#trudging through the bayou

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[contumacious-arcadia]

Check out this AMAZING art from Chapter 42 of What A Soul Can Accomplish by @paintedaster!!

Check out this AMAZING art from Chapter 42 of What A Soul Can Accomplish by @paintedaster!!

EXCERPT: It takes him nearly half an hour to find Alastor.  The bayou is massive .  Trudging through the thick underbrush, Lucifer couldn’t help the sense of wonder washing over him.  Alastor’s creation is beautiful , and as he moves deeper and deeper into the lush environment, he can’t help but think it somehow seems endless.  Like he has stepped into a whole different world.  He could have spent weeks just wandering around and seeing everything, touching everything, smelling everything- but today he was on a mission.  He had a stray Overlord to wrangle.

Finally, Lucifer feels the tell-tale static prickle along his aura begin to gradually intensify.  

He’s close.

His heart speeds up in his chest.  He’s suddenly shaky and uncoordinated, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn.  A nervous chuckle slips out of him at the thought.  

Stumbling through the treeline, he comes upon Alastor laying on his back next to an absolutely enchanting bubbling brook; arms up and crossed beneath his head, staring up at the faux-sunset.  The Overlord doesn’t acknowledge his presence, though there is no way he isn’t aware of the King.  

Lucifer waits.  Long minutes pass, but still, Alastor doesn’t move.

Shit.  I have to say something.

“Hey, Red.”

Silence.

“You’re upset with me.”

Silence.

Come on Luci, you can fix this.

Change tactics!

Laying down beside the Overlord, Lucifer stares up at the stars just beginning to peek through the fading light.  The sky is a mix of pinks, purples, oranges, and reds all swirling together around the distant horizon.  This.  This is true art.  Alastor… holy hell.  He hasn’t seen anything like this since Eden, and for a moment, everything around him fades and he is transfixed.

Amazing.  

I can not believe he created this.   

Actually, I can believe it.  He surprises me every single damn day.  Sometimes I honestly think he can do, well… anything .

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 24 - The Story of That Past

Summary: Tension runs high as Arthur grapples with the weight of impossible choices, his loyalty to the gang tested against his growing desperation to protect Kate. Meanwhile, Kate endures her own silent battle, caught between the chilling reality of her imprisonment and the lingering hope that Arthur will not abandon her.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: This is a shorter chapter (8k words), a bit of a break from what happened in the last one while also setting up what's coming....

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

In the center of the clock, inside the now–choices gather, waiting to be made. The swamp is alive with anticipation. Dangers and saviors. Lovers and predators. The lie is in the separation. The truth is always growing. ~ Lily Brooks-Dalton

The darkness begins to dissolve with the dawn. The morning birds take up their chorus and claim the day as the encroaching sun warms the land and chases the fog. Arthur trudged toward Shady Belle; their home, their refuge. A kingdom of lesser glory, nestled within the embrace of the bayou. His clothes clung to him, damp and heavy, a physical reminder of the regret and fury that weighed on his soul. The events of the night replayed endlessly in his mind, each iteration amplifying the bitter truth: he had lost her.

Kate was gone—taken prisoner. 

The woman he loved was in the clutches of the law. Being held in a cell he knew was meant for someone like him. The money they'd risked so much for was swallowed by the Lanahachee.Whatever riches they had, slipped from their pockets in their escape. The river's hungry waves lay claim to the treasure. 

Time was of the essence now, the ticking clock posed the next greatest threat. Like a predator nipping at his heels. Arthur needed to act fast, before a fate that should have been his own was inflicted upon her. He couldn’t bear the thought of the noose tightening around Kate’s neck, of the life they’d barely begun slipping away forever.

At camp, the day unfolded with routine indifference. Figures moved sluggishly through the morning haze: Pearson cracking eggs and humming an off-key tune, the girls gathering laundry into baskets, and others nursing steaming cups of coffee as they shook off the remnants of sleep. A few greeted Arthur, their voices warm and casual, but he ignored them. His gaze locked on the weathered table where Dutch, Hosea, John, and Micah sat in conversation, and he made a beeline for it.

“Arthur!” Dutch called cheerfully, a smile curling beneath his mustache. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Where’s your companions?” His eyes flicked to the muddy, damp clothing and Arthur’s lone arrival.

“Riverboat was a bust,” Arthur snapped. “We lost the money—and they took Kate.”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. Hosea and John turned toward him, their faces mirroring his urgency—first shock, then confusion. Dutch sighed, leaning back in his chair and swirling his coffee lazily. “That’s a shame,” he mused. “There was a lot of money on that boat.”

Arthur’s anger boiled over, his fist slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the plates and cups. “Did I stutter?” he growled in a low roar. “The law has Kate, we need to hit the prison before they hang her!”

His outburst drew the attention of the entire camp, heads swiveling to watch the confrontation. Hosea raised a calming hand, his tone measured but firm. “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, son. They’ve no reason to hang her—not yet. Most likely, she’ll get a trial.” His gaze softened as he gestured for Arthur to sit. “But we need to know exactly what happened on that boat.”

Arthur leaned forward, his fists pressed against the splintered surface of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain. His breath hissed out, slow and measured, as he fought to temper the storm building inside him. “Same thing that always happens, ‘Sea,” he began, low and ragged. “Ran into some fella that recognized me. Didn’t have time to think—I killed ‘em before he even drew. You know how the rest goes.”

John tilted his head, his curiosity cutting through the tension. “How’d he recognize you? From Blackwater?”

Arthur shook his head sharply, his lips pressing into a grim line as guilt weighed on him like a millstone around his neck. There was no time to dwell on the how or the why, not now. But the truth corroded the edges of his mind—this was his fault. It always was. 

Having lived his life with a heavy hand, Arthur carved his way through the world with the kind of cruelty that had been beaten into him from the start. It was all he knew, but that didn’t make it right. 

If only he’d done things differently—if he’d been kinder, softer, more patient. Or maybe if he’d refused to help Mary altogether. His chest tightened at the thought, a bitter cocktail of regret and remorse. If he’d turned her away, none of this would’ve happened. Kate wouldn’t be rotting in a cell because of his choices. But there was no going back, no undoing the path he had carved.

“Does it matter?” He didn’t wait for an answer, the words tumbling out in a growl. “Javier and I damn near killed every lawman on that boat. Civilians got caught in it too.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Kate’s pianist...he—” Arthur stopped himself, swallowing hard. “None of it matters. What matters is Kate’s not well, hasn’t been for some time. She’s alone in that cell, and she’s countin’ on me to get her out.”

The table fell silent, John and Hosea exchanging somber glances. Hosea leaned back in his chair, his face creased with thought, while Dutch smoothed the edge of his mustache, staring off into the distance as if searching for answers in the murky swamp beyond.

Dutch exhaled slowly, setting down his coffee with deliberate calm. “Arthur,” he said finally, measured yet edged with caution. “I understand how you feel, but breaking her out right now? That’s suicide. The law’s probably on high alert after last night, and Saint Denis is crawling with Pinkertons. You’d get yourself killed—or worse, all of us.”

Arthur straightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “She ain’t just anyone, Dutch. She’s one of us.” His voice cracked, betraying his anger and desperation. “We can’t just leave her there to rot.”

“We’re not leaving her,” Hosea gently reminded. 

Dutch countered, his eyes narrowing. “We need to be smart about this. Rushing in without a plan isn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.”

Micah, who had been lounging in his seat with a smug grin, leaned forward, tapping the table with his finger. “Now hold on a second,” his oily voice drawled. “Ain’t the Saint Denis Bank on the same block as the jail?”

The air went still, everyone turning to look at him. Micah’s grin widened as he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Two birds, one stone, gentlemen. We plan it right, we hit the bank and spring the lady. Walk out with Kate plus a whole lotta money.”

Arthur shot Micah a look of pure disdain. “What the fuck are you gettin’ on about? This ain’t about the goddamn money, Micah—”

“Now, wait a moment, Arthur,” Dutch interrupted cautiously, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that Arthur had seen too many times before. The gears in Dutch’s mind were already spinning, and his voice took on that same smooth edge, the one he used when trying to sell his schemes to the gang. “That… is certainly an idea,” he said, a finger rising to punctuate the thought. “This might be a new opportunity for us.”

John scoffed audibly, shaking his head with exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dutch,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It never ends with you, does it?” 

Arthur could feel the heat rising under his skin, his anger simmering close to the surface. He stared at the man he had devoted his life to, the man who was supposed to lead them—not gamble their lives for profit. “You want to rob the bank and break Kate out at the same time?” His voice dripped with disbelief, tinged with bitter disappointment. “That,” he emphasized, shaking his head, “is how you’ll get her killed.”

“You’d be risking her life, Dutch,” Hosea added firmly in agreement, carrying the weight of reason. Arthur felt a flicker of gratitude for the older man’s support, but it did little to cool the fire inside him.

Dutch waved them both off with a dismissive flick of his hand, taking a deliberate sip of coffee as though the conversation didn’t warrant urgency. Before anyone could speak again, Micah leaned forward with that snake-like grin, slick and taunting. “She knew the risks when she started sleepin’ with ya, cowpoke. Hell, I’m surprised—the women you touch don’t seem to live long—”

The words barely left Micah’s mouth before Arthur lunged across the table, his hand gripping Micah’s collar and yanking him forward with a crash that sent cups and plates flying. The sound of clattering metal rang out as Arthur hauled him over the table, his voice was venomous. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” Arthur snarled, eyes burning with fury. “Go on, say it again—I’d sure love to shut you up right now.”

Dutch shot to his feet, his chair tumbling back against the dirt floor as he shouted, “That’s enough!” 

His voice carried a commanding weight, but Arthur didn’t let go, his grip on Micah tight as iron. Dutch stepped closer, grabbing Arthur’s arm in an attempt to pull him away. Arthur wrenched free with a sharp jerk, his glare snapping to Dutch.

“We need money, Arthur!” Dutch bellowed, his gravelly voice echoing through the hollow, rotting camp of Shady Belle. “We need more money! Or do you think this world is just gonna hand us a goddamn miracle?”

Arthur released Micah with a rough shove, sending him sprawling backward, but his fury didn’t fade—it only burned inside him, bitter and heavy. The tension around camp was substantial, every gaze locked on the fractured core of their so-called family. Their fearless leader and his right-hand man. 

With a growl Arthur shot back, “you’re gamblin’ with her life, Dutch. Or is she just another pawn in your grand plan?” His eyes darkened with anger. 

“You lost the money and the girl. What do you expect me to do? March in there, guns blazing, and demand her release? Oh, and while I’m at it, maybe ask for ten thousand dollars too?” Dutch snapped, sharp with irritation as his patience wore thin.

Dutch’s words hung in the air, unyielding, echoing with the desperation of a man who had tied his soul to his schemes. Arthur didn’t need to hear any more to know the truth: Dutch wasn’t thinking about Kate, or the gang, or even their survival. It was the allure of money, of power, of proving to the world that he was still the man with all the answers. 

It burned in his eyes, that unrelenting need to reclaim what he thought he deserved. Arthur could see it clear as day, a fire that consumed everything—loyalty, love, even common sense. No matter how much Arthur wanted to fight it, to question his authority, he knew it was already too late.

