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#arthur morgan x oc
nataliabdraws · 2 days
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not if it’s you
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readingcoco · 2 months
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Painted Red 🖤
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)
Words: 3444 words
Ao3 Link
Summary: When a new sandy-haired Deputy Sheriff arrives in town, you can't figure out why he gives you and the other Working Girls so little attention. It becomes your mission to figure him out and hopefully make some money along the way.
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Warnings: 18+ minors dni, eventual smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honor Arthur Morgan, angst, mutual pining, Deputy Callahan.
Thanks to @rivetingrosie4, @redwritr & @shootybangbang for all your help on this story and for being dreamy angels.
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Chapter One - The Deputy
“Guess who’s downstairs!” a voice interrupts from behind your door. 
The autumn sun sits heavy in the sky, casting a warm pink haze that spills in through your bedroom window. You were supposed to start your shift an hour ago, but instead, you are here, sprawled out on your bed, hair undone, counting the money from the evening before. Muffled notes from the piano downstairs drift softly into your room. You inhale deeply on your cigarette, resenting all things that pull you away from these precious sleepy moments before you have to head downstairs. Make conversation. Smile. Perform.
Timekeeping has never been your strong suit, and you have lost count of the times Lulu had threatened to dock your tips for tardiness. These were empty threats, of course. You knew your position was secure - Even if Lulu liked to kick up a fuss in front of the other girls. 
Brow furrowed, you take another drag from your cigarette. $15. $75 total from the week so far. Money hadn’t been flowing as freely as it had done seasons past. The drought had hit everyone hard, and you knew, sure enough, if the boys were feeling it in the tobacco fields, it wouldn’t be long till you were feeling it in the cat house, too. Seemed everyone was praying for rain. Still, Saturday meant full pay packets and men eager to let loose after the working week - something you were more than happy to help them with.
“Who!?” you call out, just as Minnie peeps her head around your door.
“Christ! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge ass backwards! Lulu’s been askin' after you?” 
You hum in response, dragging a comb through the bird's nest atop your head sweeping it up into a loose bun. “Who's got you all giddy? Surely not some John?”
“That new Deputy’s back!”
You roll your eyes. “How big’s the pot now?”
“$5. $5.25, if you still fancy your chances”, Minnie smirks, perching herself at the foot of your bed, watching as you put the last of your face on. “but Ida says she’s out. She don’t wanna waste more time on a Trick who don’t want tricking.” 
“Tricks always want to be tricked,” you say, rooting through the collection of bills and coins laid out haphazardly across your bed, handing Minnie 25¢, which she slips into her coin purse.
Men were mostly the same. Sure, some might pretend to be respectable in the streets with their wives or taking their mothers to church on a Sunday, but you’d had every colour and creed between your legs. This deputy would be no different, and you were going to relish claiming the prize pot for yourself. 
With a final drag of your cigarette, you smooth out your skirts and collect the pile of money on your bed, stashing it in your linen drawer - making a mental note to deposit it in the parlour safe before the night was out. Keeping that much money in your room is foolish, and if you were more sensible, you would deposit your tips between each John. But then you’d miss out on watching the pile grow. Evidence of your labour, your time, your craft. It wasn't like you worried you wouldn’t get it back as soon as requested - Lulu’d always been good about things like that, but to hand it over before you’d even had the chance to feel the paper fully in your palm seemed like it would make it less real somehow. 
You turn to Minnie-
“You ready?”
“Girl, I’ve been waiting on you!”
“Let’s give that deputy the night of his life.”
-
Although the sun is yet to set in the sky, the house is already live with music and laughter, the mezzanine balcony providing the perfect vantage point to assess what the evening might have in store. There are men fresh from the fields playing Faro, Lemoyne Raiders several whiskeys deep, a few of the younger, more boisterous Grays and the creepy gunsmith, Mister Feeney. Not amazing pickings, but not dire either. Then you spot him, sitting quietly on the table closest to the door, hat pulled low, scribbling something furiously into some book. An odd sight, all considered. You weren’t sure most of the men in this town could read, let alone write. 
Minnie squeezes your arm before descending the spiralled staircase, the Deputy firmly in her sights. You lean back to watch as she glides effortlessly across the room—a vision in teal silk taffeta. 
As you settle onto your hip, the fine hairs on your neck abruptly stand to attention as the air pressure changes behind you. 
