys will handle the rest," she said cheerily, giving Kate a playful wink. "And don’t forget to enjoy a dance or two."

Though reassured by their words, Kate felt a knot of apprehension tighten in her stomach. This evening would transport her far from the familiar roughness of her daily life into a realm of gleaming shoes and polished conversation, where every smile might mask a challenge and every word could unveil a new chess move.

The creak of the front door heralded new arrivals, and soon Sadie’s brisk tone filled the room, signaling a shift in the late afternoon's pace. “Lenny’s back with the stagecoach. They’re ready for you ladies,” she called out, indicating it was time for Kate and Molly to make their entrance. The night's masquerade was about to begin.

Molly clasped their hands together with renewed enthusiasm, “shall we?” Kate smiled at the gesture, she knew then it was the right thing to do by inviting her. She had never seen the young woman smile so much in all the time she’s known her. Molly was in her element. 

As Kate descended the stairs of the old manor, the fabric of her velvet dress whispering with each step, she felt every eye in the room shift toward her. The deep red of her gown caught the fading light, casting a warm glow on her skin. Her hair, usually free and untamed, was styled into an elegant updo, adorned with small pearls that shimmered with her movements. The matching delicate pearl necklace around her neck caught the light, drawing attention to the subtle, dignified elegance she emanated.

Arthur stood near the entryway, discussing last-minute plans with Dutch and Hosea. His conversation halted abruptly as his gaze landed on Kate. The transformation from rugged woman to a vision of refined grace left him momentarily speechless. His eyes widened, not just in surprise but with a depth of emotion that flickered briefly across his face. The awe and admiration in his expression were palpable, and as he stepped toward her, the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

"Oh Kate..." His voice was a low murmur, heavy with emotion. He approached her slowly, as if fearing any sudden movement might shatter the vision before him. When he finally reached her, he took her hand gently, his rough fingers contrasting with the softness of her skin. "Christ, you look...," he whispered, trailing his eyes over her face, lingering on her eyes, her lips, then down to the gold brooch nestled at her chest.

“Like a weed among the roses,” she answered. Offering a weary smile that was laced with doubt. 

Arthur chortled as he placed his hand on the small of her back, drawing her closer to him. “I was going to say beautiful. But sure, if the weed is this stunning then to hell with the roses.” 

The intensity of his gaze sent a warm flush across her cheeks. She could feel his admiration, not just for her appearance but for the strength and courage she embodied—the same qualities that had drawn him to her from the beginning. "Thank you, Arthur," she replied, her voice soft but filled with a confidence she didn't feel. "I feel a bit like I'm playing dress-up."

Kate's gaze lingered appreciatively on Arthur as he stood before her, transformed from the rugged outlaw she knew so intimately into a figure who could easily blend with the elite. He wore a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and defined his strong silhouette, the crisp white shirt beneath accentuating the tan of his skin. The ensemble was completed with a stark white bow tie, lending him an air of sophistication she found both endearing and slightly amusing, given his usual disdain for such finery.

His hair, normally a tousled mane that matched his untamed spirit, was now neatly barbered. The sides were trimmed short, enhancing the strong lines of his face, while the top was slicked back with a pomade that caught the light, giving him a polished, almost dapper appearance. A finely groomed pencil mustache adorned his upper lip, a testament to the barber's skill, and it added a hint of roguish charm that was so quintessentially Arthur.

Arthur chuckled softly, the sound deep and reassuring. "Maybe so, but I've never seen a more beautiful sight. I, uh... I’m finding it hard to believe that a woman like you would even be seen with me." His words were sincere, his usual stoic demeanor softened by the vulnerability he felt in that moment. 

Kate relaxed a little, sensing that Arthur was just as nervous as she. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the lapel of his jacket, feeling the fine fabric under her touch. "You clean up rather well, Mr. Morgan," she teased lightly, her eyes twinkling with mirth and a hint of something deeper, something akin to awe.

Arthur took her hand in his again and brought her knuckles to his lips, “that’s Mr. Kilgore,” he gently reminded. “You got that, Mrs. Kilgore?” His breath was hot against her skin as he glanced up at her with mischievous deep blue eyes. 