The weight of it settled in Arthur’s chest like a stone, pressing down with every breath he took. He’d been through this too many times before—watching Dutch chase an ideal that was as hollow as the promises he made. Arthur’s heart twisted with something deeper than anger, even deeper than frustration: it was betrayal. 

Using Kate’s imprisonment to achieve his greed goes far beyond Arthur’s moral code. It was unforgivable. 

A bitter realization that no matter how hard he fought, how much of himself he gave, he was losing the man he had once believed in. Kate’s life, the gang’s safety, his own hopes—they were all just collateral in Dutch’s endless pursuit of an impossible dream. 

Arthur turned away, his gaze falling to the dirt beneath his boots, as if he could find some clarity there. But all he saw was the shadow of what they had been and the ruin they were becoming.

Hosea cleared his throat and stood up cautiously, his movements slow like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Dutch, please,” he said, soft but firm. “I insist we discuss this in more detail before making any rash decisions.” He gestured toward the decrepit manor, trying to guide Dutch away from the growing tension and toward a calmer space where reason might prevail.

“Indeed,” Dutch nodded, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimming. “Let’s work out the kinks, old girl. We could pull this off as soon as a week from now,” he mused, already envisioning the glory of his next big scheme.

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. A week? The thought of leaving Kate alone, vulnerable, for even another hour gnawed at him like a caged wild animal. As Dutch passed by, Arthur reached out, his hand clamping down on the older man’s shoulder with restrained force. 

Leaning close, he growled in his throat, “all these years Dutch, you’ve had my devotion. But you know, I can really hate you sometimes.”

Dutch stopped, his expression unshaken, the picture of calculated calm. “You can hate me all you want, son,” he said, his tone almost paternal, as though scolding a rebellious child. 

“But you will respect me. I know this woman means a lot to you, but these people,” he gestured broadly to the camp, “they follow me. And when I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. Do you know why, Arthur?” 

He leaned in close, dropping to a near whisper, heavy with the weight of his convictions. “Because they have to. They have to justify their wages. You’ll see.”

Arthur’s glare lingered, his fists tightening as Dutch walked away with that same confident stride, the one Arthur had once found reassuring. But now, it filled him with bitter resentment. The man he’d followed so faithfully, the man he’d believed in, felt more like a stranger with each passing day. Every decision Dutch made seemed to pull them further into chaos, and Arthur could feel the threads of his loyalty fraying, unraveling one by one.

His mind drifted to Kate, the only constant in a life of shifting sands. She was the one who truly held his loyalty, the one who knew his heart. And now, she was alone, locked away in a cold, unforgiving cell, likely wondering if he was coming for her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her out of this mess, to take her far away from Dutch, the gang, and the endless trail of blood and lies. For once, he longed to devote himself to something pure—someone who had become his entire world. His reason for breathing.

The weight of his past chained him to this life, and the thought of breaking free left him torn between duty and desire.

Micah stood next, brushing off his shirt as he sneered at Arthur. “You should be thanking me, you know,” he drawled, grin cutting like a dagger. “I just saved your girl’s ass back there— I’d say she owes me more than you do.” With a snide chuckle, he sauntered off, leaving Arthur’s fists clenched and his jaw tight with rage.

Only John remained at the table, leaning back in his chair as he watched the others disperse. After a moment of silence, he spoke, steady and reassuring. “You know I’ll help you, Arthur. I owe you that much.” His words carried a quiet resolve, a loyalty that Arthur felt down to his core, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Arthur let out a weary sigh, dragging a calloused hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the weight of the day. His body felt heavy, drained of energy, but his thoughts churned endlessly, circling back to Kate. She was strong—he knew that. Capable. But the thought of her sitting alone in that cell plagued him like a sickness. He clung to the small mercy that they wouldn’t hang her without a trial, and the trial was still days away. 

There’s still time, he told himself, as much to convince his heart as his mind. It was a fragile hope, but it was all he had.

“Thanks, Marston,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough and quiet. 

He didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading toward the manor, towards the room he shared with Kate. As he climbed the stairs he thought about how the space that once felt warm and alive, illuminated by her presence, now felt empty and hollow. He ached to change out of his damp, grimy clothes, to collapse onto that bed and let the weight of regret crush him fully. The anger that had burned so fiercely earlier had faded, leaving only a raw, consuming grief that settled deep in his chest like a parasite.

Arthur couldn’t help but toy with the thought of turning himself in to secure her freedom. He’d been a wanted man for so long—maybe it was time to finally hang up his old hat and face the reckoning he’d been dodging. But what good would he be to her if he was dead? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his insides. Maybe she’d be better off without him anyway, safer without his shadow looming over her. 

A bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered that, after all this, she might not even want him anymore. Perhaps seeing the darker, unforgivable side of him had poisoned whatever bond they shared, leaving her with nothing but regret.

But it mattered little what she thought of him now, he would never leave her behind. Arthur loved her too much for that.

As Arthur finished buttoning his shirt and adjusting his suspenders, the momentary calm was shattered by a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the morning air. The weight of his exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by the familiar sting of adrenaline. Grabbing his revolver and rifle, he pushed through the bedroom porch door, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. His eyes scanned the camp, every muscle tensed for action.

A lone figure approached on horseback, and Arthur’s heart skipped as he saw the women scattering in distress. His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his rifle, ready to take aim. But as the figure drew closer, he saw Mary-Beth running toward the rider.

Her voice breaking as she screamed, “Oh God! It’s Kieran!” 

Arthur squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but the grotesque sight made his blood run cold. Kieran, once a quiet member of their gang, was now an unrecognizable horror. His head, gruesomely severed and held in his hands, revealed empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Mary-Beth’s horrified wail pierced the air as she reached for him, but Tilly pulled her back, sensing a deeper threat.

The horse reared, and Kieran’s lifeless body slumped to the ground with a sickening thud, the wet crunch of his fall echoing through the camp. The silence stretched on for a moment, as everyone anticipated what’s next. Arthur’s stomach churned, but there was no time to grieve. The trees at the edge of the camp shifted, and figures began to emerge—more men. 

The O'Driscolls.

Arthur’s blood turned to ice. “Everybody take cover!” he shouted, voice carrying over the chaos. 

Their quiet morning was changed in an instant. He moved swiftly, taking shelter behind the railing and firing off shots, his mind racing as he aimed with precision. Colm O'Driscoll had finally found them, and was taking his revenge. The time for sorrow and regret was gone. He couldn’t afford to hesitate now. 

The sight of Kieran’s brutal end ignited a new rage in Arthur, but it was quickly buried under the cold resolve that had become his second skin. The gang was fractured, and their world was falling apart—the bitter truth was that there was no saving it. Dutch was blinded by his obsession with power, and the others were powerless without him, each consumed by their own sins and survival. 

There was no hope in this place, and there hadn’t been for a very long time. 

But for Kate, Arthur knew he had to make it out alive. He reminded himself he had to keep fighting for her. He wasn’t going to let her die in a cell, forgotten and abandoned. No, he would tear through every O'Driscoll in his path, and when this war was over, he would go to her. Even if he had to crawl on his knees.

He would make damn sure of it.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate stirred in the darkness, the cold seeping into her bones as her consciousness clawed its way back to the surface. Flashes of the previous night's event assaulting her mind in fragments. Her body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs unresponsive as she lay curled on the rough, cold bench of the jail cell. A sharp chill ran through her, and the air reeked of unfamiliar smells, making her stomach churn. As her senses slowly returned, her head began to spin, a pounding ache radiating behind her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. Her vision blurred when she finally forced them open, the dim light of the jail swimming before her like a mirage.

Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, and bile rose to the back of her throat. She tried to make a sound, but all that came out was air. Panic gripped her chest as she realized she was going to be sick. She tried to push herself up, her weak arms trembling beneath her. A distant murmur of voices caught her attention, faint and distorted, as though underwater.

“She’s waking up,” one of the guards said, sharp and impatient.

Another voice, gruffer and closer, barked out an order. “Get her a bucket before she makes a mess of herself.”

Heavy boots echoed down the corridor, each step reverberating in her pounding head as Kate struggled to focus on the sound—anything to ground her swirling thoughts. Her stomach churned violently, her trembling body coated in a cold sweat as she desperately fought back another wave of nausea. Darkness threatened to close in around her again, and she feared she might lose consciousness. The sharp clang of the cell door unlocking jolted through her like a gunshot, intensifying the ache in her skull. The heavy door groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting, and a metal bucket clattered to the floor in front of her, the noise cutting through the suffocating silence. 

On cue, her stomach lurched violently, a wave of nausea sweeping over her with crushing force. She barely managed to grab the edge of the bucket they had shoved toward her, retching up what little remained in her stomach. The sound was harsh and guttural, echoing through the small cell. Her chest heaved uncontrollably as she gagged, the sharp spasms making it nearly impossible to catch her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the drool that clung to her trembling chin.

Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, burning hotter than the fever she could feel building in her body. She imagined how pathetic she must look to the guards watching, and the thought made her throat tighten with fresh humiliation. The effort drained what little strength she had left, her limbs trembling as the world tilted dangerously. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and as the cold stone pressed against her cheek, she gave in to the pull of unconsciousness once more.

In her senseless state, Kate dreamed she was riding with Arthur through endless fields of tall golden grass, the warm sun bathing them in a soft glow. Lorena’s steady breaths beneath her thighs were a comforting rhythm, and Arthur’s smile—a real, genuine smile—made her heart flutter with a fleeting sense of peace. She wanted to linger in the moment, to hold on to the rare sight of his happiness, but a creeping dread began to seep in. 

The sky darkened, and a massive black wave rose on the horizon, surging forward with roaring ferocity. Its foaming white edges swept over the field like a predator’s teeth, and before she could react, it tore Arthur away from her. The distance between them grew vast, and she reached out, calling his name in desperation as the wave swallowed the light and left her alone in the void.

Kate woke with a startled cry, her body convulsing as her stomach churned violently. She lunged for the rusted bucket, pulling it into her lap with trembling hands, her knuckles bone-white against the cold metal. She heaved, dry and fruitless, each spasm tightening the iron vise around her throbbing head. The pounding pain drowned out her senses, and it wasn’t until a calm, authoritative voice broke through that she realized she wasn’t alone.

“You don’t look too well, Miss McCanon,” the man said, carrying a weight of control that sent a shiver through her fevered body. 

Something about it scratched at the edges of her memory, but before she could piece it together, another wave of nausea hit. She doubled over, dry-heaving again, the sound pitiful in the quiet cell.

The man turned sharply, addressing a guard with a harshness that cut through Kate’s misery. “I want a doctor in here, now.”

“Sir, we have strict orders from the chief. No outside contact,” the guard replied hesitantly, his words laced with unease.

The man’s growl was filled with impatience. “Your chief takes orders from me. Go get the doctor.” 

His voice cracked like a whip, and the command froze Kate mid-breath. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the lingering taste of bile stinging her tongue, and watched as the man unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

He carried a stool in one hand, a small tray with food and water in the other. Each movement deliberate, he bent to set the items on the stone bench, and Kate’s breath hitched as recognition struck her like a blow to the chest. 

Agent Andrew Milton, lead detective from the Pinkerton Agency.