“So kind of you to grace us with your presence.” Lulu’s voice drips thick with syrupy disdain. Smile remaining tight. Never in front of the guests.
“Punctuality is a virtue of the bored, Miss Lulu.” You smile sweetly. 
She’s not impressed.
“Just get to work. Make Some Money.” 
As you look back down to the floor below, a dispirited Minnie is walking away from the Deputy, his nose still firmly in his book. You bristle slightly. Did this man think himself better than the women who worked here? Sure, he was paying for drinks, but a man could drink at home if he was looking for solitude. In a parlour house, it was polite, proper even, to tip the girls, whether you require our services or not. And if the deputy didn’t know this etiquette, you were more than happy to educate him. Prize pot be damned.
It was your turn to make the night’s debut down the curve of the parlour’s stairs, something that on an ordinary night, you liked to draw out for as long as possible. Feel the eyes of each man gaze up at your form like they were watching a goddess descending from heaven, blessing them with your time. True power. But tonight, it takes everything in you not to stomp down the last few steps onto the floor. 
That cad still isn’t paying you a lick of attention. 
“Deputy.” Your voice comes out curter than you intend as you reach him. You hope Lulu isn’t close enough to overhear. 
“Maybe another time, Darlin” " the man responds without looking up. 
Make conversation.
“Deputy” You try again. “Are you aware of the price on your head?” 
The sound of pencil scratching comes to a halt as he turns to face you. To your surprise, you notice that he was drawing rather than writing as he snaps the leather-bound book shut—the sound startling your gaze upwards to meet his own. And for the first time, you take in the scale of the man. Built like an Ox with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, upon which the words ‘Deputy Sheriff’ shine out from his silver badge. From this proximity, he looks unlike any lawman you’ve seen. 
He watches you intently as though trying to predict your next move - eyes a piercing shade of azure blue, locked dangerously onto your own. You have his full attention, but now you’re unsure if you want it. 
“Excuse me?”
You swallow and try to make your next words lighter in tone.
Smile.
“Nearly five and a half dollars, in fact.” 
His shoulders loosen ever so slightly. Eyes still on you but less predacious, perhaps even the suggestion of a smirk beginning to form at the corner of his mouth. 
“Five and a half dollars? That’s some bounty. What I do, rob a bank?”
“Worse,” 
He rubs his jaw.
“Oh?” 
“You got five whores questioning our faculties. There’s a sweep on which lucky lady’s gonna be the first to get you upstairs, but so far, no one’s got as far as your name.”  
A low rasp of a laugh passes the Deputy’s lips, and you feel a sense of relief as the danger in the air dissipates. Bluntness- this man responds to bluntness. And you wonder if you can hold his attention long enough to work your magic.
Perform.
“There are normally two reasons a man mightn’t want to lay with a girl like me…” 
You pause for effect, starting to have fun now.
“He’s broke. Though that don’t stop most from pushin’ their luck. Or they’re queer.” 
The Deputy straightens and clears his throat. There is something delightful about making a man like this squirm, and you can’t help but sense that he may be enjoying it too. 
“So which is it, Deputy?” 
You give him your most innocent of smiles. Hand finding purchase upon the swell of his shoulder, knowing full well that its removal could signal the latter of your accusations. You are being cruel now.
There is a moment of hesitation before the man can find the words to respond. Your unassuming smile not giving him an inch of wiggle room. Thumb beginning to make slow circles atop his shirt.
“I-It’s just not really my thing. Payin' for it, I mean. Not that I can’t, or - or-”  
“Oh? There’s some third thing I ain’t privy to? A sweetheart somewhere you’re keeping true for?”
“Not really, no.” 
A hint of regret in his voice.
“Then why deny yourself a bit of company?”
You notice the tips of his ears turn pink and leave his lack of an answer to hang in the air for a moment before taking pity-
“Don’t worry, I’m just teasin’, but you ought to know it’s customary to buy a girl a drink, even if you ain’t planning on laying with her. We all have to make a living, Deputy, and this is my house.” 
And you're not sure if it’s out of a sense of gratitude at you relenting your line of questioning or because he has started to enjoy the warmth from your hand on his shoulder, but that’s when he motions for the barkeeper to bring two drinks over to the table. 