The playfulness in his eyes was infectious, and Kate found herself laughing, the sound mingling with the chirping of crickets outside. "I suppose I can manage that for one evening, Mr. Kilgore," she played along, her voice light, teasing. The nervousness that had tangled her thoughts began to unravel, replaced by an excitement she hadn't expected.

As they stepped into the courtyard, Dutch and Hosea were waiting, both looking equally as transformed. Dutch was clad in a striking suit that made him appear more like a statesman than the gang leader he was. Hosea, with his wise eyes and knowing smile, looked every bit the distinguished gentleman. Together, they presented an image of deceptive respectability.

The group made their way to the waiting stagecoach, where Lenny held the door open with a grin. "You all look like you're off to meet the queen," he joked, his eyes twinkling.

Dutch climbed in first, followed by Hosea, then Arthur and Kate, and finally Molly, who looked radiant in an emerald gown that whispered of her lost heritage. As the coach lurched forward, the rough dirt paths of the hideout gave way to smoother roads, signifying their approach to the bustling city of Saint Denis.

Arthur and Dutch shared a cigar, the glow from the tip casting a warm light in the dim interior. Their laughter filled the space, a sound of camaraderie and shared secrets. Kate leaned back against the plush seat, her eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the landscape transformed—from the secluded wilds of their camp to the grandeur of Saint Denis. The city lights began to twinkle in the distance, like stars brought down to earth, each one promising a night of possibilities and peril.

As the stagecoach rolled through the city gates, the full splendor of Saint Denis unfolded before them. The streets were alive with the hum of activity; the air was thick with the scents of exotic spices and the sound of distant music. It was a world away from anything Kate had ever known, and as she watched it all, a thrill ran through her, mingled with a touch of fear. 

Arthur grabbed her hand, and held it tight in his as they approached the Mayors grand iron gates.  

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The night unfolded with an elegance that was almost surreal to the group of outlaws. They were greeted at the opulent iron gates of Mayor Lemieux's mansion by none other than Angelo Bronte himself, who extended a warm welcome with an air of European grace. The atmosphere was charged with the subtle tension of a high-stakes play, each member of the gang playing their part flawlessly.

As they made their introductions, Arthur took Kate's hand and presented her with an unexpected formality. "May I introduce my wife, Katherine Kilgore," he announced, his voice carrying a tone of pride and reverence that made Kate's heart skip a beat. 

The use of her full name coupled by ‘my wife’, imbued the moment with a regality that resonated deeply within her. She felt a flutter of excitement rise in her chest, her cheeks warming under the attentive gaze of their host.

Bronte responded with a flourish, kissing Kate's knuckles as if she were a duchess, his eyes sparkling with intrigue. The gesture, added with his rich Italian accent, momentarily transported her back to her mother's stories of the old country, filling her with a mix of nostalgia and pride. She caught some of the phrases he murmured to his servants in his tongue, surprising herself at her memory of the language she hadn't heard in so long. 

The grandeur of the mansion was overwhelming as they entered. Candles and chandeliers cast a warm glow over rich floral arrangements and marble columns, each detail meticulously curated to impress. Kate couldn't help but wonder about the lives that filled these halls, the silent stories hidden within the extravagant walls.

Led by a young servant, they were shown to their designated seats in the dining hall, just as the bell signaled the arrival of the other distinguished guests. The dining experience promised to be a lavish affair, with Bronte ensuring they were seated at his table— a strategic position for mingling with some of Saint Denis' most influential figures.

As they settled into the evening, Arthur's introduction echoed in Kate's mind, lending her an air of confidence she clung to amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. The night ahead was set to be a dance of diplomacy and discretion, and Kate, now Katherine Kilgore, was ready to play her part.

As the dinner progressed, the opulent dining hall of Mayor Lemieux's mansion buzzed with the soft clinking of fine china and the murmur of high-society chatter. Poised at Bronte's table, Kate tried to settle into the rhythm of the evening. Yet her every move was subtly corrected by Molly, who sat beside her. With a gentle nudge under the table or a whispered word, Molly guided Kate through the nuances of etiquette that the high class demanded.

“Remember, small bites, Katherine," Molly instructed gently while demonstrating with her own meal, slicing her food with an elegance that seemed effortless. "And mind your posture."

