#send Clemens | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

twola · 1 year

Text

Seven Deadly Sins - I

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Summary: Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Lust: an intense sexual desire or appetite, uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness, a passionate or overmastering desire or craving.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Next

That is the absolute last time he ever listens to some hare-brained plan dreamed up by Sean MacGuire. Abandoned cabin, he said, not a soul around, he went on. He just failed to mention that this cabin near Eris Field was a goddamn Lemoyne Raiders safe house. Not nearly worth the take, and now Arthur needed more shotgun shells. He made sure Sean caught hell before sending the boy off in the other direction. He cuffed him over the head for good measure.

Arthur swung around to the south of Rhodes to keep away from camp for a while, it was only a matter of time until those inbred hicks realized it was another gang encroaching on their territory.

He spurred his horse into a gallop as the sun set over the west, and a full moon rose over the hill country of Scarlett Meadows.

Arthur hits the shores of Flat Iron Lake just north of Braithwaite Manor.

He pats his mare’s head as she slows to a walk, breathing heavily, coat worked into a lathing sweat. “You’re alright, girl.”

Trailing along the shoreline, in the distance, he can see the faint lantern lights from the gang’s camp at Clemens Point. He stops the horse, allowing her to step down to the water and take a much-needed drink. Swinging off the saddle, he pops his shoulder, still feeling a twinge of pain from his ‘stay’ with the O’Driscolls weeks ago.

A sound reaches his ears, rustling of leaves, movement of water.

He ties up his horse against a tree, unholstering his revolver as he sneaks closer to the small cove that the shoreline creates. He takes cover behind a wide tree trunk, slowly clicking the safety off his revolver.

He peers on the other side of the tree at the rocky shoreline.

It is not some bounty hunter, or robber, or frankly any kind of threat.

It is you.

You’re partially obscured by the outcropping of rock, but there is more than enough moonlight to trace the sinuous curves of your body.

You’re completely bare, nude as the day you were born, washing yourself in the waters of Flat Iron Lake.

He should be blushing and turning away, leaving you privacy while he reaches camp from another direction. But as the moonlight dances on your dewy curves, Arthur is guided by another notion.

He did always say that he wasn’t a good man.

Arthur holsters his gun, trying to be as quiet as possible. He watches you with the eyes of a predator, a hungry wolf with a doe in its sights. It hasn’t been since his untried youth that he’s so governed by an urge like this, being driven by pulsing blood and hotheadedness and want.

You’re wringing out your long hair over your shoulder, the expanse of your back and the curve of your spine above your hips visible above the water.

He swallows, hidden by foliage, behind the tree trunk overlooking the cove where you bathe.

Arthur can’t say he’s ever looked at you like this, thrumming with the singular need to sink his cock into your body. You’ve been around a few years, a dependable thief, a decent shot, he looked at you no differently than he looked at Karen, Tilly, or Mary Beth. But now, seeing you like this, he’s driven by a need that pounds in his blood. He knows he shouldn’t be here, dirty old man , but by some kind of force far stronger than shame, he is rooted to the spot, breathing in a deep breath through his nose.

He uncomfortably shifts, his hand over his gun belt that’s slung across his hips, tighter now against his hardening cock. He pushes at it awkwardly, trying to find some damned relief.

You turn, humming to yourself while taking a step closer to the shore. More of your skin becomes visible to him as you rise from the water like some storybook nymph.

He swallows, tracing the rivulets of water down your frame, down over your pebbled nipples and the swell of your breasts, your soft belly, sliding down your skin into the thatch of dark hair at the apex of your thighs.

Arthur liked to think of himself as being above that. Not so completely enraptured by the female form that he could think of little else.

But right now? His stiffening cock pressing against his pants is his priority. With guidance that he knows could only come from thinking with his cock, he steps out of his hiding spot and down to the shoreline.

Leaves rustle on the ground.

You catch his gaze. Surprised, fearful, like a skittish doe in the jaws of that hungry wolf. Stunned into silence, into stillness.

Water continues to drip down your body. Nothing is hidden from his eyes.

Were he not but a trickle of that fresh lake water, trailing slowly down your skin, down your breasts, your soft belly, collecting at the cradle of your hips. Weaving its way through the hair there.

Drip, drip, dripping to the hidden, dewy skin of your cunt.

You swallow. Your skin breaks out into gooseflesh as you shiver under the cold weight of his stare. You should scream, you should run, you should hide yourself from him.

Should, should, should. All of these things you should do.

But the way he is looking at you. The way he is staring. The shadow across his face from the brim of that old leather hat. The telltale sign of heavy breathing, his chest rising and falling. You can see his fist clenching at his side.

Arthur has always been distant. You had heard talk of a woman he had been involved with years ago, some high society girl that broke his heart. Not that you were particularly eyeing anyone in the gang for any self-gratifying reason - it was less complicated that way.

But now, now, he looks at you with a hunger that needs to be slaked. Arthur Morgan. Dutch’s top gun. The enforcer. You’ve seen him break men with his two hands, those two hands that clench at his side as he struggles with some semblance of control.

In this moment, you imagine those hands on you.

Something, perhaps the traitorous clenching of your cunt around nothing when you look at him, goads you into speaking up.

“Want to join me, Arthur?”

Your voice is soft, breathy, when it reaches his ear. He continues to stare, gnawing at his lower lip for moments that seem like an eternity.

His cock is so hard it’s almost painful, straining against the fabric of his jeans. A cool breeze rushes in from the lake and you shiver, the goose flesh that springs up on your skin makes him itch to touch you. Even feet away, he can see your nipples darken and harden.

“Are you coming?” You whisper at him, your hand slowly raising toward his still form.

The double entendre is not lost on him.

Arthur hasn’t been one to be guided by his cock, certainly not recently. Not in years. He’s not one to seek out whores in far-flung cattle towns the gang rolls through like a prairie wind. But Christ , if you aren’t here, hand outstretched, beckoning him to come to you.

His gun belt lands on the ground with a clatter. Arthur is kicking his boots off while shrugging his suspenders down his arms, fevered in his movements. His satchel joins his belt on the ground. He refuses to look away from your figure, refuses to give up a single moment of the moon shining down on the expanse of your skin.

Arthur works at the buttons of his work shirt, one by one, as his breathing becomes heavier. He nearly rips his shirt off, it falls to the ground over his discarded gun belt. The Lemoyne heat and humidity are stifling, and he has forgone a union suit underneath his clothing.

You suck in a breath, and he sees a glint of hunger in your eyes, beginning to match what he’s sure is emanating from his own.

His hands glide to the buttons of his pants, pressing them between the fabric eyes, his cock insistent against his fly.

One, two, three.

You stare at him, your gaze darting downward from his hungry eyes to his broad chest, covered in wiry hair. His arms, muscled and sculpted and brawny. The way his waist slightly tapers inward down to his hips. He is hewn from decades of intensive labor, the chase of violence, living on the lam.

The trail of dark hair from his navel that disappears under his pants becomes more and more visible to your gaze at each button he undoes. His fly hangs open for a moment, before he hooks both of his hands at the sides of his pants and slides them down, baring himself to you the way you are to him. He tosses his pants into the pile of clothing on the shore.

He steps into the water, unafraid, confident, driven. Wading toward you, the water creeping up with each step, up his calves, past his knees, up his thighs to where his engorged cock hangs heavy.

Arthur reaches you, his hungry hands on your body as your breath hitches, shivering as you close your eyes. A thumb brushes over one of your nipples. Fingers dance across the soft skin of your inner thigh, moving closer to the apex, and you widen your stance unconsciously, as your hands find their way to his chest, palms spread wide over the planes of his solid pectorals.

Your eyes snap open as your breath quickens, Arthur drags the knuckle of his pointer finger between your folds. You gasp, and in response his mouth hangs open, his other hand leaving your breast to dart down to his cock, stroking it slowly as he rubs at your core.

“A-Arthur,” you stutter, one of your hands moving to his forearm, clenching it tightly as he presses against you.

“ Jesus , woman.” He slips a finger inside you and you keen, head thrown back and gasping to the nighttime sky. Arthur groans in response, his other hand moving from his cock to grasp roughly at the back of your neck, pulling you forward, nearly stumbling into him, and captures your lips with his own, smothering your high-pitched wail with his mouth.

