asexual lesbian loser and writer who loves red dead redemption a little too much
MDNI practically all of my works are (18+)
Fanfic Key:
fluff = âŚ
angst = đŚš
smut / nsfw = âž
misc / other = âŽ
Compulsive Attraction - Karen Jones x f!OC ⾠⦠𦹠(ongoing)
Masterlist / Iris Abernathyâs introduction (coming VERY soon!)
Ch1 â Ch2 â Ch3 â (to be continued)
Past of Mine, Past of Yours - Arthur Morgan & f!OC ⾠𦹠⮠(ongoing)
Masterlist / Rosetta Facts!
Ch1 - Ch2 -
Kinktober/Flufftober Masterlist
Molly OâShea -
A Girl Until his Call (18+) ⾠𦹠molly x gn!oc
summary: They know they shouldnât have read Mollyâs poem about Dutch, yet they still did. Returning it to her and admitting that it was wrong of them is the right thing to do and surprisingly, Molly isnât upset that they read it, just lonely and in need of some love. A comforting kiss between the two of them quickly turns into something more but ends sooner than either had hoped.
Quiet of the Night 𦹠⦠molly x gn!reader
summary: Molly has always been beautiful to you, but getting close to her is difficult. However, after a few drinks and a much needed break from the world you muster up the courage to approach her, leading to a chance for you to get to know each other better.
Sadie Adler -
Wine on the Tongue (wip)
Karen Jones -
Muddy Mayhem (wip)
Javier Escuella -
One Last Time (18+) 𦹠⾠javier x f!reader
summary: You swear that itâs the last time you think of Javier, that itâs the last time he makes you feel this way. Up until you hear the crunch of gravel behind you and Javier himself comes into view. This is the last time, you both silently promise each other. No more late night trysts that lead to nothing but heartbreak. One last time, thatâs all it is.
Broken Guitar (wip)
Charles Smith -
Boyfriend Hoodie ⌠charles x gn!reader
summary: You wake up from a wet dream to discover that you fell asleep in Charlesâ hoodie. This calls for a journal entry, so you spend the next couple minutes writing about your dream and the hoodie youâve come to love. But then Charles comes rushing into your tent asking if thatâs his hoodie youâre wearing and you deny it. Instead, you proceed to tease him because of the frisky mood youâve woken up in.
I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss (18+) âž modern!charthur x f!reader
summary: When your boyfriends, Arthur and Charles, refuse to talk to each other because of some disagreement they had, you take matters into your own hands. Leading to a makeout session and some make up sex.
Bows of Blue (wip)
Another Manâs Child (wip)
Arthur Morgan -
Relief ⌠arthur x gn!reader
summary: Your arm has been hurting all day and you have finally gotten into a comfortable position. Itâs comfortable enough that you forget about your pain for a little while until you turn to greet Arthur. You wince and Arthur notices, of course he notices. That was the last thing you wanted because now he isnât going to let this go until he knows youâre comfortable.
Threeâs a Party (18+) ⾠𦹠modern!arthur x modern!mary x f!reader
summary: Mary and you finally have a chance to hangout but she wonât shut up about her new boyfriend: Arthur. Itâs infuriating but god do you love her, your crush on her outweighing any anger you feel. Soon you come to learn exactly why she wonât shut up about that boyfriend of hers. But what does this mean for your relationship? How do you tell your best friend that youâre in love with her?
Prying Eyes (18+) 𦹠⾠arthur x f!reader
summary: You and Arthur seek shelter from the heat in a cheap hotel, leading to the tension between you reaching a climax (literally). Riding has never been a skill of yours. Youâre so bad at it that Arthur has fallen asleep beneath you. This upsets you, rightfully so and you get up to leave but Arthur stops you before you can. You two then end up on the balcony putting on a show for anyone passing by. On top of that, you want to confess your feelings but you just donât know how to, especially with you two tangled up like this. What if a fling is all Arthur wants?
A Sultry Surprise (18+) ⌠➠f!arthur x f!reader
I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss (18+) âž
Starlight (wip)
John Marston -
Cigarette (wip)
Five Years and Counting âŚ
summary: John and Abigail have made it to their fifth marriage anniversary so they decide to relive the day of their proposal to celebrate.
Abigail Marston -
Five Years and Counting âŚ
Bonnie MacFarlane -
Longing of a Loveless Fool (wip)
Landon Ricketts -
Weâre Both Fading (wip)
Live âž âŽ
summary: Grief. Such a terrible thing. You up and left the moment it found you, distracting yourself with drinks and some worn out gunslinger. Still you write these letters. Letters that keep you buried in the past. But Landon canât have you ending up like him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
â MASTERLIST | AO3 | PREV | NEXT
â tags: Mature. Third-person Arthur POV. Canon-typical violence. Period-typical misogyny. Medium to High Honor Arthur. Original Character(s). Kidnapping. Sexual Themes.
â word count: 3,130
â summary: Sent to scout a lucrative mark, Arthur and Trelawny descend upon the ThÊâtre Râleur for a night of risk and reconnaissance. But once they slip behind the curtain, the real performance beginsâand Arthur is forced to do what he dreads most: improvise.
â author's note: endless love to my @fleurdelucienne for being a wonderful friend and beta-reader! this chapter was so fun to write and really put me out of my comfort zone. I hope you have fun reading, too! xo, coyote
â song: The Sleeping Beauty, Op. 66 : Introduction
A crash of music like gunfire.
Brass and percussion collided in a skirmish for dominance. Patrons startled in their seats. Heads turned, voices hushed. And when the music climbed to its discordant peak, it crested; softened; gave way to fluttering woodwinds and a lilting oboe that soothed the ear like a lullaby.
The curtain rose.
Arthur chanced a look over at Trelawny, whose eyes twinkled with fascination as he leaned in, at once absorbed by the action onstage.
In Arthur's view, all was controlled chaos. Lavish costumes. Set pieces that rivaled the architecture. He scanned the spectacle, keeping count.
"Looks real expensiveâŚ" He murmured promisingly. Trelawny only hummed in reply.
The music turned processional as the company formed an arc upstage. Oddly, many of them sat, turning their focus to the empty space down center. Arthur was relieved for the stillness if only for the chance to study their faces, searching for the one to match the cigarette card in his satchel.
There.
A woman joined from the wings. Three dandified male dancers broke rank to meet her. Long legs carried her across the stage in tight, controlled steps on the tips of her toes. With arms held above her head in a gesture of elegant precision, the ballerina paused when she reached center. Drawing her back leg in a long, slow arc skyward, the other rooted itself to the boards in a pillar of strength.
And then she was still.
Whole measures of music passed like an afterthought. Elsie Rose remained suspended in time, with only the barest tremble of her tautly-muscled calf betraying the magnitude of effort behind her feat.
"Damn." Arthur grunted, reluctantly impressed. "Ain't her toes hurtin'?"
"Shh!"
In the seat directly ahead of his own, an older patron turned to glower at Arthur disapprovingly over the rim of his wiry spectacles. Arthur glowered back. The man sniffed and faced the proscenium.
Back onstage, the three suitors (or at least that's what they looked like to Arthur) took turns genuflecting, each with an offering of a single rose. Elsie accepted them, sustaining her impossible posture. Arthur shifted forward, squinting at the rafters, half-expecting to discover some hidden piece of stage magicâpuppet strings, or somethingâbut found only lights.
One by one, they took her hand, presenting her to the room in a promenade. The illusion was that they turned herâbut it was she who spun herselfâslowly and on the tips of her toes with tiny, precise shifts in the muscles of her foot. And all the while the line she held with her leg from stem to stern was as straight and unyielding as a divining rod.
Arthur leaned into Trelawny and whispered, "Look at these chumps. All they're doin' is twirlin' around in them funny-lookin' hatsâshe's the one doin' all the work."
"Do you mind?" The bespectacled patron hissed over his shoulder. To his neighbor, he complained, "No tact, no culture."
Arthur's fists curled in his lap. "Oh, I'll culture you, alrightâŚ"
A gloved hand found his shoulderâTrelawny's. A silent point made. Sighing grumpily, Arthur sat back in his seat.
The lobby thrummed with enlivened conversation as the audience emptied the theater. Arthur and Trelawny sifted through the throng, with Arthur rolling his stiffened shoulder in the little space permitted.
"You have an uncanny ability to make friends everywhere you go, dear boy." Trelawny remarked, speaking above the din.
âWouldâa gotten even friendlier, if you hadnât been here to stop me.â The other darkly replied.
âI've no doubtâŚ"
Slipping through to the left, they found solace in the much quieter lounge. The bar was unmanned and Arthur was half-tempted to help himself as he surreptitiously peered at their whiskey selection.
"Soâwhat say you?" Trelawny prompted, planting his cane.
"Looks like there was aboutâŚthirty of 'em. More, if y'count the orchestraâŚ" Arthur mused, thumbing the scar on his chin in thought. "Reckon that train'll be packed. Unless you was talkin' about the show?" He added, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Trelawny smirked beneath his wax-curled mustache. "Best saved for later, perhapsâonce we've found ourselves moored safely at the Bastille." He lowered his voice as if divulging a salacious secret. "A terrible faux pas, dear boy, to voice one's thoughts on a performance while still in the venue."
"Where are my manners," said Arthur dryly. He propped his weight back against the bar. Mapping the place in his mind, he tried to surmise where the numerous doors and staircases lining these halls might lead. "Where d'you reckon we should start lookin'?"
"I suppose that dependsâŚ" Trelawny pretended to adjust his cuff links as a small cluster of well-dressed men filtered past. "If it were merely one night's meager sales we were after, I imagine a brutish negotiation with the box office would suffice."
Arthur chuckled. "Then you'd be speakin' my language. But you know Dutchâhe ain't exactly the meager type."
"Indeed. In that caseâŚ" Trelawny's keen gaze hovered near the men as they disappeared behind a door at the end of the hall. "If there's a fortune to be found, my guess is it would be close to our leading lady."
Arthur grunted in affirmation. "Should we split up?"
"I think not." Said Trelawny, all innocence as he made to follow them. "Certainly, there's no crime in two gentlemen finding themselves hopelessly lost in their wayward search for the facilities?"
Arthur smiled crookedly. "Ain't no crime at all."
Deeper into the theater they drew, the fading echo of lobby chatter lost to the encroaching silence. Neither of them spoke; Arthur on the alert, his narrowed gaze tracking for potential threats; and Trelawny, adopting the veneer of a witless tourist.
They didn't make it far. Guarding a gold-embossed entryway was a uniformed doorman, no older than twenty, with a hat worn slightly askew.
"Good evening, sirs." The kid bowed briefly at the waist. "Are you looking for the foyer de la danse?"
Trelawny inclined his head, seizing his cue. "Indeed, we most certainly are."
"This way, please." He stepped aside, gesturing them onward.
How big is this goddamn place? Arthur thought, prickling with unease. Steeling himself, he followed Trelawny's tailcoats inside.
Dancers stretched work-weary bodies before high, floor-length mirrors. Others socialized with wealthy-looking patrons by a refreshments table topped with wine, olives, and platters of cured meats. Nearby on an upholstered bench, a dancing girl sat wincing as she tended to a swath of angry blisters. Beside her sat a pale, satin shoe stained with blood.
Arthur spotted the men they'd followed, this time with cigars and crystals of brandy. They were crowding a pair of pretty dancers who laughed at their jokes through forced smiles. An older gentleman's hand assumed the small of a girl's back, too low to be polite, too lingering to be tolerable. In the low lamplight, his wedding ring gleamed.
A muscle flexed in Arthur's jaw. "What're we doin', Trelawny?"
"Patience, my friend." The other sang lightly in reply. "We've only just arrived."
Cane in hand, Trelawny ambled along the wall with the casual confidence of one who belonged. He tipped his top hat politely to someone in the crowd unseen. "We areâŚpatrons of substanceâŚcome to sample the ripened fruits on offerâŚgrim, but true."
"I'd rather be shootin'."
Off the foyer, a large archway split into two corridors, warmly lit with wall sconces. A lively traffic of dancers to the right seemed to gesture towards the dressing rooms; but the path to the left was remarkably quiet in comparison. Neither area was decorated with the same decadence as the rest of the theaterâas if the deeper they wormed themselves, layer by layer, the uglier were its unvarnished truths.
Arthur watched the same, hapless doorman who invited them into the foyer patrol the party, head down, keeping to the edges. He shuffled self-consciously past before a short, sharp whistle rang out from the left-sided corridor.
The doorman froze, eyes snapping to attention.
"You, boy." A disembodied voice, weighted with authority, called from down the hall. "Come here."
He nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply.
The voice spoke again, its owner hidden inside what Arthur presumed to be some kind of administrator's office. "Has Mr. Hall's liaison confirmed the arrangements?"
"Yes, sir. Simply waiting for the ink to dry, sir." The doorman quickly replied. He stood just outside with shined shoes clamped together, as if not daring to fully enter the space without explicit invitation.
"Good. Let's hope it doesn't dally in doing so. Before you goâ"
Arthur heard movementâthe scrape of a chair's wooden legs across the floorâand subtly craned his neck around the archway to get a visual. A small, leather portmanteau with a heavy lock was handed off to the doorman, who gathered it clumsily with both arms.
"See to it this is safely returned where it belongs." Ordered the faceless man. "And be quick about itâyou'll remember what happened last timeâŚ"
Arthur read the initials emblazoned on the side of the bag: E. R.
Jackpot.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
The kid doubled back, passing behind them without so much as a sideways glance.
Arthur nodded. "Let's go."
"Just a moment, my eager friend." Trelawny murmured, dark blue eyes trained down the hall. "ThreeâŚtwoâŚoneâŚgo."
Briskly, they went. Flashes of painted faces in mirrorsâbruised legsâhalf-dressed dancers arguing in French. Arthur pulled Trelawny out of the way of an incoming stagehand, burdened with unwashed linens.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Trelawny motioned for Arthur to peer around the corner.
Midway down the secluded, connecting passage was the doorman, standing before a closed room. Shifting the portmanteau to one hand, he tentatively knocked with the other. Only when no reply came, did he enter.
"Where're you goin', kid?" Arthur breathed, forehead creased with focus.
A moment later he emerged, empty-handed. Arthur tensed, prepared to double backâbut the doorman hurried on and out of sight.
Arthur and Trelawny shared a look.
"We doin' this?"
"Swiftly, now."
Once inside, Arthur quickly surveyed the room. Racks of costumes lined the richly-patterned walls. Pushed beneath a gilded portrait was an armchair with a gown strewn across it, as though abandoned mid-change.
His eyes fell on the portmanteau. It sat beneath a light-rimmed vanity covered in cosmetics, spotlighted amidst the backstage clutter.
"Why not? S'just sittin' there. Maybe we ain't even have to hit the trainâ"
Trelawny hissed, "This is not. The time. To improvise."
Footsteps.
Arthur stiffened. A look of shared panic.
They turned to find a woman framed in the doorway.
Though she'd traded her leotard for a turquoise dressing gown, she still wore her inky hair in a ballerina's bun. She'd seemed taller onstageâthe top of her head barely level with the middle of Arthur's chestâyet she stood with such unflinching poise, all else felt diminished by contrast.
Elsie Rose was startlingly calm as she said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I believe you're in my dressing room."
Trelawny removed his top hat and offered a guileless smile. "Aha! Just the wonder we were looking for. An honor to meet your acquaintance, Miss Rose. Please pardon our improprietyâwe simply hoped to have a word with you for an article, and, wellâŚthis place is quite the labyrinth, isn't it?"
Elsie stared. "Who are you?"
âGiuseppe Muldoon,â He lied with a flourish, bowing so deeply Arthur was surprised his nose didnât scrape the carpet. âArts columnist for the Saint Denis Cultural Chronicle.â
âCharmed.â Elsie offered a slender hand, which Trelawny squeezed. She tilted her head, regarding him with curiosity. âYou must forgive me; Iâm afraid I havenât heard of you or yourâŚesteemed publication.â
There was something funny about her voice and it took Arthur longer than heâd care to admit to realize it was on account of her being English. She spoke quickly, musically, in a tone warmed by modest indulgences in cigarettes and brandy. Â
âYou wouldn't, my dear lady.â Trelawny folded his gloved hands behind his waistcoat. âOur fledgling paper should only hope to earn its credibility by courting comment from talents such as yourself.â
Christ, Trelawny was laying it on thick, even by his standards. Arthur remained stoic, wondering how much of this routine was bullshit and how much of it was Trelawny, for once sincerely starstruck.Â
Elsie lifted her brow. "Then you must know Hector."
Arthur watched Trelawny from the corner of his eye.
"I'd wager there isn't a circle in Saint Denis that Mr. Fellowes doesn't intersect." He evaded with an indulgent chuckle. "Though you'll find he and I haveâŚdiffering journalistic priorities."
Elsie hummed. Her eyes, framed with winged lashes, lingered probingly before they darted to Arthurâpinning him to the spot. âAnd who might this be?âÂ
Trelawny straightened. "How tactless of me. This strapping individual would be my associate, a Misterâ"
"Callahan." Arthur answered gruffly. "Arthur Callahan."
"Are you a lover of the ballet, Mr. Callahan?"
Arthur shifted. "Well, Iâ"
"I'm sorry to say my associate is something of a cultural neanderthal, my dear lady." Trelawny swooped in magnanimously. "One of his many shortcomings."
Elsie's eyes never strayed from Arthur's face, polite yet unreadable. She awaited his answer.
"No, IâI'm afraid I ain't too familiar with, uhâall of this." He admitted, somewhat awkward as he made a vague gesture around the dressing room. "ButâŚI reckon what you were doin' up there looked like tough work, miss."
She blinked, gently surprised. "It is. Thank you."
Trelawny procured from his pocket a tin of premium cigarettes. He flicked it open, presenting her with one in a way that almost reminded Arthur of those fancy-footed fools with the roses.
"Do you smoke, madam?"
Elsie stilled, deliberating. She accepted, posing the cigarette between two fingers.
Trelawny looked to Arthur expectantly.
"Ohâ" He patted his pockets for a light. As he struck the match, Elsie's eyes met his over the flame as she leaned in, torching the end of her cigarette, pulling sharp in a way Arthur had to respect. Ribbons of smoke danced around her head as she exhaled through her nose, slow and steady.
"I'm afraid I only have a few minutes before I must retire." She allowed, crossing to the vanity and sinking, straight-backed, onto the stool before it. Arthur refrained himself from glancing down at the portmanteau by her feet. "But, yesâI suppose a few questions will do."
The game was afoot.
"Plainly, you are a well-traveled woman." Trelawny began, a hint of rakishness about him. "Is this your first time in Saint Denis, or have you graced us before?"
"Oh, yes. Many times."
Trelawny hummed politely, scribbling in a tiny notebook he'd pulled from his jacket. "How does it compare?"
"Not without its growing pains. But Saint Denis and I have come to an amicable truce." Elsie leaned over the coffee table to ash her cigarette. "Despite my work, the city insists on pleasure."
Trelawny's eyes crinkled. "That it does."
Partly tucked beneath the ash tray, a folded piece of parchment caught Arthur's eye. The letterhead looked almost familiarâas if he'd seen the design in passing once and never bothered to commit it to memory.
"A tour of this ambitious size must incur significant expenses." Trelawny went on, face drawn in a facsimile of journalistic interest. "Does the company hope to recoup its costs?"
Something in Elsie sharpened.
Arthur squinted, studying the insignia, wracking his memory for where he'd seen it before. Then it came to himâa painted logo on a speeding train carâTrelawny's voice as they rode into the city.
The Pacific Union Railroad.
Elsie fluttered her lashes with calculated innocence. "Oh, I'm afraid that's better asked of the box office. But if you ask me, the true value of a performance lies not in its profits, but in its audience." She turned to Arthur coolly. "What would be your assessment, Mister Callahan?"
Arthur's eyes darted up from the parchment. They locked with Elsie's, blue-green on brown.
Trelawny's gaze was a brand. He swallowed against the rising resentment that always dogged him in these moments, when failure and success balanced not on how well he could fight, but on how much shit from rich folks he could stand to eat with a smile.
"To be honest wit'cha, missâŚ" He drawled. "I ain't understand a damn thing about it."
The apples of Elsie's cheeks rose in a genuine, disarming smile.
Feverish from their narrow getaway, the uncharacteristically cool Lemoyne air was a balm on their skin. With the theater at their backs and the moon as their spotlight, even Trelawny elected not to speak until they'd seen themselves halfway down Hestia Street.
"You played your role well, dear boy. For the most part." Trelawny croaked, dabbing the back of his neck with a handkerchief. "All in all, I'd say that was quite the successful dress rehearsal."
Arthur chuckled and shook his head, casting a parting glance at the marquee as they crossed the cobblestoned street. Hitched on iron posts side by side, their horses nickered in recognition as they came into view. "That's the difference between you'n me. All you do is pretendâreckon with me, it's do or die."
"Be that as it mayâŚfor all of our sakes, please refrain from the latter."
"Y'know, we might actually be onto somethin' here." Arthur interjected, the spark of adrenaline simmering now with real interest. "There was some letter in there, 'bout that railroad company you mentioned. And you seen how they was actin' around that bag. I ain't sure what, but I bet'chu there's somethin' in there." He scoffed under his breath. "Maybe Bill weren't such a fool after all."
"A broken clock is drunk twice a dayâor however the saying goes."
They laughed.
Sighing, Trelawny wryly went on, "I suppose tomorrow you'll find out for yourself. For once, dear boy, I'm envious."
"'Bout what, the job?" Arthur scoffed at him sideways, popping a hard-earned cigarette between his teeth. "Bullshit. You never wanna get your hands dirtyâmight ruin them fancy gloves."
The end of Trelawny's mustache twitched in a lopsided smirk. "For Elsie Rose? Oh, I'm sure I'd find a way to endureâŚ"
Arthur bristled. He took a drag. âFolk like her donât make you sick?â
âLithe and luxurious socialites with legs as long as the Lannahechee? Nausea is not what comes to mind, no.â Trelawny tutted with a sigh. âThen again, I am a married man; I suppose the state of such is one of abject longing for what one cannot have...â His eyes slid in Arthurâs direction as a carriage rattled noisily past. âShe seemed to take an interest in you, though, dear boy.â
Arthur turned and spit in the street. "Shut up, 'Giuseppe'. Let's go get us that drink."