Despite her best efforts to blend in, Kate found herself increasingly nervous. Conversation flowed around the table, and occasionally, a guest would inquire about her or Arthur. With a tentative smile, she spun a half-true tale about their supposed meeting involving a stolen stagecoach, drawing polite laughter and nods of amusement from those around her. As the story concluded, she reached for her wine glass, taking a large gulp to quench her growing anxiety.

Molly's hand was quick and discreet as she gave Kate's arm a soft pinch. "A lady doesn't chug," she murmured with a hint of sternness. "And hold it by the stem, dear. You're smudging the glass." Chastened, Kate set the wine glass back down with a small sigh.

Kate was grateful for the guidance, even if it was a reminder of how out of place she felt among the finely dressed elites. As courses were served and conversation flowed, Dutch and Bronte delved into discussions about local politics and business, particularly the Saint Denis Trolley Association. Rumors had swirled around the trolley lines being used for money laundering, and as the conversation deepened, Kate noticed Dutch's interest peak. Arthur, ever the observant second-in-command, watched Dutch closely, likely calculating the risk and reward of their next big job.

As the plates were cleared and the final toasts were made, Kate caught a low exchange between Bronte and one of his men that sent a chill down her spine. She couldn't translate the full conversation, but the burlesque in Bronte's tone was unmistakable. It was a reminder that beneath the veneer of this luxurious gathering, there were still undercurrents of danger and deceit. Kate made a mental note to discuss what she heard later, when there weren't so many lingering ears about. 

Relieved when the dinner finally concluded, Kate was more than ready to escape the stuffy atmosphere of the dining hall. The guests were invited to mingle in the garden, a beautifully manicured space illuminated by strings of lights and lanterns that cast a romantic glow over the evening.

The garden was bathed in the gentle warmth of firelight as Kate stepped into the fresh air, the tension melting from her shoulders. The soft strains of an orchestra filled the night, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the elegantly dressed guests who moved fluidly across the stone paths. Arthur approached with a warm smile, extending his arm in an inviting gesture.

"Would you dance with me, Katherine?" he asked, the playful spark in his eyes igniting a flutter in her chest. His formal address, laced with familiarity, heightened the moment's charm.

"Absolutely, as long as you keep off my toes," Kate responded playfully, her voice light with anticipation. She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, the weight of the evening's responsibilities fading amid the rhythmic sway of the music.

As they found their rhythm in the melody, Arthur's surprisingly graceful steps impressed her. "I had no idea you could waltz, Mr. Kilgore," she quipped with a smile, the music lifting her spirits.

Arthur drew her closer, his hand reassuringly warm on her lower back. "Bessie insisted I learn," he confessed, referencing Hosea’s late wife with a fond chuckle. "Said she’d be damned if she didn’t teach this gutter trash some respectable manners."

Her laughter, light and melodic, echoed softly between them. "Oh Arthur, you are the farthest thing from gutter trash.” She remarked, taking in how undeniably beautiful and handsome he looked tonight. 

Arthur chortled, “maybe so. But I was quite the handful as a kid.” 

“I’m sure you had your charm. In any case, it seems she succeeded. You're quite the gentleman tonight," Kate teased, her tone playful as she mimicked his drawl.

Their gazes locked, the world around them dimming to a blur of music and moonlight. Arthur's hand traced gentle, unseen patterns on her back, the warmth of his touch seeping through the velvet of her dress. She breathed in his familiar scent—wine mingled with the faint smokiness of cigars. She admired the clean shave of his beard, and the neat trim of his hair. He looked so different from the rugged man she woke up to this morning, but there was no doubt in her heart it was the same man. Her cowboy, her Arthur. 

"What were you dreaming of this morning?" She whispered, curiosity coloring her words as they moved in perfect sync.

"You," came his husky reply, his breath warm against her ear. "I always dream of you."

Her smile deepened, her heart dancing to the same rhythm as their steps. "And was I wearing this dress in your dreams?" she flirted, her body swaying enticingly against his.

Arthur’s grin was both mischievous and endearing. "Not exactly," he murmured, his eyes glinting with a hint of devilry. "You wore something very different."

Intrigued, she leaned closer, her voice a soft tease. "Oh? And what might that have been?"