The hard, hot line of him is pressed against your hip, insistent, and as you quickly get used to his ministrations in your cunt, you reach between your bodies to ghost your palm over his cock, taking the place of his hand that is winding through the hair at the nape of your neck.

It’s his turn to groan, and you feel the vibrations of the low register of his voice down your spine, he juts his hips against you. He pulls away, gasping, pupils blown. His hand moves slowly back from your neck to cup your jaw, the rough skin of his thumb tracing your lips.

You open your lips and take his thumb in your mouth, sucking gently. His eyes widen, mouth twitching for a moment. You feel him push a second finger into your cunt and you burn , your teeth clenching down on his thumb gently as you suck.

You know, you know , that there is no going back from here, that you’re about to tread on dangerous ground, but from the way your vision narrows to the pulsing of your blood underneath your skin, you don’t care.

Arthur stares down at you, his thumb in your mouth, fingers in your cunt. One of your hands lazily strokes at his cock, your thumb swiping over its head every few strokes.

He draws his hand from your mouth and leans back in to take your lips against his again. His tongue presses against yours. You’re completely pliant against him.

“Gonna fuck y’ now.” He pants into your mouth, taking his hands from their places and quickly grabbing the undersides of your thighs, hoisting you from the water as your hands find his shoulders. Your legs immediately wrap around his hips.

Your lips remain locked on his as he wades back toward the shoreline, and once he’s out of the water, he’s sinking to his knees, bending over to lay you out on the ground.

Your hands card through his honeyed locks, as he presses his lips to yours again. He settles in between your hips, his cock pressing against your thigh.

You moan into his mouth, and one of your hands reaches between the two of you to grasp him, guiding him in between your thighs.

He pushes inside.

It’s slow, as much as he wants to fuck you until you scream, he can get to that later. Inch by torturous inch, he presses forward, until the bones of both of your hips touch, and he is buried deep within you.

Christ, you’re just as tight, wet, and warm as he’d thought you’d be.

He grunts, rolling his hips back to withdraw, then pushing forward again, swallowing your moan as his lips remain on yours.

There he is, fucking you on the sandy shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, the both of you naked as the day you were born, kissed by moonlight. He pulls away from your lips, and you both breathe fast, panting breaths.

“ God -” you croon, your blunt nails digging into his back.

He chuckles lowly, “Not quite.”

Arthur loops one of your legs over his shoulder, and your babbling becomes incoherent as he widens the yaw of your legs, and you struggle to keep your eyes open.

He’s careening toward completion, that feeling deep in his gut where he knows he’s about to have this burning energy that’s overtaking him pulled out through his cock.

You’re shamelessly moaning beneath him, gasping syllables of his name. God, hopefully, you ain’t so loud the camp hears you, cause there would be absolutely no hiding what he’s doing to you.

“I’m, ooh- god…” you spit out, voice breathy as you begin to arch underneath him, your cunt embarrassingly wet, the squelching of his thrusts becoming louder as you cry out, clenching around his cock, scratching his back near painfully. Arthur continues to fuck you through your release, chasing his own as his breathing tumbles into panting as he slams his hips into your own. He lets your leg down from his shoulder.

Arthur pulls out with not a moment to spare, the hot spatter of his release against your inner thigh as your back continues to arch against him. He groans, his forehead against yours, out of breath, barely holding himself up as his forearms bracket either side of your head.

You sigh, satiated, breathy, slowly coming down from your high, “Mister Morgan.”

“At your service, ma’am.” He places his head in the hollow of your shoulder, nipping slightly at your neck before he rolls off of you.

You’re both covered in sandy mud, streaks of the red clay that helps give Scarlett Meadows its name coating your skin.

“Looks like I need another bath. I was almost done, ‘fore you interrupted me.” You sit up, wiping at a smudge of mud on your hip bone.

“Mm, could help ya there, if y’ need it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he reaches over to pinch at your hip, causing you to giggle and scoot further away from him.

“Arthur. Knock it off or we ain’t ever gonna get clean.” You scold but cannot keep the smile from your face. You push yourself up to stand, moving back toward the water, stepping in gingerly, wading out until you can sink down so the water covers your shoulders.

Arthur reclines back, propped up on his elbow, watching you pick leaves and twigs from your long hair.

You turn around, catching his eye. “You coming in?”

Arthur snorts, looking down, but cannot keep the grin from his face. He pushes himself up from the ground, standing up and wading into the water.

“Y’know, Mister, you ain’t half bad.”

“You ain’t half bad yourself, Miss.”

He circles you, your hair fanned out in the water. You eye him with a glint of mischief.

“I wouldn’t mind if we did that from time to time.”

“Oh? Would you now….” He reaches toward you, and you push a small wave of water at him in response.

“Mhm. But not now. You’ve got mud on your face.”

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan #rdr2 smut #red dead depression #seven deadly sins #twolafic

409 notes · View notes

todaysdocument · 1 year

Photo

James Thaber, born in Lebanon, of Mount Clemens, Missouri, listens to President Eisenhower's broadcast of his decision to send troops to Lebanon on July 15, 1958. His son, a recent high school graduate, is in the U.S. Army.

Record Group 306: Records of the U.S. Information Agency

Series: Photographs Used in Picture Stories

Image description: A man leans on a large radio with his head in one hand. He is holding a newspaper with the headline “MARINES IN LEBANON!” On the radio is a framed photo of a young man in a cap and gown.

#archivesgov #July 15 #1958 #1950s #military #Lebanon #1958 Lebanon Crisis #radio #midcentury

152 notes · View notes

willardsrestwidow · 3 months

Text

❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.

Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.

Word Count: 5,3k

Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.

Please only read if you're +18!

A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!

Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.

When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.

Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.

In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.

Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.

“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”

“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”

“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”

Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking — which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.

Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.

“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.

An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.

From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”

“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”

The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”

Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.

And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.

Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.

“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”

A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.

“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”

And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.

It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.

“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”

To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?

Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.

✤ ✤ ✤

Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.

You were to resume the laundry you left behind.

“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.

Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.

For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…

…no one.

The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.

You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.

For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.

Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.

Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.

“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”

“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.

“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”

The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.

“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”

Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.

“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.

“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”

“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”

The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.

“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”

“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.

“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”

A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”

“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”

“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"

"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”

Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.

Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”

“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”

It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.

“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”

O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.

“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”

✤

Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.

But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.

What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?

You began to taste blood.

Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?

The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”

“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”

“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”

“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”

For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.

It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.

The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.

“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, “he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”

Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”

Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”

“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”

Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.

“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”

You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.

The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”

“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”

“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”

Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.

As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.

“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.

O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”

“And to me? What’ll you give?”

Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…

“Everything.”

You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.

Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.

You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.

“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.

Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.

Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.

Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.

You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.

“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.

“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”

“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”

“Mhmm.”

It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”

Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.

On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.

With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.

The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.

Yes.

Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.

Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.

It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.

#molly o'shea x reader #rdr2 imagine #red dead redemption imagine #rdr2 community #rdr2 smut #red dead redemption 2 #time to blast chappel roan #sapphic #molly o'shea #molly o'shea x female reader #one shot

35 notes · View notes

queer-irritator · 1 year

Text

Bloody Knuckles (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Prompt: Gender neutral reader takes a dip into Flat Iron lake after a fight to get clean. But when the lake-side breeze sends a chill to their bones, they need some help warming up.

Content warnings: Violence, assault

Takes place at Clemen’s Point, continuation of Stress Relief but not necessary to read it first.

Not proofread

You rode into the newest camp location in a sour mood. You had just been at the saloon in Rhodes. You just wanted a hot meal that was something besides Pearson’s stew, but every single person in the building was drunk as hell. It would have been fine if everyone minded their own business, but they didn’t. Right after you ordered your food some jackass was trying to put some moves on you. You told him you weren’t interested, but perhaps the alcohol or maybe he was just a sleazeball, he persisted. He crossed the line when he placed a hand on your back and called you “baby”. That’s when you punched him in the cheek and things went to shit. He tried to fight back, but he lacked the coordination to do so. Seemingly in the same instant you landed your punch, the rest of the saloon erupted in violence. So, you had to fight your way out of the saloon, getting and giving out a few more punches. You didn’t even get to eat the food you paid for, and Dutch would give you hell if he found out you started a brawl in the town he specifically told everyone to be on their best behavior in.

