#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!

[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. 

[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.

[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.

[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.

[honeylullaby]

“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.

[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. 

[fanfic-writing-barbie]

Playing fighting with Logan

tw: none

a/n let me know what you think about this :)

The forest was peaceful as the sun hung low in the sky, casting soft golden light through the trees. You had convinced Logan to come out for a walk, though he'd been reluctant at first. He preferred his solitude, always grumbling about "too many people" or "too much noise." But today was different—today, he seemed relaxed, the tension that usually held his shoulders tight was gone for the moment.

You walked side by side along the forest trail, feeling the cool breeze on your skin. Every now and then, you'd catch Logan glancing at you, a small smirk on his lips. He’d probably never admit it, but he enjoyed this kind of thing. A calm, quiet day with you. Still, something about the peaceful atmosphere made you feel playful, and you nudged him with your elbow.

“What?” he asked, his tone gruff but his eyes betraying a hint of amusement.

“Oh, nothing,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant. You reached out and poked his side again.

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You better stop that, darlin’.”

"Or what?" you teased, your grin widening.

Logan stopped walking, turning to face you. His eyebrows raised in that "you really wanna start this?" kind of way. You stood your ground, challenging him with a raised brow of your own. The playful energy between the two of you crackled in the air like static. Before you could react, Logan was suddenly behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist in a swift motion.

You squealed, not expecting him to move that fast. He had that superhuman speed, after all.

“Logan!” you laughed, twisting in his grip. He wasn’t hurting you, of course; his hold was firm but gentle, and you could feel the warmth of his chest against your back. You wiggled around, trying to escape.

He chuckled low in your ear, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. “What was that you were sayin’?”

“Oh, come on,” you protested, twisting to face him. “I didn’t think you’d actually fight back!”

“Oh, now it’s a fight, huh?” Logan smirked, releasing you just enough to let you turn around. “Thought you were bein’ all cute and harmless.”

You grinned, pushing lightly against his chest. “Maybe I am harmless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

You huffed playfully and gave him another nudge. “What, you think you can take me, Wolverine?”

Without missing a beat, Logan took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I *know* I can.”

And with that, you ducked under his arm, darting away before he could grab you again. Logan let out a laugh—a rare sound from him—as he turned to chase after you.

Your feet pounded against the forest floor, the wind whipping through your hair as you dodged around trees. You glanced back, only to find Logan closer than you expected. With a grin, you picked up the pace, though you knew it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and he could track you without even trying.

Suddenly, you felt his hands wrap around your waist again, lifting you clean off the ground as you let out another laugh.

“Gotcha,” he said, spinning you around before gently setting you down.

Panting and still laughing, you turned to face him. “Okay, okay, I surrender.”

He raised an eyebrow, still holding onto you as if you might make another break for it. “You sure? ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ go if you’re plannin’ somethin’.”

“Promise,” you said, raising your hands in defeat. But the playful glint in your eyes betrayed you.

Logan caught it instantly, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He didn’t let go, but instead pulled you closer, the mood shifting ever so slightly. The tension from your playful chase now simmered between the two of you, something softer yet more intense.

You caught your breath, looking up at him. “You’re lucky you caught me,” you teased softly, though your heart was racing for an entirely different reason now.

“Lucky, huh?” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his hands slid from your waist to rest gently at the small of your back. “I think I’m just good at what I do.”

Your pulse quickened, your body pressed close to his as he looked down at you with that familiar intensity. “And what exactly are you good at?” you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan smirked, leaning in just enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Everything.”

Your breath hitched at the closeness, and before you could respond, his lips found yours in a kiss that was both soft and fierce, like him. His hands held you tight, but his touch was gentle, his lips warm as they moved against yours with a surprising tenderness.

You melted into the kiss, all thoughts of playful fighting gone as your arms slid up around his neck, pulling him closer. Logan let out a soft, approving growl, his hands tightening on your waist.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Logan looked at you with a satisfied smirk.

“Guess I win,” he said, his voice low and rough.

You chuckled, resting your forehead against his. “Fine. But only because I let you.”

[kazenehoshizora]

It was a peaceful afternoon, and you, along with Vice Captain Hoshina, found yourselves at the local market, shopping for the kitchen staff of the 3rd Division. The sun filtered through the trees, casting a warm glow over the bustling market. Vice Captain Hoshina, usually so serious and composed, seemed surprisingly relaxed today, his typical stoic expression softened by the peaceful task at hand.

You both wandered through the aisles of the market, with Vice Captain Hoshina leading the way. His large hands gripped the shopping list as he glanced at the items and back at the shelves, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"We need potatoes, onions, an' some fresh herbs," he said in his Kansai accent, his voice a little lighter than usual as he reached for a bag of potatoes. "Y'know, I always get the best ones. Ain't no need to doubt me on that."

You couldn't help but smile at his confident tone. "Do you think the kitchen staff will be impressed by your shopping skills, Vice Captain Hoshina?" you teased, raising an eyebrow playfully as you picked out a few onions.

He glanced at you, his smirk growing just slightly as he leaned a little closer. "Impressed? Ain't no ‘bout it. When I pick ingredients, I pick ‘em like I’m pickin' the best weapons for battle. Ain't no other way," he said with a chuckle, his voice deep and rich with the accent. "But hey, don’t get too cocky—ya still gotta follow me around so I can teach ya how it’s done."

You laughed softly. "I’m sure I’ll learn from the master."

As you continued down the aisles, you noticed that his gaze lingered on the shelves with herbs and spices, his fingers brushing over the labels. It was clear that he took great pride in the small details.

"Ya gotta get the freshest thyme, y’know," he murmured, pulling a small bunch from the shelf. "Without it, the stew’ll taste flat. We don’t want that, eh?"

"Got it, Vice Captain. You’re the expert," you replied, making sure to mimic his careful touch when choosing your own items.

After a few more minutes of shopping, you both came across a display of colorful flowers, and Hoshina paused. His eyes softened as he studied them before his hand reached out to pluck a small, delicate flower. Without saying anything, he gently tucked it behind your ear.

"You’ve got a good eye, Vice Captain," you said, feeling a rush of warmth at the gesture.

He grinned slightly, his usual seriousness replaced by a rare tenderness. "Eh, I know what looks good. Thought ya could use a lil’ somethin’ pretty today." He leaned in closer, his voice soft and sincere. "Don’t think I’m gonna let ya forget, though. You owe me for that flower."

You blinked, a little taken aback by his playful tone. "Oh? What do I owe you, Vice Captain?"

His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Maybe a dinner with me later? Ya know, for a job well done—an' ‘cause you got a pretty smile." His words were teasing, but there was a sincerity behind them that made your heart flutter.

You smiled, feeling your cheeks warm up. "I think I can manage that, Vice Captain."