"Me," he growled softly, his voice low and seductive, drawing a delighted shiver from Kate as they continued to waltz under the starlit sky. The single word flooded Kate’s mind with all sorts of erotic pictures.

Arthur's voice was a seductive murmur, laced with raw desire, as he leaned in close, his breath warm against Kate's ear. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about right now?" he whispered, his hands tightening on her waist as he drew her closer into his embrace.

Kate's heart pounded in her chest, her skin tingling with anticipation. She nodded, her voice a mere whisper, "Yes."

Arthur's fingers traced a line up her spine, sending shivers cascading down her body. He dipped his head, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, inhaling deeply. "I'm thinking about how stunning you're going to look laid out beneath me," he breathed out, his words painting a vivid, enticing picture. "I imagine you on my cot, your skin glowing in the dim light, your hair spread out like a wild mane, your lips tender and flushed from my kisses."

Her eyes fluttered shut, lost in the fantasy he described. "Your eyes," he continued, his voice dropping to a husky growl, "dark with longing, just like they are now. I think about the soft moans you’ll make, the ones that drive me wild, make me desperate to be inside you."

Kate’s breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively pressing closer to his. The garden, the music, the murmur of the guests faded into the background, overshadowed by the intensity of the moment between them.

"And I think about how fiercely we’ll make love," Arthur added, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her against him. "How you’ll claw at my back, pulling me deeper, your body welcoming me home. How tight and perfect you’ll feel around me, and how with each thrust, you’ll moan my name until it’s etched into the night air."

Overwhelmed by his words, Kate's knees weakened, her entire being alight with desire. Arthur steadied her, his gaze intense and full of promise. "I can’t wait any longer, Kate," he declared, a resolute edge to his voice. "Tonight, I will have you. Completely and utterly. No interruptions, no holding back. Just you and me, lost in each other until dawn."

The certainty in his tone, the undeniable hunger in his eyes, left her breathless. This was a side of Arthur she had glimpsed but never fully experienced—passionate, possessive, and profoundly in love with her.

“Arthur,” Kate said softly, her voice carrying a hint of vulnerability as she looked up at him. “When you say things like that, you make me feel…”

“Warm all over?” Arthur suggested with a gentle smile, trying to lighten her mood.

“Yes,” she whispered, a blush coloring her cheeks. “It’s a bit forward of me to admit it, isn't it?” Her irony drew a hearty laugh from Arthur, and her smile returned, comforted by his joyful response.

“Can I ask you something else, maybe a bit silly?” Kate continued, her spirits lifted by his laughter.

“You can ask me anything, sweetheart,” Arthur responded, his eyes sparkling with both amusement and affection.

She took a deep breath, meeting his gaze with earnestness. “When you were telling me about...us, about how you imagined us together, was I… was I smiling in your dream?” she asked, her question tinged with a need for reassurance.

With a faint chuckle he pulled her into a tight hug. His chin dropped down to rest on the top of her head, and he assured her in a tender, loving voice that in all his erotic fantasies and dreams about her, she had been very happy, extremely happy as a matter of fact. She was satisfied, content, humbled, appreciative and grateful, and completely overwhelmed by his magnificence and, now that he had time to think about it, really amazing sexual prowess. Kate’s light laughter rumbled against his chest. 

“You couldn’t find enough ways to thank me,” he added to his relentless teasing. 

She leaned away from him and looked up into his eyes, “I thanked you for making love to me?” 

“You were exceedingly grateful,” Arthur played along, with lighthearted arrogance. “In fact, you seemed quite taken with my many...talents.”

“Oh, is that so?” Kate retorted, her tone playful yet filled with affection. 

“It was my dream, sweetheart, not yours,” Arthur chuckled. 

She nestled back into his arms, comforted by his presence and the easy banter that flowed between them. “And here you were, telling me how Bessie taught you to be such a gentleman?”

“She tried her best,” Arthur quipped, his voice low and filled with mirth. “Though I fear she may have overlooked a few lessons on modesty.”

Tucking her head back under his chin, she wrapped her arms around his waist, splaying her hands wide against his broad and warm back. “Heaven help me. What am I going to do with you?” 

Arthur’s smile widened, filled with both love and a hint of mischief. “Keep me, I hope,” he chuckled softly, holding her close as the music around them began to dwindle.