You hopped off your horse and headed straight to the lake. You wanted to get cleaned up before anyone saw you. The sun was starting to set, and everyone seemed to be eating in camp. You decided that no one was going to come bothering you and stripped off your clothes, but leaving your final layer of underwear on. You began to walk into the lake. The water was a little cool, but not frigid. You got out far enough so the water was up to your waist and crouched down to submerge the rest of your body, up to your shoulders.

You lifted your hands above the water and examined your red, bloody knuckles. You let out a sigh and began to rinse off the dried blood. Next, you rinsed your face, sore and exhausted from the earlier events. You leaned back and dipped your head under the water as well. The cool water felt nice on your body, especially the spots where bruises had begun to form. You don’t know how long you were in the water, taking care to rub any dirt and blood off your body. But your attention was broken when you heard a familiar voice.

“There you are. Been looking all over for ya.” Arthur called to you, standing at the edge of the shoreline.

Your back had been turned to him so you spun around and saw his figure in the distance. It was dark out now, you must have been in the water for at least an hour. You moved closer to where Arthur was standing, but stayed crouched in the water so your body was covered by the water.

“You stalking me or something?” You joked with him, the water had washed away a lot of the tension and anger you were feeling when you first got in.

Arthur chuckled lightly, “Well I went into town to catch up with you, but I just found a shitshow.”

“Ugh, don’t get me started…” you groaned, I guess hoping no one would find out about the uproar you started wasn’t very realistic. But at the same time, the face that Arthur went looking for you made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Arthur sat down on the small patch of sand that met the lake and looked at you, willing you to go on. But you didn’t want to.

“Did you tell Dutch?” You asked him cautiously. The last thing you needed was him yelling at you.

“No… You want me to?” Arthur replied teasingly.

“No! God, no.” You ran a hand down your face before standing up and walking towards Arthur.

The darkness hid a small blush that crept onto Arthur’s face when he saw your wet undergarments clinging to your skin. He turned his head to the side to avoid your figure, out of respect but also because his body seemed to betray him when you were around.

The cold air pricked at your skin, giving you goosebumps. You hadn’t brought anything to dry off with when you came down here earlier.

You sat down next to Arthur, leaving enough space so that your sopping figure wouldn’t get him wet as well.

Still avoiding eye contact with any part of your body, Arthur spoke up, “What happened back there?”

You let out a shaky sigh and brought your knees up to your chest and hugged them in an effort to warm up, “Just this jackass…” you started, “He kept trying to sweet talk me, and when that didn’t work he started gettin’ touchy.” You explained.

This caused Arthur to turn his head to you, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, “Who touched you?” he asked, voice protective and stern.

You shrugged and met Arthur’s gaze, “It’s not a big deal, I took care of it.” You glanced down at your hand.

Arthur followed your gaze down and looked at your red knuckles. He looked back up to your face and noticed a bruise on your jaw. Anger and sadness was mixing in his chest and he clenched his fist, “You tell me what he looked like an’ I’ll go kill him.” He was getting ready to stand up.

You shook your head and grabbed Arthur’s forearm to keep him seated, “No, it’s really fine. He was drunk, and put his hand on my back, nothing more… Plus I already knocked him on his ass.” You assured Arthur. But his facial expressions weren’t softening. “You don’t need to go into town and stir up more drama by killing folk. Dutch’ll have your ass.” The warmth your hand was getting from the contact with Arthur was making you realize how cold you were. You tried to suppress your teeth from chattering.

Your shivering pulled Arthur’s attention away from his rage.

“Here.” Arthur took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

“Thanks.” You pulled his jacket tighter around your body.

“Let’s go warm you up.” Arthur said as he stood up. He helped you up as well and walked with you to an empty fire pit in camp.

“You sit here, I’ll be right back.” He instructed you.

You nodded in compliance, sitting down on a log in front of the fire. The warmth radiating towards you was a welcomed feeling.

Arthur grabbed a blanket from his wagon and walked back over to you and draped it over you and sat down besides you.

“There… You warming up?” He questioned, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on his knees.

You nodded in reply and scooted as close as you could to Arthur. You extended the blanket to encompass him as well and you rested your head on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” You spoke softly. You know it’s not right, but seeing Arthur ready to kill a man for causing you an inconveince made your heart flutter.

Arthur cautiously wrapped his arm around your shoulder. He hoped you couldn’t feel his heart pounding in his chest. He also hoped no one could see the two of you. The constant teasing from when the two of you had fallen asleep in front of this very campfire had just begun to die down.

“Anytime, darlin’” He assured you.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x gn reader

78 notes · View notes

evita-shelby · 18 days

Text

They didn't know we were seeds

chapter 23

cw: mentions of infant death by natural causes, disability caused by injury, past sexual assault, abuse of power.

taglist @justrainandcoffee @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings

Despite the new armor the Peacekeepers sport and the tighter restrictions, things had returned to what could almost pass as normal.

Eva continues her businesses, her cousins go unbothered by Campbell and his men and, despite the alarming rise in public floggings and the blatant abuse of power, there is no proof Eva is involved in any rebel activity.

But the Inspector, now Major, has not given up.

The Shelbys have taken their sweet time taking care of the pig, the victory tour is set to start soon, and the man is still six feet above ground.

“Your son takes after his father; in ten years they will be betting how well his genetics help in the arena.” Campbell is waiting for her in the only café that can cater to him. He wrinkles his nose at the aromas of a typical 10 foods, the rich foods that are the norm here deemed disgusting for those with weaker palates like Chester Campbell.

“That is still a long time from now, a lot could change by then.” Because if it doesn’t, we’ll all be dead anyways.

“Your status as Victor won’t keep him from the reaping bowl. Your kind has grown confident that winning a game will save them from justice.” The man speaks and Eva feels her skin crawl.

Your kind. He was of the same cloth Evertt and all those monsters were.

No wonder Jack feared the man. Who knows what things Campbell did when he was in Two,

“I never said I could save him from the reaping bowl with my status.” Eva drinks her coffee with feigned calmness as she reminds him what sort of dangers a district already has. “Who is to say Laurie won’t die in an accident or illness, or become disabled? Just yesterday a newborn girl died eaten by ants when they crept inside her Panem-issued formula, a week ago a twelve-year-old boy fell into the canals playing with frogs and now he can’t even walk or collect tesserae. The world is filled with perils, sir.”

“Laws state a Peacekeeper can remove children who are in danger from her own parents, I would hate to see them take your little boy from you because you’ve gone insane, Miss. Smith.” The man sits there thinking she’d go as far as hurting and killing her son to keep him from the games.

Good. It means that he and his superiors will think she is desperate enough to agree to anything for Laurie’s sake.

Eva doesn’t care if Campbell acts on his suspicions, she just needs him to file that report and send it straight to Snow.

“Have you seen the white roses in my front lawn, Major?” the woman hides her smile as the man nods knowing they were a gift from Snow. The Victor has made sure everyone and their dog knows it, shown how loyal she is to him and his freak show by proudly displaying them for everyone to see.

“President Snow gave me the first one. A lovely white damask rose with a strong smell that lasts almost three times as long as the average ones, didn’t take long to grow roots under my care and now I have three bushes.” Eva grows bold enough to take one of the colorful little pastries the good major has left untouched and picking a piece off it breaking all those rules she was taught by her aunt and later Clemens. “Anyways, he had cut it from its branch because the acidity in the soil gave it a pink tone and its defect ruined the scene. The rose was a warning of what he does to those who rebel against him, and if you remember my games, you will remember that I won due to my cunning and not strength or skill with a weapon. Those roses I care for so much are my way of assuring President Snow I know my limits and will not cross them.

I am not Katniss nor Peeta, in fact, if those two could be more like me, we wouldn’t be in this mess and the rules wouldn’t have changed after seventy-four years.”

“Then why do you and Mr. Nelson meet in secret at your farm? Did you really believe I don’t know he comes here disguised as a Peacekeeper?” the man shows the card he’d hidden under his sleeve and if falls like ice down her back.

They knew. They knew! THEY KNEW!

It takes Eva’s all to keep the mask from breaking.

Who? Had Laurie told the wrong person? No, she knew his teachers would have warned her. Her farmhands who’d seen a man leave some mornings. No, they assumed he was a married man from town.

Who?