Iâm just gonna jump straight into my thoughts because my excitement for this is overwhelming
once again the atmosphere is so perfectly described especially the descriptors used for both the song and the ballet moves, and I also like the clear difference in class between Trelawny and Arthur here with them both being intrigued for completely different reasons
also Arthur being impressed by Elsie from the starttttt I love this set up
The dialogue between Arthur and Trelawny will never fail to either make me giggle or smile fondly into the distance, oh how I adore them
I really canât say enough just how impressive your way of setting a scene is, every little detail we need is pointed out immediately drawing us in and plopping us right into the moment
âTrelawny procured from his pocket a tin of premium cigarettes. He flicked it open, presenting her with one in a way that almost reminded Arthur of those fancy-footed fools with the roses.â <- I truly do love how you characterize Trelawny. This performance he loves to put on never stops and you capture it wonderfully
Also I was so invested in the conversation that went down in the dressing room that I completely forgot to write out any of my thoughts đ just know you had me completely immersed to the point that I tuned out everything else around me which is an extremely impressive feat
and is it okay for me to admit that the description of Elsie smoking made me kinda sort of fall for her even more and and her personality has me captivatedâŚ.. I love her oh And the set up between Arthur and her has me hooked, loving how subtle the interest they have in each other is
â"That's the difference between you'n me. All you do is pretendâreckon with me, it's do or die."â <- oooo Arthur pointing it out, Iâve always enjoyed when things like this are just stated especially when itâs coming from Arthur cause he can easily acknowledge these things about himself but is he gonna make the effort to do something about it or just point out its existence, yknow? Also I swear this is an actual line in the game but I might be mistaken, Iâve picked up on how you utilize lines from different parts of the game throughout this fic đ I love love how you incorporate them and use them to your advantage to craft this story exactly how you want it!
âThe end of Trelawny's mustache twitched in a lopsided smirk. "For Elsie Rose? Oh, I'm sure I'd find a way to endureâŚ"â âLithe and luxurious socialites with legs as long as the Lannahechee? Nausea is not what comes to mind, no.â Trelawny tutted with a sigh. âThen again, I am a married man; I suppose the state of such is one of abject longing for what one cannot have...â His eyes slid in Arthurâs direction as a carriage rattled noisily past. âShe seemed to take an interest in you, though, dear boy.ââ <- trelawnyyyyyyy he knows what he likes and I totally get it lmaoooo and him pointing out the interest she had in Arthur hehehehehe also that reminded me that Trelawny and Elsie are married in your tomodachi life save PLEASE TELL ME THEYRE STILL HAPPILY TOGETHER
Okay but everything seriously feels so rich and full of life in this fic, the way you have set it all up has me on the edge of my seat more than eager for what comes next! You really have put so much work into this little story that no matter where it goes from here Iâm still going to be impressed and very very much invested. I have to say as well that the visuals provided, the titles of each, the way itâs all laid out adds another layer of immersion for me. Just incredible!!!đđ
â MASTERLIST | AO3 | NEXT
â tags: Mature. Third-person Arthur POV. Canon-typical violence. Period-typical misogyny. Medium to High Honor Arthur. Original Character(s). Kidnapping. Sexual Themes.
â word count: 2,930
â summary: In the sweltering decay of Lemoyne, Arthur watches a new score take shape â one centered on a celebrated ballerina and a fortune rumored to follow her. As plans are made and doubts suppressed, Arthur senses that this job will demand more than muscle or nerve, and that once the music starts, there will be no clean way out.
â author's note: here she is! a huuuge thank you to my love, my @fleurdelucienne for beta-reading and providing so much insight and encouragement! thank you!
The derelict plantation house, half-sunk in the Lemoyne muck, was a fitting hovel for outlaws past their prime. No telling which was more squalid; Shady Belle herself or the latest band of brigands to dwell within, picking the carrion off her sunbaked bones.
Pockmarked with war trenches and tombstones, the wetland clung to its phantoms the way sweat did to skin. It was only morning, yet the air was hot and thick as a boar's breath. And while they fed on cottonmouth grass beneath a barbarous sun, the horses flicked their tails to fend off parasites the way the gang did the law.
Arthur stood in the shade of the eaves, swatting at a fly with one hand and studying a cigarette card in the other. Gazing back was a dancer with a pale, heart-shaped face, painted lips, and eyes of a bottomless brown that seemed almostâŚbored. Impassive. Or perhaps, if he squinted, a little bit sad.
âElsie RoseâŚâ He muttered, reading the name in small print above her head. Delicately posed, she wore a bodice as white as her skin, rendering her more ghost than girl.
Arthur's brow creased. â...Are you boys sure about this?âÂ
âI donât see you cominâ up with any big ideas, Morgan.â Bill was quick to accuse, hovering nearby like a gnat. His faded blue flannel was half-open and stained with sweat, and Arthur could smell the consequence of the heat from here.
He scowled over his shoulder. âForgive me if I ainât sold on your half-baked pipe dream that the fix to all our troubles is tucked up inside some â dancinâ girlâs tutu.âÂ
âIt ainât a pipe dream and it ainât half-nothinâ!â Bill snarled â but one cool look from the other man stalled him in his tracks. âN-now itâs like I was sayin', the informationâs good! Dutch even thinks weââÂ
His protest stopped short. Slithering from around the gallery's other side was Micah, smirking beneath the brim of his milky white Big Valley hat â looking more at home than ever here among the reptiles.Â
âMister Morgan: the Doubtinâ Man himself, right on cue.â Micah grinned like a cat who got the curdled cream as he leaned against a weathered pillar. "Told you he'd kick up a fuss over nothin', Williamson."
âMicah.â Arthur said flatly, turning back in time to watch Bill thwack himself in the chest.
"Goddamn mosquitoesâŚ" He grumbled, wiping his palm off on his jeans.
Arthur loosed a long-suffering sigh. âLook â all Iâm sayinâ is, a fancy-lookinâ picture donât mean nothinâ. I mean," he chuckled humorlessly, waving the card around between his thumb and forefinger. "Hell, if this broad's like all the other sorry suckers that get put on these things, the paper's probably worth more'n she is!"
Bill looked at him incredulously. âAin't you been listenin' to a word I said?!"
"Try not to, if I can help it."
"Oh, very funny." Leaning in at the waist, he spoke loud and slow as though he thought Arthur were the latter. "Are you goin' deaf there, Morgan? Or is that just all the swamp water y'got cloggin' up your ears?"
Arthur reclined on his heel, eyes narrowing coldly. âS'pose that's the perils of bathing for them of us that bother, Bill.â He quipped. âNow, back the hell up â 'fore I start stinkinâ by association.â
Billâs bearded face twisted with fury, but back up he did. âIt's like I told you before â Iâve been lookinâ into this and the womanâs a goddamn cash cow!â
Prima ballerina Elsie Rose and her company of dancers were on a multi-city tour of the states, performing selections of Sleeping Beauty to sold out crowds in an effort to drum up interest and prestige in the art form â whatever the hell any of that meant. It was the gist of what Arthur managed to skim from the section of the Saint Denis Times Bill shoved under his nose not half an hour before. Arthur had barely finished his morning cigarette and cup of hot tar and there was Bill, yammering away about "box office sales" and "piles of cash" and what a "surefire score" this would be.Â
Arthur didnât like the sound of it one bit.Â
âI know whatâchu said.â Arthur waved him off dismissively, frowning down at the picture as if it were an odd piece to an unfit puzzle. âSomethinâ about it justâŚdonât sit right.â
âYou always did have a soft spot when it came to the women-folk, Mister Morgan.â Micah needled, lazily gripping his gun belt. âJust none of the luck.â
Arthur scoffed, refusing to dignify the bait despite how the back of his neck prickled with irritation.
He flipped over the card, finding nothing of note about their mark â just a list of other artists, writers, and poets belonging to the set. None of their names rang a bell save for Evelyn Miller's, whose philosophies about "the destruction of American society" and "man's enslavement of himself to his dominion over nature" were ones Dutch was rhapsodic to parrot. To Arthur, well â all that bunk more or less went over his head.
âSure, I reckon youâd know all about that." He drawled, tucking the card away in his satchel. "Regular lady-killer like yourself.â
Micah bared his yellowed teeth. âA man donât need luck when heâs got force, cowpoke.âÂ
The doors to the house swung open with an almighty groan. Dutch emerged from the molding depths of the foyer, an unlit cigar in his jeweled hand. He was adorned in his usual everyday opulence, gold chains swinging purposefully against his vest. He had that dark glint in his eye â the one hellbent on outrunning their next failure.Â
And hell, they'd had plenty as of late.
Arthur still saw the earth through Seanâs skull, heard the buzz of flies, eager to make maggots of the kid before he had half a chance to turn cold. He shook his head as if to clear it.
âYou boys ought'a be ashamed âif you put half the energy you spent fighting one another as you did our real enemies, why, I reckon weâd have none.â Scolded Dutch, leveling looks of fatherly disapproval at the lot of them.Â
"You're right, boss." Micah turned watery blue eyes on Arthur's as he brought his hat to his heart. âIâm sorry, cowpoke â I donât mean to criticize; thatâs just my prickly way of tryinâ to help a brother in arms when heâs startin' to act soft.â
Bill snickered. Arthur grit his teeth. Dutch ignored this, steering Arthur aside for a private word.
âSon â I need you to trust me on this." He said quietly. "Now, I know you havenât been keen on my ideas latelyâŚâ he went on, pointedly enough to leave guilt-shaped puncture wounds in Arthurâs doubt. âBut something like this is exactly what we need to help lift ourselves up and out of the filth. If you're gonna turn on me, now is not the time!"
Arthur's expression faltered as if stricken. "C'mon, Dutch, it ain't like that â you know I always got your back." Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bill in the midst of using the corner of a pillar to scratch an unreachable itch between his shoulder blades â like something Arthur had seen a bear do once with a tree up in the Grizzlies. "âŚIt's Williamson's I'd rather avoid."
Dutch addressed the others. "All of you need to straighten up and listen to what it is I'm tryin' to tell you, for Christ's sake!" He plowed on, "Now, Iâve got us a plan â but we have to act quick and we have to act right. Otherwise, we can kiss this opportunity goodbye. Arthur," He looked over, expectant. "Are you with us or not?"
Arthur shifted, swallowing his exasperation. âI â fine. What is the damn plan, anyhow?âÂ
âItâs genius, is what it is.â He grinned conspiratorially. âNow, Trelawny's done most of the leg work already. But according to him, tonight this little dance troupe will be puttin' Sleeping Beauty to bed; tomorrow theyâll be on a train headed north, bound for Chicago; and you and I, sonâŚâ Dutch chuckled darkly, giving Arthur's shoulder a bracing squeeze. âWe are gonna be on that train.âÂ
âWeâre what?â Arthur hissed. His eyes darted out to camp, to the women toiling in the heat, hanging soggy clothes up to dry â to little Jack making pictures in the mud with a stick while Abigail lingered vigilantly nearby, her son never far out of sight.
He lowered his voice. "We just left a heap of bodies back in Rhodes, burned them plantations to the ground, got the law on us â and now you wanna rob another train?"
"Please, Arthur, will you at least pretend to have a modicum of faith in me?" Dutch glared. "You and I are not robbing a train, we're robbing a woman who's gonna be on a train â there is a difference!"
Bill appeared over Dutchâs shoulder. âHey, what about me?â
Dutch barely glanced his way. âYou and Micah are gonna meet us in Annesburg.â
âAnnesburg?â Bill sputtered, gaping between them. âWhat the hell are we gonna be doinâ there?âÂ
âWaiting for us.â Dutch told him with the withering patience. âDon't you see? That's the beauty of it!
This time, we don't need to go in there guns blazing with a whole, nasty crew of us makin' this into some â big production. No, we get in and get out, nice and inconspicuous, and the poor bastards won't hardly know what hit 'em til they're halfway to Illinois."
Bill blinked. "WellâŚhow're we gonna to do that?"
"Arthur and I," Dutch said slowly, "will board tomorrow's train as but humble passengers. Then, on my signal, weâll slip into Miss Elsie Roseâs private car, quietly handle any obstacles we may encounter ââ
âAnd what?â Arthur interjected. âJust â put a gun to her head and ask pretty for everything sheâs got?âÂ
Dutch smiled a crocodileâs smile. âExactly.â
They listened raptly as Dutch explained the rest; if timed right, they could help themselves to the ballerina's fortune, threaten her within an inch of her life, and quietly disembark once the train rolled into the station at Annesburg. There, Bill and Micah would be waiting with horses in tow, ready to help them make their getaway should all go according to plan â and ready to shoot should it not.
"That soundsâŚ" Arthur mused, rubbing his stubbly jaw in thought. "...Just crazy enough to work."
Bill turned purple.
"You're the boss, Boss." Micah chimed in as he sidled up to Dutch's flank. "Whatever needs doin' will get done, you have my word."
"Now that is what I like to hear!" Dutch praised. "Micah, you take Bill and go make sure we got what we need. Arthur â you head on into Saint Denis. See if you can't get into that theater she's holed up in and have yourself a look around, get a picture of who and what it is we're dealin' with â and bring Trelawny with you." He added, gesturing off towards the shaded gazebo, where the well-dressed magician lounged with a pipe in hand, looking comically out of place amidst the squalor. "I'm sure his skills are precisely suited to the occasion. Now let's get out there and make us some money!"
Dismissed, the other two men peeled off to prepare, with Bill silently apoplectic at the injustice of it all. Arthur nodded dutifully and stepped out into the unrepentant daylight.
âAnd son?â
He heeled, squinting from beneath the brim of his hat to see Dutch still in the shade, striking a match and lighting the end of his cigar like a fuse.
âWear something decent, for once.âÂ
Arthur and Trelawny kept a brisk pace, riding side by side as they followed the bayou's well-trodden path towards the city. The journey was short but no less oppressive; Lemoyne had its own scenic charms at times, Arthur supposed, though it was difficult to appreciate them knowing the predators â man, reptile or otherwise â that lurked in the water, in the grass, in the trees.
And damn the humidity of it all, too. As they trotted along, Arthur slipped the reins over the saddle horn to open the first few buttons of his stand-collar shirt. The cloth was already dampened with sweat, his menial efforts to appear "decent" at Dutch's behest, diminished.
âI wonât pretend to know the first thing about itâŚ" He said after a while. "But I thought dancinâ girls barely had pots to piss in, let alone train cars full of cash.â
âOrdinarily they don't." Trelawny agreed. "Although, our Elsie Rose may very well be the exception â now that she's found herself engaged to one of Howard Hall's sons, of course. I presume that's her financier.â He clicked his tongue regrettably. "Should you ever consider a career change, Arthur, I would caution you against show business. It's rarely so lucrative."
"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur grunted. "So, this money she's gotâŚyou're sayin' it ain't even hers? Just some rich bastard's she's gettin' hitched to?"
âNot just any 'rich bastard', my dear boy. A Mister Percy Hall. I believe he's the middle of seven sons, should my research serveâŚand it always does.â Trelawny straightened with self-importance as he steered his mare, Gwydion, around a particularly filthy-looking mud puddle. â...You are familiar with the Hall family, I trust?â
âRemind me.â
Trelawny lifted a sleek brow. âHoward H. Hall? Railroad magnate? Architect of the Pacific Union Railroad, connecting the Western and Gulf coast ports â ?â
âOh, great.â Arthur growled through his teeth. âWerenât enough that we pissed off Cornwall and his oil cronies, letâs add them railroad sons of bitches to the list, too. Bet they love beinâ robbed.â
âYou boys are nothing if not well-diversified in your entrepreneurial efforts, I must say.âÂ
Arthur snorted bitterly.Â
Trelawny regarded him with interest. âIâm surprised by you, Arthur. A few years ago, Iâd have pictured you chomping at the proverbial bit at the chance to relieve a wealthy man of his excess."
âYeah, well â a few years ago we werenât in the kinda trouble weâre in now.â Arthur shot back. â...Or if we were, it ainât like how I remember it.âÂ
âAh, I see.âÂ
They rode in silence for a few paces before Arthur spoke again.
âItâs justâŚwell, we lost a lot of folks. Jenny, Mac, DaveyâŚ" He swallowed with difficulty. "Now Sean, too â I donât wanna see anymore of us put in the ground soonerân we have to be there. Thatâs all Iâm sayin.ââ
Silence. Arthur sighed, steeling himself. âBut I reckon there ainât much else for us to do other'nâŚkeep movin' forward, come hell or high water."
Trelawny pursed his lips pityingly. âSpoken like a true son of Dutch, my dear boy.â
"You look happy, bein' back in the city." Arthur unhappily observed.
Hestia Street was considered a posh part of Saint Denis, with affluence on full display everywhere from its high-end boutiques to the manicured residences lining the cobbled avenue. But as far as Arthur's nostrils were concerned, the smog and shit here didn't smell any better than it did in the slums.
Trelawny chuckled, using his reflection in a shop window to adjust his bowtie. "Naturally, dear boy. I fear another day spent mired in that deplorable swamp would have propelled me to madnessâŚ"
"Yeah, well." Arthur grunted, crushing a cigarette beneath the toe of his wingtip gaiter. "I reckon the swamp's still prettier."
The ThÊâtre Râleur commanded close to an entire block. Drawn like moths to flame, the marquee lights beckoned theatergoers in droves. Arthur watched a number of them arrive by carriage, laughing gaily, privileged with the kind of cluelessness only money could buy.
Inside, the lobby was a cavernous, circular room dipped in gold and red velvet. Heels clicked on the ornate tiling as people milled about with drinks in hand, dressed in all their finery. The center of the floor was embossed with the theater's garish insignia, rivaled in ostentatiousness only by the massive crystal chandelier hanging high overhead.
Arthur let out a low whistle. "Well, shit. Never mind the lady â why ain't we robbin' this place?"
Trelawny tsked in warning. "Subtlety, my dear boy, subtletyâŚ"
Straight ahead were the richly carpeted stairs leading further inside. To the right was the box office where a line of patrons waited to speak with the ticket clerk. On either side were two hallways, each flanked with velvet curtains, lined with wallpaper of a dark, intricate damask. Arthur curiously peeked down one such hallway, eyes trailing over the large, gold-framed portraits on the walls, all emblazoned with names of fancy-looking people Arthur didn't hope to recognize.
Tickets in hand, the two ascended the stairs.
If Arthur thought the lobby was fancy, the theater itself was overkill.
"Jesus." He hissed, craning his neck to take in the masterfully painted cherubic scenes on the ceiling; the hand-carved moldings; the second-story balcony seats cradled in gold. His lip curled in disgust. "What a goddamn waste."
"You have a certain lethal grace about you, Arthur." Trelawny remarked amusedly as they settled in a pair of aisle seats near the back of the house. "Have you ever considered dance as a hobby?"
That earned a rare laugh. "Me? No. Reckon I ain't ever looked right in the leotard. Besides," Arthur went on, "you seen how this gang's got me runnin' all over creation â I ain't got time for hobbies."
"Surely, you take pleasure in more than drink, smoke, and violence, my dear boy?"
Arthur smirked. "What's more pleasurable than that?"
Alright Iâm here, Iâm ready, Iâm finally getting caught up with pas de deux!!! and thereâs no time for me to fuck around Iâm diving in right this second
okay okay the first two paragraphs blew me away, the descriptions of the swamp are just so viscerally accurate
âthe wetland clung to its phantoms the way sweat did to skin. It was only morning, yet the air was hot and thick as a boar's breath.â <- This section right here stood out to me the most Iâm already so immersed
âeyes of a bottomless brown that seemed almostâŚbored. Impassive. Or perhaps, if he squinted, a little bit sad.â <- the tone of this also stood out, a really intriguing description of her that has me curious to learn more just as much as Iâm sure Arthur is
coyote you absolute genius oh my godddddd theyâre so perfectly characterized down to every last action they take, Micah âslitheringâ out THE MOST PERFECT MOST MENACING WORD YOU COULDVE USED
the petty back and forth between bill and Arthur lmaoooo
I audibly went âewâ at Micah calling them âwomen-folkâ someoneâs gotta kill this guy
âHe had that dark glint in his eye â the one hellbent on outrunning their next failure.â <- This might be my favorite description of Dutch ever??? âhellbent on outrunning their next failureâ shit thatâs such a good line, it sums so many things up with just a few words
THE COMPARISON OF BILL TO A BEAR HAS ME CACKLING
ââWe are gonna be on that train.ââ and thereâs always a goddamn trainâŚ.
âHis eyes darted out to camp, to the women toiling in the heat, hanging soggy clothes up to dry â to little Jack making pictures in the mud with a stick while Abigail lingered vigilantly nearby, her son never far out of sight.â <- I really like how this acts as almost a start to the chapter six interaction between Arthur and Dutch where Arthur insists they donât go rob that train, it makes his thought process clear from even this point in the story
Every single line from Micah has me going ew, you captured him so wellđđđ
TRELAWNY MY MANNNNNNN he already has me giggling It feels like you literally just ripped him from the game, slapped him into your doc and told him to start talking. heâs perfect
âHestia Street was considered a posh part of Saint Denis, with affluence on full display everywhere from its high-end boutiques to the manicured residences lining the cobbled avenue.â <- I swoon every time someone mentions a very particular section of the game and with Saint Denis being my favorite the mention of a specific street, one Iâve studied for my own purposes, makes me so giddy
âThe ThÊâtre Râleur commanded close to an entire block. Drawn like moths to flame, the marquee lights beckoned theatergoers in droves. Arthur watched a number of them arrive by carriage, laughing gaily, privileged with the kind of cluelessness only money could buy. Inside, the lobby was a cavernous, circular room dipped in gold and red velvet. Heels clicked on the ornate tiling as people milled about with drinks in hand, dressed in all their finery. The center of the floor was embossed with the theater's garish insignia, rivaled in ostentatiousness only by the massive crystal chandelier hanging high overhead.â <- this description too!!! divine. spectacular. no notes.
okay I had to collect my thoughts but firstly I just want to say you truly have crafted something beautiful with this story. I could feel your love for the game, for Arthur, for Elsie, for writing as a whole, oozing from every line. You understand parts of this game in a way that will always impress me. And you have such a talent for characterization, scene setting, world building, all the storytelling fixings. You are a masterful writer whom I truly look up to and gain so much inspiration from, wonderful coyote! Iâm so sooo excited to learn more and to see where everything goes, especially the supposed train robberyđ or should I say the robbery thatâs going to take place on a train, either way im sure something will go awry given their luck up to this point lmao I cannot wait to read further, and to read anything else you have cooking!!!!đââď¸đ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, oral sex, mutual masturbation, scissoring, reader is kind of whipped, sadie is a little mean and condescending, infidelity (reader is married to a man), angst, soft (ish) dom sadie, mild degradation, humping (the non dry variety), angst, canon typical misogyny, reader is a little inexperienced, praise kink, reader has hair that can be put up
photo credits: here, here, here,
A/N: Just clearing my drafts, and I found this WIP. I wasn't happy with it initially but I reworked bits. Title taken from a poem by Louise Gluck. I hope you enjoy and consider letting me know what you think.
Sadie Adler, feared bounty hunter and killer, hangs from your balcony railing by one hand.
"Sadie! Take my hand." You lean over the railing, wrapped in the flimsy silk nighty. She takes it and hauls herself over the railing, her long legs flashing.
It has been a month since you have seen her, and the desire long unsatisfied flares at the sight of her. The rifle around her shoulder gleams in the streetlight, and her face is made severe under the brim of her hat.