Her heart sank, ice spreading through her veins as she stared at the man who had haunted their every step, the very agent of destruction threatening to unravel Arthur’s world—and hers—with a noose. She had crossed paths with him twice before, each encounter a warning she and the gang had barely escaped. Now, there was no running. No one to shield her.

Milton settled onto the stool, his gaze boring into her as if cataloging every weakness. Kate’s mouth went dry, her eyes flickering to the cup of water on the tray. It tempted her, offering the promise of relief to her parched throat and knotted stomach. Milton followed her glance and gestured toward the tray with an open palm. The gesture caught her off guard—calm, almost courteous, yet it felt like a mirage to something more sinister.

Leaning back on the stool, Milton’s fingers drummed a steady rhythm on his thigh as a cold smile tugged at his lips. “What an unfortunate circumstance we find ourselves in,” he said smoothly, as though they were sharing afternoon tea rather than a cell.

Kate ignored him, her trembling hands reaching for the cup. She drank deeply, the water cool and soothing against her raw throat. It felt like heaven, a small mercy in the nightmare she was living. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she reached for the plate. The apple slices and crackers were humble offerings, but to her, they were a feast. She bit into an apple slice, the tangy sweetness stinging her cracked lips, and chewed slowly, savoring every bite.

“Why bother calling for a doctor if you’re just going to hang me?” she rasped, her voice hoarse and brittle, a faint shadow of the woman she once was.

Milton chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not a monster, Miss McCanon. I’m simply a man doing his job,” he replied casually, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Kate scoffed, the sound rough in her throat. She bit into another slice of apple, her jaw working mechanically as her mind raced and throbbed with every pulse of her heart.

Clearing his throat, Milton shifted his tone to one of authority. “We’ve been digging into your past,” he started in a light voice, but his words carried weight. Kate’s stomach tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. She kept her focus on the plate, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The second-born child of Italian immigrant Madeleine Biviano and Englishman Thomas Walker,” Milton recited like a storyteller weaving a tale. “Raised on a modest dairy farm outside Boston. Your first tragedy was the Wollaston train derailment in ’78. Lost your mother and little sister in the wreck.”

Kate’s chest tightened as the memories clawed their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting. She was only twelve years old at the time, but that day had shattered her childhood. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to chew, as if by continuing to eat she could stifle the rising tide of pain. The story of her past was one she had spent years burying beneath layers of resolve, yet here it was, laid bare by the stranger across from her. Her mind whirled, trying to untangle the threads of why this man was weaving her history into his game.

“The farm was lost a few years after their deaths. So you and your father moved in with family friends. Where you met your deceased husband Noah McCanon. Then your brother took up work in the mines, only to meet his end in a collapse in ’86.” He shook his head, his mock sympathy dripping with condescension. “And poor old daddy couldn’t handle the grief. Tough break.”

Leaning forward slightly, he continued, “Kate McCanon,” emphasizing her name like he was peeling away a mask, “orphaned. Widowed. Childless after the red death claimed what was left of your family. You’ve had a hard life—a long way from Boston now, aren’t we?”

Kate’s fear tightened its grip around her throat, but she swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything about my life,” she bit out, sharper now, though it wavered at the edges.

“Oh, I know plenty,” Milton said evenly. “I know you fell in with savages after leaving home. Played Injun for a while before striking out on your own.” His gaze was steady, pinning her in place.

Kate turned her face away, her mind racing. How could he know all of this? How had they pieced together her past—a life she had buried so long ago? None of it mattered now. The truth wasn’t her ally here; it was his weapon. He would twist it, use it, until there was nothing left of her to defend.

“We only brought justice to those who deserved it,” she said quietly though the words rang hollow. 

Milton clicked his tongue, “doing my job for me, I can imagine.” He quipped sarcastically. 

“I was a different person back then,” Kate countered, though the effort was futile. 

Her heart raced as Milton leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling the corners of his lips. “We talked to a few people in town after Van Der Linde fled. Picked up a kid in Rhodes, heir to the Gray family fortune. Beau, as I’m sure you remember.” He paused, watching for her reaction. “He was a chatty kid. Only had pleasant things to say about you.”

Kate’s eyes darted up, her breath catching in her throat. Confusion settling over her pallid features. “What does he have to do with this?” she asked.

Milton raised a brow, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his thigh as he shrugged. “Well, it’s not every day we come across someone with such fond memories of a criminal,” he said casually. “Beau told us all about Miss McCanon. How you stood by his side when nobody else would, helped him stand up to his family. Even mentioned how you wanted to leave that gang behind for good.”

Kate’s stomach churned, the apple slices she had forced down threatening to come back up. “If you’re trying to guilt me, it won’t work,” she bit out, though her voice trembled with the effort.

“Oh, I’m not here to guilt you,” Milton replied smoothly. “Just pointing out that you’ve got a history of helping people in need. As you can imagine this came to me as a surprise. It’s admirable, really.”

The subtle compliment aroused something in her, giving her a morsel of confidence. Straightening herself she answered, “like I said, I’ve changed.” 

“But it does make me wonder…” He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What is a woman like you still doing with Arthur Morgan?”

Kate was quiet, and the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. “Arthur he’s—,” Kate said quietly. “He’s just trying to protect his own.”

Milton’s expression hardened. “He’s a degenerate murderer, same as that maniac they all follow so blindly. Don’t tell me you’re naive enough to think otherwise. The rose-colored glasses have to come off, Miss McCanon. He is a killer. Last night should’ve been enough to prove that to you.”

Kate swallowed hard as fractured memories from the night before clawed their way to the surface. “Th-there must have been a reason,” she stammered. “We weren’t there to hurt anyone—”

“Yet innocent people always seem to end up dead wherever he goes,” Milton interrupted, his voice biting.

Images she had tried to suppress flooded back: lifeless bodies crumpled on blood-soaked floors, the screams of panicked bystanders, and the chaos that seemed to follow in Arthur’s wake. Her stomach churned as the memory of Vin, her pianist, lying among the carnage, forced the air from her lungs, tightening her throat. She clenched her fists, willing the nausea to subside, the weight of Milton’s words pressing down on her like a stone.

What had happened? Kate's mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the chaos of the previous night. Something had gone horribly wrong—she’d known it the moment she saw the hollow, detached look in Arthur’s eyes. The memory of his body pressed against hers brought a painful mix of longing and grief. Even in the throes of his rage, he had shielded her from the damage, clinging to the last shreds of his humanity. 

She was the thread holding him together, the link between the man he was and the man he was trying to be. The weight of that realization made her stomach twist violently. Reaching for the bucket, she retched, the taste of bile and apple burning the back of her throat.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hallway. The guards approached, a doctor trailing in their wake. Milton greeted the physician and stood, gathering the stool and empty tray with ease.

Before leaving the cell, the agent paused, cold eyes settling on her. “I know you and Mr. Morgan are quite fond of each other,” he said smoothly. 

“I’m counting on that connection to bring him right to me.”

Kate’s chest tightening as the weight of Milton’s words settled over her. Her hands trembled, curling into the fabric of her skirt as she watched him leave. The cell felt colder, smaller, as if his threat had sucked the air from it. Her mind raced, the implications twisting into her gut like a knife. Milton wasn’t just toying with her—he was using the situation to his advantage. Kate was the bait, and Arthur was the prey. Her heart ached with equal parts dread and guilt, knowing that her capture might lead him straight to his death.

The doctor set his worn leather bag on the bench and knelt down, his weathered face creased with both age and a quiet concern that seemed out of place in this grim setting. His hands trembled slightly as he rummaged through his tools, the faint metallic clink of instruments filling the tense silence. When his gaze met Kate’s pale, sweat-dampened face, his eyes lingered on the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the unsteady tremor in her frame.

“You’re in a bad way, miss,” he said softly, his voice carrying a kindness she hadn’t anticipated. He adjusted the glasses resting on his nose and leaned in closer. “Let’s get a proper look at you.”

Kate sat still, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She winced as his fingers pressed gently against her throat and around her temple. Every touch sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her skull. Her throat burned with each shallow breath, and her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.

“Dizzy spells? Vomiting?” he asked, his tone calm but probing. Kate nodded weakly, unable to find the strength to respond aloud.

He worked methodically, his hands steady as he pressed along her scalp, searching for signs of injury. She flinched when his fingers found a tender spot at the base of her head, drawing a quiet hiss of pain from her lips. The doctor pulled back, his brow furrowing. With a heavy sigh, he sat back on his heels, folding his hands on his knee.

“You’ve got a nasty concussion, likely from a blow to the head,” he said gravely.

Kate didn’t respond, her grip tightening on the bench as her vision swam slightly.

The doctor moved on, lifting her wrist to check her pulse, his lips moving silently as he counted. He pinched the skin on the back of her hand, watching how slowly it settled back into place. 

His frown deepened. “You’re anemic,” he announced, his voice edged with clinical detachment.

Kate blinked at him, her mind slow to process the words.

“Your blood’s weak,” he explained. “Could be from malnourishment or blood loss. Either way, you’re in no condition to withstand much. You need iron-rich foods—beef liver, beans, leafy greens—and plenty of rest and fluids. When was the last time you ate properly?”

Her memory felt fragmented, the previous night already blurred by exhaustion and trauma. “I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor straightened with a groan, his joints popping as he stood. He turned to one of the guards stationed outside the cell. “She needs proper meals, quiet, and a few days to recover,” he said firmly. “Don’t expect her to run—she doesn’t have the strength for it.”

The guard gave a curt nod, his expression impassive.

The doctor gathered his tools, casting one last glance at Kate as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try to rest,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “It won’t be quick, but you’ll mend.”

Kate nodded faintly, watching as he exited the cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in her aching skull.

Leaning back against the cold wall, Kate closed her eyes and let her fingers trail over the frayed hem of her dress, the coarse fabric grounding her in the present. Her thoughts churned, a dark cocktail of worry for Arthur combined with Milton’s threatening words. 

She longed for him—the warmth of his presence, the way he always knew how to calm her fears, how he had shielded her from the cruelty. How he spoke to her softly despite the intensity of their situation. But now, in the cold silence of her cell, his absence was a weight that crushed her chest. The doctor had said she would mend, but she felt as though she were unraveling piece by piece—and somewhere in the shadows, the storm was only beginning. 

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, her breath hitching in quiet sobs as she struggled to hold onto the hope that by some miracle Arthur would come for her, even as Milton’s words echoed in her mind.

Threatening to tear everything apart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The smoke of gunfire still hung heavy in the air around the shattered remnants of their camp. Arthur leaned against the crumbling fountain in the courtyard, his body burdened with exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline that had carried him through the attack now ebbing, leaving a dull ache in its place. The old wound on his shoulder throbbed deeply, the pain radiating in waves with his drumming heartbeat. He was so terribly tired.

Arthur’s hands trembled as he reloaded his revolver, though the threat had passed for the moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over—not truly.

“Arthur,” Charles’ steady voice broke through the haze. He approached carefully, his bow slung over his shoulder, the faint lines of concern etched into his face. “You alright?”

Arthur nodded stiffly, though he knew he didn’t look it. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his legs felt like they might give out any second. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, waving Charles off even as the other man’s steady gaze lingered.

“You should try to find some rest,” Charles said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You’ve been carrying too much lately.”