“One or two raids and the two of you would be dead, your families reduced to avoxes and your sweet little son in a home waiting for his twelfth birthday so he can join the two of you in death.” The man smiles as if he had delivered her the best of news. “All because his father stole an identity of a dead man.”

They had to kill him. If Shelby didn’t fucking do it, then Eva would.

When Eva calls, it is always when Jack is home from work and at once Atia’s son would then lock himself in his bedroom with the house phone for privacy.

This time Atia is alone, having a relaxing spa day on her day off. She’d done the things she needed at work, sent the latest developments in the new line of bombers Snow’s Minister of Defense had approved and received instructions on how to make the prototype of a disruptor for the fences’ electrical system.

Atia Nelson once trained to become a pilot, only an incident at a training camp put an end to that and sent her down the path of aeronautical engineering. Had she never fucked around with her roommate and a young man from the northern villages, the redhead wouldn’t have found her true calling nor had her three children. And now her expertise served a greater purpose: avenging Laurie and Gina.

“Jack isn’t home.” Atia says thinking it’s one of those days where Eva calls to have a private moment with her husband.

“They know.”

They know.

It made sense now, why Jack was never caught, why it was all too easy these years. Shelby may have thought himself safe, but no one is. They never have been.

“Who?” not who betrayed them, but who holds this information.

“Campbell. He’s threatened to raid the farm and take Laurie from me.”

Jack had warned her, kept her here and going alone to visit his family to keep her from getting caught in Campbell’s crosshairs.

But it had still happened and now they couldn’t wait for Shelby and his people to kill the pig. Things since the last games and the Victory Tour had become worse and would only get worse until it finally ends.

And because of that, the three of them cannot afford to wait any longer.

The memory of his hands on her, in her, as he used her knowing she’d do anything for her children still sickens her these days. She feels as helpless as then and fears what he would do to Eva, to their families, to Laurie whose only crime was to be born to people from different districts.

“Here’s what we’ll do.”

The prototype would be functional in less than an hour, she could try it out before the week is up and if not, she knows enough about these fences to know a pair of jump cables, gloves and the rubber handled wire cutters in the tool box did the job just as good.

Jack would be the bait; Laurie would be safely kept in Eva’s home with her aunt and Atia will show the man Jack’s skills didn’t just come from his sperm donor. She was great with a whip even now.

She’s never killed a soul, but lucky for her, Chester Campbell doesn’t have one.

The first test failed, but with all the adjustments Atia has made to it after has it work like a charm. Jack leaves as Sejanus Smith and not Sulla Felix knowing his old badge would set the dogs after him.

Her son hesitates when she tells him she will be using Beetee’s device to reach the farm alone.

“Don’t worry about your mama, little rabbit.” She assures him as she helps him don the riot gear and kissed the top of his head just as she always did when he was scared. Her grown-up son still as scared as he was that day he was taken to the juvenile correctional facility. “Once its over, it will be over for good.”

#jack nelson fanfic #evacore #they didn't know we were seeds #hunger games au #jack x eva #eva smith

7 notes · View notes

writingsofanobsessedwoman · 2 years

Text

A New Love (Arthur Morgan x injured!reader)

Contains potential story spoilers, and blood. Read at your own risk and minors DNI! Enjoy

You'd found it a bit strange that you were invited to this little fishing trip. After all, you really hadn't been with the gang much longer than Charles, but how could you say no to Hosea? Clemens Point was hot, and everyone was uncomfortable. Which meant more agitation. If Grimshaw yelled at you one more time, you were going to kill her. Which might just be why the boys wanted you to come. The three were talking ahead of you, but you honestly hadn't heard a word.

Hosea called out to you, slowing until Silver Dollar and Jasper, your painted tophat gelding, were side by side. "So," he started, "excited to get out of camp for awhile? I know Grimshaw has been tearing you a new one as of late." "Hosea, I'm going to kill that woman one day. That will be my one good deed for the rest of this life," you grumbled. The men all cracked up at that. Hearing Arthur's laugh warmed you heart. He was so tense as of late, and you were beginning to worry about the cowboy. You'd started to develop feelings for him, but chose to keep said feelings to yourself. You figured he had enough on his plate.

Your brows furrowed as you turned back to Hosea. "Although, I'm not sure how I feel being this close to Rhodes." "What's wrong with Rhodes?" "Well," you drawled, "used to be some fella down here. He was... I wouldn't really say sweet on me. More like obsessed. He'd send me letters every single day. Never responded to the first one. Then the bastard shows up on my doorstep, begging my dad to let him marry me. Said he was from some well-off family here. Told my dad I'd never want for a thing if only he could marry me. My dad agreed, and that night I bolted. Never really turned back." Arthur had a strange look on his face. Always did when you talked about the strange boy that almost became your husband.

That was easily the most you'd ever told Dutch and Hosea. Arthur knew basically everything there was to know about you. "So," Dutch said, a bit confused, "what exactly happened after that? You've never really told us how Arthur found you." "I lived off the land. Slept in a tent and moved around. That's how I learned to hunt and survive. Arthur scared off my supper one evening." "Well how was I supposed to know you was huntin that deer?", Arthur asked, offended. "Arthur," you sighed, "it don't matter if I wasn't. Loud as you were being, every deer in a mile heard you. Hell, you couldn't sneak up on a dead, deaf deer." That got Dutch and Hosea rolling again. Arthur looked away, grumbling something under his breath.

As you neared some railroad tracks, Dutch spotted some lawmen. As the four of you neared, a man with a strange accent called out to the boys. You didn't recognize him, or any of the men in the cart. Dutch began talking up the lawmen while the lock on the coach was picked, and four nasty looking men jumped out and onto the passing train. One of the lawmen, some Gray man, jumped onto Arthur's horse with him, and you and Jasper thundered behind the pair. When Arthur jumped onto the train, you followed. The Gray fella asked the pair of you not to kill the men, who you learned were the Anderson boys. You kept your gun ready as Arthur knocked them out, getting held up by one. "Get that last one (Y/N)! I got this little bastard!" So you ran on, getting locked in a meat car with the last Anderson.

He had a knife in his hand as you went to reach for your gun. "Now," you started, "don't go and do anything stupid. You're caught, and you know it. Drop that knife, or the rope won't be what kills you." "Damn you!", he screamed as he lunged towards you. You threw your hands up and a screaming pain tore through you side. You cried out, and your survival instincts kicked in, as you began throwing punches as hard as you could. Eventually, after obtaining a few more minor cuts, one finally knocked the blonde out. The train lurched to a stop as the world began to spin, your shirt now stained red with blood.

The lawman opened the car, Arthur next to him with Jasper. "Did ya get him?" Gray asked. "He's out cold." Arthur stared at your quickly paling form, looking pissed. The lawman grabbed the unconscious boy, stowing him on a black horse, Arthur's glare never wavering. You stumbled to Jasper, collapsing against his side as Arthur ran to you. "Dammit," he cursed, putting pressure to your side. "Can you ride, girl?" "I don't think so," you whimpered. Before you could blink, Arthur had hauled you onto his horse, sitting behind you, now holding an extra shirt to your still bleeding wound. He took off at a brutal pace, every bump causing you pain as your eyes began to flutter. Your head lolled back onto Arthur's shoulder. "Hey," he said, right into your ear, "you keep them eyes open, okay? Focus on me. You're gonna be okay." "Keep talking to me," you whispered. "Please." Arthur's voice seemed to keep getting more quiet as the horse below you ran. Eventually, you heard what sounded like more horses coming up behind you, but you were too tired to look.

The ride to town felt like forever. You kept falling in and out of consciousness, usually, Arthur would start talking when you passed out to bring you around. You weren't too sure exactly what happened. The last thing you remembered was Arthur yelling something before you blacked out completely. Now, as your senses began to come back, you could feel that searing pain. You also heard hushed voices, whispering worriedly to one another. You slowly opened your eyes to see Arthur and Hosea standing nearby, talking to each other. As you tried to sit up, your side pulled and you yelped. Arthur came rushing to you, laying his hands on your shoulders to push you back down. "Easy now," he said gently. "Can't have you pulling those stitches." His hand moved to cup your face. "You just about bled out on me. Doctor said if I hadn't gotten here, in five more minutes you'd have been dead." You just laid, mind racing at the fact that you were so close to death. You jumped when something soft touched your forehead, Arthur's breath fanning your hair. "You got to be more careful. I don't know how I'd get on without you, girl," he admitted. You gently brought your hands around his neck, telling him, "Only if you promise the same." He smiled at that. He brought his forehead to yours and said, "Deal," placing a kiss to your lips to seal it.