As the trip continued, Hoshina’s rare smiles and casual conversation made the day feel more intimate, the task of grocery shopping almost secondary. The two of you worked in sync, talking about everything and nothing, with his lighthearted banter and your teasing exchanges. When the groceries were finally packed, and you were heading back to the 3rd Division, Vice Captain Hoshina suddenly reached over and brushed your hand gently.

His voice softened, and he looked at you with an expression that seemed to convey more than just words. "Ya know, this—spending time like this—it’s somethin’ special, ain’t it? It’s nice not always bein’ on duty."

You nodded, your heart swelling with warmth at his words. "It is," you said quietly. "I’m glad we could do this together."

Hoshina squeezed your hand slightly, his lips curling into a rare, sincere smile. "Me too, (Y/N). Me too."

[themarcusmoreno]

PART ONE: Lost

Pairing: Joel Miller x GN!Reader Word Count: 2312 Warnings: feeling(s), language, blood, slight gore, use of weapons Author’s Note: This fic has been living in my google docs since after The Last of Us came out, I am so happy to be able to share it with all of you. If it’s not something you like, I understand and feel free to let me know your opinions. I want to thank @moonlight-prose, @mostly-megan and @sunflowersteves for being the best hype folks I could ask for.

Joel knows the spot the two of you have chosen to rest is too exposed with the bare minimum of coverage from nearby trees and bushes. But you look at him with such exhaustion that he begrudgingly agrees to stay, if only until dawn. While you take the time to start a small fire and start the cooking of the portions of fresh meat the two of you managed to gather on your hunt, he sweeps the area to make sure no remnants of the infected linger. Satisfied with finding nothing, Joel makes his way back to the now low burning campfire and the smell of cooking meat.

“Ya find anything?” You look at him as he sits his pack next to yours, offering him the canteen of water as he takes a seat on the fallen log close to you. 

He shakes his head as he takes a deep drink, “No, which could be a good thing considerin’ how open we are out here.”

“I know it’s not perfect. M’also well aware that the only reason stopped because of me, so thank you,” you lean over under the guise of taking the canteen but instead press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, feeling his lips quirk slightly.

“Well, it’s not like we couldn’t both use a break. Feels like we’ve been walking for days,” he takes another drink before passing the he water back to you, “‘sides, it’s not that awful of a spot. Stars look nice.”

You nod in agreement, your head tipping back to take in the stars as Joel takes over the cooking. The conversation fades and you’re covered in the silence of the night around you, one you’ve become accustomed to in the years of travel with the man at your side. At the thought of him, you right your head and glance in his direction. The flames of the fire lick at the angles of his face, half hidden in shadows while the other glows from what light the fire provides. You take him in slowly - the beard lining his jaw, the soft pout of his lips, the curve of his nose and settle on his eyes as they meet yours. 

“What’s got you quiet? That’s usually my job,” he tears off a bit of the meat, looking at you with a quirked brow as he catches you in your admiration. 

“Huh? S’nothing, I was just appreciating the view,” you took the offered meal, moving closer to him and the warmth of the fire. 

“The view bein’ our bleak surroundings or present company?” There is a smile to the question as he asks, his gaze lingering on yours before he turns back to own meal. 

You don’t hide the smile as you shake your head and continue eating, “Both I guess. Can’t say I’m really upset at either.”

You swear you hear him laugh softly as he continues to eat, the lull in conversation returns as you both enjoy the meal of small game and dried fruit. As the night wears on, you and Joel find yourself stretching out under the full moon. You knew, just as Joel said, that the spot wasn’t safe enough to stay but the exhaustion weighing on your bones was becoming impossible to ignore and he must have sensed it. 

“Sleep, darlin’, I’ll give you a few hours then we‘ll switch.” Before you can respond, he lays his well-worn jacket over you. His words soft in the night air as he continues, “it’ll be morning soon and we’ll need to move but just sleep for now.”

“You sure?” Your eyes are partially closed at your point of asking, making Joel chuckle as sits up fully and leans against the log. 

“Yeah, m’sure,” he leans his gun across his knees, his back braced against the log as he glances down at you for a response. Finding you asleep, he sighs and brushes a few strands of hair from your face.

Time seems to slow as Joel sits in silence, nothing but the low crackling of the fire and your quiet snores to feel the void of night. Just as you had admired him by the fire, he took the time to take you in as he always did in quiet moments - though, even after five years of travel, he still did it in a way that never drew your attention. 

He always knew you had shared his feelings, but you hadn’t been vocal about them until after the third year of his companionship, after a close call with clickers. The altercation had led to a fight between the two of you, your anger more fierce and direct than he was used to when it came to you. It had led to the tumbling of admittance to the feelings for him you had held captive. Joel hadn’t said anything, just tossed his gun aside and took you in his arms. The kiss he gave you had held every bit of what he couldn’t say and all that came next clicked into place with what had been brewing for years between the two of you. The years that came after were different but the same. He kept you close and the two of you fought side by side as always. When Ellie was added to your small group, the circle seemed complete even though he never admitted it out loud. 

Lost in his thoughts, Joel misses the snap of the distance limb under booted foot. He‘ll blame himself for it later when the danger is in front of you but for now, lost in his memories, he’s content in his obliviousness as to what’s to come. 

Turning his head to the sky, he sighs then glances at his once busted but now working watch. Somewhere between memories from the past and the promises of the present, he had lost track of time.  When he realizes just how much time has passed, he curses softly and moves to wake you up knowing you’ll be mad he robbed himself of his own rest if he lets you sleep longer. 

Nudging you awake, he leans to brush his lips along your forehead to wake you slowly. “C’mon, baby, it's your turn to take watch.”

“M’up. I’m up.” Your words mumble together as you stretch and move to sit up, groaning lowly. 

“You doin’ okay? Sounds like you could use another week of that,” he hesitates before moving into the same position you were previously in, sighing softly at the relief the hard ground gives his back. “I was going to give you another hour but -“

“But you knew I’d be mad.” As you look down at him, the small smile on his face gives you an answer. “Mm, you’re getting pretty smart in your old age, Miller.”

Joel huffs out a laugh and shrugs, “Never hear you complain about my age, darlin’. If I remember correctly I think you like it just fine, The experience and all that comes with it seems to keep you very satisfied.”

With that, you shove his side and laugh, draping his jacket over him. “Just go to sleep. I’d hate to have you grumpier than usual.”

He doesn’t argue, shifting slightly to get comfortable before he glances up at you, “you wake me if there’s trouble, understand?”

“Promise I will,” leaning down, you press a soft kiss to his lips and smile, “even though I can handle it myself.”

He returns your smile as you right yourself, pulling your knees to your chest before you toss a few remaining sticks on to the fire. The last thing Joel sees as sleep overtakes him is your face by the firelight, the warm hue of your eyes shining as you watch the flames dance. 