Arthur managed a bitter chuckle, his gaze averting to assess the damage of the rest of camp. “Ain’t nobody else gonna do it,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew Charles heard. The truth of it was a weight he couldn’t put down. No matter how hard he tried.

Charles sighed and sat on the edge of the fountain beside him. “Colm can really hate,” he said after a moment, his eyes trailing to the lifeless O’Driscolls littering the ground. His gaze lingered on Kieran’s body, a stark reminder of what loyalty cost.

Arthur rubbed a hand over his jaw, saying nothing. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the gang regrouping. Charles tried again, his voice softer this time. “I heard what happened to Kate,” he said. “Part of me is glad she wasn’t here to see this.”

Arthur turned to him, and in his eyes, Charles saw the weight of unspoken words. Sorrow. Remorse. Anger. A storm of emotions that spoke of a burden far heavier than exhaustion. It wasn’t just the weight of the world that was crushing him, but Kate as well. He had let her down.

“Oh, Arthur,” Charles said quietly. “She’ll be okay. She’s alive—that’s what matters right now.”

It was the only solace he could offer, though he knew it would never be enough. The truth hung heavy between them: they were all at the mercy of uncertainty now, clinging to hope in a world that offered none.

The others were emerging cautiously from their hiding spots, murmuring amongst themselves as they took stock of the damage. A few broken crates, some scattered supplies—but no one was hurt. For that, Arthur was silently grateful, though it didn’t ease the gnawing pit in his stomach.

His gaze drifted toward the central campfire, where Dutch’s figure loomed. Assessing the damage and the situation they’ve found themselves in. Arthur hated to admit it, but they needed him now. More than ever. The gang was shaken, uncertain of their next steps, and as much as Dutch had steered them wrong in recent days, his voice was the only one they’d follow.

“Arthur,” Dutch’s sharp voice cut through the heavy stillness of the aftermath, carrying an edge that demanded attention. His measured strides crunched against the dirt, his eyes flitting over the wreckage of the camp and the wary faces of the gang. “We need to get moving.”

Arthur straightened with an effort, his body screaming against the weight of his fatigue. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him earlier, but he pushed the pain aside. He was the gang’s anchor, the one who couldn’t afford to falter. His jaw clenched as Dutch stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable. Whatever Dutch had to say, it would come with consequences.

“You thinkin’ we should start lookin’ for another camp?” Arthur asked quietly, careful not to stir the simmering tension among the others.

Dutch’s lips curved into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Before he could answer, John and Hosea approached, their steps slow and cautious. Charles rose to stand beside them, his stance rigid and ready, like he was bracing for a fight.

“You’re not thinking big enough, Arthur,” Dutch said finally, carrying a note of patronage. He gestured broadly to the ruined camp, the lifeless O’Driscolls scattered across the ground. “You’re focused on the small picture—survival. I’m looking at the bigger game. Vast problems require vast solutions. And opportunities.”

Arthur shook his head, standing to meet Dutch at eye level. “I’m not sure I get what you’re sayin’, Dutch,” he said, though the weariness in his voice gave it a sharper edge than he intended.

Dutch’s grin widened, his expression almost feverish, like a man on the brink of revelation. “Oh, you will, son,” he said with unnerving confidence. He turned, addressing the small group that had gathered. “We can’t stay here. Colm’s made sure of that. He’ll bring heat down on us, and we can’t afford the attention.”

Arthur folded his arms, his frown deepening as Dutch’s words sank in.

“Tomorrow,” Dutch continued, “we move deeper into Lagras. We’ll find a temporary camp, and after we regroup, we start preparing.”

“Prepare for what?” Arthur snapped, his exhaustion sharpening his tone. “We’ve been scramblin’ for more money for six months, Dutch. You really think another move’s gonna fix all this?”

Dutch’s gaze darkened, but he kept his composure, tilting his head like a patient teacher lecturing a stubborn student. “The bank,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the growing murmurs of unease.

Charles let out a low sigh, and John shook his head, muttering something under his breath. The tension was thick, every man weighing Dutch’s words against the grim reality they faced.

“We hit the bank tomorrow,” Dutch declared, his voice rising with conviction. “We send a group ahead to set up camp, and the rest of us get what we need to leave this hell behind for good.”

Arthur felt his blood start to boil, the fatigue giving way to something hotter and more dangerous. “And what about Kate?” he insisted, voice rising despite himself. “You just plannin’ on leavin’ her behind in all this mess?”

Dutch raised a hand, silencing Arthur with a single commanding gesture. “Kate,” he said, drawing out her name like a curse. “She’s coming with us. You, Hosea, and a few others will go get her from the prison. While myself and the others rob the bank.”

As he spoke, Dutch stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on Arthur’s injured shoulder. Arthur’s teeth clenched against the dull pain, but he didn’t pull away. The weight of Dutch’s hand was no comfort—it was a warning.

Dutch’s voice dropped, low and menacing, just for Arthur to hear. “I’ve got a plan, son. It’s all coming together. But if you keep doubting me, you’ll be the one who doesn’t make it out alive. And poor Katie…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “She’ll be waiting on her loyal cowboy for the rest of her goddamn life.”

Arthur felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he refused to flinch. Dutch leaned in even closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “I need that loyalty, Arthur. But I have a feeling you’ll betray me in the end.”

Dutch pulled back, his expression smoothing into something almost fatherly as he addressed the rest of the group. But the words he’d left in Arthur’s ear burned hotter than the ache in his shoulder. Arthur swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, the weight of Dutch’s manipulation pressing down like an iron shackle. The mask was finally starting to crack, and Arthur was seeing the ugly man beneath it. 

Tomorrow. 

The word echoed in Arthur’s mind, heavy with both hope and dread. It was a promise he clung to—Kate would be with him again soon. But Dutch’s plan, reckless as it was, turned that hope into something fragile, like a thread pulled too taut. His gut churned at the thought of what lay ahead. To use her escape as a distraction for robbing the bank—it wasn’t just risking her life. It was risking everything. The dwindling trust, and what little sense of unity the gang had left.

Arthur’s mind raced, playing out the million ways it could go wrong. Colm O’Driscolls might already be planning another attack, the law could close in too fast, or Dutch’s obsession could spiral into chaos. And yet, what choice did he have? She was in this mess because of him. Every path forward felt like it sent them two steps back. And it always ended in blood. 

But no matter how it all played out, Arthur would shoulder the responsibility. He always did.

There was no room for hesitation. No time to dwell on the "what ifs." Arthur rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers coming away grimy from the sweat, dirt and blood that clung to his skin. He needed to pack, needed to meet with Dutch and Hosea to finalize the plan, needed to keep moving. 

Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not now. Not until she was safe in his arms again. Even if he tried, he knew the voice in the back of his mind would rob him of any rest, whispering doubts, fears, and guilt like an unrelenting ache.

The weight of what was coming pressed on Arthur’s chest, squeezing his resolve tighter with every shallow breath. He didn’t deserve absolution, not from Kate or anyone else. But still, a quiet, desperate plea slipped through the cracks of his battered soul.

Please, forgive me Kate.

AN: Alright guys, another heavy chapter coming up next. I'm really excited to get into the next several chapters, I've had them planned out since I first began brainstorming this fic and I can't believe it's finally time to work on them!

I'm going to try and work on Ch 25 throughout the week and have it up before Christmas but I can't make any promises because I'm going to be so so busy with the holidays. So at the latest, hopefully two weeks. Thankfully, I work for a public school so I have the entire holiday break off :)

[tinyfishtits]

Heat Wave

Micah Bell / Female Reader

Summary: A heat wave rolls through Rhodes and the reader decides to shave their head, much to Micahs surprise. Word Count: 2,222 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language Author's Note: For all my bald and buzzed girlies out there, this fluffs for you! A pretty gn fic, though a more fem reader makes sense for the reaction their buzz gets.

★ Read on AO3 ★ ☆ Masterlist ☆

“I think I’m dying.” I whined as Micah finally emerged from the general store. He leaned against an adjacent pillar, slowly looking me over as he stuffed his change into his pocket. 

“You look it.” He said, so matter of factly I could have slapped him if the thought of moving wasn't so abhorrent. The smug bastard must have walked straight out of the pits of hell to be so wholly unbothered by the heat. 

“Go… Fuck yourself.” I didn’t have the energy to go off on him like I really wanted. He had dragged me around the bayou all morning on some bogus treasure hunt that led to nothing but us trotting around in the sun for hours. And then the second we got back to camp Dutch just had to insist that he and I make a run into town for supplies. I could throttle them both. 

“How can you even stand it?” I lifted a hand, lazily gesturing to the leather jacket he wore. “I swear… You’re inhumane.” His lips twitched with a smirk.

“Here.” He flicked a few nickels into my lap. “Go get something to drink doll, I got one more thing to do.” I groaned, and he was off with no more than a chuckle. Building towns in the middle of this hellscape was a sick kind of torture. I never imagined I’d yearn for our time back in Colter, but getting stuck in a blizzard would be a godsend right about now. 

Every inch of my body was coated in sweat, my clothes sticking to me like I’d just crawled out of the swamp. I swear my feet even sloshed in my shoes as I finally got up and started walking across town to the saloon. I’d never felt so disgusting in my life. 

The worst of it though, by far, was my god damn hair. I could feel every fucking strand clinging to my skin, scratching my neck, getting stuck in my eyes and mouth… I wanted to rip it off my scalp. I wish I’d taken Mary Beth up on her offer to braid it this morning, if only so that it was out of my face. I’d never been one to put much effort into my hair or appearance, especially when compared to the other girls in camp.

“You look like ya could use a drink.” The bartender announced as I trudged into the saloon, face beet red and body drenched. What I really needed was a wash. “Y'all got a bath here?” I asked. The bartender just jerked his chin toward the door behind him and went on polishing the glasses. I didn’t take two steps before I saw it, a barber. 

“How much for a cut?” I demanded of the greying man that was half asleep in the barbers chair, a newspaper strewn out on his chest. “Wha- What? You want a… a haircut?” He slurred as he jumped out of the chair and looked me over, his expression less than amused. 

“Well you’re a barber aintchya?” The man just gawked at me. “How much?” I repeated, pulling the change out of my pockets and setting it on his work table. “I- Uh… Well-” He stuttered, obviously torn between the money and whatever misogynistic mindset kept him from seeing me as a worthy customer. 

“These your shears?” I asked, taking the cool metal clippers in my hand. His eyes widened as if I’d just picked up a gun. I rolled my eyes at him, Fragile fucking asshole, I murmured to myself as I brought the shears to my scalp and without a second thought, began cutting. 

My attempt at a shaved head was choppy at best, but boy… the relief! It was instantaneous. Every lock of hair that fell to the ground felt as if I was shedding layer after layer of clothes I didn’t even realize had been suffocating me until they were gone. By the time I was done I felt… Well, normal. I’d expected to feel weird at best, especially if the barber's horrified expression was anything to go off of. But I felt like me, just cooler and lighter and free . 

Knowing Micah, I had plenty of time to kill. So I indulged in a cool bath and even played some blackjack as I waited for him to finish whatever business he was up to. I’d turned two nickels into a few bucks by the time he sauntered into the saloon close to dusk. 