#fanfic #red dead 2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #it's literally 12:03 am #a heifer is TIRED #probably mistakes in this #too bad #you love it #Pheonix needs sleep

69 notes · View notes

kotoprotranslations · 2 days

Text

EPISODE 7 LIGHT NOVEL Chapter 6-2 English Translation

The carriage swayed as it rattled along the road. Given the muddy conditions, the three riding within would be hard-pressed to call it a comfortable trip. A cheerful excursion, this was most certainly not.

“The director who asked you to come only recently rose to the position. He’s a former student of mine,” Clemens said.

“Student?” Owl repeated.

“Indeed. I took up a teaching position at that facility once upon a time, though only for a short while. It serves as a teaching hospital of sorts, training medical students while also providing care for patients.”

At this point, Clemens could say anything about his past and Owl wouldn’t even be fazed. Sure, he was a teacher somewhere for a while, why not? The information came in infrequent dribs and drabs, though, that Owl would allow himself some snark. “... So you taught them, what, polite bedside manner?”

“Rude.” Clemens’ gaze flicked away, though. “But, well, perhaps that was the case, after a fashion. There was a time where I was deeply interested in the human spirit, and how fluctuations of the mind and soul affected the physical corpus. I wrote a paper on the subject, purporting it as a psychosomatic affliction. For the most part, people thought the whole idea was ludicrous, but the former director of the institute took an interest and asked me to give some lectures on the topic.”

Owl hummed. “... Psychoanalysis, huh. It’s still an unorthodox practice, but I’ll admit, it’s sound and it gets results. I bet you use it on all those women you pick up as well.”

“I am begging you to stop saying it like that. All of those women are hurt by something or another, and I provide a balm for their souls, no more, no less, understand?”

“Sure, but what you say and how you say it are two very different things.”

“Hmm? You know, you’re rather combative today. What’s got you in such a foul mood?”

“Are you seriously...?” Owl’s face grew taut, mouth pressed into a thin, irritated line. He spat, “Maybe because there’s no one I can act all friendly with, since no one is telling me the essential information I need to know, did you ever think of that?!” He twisted away to glare out the window.

The wheels THUNKED outside, sending the whole car rocking. The route really was just awful; this old country road out in the sticks clearly needed some upkeep. They’d spent about twelve hours on the train before arriving in the countryside with wheat fields as far as the eye could see. They would occasionally pass a farmer or two brandishing a hoe or a rake, but otherwise the path was pretty well devoid of people. Far off in the distance, beyond a patch of woods nestled at the base of a sheer cliff, stood the small hill that was their destination. More specifically, their destination was the massive building surrounded by high walls that stood atop the hill. Owl’s eyes locked on the building, still tiny on the horizon. So that’s the place, huh....

A soft body leaned into Owl’s shoulder and a voice sighed, “It kind of looks like a medieval castle, huh? No place to go shopping, though. Suuuch a shame.”

“Get off, Elnora, you’re heavy.”

“Rude! I’m as light as a fairy!”

The third person in the carriage was not his partner Nick, but rather Elnora. Owl shoved her off. “... Why are you even here? Don’t you have a job?”

Elnora pouted. “Oh, please, I’m here for you!”

“For me?”

Elnora leaned back against Owl with a wink, the perfect image of innocence. “Yes! Because you said, ‘I have a bad feeling about bringing Black Rose Disease patients with me on this case,’ so you left Nick and Ellie to hold down the fort, and I thought, well, you’ll absolutely need someone else to be your assistant – an assistant more capable than Nick, as cute as Ellie, and willing and able to heal both body and soul. No matter how you slice it, I’m the only girl up for the job, don’t you think?”

Owl blinked. “Heal...?” He knew nuns could offer forgiveness, but healing? That sounded completely antithetical to Elnora’s entire being.

Elnora tilted her head to glare at Clemens and continued, “Besides, I can’t let that man out of my sight! Ignore me, will he? Hmph!” Then, as if to prove Owl’s point, she slammed the tips of her high heels directly into the priest’s shin.

“OW!” Clemens crumpled forward, clutching his leg. He raised his head to meet her eyes. “I wasn’t ignoring you, really,” he offered weakly.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she sniffed. “I’m just going to keep a close eye on you until you come back to the Gefinesse Church.”

“I never said I was never coming back, did I? I would never leave your side.”

“Oh, I know, but all this wandering around you’re doing is starting to bother me. I want you to hurry up and come back so those perverted old men will stop leering at the nuns and the other women who come to pray!” Elnora stomped the floor, seething. “They’re so happy you’re gone, you know. They’re plotting to usurp you!”

This had most likely been building for a while, and now she’d reached her limit. Clemens’ absence had apparently caused some major ripples.

“Some of the believers are even saying you threw me away! Do I look like the sort of woman who’d let herself be thrown away by a guy like you?! Who do they think I am?! It’s downright degrading!” That, however, seemed to be the biggest straw. Elnora had worked herself up into an incandescent rage now, drumming her feet against the floor, but she reined herself in after a moment. “Plus... there’s something about this that bothers me,” she admitted, glancing out the window toward the building in the distance.

“What it is?” asked Owl.

“Oh, you want to know? Are you interested in me, Owl?” Elnora leaned against his shoulder again, but instead of actually answering, she deflected. “Well, if you get me the newest Stamison bag, I don’t mind telling you whatever you want to know.”

“Didn’t you just buy a new bag, though?” Clemens interjected.

“I didn’t buy it, a guy who came for confession bought it for me.”

“You didn’t make him buy it for you?”

“Oh, please. I don’t want anything. It just might’ve come up in conversation, is all.”

“I’m pretty sure all you talk about is what you want.”

“Well, then, what should I talk about? I don’t want to hear about some guy repenting because he had dessert, that’s boring. If two people are having a chat, it’s always more interesting if it’s the woman talking.”

To the average layperson, Clemens and Elnora were bickering the same as always. Owl, who’d been dealing with them for quite a bit longer than the average layperson, could tell that they bickered like this on purpose, so other people couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Anyone who tried to push their own agenda would find themselves left in the dust and the conversation steered in another direction before they could blink. It was clear that these two shared many secrets.

Now, everyone had secrets, obviously. Plenty of people in Owl’s orbit, in particular, had complex circumstances they weren’t willing to talk about. But Clemens and Elnora seemed to have a particularly complicated past with each other. So when Owl interrupted them, all he said was, “If you don’t want to say anything, fine, just don’t lie to Ellie.”

That shut them up quick. “... I wouldn’t,” Elnora mumbled awkwardly. “Not to Ellie.”

“Because you don’t want her to hate you,” agreed Owl, then turned away.

Elnora gazed out the window. “Looks like rain,” she murmured.

The carriage trundled on toward the building on the hill in silence after that.

Dark clouds brewed on the horizon.

Something golden flashed amid the storm clouds. A moment later, the air rumbled with the distant roar of thunder.

■■■■■■■■■

The medical facility run by the Gefinesse Faith looked like an old castle or the like from their carriage, but as they got closer it looked more like a proper institution, albeit one surrounded on all sides by heavily fortified walls.

Only one road led in and out of the facility, forcing the carriage to take a winding road up the hill. Partway up, though, they spotted a steep stone staircase and decided to hop out there and climb the rest of the way on foot. Up until that point they’d hardly seen anyone on the road leading in, but as they headed up the stairs more and more people appeared, and all of them were heading up to the building as well. Young, old, man, woman, it seemed people from all walks of life were present – the only thing seemingly tying them together was how unwell they all looked.

“That’s a lot of people,” Owl commented.

“That article in the newspaper helped spread the word. Now more and more people are flocking to the institute, apparently,” explained Clemens.

“... I would assume climbing the stairs would be an ordeal for a sick person, but....” Owl’s eyes flicked to the side. The slope off to the side of the steps was fairly gentle, but it was currently occupied by processing workers dragging luggage carriers back down the hill.

Elnora eyed them as well. “I wonder if they’d let us ride those,” she muttered.

“Those people are carrying property that belonged to deceased patients,” explained Clemens. “I wouldn’t recommend riding their carts.”