Several other suggestions came to mind, but Arthur decided now wasn’t the time to share them with her. He recognized the weight behind Kate's seemingly light-hearted question. Her vulnerability had surfaced briefly, revealing the scars of her past experiences, ones that Arthur knew all too well. Despite the mutual desire igniting between them, he could see the shadows of uncertainty and fear that still lingered in her eyes. He knew of the trauma she had endured, the times when her autonomy was stripped away, leaving wounds deep and tender. With every fiber of his being, Arthur was determined to honor her, the way she had honored him in his time of need. To rebuild the trust that had been tarnished by others before him. He made a silent vow then, as he often did, to be patient, to give her the space and choice she deserved.

“Whatever happens tonight, tomorrow, or any time after, it’s your choice, Kate. Nothing we do together will ever be without your heart in it too. I love you, and you could never disappoint me. Got that?” he whispered, sealing his vow with a kiss on her forehead as the last notes of their song played out.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the evening waned and the symphony of the night softened to a quiet hum, the luscious garden party began to draw to a close. Under a canopy of stars, guests strolled leisurely, their conversations light and laughter mingling with the crackle of fireworks that painted the sky above Saint Denis. Dessert tables were laden with an extravagant assortment of sweets, tempting the well-heeled crowd as they meandered through the meticulously landscaped gardens.

Kate, alongside Arthur, Hosea, Dutch, and Molly, found themselves engaged in a lively discussion with Mayor Lemieux and his companion, the celebrated author Evelyn Miller. Their conversation flowed easily, touching on topics from literature to local politics and banking, until it was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of two distinctly out-of-place figures.

The pair, native men with proud postures and serious expressions, approached the group with a reserved dignity. The elder of the two introduced himself as Chief Rains Fall, and the younger, his son, as Eagle Flies. Their introductions were courteous yet carried an underlying urgency that shifted the atmosphere slightly. Rains Fall explained they had come to deliver a letter to the mayor, urging him to read it with great consideration due to its pressing nature.

With formalities briefly exchanged and the letter handed off, the two natives departed as swiftly as they had arrived, leaving a trail of curiosity in their wake. Kate felt a twinge of disappointment at their quick departure; the mystery of the letter and its urgent delivery had piqued her interest deeply.

Arthur shared her intrigue, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as the garden's ambient noise hummed around them. Their contemplative silence was broken when Lemieux’s butler approached, his expression taut with concern. He whispered something to the mayor, who nodded gravely before handing off the chief's letter.

As the butler walked away, Dutch’s keen ears picked up on the mention of a telegram from the notorious industrialist Leviticus Cornwall. Catching Arthur’s eye, Dutch subtly gestured for him to follow the butler, an unspoken strategy quickly forming between them. With a tender kiss to Kate’s temple, Arthur excused himself, his steps quick and determined as he followed the butler towards the stately manor's office.

Dutch and Molly soon found their own excuse to depart, leaving Kate in the company of Hosea. The fireworks had dwindled to a sporadic glow by the time Hosea turned to Kate with a gentle offer. "Miss Katherine, may I have the pleasure of the last dance?" he asked, his voice carrying the warmth of a protective father figure.

Kate hesitated, her gaze lingering on the path Arthur had taken. The worry was evident in her eyes, the fear that he might get caught weaving through her thoughts. Sensing her unease, Hosea offered a reassuring smile. "Arthur will be fine. I taught the boy everything he knows, remember?" His tone was light, but his assurance was firm.

Convinced by Hosea's confidence, Kate placed her hand in his. "Thank you, Hosea. I'd love to have this dance," she replied, allowing a smile to curve her lips as they stepped onto the now nearly empty dance floor. 

The last song was slow, almost mournful. A ‘goodbye’ or ‘goodnight’ song, Kate could not tell. The lively piano had been replaced by a violin and cello. Their haunting melody cascaded around them. Enveloping the night air with a somber, poignant tune that seemed to whisper of endings and beginnings. 

As the bow glided over the strings of the violin, the notes flowing into one another like streams blending into a river of sound. The cello responded in kind, its notes a comforting echo that spoke of strength and of beauty, found within the depths of melancholy.