“Lookin’ for someone?” The bartender asked as Micah leaned against the bar, scanning the place for me. I watched from the balcony as he looked the room over, his eyes sweeping right over me without a second glance. He grunted, motioning for a beer. “A lady.” He answered, finally. “Ain't we all.” The barkeep replied with a laugh. 

“Micah.” I called as I made my way down the stairs. He locked eyes with me for a moment as he downed his beer and I saw the second the realization dawned on him. He almost choked, doubling over the bar as he violently coughed up his last swig of beer. 

“Holy-” He sputtered out between coughs, slamming his hand on the bar as he regained his composure.“Shit!” His eyes were wild the next time they met mine, scanning over my freshly shaved scalp in utter disbelief. “What the hell did you do?” Not feeling the need to state the obvious, I just smiled back at him as I joined him at the bar, rubbing a hand over my stubbly head. It was quickly becoming my favorite feeling. 

“I- I thought you was a man.” He said, eyes still fixed on my hair. “And I thought you were a lady…” I retorted, pulling on a strand of his long blonde hair. “Damn shame… Woulda made a sweet couple, you and I.” I teased, but he didn’t join in. “Oh come on, Micah. Big rough outlaw like you seen crazier things than a bald lady.” He just shook his head and ran a palm over his face. 

“I got you to thank, anyway.” I said and his eyes practically bulged out his head. “Probably wouldn’t have gone through with it if I wasn’t so damn hot and exhausted from our trek this morning.” He groaned. “Please… Don’t tell Dutch that. They’ll have my hide if they think I was behind…” He waved a hand at my head, “ this.” 

Silence dragged on between us, the bartender casting the occasional curious sidelong glance in our direction. “...Wanna touch it?” I asked, trying to keep things playful and light hearted. Micah in anything other than a cocky, sleazy, flirty mood always made me feel on edge, it wasn’t natural. So I fluttered my lashes at him for good measure.

“No.” He said gruffly. The pout I put on in response was only a smidge theatrical. He avoided looking at me, instead ordering another beer and thumbing through the newspaper he’d bought. I sighed, preparing myself for a long night of Micah getting piss drunk, at least maybe after a few drinks he’d be in a better mood. 

I debated ditching him and riding back to camp myself, but I didn’t want to face the gang just yet. I’d had time enough to prepare myself for Micah’s reaction, but I wasn’t ready for the barrage of questions from the girls and teasing remarks from others just yet. I felt… good. Better than I had in a long time. I didn’t want that soured so soon. 

A well dressed man at the piano began to play then, a jazzy, upbeat tune that brought the smile back to my face. The place was finally starting to liven up. Groups of men coming off work flooded in, the saloon’s working ladies quickly swarming around, bombarding them with promises of a good time. 

None of the men paid me any mind. Occasionally they’d do a double take in my direction, look me up and down with contempt clear on their face before seeking out the more feminine looking ladies. I was more than fine with this. Who knew all I had to do to avoid the unwanted advances from men my whole life was cut my hair off. Simple minded fools, I mumbled into my whiskey as I watched the couple dancing in the middle of the room.

Downing the last of my drink I jumped from my seat and started swaying to the music, letting the alcohol loosen my limbs and the music move them. Without a partner I mostly just twirled around, rolling my hips and shuffling my feet like I'd seen those belly dancers at the fair do. Though I was sure my interpretation was… underwhelming at best. 

Lost in music and whiskey, I didn’t notice until the fourth song that I was the only one left dancing. Most of the patrons ignored me, having moved on to gambling and securing someone to warm their bed for the night. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that a pair of eyes watched me. Still twirling, I scanned the bar's inhabitants for any prying eyes and found a familiar silvery blue pair watching me under the large, white brim of a hat. Micah sat facing me, his elbows perched on the bar, beer and newspaper forgotten. His attention solely on me as I danced, seemingly just for him. 

My movements stuttered a bit under his gaze and I started toward him, intent on asking him to dance when his head jerked up and he reached out to grab me by the arm. “Let's go.” He said curtly, not bothering to meet my confused stare before he pulled me with him toward the back door. A quick glance back at the bar was all I needed to understand, Lemoyne fucking raiders. 

We went on in silence down the dirt road, our horses a good ten minute walk away on the other side of town. The evening breeze blew over me and I jolted back, overcome with a full-body shiver. I could feel the wind in every single hair on my head. I’d never felt anything like it. Though he didn’t say anything, Micah kept turning to stare at me every few steps. His brows furrowed and lips pursed.

“Why do you keep lookin’ at me like that?” I finally asked and he stopped walking, his attention fully on me as I whirled around to meet his gaze. His eyes dragged slowly over my body, starting and stopping at my hair. I folded my arms on my chest, waiting for whatever bullshit he was about to spew at me. 

He took a step closer, his steely blue eyes locked on mine. “You’re bein’ so serious” I said, stifling the impulse to retreat a step as he closed the distance between us, “It’s… unnerving.” I finished and he huffed a breathy laugh, a crooked smile creeping at the corner of his lips. 

The music from the saloon spilled out onto the path we walked and in an attempt to lighten the mood, I reached for his hands. He pulled away, seemingly on instinct, then cautiously relented his hands to me. I took them and began to sway them back and forth, as if coaxing a stubborn child to dance. A big, stupid smile grew on my face as the grumpy outlaw gave in and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer and leading me in a proper dance. 

It was surprisingly… tender , the dance. Slow and intimate. Micah's strong, calloused hands didn’t restrain or force me, he just held me. I was fighting the urge to lay my head on his shoulder the whole time, all too aware of how close we were already. One hand occupied in his, I trailed the other up his arm, firm and muscled. I ran my fingers idly through his hair - the sensation already growing foreign to me - and he let out the softest moan. As if trying to conceal it he began to hum along with the music, his movements never faltering as he slowly twirled us around in the dirt. 

He was a rather good dancer, strong and confident in his steps. And for how grumpy he’d been at the saloon, dancing seemed to lighten his mood significantly. “You look… good.” He said suddenly and I stumbled, stepping on his foot. Pulling me back against him he continued, “Happy.” A bit shocked by his genuine compliment, I just repeated, “I look happy? ” He cleared his throat and hummed a response “Mmhm…” 

“So you’re not gonna start callin’ me sir or boy or nothin’?” I asked and his brows raised, “Tempting… But you already got a pet name, doll. ” I rolled my eyes, “I think I might prefer boy.” He laughed and this time, so did I. 

“Ready to head back?” He asked, our dancing slowing to a gentle sway. I hummed, wrapping my arms around his neck and resting my head on his shoulder in reply. Trailing a hand up to my scalp, he began to caress the short hair there. “So soft.” He murmured, and I just giggled into his shoulder. The feeling of his hand rubbing over my scalp was so heavenly, if I was a cat, I would have purred.

[luminescenc1e]

The suffocating humidity of the bayou was sticking to his skin after he had spent nights out looking for one specific witch. For some reason, the one he was looking for had abandoned the supposed safety of the French Quarter and the rest of her coven and ventured out away from the city. Maybe that should have deterred Damon, but it hadn’t, it did, however, manage to annoy him, especially since he had been unable to scrub off the stench of the still waters he had trudged through, and without anything to show for it.

But there had been whispers that the Gilbert Compass was all the way in New Orleans, hence why he had spent the past couple of weeks enjoying bourbon and the lively atmosphere that seemed to be ever-present as soon as the day was over. The streets were always full, the bars packed and there was never a problem finding someone delicious to snack on. But his little holiday had been turned upside down when he was certain he had seen Katherine, only to discover that had not been her, but a girl that looked exactly like her.

Or better yet, the more he got to know her, the less she reminded him of Katherine. She had none of the cruel bitchiness that Katherine seemed to drown in. “ Well…” Leaning forward, arms crossed over the wooden surface, a smirk firmly in place. It was not a difficult thing to flirt with her, quite enjoyable actually. “ I was just thinking how two heads are better than one, and seeing as you are far more knowledgable about old and dusty things, things forgotten with time. I wanted to propose a sort of working relationship - but I wouldn’t be against us mixing work and pleasure if you’re not. “

With a raise of his eyebrows, Damon took the small booklet out of his pocket and slid it towards her. “ I’m looking for this, it’s a family heirloom if you will, and I have it on good authority that it might be somewhere in the city, so I’d appreciate your help with finding it. Of course, name your price. I could pay you…with whatever you want. “ A wink before he leaned back, eyes moving across the endless amount of different knickknacks around the room. “ So, what do you say Cami? “

continued from here with @dopplgaenger

[xxgotthedevilinsidexx-archived]

@therebetterbepie asked:

"dying keeps moving lower on the list of worst things that could happen to me."

【❖】  ――――   Despite  the  shocking  nature  of  the  situation,  Arthur  remained  unfazed  due  to  the  countless  experiences  he  had  already  faced  here.  ❝  Mr.  ,  you  keep  pokin’  around  the  Bayou  at  night  you  might  find  out  just  how  true  that  statement  really  is.  ❞  Out  here,  there  were  things  much  more  dangerous  than  just  alligators.  The  moon  light  casting  eerie  shadows  over  the  murky  waters.  The  air  was  thick  with  humidity,  making  it  difficult  to  breathe.  The  trees  whisper  ancient  secrets,  their  branches  reaching  out  like  skeletal  fingers  ready  to  snatch  up  any  unsuspecting  wanderers.  Arthur's  senses  were  on  high  alert,  every  rustle  of  leaves  making  him  instinctively  tighten  his  grip  on  the  hilt  of  his  trusted  blade.  He  typically  didn't  risk  himself  for  anyone  other  than  those  he  held  dear  because  it  had  come  back  to  bite  him  on  the  ass  a  few  times,  but  recently  he  seems  to  be  experiencing  a  shift  in  his  mindset  —  or  perhaps  his  conscience  is  starting  to  eat  at  him.

❝  Can’t  recall  ever  seein’  you  around  these  parts.  What  you  doin’  out  here  anyway  ?  ❞  As  they  trudged  through  the  thick,  humid  swamp,  the  silence  was  heavy  around  them,  broken  only  by  the  occasional  croak  of  a  frog  or  rustle  in  the  bushes.  Arthur  led  the  way,  his  keen  eyes  scanning  their  surroundings  for  any  signs  of  danger.  Night  Folk  were  always  out  and  about  this  time  of  night.  Those  crazy  sons  of  bitches.  Suddenly,  a  low  growl  rumbled  from  the  bushes  ahead.  Arthur  instinctively  reached  for  his  revolver,  his  eyes  scanning  the  darkness  for  any  sign  of  movement.  The  growl  grew  louder,  more  menacing,  as  a  pair  of  glowing  yellow  eyes  emerged  from  the  shadows.  It  was  not  a  monster  or  a  wild  beast  that  stood  before  them,  but  a  lone  wolf  with  fur  as  black  as  night.  ❝  Mr.  ,  I’m  startin’  to  think  troubles  written  all  over  your  name.  ❞  Its  teeth  were  long  and  razor-sharp,  and  its  claws  were  as  sharp  as  any  blade.  ❝  Let's  not  make  any  sudden  moves.  ❞

[theeternalwombtarot]

11/27/23

Little channeled message for the collective. This one’s really general, I didn’t pull any piles or anything I just let the cards come out so so take what resonates and leave what doesn’t, I love you! ❤️

***

collective is growing flawlessly. Great deal of you have broken a large amount of general curses and trudged through some deep waters for a really long time and came out on the other side unscathed and ready for better. I’m getting imagery of a bayou or a swamp, one with crocs in it or various other organisms that could attack you or become an issue if they really wanted to but there’s something about a select few of you that has made it to the other side protected, that has defied all odds, for those of you who are African American have ancestors who’ve passed away within the United States during the antebellum era who are watching you very closely and protecting you. Some of them are asking that you light candles for them or come and speak to them soon or connect with them or your roots. The color purple, orange, green, and red are significant. The color purple the movie could be significant as well, I wasn’t thinking that originally but that could be something you need to see or need to watch soon. You could be feeling nostalgic or be feeling a pull to the past, be interested in historical themes at the moment or be feeling pulled by a past version of yourself from a past life.