Elnora shut her mouth.

After about ten minutes of climbing, a massive, almost castle-like stone gate loomed in front of them, complete with a portcullis. The yawning mouth appeared to be swallowing people whole. Elnora tilted her head up. Her eyes caught on something etched into the stone above. “That crest....”

“What crest?” Owl also looked up and spotted it. For a second, it almost reminded him of the symbol he’d seen in the church on Teos Island, but on closer inspection the design was different.

“Is that a wild rose?” wondered Elnora. “Most hospitals have that rod thing as their symbol, but I guess this place is different.”

“Looks like it.”

“And those people over there have the same rose pattern on their clothes. Do you think they’re with the facility?” Elnora pointed below the gate, where people gathered around what looked like an intake hut for people entering the grounds – an inspection point, most likely. All the men there were indeed wearing matching rose-inscribed uniforms and were conducting thorough inspections of every single visitor.

“Ahh, those are security guards,” answered Clemens. “All members of staff here wear the same uniform. It’s important for medical personnel to look clean, after all.”

“So that’s why we look like this.” Elnora gently tugged at her sleeve.

All three of them had foregone their usual attire and instead wore outfits identical to the staff here. Clemens had made them both change in the carriage.

“Don’t want us to stand out as outsiders, huh?”

“Exactly.”

Owl shook out his fluttery sleeves a bit with a nod. Elnora, however, crossed her arms with the most blatant pout she could muster. “Ugh, this isn’t style at all,” she grumbled, tugging at the buttons around her neck. “It’s not even the right size, I can’t stand how hard it’s squeezing my chest.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, given that the plan didn’t include you coming with us in the first place,” Clemens chided, gently plucking her hand away from her neck. “I had to alter a dress that looked close enough to the women’s uniform in a hurry, so please just bear with it.” He strode off, completely ignoring the line of people waiting to get inside. “This way,” he called.

The people at the head of the procession signed what looked to be like a medical chart with so many sections to fill out that completing one would clearly take a while. That said, though, there really wasn’t a reason for the hospital to deny anyone admission, so every visitor passed through the gate without issue.

Clemens headed for the intake hut near the gate and pulled what looked to be like some sort of entry permit out of his pocket. The guard there offered Clemens a polite bow and urged him along. Owl and Elnora followed after him, but right when they reached the gate itself another uniformed man popped up and asked, “Mr. Clemens, sir, who might these children be? I don’t believe I recognize them.”

“Ahh, I’m just looking after these two for a time,” Clemens replied smoothly. “One is an orphan, and the other has been passed around from relative to relative due to disease. The director kindly offered them a place here when I brought it up with him.” He turned to the others and surreptitiously winked. “Rossignol, Anatra, introduce yourselves. These are the people who will be looking after you.”

The two caught on quickly and twisted their faces to look as pitiful as possible. “... Thank you... for taking us in,” mumbled Owl.

“What a dependable-looking doctor!” gushed Elnora.

Their eyes glittered with spirit, their hands clasped in front of them as if in prayer in the most obvious unnatural performance ever, yet the guard just blinked at them and then scratched his head with an embarrassed smile. “Ah, no, I’m just a guard, not a doctor, haha. Do I really look that impressive...? Well, let’s see, you have a permit from the director himself, so I don’t see an issue. Please, go right on in.”

The smiling guard pointed to the gate. The smiling trio nodded and headed right through –

“Ahh, but would you allow me to perform a health screening, just to be safe? Are either of you ill at present?”

– until the guard remembered what his actual job was and called out to them again. Owl clicked his tongue, thankfully too quiet to be heard.

“Yes, I suppose a wellness check would be necessary.” Clemens immediately grabbed Owl by the arm and herded him over to the hut. “Rossignol, go ahead and show him.”

“Show him what?”

“The marks on your neck.”

“Hah?” What was Clemens talking about? Owl twisted to ask, but before he could Clemens’ fingers lunged forward and deftly undid the button on his neck. “Hey --!”

Elnora gently pressed up against his back before he could say anything more. “Come on, you know you have to show him,” she purred.

Clemens popped the collar and spread it wide, baring Owl’s nape to the world. The guard peered closely at his collarbones for a bit, then nodded. “There does indeed appear to be a mark there, though it’ll require further tests to determine if it’s from the Black Rose Disease.”

Clemens nodded as well. “Hm, yes, please do. But I will say, the boy’s a bit delicate, so I would prefer if the director handled the tests, given that he’s a good friend of mine. I’ve already given him the boy’s chart, besides. Could you call him up for me? If you mention I brought the kids I’m sure he’ll kow it’s us.”

“Understood. I’ll let the director know right away. I’ll go ahead and register your names, so please feel free to wait in the plaza. It was, er... Rossignol and... Anatra, yes?”

“That’s correct, yes. Thank you, really, you’re a lifesaver.” Clemens beamed as he ushered the others along while the guard headed off to the reception area.

As Owl followed after the priest, he pressed a finger to his clavicle and demanded, “What is this?” His finger came back black, dyed by some sort of ink.

“I wouldn’t rub at that too hard if I were you, it’ll stain your collar and makeup doesn’t come out of clothes too well nowadays,” Clemens cautioned.

“Did you draw this? When?!”

“When you were dozing off in the train. I used Elnora’s makeup kit.”

“Why do you keep doing these things to me while I’m asleep?!” Owl’s voice started to rise... but then he paused, glanced around, and dropped his voice even lower, mindful of all the ears and eyes around. As he wrestled his collar button back into place, he hissed, “If you needed to do something like this you should’ve told me beforehand!”

“Ah, well, I expected you would find it rather indecent and get angry at me. Apologies.”

“And why ‘Rossignol’? The disguises weren’t enough, we needed fake names, too? Is there some reason you don’t want them knowing I’m a detective?”

“More or less. We’d rather this case be kept as private as possible.”

If looks could kill, Owl would be standing over Clemens’ dead body. “This is the first I’m hearing of this!” he whisper-screeched.

Luckily, looks couldn’t kill, so Clemens just kept walking into the grounds, supremely unconcerned. “A detective really ought to have one or two fake identities anyway.”

Elnora, however, had her own grievances to voice. “Okay, but why ‘Anatra’ for me? You know that means ‘duck,’ do I look like a lousy honking bird like that to you? Where’d you leave your naming sense?”

“Alas, it was just the first thing that came to mind.”

“So you’ve been thinking I’m a duck for a while now, is that what you’re saying? You just had that ready and raring to go?” Elnora slapped Clemens’ back as hard as she could, though the priest didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah, and I’m Rossignol,” grumbled Owl.

“Okay, but that one’s actually good, though, Rossignol means ‘nightingale,’” Elnora shot back. “It’s a cute little songbird, that’s adorable.”

“I’ve never sang a song before in my life.”

“That makes sense, since you’re a bad singer, too.”

Owl’s expression pinched tighter and tighter as the conversation went on, as if someone kept sticking a lemon in his mouth. “What do you mean, ‘too’? Get off my back. Not like it’s a problem if I do or don’t.”

“That’s not true,” Clemens said. “You’re the master key.”

“The master key?”

“Yes.” Clemens glanced back over his shoulder.

It took Owl a few seconds to get it. “... Antoine Rossignol, huh,” he muttered.

“Indeed. He was a cryptographer of rare and exceeding talent, a master key that could pry open any lock, much like how you can solve any mystery that comes your way.”

Owl had no response for that.

“I’ll be looking forward to your performance.” Clemens turned back around and kept walking.

The trio eventually came upon another sturdy gate of interwoven bars. By the looks of things, this place had to have been an important fort during wartime. The priest flashed his entry permit to the guards on either side as he approached and passed without issue.

The second gate opened out onto a plaza bracketed by stone buildings, almost like a little makeshift city. Plenty of people were walking around all over the place inside, but the only healthy-looking ones were the ones in uniform – the doctors – while the rest were patients. About half of the uniformed people seemed to be students, by the looks of them.

Elnora took in the sights. “It looks like a German castle in here.”

Owl glanced at her, brows furrowed. “Why German?”

Elnora gestured around. “The plaza, the tall towers, the fountain... and those steep rooftops, they look a lot like a German castle I saw way back when. I was wondering why I was getting so much déjà vu, you remember it too, right, Clemens?”