"Christ." She hisses as she smooths her rumpled coat. A few strands from her plait have come loose, and they hang around her face. "Does it gotta be so high?"
"Shh. Someone will hear you. Delilah has ears like a bat."
"Where's your husband?" She says, raising her brows.
"Away. Business in Rhodes," you say quietly. "He won't be back for weeks. Delilah's staying downstairs till he's back."
Delilah is the aged housekeeper your husband has employed to keep things running smoothly and to keep an eye on you. Sadie stands in the low light of your bedroom; the open window behind her frames her in the glow of the streetlight. She removes her hat, and her face is revealed to you. The smooth, freckled curve of her cheek and the upturned nose. You move to help her out of her coat, and she waves you away, pressing her mouth to yours instead. She sighs into your mouth as you fist the lapels of her coat; you pull it off her shoulders as she removes her rifle, stowing it against the windowsill. The nightgown you wear is thin, and the draught from the window makes them harden. Wasting no time, she slips a rough palm into the neckline and cups the full breast.
"Mmph. They're sore. Getting my blood soon."
Caressing the swell, she kisses you again, pulling the forked pin from your hair so it spills over your neck and shoulders. Carefully, she pushes it back and kisses your neck, making you arch up into her.
Sadie scoops your breast out of your gown. Her fingers are rough, and you groan as she bends her head to suck the nipple into her mouth. It's wet and hot. Her teeth graze along the peaking bud, and you pull at her braid.
"Gentle." You say, and she softens her pink mouth. She releases it from the nipple and blows cool air onto the wet tip. You shiver.
"Sorry." She says a little sheepishly. "Missed this."
Missed this. Not missed you.
"Sadie." You say softly. "I'm already so wet for you." You take her hand, hitching up your nightgown with the other, and pull her to cup your cunt. A low whistle hums in her throat. She rubs her fingers into the heat of it, smearing fluid along the seam. Gripping her wrist, you urge her to speed up her fingers.
"You're a sweet thing." She says, mockingly, resisting a little. "I ain't even been gone a month."
"He doesn'tâhe doesn't even touch me." You say, leaning forward, into her mouth. "He doesn't make me come."
"Aw. Poor thing." A smug grin curves at her mouth, and she licks her lips like a predator.
"I thought about you the whole month." You implore, "Touched myself butâ"
"But what?"
"I needed you."
Sadie presses the heel of her palm against your heat slowly, and two of her fingers tease the entrance.
"Please." You are whining now, humping at her fingers pathetically. She withdraws her hand, and your knees tremble.
"Tch." The noise is soft. "How 'bout you show me first?"
"Show you?" You press your face to her throat, your breasts smushed up against her, and she smells like sweat.
"Show me what you do when I'm ain't around to make you come."
Sadie steps back from you and pulls up the armchair you had tucked next to the window to read on. She angles her head at your bed. Still made. Sitting in the chair, she unbuttons her vest and sheds her weapons and leather gear. They lie in a heap at her feet. You sit on the edge of the bed, one of your breasts hanging out of the gown.
"Touch yourself." She says, her voice cool. You wonder if she uses this voice when she chases down her bounties. "And then, maybe I'll let you eat my pussy."
"Sadie. Don't play games; it's been so long."
"I know it has." She says, her voice brimming with smug laughter. "That's why I wanna enjoy it."
You exhale. Try to relax. Drawing a hand up, you cup your breast, and you massage the sore globe. Scooping the other breast out of the gown, you rub them in tandem, playing with the tips. Your cycle must be close; it's so sensitive that you mewl softly.
She leans back in the chair, her eyes heavy-lidded. Slowly, you lift your night gown up your legs. You spread your thighs apart. Your cunt is already soaking, leaking shiny slick. Her eyes go dark.
"Every night. "You begin. "Every night, I would think of youâtouching me."
Taking two fingers, you circle the swollen bud in the cleft of your cunt. It pulses painfully. Â You ease the whole finger in now and cry out.
"Is that so?" She cocks her head. You slip the tip of your finger inside yourself, and your thighs clench. You add a second finger, rubbing that spot inside of you desperately. Only she can reach it, though.
"I think about youâputting your fingers inside me." You gasp, "And rubbing my little cunt." Â In the low lamplight, you see her hand slip inside her collar to cup her own breast. You open your knees, spreading them apart so she can see the way your cunt clenches. She pulls at the fastenings of her breeches and untucks her shirt. She hisses, and her hand disappears into her breeches.
âDirty word for a spoiled little wife." She rasps, but you can hear her own desire seeping into her voice, her head lolls in the armchair, and her hips buck into her hand. "Put another one in."
"It won't fit." A pathetic moan slips past your lips.
"It will." She says firmly. "Spit on your hand."
You obey her.
"Go slow." She grunts a little as her wrist works faster to rub herself inside her breeches. A dark spot is beginning to show on them. "Be gentle with her."
Slowly, you slick the entrance with your spit and then ease the third finger in. The pressure building in your belly pulls.
"Oh. Sadie." You bite your lip. "It's sensitive. You do it; you're better at it."
"Quit beggin' and spread 'em wider."
"Sadie. Sadie, I think I'm going toâ"
"Not yet." She grits out. "I waited too long."
"Please. Please, I'll do anything." You whine. Clenching, you bury your fingers deeper inside yourself.
"Take 'em out." She says firmly. You do. "Now, suck them."
Tasting your own salty slick, you suck at your fingers. She beckons you forward with a finger. Slipping off the bed, you practically crawl over to her, still dressed in your flimsy gown. Her breeches are still on, but her shirt is rucked up and a sliver of tanned skin peeks through.
Lifting her slim hips, she kicks off her breeches. You are already kneeling at her feet. Her cunt is furred with soft, brown hair. Your mouth waters. Nuzzling at her, you breathe in the musk of a long day's work. Her fingers come into your hair, caressing it. She lifts your chin, her thumb slipping into your mouth; you nip at it.
"Look at you." She grins, her shirt is mostly undone, and the curves of her breasts are just visible. "What would all those decent folk say? Pretty society lady like you, lookin' like a little whore."
"Please let me." You beg, nuzzling at the soft thatch between her legs.
"Let you what?" She mocks, cocking her head.
"Let me kiss your pussy," you whisper.
"Pussy?" Nah. Use the word you were usin' before."
You flush.
"C'mon." She strokes your hair back, tucking it behind your ears. "You was all bold a few minutes ago."
"Cunt." You whisper. "Let me kiss your cunt."
"Sure, angel. Since you're so pretty."
You poke your tongue out and use your hand to part her in the centre. Aha. You think, there it is, she wants you just as much as you want her. Her cunt is puffy, swollen, red, and shiny with slick. You lick the pulsing bud in the middle, and her fingers tighten in your hair. Taking it in your mouth, you suck it hard, the way you know she likes. Her hips buck, and she presses your face down. The musky, salty scent of her fills your nostrils and your mouth. You lick harder, just to feel her fist in your hair and grind her cunt into your mouth.
"Fuck." She groans, "That's good. You're gettin' good at this."
Fluttering your lashes at her, you pause and look up.
"Am I, Sadie?"
"Yeah, baby. You are." You lick another stripe down her centre again. "Got a real sweet mouth."
Your pussy is pulsing with need at the feeling of her cunt against your face and the salty taste of her arousal. Reaching down, you squeeze your breasts togetherâfor her benefit. She groans at the sight, her hand coming up to tweak her own nipple. She cries out and throws her head back at the friction, and you feel her cunt clench around your tongue; you lick more furiously. Sadie comes on your mouth with a rough exhale and presses your face into her slick folds; you lick all her wet up eagerly.
"Sadie?" You mumble, muffled in her soft, wet cunt.
"Yeah, honey?"
"Can I touch yourâcan I touch these too?" You lift your head and lick your lips, angling your head towards her breasts.
"My tits?" She says, and undoes the last button on her shirt. It falls open, revealing round, high breasts; the nipples are dark pink and so hard. Sweat glistens between them. "Ask properly."
"Can I touch your tits?" you beg, salivating a little at the sight of those freckled mounds.
"'Course you can. Come here."
Leaning up, you lick at the soft golden seam of hair below her belly button. It tastes of her pussy; she must have smeared all her wet up her belly. Then you kiss the tensed muscles of her abdomen, tanned from all those weeks bathing in the creek. Then, finally, you crawl up her, settling in her lap on those muscular thighs. You take one hard nipple in your mouth and suck hard. She arches into your mouth a little, stroking your hair. Your cunt finds friction against her thigh, and you hump against it, mouth attached to her nipple. You bend your head to her other breast, sucking as much into your mouth as will go. The fat of her breasts is making your cheek bulge.
"Little housewife like you. Who knew you was so needy? She muses.
Burying your face between her breasts and licking at the sweat on her sternum, you grind your aching pussy against her leg. She bounces it erratically, speeding up as you get closer and slowing down as you start to beg her. She stills completely, then.
"Sadieâplease let me come." Mindlessly, you rub yourself harder, burying your face in her neck. "I've been so good."
She stills you, her hands clamping down on your jerking hips, and then tips your head up to look at her. Swiping the spit and salty arousal off your lips, she considers your request. For a moment, you think she might deny you. She likes to do that. Deny you and leave you aching in your bed, your fingers in your sore pussy trying desperately to come without her.
"Yeah. You been good," she says slowly, licking her lips. "Lie down on the bed."
You do, stripping off your sweat-soaked nightgown.
Sadie stands above you, spreads your legs to peer at your cunt. Her braid has come mostly loose, strands of hair framing her face. She's naked, and a scar runs down her side; you reach to touch it, and she catches your hand before you can. Her shoulders are square as she braces a knee on the bed and slowly presses her cunt to yours.
"AhâSadie." The feeling of her pussy, pressed against yours, sliding against you, is so electrifying. Your leg kicks out, and she steadies it with her strong hand, her nails digging into your thigh. "More."
"You're greedy." She says, the muscles in her stomach rippling as she pinches your swollen nub of your clit. "So desperate, look at all that mess."
"I missed you so much." You wail, covering your hot face with a hand. One of your tits swings as you turn your head to the cool fabric of the duvet. She slaps it lightly; it stings. "Didn't knowâahâwhen you'd come back."
"Got you a gift too." She says casually, as if her cunt isn't grinding against yours.
"A present?" Your voice is breathy with pleasure.
"Yeah." She says smugly, pushing your thigh back a little. "A chain. It's going to look so pretty between these." Sadie reaches up to squeeze a reddened, swollen breast in her hand, soothing the sting from earlier.
You come hard, her name on your lips and your cunt releasing a humiliating little spurt of liquid. She dips her fingers into it and licks them clean.
Afterwards, you lie cocooned in your massive, plush bed. Sadie props herself against your fat, stuffed throw pillows, cigarette dangling between her lips. You lie cradled against her breast; she absently strokes your back with her deft fingers. Kissing the smattering of freckles at the swell, you rest your chin on it, looking up at her.
Suspending the cigarette in two fingers, she holds it to your mouth for a second, only letting you take in a little drag. She laughs when you splutter, her eyes creased at the edges. The turquoise silk of your duvet contrasts with her skin, still glowing with sweat.
"Sadie," you say, a little wheedling. "Where's my present?"
She puts out the cigarette on your ash tray on the nightstand and leans over it to fumble in her satchel. She finds it and closes it in her palm so you cannot see it.
"Turn around."
You sit up, turning away from her. She kisses the knobs of your spine as the cool weight of the necklace rests just between your breasts. It's a teardrop-shaped red stone, heavy against your sternum.
"Pretty." She says as you turn towards her. You bat your eyes at her a little; she adjusts it so it sits centered on your chest. Her callouses catch on the skin there. "It's a goodbye present."
"What?" Your heart sinks suddenly, a sharp pain going through it.
"I'm leavin' here." She yawns, stretching. "Won't be back for a while. Or at all."
"You're leaving me?" you say, voice dangerously tremulous.
"Not you specifically." She scoffs, "This place."
"Take me with you," you say suddenly. "I don't love him."
"I ain't be doin' that." She says, finally. "And I won't be hearin' more on it."
"But Sadie, Iâ"
"Shh." She says, and then to your surprise, cradles your face in her hands. "You're a sweet girl. But it ain't a life for you. Yeah?"
You nod silently, biting your lip so you do not sob.
"Smart girl." She says approvingly. "C'mere. Lie down, and I'll make you feel better."
hello lesbian here finally reporting for duty𫡠the premise and warnings have had me so giddy ever since you posted this, itâs right up my alley oooooo
also âhumping (the non dry variety)â made me cackle
oh I love me some sneaking in and sneaking around THIS FIC ALREADY MEANS THE WORLD TO ME
I want to point out something Iâve said before but Iâll say again,, Iâm obsessed with just how alive your fics feel. the added fact about the housekeeper being there and the little description about her just breathes so much life into this story and sets the scene perfectly!!!
âMissed this. Not missed you.â <- THIS WAS A BLOW TO THE HEART and also made me realize why I donât like that sort of line one bit, but I do like messy relationships especially between womenđ
ââTouch yourself." She says, her voice cool. You wonder if she uses this voice when she chases down her bounties. "And then, maybe I'll let you eat my pussy."â <- blink blink blinkâŚ.. this has me staring blankly at my screen IM FERAL the âmaybeâ is too good
Sadie being meannnnnnnnn im blushing tysm zoe for writing this and blessing me
ââLook at you." She grins, her shirt is mostly undone, and the curves of her breasts are just visible. "What would all those decent folk say? Pretty society lady like you, lookin' like a little whore."â <- iâll always be of the belief that these sort of lines are ten times better being said by women but I might be just a tiny bit biased ONLY A TINY BIT like yes ladies degrade me hahahahahahaha
âSuspending the cigarette in two fingers, she holds it to your mouth for a second, only letting you take in a little drag. She laughs when you splutter, her eyes creased at the edges.â
THE EXACT POSE I JUST HIT READING THAT HELPPPP
The ending WHAT donât do this to meâšď¸âšď¸âšď¸âšď¸ I felt readerâs desperation to leave so bad thatâs gonna make me sobbbbb like the way Sadie is not willing to talk about it further aahhhhhhhhhhhhghgggg i see why that line about her not missing reader was snuck in DAMN ITTTTT SADIEEEW DAMN IT TERRIBLE CIRCUMSTANCES but also I really liked how unattached Sadie was and how this is just a means of pleasure to her while it is like that for reader but she seems a little more attached, she finds solace in sadie and sometimes things like that have to enddddd fuck FUCK even in my silly fanfics I have to face that truth sighhhhh I love it donât worry Iâm the biggest angst fan ever lmao
OH AND you captured Sadieâs likeness so well, I really enjoy that while reader was still very subby she was also the one giving half the time instead of it being fully Sadieâs jobđââď¸ love that Sadie was receiving just as much!!
also off topic but I adore your new swan theme, itâs so cutesyyyy
After a successful bank robbery, you finally draw the attention of a man who you've had your eye out for a long time now.
Word count: 3.1k
Tags: pre-canon, age gap, mild sexual content, reader has fantasies about him, implied that reader smokes regularly, sharing a cigarette, blowing smoke into each other's mouths, alcohol consumption, first kiss
A/N: This was my first attempt at writing something Dutch centered and I really hope you guys will like it! I was heavily inspired by some of the camp interactions he has with Mary-Beth
Sliding off your saddle, you flex your trembling hands that have gotten marks from how tightly you gripped the reins during the ride back to camp. Pearls of sweat tickle the back of your neck and you rip down the bandana covering the lower half of your face. Taking in a deep breath and filling your lungs with fresh air, you try to sort out your thoughts and to calm your racing heart.
Chaos reigns inside your mind, a result from the adrenaline. It was your first time leading a bank robbery and you really thought you would have been able to keep a cool head. Obviously you did, otherwise it wouldnât have worked out in the end. The prospect of finding yourself behind bars had been a fantastic motivator.
But you have succeeded and all the stress is starting to fade away, clearing the path for excitment. A hand patting your shoulder rips you out of your thoughts and you glance behind you into Arthurâs face. His eyes are gleaming with something you canât quite decipher. Your head is still a little bit fuzzy from the action, but you are guessing that he must be pleased with the job as well.
âYou done good.â, he then speaks up and your gaze falls down to the leather bag strapped around his chest.
Several thousands of dollars are in there. Unfortunately, you didnât find any gold bars within the safes like your source claimed you would, but the cash will do just fine too.
âTold you I could pull it off.â, you respond, aiming for a light tone, but your voice is shaking a bit too much for that.
The outlaw letâs out a curt scoff, though the corners of his mouth are still pointing upwards. In one swift motion, he slides the bag off his body and holds it out to you. It falls against your chest and your hands instinctively reach for it, clutching it close. Feeling the weight in your palms elevates your mood only more.
âI reckon you should give it to Dutch. Heâll be happy.â
âYou think so?â, you ask as if you donât already know.
âSure. If thereâs anything he likes then itâs money.â, Arthur tells you before giving your shoulder another pat and sauntering over to his tent.
Right next to it stands Dutchâs, though the man is nowhere to be seen. You grip the bag so harshly that the whites of your knuckles are showing and you swallow the lump in your throat. Dutch Van Der Linde, the man you owe your life to and who might or might not be the sole reason you had even planned this robbery.
Itâs not that you were in his bad graces before, but his opinion of you has always been neutral. At least thatâs how it seems in your eyes. Holding onto the earnings for dear life, you march through camp and keep an eye out for the gang leader.
Then you spot him over by the cliff with his back to the camp and a cigar in one hand. You take a brief second to admire him from afar before approaching the lion. From the first time your eyes had landed on him, you knew he would mean trouble. There is just something about him that draws you in and youâre unable to put to finger on it.
Perhaps itâs the charismatic air surrounding him or how he always does his utmost to see everyone right. No matter what shit the gang finds itself in, you all can trust for Dutch to get you back on track again. Capable and competent Dutch. A warm jolt runs through your veins, burning the flesh beneath your skin- nay, scorching it.
What you wouldnât give to have his attention on you if only for a mere second, to bask in his dazzling smile, to taste his favor on your tongue like a sweet summer wine. For his heat to burn you, to seep into your very core until thereâs nothing left but ashes for him to palm. Oh, how you wish for him to just finally see and perceive you.
You want that deep and rumbling baritone of his voice to ring in your ears in a low whisper, for his hands to wander over your body and to feel that thick mustache nuzzled against that sweet, aching spot between your legs. Your core throbs at the mere thought.
Banning all inappropriate thoughts of the older man, you walk over to where he is standing and softly clear your throat. He notices you immediately, turning his head and gazing at you with mild curiosity.
âWhat can I do for you?â, he asks, his voice cutting right into you like an exquisite knife.
It takes all willpower to school your features. Standing under his piercing stare, the bank robbery suddenly doesnât seem so nerve wrecking anymore. Not trusting your own voice, you simply hold the bag out to him in silence. Understanding gleams in his eyes and he tucks the cigar between his teeth (you wish that could be you instead), before accepting the piece of leather.
Only a moment later, he opens it and glances inside, his eyebrows instantly shooting up. Disbelief is written all over his face, quickly replaced by pure joy.
âFrom the bank that Arthur and I robbed.â, you curtly explain, relieved to find your voice so firm.
âThat so? He did tell me you were planning on hittinâ it.â, he mumbles more to himself than you.
âWe didnât have the time to count, but it should be a few thousands in there.â
A long pause stretches on in which Dutch is fishing out a couple of stacks and running his thumb over them.
âGood, good.â, he murmurs and looks back at you again. The look in his eyes is knocking all air out of your body. âThatâs what Iâm talking about!â
You canât help the silly grin from taking form on your lips. His excitement sure is infecting you at a rapid pace and the pride oozing in his words isnât doing you any favors either. Praises from Dutch is a lot like being hit with the warm rays of the morning sun. It wraps you up in a layer of coziness, much like a thick and soft blanket.
The smile he shoots you is wide and sincere and for a brief moment, it feels like you are the center of the universe.
âIt was nothing. There were barely any guards.â, you helplessly chime in, feeling rather awkward under all the attention, but at the same time, you canât stop basking in his compliments.
Each word is like a medal being hung around your neck or like a crown being placed on top of your head.
âNonsense! Donât downplay your success, my dear!â, he exclaims with such vigor that it nearly brings tears to your eyes. âThis is big! We should celebrate this. YesâŚyes.â
Hearing the nickname has your head spin and you struggle to remain steady on your feet.
âI donât think thatâs necessary-â
âOh, how I love how humble you are, but no. This-â He holds up the bag. â-is a great deal. You have done a great deal for us.â
âDutch-â
The feel of his large, warm hand on your elbow immediately shuts you up.
âLet tonight be about you.â
Your throat dries up and you simply stand there, gawking at him like some deranged fool. There is something about his tone that has your ears perk up, almost like there is more to it.
Let tonight be about youâŚ
Have you imagined that strange shift behind his eyes when he said that? Has his praise gone that much to your head? As you watch him walk off and bark orders to get the drinks out and ready, you canât help but to stay rooted in place. Your heart is drumming against your ribcage and you fear that it will leap out of you any moment.
Taking in a deep breath, you gently swat at your own cheek in hopes to snap out of your delusions. His charm has done a number on you alright, but youâre a fool for believing that there is more to it.
---
All evening, you have been listening to your praises being sung and canât help but slightly shrink away from all the attention. Dutch has managed to put everyone in a festive mood with a proud speech and as much as you tried to deflect it all and redirect it at Arthur, who was a part of the robbery too after all, it was all for naught.
So, youâre sitting by the fire now and hoping that the burning sensation underneath your face will soon leave for good. Your ears are burning from how bashful the situation is making you and take regular sips from the bottle in your grasp to avoid talking. Zoning out of the many conversations happening around you, you stare into the fire.
The flames lick at the logs, blackening the bark and producing a cozy crackling as the wood pops. There are bodies all around you, cackling and sharing stories, some of them even singing. As you straighten your back, you wince at the uncomfortable pop of your spine. It runs down, the next one more hollow than the previous and you scramble back onto your feet.
Having sat in a slouched position on top of that log for such a long time has left your limbs stiff and aching. Figuring that it might be a fine idea to stretch your legs, you wander around the camp, drinking up the good mood. All this time walking and smiling and listening in on bits and bops of several different conversations, you donât notice the broad frame in front of you at first.
Much to your delight and horror, itâs Dutch. Youâve been hoping to run into him, yet at the same time you wish you hadnât. The back of your head has been prickling every now and then with the sensation of being watched which is both frightening and exhilarating. You feel it now too as you gaze into his eyes that seem to burn with the conviction of a thousand suns.
âHow are you enjoying yourself?â, he asks with a crystal clear voice, so unlike most of the gang members who have been slurring their words for some time now.
âJust fine. Thank you so much.â, you say and feel like itâs not nearly enough.