Your eyes dart over to Minnie, who is sat between two Grays. She throws you an encouraging wink, and you become keenly aware of the four other sets of eyes watching too. This is the furthest any of you has got with this man, and a wave of responsibility washes over you. You are going to earn that $5.25 plus the additional $5 when he fucks you. You feel foolish for ever doubting your ability in the first place. A man is a man, is a man.
“Ethel White”, you hold out your hand “but call me Ettie.” 
“Arthur Callahan.” 
Arthur.
He nods to the chair across from him as he removes the leather book from the table and puts it away in his satchel. You pull out the chair next to him instead, purposefully pinning him between you and the wall. 
“Christ woman, you ain’t coy, are you?” he laughs, removing his hat, revealing a sandy crop of hair. 
Without his hat, you are better able to take in the details of his face: the strong brow, the crook of a nose broken one too many times, a smattering of sunspots across his crown. Quite handsome, you think to yourself, a welcome change from the interchangeable looks of the Grays or Braithwaites who make up the bulk of your clientele. 
“Not at all,” you smirk. “Besides, I want to take a look at what you were scribbling away at in that book. Must be awfully interesting to hold your attention so well.” You glance down at the journal now peeking out the top of his satchel. “Is that watercolour paper?”
“Huh?” 
“Watercolour paper, you know, to stop the paint seeping through and spoiling the rest of the pages? I saw you were drawing and-” 
He looks at you then, and you can see a slight flicker of shame cross his face momentarily. The feeling of someone pointing out the unfamiliar to a previously known thing, changing it somehow, making it less your own. You feel guilty. Watching him squirm was fun, but you never intended to make him feel foolish. 
“I don’t paint. It’s for sketching mostly, keepin' track of the people and places I’ve been.” 
“You do a lot of travelling, Deputy?” 
“A bit.” 
That instinct again, that there is more to this man than meets the eye. The lawman artist a walking contradiction.
“What do you paint then?” 
His question catches you off guard. Men like to be asked about themselves. They rarely ever show interest in you. A prick of heat flushes across your cheeks, and you hope the rouge of false abashment covers its authentic companion. It’s you who is in control here - not him, goddammit. But his face is filled with genuine curiosity, like he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t interested, and that’s what puzzles you further. 
“Um, landscapes mostly, but I prefer painting people.” The words spill out before a filter of allurement or double entendre can be applied. “It’s just difficult to get people to sit for any length of time. Though I’ve painted all the girls here at some point or another.”
“Where’d ya learn?”
And that is a question too far. 
You’d been gifted a great many things over the years, some thoughtful, most not, and learned the hard way how easily something given could be taken away. You’re art though, no one could take that. You wondered sometimes if that had been an oversight when you’d been promised lessons. The techniques acquired the only remaining thing worth a damn apart from your horse. Leftovers from another life.
“Don’t change the subject, Deputy. Are you going to show me your sketches or not?” Before you can stop yourself, you are leaning over him to grab at his satchel, totally aware that the danger this man displayed to you only moments earlier still lies just below the surface. With lightning-quick reflexes, he grabs the wrist of your right hand, firm in his warning. Do not push me, girl. But you have never been one to know when to stop. Your eyes are locked onto him as your breath comes in quick and heavy to your chest; You notice his start to slow. He’s read you like a book. Left hand spearing from under the table to meet your secondary attack, pinning it against his thigh. 
You look down at your fingers splayed out under the weight of his own. Knuckles scarred and calloused from a lifetime of work not typically required by law enforcement. The warmth from his thigh radiates beneath your palm, and it takes everything in you not to edge your fingers closer to the source of his heat. 
He meets you with an expression you struggle to place. Not anger - though you couldn’t blame him if it was. Amusement maybe?
“Think careful about your next move now, Miss. I wouldn't want to have to arrest you for larceny.”
You give him your widest of smiles and look carefully over your shoulder behind you. And as though suddenly clocking the inference of your shared position, Arthur lowers your right hand so it rests on the table rather than in the air. The grip still firm.
“If I let you go, will you behave?” 
“Will you show me your drawings?” 
“Woman-” But he doesn’t say no. 
“I’ll behave.” 
He looks at you, trying to figure out whether he trusts you.
“I promise.”
Gaze still set, he experiments loosening the grip on your wrist and then shadows the hand on his thigh - awaiting any sudden movements. You hold still. And for a moment, you see him grapple with himself as though he can’t quite believe what he is about to do. He releases you fully, and you take back your right hand, leaving your left firmly in place.  