Muffled, angry conversation is the first thing that slowly filters into Joel’s consciousness as he wakes. He isn’t sure what wakes him, but he can feel more than one presence at the fire as his eyes remain close. He wishes his gun was closer, that he’d tucked it to his side like usual before he slept. 

“Just give us the supplies and we’ll go, you and the old man don’t have to get hurt.” The voice closest to Joel speaks, “I’d really hate to splatter that pretty face of yours across the trees.”

“You can fucking try, asshole. I’ll drop you before you have a chance to think.” He recognizes the ferocity of your voice and slowly moves to sit up, the press of cool metal against his temple has his eyes snapping open as he looks up to the three men surrounding the makeshift campsite. 

“Mornin’, grandpa. Why don’t you convince this pretty piece of ass to share y’all’s supplies so we don’t have to hurt ya? My buddy there has a twitchy finger and the last thing we want to do is kill anybody.” The stranger’s voice is laced with sarcasm and the glint Joel catches in his eyes is more evil than man, he knows the look well.

“He’s not doing shit! I told you no, now you leave on your own or I blow your buddy’s head off.” You step closer to Joel, your own gun pressed into your shoulder as you point it at the man standing over your partner. “I could get him and you before you get the first shot off.”

“Just let them have what we have left, girl. Don’t be stupid, you don’t have to play the hero.” The sound of Joel’s voice has your gaze dropping to where he half lays, half sits on ground.

“Better listen to him, sweetheart. Don’t want you playing the stupid hero.” The same man speaks again, cocking his gun as he moves closer, “give us the stuff.”

What happens next Joel will later recount as a blur, gunfighting he will say resembles that of the Texan westerns he grew up on. The man standing over him is the first one down, half his face missing as he topples to the ground next to him as you kick his shotgun over. His friend farther out of the group falls next, Joel’s shot landing dead center of his chest as the final two shots land. 

Joel watches as the man whose gun had been pointed at you falls to the ground, his face marred by your shot. He lets out a breath of relief as he moves to stand, looking the men over for any sign of infection before he turns at the soft call of his name. 

“J-Joel,” your voice sounds small as you call to him, “I think he got a shot in.”

Crimson. Dark, furious crimson is all that fills his vision as he looks to your hands pressed against the upper right side of your body. 

“No. NO!” Joel’s screams echo off the trees as he watches you crumple to the ground in front of him, “you’re okay, you’re okay.” He pleads as he moves to kneel next to you, his hands pressing over the wound. 

“I g-got him, didn’t even see it coming.” Your words are stuttered as you blink back tears, “guess I didn’t see him coming either.”

He looks you over, his eyes welling with tears as he takes in the spreading stain. “You still did good, baby.”

“Learned from the best,” a shift in your combined hands has you crying out in pain.

“Easy, easy I know it hurts but I need to look, okay?” He looks at you for approval before moving your hands to check the wound, his brow knitting as more blood pours for the wound. “Went straight through.”

Your words are slurred as you speak again, “s’not too bad, right?”

“No, ‘course not. You’ll be just fine, sweetheart. Not bad at all,” he knows isn’t the complete truth and he knows you’re at least a little more than half a day’s  walk from the compound while losing more blood than he can begin to figure. 

When he meets your eyes again, you chuckle and squeeze his hand gently. “You.. You are a shit liar, Miller.”

There, under the waning cover of night as the sky begins to streak with the orange of the impending sunrise, Joel holds what last good thing he knows will touch his life in quivering hands. Feeling the warmth of your body fade as the very essence of your life bleeds between the clasped fingers pressed to the wound inflicted by the raider’s gun. He makes a deal to whatever deity listening to spare your life, to keep you alive for him and spare him the pain of losing someone else.

“Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t leave me, please.” His words are rushed as tears begin to fall, his hand pressing against the wound. “I’m going to have to move you, okay? We need to get you back.”

“Hurts.. Hurts b-bad. Just let me.. let me rest.” The words are soft as you fade in and out of consciousness, blinking up at him slowly.

“You can rest when we get to the compound, right now we’re moving.” He curses to himself as slips his pack on and the gun over his shoulder, pressing his jacket over the bleeding wound before he lifts you and you cry out weakly, “just hold on for me, I’ve got you.” 

You mumble a response and he spares one final glance around the camp before he starts his trek, the compound and medical help the only thing on his mind. Not the infected, not scavengers, just you. 

Under a sky on fire with the tendrils of the new day, Joel Miller holds his world in his arms and races a clock he can’t slow as the blood flows from your body. 

[unicyclehippo]

Indebted

‘girlfriends, huh?’

laudna cringes. looks like she wants to disappear into her pillow. the little flame on their bedside is steady; the shadow it throws flickers madly, buffeted, disturbed.

‘i shouldn’t have said it. i’m sorry.’

imogen ignores the scorpion-sting of hurt; she had known it would come when she started this conversation, that a talk like this might skitter and panic and sting. that laudna might.

‘i don’t mind. bein’ your girlfriend,’ she says, slow and thoughtful like. ‘obviously. and i don’t mind you tellin’ anyone. i just thought…’ she wets her lips, nervous. takes a moment to sort through her thoughts—there’s so many of them now that she doesn’t have everyone else’s to crowd hers out, and it’s frustrating not knowing laudna’s as well as her own, but that’s the way it is now and it’s a good different, mostly, but she sure would like to know what is going on in laudna’s head, what has her so still. ‘i thought maybe you would say it to me before you said it to anyone else.’

‘yes, yes, i should have spoken to you first, of course!’

imogen shuffles onto her side so she can level a good and proper frown at laudna, who smiles a little sheepishly, plucks at the itchy tavern sheet settled over her.

‘i’m not scoldin’ you. i don’t know how to do this either. i got a surprise, that’s all. are you cold?’

laudna laughs like imogen has told a joke. she has a lovely laugh, airy, sweet. when she really thinks something is funny, there’s a hint of a cackle to it. she thinks about the people laudna might have scared, knowing or unknowing, as her laughter travelled through the trees out of her hut; she knows she’s a lost cause over this girl when, instead of amusement, it tugs deep want up into her hands, her chest, her throat—she wants that, to walk through the trees home to the hut they share, to hear laudna’s laughter greeting her, guiding her home. she lets it move her. tugs the heavy blanket from over her and shuffles closer, wraps it around them both.

‘there. that’s better.’

‘oh.’ laudna’s voice cracks. ‘thank you, you’re very kind,’ she whispers, like imogen has done something wonderfully profound. she looks to struggle for a moment then lifts her chin to kiss her.

‘oh,’ imogen breathes, and her thoughts get messier as she struggles to focus on anything but the soft, cool touch of laudna—lips, fingers very gentle on the side of her neck—and the scent of her all around—forest floor, soap, soot. she wants to open her mind. she wants laudna in and around her and the thought, and laudna’s gentle searching kiss, makes her flush, scars stinging with a lovely smouldering heat, thoughts turning to static. ‘um. wait.’

laudna retreats quite quickly to her pillow. her dark eyes are apologetic and then, imogen thinks, maybe not so much. dipping to imogen’s flushed cheeks, her lips. her gaze lingers.