A steady arm is being wrapped around your waist and its warmth tells you that youâre right where youâre supposed to be. He leads you further away from the others and towards the edged of camp that is teetering between the flickering light of the campfire and complete darkness. Dutch melts into the shadows, though the red parts of his outfit protrude it.
This is your own little corner, a small private pocket for just the two of you to share. Suddenly, his arm leaves you together with the comfort it brought and you have to fight the urge to lean forward, to chase it back to him. Squinting your eyes against the darkness, you can make out the swift movements of his hands, but canât tell exactly what heâs doing or how on earth he can see anything all the way back here in the first place.
Then light penetrates your little pocket, flickering and dancing on the end of a match that he brings close to a cigarette tucked between his lips. When did he manage to take that one out without your notice? With one practiced flick of his wrist the match goes out again, only to land on the damp forest floor.
âI thought youâre more of a cigar kind of man.â, you remark as you watch the smoke float upwards.
âThatâs because I am, my dear.â, he answers after a quick inhale and then he holds the lit cigarette out to you. âBut I also know that youâre more of a cigarette kind of woman.â
Your heart leaps and flips and performs all sorts of acrobatics the very moment his words sink in. Although it is just a small gesture compared to the big picture - to choose another thing over his favorite for your sake, it feels like he plucked the stars right out of the sky for you. A cigarette has never looked this promising, so brimming with potential and you accept it without missing a beat.
Adrenaline pumps through your blood. Itâs not exactly the same as it was during the bank robbery earlier today. No, youâd describe it more as an itch for action instead of the fear of something going terribly wrong. Suddenly, you feel like you could rob a hundred more. Bringing the cigarette up to your mouth, you breathe in the tobacco and imagine to detect a subtle taste of Dutchâs lips.
âWhat a fine woman youâve grown into. When we first took you in, you didnât seem anything more than a girl and look at you now.â, he points out and you swallow the urge to remind him that you werenât even that young when you joined the gang. Aside from that, itâs also only been a year or two between then and now.
âYou think so?â, you ask, hoping to get more out of him with this.
âI know so.â His voice almost sounds like a purr. âIâm surprised that I havenât had to fight off any men with a stick yet.â
As the image pops into your mind, you canât help but chuckle at it. âWhy would you have to fight anyone off?â
âIsnât it obvious?â
The shift of his tone has you perk up your ears and you closely gauge his expression. A certain anticipation is swirling in his features mixed in with mild curiosity and the hint of a challenge. Panic rises behind your chest as you hasten to find a fitting response as if youâre going to lose everything with just one wrong word.
Of course this would happen, the vicious voice in the back of your mind whispers. After all, Dutch is the sun and like Icarus, youâve been flying too close to him even if only for a day.
âI donât think you have to whack anyone over the head with a stick.â, you answer after finally finding the courage and your voice.
Something gleams in his eyes. Youâve seen it before on the street cats in your hometown before landing a fatal blow on a mouse or a bird.
âThat so? Has no gentleman caught your eye?â, he asks and you chew on the soft filter of the cigarette to distract yourself.
You give the gang members a pointed look. âI hardly know any.â
The laugh leaving him at your dry comment is like music to your ears and you canât fight the lopsided grin spreading on your face.
âWith that you are right.â
His hand finds your back in a casual manner as if he has touched you many times before like this. Itâs the first. Sure, he has given you the occasional shoulder squeeze or pat, but nothing like this. Nothing that lingered so. Dutchâs palm is flat against your blouse and youâre silently sending its fabric to hell and back for standing in the way.
Though his heat still manages to leave its mark, hotter than sitting by a fire, hotter than standing directly in its flames. His thumb is moving in circular motions, too familiar to not mean anything. Then his fingers pinch the cigarette in your mouth, their tips not even half an inch away from your lips and you part them without command to allow him to slide it out with ease.
The way his eyes bore into you rewires your brain entirely. It slices straight into your soul, scarring it for eternity and the pain of it is so sweet that you donât ever want to feel anything else again. The end of the cigarette gleams as he breathes in the burned tobacco and he blows the smoke right at you. No, not at you, but into you.
You have no idea what prompts you to open your mouth to welcome the smoke leaving his. You saw the silent message flash in his eyes and simply did as youâre told. As he blows the cloud into you, he moves closer and you donât even notice it at first through the darkness and the foggy veil of the cigarette between you two.
Next thing you know his lips are on yours, his mustache brushing over your face and the lingering taste of the cigar he had before this setting your nerve endings ablaze. It catches you off-guard, certainly, but your body springs into action as if a long lost muscle memory is kicking in. Itâs only natural to return the kiss, to let him embrace you and to welcome his warm tongue.
Itâs fierce as befitting for a man of his caliber. His body looms over yours as if to consume you, both arms encaging you like iron and lips moving with a fervor meant to dizzy. You allow yourself to be fully and entirely devoured, clinging onto him for dear life, clutching him so close to your chest as if heâs a priced treasure.
And thus, you stand here in the darkness of the night, kissing a man many years your senior and feeling more mischievous and slyer than you ever have while stalking the shadows on a job.
âDutch-â, you start in a hushed voice. His name simply bubbled up inside your throat, the only right thing in that moment.
He shushes you with a soft âsh-sh-shâ like youâre some frightened, wild horse that heâs trying to calm and break. âI know.â
As he utters those words, you donât doubt them one bit. No, you fully believe that he knows. He knows what you were attempting to say with his name, he knows you, split open and free for him to read and observe. Then, much to your confusion and disappointment, he pulls away and it takes about all your willpower not to grab him by the collar of his shirt and yank him back into your orbit.
âEnjoy the party. Folk will notice if youâre gone for too long.â, he says and you school your features to avoid the frown threatening to take form on your face.
Going back to join the others at the fire is the last thing you want to find yourself doing and you open your mouth to protest and perhaps to even ask if youâve done something wrong to have him send you away all of a sudden. The words die on your tongue when he cups your cheek and runs his thumb over your bruised lips.
I WAS ALREADY EXCITED FOR THIS BUT THEN I READ THE TAGS AND IM LITERALLY LEAPING OUT OF MY SKIN HELL YESSSSSSS
also a little spoiler but um I mightâve written a fic for a character you mentioned a while agođ and it might incorporate some similar themesâŚâŚ. great minds think alikeâŚ..
anywayssssss
DONT CALL ME OUT LIKE THIS:
âWhat you wouldnât give to have his attention on you if only for a mere second, to bask in his dazzling smile, to taste his favor on your tongue like a sweet summer wine. For his heat to burn you, to seep into your very core until thereâs nothing left but ashes for him to palm. Oh, how you wish for him to just finally see and perceive you.â <- daddy issues and comphet are a killer combination that plague me and this honestly summarizes both really well. Dutch pleaseđperceiveđmeđitll make my stomach stop hurting, for just a moment pleasee
âhe tucks the cigar between his teeth (you wish that could be you instead)â LAUGHED OUT LOUD
âA steady arm is being wrapped around your waist and its warmth tells you that youâre right where youâre supposed to be.â NO NO GET HIM AWAYYYYYY
âAlthough it is just a small gesture compared to the big picture - to choose another thing over his favorite for your sake, it feels like he plucked the stars right out of the sky for you.â oh goddddd oh nooooooo
ââWhat a fine woman youâve grown into. When we first took you in, you didnât seem anything more than a girl and look at you now.ââ DuuuutchâŚ.. donât say that DUTCH nuh uh
âOf course this would happen, the vicious voice in the back of your mind whispers. After all, Dutch is the sun and like Icarus, youâve been flying too close to him even if only for a day.â okay no over the top reaction for this one I just really like it
WHAT IS HAPPENING WHAT IS HAPPENINGGGGGVVV THE SMOKE HIM JUST DOING IT SO CASUALLY IM NOT OKAY
âThen his fingers pinch the cigarette in your mouth, their tips not even half an inch away from your lips and you part them without command to allow him to slide it out with ease.â
âThe end of the cigarette gleams as he breathes in the burned tobacco and he blows the smoke right at you. No, not at you, but into you.â
âItâs fierce as befitting for a man of his caliber. His body looms over yours as if to consume you, both arms encaging you like iron and lips moving with a fervor meant to dizzy. â
âNo, you fully believe that he knows. He knows what you were attempting to say with his name, he knows you, split open and free for him to read and observe.â
my stomach literally dropped oooHMY GOODNESS IN A GOOD AND BAD WAY I need to cool off
I NEED TO PACE AROUND MY ROOM FOR A MINUTE OHMYYGGGGGG
okay okay im finished, my thoughts are collected and firstly I have to say that the way you characterized Dutch in this was genuinely PERFECT because while reading thereâs just this lingering sinister feeling when he does anything, like that little bastard always knows damn well what heâs doinghis stupid charms I hate him but also his allure is too strongđ
But my god the part THE PARTTTTT where he takes the cigarette out of her mouth I CANT STOP REREADING IT HELP ME
THE ENDING TOO it was too good hat itâs exactly what I was hoping for and moreeeee
Arthur and Ethel have found something in each other just before things went downhill in Blackwater. While Arthur is spiraling in violence he seeks comfort in her while she thinks to have found equal company in a world where she rarely gets to be that. But whatever is beginning to bloom there may well soon be overshadowed and become a race against time and mortality.
Chapter Summary: Arthur grappels with his past actions while getting closer and closer to Ethel. Lines are about to be crossed.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC Ethel Wright
Word Count: 9.3k
Warnings: this is 18+ MDNI! Mentions of violence (it's a Red Dead Fic duh), sexual activities (p in v, oral f receiving), lmk if I forgot something
A/N: I've been sitting on this for moths, I finished it in March I think but I was so hesitant to post it even though I'm so so proud of this. Blaze, it's really thanks to you that I'm posting it now. Thank you for always being so excited and encouraging about my writing! â¤ď¸â¤ď¸
Picture credits: X, X, X
Read parts I and II here <3: A Dangerous Line, Toeing the Line
Arthur had his journal propped on his knees again, skimming his entry from last week before turning over a couple of pages full of random little sketches to get to a blank one. One of them was filled with two quick drawings of Ethel, created almost instantly after the entry was written. Sheâd been ghosting about his mind all day that day. He hadnât wanted to admit it then, but things between them had shifted. A gradual one where they somehow moved from a back alley and the woods outside camps to hotel rooms ⌠and finally his cot, and he still didnât want to face the implications of that
Now, nothing has happened since then, nothing so intimate at least ⌠or perhaps even more intimate? Arthur didnât know any more. It had been a quiet week, well that is if you didnât count the oil wagon he had to steal so Johnâs planned train robbery might work out. But nevertheless, it had been the first somewhat calm week since they fled Blackwater and, as he feared, it was just the quiet before the storm. But in this time he and Ethel had further developed this emerging trend.
He skipped back a page, looking down on the sketches of this woman who seemed to have such a grip on him, not matter how much he tried to tell himself itâs all no strings attached. His finger gently traced the lines heâd compiled her likeness of, her round cheeks, the soft jawline, never mind that he was smudging the pencil with the caress of the image. He still didnât know what drew her to him â he barely understood why he couldnât let her go â seeing that he couldnât find anything desirable about himself.
Why did she seek him out when she saw him sat in a quiet corner in camp? He was sat there sketching or writing, she would come sit down and read.
He tended to his weapons, sheâd come tend to some horse tack and mend his broken bridle while she was at it. Of course he cleaned her guns, no questions asked then. It was quiet, little was talked during this moment but it was comfortable.
He kicked back after a long day with a plate full of food, she was there right next to him and he wordlessly handed her his spoon to share with her.
He let out a soft sigh as his thumb stroked down the length of the second sketch, the better one. He felt like heâd messed up the first one, couldnât get the shape of her face right, shoulder ratio off â so heâd tired again. Arthur didnât stand a chance at distance from Ethel even if he tired ⌠his resolve was too weak for it anyway, heâd meant what heâd written, of course he had. Heâd realised that.
He brushed his hair back from his face, it has grown longer and the way it fell into his face bugged him sometimes. In the motion he leaned his head back against the tree he was sat against, which of course gave him the perfect eyeline to watch Ethel. She had one arm crossed under her chest, the other holding a tin mug, probably her morning coffee, that she swung around ever so often, talking animatedly with Charles. The man was looking up at her from where he was sat with a smile. She made him laugh with something she said before she upturned the mug to pour out the last bit of coffee she never drank, didnât like it when it got cold, sheâd once told him. He thought it was a waste to which she had replied that it was a habit.
With the mug disposed of, she waved to Charles and walked towards Arthur. Her steps sure and steady with purpose. She stopped right in front of him, and Arthur had just the mind to close his journal, lest she saw his sketches of her, drawn like he was some lovesick school boy.
She gently nudged his boot with hers.
âCome to Valentine with me?â
It wasnât really a question.
âValentine? What dâya need?â
âCompany, mostly.â Thatâs not what he meant. He raised an eyebrow at her.
âJust- câmon Arthur.â Her hand extended towards him to help him off the ground. He eyed it for a moment, his gaze lingered on the missing tip of her ring finger, a story he was curious about but never asked. He relented and extended his own hand.
Who was he to say no. He grasped her hand, though made it off the ground mostly on his own. With a little squeeze, he let go again of her smaller hand.
As they make their way towards the horses Arthur picked up his saddle as they passed his tent. His shoulder didnât strain anymore at the movement. Alwyn was saddled up quickly and Arthur was surprised to see Wilma tacked up already.
Right, he remembered. She went out hunting with Charles. Sheâs been trying to pick up skills wherever she could. Smart girl she was.
Ethel fastened the bridle on the gelding and they were good to go.
As she approached her mare, Arthur was just a step behind her, his hands already hovering over the valley of her waist, right where they make space for the width of her hips. She grabbed a handful of her skirts to get her leg in the stirrup. This is when his hands made contact, callused skin on the stiff
fabric of the vest she wore today. His hands had itched to feel the full shape of her again and so he helped her up into the saddle of which she was more than capable on her own, he was well aware. He let go as she settled, his hands wanted to linger but he willed them away to get on his own horse and they finally set a leisurely pace out of camp. It was only a short way through the wooded area that tucked away their camp so neatly behind the thick of the bushes and trees looming above them.
âI think the plan is stupid.â Ethel turned around, her hand holding the reins sat relaxed on the saddle horn. Wilma marched straight on, faster than Alwyn. She was a stocky thing but boy she had a gait.
âPardon?â
A gentle nudge of his heels made the gelding speed up a little in his walk so the outlaws were on par.
âThe oil wagon,â she clarified as if Arthur surely must have known what she was referring to. âItâs really the best you scheming geniuses came up with?â
âMarstonâs idea,â he grunted. âGot anything better?â The way she brought it up, she probably did.
âThe plan is to block off the rails for the train to slow down, yeah?â She didnât wait for clarification from Arthur before she continued. He nodded anyway. âWhat if the train donât slow down? Thereâs gonna be an accident and an explosion probably thatâs gonna do a whole lotta damage, a whole mess and we wonât get no money to show for our troubles.â
âHold on-â he tried to interject. âWe? As in we as the gang or âweâ and you think youâre coming along to rob the train.â
She glared at him, the sharpness of her hazel eyes meeting his. âIâm getting to that.â
She shifted her seat a little.
âAs I was sayinâ, itâs a set up for disaster. The operator might see it too late and then the whole thing was for nothing.â
She seemed very sure of herself there, but he could see how the plan was ⌠faulty. He tiled his head, scratching the stubble covering his jaw. âWhat do ya suggest then?â His curiosity was peaked.
âExplosives along the track!â She exclaimed, her free hand gesturing to mimic an explosion, the tips of her fingers pressed to each other before opening up in motion.
âYou always wanna blow stuff up, huh?â She had an affinity for it, having worked in a factory when she came to the U.S. and her knowledge and skill was definitely an asset.
She huffed out a little laugh. âThink about it, theyâre loud and if I mix in some salts theyâre colourful, too, hence visible from further away and sure to cause ruckus enough to stop the train on time.â There was an expectant glint in her eyes. âTo clarify, I donât wanna blow up the tracks or the train, just cause a bit of noise along the way.â
He nodded, rolling the thoughts over in his head for a moment.
âItâs genius.â Ah she was so humble. She threw up her hand again with her self-affirming words, the sudden gesture spooked Wilma who darted forward. But it was just a blink of an eye moment before Ethel had it under control again, murmuring apologies and calming words to her girl, patting her neck.
Arthur nudged Alwyn into a lazy trot, seeing as the mare was alright again, to catch up with them.
âYou alright?â His tone was soft, soothing. Ethel nodded. âGot a little too enthusiastic.â She sounded a little sheepish. âWeâre alright, sorry again girl.â She gave her a last pat and then looked back to Arthur.
âSo what do ya say? Think my plan is smarter than Johnâs?â
âItâs worth⌠considerinâ it.â Any plan was likely going to be smarter than Johnâs.
âGreat,â there was glee in her eyes. âI was gonna restock supplies for dynamite in Valentine, thought I pitch my idea to you if you came along.â
His eyes were on her, there was a subtle flush of excitement spread across her cheeks.
âYouâre still not coming along to the robbery,â he said then, voice grown gruff, trying to put a note of finality into his words.
There it was again, the pestering in the back of his head that made him see red, nothing but blood red. A shadow fell over his face at the thought. Train robberies could work out with relatively little violence, but they could also end up bad.
She noticed how he was frowning at her from under the rim of his hat.
She raised an eyebrow. She knew better than to challenge him but sometimes she couldnât help herself.
âWeâll see about that, big guy.â
With that she spurred on Wilma to give Arthur a race into Valentine. Her hooves kicked up the dry dirt of the dusty road that flung towards him. âHey, wait. What â Ethel!â He was a little dumbfounded and barely reacted to nudge Alwyn into a canter before the horse bounded onwards, not to be left behind by his companion.
Wilma was nimble and with her head start Ethel made it to the train tracks before Arthur, surroundings a blur and the wind in her eyes. She reined her horse back, putting her weight back into the saddle.
âAlright, woah girl.â
She turned her around to see Arthur ride up to her. Heâs already slowed down. It was hard to rein Alwyn in from full canter and he didnât want to risk running into Valentine full speed.
Once he was close enough Ethel rode on and they made their way civilly into the livestock town. It was lively, bustling even for a relatively new and small place. The sound of livestock and talking people filled the air, that of hooves and the wagon wheels against the muddy ground. Arthur saw Ethel crinkling her nose from the corner of his eyes and it made him chuckle softly under his breath. For someone who grew up on a farm she sure liked to complain about the smell of Valentine.
âLetâs hitch up the horses there.â She pointed to a free post, just around the corner from the gun smith. Once dismounted Ethel stepped up to Arthur.
âAlright, Iâm gonna make my rounds and get what I need.â She gestured towards the gun smith and then further towards the rest of the shops along the street.
She stood real close to Arthur and he couldnât help but notice it. Sure, it was likely due to the bustle of people and horses but he could feel a slight flush creep up his neck. His hand extended to hover over the small of her back â a protective instinct perhaps â as she set into motion to walk towards her first stop.
âMeet you here in a bit?â Just as his hand finally made contact with her back she waved him off. Elusive thing she was sometimes.
âMeet you in a bit,â he sighed as he watched her walk off. Maybe he stared a little too long but he liked looking at her, noticing the little things about her. Like the weight sheâs put on since joining them. She must be getting closer to what she looked like back in England still from what heâs seen from that one picture she kept. He liked that, the supple flesh to hold on to, the soft cheeks, the ampleness of her breasts under his lips â alright woah, get a grip, you fool.
As if she could sense his thoughts transported by his burning gaze she turned around, her hand already on the shopâs door handle. And she winked before disappearing inside.
The flush spread to his cheeks if the hotness of them were anything for Arthur to go by. He turned on his heels and wandered down the street, a little aimlessly if he was honest but away from the busier parts.
He found himself walking up to the church to sit on the steps leading up to the hallowed halls â well, wooden room. Heâs sat here before and decided he liked it, could watch what was going on on the main street, have a good overview. And it was quieter here. He never dared to go inside. He would taint the space with his sins. Would feel like a reverent or priest would be able to look right through him. See his kills, the blood seeping off his hands, see the lies, the stealing and his willing participation in it all. Not all men of the church were drunks like the campâs very own Reverend Swanson, they had their wits about them and their morals straight. So he stayed outside, perhaps even here a weak aura of forgiveness and mercy may seep into his soul for when he passed onto the next world.
He placed his hat next to him on the steps and ran his hand down his face, momentarily blocking out the sun and the view before him.
âSir?â a small voice asked.
Arthur looked up, his eyes met with the sight of two little girls, no older than eight, heâd guessed.
The shorter one held out a little bundle of flowers towards him. He dumbly looked at them before looking up. The girl smiled at him in a way only a kid could She was missing two front teeth, milk teeth, one of the adult teeth just breaking through. There was mischief in her he could tell, but in that innocently child-like way.
âFor the pretty missus.â She clarified, a little more insistently now as she took a step closer. Arthur was surprised that she did. Hadnât her parents taught her not to approach strangers, especially men like him?
He reached out to pluck the flowers from her.
âMissus?â Had they seen him with Ethel? Must have been. âSheâs not-â no, he stopped himself, he didnât need to account for that in front of kids. âThatâs mighty kind of ya, thanks.â He tried it with a smile and the girls took off giggling.
He couldnât help himself, calling after them: âYou shouldnât talk to strangers, tho.â But he doubted they could hear him.
He turned over the small bundle in his hand. He studied it for a moment. It was a small arrangement of feverfew blooms and milkweed. Heartwarmingly sweet that two little girls thought to approach him with flowers for ⌠his missus. Who wasnât his missus at all. And why did he find himself smiling right now? He carefully tucked the flowers into the chest pocket of his jacket to hand to Ethel later.
He set his hat back atop his head and pulled it down as he shifted to lean his back against the banister. Lost in thought and maybe dozed off a little he is drawn out of his state a little while later when a familiar voice called his name.
âThere you are.â A soft thud sounded next to him, a shoulder brushed against his arm, the outline of a thigh pressing against his own as he sat up.
âGot everything you needed?â he asked, pushing back his hat to look at Ethel properly.
âAnd more,â she grins, holding out a paper bag towards him, an offering. The red white stripes and the blue writing of the Snowbergerâs Candy bag were familiar to him.
âYâgot candy? Thought you wanted chemicals.â He reached into the bag to get a small piece of sugary goodness out of the bag to pop into his mouth.
âI always stop to get some candy whenever Iâm here.â There was a glint in her eyes. âShop boy gives it to me for free whenever I flirt with him a little.â She reached into the bag to get a piece of hard candy for herself.
âMy, my Miss Wright,â a surprised laugh came over Arthurâs lips. âUsinâ the wiles of a woman on a poor lad for candy.â He shook his head, frown on his face to mimic disappointment.
âThat what you do with me? Use what you got to offer to get what you want for free?â He nudged her gently.