The orchestra played as if narrating a story of love that was beautiful because it was fleeting, a dance of shadows under the moonlight that would soon fade at the break of dawn. Each note resonated within the space, filling the garden with an aching beauty that made the moment feel suspended in time, a precious memory to be cherished before it slipped away.

Kate and Hosea moved slowly, their steps measured and deliberate, as if trying to savor each beat of the music, each moment that passed. The song wrapped around them like a soft shawl, and Kate found herself drawn into the emotion of it, her movements becoming more reflective, more infused with the subtle gravity of the tune.

As they moved together, Hosea's steps were sure and steady, guiding Kate through the waltz. The music was a soft fitting backdrop for Hosea's reflective mood. "You know, watching you and Arthur together—it's been something quite special," he began, his eyes thoughtful. "He's changed since you've been with us. For the better."

Kate's cheeks warmed under his kind gray eyes, her heart swelling with a mixture of pride and love. "He's a good man, Hosea. He's shown me a great deal of kindness," she responded, soft with affection. 

Hosea nodded. "The same kindness you’ve shown him. And he's been happier, more at peace. It's not often someone comes along who can reach into the heart of a man like Arthur and turn on the light." His words were not just observations; it was gratitude, a recognition of the positive influence Kate had on his wayward son.

As the dance unfolded, Kate eased into the rhythm, finding solace in Hosea's reassuring presence. His guidance, both in dance and in life, was imbued with a serene wisdom and infinite patience that calmed her restless spirit.

Hosea's voice softened as he continued, a trace of somber tinting his words. "Arthur was saddled in darkness for far too long," he confessed. "He's shouldered too much—loss, guilt... and the fear of failing those he loves. I suppose Dutch and I have our share of blame for that." A wry chuckle escaped him, though it held little humor.

"It pained me to see him keep his heart guarded, steeling himself against the world. I never imagined he’d open up again, let alone to someone new," Hosea admitted, his gaze fond yet filled with the pain of old regrets. Kate remained silent, allowing him the space to reflect aloud. "But then you came along," he said, his eyes meeting hers with warmth.

The music swelled into a poignant crescendo, mirroring the depth of their conversation. As Hosea spoke of Arthur's past pains—his family, his lost loves, his unspoken turmoils within himself—the words offered explanation for his insecurities. Kate felt a profound connection to the man she loved. Discovering more of him with each word Hosea shared from the perspective of a loving father, who will always see the man before him as his young boy. A mere child, in need of his love and guidance.  

"He’s endured so much, Kate," Hosea continued, his voice thick with emotion. "But so have you—you've faced losses just as deep." His acknowledgment of her own grief resonated deeply, tightening her throat with emotion. “It's a cruel kind of kinship, isn’t it? But perhaps it's why your bond is so strong.” 

“Knowing someone's pain, really sharing it, now that's love." Hosea mused softly, his voice rich with reflection.

The violin's lament seemed to weave around them, a sad serenade to their shared understanding. Kate squeezed Hosea's hand, her gesture one of both comfort and thanks.

“To truly love someone is to understand their suffering," Hosea said softly. "You’ve shown him patience and kindness that astounds me. Arthur gives so much of himself, sometimes more than he should. He's fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault. I've often worried he doesn't think enough of his own needs. But I've seen a change in him. He’s found a reason to think for himself again because of you. To think of a future beyond this. That’s a gift, Kate, a precious one.”

Kate's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she listened to Hosea's heartfelt words, each syllable heavy with emotion and the weight of shared history. As the last notes of their dance dwindled, Hosea paused and reached into his coat pocket, his movements deliberate and meaningful. “Speaking of gifts, I have something for you. But it comes with a promise,” he said, his voice resonant with a solemnity that stilled the air between them.

“Yes?” Her response was a breathless whisper, a soft echo in the quiet of the night.

Hosea took her hand, holding her gaze with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the shadows of the garden. Into her palm, he pressed something cool and firm—a tangible symbol of his next words. “Keep him honest, and keep him kind. Promise me, Kate, that you both will find a way out of this life and never look back,” he implored with a firmness that belied his gentle demeanor.

Opening her hand, Kate gasped softly at the sight of two gold wedding rings, linked by a delicate chain, glimmering under the moonlight. Their soft halo seemed to whisper a prayer into the very air around them, turning the moment into something sacred. “Hosea, I can’t accept this,” she protested, recognizing the deep personal significance of the rings. And where they had come from. 