“Now, if I show you, you gotta promise not to go grabbin'? There’s stuff a man should be able to keep private.” 
You nod.
He grins as he bucks his thigh, dislodging your rooted palm. 
“Hands behind your back.” 
With a playful huff you acquiesce, putting both arms behind you as though bound and look back at him coquettishly. And although he feigns disinterest at the way this new position pushes forward the peak of your chest, you catch his eyes dart across them, guilty in their haste. 
He removes the leather-bound journal from his satchel, smoothing open two pages carefully on the table. 
“Here. But that’s your lot.”
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Spread across both pages is a beautifully rendered sketch of the parlour’s exterior, and you don’t know how to react. He stiffens slightly beside you. 
“Just a silly doodle,” he says, moving to close the book. Clearly reading your quietness for disappointment, disgust, something else?
“Wait-” 
To see the parlour captured in such effortless detail; The ornate carvings of the porch where you take your morning coffee, the Virginia Creeper that had to be cut back for fear it’d engulf the entire house, the hanging baskets of petunias that Lulu so lovingly tended to - feels exposing in a way you’d not expected. What other unnoticed minutiae had his perceptive eyes picked up on?
“It’s beautiful. You’ve captured it just right.” You half-whisper.
“Ain’t as good as a paintin’.”
“Different thing entirely, but if you can draw like this, I’m sure you’d make a fine painter.”
He gives you the smallest of smiles as you catch sight of Lulu’s permeating glare as she sweeps down the central staircase. You are on the clock. If he’s not biting, move on. And you remember you are not here to discuss painting or art unless it serves your more explicit purpose.
“See that top window at the back?” You make sure to graze his arm as you remove one hand from behind your back, bringing it slowly to the open page.
“That’s my bedroom.” 
“Oh?”
“Might you like to come up and see some of my work?”
You can see him contemplating the thought over in his mind, and you start to wonder if there really is some poor woman he is betrothed to… or perhaps your prior insinuation was correct, for you have never met a man so ill at ease at being in close proximity to a woman-
“Mister Callahan!” 
You are both pulled away from each other's gaze as you turn to face your intruder. Sheriff Gray. And you are up and on your feet in an instant. Eyes twinkling with faux excitement to welcome this invader of fun, spoiler of all things delightful and new. Arthur straightens to attention. 
“I see you’ve met Ettie. Ain’t she a peach? I hope she’s been treatin’ you with all the hospitality we here at Rhodes can offer.” As he slurs his words, it is clear he’s already halfway soaked and once again, you feel Lulu’s watchful eyes on the back of your neck. You have a responsibility to your house, and Sheriff Gray isn’t any regular John. To keep him placated is to keep the house protected, and it is your duty to ensure the Sheriff remains happy and drunk, coddled and empty. 
“Oh, stop it!” You coo in his ear, wrapping your arm up tightly in his. Voice layered thick with honey.
The shine on his breath hits like a train, bringing tears to your eyes that you mask by nuzzling your head to his shoulder. He sags heavy on your hip, oblivious. 
“You didn’t tell me you’d hired such a handsome new Deputy-'' 
Arthur shifts in his seat, and you wonder what detail of your performance his observant eyes have picked up on. 
“You keepin’ secrets from me, Sheriff? Or do you just want me all to yourself?” 
“I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.” Sheriff Gray hiccups and turns to face Arthur. “Do you mind if I accompany the lady upstairs?” 
Arthur stands, towering over the Sheriff by quite some measure and places his hat back atop his head. 
“Course not. You both enjoy your evening. I’ve to be headin' back anyway.”
For a second, your eyes meet Arthur’s, but his expression is impenetrable. The Sheriff speaks again.
“Safe travels, Deputy. Rhodes is honoured to have such honest men like you and Mr Mackintosh about. Your work rootin’ out that shine is already being felt around the county.”
Arthur nods. The effects of the shine are certainly being felt.
He hiccups again. “Don’t be a stranger, now.” 
“Don’t be a stranger.” You repeat, all traces of the sickly sweet affect gone from your voice. You yip as the Sheriff swats your backside, but you keep your head high, eyes still held on this curious lawman artist. 
Don’t be a stranger.