âYeah, thatâs what I do, dear Mr. Morgan.â She clearly felt absolutely no shame for how she got the free sweets, why should she? To underline her words her hand reached out to pluck the collar of Arthurâs jacket into place, as if the disarrange was of the utmost important to be righted. Her hand smothered down his chest from there, her eyes and fingers pausing at the flowers peeking from his pocket. His fingers ghosted along her arm up to her hand where he plucked the bundle up again and held it out to her, a smile, almost bashful, on his face.
âFor the missus,â he cleared his throat. âThey said- two little girls, mustâa seen us.â
She gently thumbed at the petals of the feverfew, feeling for that soft and waxy material she loved to pick at, before she took it from his hand.
âIsnât that the sweetest thing Iâve heard today. Yet here I thought you went and got me flowers.â
His ears burned, he cleared his throat again. Dammit, why was this getting him so flustered, over flowers of all things?
Ethel took off her hat and fastened the flowers on it, tucking it in the braided leather band that decorated it. She held the hat out in front of her to look at her composition. Her head dipped, just barely in a satisfied little nod.
âWhat do we think?â Her gaze lifted to look at Arthur. âAdds a nice touch, donât it?â
âReal pretty,â he agreed, his eyes, too, moving from the hat.
He hesitated for a moment before lifting his hand up to tuck that stubborn strand of hair back behind Ethelâs ear. It never liked to stay in place. He often saw her brush it back in exasperation because it tickled her face. But he let his hand sink back down, clearing his throat again. He didnât trust himself to not do something foolish.
âLetâs head back, shall we?â
He was right to not trust himself, foolish as he was as he slipped Ethel a small piece of paper in passing, headed for Alwyn, the next morning. There was a time once where heâd been surprised she even knew how to read, to which she took great offence. Sure, what he knew back then was that she was born to farmers in England that sheâd made her living as a factory worker in St. Denis. But she came from a wealthy family, the industrial revolution had made no halt from farms and her family was neither poor nor uneducated. She knew labour, but she also knew the insides of a class room â though tryst and cold as it may have been.
As for the note, she didnât need to open it to know what it said but she did so anyway. The elegantly arched letters spelled out what she already knew:
Saint Valentineâs tonight.
Room down the hall on the right.
Meet me?
Of course she would. She knew he would respect her if she said no. And that is something she appreciated greatly. The freedom, the choice she had in spending time with him, and the choice of how that time would be spent. Sure, there was an expectation implicit in the note. One she was eager for to comply with in her craving for warmth, a solidness to cling on to if merely for a few hours. It was a connection she needed, one that Arthur out of all people was willing to give her â to an extent that she knew sheâd been pushing.
She neatly folded the paper, making sure to follow the creases in the material left by Arthur, thumbs smoothing out the wrinkles the note had sustained by how the man had it clutched in his hand. She slipped it into her pocket where she would keep it safe as a reminder that she hadn't merely imagined it, that someone seemed to crave her, her company, just as much as she did his.
A warmth bloomed in her chest, her heart speeding up at the though â a hopeful, incorrigible thing it was.
And Arthur? Heâd scribbled the note in a sort of desperate frenzy, one where his thoughts had been plagued by Ethel again. Thoughts of fresh flowers wilting away in her hand, thoughts of her bright eyes and looming darkness and thoughts of her soft face dissolving into red â all reasons for him to stay away, yet intensifying his need all the more. Not just for her body, no, for her attention and company that both seemed to ease his mind off of the reality that haunted him, the bounties, the bodies, the desperation for survival, his and the gangs, and made it double down with the intensity it hit him when she eluded him again. So heâd written the note, slipped it into her hand on his way to do Dutchâs bidding. He would seek penance in her body tonight.
And so, here Ethel was crossing the street to get to the Valentine Hotel. Sheâd ridden into town later than she would have liked but Ms. Grimshaw had chores lined up for her all day. There had barely been time to freshen up and change clothes if she wanted to make it to Valentine before nightfall. She always left Wilma in the stables just across the street, not trusting the people around to not harm her horse if she was just hitched out front. With her taken care of she made her way to the hotel, hurried steps on the muddy ground, it had rained today and Ethel didnât want to know what exactly the mud was mixed with. By the smell of it she could only guess.
Her legs all but skipped up the steps leading to the door of the hotel before her hand pushed down the handle, the other still holding up her skirts now wet from the muddy road. She was met with the warmth and comforting smell that sheâd come to associate with the hotel. It always felt like stepping into another world for a serene few hours.
The clerk looked up from where he was writing and recognition flashed across his face. His arms spread as he greeted Ethel.
âAhh, I was wondering if it was just Mr. Morgan tonight.â
His tone was friendly, but as per usual there was suspicion behind it. Sure, theyâd been lying to him because which reputable establishment would rent a room to two unmarried people⌠but he had probably never believed them anyway. Still, by the sounds coming from the other rooms most nights, they were far from the most scandalous people that stayed in here.
Ethel stepped up to the counter, conscious of the trail of mud she left.
She shook her head.
âNo, not just Mr. Morgan.â She pointed towards the stairs. âHe upstairs already?â
âNo, no, heâs takinâ a bath, right through here.â The clerk jerked his head to point to the door behind him. âLast door on the left.â
Ethelâs feet carried her towards it before he was even finished and opened it, giving him a little smile before disappearing into the hallway. She nearly bumped into a tall, blond woman coming out of the room that Arthur must be in.
âOh, sâcuse me,â Ethel muttered just as the other womanâs thickly southern accented âoh sorry honeyâ reached her ears. Ethel eyed her for just a moment before she reached for the door handle just as the other woman let go of it. She was definitely pretty, but Ethel didnât let her mind linger on it, she wasnât stupid enough to get jealous, right.
She pushed her way into the room where she was met with air thick with heat. Her hand immediately reached for her hat to take it off, the less clothes worn in here the better.
âDidnât I just say I donât need no help?â
The words were gruff, though not unfriendly. There was an undeniable exhaustion in them, though.
Ethelâs eyes finally found the man spread out in the wooden tub. His head was laid back against the rim, his eyes closed, arms slung over the sides and his knees bumping against the top on each side. God what a picture.
âAfraid you did ask for me, though.â
She put her hat down atop a pile of Arthurâs clothes on a chair and reached for her thin scarf that was loosely tied around her neck â more accessories than practical gear.
Though he didnât open his eyes a weary smile spread over his face as he recognized her voice.
His lips twitched into a barely noticeable grin at her words, immediately recognising her voice.
âSorry, didnât notice it was you.â He sat up slowly, a grunt leaving his lips as he pulled himself forward, movements almost sluggish in the sloshing water. He finally did look at her as her fingers deftly fiddled with her neckerchief. He also didnât miss how the flowers were still attached to her hat â the memory of the little girlâs words made his heart rate speed up.
âCare to join? Promise I got rid of the worst grime before I got in here.â
It took her a moment or two to peel away her layers of clothing, but with her drawers dropped onto the pile of her clothes â messier than Arthurs neat stack on the chair â she stepped into the tub, the hot water welcoming her as she settled down on the opposite site of the other outlaw.
Arthurâs eyes were near glued to her form as she undressed, layer by layer revealing what he had become so familiar with over the past months. The softness he now longed to feel beneath his fingers. He felt mesmerised as she drew close, the natural sway of her hips so incredibly alluring it made him feel hotter yet in the steaming water. His eyes roamed further, down the soft of her belly, down the patch of coarse dark hair leading to her core, her plush thighs â god what did he do to deserve her coming so willingly to him. She didnât have time to settle, as soon as her feet were planted in the wooden tub, Arthurâs arms surge forwards, his paws settling on her hips to pull her down on his lap. The water was slopping over the edge of the tub with the sudden movement of two bodies, taking a few moments to calm down, the hectic movements resorting to lapping at them - warm and relaxing.
There was just enough space for the two of them to settle. Arthur leaned back against the tub as he kept Ethel against him, her knees framing his hips, thighs pressed against his own â and just the sight of her after the day heâd had, the fact that sheâd came, and the minimal contact they shared so far had him half hard already. His digits thumbed at the supple flesh of her hips as she adjusted herself to get comfortable, a hand supporting herself on the rim of the tub, the other rested on his shoulder.
âThis okay?â He finally breathed.
âAlways act first, ask later, huh?â Ethel chuckled softly, her hand smothering down his chest.
âYeah itâs okay.â
Her finger tips traced his skin. Arthur didnât wince at it any more, sheâd touched his scars countless times now. But then âŚ
âAre you hurt?â Ethelâs voice grew concerned as her fingertips find irregular markings on his skin, red ones that would continue to darken over the next few days.
Truth is, yes, they did hurt. He caught her hand with his rougher, bigger, one to keep it still against his chest â his heart â but her other hand was already travelling to the side of his face to cup his jaw. Heâd taken a couple of good hits to the face, not immediately noticeable in the dim light of the bathroom, but now that she was closer they were easy to notice.
âMy god ArthurâŚâ she breathed.
âIâm ⌠okay.â His words sound lame even to his own ears.
She thumbed at the bruise forming under his left eye and he hissed. Her finger immediately retreated, never the intention to hurt him.
âYou gonna tell me what happened or is this the point where I try to come up with a reason you look like you got beat up?â She grasped his chin to make him look at her. âLemme guess, didnât see the branch coming and it hit you square in the face at full gallop?â
Was she trying to make light of the situation or trying to tell him he wouldn't get away with silence or bullshit this time? Arthur didnât know. But he also felt bad about what had happened that day.
He took a breath. Her gaze was steady, almost too much.
A sigh left his lips.
âI â I been actinâ kinda crazy.â His eyes dropped. Regret? Shame?
âYou see, Straussâ been sending me out to get money from the people we lend to, the ones who ainât paid back yet, visited some of them today and I ⌠I just keep gettingâ violent with âem.â
It was hard for him to formulate these words. To admit them out loud.
It almost undid him when Ethel picked up the rag hanging over the side of the tub to gently start washing down his arms and upper body as he spoke.
She just let him speak, perhaps she felt he had need to get all this off his chest.
âJust last week when I broke Micah outta jail I was thinkinâ how ⌠how senseless all that killinâ in Strawberry was, and I-I stand by it, it was senseless and it shouldâa happened, it didnât have to but MicahâŚâ He swallowed down the rage rising in his throat just at the though of what had happened. âBut then I go out alone again and I just canât help myself⌠beatinâ people up for money⌠I dunno what makes me so-â His jaw clenched. The softness of her actions was nearly unbearable but god have mercy should she stop.
âThatâs badâŚâ She said, earnestly. She was always so real with him. âThatâs real bad, Arthur.â
Her movement didnât waver but she didnât force him to look at her again. Her hand glided up his shoulder, letting the rag rub over his skin before she moved on to his neck, up to his ear.
He swallowed and nodded.
âI feel⌠like-like a dog in a blood rush sometimes.â Shame was underlying his tone now. But perhaps thatâs what he was meant to be, the dog that got violent before he or his masters got bit.
âI donât wanna be hurtinâ folks all the time.â His voice softened into a whisper, breaking off in the end. His finger grasped into Ethelâs skin, as if to make sure she wouldn't just disappear at his admittances.
âYou ainât hurting everyone all the time.â Her voice was soothingly low â her soft English lilt infused with distinct southernness learned from living here too long balm in his ears for his wounded soul. âBut I cant say I havenât noticed the way you been latelyâŚâ
âWhy you still here then?â
âIt takes a little more than that to scare me off, Morgan. Iâve been living with yâall long enough to know how it is⌠Iâve known you long enough now to know that thatâs not all you are neither.â
âI donât know⌠Iâm a bad man, even you canât deny that.â His forehead dropped to rest against Ethelâs shoulder.
âNo oneâs purely good or bad, Arthur.â Her finger glided through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. âThatâs just how it is, but that also means that we got choices to make.â
There was a stretch of silence. Arthurâs thoughts circled around this. Heâd been struggling with this, the act heâs been stuck in. Itâs like his brain shut off sometimes when he goes out there, playing the tough enforcer of the gang. He knew right from wrong just fine when it came to others but then heâs no better, not by an ounce. His arms now wrapped around her form, his hands sliding over her lower back from her hips to pull her flush against his body. Soft and real against him.
âYouâre too good to me⌠dunno why you- dunno why you come to me all the time, lemme do all that stuff with you- to you.â
The words were murmured into her warm skin, his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. His lips are so close already he doesnât hesitate to brush them against Ethelâs skin.
As good as his lips felt, Ethelâs fingers gently tucked against his hair to pull him back, needing him to look at her.
âHey, I ainât some little thing you corrupted, remember?â She huffed, Arthur once more confronted with the earnestness in her eyes. âYouâre not doing nothing to me, I sure as hell like what we do, and I guess we keep doinâ it cause we both get somethinâ out of it.â Even if it was to just feel good for a little while.
Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, his head tiled back, she was a little taller situated on his lap, him leaning back in the tub, so he had to look up. She took advantage of the situation and leaned in to brush her lips against his. Tentative as the first kiss always was to give him a chance to stop, but that cue never came. Instead, a deep rumble sounded from his chest and he leaned up, closer to her to slant his lips more fully against hers, the brushing of lips turning into a full kiss. Ethelâs hands moved back up to cup his cheeks, mindful of the bruises forming on his cheekbone and jaw. She held him so softly, steady but with a gentleness that made him believe he was precious cargo in need of extra care â lest he would break â if just for a moment.
A tentative hand wandered up Ethelâs back, soft barely-there touches until they reached the nape of her neck. His touch became firmer as he moved to sit up from his lounging position, rising in height over Ethel again. A gasp sounded against his lips, fingers tightening their grasp against his skin.
Within him a feeling rose, a sense of urgency that could only be sated in the proximity of her body, a feeling mirrored in the way his lips sought out hers.
Arthur felt warm, hot really, he was sure he was adding to the steaming vapours around them rising from the bath. A red flush rose over his chest and neck, a sure sign of just how he was affected by Ethel. Her hands wandered, he knew how she loved tracing over his skin just from the way she seemed to be drawn to all the scars and nicks strewn all over his body. Strangely he never felt like hiding them away from her. Soft but scarcely delicate fingers traced down his chest â her body could not hide her heritage, she was no lady, she had been shaped by the conditions lived by her ancestors. Her strong hips, accommodating the robust build of her body, and made for labour her hands may be but nimble and quick and treating him so softly.
The movement of their lips slowed to soft presses before they were back to a mere lingering, breathing in sync in the serenity of the room. Just then Arthur felt Ethelâs hand make the return way up his chest again. In a tentative touch it settled back against his jaw, mirroring the placement of her second. Her lips pulled from his finally, protest rising in his throat before he felt the warmth of her plush mouth against the corner of his lips, his jaw, the scarred patch on his chin before they wander up to his bruised cheek bone.
A sharp inhale of breath accompanied the soft touch â the lightest pressure sent a sharp sting though his nerves. But before Ethel could even think of pulling away, Arthurâs hand snapped up to the back of her head to keep her in place.
âKeep goinâ,â he whispered, voice rough. âPlease just- keep goin.ââ
So she did. Her lips found the bruised skin again and again. The other cheekbone, under his eye, above his brow.
And god it hurt. Arthurâs eyes fell shut again, groans and hisses spill over his lips â it hurt so good. So good, he couldnât suppress the twitch of his hips, couldnât help the reaction his body had to the friction, the way his fingers gripped the flesh of her hips to keep her in place.
âLet me have you tonight?â Deep and low his voice rumbled but he couldnât hide the urgency with which the words were uttered. Penance is what he told himself heâd seek in her tonight. And though he didnât feel he deserved it, he also sought solace. Penance for what heâd done and solace for the wounds heâd sustained.
And Ethel? She didnât say no, didnât push him away or tell him to get lost, didnât get up and leave for him to struggle through the night himself.
âNot giving myself to you clearly enough, Mr. Morgan?â She sounded amused but she wasnât being mean about it. She reached back to take one of his hand off her hip and guided it up her torso to her breasts, placing both their hands over the left one. She closed her hand over his, almost forcing him to grasp the supple flesh. His other hand came up to take position on the other, no further coaxing by Ethel needed.
He got the message loud and clear then. There was no hesitation no more. He loved the way her breasts looked cradled in his hands, had from the moment sheâd first let him open her blouse to get his hands on them months ago. He gently squeezed them, brushed his thumbs against her nipples almost reverently.
Finally, he nodded, letting out a breath.
âLemme take care of you then,â he rasped, leaning forward to place kisses on her skin above where each of his hands were resting.
âLemme- lemme take care of you,â he repeated, his voice muffled against here skin where he was leaving a trail of kisses, his beard rough against the supple skin.
âTake me upstairs then,â she breathed, lost in the soft burn his ministrations left in their wake. The water was growing cold, their skin shrivelling.
He didnât move immediately, savouring another moment between the swell of her breasts. He left a last kiss before he pulled away, sitting up straight.
âAlright, upstairs.â
His hands guided Ethel up, the water dripping off her bare body as she got up.
She was waiting for him with a towel, another one already wrapped around her own body by the time he made it out of the tub. She slung it around his shoulders and turned towards her clothes while drying herself off.
Somewhat dry was good enough for both of them, as was being covered by the towels and nothing more as they made their way up to the room through the backdoor. Arthur had the neat stack of his clothes in his arms, his hat sat atop of it, while Ethel grabbed hers, messily gathered in her arms after putting her own hat back atop her hair. Like this, the pair made it out one back door and in the other on top of the stairs framing the outside of the hotel. Night had fallen, it was dark and it had grown cold without the sun illuminating the heartlands. The town was alive still, voices sounded from up and down the streets. Yet no one bore witness to the two outlaws scurrying through the darkness.
The door fell shut behind them and Ethel didnât make it far into the room before she was pressed back against the smooth wood, hungry lips finding hers in an instant. Arthur plucked her hat from her head, blindly throwing it towards the dresser, where, impressively, it landed on top of. Ethel dropped the clothes she was holding in favour of wrapping her arms around his neck, a hand burying itself in his thick hair, damp from the bath. Arthur nipped at her bottom lip, his fingers working between them to pull the towel off her body, discarding it on the floor with all her other clothes.
The gasp bubbling up her throat at the sudden exposure was swallowed against Arthurs lips. He couldnât help the little grin that spread over his lips, a giddy feeling rising in him with the knowledge that he was about to draw more of those from her. His lips wandered over her jawline, down her neck and collarbone, his knees bending in the process as he lowered himself to the floor. A last kiss was placed on the swell of her stomach as he looked up at her with half lidded eyes.
There he was, on his knees in front of her to make true whatever it was he told himself he could seek in her. His fingers slid up her calf, lifting her leg to rest over his shoulder, parting her plush thighs to expose her core to him. Heâd all but pleaded with her to let him take care of her and so he did not hesitate further, burying his face between her welcoming thighs.
He let himself get lost there, let his brain shut off until nothing but she mattered in there.
His lips trailed over the sensitive inside of her thighs, sloppy open-mouthed kisses leaving a trail of heat behind that had Ethel whine impatiently, emphasised by the tug on his long strands of hair that her fingers havenât left. He purposely scratches his stubble along her thighs, skipping her core as his lips find the skin of her other thigh. Ethel protested, trying to guide him back to where she desperately wants him.
âSo impatient,â he rumbled, a low chuckle leaving his lips as he nips at her thigh.
âSays- says the man who was-â
She doesnât get to finish her retort because a gasp cut off her words as Arthurâs tongue trailed out, finally licking up all the way up to her core.
He worked her over both with fingers buried in her tightness and his tongue lapping at her â messily, desperately.
Ethel didnât hold back, and how could she when Arthur drank her down like a man both dying of thirst and drowning in what she gave him. Her moans sounded loud in the quietness of the hotel room that was otherwise only filled by Arthurâs hums and the sound of the movement of his fingers through her wetness.
âHmm Art-thur.â
Her high pitched, breathy sounds registered through the blood roaring in his ears, right on its way down south. Heâs actively ignoring the ache in his lower belly, the hardening of his cock.
He would pay that no mind, not until heâd guided Ethel through each wave of pleasure crashing through her, elongating them with expert fingers until sheâs been driven into oversensitivity.
Even then he didnât let up until another whine of his name got through to him paired with a harsher tug on his hair to get him to ease up. He finally did, now breathless and with dazed eyes that finally looked up at Ethel. Her cheeks were coloured in a deep pink. The colour made its way down her collarbone and neck. Her chest was heaving with the heavy breaths she was sucking in, her lips parted as she stared right back at him with blown out pupils.
A chuckle bubbled over her lips now that they were looking at each other. Arthur turned his face to press a kiss to the inside of her knee, hiding his own smile, before he gently lifted it to settle back down on the ground. His hands never left her body even then, they wandered up to her hips, the dips of her waist, as he rose from his knees.
He was barely steady on his legs, his body instinctively leaning closer when he found himself being pushed backwards instead. Warm hands planted squarely on his chest and shoulder that guided him to the bed. The scratchy blanket, the dip of the mattress and the sound of the springs, all as familiar to him as the body now settling over him, the lips that sought out his again in a bruising kiss, a hand that now wandered, down, down.
A gasp left his lips, his head dropping when finally his neglected member received attention. The squeeze of her callused fingers near made him whimper. He only just so caught it between his teeth. He hadnât realized just how worked up he had gotten over pleasuring her. But now that tingling heat licked at his spine already and the twisting steady movements of Ethelâs hand didnât help. Not with the way she was thumbing at his leaking head anyway. It was nearly too much. To his shock he felt his balls draw tight. With a grunt his hand flew down to catch her wrist to still her movements, squeezing both their hands tighter to stave off the impeding orgasm.
âGod dammit woman-â he choked out, cheeks flushed and breathing laboured. âNot like this.â
And there it was again, that amused twinkle in her mossy eyes as he looked into them.
He squeezed tighter, his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment, giving him a chance to collect himself before moving.
He sat up and before Ethel could react she was flipped onto her back, Arthur now hovering over her.
âThink this is funny?â
It couldâve sounded like a threat, but it was far from that. His flushed state and the fact that she seemed to soften him up the way she did was evident in the way his eyes found hers, in the way he leaned in close to nudge his nose against hers. It wouldâve been evident to perhaps everyone but himself.
âA little.â She teased and to add insult to injury she reached for his length again, fingers a deft grip. âI mean I could finish you off in seconds right now could I?â She actually chuckled. He was fighting to not blow his load right then and there and she has the nerve to chuckle at him.
It really wouldn't take much for him right now but thatâs not what he wanted and he was far too impatient to wait for a potential round two. But god dammit if Ethel didnât know how to get under his skin. He took a steadying breath and reached down, his own fingers covering hers and he squeezed just a little to stave off the impending end â again.
âStop that,â he grumbled but that only got another laugh out of her and god if that didnât make him twitch some more. His brows furrowed in concentration as he nudged her thighs apart with his free hand to settle between them properly.
He looked at her flushed face for a sign of confirmation or hesitation but he was met with the same enthusiasm as before.