“Take them,” Hosea insisted, gently closing her fingers around the rings. “And take Arthur with you, away from all this.”

“But why me? Arthur would be honored to receive these from you. It would mean the world to him,” she countered, her voice thick with emotion.

Hosea’s eyes held a twinge of sadness as he faced a truth only he fully appreciated. “I may not be around when the time comes for you to use these,” he said quietly, acknowledging his own mortality and the precarious life they led. “Give one to him when the moment is right. I trust you’ll know when.”

Kate felt the weight of the promise now resting in her hand, symbolizing more than just their union but a future filled with hope and love. As she slipped the rings into her clutch for safekeeping, she pulled Hosea into a tight embrace. “I promise, Hosea. I...I don’t know how to thank you enough. I’m just so grateful for everything.” Her voice broke with the magnitude of her promise, her arms tightening around him as if to anchor herself to the pledge she had just made.

As they stepped back from their embrace, Hosea's eyes twinkled with warmth and fondness that made Kate's heart swell. He smiled, his expression one of deep satisfaction and peace. "I’m the one trying to say thank you, Kate," he said imbued with gratitude. "My son is happy because of you."

"And I just gained a daughter." 

AN: Thank you guys for being patient with me. I don't even remember how long its been since I updated this fic. I've had this chapter written for awhile, but I just couldn't get the ending right. (aka the smut part). I promise it will happen in the next chapter, but I don't know when that will be. Truthfully, my BPD has been absolutely kicking my ass as of late. But writing is one of the few things that bring me joy, and I'm trying to get a little done with each day.

I love you guys <3

[hxney-lemcn]

thinking abt that isekai shit tn. being isekai'd into a loz game and taking the place of link. there's no hero, so u gotta pussy up and do that shit. also like? ur reaaally hoping that u can use the triforce to make a wish n get back home- so ur goin thru the motions bein a hero n kicking ass but! dink! u finally get to his confrontation n he's like "who TF r u? where is the hero?" "I am the hero-" "no ur not" n all. but also him being so intrigued cause he can absolutely feel ur darkness, ur far from the goddess' chosen. i mean ur whole reason for saving people is selfish- to get the triforce and make a wish to leave? who gives a shit abt honor n duty, ur outta this bitch. So he's intrigued, hiding in ur shadow and waiting till ur guards down, following u around and poking and prodding and pestering u, egging u into fights w him n then trying to seduce u to his side five minutes later.

-🥕🐇

No hero au my FAV!!!!

I’ve thought of this and how that may work! Is it just that there’s no link this time and something with the souls got messed up? Is Zelda there or is she too not the princess at this time?

I think the easiest way to go about it is there is Zelda, and there’s been a prophecy that the hero would randomly appear in a beam of light. You’re not sure how the hell they predicted your arrival, but suddenly you’re forced into this role to be a hero and save the land of Hyrule.

You know this song and dance, you’ve played a loz game once or twice (or more) before, you fight against the evil, solve dungeons, defeat ganon, then have the chance to make a wish on the triforce. It’s difficult at first, you’ve never swung a sword or killed something before, but you quickly get your bearings and are a force to be reckoned with.

One dungeon you remembered like the back of your hand. You walked on the water, your reflection no where to be seen. A lone dead tree in the distance. This was where Dark Link came out, would there be a dark version of yourself?

You paused by the tree, sword and shield at the ready. Slowly, you walked backward towards the only exit, watching as a dark figure slowly ripples up and stands in a similar stance, only to pause.

“Who the hell are you?”

You blink, you’ve never heard his voice before. He never talked in the games. It sounded like Link but lower and more twisted.

“I’m the hero.”

The fight was interesting, it was like the shadow of the true hero could see right through you. He didn’t fight as harshly as he did when you played as Link, you took a bit of offense at that. But you ‘defeated’ him all the same and was able to finish the dungeon.

You thought you were nearly done, everything was going as smoothly as it could, only a few hiccups here and there. Red potions were truly a life saver. Then he was back. Your fire creating soft shadows on the woods around you, then sharp red eyes were staring directly into your own, a smug grin made his fangs poke out.

It seems you’ve caught yourself a little pest.