‘what-‘ laudna stops. surprise flickers over her face and she touches her throat, her lips. she starts again with a little cough. ‘what’s wrong, darling?’

imogen reaches out, brushes her fingers over the marble cliff of laudna’s bare shoulder. ‘you know i would do anything for you.’

‘and i you.’

‘i know. but - i want to do that. i want to help you and care for you and protect you, whatever you need, whatever you want from me.’ a little frown crinkles between laudna’s brows. imogen touches a finger there, smoothes it out. so soft. ‘i’m afraid,’ she whispers. ‘that you kissed me to thank me for caring. that you want to be my girlfriend so i have you.’

‘imogen-‘

‘and if i’m wrong, i’ll be so glad, but i have to say it so you - so you can think about it, maybe, but so you know that i’m thinking about it and i want to be careful,’ she insists, and takes laudna’s hand in hers, all bird-boned, all light and delicate and ecstatically alive. ‘i don’t want you indebted to me, laudna. you know that, don’t you?’ a little nod. more than enough to say, ‘i want you like i always have. my friend. my person. my - my favourite,’ imogen says as firmly as she can, and presses a hand to laudna’s chest, over that awful wicked scar, the one she gave laudna, the one laudna wouldn’t have if not for her.

there’s a despairing tilt to laudna’s lips when she smiles back at her. ‘this is all so new.’

‘i know.’

‘i don’t think it’s what i’m doing but -‘ her eyes close. black lashes splayed over porcelain cheeks. ‘how do we know it’s not the opposite? that i’m not trying to claim you as mine? to ingratiate-‘

‘darlin’, if you think i’m not totally devoted already…i don’t know what to tell you,’ imogen drawls, and smiles, relieved, when laudna laughs.

‘and i to you, i assure you.’ laudna drags a cool hand down imogen’s arm. covers her hand with her own. when she starts to speak, melodious, thoughtful, imogen relaxes into the pillow to listen. ‘i care for you a great deal. you already know that. being separated from you was. awful,’ laudna spits, the fury in her features for more than just their separation. it was everything that had come with it, imogen knew. fear, and what dreadful things laudna is capable of when she is frightened. ‘and then, to learn you cared for me more than i had known was such a joy. and kissing—‘ the word trembles in her mouth. imogen is enraptured by the smile it conjures. ‘kissing you is quite lovely.’

imogen grins. ‘just quite lovely? do you want to double chec—mm!’ she laughs into laudna’s kiss, follows her for a second.

‘exceedingly lovely.’

‘oh exceedingly,’ imogen says, trying not to fall over her tripping heart. ‘that’s good.’

‘yes. it’s very good. i think… i think we are very good, imogen. i cannot tell you that i am not…frightened of hurting you. i am. but if your question is whether i truly care, or if there is anything i would not give to you freely, happily,’ laudna shakes her head. ‘i do, and there is not.’ she smiles over at imogen and says, a little slyly, ‘you’re my girlfriend, by the way.’

‘am i?’

‘mhm. chetney may already know.’

‘he won’t tell.’

laudna tilts her head. ‘would you want him to?’

‘no. no, i think. if you want to, we could?’

‘tomorrow?’

‘i could just blast it into everyone’s heads now,’ imogen offers, only very slightly not joking. laudna laughs, snuggles close. she pulls the blanket up to her chin. ‘tomorrow is good too. maybe over breakfast.’

‘why tell them anything? i shall kiss you and ashton will buy us a drink to ask why.’

imogen laughs. ‘a kiss and a free drink? perfect.’

[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.

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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. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

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.  

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

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

[sai-int]

Panther | A Haunting

[PREV] | [NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 3k words

Present - Savannah, Georgia, USA -  7.22.2024

"Are you with me, Bea?"

...

"Beatrice?"

The sweet, calm voiced pulled me back from the grasp of my mind. I blinked and refocused my line of sight to the middle aged woman. A saccharine smile adorned her face. Too sweet for me. 

"Yeah. 'M here." I replied hesitantly, trying to avoid eye contact with the woman. I brushed away a loose strand of hair and my eyes shifted away from her to scan the walls, most of them covered with self-help posters or calendars stocked to the brim with penned in appointments. A certificate on the wall behind the woman's desk. 

A doctorate in psychology seems to go a long way. This woman had stacks of awards just sitting casually on her shelf. Probably for fixing a shit-ton of war-torn veterans and soldiers alike. With me, however, she's doing a rather questionable job. 

Maybe it's me who's not willing to put the effort in. 

"Beatrice?" Her voice breaking the silence I didn't realize I fell into. 

I tore my gaze away from her shiny awards and back to her. A tight-lipped apology weaseling its way out of me. 

"It's alright. Did you want to answer the question? Or we could move on if that makes you more comfortable." She said, lightly tapping her pen against her clip-board, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small, cozy room. She was either impatient, or anxious. Likely both. 

"What was the question again?" I asked sheepishly, avoiding eye-contact. Staring at my boots against the white carpet was infinitely more appealing to me than mandatory-therapy. 

She breathed a soft sigh. 

"How much of you is still trapped back in the Russian taiga?"

My eyes flickered to her. Her frizzy auburn curls and the sickeningly green cardigan she wore, even the sight of her baby pink nails made my stomach churn with unfamiliarity. I stripped any form of normalcy from my life 11 years ago. I was hardly ever in the public as it is, aside from the occasional bar or my very empty apartment. 

I shrugged in response. "'M all here." 

She shot back without a thought. "You're lying. This won't work if you're not truthful." 

I sighed indignantly. My head lulled back, counting the tiles in the ceiling as I pondered a response. My lips pursed.

"Not much. 'Have dreams 'bout it sometimes... Don't exceed much further than bein' in the trees." 

She hummed appreciatively and wrote something down, seemingly content with the answer. I have no idea why I lied to her. She was a sweet woman but a part of me just didn't like her. Maybe I was jealous of her. Jealous of the cat hair on her ugly green cardigan, the wedding band on her ring finger, the scribbled drawing on the wall, likely from her kid. Sometimes I wish this wasn't the life I led, the little girl inside of me screaming for regularity. 

But there's no other option. The thoughts are gone in an instant. 

"Do you think you're still running? Running from what happened?" She asked, finishing her note on the clipboard.

My brain refused to answer that. The lamp on her desk cast a muted, pale orange glow across the wall—a strangely captivating shade. I focused on it, letting the silence settle, hoping she'd take it as an answer.

"Back then, when did it stop being about survival, and start being about something darker? Something primal?"