âCâmon, donât keep a lady waitinâ all night.â
âLady,â he snorted but any further comment on Ethelâs side died on her lips as he finally nudged his tip between her folds, gathering up a mixture of her slick and his spit.
The sensation sent a shudder through them both but Arthur bit through it and finally pushed in. It wasnât particularly rough nor gentle, but he was met with no resistance. His hips drew back and he filled her over and over again, setting a pace that was far less steady than he wanted but he didnât care. Ethelâs hands were everywhere at once it seemed to him, his face, his chest, his hair, always still careful to avoid the bruises. And for once her clever mouth was too occupied for smart remarks.
Arthur grasped her thighs to hitch them up his hips, her skin was hot and slick from the humidity that was building up in the room around them. The angle deepened his reach but also made it easier for him to lean forward and swallow her pretty sounds with his own lips but it did nothing to stop the whine sounding from Ethel at the new position. Her hips twitched upwards, never one to lay back and let Arthur do all the work. She knew what she wanted and sheâd get it.
âThatâa girl,â he panted against her lips, pushing himself up with a hand to watch as his cock dis,- and reappeared over and over again.
Sweat was forming at his hairline, little droplets slowly sliding down his face, the tip of his nose and finally they added to the sheen that glistened on Ethelâs chest just as her fingers trailed down over her stomach and between her parted thighs.
âChrist- yeah, câmon get yourself-â His words were barely coherent, grunted in that rough voice that signalled he was about to lose it.
Ethel drew faster and faster and tighter and tighter circles on her bundle of nerves, her body coiling under the pressure until she snapped.
She cried out but her voice was muffled against Arthurâs biceps.
And god how he would have loved to draw it out for her but he barely so managed to pull out as she tightened around him, his spent landing on her thighs and the sheets instead.
Neither spoke for a good few moments, the only sound in the room their combined heavy breathing and the springs of the bed as Arthur let himself fall next to her on the mattress.
Finally, Ethel got up to retrieve the towel that was discarded on the floor earlier to clean herself up.
âYou need to work on your aim.â Her nose scrunched as she tried to rub the remnants off the bed sheets. âI donât wanna sleep in dirty sheets.â Like this hotel room wasnât pure luxury despite the moth eaten curtains and the aged furniture. Compared to camp it was glorious.
Arthur just let out an amused huff and fished for his satchel for a cigarette which he promptly lighted with help of the candle on the bedside table.
He took a drag as he watched her settle back into bed, draping the sheets around her despite her complaints. She watched him, too, for a moment and he raised an eyebrow.
âSoo⌠have you given my plan any more thought?â
He titled his head.
âWhat plan?â
âThe train tracks.â
âIâm not talkinâ âbout that now.â Smoke curled around them as he exhaled his words.
âCâmon you know it makes more sense how I-â She tired to protest.
âNo, weâre not- just sleep, I ainât discussing this with you now.â
red, red, red, itâs always red heâs seeing, a dripping substance oozing and seeping and-
His tone shifted to one of finality, he didnât have the energy to deal with her over eagerness to be involved in ⌠that part of the gangâs business.
âBut-â
âNo buts.â He held out his cigarette to her, a peace offering, perhaps, but he knows he has not heard the last of it. If only it will give him some more peace and quiet tonight.
Arthurâs eyes fluttered open. The sun was weak the next morning and a chill had crept into the room over night but he was running warm, a weight settled against him. Perhaps thatâs what woke him up. He blinked the sleep from his eyes a couple times. The room was familiar to him by now and yet there was an unfamiliarity in the soft body he knows so well settled against him. It registered slowly in his sleep riddled brain. Usually they found themselves strictly on one side of the bed each but this morning ⌠he couldnât say that it was an unwelcome feeling and despite knowing that he should get up and leave, he couldnât get his body to move, his eyes fluttering shut before his brain had fully formed the thought.
And anyway, what would it matter this one time, right?
I hope you enjoyed this, comments, reblogs, and likes are highly appreciated <33
tag list: @photo1030, @stupidgaynerd (if you want me to take you off/put you on just lmk)
aaahh firstly I apologize for how long I took to get to this but Iâm so happy to know that my encouragement could help â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸ Iâve been missing this story a lot, getting a 9k word chapter is such a blessing I was more than excited when you told me! Iâve been eagerly awaiting a chance to take it all in anddddd I think itâs finally time
okay immediately sucked back in because of the provided journal entry oh my goodness??? one of my favorite things is when arthurâs journal is utilized in fics because itâs just the perfect way to immerse us and bring us into his mind and you executed it wonderfully
of course heâs been drawing Ethel, AND HES CARESSING ONE OF THE DRAWINGS đđđ he truly canât help himself
the mention of the quiet intimacy between them ohh myyy
âhaving worked in a factory when she came to the U.S. and her knowledge and skill was definitely an asset.â â For someone who grew up on a farm she sure liked to complain about the smell of Valentine.â <- itâs been a little while since Iâve went back and read the first two chapters so I donât remember how much youâve mentioned about Ethelâs past but these two lines have me so intrigued, i like how these little things about her are sprinkled throughout. Makes her character all the more believable also makes a ton of sense for an rdr oc. I feel that sort of stuff is just brought up at random throughout the game lol
âHe liked that, the supple flesh to hold on to, the soft cheeks, the ampleness of her breasts under his lips â alright woah, get a grip, you fool.â <- felt the need to point out that this made me giggle
âHe never dared to go inside. He would taint the space with his sins. Would feel like a reverent or priest would be able to look right through him. See his kills, the blood seeping off his hands, see the lies, the stealing and his willing participation in it all. Not all men of the church were drunks like the campâs very own Reverend Swanson, they had their wits about them and their morals straight. So he stayed outside, perhaps even here a weak aura of forgiveness and mercy may seep into his soul for when he passed onto the next world.â <- oooogghgh this sort of introspection always grips me and youâre so so good at writing it. The line that stood out the most to me was: âperhaps even here a weak aura of forgiveness and mercy may seep into his soul for when he passed onto the next world.â mostly because itâs just extremely compelling given the contents of this fic so far, parts of chapter 2 have stayed with me ever since I read it especially the way you wrote the mission with Micah in Strawberry and Arthurâs regret being so blatant there just as much as it is here. And Iâve pointed it out before but Iâm a huge fan of the mentions of there being blood on his hands and how heâs always seeing red, such a great conceptualization of everything heâs done in his past. love love love when people write him haunted and pathetic, and you write it so well
dawwwwww the banter between them and Arthur giving her the flowers from those little girlsđĽşđĽşđĽş THIS IS ONE OF MY MOST FAVORITE RELATIONSHIP DYNAMICS I LOVE ME SOME FOOLS
And I have to admit, this chapter is really making me fall in love with Ethel just like Arthur is lmao
oooo my goodness these two lines really stood out to me:
âThoughts of fresh flowers wilting away in her hand, thoughts of her bright eyes and looming darkness and thoughts of her soft face dissolving into red â all reasons for him to stay away, yet intensifying his need all the more.â
âHe would seek penance in her body tonight.â
The conversation in the bath had me so immersed Iâm trying hard to collect my thoughts nowđ but Arthur getting vulnerable ohhhh thatâs such a weakness of mine and Ethelâs responses to everything he was saying ahhhhhhh giving you a round of applause for not only how wonderful the characterization was there but also for just how your dialogue, actions, everything was strung together so spectacularly to the point where each word was just hit after hit. Also there was such a sheer amount of intimacy and softness between them in that scene specifically, I like how clear itâs becoming that this is more than just a fling to both of them but they still seem hesitant to admit that despite just how vulnerable theyâre becoming with one another
okay okay okay wowwwww WOWWOWOW I donât even know what to say Iâm just so blown away by this chapter, I love how easy it is for both of them when theyâre around each other but the obvious hesitance that still lingers between them I cannot wait to see where this goes from here. As I said earlier their dynamic is one of my fav dynamics of all time so Iâm just as invested as ever. The smut scene was written beautifully and the moment at the end where they were cuddling instead of pulling away from each other and that being a perfect contrast to the past chapters where they just leave after sleeping together đľâđŤ SO SO GOOD and I wanted to say that the way you capture the atmosphere of the game is perfect, everything is so accurate but also so uniquely your own Iâm obsessed! I just love this fic and cannot wait to see where you take it, ElđđŤđŤś also once again Iâm glad my encouragement could help
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Chapter Summary: Iris Abernathy (oc) is too sweet. Karen hates it. Sheâs new to the gang yet sheâs not even a member. Just sticking around until she figures life out. Isnt that what theyâre all doing? Thereâs no way sheâs leaving anytime soon but Karen just wishes she would. That stupid girl wonât stop flirting with all the men, especially with Javier. Itâs sickening. But, maybe thereâs something behind that sweet smile of hers. Thereâs a reason sheâs clinging to Javier like that, but what is it?
Word Count: 2k
Warnings/tags: none for this chapter, maybe jealousy and a little bit of violence (very minor, it doesnât actually happen itâs just imaginary) but thatâs about it
a/n: ahhh, Iâm so excited and nervous to put this out there. This is one of the first times Iâm sharing any of my writing online. Donât be afraid to let me know what you thought and please: be honest. Anyways, Iâll shut up now. Enjoy!
Envy the Lonely
Golden rays peek over the horizon, slowly eating away at the darkness of the previous night. Hues of purple, red, and orange mix into one beautiful portrait that hangs low around camp.
Pearson is already up and about, cooking his infamous stew for breakfast. Chunks of beef and vegetables float to the top of the pot. Steam swirls up into the air. Bringing along a peculiar smell that lingers. It wafts into the tents nearby, giving everyone an unwelcome awakening. Particularly Swanson. Who is nursing a hangover and almost certainly drunk again already. He's stumbling around muttering nonsense about the horrible, gut-wrenching stench.
Not too far off, Miss Grimshaw is berating Tilly and Mary-Beth for not finishing their chores from last night. Now they have an extra job to do.
Karen is sitting on a crate close by, tuning her out. A cigarette is pinched tightly between her index and middle finger. She's leaning forward, her elbows resting against the top of her knees. There's a way more "important" conversation going on around the campfire between that new girl and Javier. So she's watching. Instead of paying attention to Miss Grimshaw.
Everyone seems so infatuated with the new girl. Especially Javier. Who has been by her side almost every day since he brought her back to camp. Karen doesn't get it. It's not like she's anything special. Just a pretty face, basic personality. A definite people-pleaser, attention seeker. Who would like someone like that, anyway? Now she's laughing at any and everything Javier is saying and it's pissing her off.
There's a couple soft footsteps and a few whispered words behind Karen but she's too transfixed on the scene in front of her to notice.
Javier grabs onto new girl's shoulder. Their thighs are touching. Smiles and giggles are being exchanged.
They're too close.
"Miss Grimshaw is making us do extra work today." Mary-Beth mutters as she plops down next to Karen. Tilly is right beside her, following in suit as she nods in agreement, "That womanâll never give us a break."
But Karen ignores them because Javier is getting even more handsy with the new girl. He's squeezing her wrist now and whispering something in her ear.
"Disgusting." She scoffs, taking a very agressive drag of her cigarette. "The new girl won't stop flirtin' with everybody. Don't y'all think that's gross?"
Smoke billows out of her mouth as she turns to face the other girls. She's trying to gather their opinions. Hoping that they agree with her.
For once.
Both of them meet her gaze with the same confused expression on their faces.
Of course they don't understand. They never understand.
Mary-Beth is the first to respond, her tone sweet, âI donât know. I think she's nice."
"Yeah, she is nice." Tilly is quick to agree before pointing an accusatory finger, âUnlike you, Karen. You're just jealous."
Karen mumbles something under her breath about the two of them being useless and turns back towards the nauseating scene occurring around the campfire.
To no one's surprise, it's already taken a turn for the worst:
The new girl is bending down. The fabric of her skirt is tightening around her curves and Javier is staring at something he shouldn't be, that's for sure.
Karen gasps in disbelief,
"That dirty bitch!"
The week prior:
Iris hadn't given much of a warm welcome to the men she found rummaging around in her kitchen. I mean, who would've?
It had been weeks, at that point, since she had seen another human. Days and nights passed her by without a care. Time kept on ticking while she sat motionless in her mother's bed, teary-eyed and aching.
Now, as she snuck around the corner and towards the kitchen, time stood still.
This wasn't the first instance where she had to deal with strange men who had broken into her home. However, it was the first time she had to deal with them on her own.
A knife was clutched firmly in her palm. The steps she took were as quiet as she could make them, the floor creaked under her weight. As soon as she had gotten close enough to the kitchen, she ducked behind a nearby counter.
Her mother had always told her to think before she acts.
âDon't go jumping into a fight, or anything for that matter, that you know you canât finish.'
All she ever wanted was to make her Ma proud. Especially now.
So, she prayed she had the upper hand here.
The men weren't subtle at all about what they were doing. Drawers were ripped open, stuff was being thrown around. They were even shouting things to one another. It was like they wanted to be caught.
"There ain't nothin' here, Javier. Don't even know why Dutch sent us out this way." One of the men grumbled while slamming a drawer shut.
Of course there's nothing. Someone lives here, you fool.
Iris snuck closer to the edge of the counter as she thought this, peeking out from behind it to get a glimpse of what she was working with.
Suddenly, one of them took a step back towards her and she had to bite back a yelp. The fabric of his pants brushed up against her nose as he moved even closer, causing her to fall backwards.
Her fall wasn't exactly quiet. She braced herself on her hands which made a loud slap as they hit the hardwood floor. Both men whipped around, their revolvers swiftly removed from their holsters as one of them shouted, "Who's there?"
Iris bolted out of the kitchen as quick as she could, scurrying away like some sort of rodent that just got caught stealing a crumb.
If she had the upper hand before, she certainly didn't have it now.
Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath she took. The corner she huddled into was dirty and damp, one of the many signs of how much she had neglected this place over the past couple of weeks. But that was the least of her worries now.
Thud. Thump. Thud. Thump.
Someone was walking right up to the room she was in. One of those men had to be bringing his gun with him and he was definitely planning to shoot her with no remorse.
Iris covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut as the footsteps drew closer. Her desperate pants for air quickly turned into weak little whimpers of fear. The doorknob began to turn and she jumped at the sound. She wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her head in her lap, trying to protect herself in any way she could.
Then
slowly,
slowly,
slowlyâŚ
the door creaked open.
Every little inch made her retract even further into herself.
Thud. Thump. Thud. Thump.
Then silence.
Iris didn't dare look up. One of those men had to be staring down at her, his gun probably pointed straight at her skull.
"Hey, hey. You're alright."
Those soft-spoken words were somehow more frightening than a gun to her head. There's no way this was the same person that was just pillaging her kitchen. Maybe, just maybe, a very nice gentleman showed up at her doorstep and scared those thieves away. Maybe they're lying on her kitchen floor dead and this man swooped in to save her.
Slowly, she lifted her head from her lap and pried one eye open. Shock settled into her features as soon as she recognized the man in front of her. She hadnât gotten the best view of the two men in her kitchen before, but she would recognize those pants he was wearing anywhere. The pants that initiated her fall.
Despite his earlier actions, he had a kind face. Kinder than anything she would've imagined on a criminal.
"I'm not here to hurt you, I promise." He added while cautiously reaching his hand out towards her. Once he made contact with her skin, she gasped. The gesture was caring, empathetic. The opposite of everything she would expect from a man who was just destroying her kitchen. She didn't flinch away from him, despite her initial shock. Instead, she stayed right there, with her eyes locked onto his.
Soon, she grew bold enough to study his features, take in his appearance.
There were a few scars littered across his face. One in particular that stood out: a gash through his eyebrow. The stories he must have from that scar alone intrigued and frightened her at the same time. Why was she so interested?
Two patches of facial hair rested on either side of his upper lip, not quite meeting in the middle. Another small tuft formed into a goatee below. Some of his hair came loose from the small ponytail he had it in and brushed up against his cheeks. He had softer features. Not the sharp chiseled out of stone look most men around Iris had but something more gentle, more natural. It made him look friendly. Inviting.
The grip he had on her shoulder loosened as he pulled himself up into a standing position.
"Hey, Arthur!" He shouted over his shoulder, "Could I get some help in here?"
Iris felt her stomach drop, dread seeped in swiftly. The moment ruined.
Of course it was all a ploy. This must've been his plan all along: get her cornered and vulnerable, trick her into believing she's safe. Then call his buddy in so they could dispose of her properly. She fell for his sweet smile and captivating features. How in the world could she be so gullible? They were in her kitchen just seconds ago trying to steal food and supplies. Now of course they were going to kill her.
What a stupid way to die.
It wasn't long before the other man, presumably Arthur, was blocking the doorway. With his arms crossed over his chest and a deadpan expression on his face, he studied the girl in the corner. His gaze was scrutinizing, terrifying. "What have we here?"
Iris's body tensed at his words. The man in front of her, who she couldn't quite remember the name of, stepped up to Arthur and began explaining in a hushed tone. Probably forming a plan on what to do with this woman he just found. She desperately tried to remember his name as the two of them whispered back and forth.
Was itâŚJoseph? Joshua?
Javier! Yes, that must've been it.
Why in the world was she trying to remember the name of a man who was just about to kill her?
They were certainly discussing how to murder her at that very moment and she was trying to remember his name. How absurd!
A gun would've been too messy, too loud. Right? They didn't seem like the type of men who enjoyed cleaning. Maybe they were gonna skin her. Make her watch as the muscle below her flesh was revealed, chunk after chunk. Would they tie her up? Or give her the chance to escape? If her legs hadn't of betrayed her. Frozen up and left her vulnerable in the corner.
If she could just get up and runâŚ
Her eyes flicked over to them. Javier was looking her way again, a hint of a smile on his lips. It wasn't a vicious smile. Not something menacing or uninviting. But the same smile he had given her earlier, when she had leaned into his touch. It made her face burn and her heart flutter. In a way it never had before.
For a split second, it almost felt like these men wanted to be her friends. Like they weren't just some cold-blooded killers who planned on stealing her food and her life. Somehow the moment felt⌠different.
It felt â
Welcoming.
Even if just for a second.
Iris hadn't had many friends growing up. Only a few here and there. Who just up and left her when they felt it was right. When it worked for them. She was always too overbearing, too clingy. Too much. So, maybe that's why she found herself smiling back at the thief.
Loneliness eats away at people until they're left empty and hollow. Anything could burrow its way inside and make a home of them.
And that's exactly what she wanted Javier to do.
2nd a/n: I have so much planned for this so Iâm hoping others are as into it as I already am. As I stated at the top, feel free to let me know what you thought and please leave feedback! Especially if itâs about writing dialogue cause I struggle so much with that. Please, please, PLEASE! give me advice on writing better dialogue, if you have any. I just never know where to put what so it always feels so awkward and clunky
graphics from: @sweetmelodygraphics
(rdr photos were all taken by me besides the Tilly photo, I got that one from the wiki)
Finally getting around to reading this! First of all, it's so nice to read more wlw fanfic, I feel like there's never enough of it and it's always limited to more explicitly queer coded characters. Karen is such a nice change from that and I loved reading your headcanon post about her! It's just so good to get a little insight on this fic.
Everyone seems so infatuated with the new girl. Especially Javier. Who has been by her side almost every day since he brought her back to camp. Karen doesn't get it. It's not like she's anything special. Just a pretty face, basic personality. A definite people-pleaser, attention seeker. Who would like someone like that, anyway? Now she's laughing at any and everything Javier is saying and it's pissing her off.
This intro to Karen's thoughts is so in character, she definitely one of the spikier girls in the gang and she has shown tendencies to be a little hostile to newer members of the gang.
To no one's surprise, it's already taken a turn for the worst:
The new girl is bending down. The fabric of her skirt is tightening around her curves and Javier is staring at something he shouldn't be, that's for sure.
Karen gasps in disbelief,
"That dirty bitch!"
Again such a well written moment, and I like the little quirks in narration that you put in, it really immerses you in Karen's thought process.
The transition from Karen's perspective to Iris's is so smooth, like their thoughts and interority are so distinctive. Karen has a very unique narrative voice, I think and Iris starts out so fun
Iris hadn't given much of a warm welcome to the men she found rummaging around in her kitchen. I mean, who would've?
Loved this line, yanks me right in to the character.
Two patches of facial hair rested on either side of his upper lip, not quite meeting in the middle. Another small tuft formed into a goatee below. Some of his hair came loose from the small ponytail he had it in and brushed up against his cheeks. He had softer features. Not the sharp chiseled out of stone look most men around Iris had but something more gentle, more natural. It made him look friendly. Inviting.
Love love that we can immediately distinguish Javier and I adore how you've incorporated his in game features so seamlessly.
They were certainly discussing how to murder her at that very moment and she was trying to remember his name. How absurd!
A gun would've been too messy, too loud. Right? They didn't seem like the type of men who enjoyed cleaning. Maybe they were gonna skin her. Make her watch as the muscle below her flesh was revealed, chunk after chunk. Would they tie her up? Or give her the chance to escape? If her legs hadn't of betrayed her. Frozen up and left her vulnerable in the corner.
CHUNK AFTER CHUNK lol she's too funny, I have also had this exact thought process walking home alone at night,.
Iris hadn't had many friends growing up. Only a few here and there. Who just up and left her when they felt it was right. When it worked for them. She was always too overbearing, too clingy. Too much. So, maybe that's why she found herself smiling back at the thief.
IMMEDIATELY INTRIGUED. I was also a weird kid who thought I needed to overcompensate and just ended up being extra strange and off-putting, which Iris is not, but it's a feeling I relate to (for the record I am also a weird adult) this fawn response she has is so interesting, I feel like women are sort of restricted in their reactions in fiction. Like fear often elicits this "sexy defiant" reaction, but I like how she thinks here.
What a great first chapter Blaze, the way you write is so snappy and distinctive. Loved it
Zoeeeee!!! I apologize for my late response but ty so so much for reading. Iâve put this fic off for a while to focus on other projects, as you know. but your excitement, among other things, has helped bring my own eagerness back to write more for thisâ¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸ so I shall be annoying about Karen and Iris once againâŚ
And I agree! We need more sapphic stories/content. Thatâs one of the sole reasons I set out to write this little series, that and my desire to kiss Karen heh
Iâm so glad you think Karenâs thoughts are in character that has me feeling super giddy, I remember being nervous to share this for multiple reasons but mostly because I didnât want someone to read it and be mad at me for my characterization of Karen (or any of the characters) which is a bit of a silly thought but it happens
I truly appreciate your compliments on my writing here, I tend to avoid rereading this chapter specifically for the fact that it is 1. The first fic I ever posted. And 2. Poorly written in my eyes. So to know you think otherwise makes me extremely grateful! Iâm coming around to finding strengths in my older writing, despite it having changed drastically over a few months
And lmao the chunk after chunk part I knew someone would relate!! I have intrusive thoughts like that way too often so projecting onto my oc was the easiest choice really
Same with what you said about overcompensating, I fear I still do that a lot and it makes me come off as quite intense so making/keeping friends is a hassle for sure.Iâm realizing just how self-indulgent writing iris was for me đ¤ I gotta get back to it
Also I really like what you said about women usually being written to react with defiance thatâs most often sexual in some manner. I completely agree! and Iâm happy to know you like how Iris thinks. I definitely want her to come off as someone who isnât afraid to stand up for herself or others but also can be quite shaken up and anxious in particular scenarios. Sometimes sheâs doing the saving and sometimes sheâs the one being saved, basically.