Those of you who are connected to your spirit guides or have had past life guided meditations done or awakenings, may need to revisit, or speak to your ancestors and spirit guides soon. Those of you who work with deities and gods and goddesses they wanna speak to you as they’ve been quite lately. Deep spiritual awakenings and enlightenment is on the horizon. The other side is calling. Answer. The number 22 is significant. Tap into your power, turn within. Rise. Some of you could be feeling a little primal lately or feeling very ambitious, driven, or aggressive. Spirit says they’re fueling you to go after your dreams. Especially if you’re African American, ancestors are pulling up with all their energy, they’re offering it to you, they said we wanna see you win. There’s a lot of pride here, there’s something very deep, ancestral and strong in the air right now. Spirit says we wanna see how special you are. Call your friend or reach out to someone apart of your soul tribe today or tonight or whenever you see this.

You know who I’m speaking of. Spirit says we want you stand tall in your decisions, don’t let anything knock you down, don’t let anyone tell you what you can and cannot do. Some of you have answers that we’re waiting on your arrival, you’re a generational curse breaker, the baton is in your hands. You’ve got people in your past who haven’t changed, who you’ve left behind or moved on from who want your attention, your forgiveness, and want access to you but you’ve left and opened up new doors. Something is in store for you in about one week. In one week a new part of your life begins or something important is about to happen. People adore you, past and present. You may be out of sight but you’re not out of mind and the people who are watching feel drawn to you. Some of you have met a new soulmate or divine counterpart as well whose in your energy and wants to spend more time with you and who thinks you’re the bees knees and the greatest thing since sliced bread. Good luck, and I love you. ❤️

[ritzy-reminiscence]

─♣️─ Lackadaisy : Shut-Eye²

⸝⸝ tl;dr : continuing on the shnor mimimimi headcanons from this post ! features the savoys, mordecai heller, mitzi may, and the lackadaisy band as a bonus !

🍺 Nicodeme Savoy + Serafine Savoy

I feel like, after trudging around in the bayous and the swamps and sleeping wherever their exhausted bodies drop on for most of their childhood, the Savoys are extremely picky about their sleeping accomodations.

Think of satin sheets, smooth as cream and fine as silk; embroidered pillows bursting with cotton and feathers; blankets upon comforters upon quilts; mattresses so fluffy and soft you sink into it upon contact. The Savoys demand the best when it comes to their beds, and considering their reputation around Marigold, I doubt anyone is brave (or stupid) enough to contradict their wishes.

And it would be alright if they actually slept in it but like .. they just don't .. well, most of the time, anyways.

Their evenings are spent not in their castle-worthy beds but rather in the Marigold room, chatting and smoking and drinking until the chickens start to crow. And even when Marigold ushers its last guests out the door, a couple dozen liquor bottles and boxes of party food somehow finds it way up the Savoys' suite, where the distinct beats of drums and gossip thrums in the room long after the sun rises.

Honestly, I'm surprised they can manage to go on rumrunning duty after getting shitfaced drunk the night (and day) before 💀

And when they do get to sleep, Serafine in particular really likes the windows thrown open to catch the nighttime breeze. It reminds her of the gales that go through the bayou when she and Nicodeme were lost in there, and as much as she hated every other aspect of the bayou, the gales specifically gave her a bit of comfort during those times.

Nicodeme's a blanket hogger. That's it. That's the post.

ALSOO ,, their room in the mornings is just . Eugh .

Littered with cigarette butts, burned-through matches, half-drunk bottles of gin and whiskey and whatever they could smuggle out of the speakeasy; pillows everywhere, the mattress hanging by a thread on the bedframe, and the sheets all nestled around Nicodeme while he sleeps on his back with his hands clasped together like a princess and while Serafine is 0.5 inches away from falling off the bed.

I just want to address a personal apology to whoever cleans their room up when they're gone because I know damn well the Savoys aren't doing it 💀💀

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🪓 Mordecai Heller

On nights when he's on "Asa's Shadow" duty, I'd say that Mordecai wouldn't really collapse on his bed from exhaustion the second after Marigold closes down and he's free from all the musical notes and murmurs and shrieks of laughter that he's been enduring all night.

If anything, I think he'd really take the time to unwind and calm down. He'd sit at his kitchen table and drink some tea, maybe cook up a couple of slices of French toast to fill his stomach as he never really eats anything that's served at Marigold -- he thinks too many people have touched it and it makes him feel all .. icky.

He'd also spend just a pinch of time cleaning the house; nothing too big, just rearranging some books in the shelves, sweeping the floors and wiping dust off the windowsills and tables.

Oh, and he'd read books before sleeping as well. Thick ones. Hardcover ones. He wouldn't read new books or books that he's put off reading because of his workload, but rather one that he's familiar with. Something he's read so many times that, at this point, he could recite it cover to cover without needing to look. In his mind, it helps him relax and destress because of the comforting familiarity of the paragraphs, the unsurprising and mundane words that his eyes had glossed over so many times before, the feel of the worn pages that his fingers had held and brushed too many times to count.

(Do I want to be a book? Yes. Yes, I do.)

As being a tuxedo cat means getting hot easily -- and that's a massive yikes for Mordecai -- I think that he sets the blanket aside and sleeps without one during the summer. Or if the night is chilly enough to warrant the presence of a blanket, he'd use a thin one, or he'd just wear pajamas and a long-sleeved top.

And I'd say Mordecai sleeps on his stomach, with his arms all wrapped around a pillow. Something about the way the soft, slow breeze of the fan hits the fur his back lulls him into a slumber like no other. Plus, it keeps him from feeling too hot and sweaty.

Tl;dr : Cold pillows, cold sheets, cold room for Mordecai. Anything other than that and he'd much rather sleep outside than have a single bead of sweat show up on his body during the night 💀

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🍷 Mitzi May

Oh honey .. Mitzi does not sleep well, that's all I can tell ya'.

In the timeline of the comic, I'd say that Mitzi rarely gets any sleep, and that she manages to get through the day with a conconction of the strongest coffee she could find mixed with whatever leftover beer she could spare.

Atleast, during the daytime, she has Rocky's shenanigans to keep her mind occupied. But once the sun sets and Mitzi climbs the narrow stairs to the third floor of the cafe's building .. it all just starts to unfold and her facade gives way to weary sighs and smudged mascara.

(Alright, that's enough angst )

On nights where it's not so bad, Mitzi would spend most of her time in Atlas's old office, talking to his painting and keeping him updated on what's happening. By this point his painting has become a diary for her, and although she knew it was stupid, she couldn't help but confide everything to it, as if it were a best friend. Even though his painting never moved, never talked, never offered any words of comfort, Mitzi always finds herself calmer afterwards.

Then she'd go into their - her - bedroom, and she'd start cleaning herself up. She'd do it slow, like it was her first time handling all the creams and washes on her vanity table. For Mitzi, this was when she really feels at peace. When it's just her, her cold creams, and the hum of the building's old heating system running in the walls. There was something in the soft, sure way she kept herself clean that made everything just a bit more bearable.

Mitzi likes to sleep on her side, with a huge pillow right besides for her to hold. Regardless of the weather, she'd keep herself under the covers. She falls asleep pretty easily, but on the nights where her troubles become too much to bear, she just stares at the lights of the buildings across the street, watching each window turn from gold to black, and play a little game with herself in which she tries to fall asleep before the light in the last window turns off.

Unorthodox, but it works everytime.

And in the morning, Mitzi finds herself with a little bit more willpower to carry on than the night before.

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🎷 Lackadaisy Speakeasy House Band (Bonus !)

I've read somewhere that Zib lives in the same building as the rest of the band so ..

Let's just say their landlord hates them. It's bad enough that the sounds of their instruments creaking and groaning along the tight squeezes of the hallway was enough to drive anyone up a wall, but do they really have to rehearse in their rooms, too?

And don't get me started when they having a little (BIG) jamming session. Like, yeah, they sound good at first but eventually it all just devolves into a cacophony of god-awful squeals from someone's saxophone.

Zib himself sleeps on his bed (a thin mattress on a rickety old bedframe .. someone get him a proper bed please .) most of the time, but every now and then the band likes to crash at his room for shits and giggles.

Cue Zib tangled up with Sy on the floor, with Ben sleeping on the bed like he owns the place, and J.J. and Mozzie snoozing in the makeshift bed they made pushing two old couches together.

Hey, atleast they pay their rents on time .. right ?

[sukihallows]

Doll Swamp [creepypasta]

In the middle of a swampy bayou, there is a shack that appears to have been abandoned for decades. All around this creepy shack were dolls, effigies, strange carvings and symbols that appear to resemble satanic or voodoo imagery. It's a local tradition for teenagers to go out to this creepy shack and prove their courage, some say that you're supposed to take one of the dolls, others say that you're supposed to leave a doll as an offering. Regardless of how the story goes, anybody who ever approaches this shack never seems to be able to describe what the inside looks like.

In truth, many, many years ago, in the 1970s, a woman once lived in this shack. She called herself “Sunny Dae" and was a simple woman, choosing to live by her faith away from prying eyes and the judgment of her peers. The life of a hermit suited her very nicely, and she knew all she had to do was put her trust in the old gods and they would provide for her. The swamp around her was teeming with life, from energetic fish and frogs to nutritious bark and mushrooms. Truly, she had her pick of nature's grocery store right outside her doors. 

The swamp around her had grown so accustomed to her presence that even the predators paid her no mind. The spiders kept the mosquitoes away, the venomous snakes would hiss a little song as she passed but otherwise pay no mind, and the alligators approached, not with malice, but with rather curiosity seeming to take sparks of joy as she would gently pet their snout as she trudged by through the mud. Even the mud below the water, that was dangerous and capable of swallowing a human in seconds, seemed to become firm under her feet alone and allowed her safe passage to wherever she pleased. This was, truly, her element and it seemed the forest was all the more happy to welcome her. 

She was a pagan and a practicing swamp witch - never sticking to a singular form of practice, she welcomed the teachings of all the old gods into her heart. Dabbling in Norse magics, what voodoo and hoodoo she could get her hands on, and then the help of the passing druid and Wiccan practices to fill in her gaps. Her life would have been endlessly blissful, if it wasn't for the absolute tragedy that was the general public. 