“Miss.” Deputy Callahan touches the brim of his hat as you lead Sheriff Gray upstairs to your room.
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morning-star-joy · 5 months
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when men like you come around masterlist
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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC!Ethel
Summary: One of the most important lessons Ethel Taylor was taught in life was when you meet a bad man, pull the trigger and run. She's done it before, and she's ready to do it again when she crosses paths with outlaw Arthur Morgan. But something stays her hand, and when she ends up as the newest addition to the Van der Linde gang, they quickly become thorns in each other's sides, up until they're the only two that can pull off a big job posing as a doting, newlywed couple.
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of a past abusive relationship (emotional & physical abuse), mentions of murder. Rivals to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, lots of sass from both Arthur & Ethel. High Honor!Arthur with some Medium Honor vibes. Ethel POV written in second person, Arthur POV written in third person.
Chapters:
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
(more chapters TBD)
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“You alright, Miss?” he asked, his voice a rough drawl.
You glanced from him towards the lawman that had been hot on your trail and shooting at you a moment before, now dead weight dragged far away along the dirt by a limp foot still caught in a stirrup, Lord knowing who would find him and what mayhem would follow.
“You just killed a lawman,” you said, looking back towards the man currently not pointing a gun at you, and so for just the moment, you didn’t point yours at him.
His worn hat was perched on his head to protect from the blaring sun, black brim covering his eyes, but you swore that you saw a twitch of his lips before he shifted in his saddle, glancing behind him towards where you had left the other dead body in the dust, before the man turned back and replied matter-of-factly, “So did you.”
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Ethel & Arthur art by my wife @cowboycyns
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shittybundaskenyer · 8 months
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cherries and strawberry wine <3
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artnevoa · 7 months
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I love drawing them arguing apparently
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cassietrn · 18 days
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❛  god ,  you’re  beautiful -  ❜ + [mark] -> your choice of ship <3
This prompt has been in my drafts for a while 😅 But I was so focused on my WIPs that it stayed on hold the whole time. And the words didn't come. So I sincerely hope that you like this little story 💛
This story is prohibited for minors 🔞 | High honor Arthur Morgan, virgin OC, smut, cunnilingus (Arthur is really talented 👀)
Divider by @saradika-graphics
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The taste of paradise
Eleanor continued through the trees, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her. It was a real miracle that she had managed to slip through the camp without being spotted by Miss Grimshaw. The camp manager always seemed to know when one of the girls wasn't at work. How many times had she caught Mary-Beth reading, hidden in a corner ? Or Tilly resting for a few moments ? Eleanor considered herself lucky to have managed to slip past her close surveillance to be able to escape for a few moments into the woods that bordered the camp.
While she was doing laundry with Abigail, Eleanor found an unsigned note in the pile of laundry she was taking care of. This little note was undoubtedly from Arthur's hand. She would recognize his handwriting among a thousand. He had a way of writing his letters with an elegance unusual for a man.
Meet me in the forest when you're done. I'm waiting for you. 
She had never done laundry so quickly, and Abigail had noticed it too. However, she had said nothing when Eleanor jumped up before taking her basket and returning to camp, as if the devil was on her trail. Her knowing smile, on the other hand, hadn't gone unnoticed. Eleanor expected her to ask for details when she returned.
Certain that she was now sufficiently far from the camp, Eleanor stopped near a tree with a trunk covered in pretty green moss. Her curious fingers came to touch it and sink into its soft and slightly wet thickness. A few blue jays, with their recognizable cry, sang above her head, passing from branch to branch with a rustling of wings. The young woman raised her head to try to see their beautiful bluish plumage, but all she could see was the foliage moving, letting rays of golden light shine through.
She didn't have time to savor this moment of solitary tranquility because two firm hands delicately came to rest on her hips and a broad and robust chest came to meet her back. Eleanor sighed contently and let her head fall back to nestle against Arthur's shoulder. Her own hands came to cover Arthur's larger ones and the pads of her fingers mapped every vein and tendon beneath his skin.
"It took you a long time," he muttered, leaning towards her ear, the rough hairs of his beard scratching her jugular.
"Patience is the mother of virtue, Arthur," Eleanor murmured, closing her eyes, letting herself be overwhelmed by his scent, by his hands and his powerful body against her, and by his warm breath caressing her skin.
"I'm not virtuous, little lady. You should know..."