But again tysm for reading and sharing your thoughts with me!!! Itâs always exciting to hear what others think of an older concept of mine and this reblog is just so sweet all of your compliments will be stored away for later, for when Iâm feeling downđĽşđŤśđ I appreciate you very much and Iâm hoping you enjoy chapter 2
I cannot wait to continue this story and establish more of the drama thatâs coming heheheheh
tags/warnings: sexual content (18+), implied sexual activity, mentions of nudity, fem!arthur, fluff, modern au, a bit of a silly plot
a/n: this is my birthday gift to my beautiful, talented cutie friend @dolliecowboys!!!! The plan for this fic came to me during lunch around February and I stuck with it ever since. Initially I set out to make Arthur be canon compliant while still sticking to a more modern setting but then I found my little lesbian self grueling away at writing descriptions about a big sweaty man and thought huh this isnât working out whatsoever. So I sat myself down, had a quick back and forth in my mind, and bam I realized what I needed to do: make this about femthur. A few things twinged here and there, not much else changed about the character and voila, big sweaty butch lesbian. My absolute weakness. And Bambiâs too if itâs Arthur Morgan, of course. So I present to you, my sweet bambi, a fanfic that I hope you can find humor and joy in. Something you deserve to experience forever. MWAH MWAH ILY ENJOY AND ONCE AGAIN HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! imagine curtains falling and lights dimming to reveal this lmao
Morning light pours into the small kitchen, dappling the tiled flooring. Your bare feet patter against it as the stove is ticked to life. An egg is cracked, a breeze rustles the lace curtain in front of you. Itâs a beautiful day. Sky blue as ever, clouds drifting along lazily outside, birds chittering in the trees. Not too far off a horse whinnies, a few sheep are bleating.
Life on the ranch was an easy adjustment. Easier than you expected after leaving the city. Your parents had questioned your decision to move so far from them, to leave it all behind. But then they met the towering magnet that had caused such a sudden shift in your behavior. The woman you now call your wife. It made sense. You were in love. And love didnât know any bounds. Love didnât understand the price of plane tickets or what it meant to separate a mother from her daughter.
It just pulled people together, their souls and hearts intertwined.
Moving to the countryside was the easiest decision youâve ever made. The fields of lavenders and sunflowers and baby pink sweet peas called to you. The vast, endless landscape, the night sky dotted with a million tiny stars. Constellations that you never knew even existed coming out of hibernation. It was a dream come true. A childhood fantasy caught in your palms like a firefly, glittering between the cracks in your fingers. And with awe in your eyes, you promised yourself that you would never let it go.
Arthur was a bonus, of course. Sturdy, protective. Something else entirely. You couldnât look away upon first glance, and you havenât since. She was an apologetic mess when the two of you first met, having just bumped into you. Causing your drink to spill down the front of your blouse.
Napkins flittered around as she swiped at the mess, muttering a billion apologies a second. All you could do was laugh, cheeks burning at the way her fingers brushed across your skin, the way her eyes flicked up to yours at the sound. For a moment, your breath had stopped, and you forgot about the mess entirely.
You were inseparable ever since. Making it official in an unexpected rain storm, makeup smearing, tears streaming. Your lips locked, hands trembling together before you rushed off to shelter, your families close behind. Laughs lost to the wind.
You sigh wistfully at the memory, eggs sizzling with the heat of the stove, poked around with your spatula. The front door creaks open, interrupting your reminiscent peace. Glancing back, you find Arthur stepping inside, kicking her boots off with a grunt. Sheâs drenched in sweat. White tank stained near her pits. Fabric plastered to skin. Slowly she drags her fingers through her hair, trying anything to cool down.
You always joked that she would look good in a magazine. Big, hardworking, intimidating. A woman covered in sweat, shirt popping open. Everyone would swoon. She would brush it aside every time, giving you a playful shake of her head, a gruff chuckle.
âYou just want something to ogle at.â She accused and youâd gasp, feigning innocence
âNo! Iâm just pointing out your beauty.â
âMy beauty, huh?â
The scrambled eggs pop, browning at the edges. Tugging you back to reality. A gasp, a scrape, and a clink. Then your overdone eggs are sitting pathetically on a plate beside you.
Ever so slowly, arms encircle your waist. A moist chest presses against your back. A chin nestles between your shoulder.
âI hope those ainât mine.â Arthur drawls against your ear.
You shudder, a smile curls up your lips, âThey will be if you donât go shower.â
She reeks of musk, dirt, hay. Everything youâd expect from a woman grueling away on her ranch under the rays of a summer morning. Usually you wouldnât mind, but itâs a habit youâve wanted her to pick up on recently. To wash the grime of her work off before a meal.
Arthur sighs exasperatedly, pulling away. She always made a big fuss about it. Moping all the way to the bathroom thatâs tucked away in your bedroom, lip jutting out in a pout. Itâs a side of her she only ever embraced around you. And although it is quite annoying at times, you canât help but smile knowing that your wife is most comfortable here, in your presence and amongst the wooded walls of home.
âWhy donât we eat first?â She suggests, wanting to buy some time before her inevitable shower. âItâll get cold if not.â
The logistics of showering before eating a meal that is just finished cooking doesnât elude you. The eggs will definitely get cold, bacon will shrivel, the coffee thatâs at a simmer will be nothing but room temperature once Arthur is finished.
You clear your throat, reaching for the plate and shuffling past her to set the table, muttering, âThatâs actually a good idea.â
Arthur barks out a laugh, silently basking in her glory, âI have one of those once in a while.â
The afternoon comes quick. House heating up, birds gone off on their hunt for a meal. The curtains sway, water spurts out of the faucet in front of you, dishes are rinsed and scrubbed efficiently as Arthur bathes. She stomped off to the bathroom not too long after breakfast was finished, mumbling something about the âwater probably being too damn hot.â You just laughed and watched her go. Shaking your head in quiet fondness.
Now youâre setting the dishes back in the cupboard and drying your hands on a towel. Turning as soon as your finished, trying to remember your to-do list for the day.
Clean dishes. Check.
Get Arthur to clean herself. Check.
Tidy up your bedroom.
Ah, there. Thatâll keep you busy for a while.
Your bedroom is right down the hall, vast and full of memories and yours. All yours. Photographs line the walls, some taken by a friend of Arthurâs others purchased at farmers markets and furniture stores. But things have piled up recently. Laundry, boxes, old grocery bags you told Arthur to just set to the side. Blankets are strewn about, the bed not even made.
Youâve got your work cut out for you.
With a deep breath to prepare yourself, you get to cleaning. Picking up the bags and stuffing them under your arms. Breaking down the boxes for storage. Folding and putting away the piles of laundry that have been waiting.
The closet door is pulled open, boxes and bags left on the bed for now as you hang up shirts and dresses. Hangers clinking perfectly into place along the rack, a low hum vibrating against your lips.
Youâve always liked cleaning. Dusting, sweeping, whatever it is, you find peace in it. Peace in the abundance of tasks. The mundane activities that you can check off your lists one by one. Itâs satisfying. Pleasing, even.
Things have just been hectic as of late, causing chores to pile up. Lists to go unchecked. Itâs overwhelming. Especially with the preparations for your upcoming birthday party. The one Arthur insists on you having. Youâve never seen her this excited for a public gathering but itâs sweet in a way. Knowing sheâs excited to celebrate you. Youâre just not as excited, really, itâs nothing, itâs not like-
Leaning forward, you bump something in the closet and a few papers flutter to the floor, a gasp interrupting your humming. You bend down to quickly gather the fallen paper and⌠folder? Thatâs strange.
Lifting it up, something slides out. Glossy, bright. A photograph. A professionally done one at that. And upon closer inspection, a perfect tilt of your head, a very much needed squint,
Your breath catches.
Itâs Arthur. Posed nude with nothing but a frilly gift box in front of her crotch. Ribbons dangling down in front. Thick toned thighs on display. Wide chest puffed out to bring emphasis to her breasts.
Blinking, your mouth opens and closes. Thereâs a million thoughts running through your mind. But only one is loud enough to be clear:
She did this. For you. After all the shakes of her head. The gruff laughter and denial. She went and did this.
It sends a thrill through your body, an adrenaline rush. Her frame is perfectly sculpted to your tastes. Skin sweatslick. Freckles clear. Hairy arms and legs tilted just right. Stomach protruding forward, the v of her hips a beautiful trail downward, your eyes following it lower and lower and-
The shower is shut off, handle turned hard, startling you back to reality. Frantically you scoop the folder up. Shoving the tantalizing photo back inside before straightening out, eyes darting around the room.
The bed.
Perfect.
You rush over and stuff everything under your pillow, saving it for later. Later when you can confront her about it of course. Not for any other purpose.
The bathroom door swings open and a towel clad Arthur meanders out, squeezing her wet hair with her head tilted. Mumbling something about being finished. She glances up, noticing your guilty expression. That weird stance.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â You shrug.
She narrows her eyes, water dripping between her furrowed brows, âSuspicious.â
âYouâre always saying that.â
âYeah,â she steps forward, âcause youâre always suspicious.â
âI am not.â
âMm, donât know if you can lie yourself outta this one. What were you up to?â
âNothing.â You repeat, looking down at the boxes and bags still sprawled out atop the bed, âI was cleaning.â
Arthur follows your gaze, snorting, âYou call that cleaning?â
âHey! Stuff has been⌠cleaned.â
She shakes her head at you, tossing the hair towel over her shoulder and moving to sit at the edge of the bed to avoid crushing your work, âYeah. Me.â
âOh?â You huff, crossing your arms, âIâll be the judge of that.â
Dusk comes in a rush. Heated kisses, quick flicks of your tongue, clothes pulled on in haste. Chores needing tending. Dinner needing cooking. You two ate late, grinning like a bunch of fools across the table at each other. Skin still prickling with touches, lips and thighs still wet with evidence.
Once arthur was finished eating she lounged back with her hands across her stomach, leg bumping yours under the table. She was wearing nothing but a tight pair of black underwear and a loose fitting t-shirt, her air dried hair curling up around her ears. The sight brought you back to the photos, making you more than eager to get to bed.
Now youâre propped up, back against the headboard, wife stretched out beside you, lamplight drenching the room in a yellow glow. Those boxes and bags lay scattered over the floor, pushed to the side in the heat of passion. Your attempt at cleaning worthless.
Arthur rolls away, tugging on the blankets with a low grunt. Youâve been watching, waiting for her eyelids to droop, for her to give into sleep. And it seems she finally has.
After one last peek, you turn and pull your pillow upwards, reaching for the enticing folder just waiting for your return.
You eagerly throw it open, a slight tremble in your hands as you pick up the photos. Quick to begin inspecting each and every one.
They get more risquĂŠ the further you sift through them. Frilly gift box lowered, legs parted in such a manner. One hand moved upward to grip at a breast, the other still holding tight to that box.
Your throat bobs, skin burns.
The last one leaves you breathless.
Her entire body on display. Full frontal. Thighs spread, leg now propped up on the box, revealing every hairy inch of her.
Thereâs a low groan beside you and then Arthurâs sleeping form is shifting, arm instinctively reaching out toward you, wrapping around your waist and tugging. You gasp, the photo fluttering out of your grasp and dropping to your lap with the others.
âMmmh,â She mumbles something incoherent against your skin before lifting her weary head and blinking up at you, confused.
âGo back to sleep.â You whisper.
âWha-â
âShhhâ
âWhy are youâŚ.â she trails off, stretching out her legs and scrunching up her face, âitâs late.â
âI know. Couldnât sleep.â
Arthur, being Arthur, pulls away, moving to sit up. Moving to check on you. With a roll of her shoulders and a yawn she glances at you and then immediately drops her gaze to the photos. Eyes widening.
âWhereâd you,â she blinks, looks at you, then back at the photos, âwhereâd you find those?â
âThe closet.â
âRight. Yeah. My perfect hiding spot.â
You snort. She glares.
âAinât funny.â
âIt sort of is.â
âYou werenât even supposed to see âem yet!â
âWell I did.â
âThey were a surprise.â
âA good one.â
She groans, dragging a hand down her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. Then sheâs grabbing the photos out of your lap, snatching them away from you. âYou ainât getting those back until Friday.â
Lucky for you, Friday comes in the blink of an eye. House crowded with friends, laughter and loud retellings filling up the small space of your living room. And lots of appreciative comments about you. The cake is brought in later. Pink and delicately frosted, sprinkles scattered all around. Colorful candles sticking out the top. Arthur holds it steady for you, a wide grin on her face as everyone begins singing happy birthday. Itâs as out of tune as it is sweet. Then you lean forward and make a wish, blowing out the flames, ending it with a laugh.
The last of the guests left not too long ago. John and Abigail having stuck around a while longer just to catch up. Itâs quiet now, empty gift boxes surrounding you on your spot at the couch, Arthur not too far off. A plate wobbling on top of her leg, a glob of frosting all thatâs left behind. She glances at you, raises a brow and then reaches forward, scooping up some of the frosting on her finger and sticking it out to you.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head and moving toward her to lick it up but shes smearing it all over your nose before you can, eliciting a bubbled laugh from you.
âThatâs for ruining the surprise.â She chuckles, leaning back again and sucking away the excess frosting. âAnd trying to hide it.â
âIâm sorry.â You giggle.
âOh you say that now.â
âYeah, alright. Iâm not sorry.â
âThought so.â She shakes her head, fondness settling in her gaze. A quiet peace falling over you two.
You nestle back into the couch cushion, letting out a soft sigh. Feeling an overwhelming sense of calm after the loud, eventful party. Arthur watches you, admiring the sight of her pleased wife.
âSomeoneâs happy.â
You glance sidelong at her, smiling, âItâs almost like itâs my birthday.â
âOh yeah, guess it is.â She shrugs, setting the plate aside with another chuckle, âguess that also means you wonât be doing any chores today?â
âThatâs exactly what that means. And it also means that I deserve another little treat.â
âIs that so?â
âMhmm.â You beam.
âIâm sure you got something in mind already.â
âYou know it.â
The photos. Perfectly posed, farmer-tanned skin bare just for you. A perfect little gift that wouldâve blown your socks off if you hadnât ruined it for yourself. Itâs still perfect though. And exactly what you expect to receive now.
Slowly, with a devious smirk and a turn of your head, you meet Arthurâs knowing gaze.
She rolls her eyes. You pout, clasping your hands together to plead.
âFine.â Arthur grumbles, moving to stand up, âbecause I promised.â
âYay!â You exclaim, doing a little happy dance that gets you a sharp point of her index finger in response.
âYou better not be doing that dance when I return.â
To her âdismay,â youâre doing multiple little dances and not holding back any of your reactions as you sift through the photos once again. Taking them in with unrelenting joy. She is sat beside you, laughing and shaking her head, making little comments to tease you but itâs obvious she isnât actually put out by your excitement. She loves it more than anything. Loves that you love her.
This is where youâve always belonged, and it truly is the easiest decision youâve ever made. Marrying this woman. Living on this ranch. It was all you could ever ask for, that childhood dream in the whites of your smile, the friction of your excited movements.
Leaning over with a giggle you plant a sloppy kiss against Arthurâs lips and whisper a quick, âThank you.â Not just for the photos, but for it all. For this wonderful birthday celebration. For making this decision a million times worth it.
And for never letting you go.
second a/n: ALSO HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYBODY!!!! My first pride month finally embracing the fact that Iâm a lesbian letâs fucking go, and it only seems fitting to have this be the first fic I post this monthđââď¸đââď¸đââď¸ also the first fic I post in a while, sorry about that Iâve been busy with school work and my inner turmoil, you know how it is. I love love loveeee you Bambi and I hope you have the most spectacular birthday, hereâs to twenty more years of life and then another twenty after that and then another!!! and cheers to those years being nothing but prosperous for you
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Modern Arthur is something that can be so personal. @stupidgaynerd thank you for asking me about this! It made me rub my last two brain cells together.
The first thing I mentioned was that John and Arthur had been in foster care together. In my mind palace, Arthur and John met when John was a new placement, and Arthur was ageing out of the system
I think Arthur would have been troubled and always getting into scrapes and shoplifting, but he buckles down and finishes high school.
Maybe Dutch and Hosea own a business together, a bar and Arthur becomes one of those employees has nowhere to go for Christmas and Thanksgiving and just ends up at Dutch and Hosea's with their collection of strays. Arthur gets Eliza knocked up and she moves out of state. Then she and Isaac die, a car crash.
John absolutely idolised him as a kid and Arthur comes to view him as a little brother. He keeps a little photo of them when he moves out. They reconnect after John ages out of foster care. He's a little resentful of John, but still takes him under his wing. He helps him get a job, he shows him all the things he had to learn by himself. John meets Abigail and Arthur is consistently frustrated by the way he treats her.
I also think Dutch and Hosea's bar sort of becomes a home for peculiar children and Arthur mother hens the lot of them. Flat tire? Tilly calls Arthur. Creepy guy won't stop bothering Karen at the bar? Sic Arthur on him. Too drunk to drive home? Sean calls Arthur. Eventually the bar doesn't really cut it for him so he picks up the occasional shift and starts contracting with John and Charles.
Stupidly helpful. He gets himself involved in all sorts of things unintentionally. He coaches girls' football, he fixes up all the ancient appliances in the nursing home at a reduced rate, and the old ladies are obsessed with him. Arthur shows up with a car seat when the very unprepared John has a baby. He picks up strays and drives them to the shelter.
Relationships are also difficult for him and he is quite reserved initially.
Affectionate in his own, distant way. He makes an effort once you start getting closer and planning a future. Initially, he's sort of one of beaten up tom cats. You say you like apples, he brings you a giant crate of them, you say you want him to down on you, he's doing it till his jaw locks. But God forbid you ask him to use nicotine patches instead of smoking, or ask him to Please Eat A Grilled Cheese before he gets drunk so he won't have a hangover. Eventually he does try the nicotine patches and goes so ham with them that he complains about being dizzy all day, you pull back his collar and he has about ten patches stuck to him.
 Likes photograpy! He still sketches and doodles and writes but he uses his phone camera to take photos of things he finds interesting. You become the subject of these after a while. Photos of you eating cereal, or reading or smoking. You gift him a proper camera and he immediately jams the storage by taking 5000 photos of you.
He also likes to collect oddities. A cool rock is coming home with him, he calls Charles about an injured bird. He finds an abandoned action figure and washes it in the sink to take home with him. His bag is filled with all sorts of strange shit. He displays these all on a shelf at home.
He listens to dad music but is also a big Amy Winehouse fan. He hums Valerie in the shower when he thinks you can't hear him. For films and and tv, he loves shit like Pawn Stars and gets invested in the occasional Say Yes to the Dress episode. He also likes Bear Grylls and watches TLC cooking shows religiously.
 One of my friends hooked up with a guy who was the owner of a Jeanket. What is a Jeanket you might ask? It's a duvet made ofâŚjean. It's NOT on his bed but he has one for the bed of his truck. It's been defiled many times.
Arthur's not a huge reader in the game but I imagine he likes being read to. He picks a book or even an article and puts his head in your lap. He promises he's following along but he conks out pretty fast. If he does read, he likes Westerns, the occasional short classic.
Also hates going to sleep mad. Despises it. Will give you a resentful kiss on the head and roll over. (Once he's committed, of course.)
Also I'm a Arthur is sexually reserved truther so some of that translates to the modern au? I think he struggles to open up to people but once in a while when he's drunk enough he will have a one night stand.Â
For touch tank relationship I had originally conceptualised it as Arthur is reader's kind but closed off fuck buddy (might still write this, stay tuned) but as I wrote it, it felt a lot more intimate than that? So it's sort of understood that he's hers and she is his.
I've got a few more but will shut up now. Also these are just like my mind palace headcanons its all just fun and games. Thank you for your lovely comments and also for asking me this! I had fun.
But firstly, I really do adore the foster care headcanon and how that stays true to them being orphaned at a young age and ending up brothers by choice or really just because of close proximity lmao
And wait oooo I like how you incorporated the yes-man tendencies from Arthur into this au with him still doing everything to help anyone at anytime! and him getting involved in all sorts of things is just like the stranger missions I LOVE THAT
Him being so willing to help everyone else but himself ugh this man
âLikes photograpy! He still sketches and doodles and writes but he uses his phone camera to take photos of things he finds interesting. You become the subject of these after a while. Photos of you eating cereal, or reading or smoking. You gift him a proper camera and he immediately jams the storage by taking 5000 photos of you.â <- Favorite headcanon by far because yesss Iâve always thought Arthur would love photography. there is that camera in his satchelđ
Ohhh he would love pawn stars that is one of those headcanons that just makes sense in a way that is like I donât even know why but it just does He would be hate watching so much reality tv, I could see him making fun of people on Survivor but secretly planning to apply cause he is confident heâd win which honestly now that I think about it Arthur would excel on Survivor heâd definitely win or get close to winning, heâs also such a likeable person I could see him convincing a lot of people on the jury to vote him in the end no matter how sneaky he has been behind their backs
And honestly with a lot of your headcanons Iâm almost wishing this was a sitcom, modern Arthurâs life would be such a good sitcom
A JEANKET IS WILDđđđ and Arthur would def have one lmao anyone who sees it is just like âwhy do you own thisâ and itâs all dirty and stained so theyâre even more disturbed
I love the reading headcanon I do think Arthur would indulge in a good book from time to time, I always love to imagine him reading some of these vintage romance novels I own. HE MIGHT GENUINELY LIKE THOSE he would be all secretive about it too and if anyone figured out theyâd tease him lovingly and heâs like âno! I wasnt reading thatâ and marybeth is the only one he tells the truth about this guilty pleasure of his because sheâd be sourcing him with them, this could be accurate to canon Arthur too honestly
butttt this made me think about Arthur going book shopping for jacks birthday and not knowing what to get, heâs losing it in a Barnes and Noble and complaining about the prices. Or itâd be the absolute opposite and he has a long ass lists of all the books Jack has mentioned and if reader is a bigâŚreader (haha) he would be looking for them too and know exactly what they want. Heâd still be complaining about the prices though. Also i just remembered that Barnes and Noble is only in the USđ I apologize but this applies to any book store really
âFor touch tank relationship I had originally conceptualised it as Arthur is reader's kind but closed off fuck buddy (might still write this, stay tuned)â <- oh em gee YES PLEASE PLEASE WRITE ITđ I love unclear and messy relationship dynamics ehehehehe and i need more touch tank vibesâŚ. That fic seriously lives in my head and the scenes are on replay every night
I love all of these it just feels like you took the different missions and challenges we can do and the different weird collectibles we can find and made it all modern, and I adore that. Also everyone is so much smarter than me when it comes to thinking up things for modern aus so I just sit back and gush about the headcanons cause you all understand this man on such a deep level. But thank youuuu for taking your time and sharing these with us!!! I had so much fun reading them and if you ever just wanna chat about headcanons my dms are always open and Iâm always willing to listen
While visiting your friend, you accidentally manage to go back in time and find yourself stranded on a mountain with a group of outlaws. As you make your name known in the history books for your friend to find you, you try to navigate through the sudden change in your life, all the new dangers and your blooming feelings for a certain outlaw.