Just outside of the swamps borders, where the land became solid for all and the sun made water dry, lived the rest of Louisiana's societies. With strong traditions in the occult, one would think that they would welcome the odd and different with open arms, but those same people, obviously, do not live amongst the southern streets. In truth, hatred lived here, as it did anywhere ignorance refused to give way to curiosity. Religious persecution was alive and well, and sought victims anywhere it deemed unclean. Though typically it was the affluent white that used their religion as a cover story to persecute those of a different complexion, and one that practices and believes in the ways of the old gods was an all too easy target.

Though the woman lived her life in peace for many years, all things in this world must, naturally, come to an end. Sunny Dae’s end was just as violent as her persecutors deemed it necessary. It was a day where she broke her tradition, where she wandered just a little too far out of the protections of her swamp. She was spotted and noted by the enemy, and then followed into the murky trees where they believed no one would witness their actions. Their attack was swift, the excuse of violent gators in the area giving them probable cause to carry the weapons they used. When they finally stood back and looked upon their actions, there was not a section of skin left unblemished or marked by their attack. 

The group started arguing amongst themselves, how are they to dispose of the body or were they just to leave it where it was. While the group weighed their options, they didn't notice the swamp around them taking its own action. It wasn't until one of the men plummeted into the mud knee deep that the others noticed the gators circling them. As one woman screamed and was made to run, a whipping vine thrashed and wrapped itself around her wrists and neck, yanking her into the treetops so fast, the crack heard could very well have been the vine or her neck. The man stuck in the mud struggled to get free and run away, but the more he thrashed about, the quicker he sank. When there was nothing but his head showing above the water, he finally, desperately, screamed for help - only to let out nothing but a gurgle, as the water rushed into his lungs. A couple of the group readied their weapons and attempted to attack the living fossils, only for their attacks and weapons to bounce off of their scaly hides. These were not like normal gators, not only were they terrifying in their size but their skin seemed to be made of stone, or perhaps even steel. They were helpless as they were ripped apart by the creatures, and what they did not devour, the swamp happily accepted into its murky water.

A lone survivor ran from the carnage, screams of mercy and apologies rattled her chest as she weaved through the grabbing trees. Desperately clinging to hope, in her mind she prays to beings beyond her own understanding to have mercy on her. Unknowingly, she wanders the only safe path until she runs to a moss covered shack. Without a second thought she rushes into the building, throwing the door open and tossing herself inside, using her entire body to slam the rickety door shut and hold back all of the horrors behind her. 

Finally, she feels a moment to catch her breath. She slides to the floor, with sobs rattling her body as she, desperately, tries to keep what she just witnessed I would have her mind. As she slowly looks up around her it begins to realize something feels off about this place. She's inside of a building but it feels like she's being watched. Scanning around to the single room dwelling, she notices a pile of rags with, what looks to be, a hand sticking out from underneath it. Her hands tremble as she uses the wood of the door to lift herself up, her eyes never leaving that singular hand. As she slowly stumbles her way towards it, she could almost swear that she sees one of the fingers twitch, but she is unsure if it truly moved or if it was the dizziness playing tricks on her eyesight. When she finally reaches the pile of clothing, she takes a firm grasp of the cloth on the top and readies herself. With a sharp breath through clenched teeth, she rips the cloth away, only for the smallest squeak of a scream to die in her throat. What lay under the cloth was not a corpse like she expected - but a life-size effigy of mismatched mannequin parts, machined together to make a queer ball-jointed doll. It was dirty and dressed in rags, the face damaged in a way that made the woman think of a discarded porcelain doll. With a heaving sigh of relief, she curses the doll and crudely throws the cloth back at its face. The woman looked around the room again, running her shaky hands through her hair and over her sundress in an effort to calm her still shaking nerves. The feeling of being watched had not gone away, but she now brushed that off to the back of her mind with the assumption that it was simply the stupid doll behind her. 

Then a sharp and sudden crack could be heard, like the sound of locking two pieces of hinged together, or like clicking a piece of furniture back into place. The woman stopped breathing, and, if it wasn't for the pounding in her ears and the back of her head, she would have assumed that her heart had stopped beating. The crack came from directly behind her. She knew what now stood directly behind her. Fearing nothing else could be done, she slowly turned around and met the broken and emotionless glass eyes of the now self-standing human doll. The woman's eyes left the doll's face, drawn instead to something swinging around the doll's neck. It was a strange pendant in the shape of a small figure or mini voodoo doll, seemingly made out of human hair and carved bone dangling from a long pendant around the doll's neck. The doll's head turned one way and then another, each time making a clicking noise, as if the joints had never been moved before. The doll follows the woman's eyes down to the pendant, and then slowly looks back up at the woman.

“The swamp knows. The swamp doesn't forgive." 

The voice rattled as it left the dolls unmoving closed mouth, sounding like an echo as if it was radiating from the cracks in the face instead of the mouth. The woman opened her mouth to say something - only to scream instead - as the doll swung only its upper half around to be facing backwards and then flopping forward again. With both hands and feet on the ground, the doll scuttled with blinding speed and rushed towards the woman. Screaming and panicking again, the woman hurries out of the hutch and back into the swamp. At first only looking back, she faces forward again only to see that she was surrounded by bubbling swamp water, and open mouths of hissing gators. The woman, sharply, turned back around only to see the doll quickly rushing down the stairs of the shack and directly at her. She had no time, she had no choice.

Face the open mouths of the very beasts that ate her friends, or face the wrath of this possessed doll. The choice was made for her, and her screams were only drowned out by the squelching cracks of bone - as if being manipulated like a broken doll.

art by Peccatum

[iincantatorum]

@gretaphasmatosmartin 🌊 Early Return 🌊 || Ulysses & Greta

Sea foam and sand adorned his skin, as the warlock returned earlier than the week he allotted to the depths of the sea. There was a satchel of colorful vials and deep sea kelps, all of which were the pertinent ingredients for Ulysses's spell. He had never swam faster, almost like he was in a race to capture all the right ingredients, while not daring to miss a single one out of carelessness. Greta was counting on him, he thought. He can recall how she looked, the way he can feel her gaze on him as he took the steps into the ocean and transformed into a kraken.

Ulysses told Greta could stay in his bayou cabin. There was no need for a key, he had a protective charm that selectively permeated only one being, and that was his sweet witch. Only she could enter, use her magick there with no worries, and treat it like it was her own place, whenever she felt like visiting.

He kept walking, his skin absorbing all moisture and droplets in the process as means of self preservation. As he trudged through the drier sand and felt his bare feet touch soft grass, he can see smoke come out from his chimney, and smiled in realization.

Greta was home.

He turned the knob on his door, feeling a shift in energy or maybe that was a change in air pressure as he opened his door. Entering, he placed his leather satchel on the nearest table he had made out of discarded driftwood, and then searched. Hastening had a bit of a toll on him, but he didn't care. He didn't think it was right to make Greta wait, when he made promises. Also he knew he would miss her- why take his time?

"Greta? I'm back a little earlier than I mentioned. Where are you?"

@gretaphasmatosmartin

[theultrablog]

Pulp Storytime #33: Beignet, Done That!(Adapted from The Heart of Yhtill by Jason Vey.)

Beware the hand that drags you out of the water… When you don’t even know you’re drowning. New Orleans, August 1935. A low patter of rain drums against the windows of the House of the Rising Sun. Penelope “Penny” An’Te pulls in a pile of chips. She dragged her buddies Giula "Lala" Santinella and Florence Zee here to show off America’s amazing nightlife. And everything goes fine until Bebe Brossard takes the stage. Devika and Penelope literally hold Florence back from storming the stage to “join” her biggest musical rival. As Brossard exposes the crowd to the latest and hippest invention, the electric guitar, a bunch of calamities occur. And the session was so action-packed I can only hope to summarize, not retell. Interspersed with action was levity and some of the weirdest drama of the campaign so far. A disguised waiter shoots a blow dart, accidentally hitting JP Diamond, private eye. He’s ZOMBIFIED, and only the combined efforts of the characters can keep him down, literally. They toss tables and chairs, anything within arm's reach, until the bouncers can gag and remove the biting deadman. They manage to get the dart, and through their contacts, find out it’s similar to a design by Marie LeVeau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans. Here are just a sampling of the conflicts: *Piloting a fan boat into the bayou, and helping the voodoo queen hold off a siege by the grotesque Juillet Family. (Turns out the villains of "Wives of March" aren't as extinct as previously thought!) At this point, the players return in their muddy eveningwear, trudging through the hotel lobby and arguing about who gets the first access to the shower. When they wake up, they get good and bad news: the private detective’s companion last night is offering them a lot of money to investigate her missing husband in their stead. The bad news is that a hurricane is hitting the city. *Next is investigating a creepy southern mansion as the floodwaters rise. Penny, former Hawaiian lifeguard, drops down to a one piece and explores the murky basement with the flashlight. Not a master of investigation, stunt woman Lala just grabs bags and bags of everything. The owner of the house had gone mad looking for Irem of the pillars, the mystical city of Muslim folklore. The gang rushes to the airport. Before they land, they realize that Saudi Arabia isn’t the greatest place for unaccompanied women… —— Once they arrive, the players discover an ancient brotherhood trying to prevent anyone from finding Irem. (They discover this by almost getting killed via blow dart.) They spend the gambling winnings ASAP, fueling up for a journey into the desert…But there is one person who wants to meet the players. One of the world’s most famous female directors, and she has a starring role that would be perfect for Lala, who agrees immediately. As they head out on a two-week desert journey, Lala brags about her newfound fortune. Florence explains who Leni Riefenstahl is. The desert was filled with action. Impatient Penny refuses to wait for the camel-using Brotherhood. *The exhausted trio arrives at the semi-ruined city… and is immediately accosted by giant monsters. They just barely evade a roc with a wingspan the size of a school bus. They take cover in a temple, but accidentally awaken its guardian, a flesh worm multiple stories tall. To be continued!

Marie LeVeau.

[hubblespacemission]

Do you think Becky regretted stinging Kian? Do you think she hesitated?

Do you think that Becky forgot everything for a moment, just to be in love with Kian one last time?

[solaariaa]

𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

751 words.

Louisiana sun bled behind the Bayou Soley backdrop: thin beams of light splitting through the spanish moss that lazily draped across cypress tree branches. Cattails swayed as the water’s surface lapped gently against the sloping banks of the Mosquito Point settlement.

The bayou was unnaturally still, until a great blue heron laboured up into the air, settling in the high boughs. Soon after, a woman emerged from the trail leading to the small town of Hazel Rock. What looked to be the carcass of a doe was slung over the breadth of her shoulders.

The short, curved brim of her leather hat shaded a majority of her features, though failed to prevent the beads of sweat rolling down the length of her neck and gathering on her chest from glimmering like small diamonds. Nor did it hide her resolve; with her fingers curled tightly around the doe’s slim legs, she continued the gruelling trudge along the dirt road. She chose to ignore the alligators resting just off the waterfront, reflective lenses behind each pair of eyes flaming red in the low light.

She resigned herself to the fact it would be dark by the time she reached Mosquito Point. And indeed it was; water twinkled under the moonlight, gangways illuminated in warm hues from lanterns strung up between houses on repurposed fishing wire. Overhead, the cypress tree leaves whispered and little tufts of moss blew down to rest on the water’s surface.