I wanted this stupid leather love seat to swallow me whole, to drag me down so deep I'd never have to claw my way up again. My thumb found its way to my mouth, teeth pressing into the raw skin beside my nail, scraping, biting. My leg bounced with an erratic, uncontrollable rhythm, and each thud of my heart crashed against my ribcage, desperate to break free, like some caged thing fighting for escape. The room felt too hot, the walls too close—too close to keep everything buried.

"You hunted them for days, Beatrice—planned every kill, watched them break under the terror you created. Tell me, did that make you feel human?"

"Or just... an animal?"

Bile burned up my throat, bitter and choking. A rot buried deep inside me seemed to fester, spreading heat through my chest, my skin prickling as though I were catching fire from the inside out. I shot up, grabbing my jacket and helmet, barely seeing them through the haze. The doorframe rattled with the force of my slam, but the anger still clung to me like smoke I couldn't shake.

My heavy boots thudded against the floor, the took me to the nearest bathroom. When my brain shut down, my body knew how to compensate. 

The cool ceramic of the sink chilled my clammy palms, my eyes clamped shut as I counted my breaths, trying to drown out the metallic taste of blood still haunting me—the taste that lingered from sinking my teeth into a man's throat. Each rhythmic drip of the leaky faucet seemed to sync with my racing pulse, each drop falling in time with the slow, hot trail of my tears. The bathroom light flickered above, harsh and unsteady, each flash making it harder to push the memories back, dragging me further into the unease clawing at my chest.

The wind whistled through the window, weaving a haunting ballad to accompany the battle raging in my mind.

After breath seventy-two, I opened my eyes. Red droplets spattered the sink like a crime scene, the metallic tang filling the air. I looked up instinctively, desperate to see something familiar, but the woman in the mirror was a stranger. Dirt and grime streaked her face, her hair matted and slick, wild eyes gleaming with a primal glint. Blood smeared her mouth, neck, and shirt—sticky, fresh, marking her like war paint.

Then I saw the dog tags glinting at her neck, a brutal reminder, an undeniable truth:

She is me.

My bike roared to life as I turned the key in the ignition, the engine's growl vibrating through me. I slipped the black helmet over my head, the rough fabric pressing against my skin. Flipping the tinted visor down, I revved the engine, feeling its power surge under me. Without a second thought, I pulled out of the parking spot and gunned it, leaving the city in my rearview.

I wove through the city streets as the sun cast a soft pink hue across the sky. Summers in Savannah were brutal, but the evening breeze offered a small reprieve. I popped open the visor, letting the wind nip at my eyes and cool my skin. For a few moments, the rush of the ride washed away everything else, leaving just the hum of the engine and the road.

The ride to Hunter Airfield was brief, the wind still fresh against my face. I rolled into the parking lot, the bike settling firmly on its kickstand with a satisfying click. After dismounting, I tucked my helmet under my arm, feeling the weight of it as I approached the entrance. I swiped my keycard, the beep granting me access to the base, a small reminder that I was back in the fold.

As I walked through the main building, the familiar sights and sounds wrapped around me like a well-worn blanket. I strode past a group of soldiers, their chatter fading into the background as I kept my head down, opting for silence over pleasantries. A few glances flickered my way, but I was used to the mix of curiosity and indifference that came with being me. The panic attack I had left me hungry, but nauseous all the same. 

Entering the bustling canteen, the hum of conversation swirled around me, but I navigated through the crowd without so much as a nod. I made a beeline for the food line, grabbing a tray and slapping down a couple of pre-packaged meals. I caught sight of Carlos and Leon at a corner table, their rambunctious laughter cutting through the noise like a beacon. I slid into the seat across from them, raising an eyebrow. 

"Y'all look like you found the secret to happiness." I reached for a fry from Carlos' plate, my lips curling into a smirk.

Carlos smirked, pushing a half-empty plate of fries my way. "Just trying to drown our sorrows in carbs. You in?"

"Only if they're laced with some kinda magic," I replied, picking a fry and munching on it, welcoming the salt. "Otherwise, 'm not sure they'll cut it."

We all fell into a comfortable silence despite the bustling canteen. Carlos and Leon were some of the only guys in the regiment that managed to weasel their way behind the walls I've put up over the years. Eventually, I stopped trying to fight it. It helps when I know they'll have my back in the field. I alternated between Carlos' fries and whatever cardboard was in my meal. 

Leon piped up. "Did you hear about the training exercise next week? They're sending a few of us out for field drills."

"Yeah, I heard they want to mix up the squads," Carlos added, glancing around the canteen. "It'll be nice to get away from the usual, though I can't say I'm looking forward to the heat."

"Stay hydrated," I said. "Wouldn't want you passin' out in the middle of it." I teased the time Carlos completely face planted during drills after deeming himself 'too buff' to be overtaken by the Georgian sun.

Carlos chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the advice, Mom. But seriously though, it should be interesting. I heard they're bringing in some new equipment for us to test."

"Let's just hope they actually explain how to use it," I replied, taking a bite of my fry. "Last time, half the squad was fumblin' 'round like idiots."

I let out a genuine laugh. It was with them that I really felt at ease, not thinking of my life or the things that set me apart from everyone else. 

Just then, the canteen door swung open, and an unfamiliar face stepped inside, scanning the room. It was one of the junior enlisted soldiers, a nervous look plastered across his features. He locked eyes with me, and I felt my stomach twist. He skittered over to our table like a frightened mouse. 

"Uh, Dawson..? The Colonel wants to see you in his office," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My heart sank. "Great. What now?" I muttered under my breath, pushing my tray away. Carlos and Leon exchanged knowing glances, and the teasing began.

Leon leaned in, a playful grin on his face. "Looks like someone's in trouble again. I bet it's about your 'antisocial tendencies' or something." He made an air quotes gesture with his fingers. 

"Yeah, you know," Carlos added with a mock serious tone, "if you'd just smile and wave at the guys more, maybe they wouldn't think you're plotting their demise."

I rolled my eyes, standing up from the table. "Very funny. I'll be sure to practice my 'friendly wave' while 'm in there."

"Don't forget to charm his pants off," Leon called after me, laughter trailing in his wake. 

"Sure, I'll add that to my agenda right after I figure out how t'charm anyone else here," I shot back, trying to suppress a smile.

As I made my way out of the canteen, their teasing echoed behind me, but my thoughts were already racing ahead to what the Colonel might want. I'd had enough warnings to know that staying off everyone's radar came at a cost. The last thing I needed was another lecture on teamwork or a reminder that I wasn't "fitting in" as I should. After all, camaraderie is important in the Army. 

As I made my way through the winding hallways toward the Colonel's office, the air felt heavier with each step. The familiar hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in my ears, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat as it thudded against my ribs. Soldiers passed by in small groups, chatting easily with each other as they moved through the maze of corridors. I kept my head down, focusing on the gray linoleum floor beneath my boots.