The corner of Eleanor's mouth turned up in a mischievous smile as she opened her eyes and tilted her head to meet his gaze.
"Then maybe you should find Reverend Swanson instead. He gives beautiful sermons for those who take the time to listen to him."
The hands on her hips became firmer, pulling her a little closer to silence her. Eleanor felt a blush furiously heat her cheeks as she realized how perfectly their bodies fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle. More particularly at their hips.
"I was kind of hoping you could teach me, Eleanor."
The way his voice had dropped an octave made her gasp. And the way the syllables of her name had slipped out of his mouth... It was as intoxicating as wine.
"Say my name again, Arthur," she whispered in a plea, raising one of her hands to touch his face.
Arthur's eyelids closed briefly at the contact.
"Eleanor…"
"Again."
"Eleanor."
Overcome by a sudden hunger for each other, their lips soon met in an impatient and awkward kiss, where their frustration and their desire for the other were expressed. Eleanor moaned against his slightly chapped lips, happy to finally be able to free herself from the constraints of being constantly surrounded and watched, and of not being able to touch Arthur as she wanted. And he seemed to have the same feeling. The hands on her hips were so firm that she was sure she would keep the marks on his fingers for a few days. It didn't matter. She wanted these marks, this reminder of this rare and fleeting moment.
They separated briefly so they could catch their breath. Eleanor took the opportunity to turn towards him to face him and press herself a little more against his body. Then their mouths sealed again. Their kiss was surer, more greedy, more feverish. Encouraged by the rumbles that vibrated Arthur's chest, Eleanor let her tongue caress his lips in a sensual call, tracing their outline with skill. She wanted more. He didn't resist and opened his mouth.
When their tongues met, Eleanor let herself be overwhelmed by the torrent of desire that bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Tasting Arthur, letting the aromas of whiskey and tobacco excite her senses brought an uncontrolled moan from her, so shameless that it would have made her blush under other circumstances. She sank slightly against him, her hands on his chest, dizzy from this overflow of sensations.
Without her noticing, Arthur gently forced her back and her back soon encountered the trunk of the tree in front of which she had stopped.
She was now a prisoner of his arms and his mouth.
"Damn Eleanor…" he muttered, moving away a few millimeters, his breath trembling. "Damn..."
His teeth came to nibble on her lips while his hands let go of her hips to grip her buttocks through her skirt and bring her closer to him. Suddenly, Eleanor became aware of the hard shape rubbing against her pubis. Long and rather thick.
"Arthur, what… what are you doing ?" she choked, suddenly becoming frightened.
The latter moved his face away to look at her better, his blue-green eyes shone with a glimmer of incomprehension. His rough palms slid from her buttocks to cup her cheeks. The captivating bubble in which they had taken refuge had just burst.
"Ar… Arthur, I… I didn’t…"
Red with shame, she lowered her eyes, unable to clearly formulate what she wanted to confess to him. Arthur forced her to raise her face.
"I know," he said simply. "And…"
His gaze became hesitant.
"I don't want to hurt you, Eleanor. Nor scare you. We can stop if... if you don't want to..."
"Is that what interests you about me, Arthur ?" the young woman asked fearfully, trying to keep her eyes on him, even though shame and fear of reading what she feared made her lower her head.
Arthur's thumbs gently rubbed her cheekbones as his eyes bore into hers.
"Of course I want to make love with you, Eleanor. It's not just a stunt like that. I wish I could make love to you the way you deserve. You... The fact that you're a virgin isn't what attracts me to you. You're... You're much more than that to me."
His forehead soon came to press against hers. Eleanor breathed softly at this contact and let herself be overcome by serenity. Arthur's words were the balm she needed. He wasn't Cornwall. He loved her for who she was, not what her body had to offer. He loved her because she was her, not because she was a virgin.
"You're the annoying and haughty little lady who arrived in this gang without knowing what she was getting into," Arthur continued in a low voice, the tip of his nose now brushing hers. "You're the one who irritates me the most and yet makes me want to see you all the time. You're the one who understood me the most when I lost Boadicea. Damn Eleanor, you're…"
The words caught in his throat. Eleanor felt her hands tremble imperceptibly against her skin. His cheeks began to slowly turn pink. He took a deep breath.
"I love you."