The woman continued to follow the path of beaten earth until the mouth widened into the Dust Bowl. Smooth logs from twenty years of locals sitting upon them surrounded a small fire, the flames crackled and popped, filling the brief gaps between light conversation. A couple of heads turned or peered over shoulders, half dunked into the abyss by flickering shadows cast from the fire’s glow.

“Hell, ain’t that a pretty sight!” exclaimed one of the men around the fire, “you drag that off one of them there swamp puppies?” Jovial laughs echoed around the fire.

“He’s messin’ witcha, Manon,” spoke another, bringing a jar of moonshine up to his lips, “ain’t that right, Adonis? Know well an’ good our Mimi done that herself.” He took a healthy swig while Manon grimaced at the nickname.

“Course,” Adonis replied, head perking up like a small periscope from the tin of beans he had been eating, “messin’ witcha, Mimi.” A lopsided smile slipped onto his features.

“Awright,” the other responded, taking another generous mouthful of moonshine, “now where’d you get her?”

“Snake Hill,” she replied, adjusting the doe’s weight on her shoulders before she stepped up onto one of the gangways, “figured I'd be nice and buy dinner.”

A series of laughs filtered out into the air as Manon continued her trek across the winding walkways between houses both built on the waterfront and those upon stilts. She passed several docked boats densely packed with gillnets and fishing gear. A large carp rose to the surface of the dark water, gulped air and then sank mysteriously into the depths again, leaving widening rings on the water.

Ducking under a low hanging thread of fishing wire, she climbed the wooden ramp up to the platform of her home. Shrugging her shoulders, she discarded the doe. The carcass hit the wood with a large thud, stilts shaking momentarily before settling once more. Manon was not disturbed by the potential lack of structural integrity and instead pulled her rifle up and over her head, choosing to lean it against the side of the shack. Muscles in her shoulders ached as she reached upwards, pulling the heavy S shaped wire along a rounded plank of wood she had fashioned to the side of her shack. The sound of her soaked cotton shirt peeling away from her skin reminded her it had been drenched by blood that had steadily drooled out of the doe’s open wound as she carried it back from Snake Hill Meadow.

“Hope you gotta strong stomach,” she huffed, crouching down to once again hoist the doe up and over her shoulder before depositing it onto the hook. A thin rivulet of blood soaked the doe’s fur further after the barb nestled into the depth of the flesh. Next, she removed her hunting knife from her gunbelt and spoke morosely: “‘bout to get real messy.”

In the distance, the Dust Bowl’s fire dimmed on hot coals. Somewhere a coyote yammered, and a dog answered from the south. Both carried on the nighttime breeze.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Robert Finley Interview: Something to Laugh About

BY JORDAN MAINZER

The most stunning and heartbreaking song on blues singer Robert Finley's latest album Black Bayou (Easy Eye Sound), is made up. On album closer "Alligator Bait", the narrator--at first talking rather than singing--describes trudging through the swamp, his grandfather having just purchased for him a pair of hip boots. Backed by Kenny Brown's spindly guitars, Eric Deaton's slinky bass, and Jeffrey Clemens' slow-burning, stomping drums, Finley's gruff voice tells the story of this character wading around, waiting for something to happen. He accidentally steps on an alligator's back, thinking it's a log; his grandfather shoots the gator after it reacts. Matter-of-fact, Finley states, darkly humorous, "A lotta kids got ate like that." But on the second half of the song, he sings, wailing like a bluesman who had his heart broken. Only this time, he's taken aback by familial betrayal, realizing his grandfather had only bought him the hip boots and told him to enter the swamp in order to use him as alligator bait. When the narrator goes home to tell his father, his father laughs and brushes him aside, confessing that the same thing happened to him when he was a kid. Most of us face a mini existential crisis when we learn our parents aren't perfect. The narrator of "Alligator Bait", on the other hand, has just learned of his own dispensability.

When I spoke to Finley over the phone a few days before Black Bayou was released in late October, he confessed, "'Alligator Bait' was supposed to be cheerful. I didn't want to make him look like a mean old grandpa. It's just something to laugh about," before pausing and adding, "Maybe it'll make some kids stay away from the creek." Indeed, seven years into his improbable comeback, Finley views his role as a singer and entertainer as twofold: meeting the audience at the heart while simultaneously giving them advice, telling them the barebones truth when other authority figures won't. On Black Bayou, he reckons with ideas of homesickness and loneliness, lust and love, selflessness and salvation. Buoyed by longtime collaborator Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, Finley wrote all of the songs in the studio, and his familiarity with his supporting cast of musicians resulted in songs that were both efficiently recorded and emotionally acute. Brown's guitar winces with longing on "Livin' Out A Suitcase" as Finley's tired of traveling. On "Waste Of Time", a song that sees Finley taking pride in rural living even if it means missing out on opportunities provided by cities, the buzz-saw guitars and Clemens' clattering percussion yield a perfect maximalism to go along with Finley's claims that, yes, there's still a lot to digest right outside your doorstep. "There are so many guys down here with super talent," Finely said. "They haven't been exposed to the right places."

In fact, Finley's daughter and grandaughter, Christy Johnson and LaQuindrelyn McMahon, offer a prototype. Like many musicians and singers in rural Louisiana, Johnson had long been singing at church, specifically in the youth choir before she started traveling with her father, joining him on his 2019 America's Got Talent stint and eventually recording background vocals on 2021's autobiographical Sharecropper's Son. And Finley insisted to Auerbach on McMahon singing backup on Black Bayou, though she's also in her own band, according to Finley. After all, there's not much of a difference between blues and gospel music. As Finley puts it, it's just "Oh, baby!" versus "Oh, lord!"

Really, Finley feels his songs could essentially soundtrack various milestones or important events in life. He made sweet doo wop outlier "Lucky Day" for others. "It's a wedding song. It's for people celebrating their 50th anniversary," he said. "It's one of those songs you can use in different situations." In contrast, he describes "Susie Q"-esque lurker "What Goes Around Comes Around" as "basically scripture," even as he sings lines like, "I got my whiskey and my woman / I ain't worried about a thing." Living the way you want and keeping to yourself can be a holy exercise, too. "They're the true facts. No sugarcoating," Finley said, adding, "Something the preacher ain't gonna say. They'd kick him out the church!"

The line between Finley's performance as authentic versus an act is not one he's really ultimately concerned with, as the very fact that he's gotten here is surreal. "I'm living my childhood dream at my age," he said. "I get a chance to express myself. To be able to go back and look at myself on film to see how I've made a fool of myself." Multiple times throughout our conversation, he referred to himself as in total service of the audience, wanting to make them laugh, wanting to make their lives easier, even if he needs to paint himself as a sinner or dunce in order to do so. Still, he has his head on his shoulders. "There's a difference between acting a fool and being a fool," Finley said. "One means you're a really good actor because you can act crazy, and the other says, 'You're fucking crazy for real.'" Find me a preacher who'd admit that!

[oapostle]

"So you ain't a pinch concerned about all that..." There was a pause, tongue darting out to dappen cracked and dried lips as he conjure up the proper word, "Hootin' and hollerin' then? That sounded like... hell, I don't know what that sounded like, darlin'."

He's heard packs of coyotes yelping wildly in the night, the screams of panthers, the howl of wolves, and such other things in the night that would snatch the soul right out of an unsuspecting persons. This was something very different. It caused the hunter to stand suddenly from where he sat and peer out the window. Also excepting to see something even beyond his comprehension. But his hostess did nothing but bat a curious eye at him when he looked back to Isis for confirmation. They both heard the same thing, right? Her calm eased him down from that flight of action. Though the edge of action was still just one leap away.

@creolejesus ❛ stuff like that happens here all the time. ❜

"Happens all the time, huh..." Giles echoed, once more turning his sights out into the darkness of the bayou. As often as he trudged through the swampy terrain, the hunter never could be to careful on his travels. Teaming with all matter of life and all matters of secrets still, dangerous ones he'd wager. "Guess it comes around when I ain't present. You sure you don't want me to look? I'd only take a walk 'round the house."

[crescentcityhellmouth-rpg]

Out Of Character

Name/Alias: Chey Age: 27 NSFW Personal Preference: I’m comfortable with smut but Its not really my specialty. I don't mind using fade to black. Series/Season: Up to S5. Canon Changes: No canon changes. Activity Level: Mostly afternoon or midnight. Time Zone: EST. RP Experience: 7yrs on tumblr. Best Mode of Contact: Discord.

In-Character

Desired Character: Stiles Stillinski Age: 18 OTP / NOTP: Stiles x Lydia Housing: House in the Garden District.

Interview questions.

01. Give us your thoughts on New Orleans?

"New Orleans is G R E A T, wonderful really - y'know, minus the high mortality rate."

02. Tell us how you feel about your species, and if you could change it what would you choose to be and why?

"i''m human, and living here, well, life expectancy for someone like me is AT MOST a month. not worried at all, totally cool."

03. Please describe the most important person to you and why?

"My dad, scott, lydia, the p a c k. yeah, actually they're all pretty fricken important."

04. Detail a specific point in time that has detrimentally changed you?

"probably that time i was possessed by a deranged dark kitsune that tormented my friends for fun. i watched it all happen. i couldn't do anything. i had all this p o w e r, but i was powerless. i couldn't stop. they were suffering. suffering because of M E. it was me.. and there was nothing i could do. i just watched. I just watched her die."

05. Explain (a few) bad habit(s) in detail that you’ve picked up over the years, if you remember when you started it describe that pivotal moment as well as what you’ve tried to do to cope with it?

"i got this problem where i make everyones problem my problem. i probably shouldn't.. well, get in the middle - do things that go against every moral fiber of my being - but i can't help it. i gotta help. i can't just.. y'know... not know. It's what I do, its who i am, maybe its morbid curiousity.. or a calling or whatever."

Playlist.  

• My Body — Young Giant • Wheres My Mind — The Pixies • I Feel Like I'm Drowning — Two Feet

Paragraph sample.

Stiles drove down the dirt path and parked his jeep at the very edge of the bayou, his headlights cutting through the thicket of trees sending little animals scurrying away. He reached into his backseat, grabbed his trusty bat, and just like always, Stiles went off to chase a lead. he'd been following along on the radio like he often did against his fathers wishes, listening into officers calls for fresh news. he had a knack for meddling in any and all dangerous things. maybe it was the adrenaline or maybe it was the adderall he'd taken. the air was thick and muggy, the worst scenario for a swamp as the mosquitos drawn by sweat clung to him desperately for a taste. he swatted them away wildly. trudging his way through the wet earth that suctioned onto each step he took. he began to wrestle his way through the most dense part of the underbrush like a puppet with it's strings being pulled in different directions all at once. tightening his grip on the bat, he clicked on the flash light he'd brought in his breast pocket, turning 360 to decide which way to go. further and further he went until the ground gave a way beneath him. His foot catching under a gnarled root, he toppled over, slidding down a small trench with a shriek. surely the sound alerting any predators of his vulnerable state. stiles glanced up, his face streaked with grime as he flipped himself over and scrambled to grab his flashlight. but as he reached out for it, he seen a set of bare feet focused in front of the light. "what in the actual.." he groaned, looking up to meet a girl with brunette hair plastered wet to her pale face from the recent rain. in a panic he reached for his weapon, fingers slipping momentarily before catching hold. her eyes were glowering down at him through the darkness, bright and burning yellow like the sun.