A couple of them noticed me, their eyes lingering a second too long. I met their gaze, only to look away just as quickly. No matter how many times I tried, I never got used to the way people watched me—curious, maybe wary. I was known for my silence, my ability to stay out of sight until the job demanded otherwise.

"Panther," one of them nodded, almost as a challenge, as he passed. I gave a stiff nod back, but kept moving without breaking stride. His smirk trailed after me, but I resisted the urge to turn and look. These glances were routine by now. But today, with my head buzzing and my heart hammering, every look seemed to carry extra weight, as if they knew I'd been summoned.

I turned the final corner, steeling myself as I approached the Colonel's office door. I took a deep breath, gathering my nerves, and forced my expression into something close to neutral.

As I approached the Colonel's office, the familiar sense of dread settled into my bones, mingling with the sterile scent of the corridor. I squared my shoulders, taking a steadying breath. Maybe it would be a simple check-in. Maybe I wasn't about to get another lecture on "team cohesion" or a warning about how being standoffish would only isolate me further.

But the second I stepped through the door, I could tell this wasn't just any reprimand. Colonel Greene looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable as he set down a stack of papers. He gestured to the chair in front of him without a word, and I lowered myself into it, picking the raw skin of my thumbs under the table

"Dawson," he started, turning his attention to me, lacing his fingers together. "You're aware that you've built quite a reputation here, I assume?"

"Guessin' it's not a good one, Sir," I replied, keeping my tone steady.

His lips twitched, almost a smile. "Depends who you ask." He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "You're skilled. Precise. Frankly, you've got the makings of a strong leader. But you seem to keep everyone at arm's length, like you're only halfway apart of this regiment."

I stayed silent, not sure if he was expecting an answer. The truth was, he wasn't wrong. But it wasn't something I could—or would—explain.

He watched me for a beat longer, then nodded as if he'd made a decision. "That being said, we have something that requires exactly that kind of approach."

I blinked, thrown off. "Sir?"

"I'm sending you to D.C. to meet with some... Elites," he said, handing me a file across the desk. "It's a temporary assignment, a...unique opportunity." His tone held a note I couldn't quite place, a mix of challenge and appraisal.

I took the file, flipping it open. The names on the page caught my eye immediately: Laswell, Price, Shepherd. I raised an eyebrow. "Special teams, sir?"

"Consider it a chance to broaden your skills. It's time for you to get out of this regiment for a while. They'll brief you on arrival."

I clenched the folder in my hands, feeling the weight of it. This wasn't what I'd expected. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow, as early as possible. Get your things in order."

He met my gaze, a glint in his eye that left no room for protest. "Dismissed."

I stood, nodding before I turned and walked out, the file heavy in my hand and my mind racing. So much for another lecture on teamwork. Whatever this was, it felt like a test—one I couldn't afford to fail.

The hallway outside the Colonel's office felt oddly empty, the quiet wrapping around me as I walked back toward the main wing. The weight of the file in my hand was nothing compared to the questions circling in my mind. D.C. Special teams. "Broadening my skills." I'd been expecting a disciplinary talk or, at worst, a formal warning—but this was something entirely different.

I headed straight for my quarters, eyes fixed ahead, barely noticing the few soldiers I passed on my way. One of them called my name, but I only managed a half-hearted nod. My focus was locked on the day ahead: packing, preparing, and the constant unease of leaving this place for something unknown. I wasn't one for hesitation, but something about being sent away from the regiment—my regiment—put me on edge. It was like leaving the one place I'd started to feel grounded, tossed back into the unknown.

When I finally got to my room, I shut the door and tossed the file onto my bunk. I stared at it for a moment, then sat down, the metal springs creaking beneath me as I opened the folder, flipping through pages of clipped details and blacked-out lines. "Laswell, Price, Shepherd..." These names weren't exactly low-profile. I'd heard of them before, legends in their own right.

I sat back, feeling the chill of the file's implications settle in. This wasn't just another mission. They were sending me out of here to work with people who had seen—and done—more than most in the business. But if there was anyone that could handle it, it'd be me. 

[sunshinebingo]

@gwynrielweeksofficial Day 11 - Alternate Universe

Synopsis: Feeling restless, Gwyn watches the rain from inside the library at Rosehall. When she is unexpectedly joined by Azriel, she realises that perhaps her dear friend could be the one to answer the question that has been plaguing her mind and keeping her from sleep.

A Gwynriel Regency AU inspired by the Bridgerton series.

Word Count: 4k

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

On the summer of 1813, sitting in the large library of Rosehall manor with her head pressed against the window while it rained cats and dogs outside, Gwyneth Berdara pondered. There was nothing unusual in the fact that she was partaking in the act itself. What was odd, however, was the subject that seemed to have taken her mind hostage to the point where she felt so restless that she had to leave the comfortable bed of the guest room that she had been assigned for the duration of her stay. She didn’t know why she was thinking about this so much but she knew that it was the novel she had been reading for the past day that had triggered the thoughts that had gotten her out of bed in the middle of the night, when the air inside the manor was so still that even the place seemed deep in sleep.

She opened the window just enough to let some air in. The flame of the candle that sat on the cherry wood table behind moved more wildly but did not snuff out. Gwyn closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as the cool breeze caressed her heated cheeks and blew her unbound hair away from her face. For a moment, the smell of rain and trees brought her 18 years back, to her childhood bedroom painted in soft blues and white – similar colours to her current room in London – where she had often sat by the window just like tonight to read or to simply stare at the beauty that was Ireland in Spring, or any season really. 18 years and she still missed the air of the country enough to revel in it every chance she got. Rosehall reminded her of how much she loved the greens and the outside; walking bare feet in the grass, swimming in a lake or a river somewhere no one could see, the freedom, the quiet and peace.

Gwyn had been 10 years old when her family had left Ireland to settle in England after her father’s death from an illness a few months prior. It had been at her brother’s request that the Lady Berdara, formerly Miss Vanserra, and her two daughters had moved to London where the rest of her family still resided. Gwyn had been in awe of London even before their carriage had stopped before the grand house that had already been prepared for them. The streets had been busy with the comings and goings of everyone who had already left their country estate to come to the city for the marriage season. Everything was so different.

While her twin, Catrin, had run straight to her new bedroom, Gwyn had sneaked out that day past the trunks and boxes filled with their belongings that were being moved into their new house to explore the outside. The green of the grass had reminded her of the hills that she saw every day from their manor back home. She knew that the garden, no matter how pretty it was, would not replace the view she had there. It was too confined with its tall hedges and limited space to run around. There were not enough big trees that she could climb and sit in to read quietly.