Clemens nodded. “Ahh, that place, hm. Now that brings me back. But it’s only been a few decades since the third-generation head finished building that one. This place has far more history behind it. The fountain is massive, and....” He pointed up to the tower. “You see how refined that bergfried is? The top floor there serves as a viewing platform.”

“Ooh, impressive. And that statue on top there... is that Apollo, maybe? It sticks out like a sore thumb compared to everything else.”

“Indeed. There are other statues of Apollo all over the place in here.”

While the two chattered on, lost in their own little world, Owl peered up at the bergfried. The statue decorating the top of the tower was a tall one, depicting Apollo with his bow drawn. Something flashed. He squinted. A part of the statue was glittering in the light. He stared up at it for several seconds, then glanced around and murmured, “Well, that’s not good.”

Elnora shot him a confused look. “What’s not good?”

Owl hummed and turned away. “Nothing....”

Clemens, apparently, didn’t hear their little exchange. “That fountain looks just like the ones in Germany as well,” he commented, pointing to the center of the plaza. “Of course, it’d be more obvious if this one weren’t dry, but still.”

Elnora nodded along as Clemens expounded on how the construction matched that of a well-known architect and how it might be their student or some such. I didn’t know those two have been to Germany before, Owl thought. He didn’t dare say that to them, though, lest that cause them to clam up. Each word out of their mouths oozed years of history and personal information. So Owl kept his mouth shut and listened closely even as he scanned the area again. All of the buildings around were tall, topped by Sitoggian pointed archways. It wasn’t an architectural style one saw often in the countryside – the local terrain likely had a hand in keeping them from crumbling away. He had to imagine there used to be a prosperous city here, ages and ages ago....

His eyes caught on one building ahead. That wasn’t Sitoggian. “What’s that?” he murmured to himself.

Sharp-eared Clemens heard him. “That would be a research lab,” he explained.

“That’s weird, though.” Owl pointed at the offending structure. “That’s Naebokkian architecture.”

“It is.”

Owl gestured more empathically at the oblong building, specifically its low roof and drawn-on arches on its gable walls. “Why is that the only Naebokkian building?”

“Because those were added to the existing building after it was originally built,” replied Clemens easily.

“Those are add-ons? Then why wouldn’t they make them look like the other buildings, then? It’s weird how it doesn’t match at all, it’s glaringly different.”

“You’re not wrong, but this isn’t the only odd building out. There’s another one further into the grounds that’s Exenanorian.”

“Why, though? They’re all so mismatched.”

“Again, you’re not wrong.” Clemens considered for a moment, then continued, “The institute may look like one big facility, but in truth, it’s actually split into three factions.”

Owl blinked. “Factions?”

“Indeed. It used to just be the one Lapertes faction, but it fractured, and now the three sides are all trying to strengthen their positions and remodel their buildings into different styles,” Clemens explained. “They may appear like a united front on the surface, but they’re anything but. The whole facility has become a maze – this place used to be a fairly simple fort, but now it’s got three small cities mixed together inside like a marble pattern.”

“... I see. So the architectural styles changed because of the fighting between the factions. That sounds like a pain to deal with.” Under his breath, Owl added, “I’ll get lost in here the second I go off-course....”

Clemens snickered. “You’re always getting lost, though,” he pointed out. “Your horrific sense of direction is your special power that keeps you out of trouble.”

“Shut up.” Owl kicked the priest in the shin, right where Elnora nailed him earlier.

“Ow!” Clemens shook his poor abused leg around. “Goodness me, I’m going to run out of leg at this rate.” He turned and started walking toward the center of the plaza. “I suppose I have no choice – let’s see if I can offer you something to fix that poor mood of yours....”

“Such as?” Owl trailed after him.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll love it.” Clemens led them to the dried-up fountain and pointed to a black stone monument erected past it “You can read the Greek alphabet, right, Owl?”

“The Greek alphabet? I did study it, technically, but I wouldn’t say I’m any good at it. I can manage simple vocabulary, at least.”

“I see. Then I’ll do the translating.”

Elnora stepped up to the monument and peered at the drawing etched into the stone. “Is this meant to be the sun?” she wondered aloud. The polished surface did indeed have a large circle with lines radiating off of it like the sun’s rays. The Greek characters in question were carved on top of it.

Owl stared at the monument for a moment, then asked Clemens, “Is this... supposed to be the thing you said I’d love?” Because to him, it sure looked like a regular old art piece.

“Well, you do, don’t you? I thought you loved codes like this.”

“Codes – this is a code?”

“Oh, yes. This slab of rock has been here for a very long time, but no one has been able to figure out what the message on it is supposed to mean. The knowledge was lost as the generations passed and the institute changed hands. It makes no sense even when translated.”

“... And you want me to solve it? This is probably just a poem or something, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know. But we have some time to kill before the director gets here, so we might as well, no?” Clemens’s finger traced the letters as he intoned:

“So spoke Ptolemy:

The truth may only be found in Apollo’s golden crown where the stars align

Magicians, reveal your strength through the star charts and trace your path.”

“... Ptolemy.” Owl rubbed his chin. “That was the Greek astronomer who proposed a theory on the movements of celestial bodies, if I remember right.”

“You do. He’s quite the famous wise man.”

“So the stuff that’s written inside the sun here has to do with star charts?”

“Possibly. Let me see, these words here mean....”

“No, wait a minute.”

“Hm?”

Owl’s eyes roved around the plaza. His gaze flicked to the dried-up fountain, then to the oddly numerous stone benches surrounding it, around twenty or thirty in total. “... That’s it.”

“Owl?”

“Give me a second.”

He jogged off toward the closest bench, paused for a second to inspect it, found nothing, then jogged off again. The benches were small – most of them could only seat one or two people at a time, though they came in a wide range of colors. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how they were scattered around the fountain, instead sitting in a chaotic jumble of stone.

“Hey, Owl? What’re you doing?” called Elnora.

Owl didn’t answer until he’d checked every single bench and jogged back to the other two. “Just as I thought,” he declared.

“Hm?” Clemens cocked his head.

“I found some strange letters carved into some of the stones.”

A smile flashed across Clemens’ face. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d find those before I could mention them.”

“We were talking about astronomy, and there was a drawing of a sun with that weird message, right near an obviously suspicious fountain,” Owl pointed out nonchalantly. Of course I’d go look.”

“So you think the fountain is suspicious.”

“No, most of the benches and the fountain aren’t.”

“They aren’t?”

Owl whipped his notebook out, scribbled something down, and flipped it around to show Clemens.

“What is this?” The priest peered at the notebook.

“Aerial view of the fountain and the layout of the benches. Most of them are dummies.”

“Dummies – ah, fakes? Truly? What makes you say that?”

“We’re up on a hill and there are no canals or waterways around. It would cost a lot of money to keep a fountain running in a place like that, not to mention a sizable pump and a windmill to keep it all moving. Even in Paris, it supposedly costs more to keep the fountains going in the palace gardens than the palaces themselves. So the fountain here, then, is obviously a decoration, not a working fountain, and therefore has some other purpose. The real meaning here is in the benches – though only six of them had important letters carved into them. Four others had other intriguing carvings on them, but they weren’t written in Greek so we can ignore those.”

“Six, hm....” Clemens scanned the notebook more closely. Six of the benches on the little map had marks next to them. “What do these mean?”

“They’re the locations of the benches with the inscribed letters, two each on the seats. Clockwise from the monument, they go Δί, Αφ, Άρ, φε, Ερ, and Κρ.”

“Those are certainly Greek letters, but what are they?”

“We know this all has to do with astronomy, so it’s simple – they’re the first two letters of the planets Jupiter, Venus, Mars, the moon, Mercury, and Saturn, in that order. The benches represent celestial bodies.” Owl marked down the symbols of the various planets in turn, then turned and did the same to the stone monument itself. “All the pieces are in place. So, Clemens, read what’s written inside the sun from top to bottom.”

“Understood.” Clemens’ finger once again traced the text. “Let’s see... there are seven lines of text. Starting from the top....”

Owl copied everything down as Clemens said it. The seven lines went thusly:

Half the sun pulls the silver bow

⚪A messenger of the gods travels to and fro across all realms

⚪A goddess accompanied by the Charites

⚪A great flame shines down upon us

⚪Chariots sing of victory in war

Thunder booms within the child shunned by his father

The wheel of fate turns within the god of time

When he was done, Owl tapped his pen against the page silently. Clemens peeked at what he’d written and blinked. “What are those circles?” he queried. “Those weren’t part of the lines.”