Previous - Next | Masterlist
Word count: 4.2k
Tags: spoilers for rdr2, graphic depiction of violence, fem!reader, modern!reader, low honor Arthur to high honor, slow burn, time travel, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, angst, sexual harassment, smoking, drinking, period-typical sexism, canon-typical violence
If I don't make it back from where I've gone, just know I loved you all along.
-Inkpot Gods by The Amazing Devil
Something heavy is laying on top of you and with how freezing cold you feel, you assume itâs a layer of snow or a pile frozen food maybe. Itâs a chore to lift your eyelids, but eventually you do manage to crack one eye open. Above you, youâre greeted with rotten ceiling boards, adorned with holes and broken off pieces. As you turn your head, you whimper from the sudden pain shooting from your neck down and through your body. It takes a lot of effort, but you get your fingers and toes to twitch on your command after some failed attempts. The rest of your body though? Not a chance.
Light is streaming through the grimy windows, greyish and bright and you catch glimpses of pine trees. Theyâre white, covered in powdery snow and you knit your eyebrows closely together in bewilderment. You canât recall it being winter. Fall just now started. Sniffling, you recognize the smell of old fabric and cast your eyes down on yourself. A blanket is draped over you, old and dusty. Upon closer inspection, you recognize that itâs not dust, but coal. Coal?
âMorninâ.â, a voice rips you out of your thoughts and you whip your head around as fast as your tired muscles allow you to.
Spoken with a raspy and deep voice, you gawk at a man laying a few arm-lengths away from you. Half of his face is alarmingly red and you blink, convinced that you must be hallucinating. A big chunk of his face has been torn open by something you can only assume must have been a beast. Deep marks are stretched over his skin, exposing the flesh and your eyes fall on the clumsy stitches that are holding it all together. Or trying to, at least. It takes all your willpower to stifle a shout.
âWho are you? Where am I?â, you ask, your voice barely a whisper. It sounds like you have been doing nothing but screaming for the past few hours.
âThe nameâs John. John Marston.â
âYour faceâŚâ You trail off, not in the right mind to find the fitting words or any at all, for that matter. Even your own thoughts are slipping through your grasp whenever you attempt to hold onto one. You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth to get some feeling back into the muscle.
âIt ainât the prettiest sight, I know.â A coughing fit befalls him. If he finds your comment rude, then he doesnât let it show.
Before any of you can utter anything more, the door to the cabin swings open. Whistling of wind rings in your ears and some of the snow is being blown inside as a cloud. Immediately, you pull the blanket higher, up to your chin. That little bit of exposure is enough to leave you shivering uncontrollably. Two men march inside, their heavy boots thumping over the floorboards, each step carrying purpose. With their thick, broad coats, they resemble a pair of bears and you fight back the urge to shrink away. You donât know these people, only that one of them got mauled by who knows what.
âJohn, youâre awake!â, the first man exclaims almost ceremonially and then he notices you too. The next sentence leaves his lips softer, as if youâre a small animal he doesnât want to frighten too much. âI see you are as well, Miss.â
You stay silent and vigilant. As much as you try to focus on every twitch of this guyâs body, the details seem to hide from you. Everything is so fleeting and paying too close attention has a splitting headache rumble through your skull.
âHow are you feeling?â, he asks, speaking the question slow and youâre more than grateful for it.
âI donât know.â All you know is that youâre alive. Barely. âWhat happened?â
âMr. Morgan over here and one of our other men, Mr. Smith, found you out in the snow.â, he explains and gestures to the man standing on the side. You take him in, but canât make out much besides the blue of his coat and his large frame. Closing your eyes, you get the sense as if something is squeezing your throat. The confusion turns into fear. Itâs terrifying, not knowing what happened, when or why.
âI donât know what happened. I donât-â, you mumble, growing quieter with each word. Biting down on your lower lip, you stop it from quivering. At first glance, these men donât seem like much of a threat.
âItâs okay, Miss. You can stay with us âtil youâre feelinâ better. Then you can figure out what you want to do. My name is Dutch Van Der Linde.â, he says, soothing your nerves and you sigh. âCan you tell us yours?â
âI need to call my friend.â, you say after giving them your name.
âIâm afraid weâre stuck up here. We plan on headinâ back down once it all thaws.â, the man explains through humorless chuckles.
âAnd thereâs no reception up here or anything?â, you ask, relieved to finally find the fog inside your mind clearing up a little bit. You donât miss the puzzled looks the two men exchange with one another.
Suddenly, the door swings open another time, inviting back the cold that you nearly drove away. A young woman enters, her eyes set on the hurt man. John, was he called you remember. There is a boy holding her by the hand, following a little bit behind as if trying to hide behind her skirt. He stares at the man, a mix of worry and hope swirling in his big eyes and you feel the mood inside the cabin shift a bit. More tense. The sight of the two makes you relax on the other hand.
âThe boy wanted to see you, John.â, the woman speaks, her tone as hard as iron, but something else swings underneath. A certain tenderness.
âWell, he has seen me now or whatâs left of me.â
Her features contort with fury.
âYouâre a rotten man, John Marston!â, she spits, voice dripping with venom and you get the strong suspicion that youâre witnessing a fight that has been going on for years. You squirm awkwardly underneath your blanket, catching the womanâs attention.
All hostility leaves her in an instant and she steps closer. For a brief moment youâre convinced she is going to give you an earful as well, for some reason, but then she starts to inspect you. A fleeting wave of discomfort wafts over you, feeling like an animal at a zoo under her watchful eyes, until you realize she is checking up on your state.
âHow do you feel? Cold?â
You only manage a nod.
âIâll fetch you another blanket. If I must, then Iâll steal it from that fool over there. Itâs not like he deserves one anyways.â, she grumbles under her breath and your eyes flicker towards John, who is suddenly very interested in the ceiling it seems. âIs there anything other than the cold? Are you confused?â
Confused doesnât even remotely sum up your mind.
âA bit.â, you curtly answer.
âShe remembers her name.â, Dutch throws in and Abigail hums, satisfied.
âDo you know where you are or how you got here?â
âNo.â
âWhat year is it?â
The gears in your head turn as you think. No matter what number you try to think off, they all blur together. Itâs like something is moving in the corner of your eyes, not entirely out of your sight, but enough for you to not recognize its shapes.
âTwo thousand- something, something.â, you answer and her head snaps up so suddenly that it makes your heart jump. She almost bumps against your nose, if you hadnât flinched away just in time.
âExcuse me?â All gazes are boring into you and you faintly remember having a nightmare once where a crowd had stared you down. Obviously, itâs unfortunate that you canât remember the exact year, but itâs not like you are too far off or anything.
âItâs 1899.â
Laughter bubbles up within your chest. Surely, that must be a joke! But when you look at every single face, you canât find any hint towards it. Theyâre all dead serious and a shiver runs down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps.
âItâs normal that youâre still confused. Donât worry about it, alright?â, Abigail says, having noticed the terror spreading in your features. She adjusts the blanket, much like a mother would for a child. Meanwhile the others are avoiding your eyes. All this talking has left you exhausted to the bones and your limbs grow heavy. Even breathing becomes tiring and when someone tells you to get more rest, you canât place the voice. But they donât have to tell you twice.
Even if you would try to fight it, shadows creep closer from the edge of your vision. They seep into your skin and nestle themselves by your bones. With a mouth full of cotton and a head made out of clay, you sink back into the flattened pillow. They all leave one by one or maybe you just tune them out, you donât know. Â
âI told you itâs a bad idea to keep her.â, you hear a man say, before passing out.
---
You donât know when you wake up again, but itâs still bright outside or maybe itâs bright again. With the way your body feels like a lump of molten metal, itâs not too far-fetched to assume a day or two have passed since your conversation with Dutch. Their words swirl inside your head and you shiver at the memory.
You canât come to terms with it, surely this is all a joke. A TV show must be behind all this, drugging and kidnapping you and trying to convince you that you traveled back in time. There must be an audience right about now, watching you through the cameras and taking a piss.
Only that you donât remember ever signing anything to allow them toâŚwell, drug and kidnap and convince you that you traveled back in time. That is when you remember Francis and his house. Francis, your time traveler friend, with weird gadgets and all sorts of trinkets. He never really explained how he travels, only that he can.
 An image of a cylinder flashes before your inner eye and you groan as searing pain cuts through your skull. That thing- that device. Could it be that this is what he uses? Did you accidentally manage to land in the past?
Dread crashes down on you and suddenly, the blanket becomes too heavy. Quickly, you push it back and sit up, ignoring how the world spins from this one simple act. It tips like a plate balancing on the edge of a table and you almost drop with it. Somewhere in the distance, you hear John speak your name and asking you something.
The question doesnât reach you. You fear that nothing might, and so you pay him no mind. With the flimsy walls closing in on you, you stumble towards the door and rip it open. A gust hits you in the face and you instantly regret your decision.
In a matter of seconds, pain scorches your fingers and toes and a choked back noise tears from your throat. You pick up a blanket, the one that Abigail promised to bring you, and wrap it tightly around yourself.
âWhat do you think youâre doing?â, John asks, finally reaching you.
âI need fresh air.â
âNot like this, you donât!â
But youâre on your way out once again already. As you pass through the cabin, you begin to notice the lack of outlets, light switches, anything to prove youâre still where youâre supposed to be. Facing the cold with an additional layer over your clothes, you march through the snow. It drenches your socks, wrapping around your feet like hands from the other side.
 For a brief moment, your breath catches in your throat and your eyes snap down to make sure nothing is there. That nothing is pulling you down. You canât explain the cocktail of dread and paranoia frothing within you since you woke up the first time. They lap at the walls of your consciousness like waves at a lifeboat. Drinking up your surroundings, you notice that all the remaining cabins all share the same marks of age and neglect.
They as well show no signs of a modern, familiar touch. This entire place looks like it jumped straight out of a black and white photograph or a scene from an old western movie.  Nobody follows you outside. John is in no condition to rush out of his bed and the othersâŚyou donât know. Now that you think about it, you canât tell if there are more people around, perhaps in the other buildings.
Not wanting to run into anyone, you scurry towards what looks like a half standing stable. One half is completely demolished and itâs tough to tell whether it was by time or hands. The sound of huffs and neighing reaches your ears and you vanish behind a wall, slipping inside. At first glance, the stable looks to be abandoned with only the horses to keep you company.
Just as you hoped. But then you notice something on one of the pillars and you round it, careful to keep a generous distance. Ropes snake around the wood, fastened with thick knots that look like they need a sharp knife in order to loosen. That is when you spot what theyâre supposed to keep tied up. A man.
Clasping both hands over your mouth to stifle a yelp and the blanket almost slides off your shoulders. The man spots you at the same time, eyes wide and filled with terror.
âWho are you? What will you do to me?â, he asks, the words shooting out his mouth so quickly that your still dazed mind barely comprehends them.
âWhy would I do anything to you? Who are you? Why are you-?â You leave the question open.
Something shifts in his face, lighting up as if he solved a puzzle and suddenly, he becomes even more frantic than before.
âAre you saying you ainât one of âem?â The urgency in his voice unsettles you. The longer this conversation goes on, the weaker you grow. You feel like one of the women in these old, classic novels who faint from the smallest of reasons. To avoid falling over like a plank, you seek support by one of the ruined walls. After it creaks suspiciously under your weight, you quickly jump an arm-length away.
âOne of who?â With your patience running thin and the desperation to find out what the hell is going on here choking you, you dare take a step closer.
âYou need to get me out of here. Theyâre- theyâre insane!â
His panic, naked and wild, seeps into you and you straighten your back like a candle. The small hairs on the back of your neck stand up and suddenly being out in socks is one of the last things you worry about. It takes a good moment for your brain to process what heâs saying, either from your poor state or because of the ridiculousness of the situation.
âDid they kidnap you?â, you whisper, your own voice sounding foreign to your ears. You never believed that a time would come where you would ask this question in earnest.
âYes!â
Blood running cold, worse than when you passed out in the middle of nowhere, you jump forward and fumble with the rope. Pushing your fingers underneath, you tug at the knots until your fingers scream and when that fails, you scratch at it with bleeding nails. Itâs futile. Your body is too rigid from cold and you lack all strength. Itâs a miracle that you even got this far.
âPlease, hurry, please!â, he hisses through gritted teeth, sounding more desperate than a coyote caught with one leg in a trap. The added pressure doesnât do you any favors. With hands on fire and stiff muscles, you donât stand a chance against the rope.
âHey! You!â, someone roars by the entrance and you whip your body around to face the source. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
Itâs a large man with a thick beard and a scowl edged so deep into his features that one might reckon he was born with it. Fast and menacing, he stomps in your direction and you back away like a cornered animal. One punch, youâre certain of that, and your brains would cover the floor. Maybe you wonât even earn a beating, given how his hand twitches by the holstered gun at his side.
His gaze snaps to the tied-up man, who immediately squirms with fright under the sudden attention. Taking the moment of distraction, you will your legs to move and swiftly slip past them. Though your absence doesnât go by unnoticed and he yells after you. Fury soaks his voice and you only speed up. Stumbling through the snow and slowly losing your feeling in both legs, you miss the flash of blue in the corner of your eyes.
Mr. Morgan seems to materialize out of nowhere, as he enters your line of sight and catches you by your shoulders. Breaking free is impossible, with his grip like iron, stronger than the bonds around that poor feller in the stable. Shoving, writhing and punching, you refuse to give up and let yourself be taken that easily. The blanket slides off in the process and pools around your ankles. You size up his nose, bracing yourself to bite it off, if you must.
âWhat were you thinkinâ going out like this in the cold?â, he exclaims, eyes trailing over your clothes that have a layer of snow stuck to them again already.
âLet go of me!â
âGoddammit, Bill, what did you do to her?â, Mr. Morgan yells in a strained voice, busy keeping you in his arms. You notice how he doesnât pull you too close, probably having caught wind of how youâre gawking at his face.
âI caught her tryinâ to free the OâDriscoll!â
âWhat?â He shakes you roughly by your shoulders, the anger in his eyes burning brighter than the sun. âJesus, woman, will you calm down?â
âYouâre criminals!â, you shriek. âYou kidnapped a man!â
âListen.â, he hisses, obviously struggling to avoid raising his voice. âI ainât gonna lie to you now. Weâre bad people, yes. We did take that bastard and tie him up, but thatâs because- well, itâs a long story.â
âWhat will you do to me?â
âNothing.â
âAnd how am I supposed to know that youâre telling the truth?â
He stares at you for a long time, hard and cold.
âYou canât.â
Well, heâs telling the truth regarding this at least. Something stirs in the back of your mind, a memory so insignificant that you canât recall more than the most basic images. Itâs an article. No, a paper maybe? It doesnât really matter anyways, the content being what sticks out to you the most. It was about the 1880s and 1890s, back when banks and stagecoaches were robbed and outlaws were present around every corner. A name flickers before your inner eye and you could whack yourself for not recognizing it sooner.
Thinking of Dutch and his introduction, it really should have clicked inside your brain. The fog still hasnât entirely lifted, but your mind is running laps now. Van Der Linde. It glares at you, as clear as day, as daunting as the barrel of a shotgun. And then Mr. Morgan, one of the most wanted men in the history of the wild west. You remember his wanted poster that was attached to the article, remember the words that were written on it in thick, bold letters.
DO NOT APPROACH.
Recognition floods your face, you can see it in the reflection of his blue-green eyes that burn into your mind like hot iron.
âI-â, you start, but quickly shut your mouth, unable to find a good way to talk yourself out of this situation, let alone look for the right words. How does one react to meeting a thief and killer, to be trapped in his hold? His face is all the proof you needed to convince you in the end. You did travel to the past after all. There is no denying it anymore.
âWould someone be so kind as to enlighten me of what all this fuss is about?â, a familiar voice booms behind you and your heart drops straight into your boots like a rock into water. Itâs Dutch. Dutch Van Der Linde.
âI caught this new girl snoopinâ around the stable! She tried settinâ that OâDriscoll free!â, the man who chased you earlier shouts, face beet red from either the cold or madness.
âThat so?â
His dark eyes find yours, fixing you. A question lies inside them, but he doesnât seem as upset as the others. On the contrary, it seems as if the kindness he directed at you earlier has never left. With a flick of his wrist, he signals Mr. Morgan to follow him and apparently to bring you along, because his fingers are digging into your arm, as he drags you after him.
âGet her into the cabin and in front of the fire, son. This is no weather for someone who went through what she did.â, Dutch orders and though he sounds like your savior in this situation, you refuse to lull yourself into a sense of safety just yet.
Inside, Mr. Morgan finally letâs go of you and pulls a chair out and in front of the lit fireplace. Rubbing your tender skin, you flinch. That brute must have left bruises on your arm after squeezing you like that. If he wasnât known as the DO NOT APPROACH type, you might have given him a piece of your mind for this harsh treatment. Itâs not like you pose a genuine threat in your current state.
Dutch takes a seat right across from you and you spot movement behind him. A woman peaks around the corner, a few red hair strands sticking out of the green scarf wrapped around her head. Her features soften when she beholds your shivering form and you lean closer towards the fire.
âI apologize for the behavior of my friends.â, Dutch starts, glancing in Mr. Morganâs direction. It was only for a split second, but the intention was clear. He doesnât condone what happened. âIt was truly unfortunate.â
Unfortunate doesnât nearly capture it, but you bite your tongue.
âThat being said, I assure you that we mean you no harm, Miss. You have my word.â
Arms crossed in front of your chest, you contemplate whether his word is worth anything. You tug your hands under your armpits to warm them up.
âAlright.â, is all what you utter instead, not wanting to start an argument with a known criminal.
âMy offer still stands. You may stay for as long as you like with us.â He straightens his back, not breaking eye contact. âNow, I ainât saying that weâre good people. Weâre not. But we arenât all bad either. For as long as you stay with us, youâll be safe.â
âDutch.â, Mr. Morgan chimes in, clearly unhappy about all this. The older man shoots him a piercing look.
âIâm certain that our guest will stay out of trouble from now on, ainât that so?â
It takes you a short moment to realize that the question is directed at you.
âYesâ, you blurt out without thinking much about it. All you want is to leave this cabin, leave these people and time. âIâm sorry forâŚall that. I didnât know thatâŚwhat Iâm trying to say is that-â
Dutchâs lighthearted chuckle interrupts you.
âOf course. I understand.â
Meeting his knowing gaze, you try to swallow down the rising panic within you. Being stuck in 1899, you really have no choice but to stay here. With them. For now, at least. As soon as the first opportunity arises, you will run.
âNow, Arthur, would you please escort her back to her bed? The poor woman is cold enough as it is.â
âOf course, Dutch.â
Before he can touch you, you jump up from your chair, not wanting your limbs to be abused like some stress toy once again. Conflicted, is what you feel as you walk back to the cabin that you share with your apparently criminal roommate. Using the blanket as a shield, you stare ahead and ignore the curiosity of the others that follows you. Only when the door is shut again and Mr. Morgan leaves as well, do you relax. Though Johnâs puzzled gaze bores into you, you slump down onto the bed and turn your back towards him.
HATTT during the entirety of my semester I was desperately awaiting my free time so I could catch up on set in sand and now finally I am free and more than eager to read
I genuinely cant waste any more time ive waited too long ugh
Firstly, I just want to point out again just how gripping your writing style is to me like im always sucked in immediately as soon as I read a first sentence from youu. The way you build scenes truly brings your writing to life and the descriptors you choose just add such a richness that evokes every emotion youre trying to portray perfectly idk idk can you tell I just finished up in a fiction writing class lmao
But for example:
âBefore any of you can utter anything more, the door to the cabin swings open. Whistling of wind rings in your ears and some of the snow is being blown inside as a cloud. Immediately, you pull the blanket higher, up to your chin. That little bit of exposure is enough to leave you shivering uncontrollably. Two men march inside, their heavy boots thumping over the floorboards, each step carrying purpose. With their thick, broad coats, they resemble a pair of bears and you fight back the urge to shrink away. You donât know these people, only that one of them got mauled by who knows what.â <- this entire section stood out to me for a multitude of reasons but mainly for the way that I could quite literally feel that biting wind and the uncertainty from reader
oh I already love the confusion when reader asks if thereâs reception up there, I have so much to catch up on and I just know Iâm gonna have a blast when it comes to reader mentioning things from modern times Iâm so ecstatic I seriously canât wait
also im so intrigued by how reader is reacting to her surroundings as she begins to piece everything together, this is why this fic concept has always drawn me in because the fact that she didnât willing time travel and now she has to not only find a way back to the modern world but she also has to adapt to this specific era she didnât even want to come to in the first place ITS SO COOL and its playing out just as coolly
the part where she was untying Kieran had me so stressed I just knew someone was gonna catch herđ
Okay I must also say that you characterize everyone so well you dont even have to name them I can just tell from your descriptions whoâs who I LOVE THIS
âItâs an article. No, a paper maybe? It doesnât really matter anyways, the content being what sticks out to you the most. It was about the 1880s and 1890s, back when banks and stagecoaches were robbed and outlaws were present around every corner. A name flickers before your inner eye and you could whack yourself for not recognizing it sooner. Thinking of Dutch and his introduction, it really should have clicked inside your brain. The fog still hasnât entirely lifted, but your mind is running laps now. Van Der Linde. It glares at you, as clear as day, as daunting as the barrel of a shotgun. And then Mr. Morgan, one of the most wanted men in the history of the wild west. You remember his wanted poster that was attached to the article, remember the words that were written on it in thick, bold letters. DO NOT APPROACH. Recognition floods your face, you can see it in the reflection of his blue-green eyes that burn into your mind like hot iron.â <- i just really like this part and how reader comes to this conclusion by recognizing Arthur
And honestly im kinda obsessed with john and readerâs dynamic idk they didnt interact too much but theres something about the way john is talking to her that just makes me think they could become friends at a point??? Possiblyđ¤ or theyâll hate each other and Iâll love it either way
BUT anyways this chapter was just as good as the first and of course im loving it so far. From reader realizing what year shes in to her now looking at everyone differently because she knows theyre outlaws IM SO INVESTED i cant wait to catch up on all this and see where you took everything from here! Its so good hat im so happy to finally have time to read this