However, one thing had made the garden and life in London much better than Gwyn could have imagined. It had started with the – rather loud – whispered voices she had heard and who were wondering who she was. She had soon found out, after peering her head through the hole in the hedge through which they had been trying to see her, that the voices belonged to her neighbours, Nesta Archeron and Emerie Windhaven and that the latter’s house was right in the middle of hers and Nesta’s. Their friendship had started when Emerie had pointed out that she didn’t understand half of the words that Gwyn had said when she introduced herself and had wondered why they were being so nosy. Gwyn had laughed which had then sent the three girls into a fit of giggles. Although she had lost the thick Irish accent she had when she left her home country, it was still evident today to anyone with ears that she was not born in England – if the fact that she had coppery-reddish hair was not clue enough that is.

Till this day, there were still barely concealed holes in the hedges surrounding the girls’ houses that they had used to visit each other. Although Gwyn and Em didn’t use Nesta’s one since the day she had eloped to marry Cassian, the man she had hated and loved so fiercely. She had a feeling that the one between hers and Emerie’s house would not be in use for much longer either. Gwyn knew that Emerie was close to saying hang society and run away from her home too. That house wasn’t her friend’s home anyway. Emerie’s home was wherever Morrigan was, regardless of what their families had to say. And currently, it was at Rosehall Manor where it’s Lord, the Earl himself, had invited his brothers and closest friends to spend the summer with him.

“What are you doing?”

As though the mere thought of him was enough to summon him, Gwyn’s musings were interrupted by his warm and rich voice. He sounded like he had just come out of bed. By the look of it when she turned her head to the left, she assumed that he probably did. Azriel stood barefoot at the door, his hair looking as though he had fought with a harsh wind. He wore what seemed to be his sleeping pants and a white shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. She knew it wasn’t proper to stare, but she couldn’t bring her eyes to look away when the single candle in the room was illuminating his tanned skin in that subtle way and making his hazel eyes glow in such a beautiful way.

Azriel followed the direction of her gaze and looked down. Gwyn blushed, looking away and closing her mouth that she hadn’t known was open like a dead fish, when she realised that he had noticed where her eyes had been lingering. He huffed a small laugh before bringing his hands to his chest to button his shirt up.

Azriel cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your quiet time, Miss Berdara.”

Gwyn brought her feet down from the ledge of the window and adjusted her nightdress. There was nothing exceedingly scandalous about the long white dress she wore, but had she known that she would have stumbled upon other people at this time of the night, she would have bothered to put on a robe regardless.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Can it really be called intruding when it’s your own home? And please, you can drop the formalities. We are far away from eyes that can be scandalised simply from a tap on the shoulder.”

Everyone who was currently residing at the manor called each other by their first name, including Azriel’s mother who was used to the close bond that they all had with each other. It was not the case however when they were in company of other people where they were expected to use titles for the sake of decorum. It would be particularly scandalous for Gwyn and Azriel to use their first names with each other in public when they were neither married nor courting. Even the extent of their friendship could be deemed inappropriate.

Azriel laughed as he walked and sat next to her on the window ledge, adjusting himself until one of his legs was crossed on the other and his back rested against the wall. Gwyn turned to her side so she could face him. His mother would probably frown at him for sitting so close to an unmarried woman but they had sat much closer before. Close enough for him to rest his head on her shoulder as they read together, or close enough for her to whisper a joke to him at the expense of their friends.

Gwyn had met Azriel – Lord Azriel Singer or simply Lord Singer when among polite society – two years ago, at the time when his chosen brother, Rhysand Night, the famous Duke of Velaris, had started courting Nesta’s youngest sister, Feyre. Courting might not be the correct term but only their close circle knew of the circumstances that had led the pair to fake a courtship which had eventually turned into a true love match. It was at that time that Nesta had met her ‘nemesis turned love of her life’. One could say that Gwyn and Azriel’s first meeting was quite…surprising. Especially since it had left Gwyn in shock and Azriel with a bloodied hand after he had punched, repeatedly, a man who had tried to take liberties with her in a discreet corner of one of the endless parties that she had to attend during the season. Gwyn had left that evening with the hope of having made a new friend in Azriel and a new feeling that friends and her blood relations were the only thing that the future held for her.

Gwyn’s mother had been hopeful that living among the ton would be an opportunity for her twin daughters to make good matches when the time would come for them to marry. But Gwyn had been out in society since she was 18 years old and ten years had not brought anyone who could convince her to settle down. Gwyn’s twin had been lucky to find her happiness at the end of their very first season out. Catrin now lived several hours away from London with her husband and their son. Catrin had been trying to expand her family, especially since learning that their cousin, Lucien, and his wife Elain, the second Archeron daughter out of three, were expecting their second child. Gwyn smiled at the thought of the lovebirds who were even more in love with each other 5 years into their marriage as they had been on the very first day they had met.

It was not so much that Gwyn had been picky with her suitors. She might have been a little. But she mostly felt like she hadn’t been lucky. Ever since she could walk and talk, Gwyn had been taught what a lady should expect to be, which mostly summed up to being married and making babies. And ever since she could read, she had learned that there was so much more to it. There was more to marriage than acquiring wealth and making arrangements between families; there were feelings that some people were convinced weren’t needed for a marriage to work and other things said between pages of books that proper ladies weren’t allowed to read. It all seemed like a fantasy but deep down she wanted it to be real.

She had decided soon in life that she did not want to be someone’s doll. She did not want someone who would treat her like she was simply here to plan tea parties and make babies just for the sake of the ton’s eyes. Her mother had warned her many times that she would end up a spinster if she continued that way. “Better a content spinster than being not worth more than a horse in the eyes of an indifferent husband,” she always thought but did not always say. She knew her mother meant well. But she hoped for more. She knew it wasn’t impossible. She saw it in her sister’s marriage and that of her friends. It was not like she would go out of her ways to find what they had all found. She was very content the way she was. But knowing that love existed, she knew that she could not settle for less.

“You couldn’t sleep?”

Gwyn shook her head at his question.

“Is your room not comfortable enough?”

“No. I mean yes, its very comfortable,” she tried to explain before he proposed to give her another room. God knew that there were enough rooms in his manor to welcome the entire ton.

“I was just thinking about something.”

Azriel bumped his leg against her knee. “What something?”

Gwyn thought of the novel that she had left on the bed upstairs and the words she had read in it.

“I don’t want to tell you,” she replied with a shrug.

He raised an eyebrow at her. The candle on the table was the single source of light in the library but Gwyn didn’t need any light to discern the silent words spoken by his eyes.

“I am not certain that you are the best person to talk about such things with.”

Azriel placed a hand on his heart as though she had physically wound him. “Well, you didn’t have to hurt my feelings.”

She crossed her arms and stared at him. “It is not your feelings that are hurt but your ego.”

Azriel shook his head and laughed again. Gwyn stared and stared at him. The passages she had read in that book bounced around her head, putting forth images that her mother would faint to see and desires that some men would flock before her house to hear about. It was far from the first book that Gwyn had read that made her think such things. She suddenly felt like she wanted to tell him what was on her mind. Not the images. That would be going too far. But she wanted to talk about it. And he was the first person available.