“Those are just marks to indicate which lines are the truth.”

“The truth?”

“From the first message. ‘So spoke Ptolemy, the truth may only be found in Apollo’s golden crown where the stars align.’”

“I don’t follow. What does it mean?”

Owl rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, maybe try using your brain?” he snarked. “You were a teacher here, weren’t you?”

Clemens’s lips twitched in a smile. It would seem my little plan paid off just as I thought. Plopping him in front of a good code is doing wonders for his mood. He did as instructed, scanning Owl’s notes once more. “Names of planets inscribed on the benches...” he murmured. “Perhaps they’re listed in Ptolemy’s proposed order? That would be the simplest solution.”

“You’re on the right track, but that would make the order the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. It would be too difficult to put all of those in a single line,” pointed out Owl.

“Then the ‘truth found in Apollo’s golden crown’ must be a clue... what does it mean?”

“Apollo is a sun god, so the ‘golden crown’ is the ring of fire around the sun.” Owl tapped the rays of light encircling the sun on the monument. “I marked the four lines that were actually inside the golden crown with a circle in my notes, since those would be the truth. The other three are just there to misdirect.”

“I see. You’re right, these four are etched on top of the sun.”

“And one of those lines is ‘a messenger of the gods travels to and fro across all realms.’”

“A ‘messenger of the gods,’ above the sun’s rays....” Clemens’ eyes lit up. “Ahh, that must be Hermes! Yes, if I recall, one of his symbols was the planet Mercury.”

Owl tapped the symbol for Mercury on his notes. “Right, because in Greek mythology many of the gods were tied to specific celestial bodies. You can probably figure out the rest, right?”

Clemens gestured for him to continue.

“The next one is ‘a goddess accompanied by the Charites.’ Otherwise known as the Graces, the Charites are three goddesses of beauty and grace who serve as attendants of the goddess Aphrodite.”

“Venus,” confirmed Clemens.

“Next, ‘a great flame shines down upon us.’ Obviously the sun. Apollo. Next. ‘Chariots’ and ‘war’ indicate Ares, the god of war, associated with Mars.” As Clemens watched, Owl drew a line connecting the four planets. “Mercury, Venus, the sun, and Mars. Connect these four in the Ptolemaic order, and there’s one spot where the line intersects.” Owl tapped the spot in question.

“Fascinating,” Clemens breathed, peering down at the crossed line. “Now where in the world is this... I suppose we’ll just have to walk over in person and find out. It would be easier if we had a rope, but ah, well, there are plenty of landmarks around.”

Owl followed Clemens’ directions, first moving to stand by the Mercury bench before walking in a straight line to the Venus bench. That straight line included a portion of the fountain and some benches, but Owl ignored them entirely, stepping over the seats and walking through the dried basin like none of it existed. He did the same from the Venus bench to the stone monument that represented the sun, then again from the monument toward the Mars bench....

“... Didn’t I step on this bench before?”

Owl paused with his leg hovering over one of the benches in his path that he’d crossed over moving from Mercury to Venus. Clemens drew closer. “This must be where the path overlaps, then.”

“Apparently.”

Owl tilted his head, inspecting the bench thoroughly. The polished surface of this bench was completely unmarred, no carvings or anything on either the seat or the sides. It was, by all accounts, a completely normal stone bench – a seat, really, since it could only fit one person.

“It looks like normal rock... but...?” Owl’s eyes narrowed. Or rather, eye singular, the one that wore his monocle. “... There are traces of alchemy here,” he reported, bending down to get a better look. Some staff members nearby shot him odd looks, but he paid them no mind. He ran his hands over the stone surface multiple times. “Bologna stone?” he muttered to himself.

“Bolonga stone?” Clemens echoed. “You mean the magic glowing stone?”

“Yeah. It’s been pretty cleverly buried in regular granite here. It glows in the dark. Clemens, tug your hood up and hold it so no light gets in.” Meanwhile, Owl pulled his own hood off and draped it over his head while he bent down over the stone, forming a curtain that blocked the light so he could inspect the stone in darkness.

Elnora, who had been standing off to the side for a while watching the proceedings, finally piped up with arched bows. “... You know you guys just look like weirdos, right?” How else was someone supposed to think of a young man hanging over a piece of rock with a hood curtain on his head?

“Yes, but he’s been a weirdo the whole time,” Clemens replied amiably, still with his hood drawn tight and valiantly bearing the weight of all the staring directed his way.

“Oh, don’t you worry, you’re plenty weird yourself,” Elnora assured him with a lukewarm smile that wiped the smile from Clemens’ face.

Owl, supremely unbothered, did something or other under his hood for a while, then nodded and pulled it off his head. “I see.”

“Did you figure something out?” asked Clemens.

Owl waved his finger in a circle. “The stone is a map of the plaza.”

“A map?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t be able to see it unless it’s dark, but the phosphorescent stone embedded in the seat is a perfect match for the placements of the benches.

“Truly?” Clemens peered at the seat again, but he couldn’t see the difference. Bolonga stone didn’t glow in bright places.

Owl went on, “So, since it’s a map, that got me thinking about the second part of that first message you read, the ‘magicians, reveal your strength through the star charts and trace your path.’”

“‘Trace your path,’ meaning the path you just walked around the plaza, yes?”

“Right. And then there’s the ‘reveal your strength’ bit. If we can substitute alchemist for magician... in theory, a lock like this usually responds to magic, so.” Owl muttered to himself as he opened his right hand, revealing a golden light building around his pointer finger. Shimmering heat began to waft around the light. He pressed his fingertip to the stone. “Trace the light....” Then he blinked and glanced up at Clemens. “By the way, what’s supposed to happen when we solve the mystery of the monument?” Tracing the path like this was the last step. Surely Clemens knew.

Clemens, however, shook his head and shrugged. “Who knows?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t. Didn’t I say before that every time the director’s chair changed hands more and more information about the monument was lost? No one knows a thing about it. The current director’s even said that there aren’t any records of where it came from or when it got here and considers it an unsolvable mystery. The current leading theory is that the founder left it here.”

“They just thought it might be a regular old poem or something, huh. But there’s a non-zero chance this is a self-destruct mechanism?”

“Maybe? Though would someone really go to all the trouble of making it self-destruct?”

The two stared silently at each other. Owl thought for a moment, staring at the stone that might explode on him....

“Well, whatever.”

Then with a shrug and a nod, he traced the path he walked earlier onto the stone without hesitation, pouring his energy into the rock.

“You’re really doing it?!” Clemens yelped.

“Yeah, of course I am. I’m curious. And I can’t stand leaving an experiment unfinished.”

“Even thought it might explode?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Owl glanced back over to Clemens for a moment, perfectly straight-faced. “But either way it’s not my fault, you’re the one who showed it to me.”

“Yeah, that’s on you, Clemens,” Elnora agreed.

Clemens winced. “I may have been a bit hasty –”

PLUNK!!

Just then, something made a noise near the fountain, almost like a plug being pulled out.

“Huh?” Owl’s head shot up, startled. He whirled around. “... What’s that?” he wondered aloud. A small hole had opened up near the center of the fountain where before there had just been a smooth expanse of stone. That was most likely the source of the noise.

Clemens peered at it. “... Is this... a drain line?”

“A what now?”

“You’ve never heard of it? They’re holes drilled into fountains that lead underground to prevent rainwater from accumulating. They’re used when you need to clean a fountain as well, of course.”

“I know that much!” Owl snapped. His eyes darted to the monument, then the plaza, then back to the new little opening at his feet.... “Is this really it? It just opened up a hole?!”

“Looks like it.”

Owl’s mind boggled. “But, such a complex mechanism... it just, opens the drain line?”

“Looks like it.” repeated Clemens.

“It wasn’t a self-destruct button?”

“Did you want it to be?” Clemens patted his shoulder, as if to calm him down.

Owl tore into him for a while after that, punctuating his rant with a final kick to the shin.

“OW!”

original written by Nagaya Kawaji here

#kotonoha project #this might be my favorite chapter Ever #owl is in top form this whole episode it's great #a lot of incidental information here is true and factual #except the architectural styles I made those spellings up

2 notes · View notes