“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was barely above the sound of the heavy rain pouring outside.

Azriel’s smile softened as he looked at her. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“How does one know, in the moment, if they are good at sex?”

By the way Azriel went still, Gwyn thought that perhaps she could tell him anything but this. She felt the intensity of his gaze on her until he finally seemed to remember that her question had remained unanswered.

“Have you...” he trailed off.

Gwyn furrowed her brows for a moment until his implication clicked in her head.

“Sorry...”

“No,” she exclaimed at the same time as him.

“I mean, it’s none of my business. Unless someone...Oh god, Gwyn.” He moved forward and took her hands in his. “Did someone manipulated you into doing something?”

“No. Azriel no.” Her confirmation seemed to loosen a tension in him. “I was just wondering,” she admitted.

“Why?”

Gwyn could have laughed at him and retorted that it was inappropriate of him to ask why but then she would have to laugh at herself for asking the question that had led him to wonder the why. So, she shrugged flippantly instead.

“I just want to know. Such information could help me someday.”

Azriel squeezed her hands. She knew that they were tempting scandal by ignoring propriety and even more with this conversation. But there wasn’t anyone here to witness any of this. Also, propriety had always been quite overlooked among their group of friends. Except when they were in public, when surrounded by their friends only, the couples never tried to hide their affection or conceal their...urges. Gwyn liked the way they openly showed their love. It was like their love was so grand that they couldn’t keep it all in. Though some things were best kept in. Gwyn’s ears and eyes had been assaulted more times that she could count in the week since she had been here.

“How much do you know about sex, Gwyneth?”

Gwyn sat straighter but didn’t let go of his hands. She held his gaze, emboldened by the fact that he did not treat her like an innocent little thing. They were close friends after all, she reminded herself. They had seen each other’s tears and had accidentally fallen asleep on the same couch.

“I might not have much experience but I do have extensive theoretical knowledge on the subject. Enough that I do not require the little talk that all ladies get prior to their wedding night.”

Azriel raised a brow. Gwyn was tempted to stare and stare at him again.

“Although, I have little enough knowledge in the practice of it that I had hoped to indulge in learning everything that my husband would be willing to teach me.”

The light from the candle flickered in his eyes, making the hazel shine as if from a fire within. Gwyn wondered what good she had done to have been blessed by the presence of such a magnificent man.

“I have read this book that has made me think about it. And I wonder whether it’s too much to ask of a partner to wish to learn from me.”

Gwyn thought back to the book again and how the protagonist, a woman with years of experience in the art of sex, had been praised by her partner for everything she had done to him and how, in several passages, she had gone on saying how grateful she was for her own experience before him.

“I was hoping that my partner would also find some things to learn from me. It sounds silly to say this with my lack of experience. But I was truly hoping to find someone who wants me, and is not just settling for the first random person just to have a wife. As such, I was hoping that they would find the experience with me to be...” She pursed her lips while searching for the right word, “...not akin to lying with every other woman.”

Gwyn had never tried to seek pleasure from anyone but herself. Her decision to wait for love extended beyond marriage. But now she wondered whether she should do what she usually did with every task she set her mind to and practice until she became perfect at it.

“But now I’m wondering,” she continued, “What if I have waited all this time and I’m just...not enough.”

The gentle caress of Azriel’s thumbs over the back of her hand send shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with the breeze coming in.

“If I may be bold enough to tell you something, I –”

“You may,” she interrupted, earning a smirk from Azriel that made her heart flip.

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be bad at it.”

At the sceptical look on her face, Azriel continued, every single one of his words meant to reassure her.

“I can’t force you to believe me. But I can assure you that sex isn’t a game of who knows more of what. It’s about being together and enjoying each other.”

A strong wind blew, some of it made it through the slightly opened window. It sent a strand of Gwyn’s hair floating in front of her eyes. Azriel’s hand was faster in reaching it. He twirled it around his finger a few times before tucking it behind her ear. Gwyn held her breath for the whole time his fingers drifted from her ear, down her jaw, before he cupped her cheek.

“Trust me Gwyn. Whatever you do will be more than enough. Because it’s you. Because you’re perfect.”

She sighed. She knew she was blushing even before she noticed his eyes travelling across her nose and cheeks, his thumb soon doing the same. He had done this on the day he had told her that he enjoyed making her blush as much as he liked making her smile.

“In that book I read,” Gwyn leaned forward and brought her face closer to his. “It said that the act of sex is different from the act of love. The author added that only those who are lucky enough to make love at least once in their life will understand the vast difference between simply chasing release and giving yourself body and soul to your partner.”

She looked at him, at his lips then at that fire in his eyes that lit up her whole being.

“I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with only chasing release. But the way she describes the latter makes one want to pray harder to find the perfect partner.”

Gwyn had an idea why Azriel was still unmarried at the age of 32. He had confessed to her of the bitter feeling that his parents’ marriage had left in him. In this moment, sitting in the library of Rosehall while it rained, the only witnesses being the silent books and the single candle in the room, Azriel held onto Gwyn’s hand for dear life and looked at her like she had dreamt for some time that he would.

“How would you describe the perfect partner?” he asked.

A single word was on the tip of her tongue. But she swallowed it and forced others to come forth. Words that she had told herself like a list before, repeating them in her head every time she refused a suitor and every time her mother reminded her that she was close to becoming a spinster. But it was only now that she felt the depths of her own words. Suddenly they weren’t just a series of requirements that she was saying out loud. They were words spoken from the heart. A plea, almost a summon.

“Someone you care for. Not someone that you choose because it is required of you. But someone that you want so much that your heart needs them. Someone who, even if you see their flaws and don’t like them every minute of every day – God knows some people are not always tolerable,” she muttered the last sentence with a pointed look at him and waited for his inevitable chuckle before she continued, “- you still love them. To me, the perfect partner is a friend. One that you want to give yourself to body and soul.”

His thumb moved to her lips where he traced them from one corner to the other. “Can I tell you a secret, Gwyneth?”

Gwyn nodded when she found herself unable to form words. He smiled, eyes fixed on her lips as though they were pulling him in.

“I have a friend like the kind you speak of. That single friend who I love so dearly that I wish she would have me body and soul.”

She didn’t know her free hand had moved but when she felt a beating heart beneath her palm, she suddenly realised that her hand was now on his chest. The other one would be shaking if he wasn’t holding it so firmly.

“I have that one friend too,” she admitted, her face inching closer and closer to his.

Another strong wind whooshed, opening the window widely and snuffing out the candle at the same time lightning illuminated the whole room. A loud thunder followed right behind. But Gwyn neither saw nor heard any of it. The only thing left to her was Azriel’s hands holding her and his lips as he kissed her.