Eleanor thought her heart had stopped beating. Her lips parted in surprise but unable to utter a single word, she just stared at Arthur, knowing however that it was an impolite attitude.
Seeing that she didn't react, thinking she was rejecting him with her silence, Arthur let go of her and stepped back, the brim of his hat hiding his gaze.
"Sorry, I don’t know what happened to me…"
Eleanor's hands shot out towards him and closed on his shirt to pull him towards her. Then she crushed her lips against his, earning a confused squeak from him.
"Don’t go," she stammered against his mouth in a rushed voice. "This is the most beautiful statement anyone has ever made to me."
She tilted her face so that she was looking him straight in the eyes. Not without trembling, feeling intimidated to reveal her most intimate thoughts, she admitted :
"I love you too, Arthur Morgan !"
The jays continued to sing above them, continuing to move from branch to branch in an endless ballet. She and Arthur looked at each other without saying anything. Finally, he leaned towards her. Eleanor closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers like a feather and drifted to the corner of her mouth and the base of her jaw. Her skin warmed pleasantly where his lips rested, where his hurried breath escaped and tickled her.
"Arthur," she breathed, throwing her head back to expose her throat to his increasingly ardent and urgent kisses.
His large, firm hands came to rest around her waist, lighting a fire in her lower abdomen. Eleanor's cheeks turned scarlet as her lips parted to let out a silent moan. She felt Arthur smile against her collarbone. He placed one last kiss before pulling away to look at her.
"Do you trust me ?"
"Yes," Eleanor replied in a breath, her chest heaving in a jerky rhythm.
To her great astonishment, Arthur knelt in front of her, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. He took off his hat and placed it carefully beside him. Unable to resist, Eleanor let her hand get lost in his thick blond hair.
"One word from you, and I'll stop everything, sweetheart."
The novelty of the nickname as well as his terribly evocative position made her sex shudder shamefully. Arthur smiled, as if he had guessed. Carefully, he lifted her skirt. Still keeping a close eye on her to make sure she hadn't changed her mind, his fingers came to play with the edge of her bloomers, testing the waters. Then, ever so gently, he slid the underwear down her legs. Eleanor lifted her legs in turn to help him remove it completely and blushed as she felt wetness between her thighs. She didn't know if it was the dampness of Lemoyne's air or her own excitement that made her skin feel sticky.
Arthur held out the edge of her skirt to free his hands. With his palms placed on her thighs, he spread them without the slightest abruptness, and Eleanor saw his hungry gaze immediately rest on the flower of her femininity, hidden under a fine dark curly hair. Shivers ran through her skin when he raised his head.
Completely captivated by these large ocean eyes with dilated pupils, Eleanor leaned a little more against the tree. Arthur appreciated her languor. He leaned carefully between her legs, his eyes still anchored on hers, and she soon felt the tips of his lips brush against her burning heart. Her breath caught in her chest as he felt the heat of his breath falling on her sex.
"God…" she said in a panting breath, her jaw trembling with anticipation.
But he didn't touch her. Not really. Just enough to fuel her need to feel him on her. His mouth drifted down her upper thigh, placing kisses here and there, his beard leaving tingles in its wake. When he got a little too close, he moved away to come back better, his kisses becoming more and more sloppy, as his desire grew, no longer allowing him to resist his desire to place his lips where he wanted them most.
Finally, he touched her. As soon as his mouth was on her, Arthur let out a moan of relief, the same way a man takes his first sip of water after a long journey through the desert. His beard caressed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, causing pleasant shivers. Eleanor's body arched in front of this unknown but intoxicating pleasure. She found herself thrusting her hips forward, seeking more contact, more kisses. She felt Arthur smile against her femininity before eagerly responding to her demand.
The fear left her and she abandoned herself entirely to the man between her thighs. His tongue began to play between her folds
and Eleanor felt her sex tighten around nothing.
"God, you're beautiful," Arthur murmured, his lips barely brushing against her throbbing intimacy. "You don't know what you're doing to me, sweetheart. Oh no, Eleanor... You don't know..."
With these words, he dove back between her legs and his tongue went back to work, licking this secret place with hunger. A moan rose in Eleanor's throat and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to prevent it from coming out, risking warning the entire camp of what they were doing. She didn't really want to face the knowing looks of Sean and Karen, the embarrassed looks of Hosea or Lenny. Or Micah's libidinous one.
Arthur's tongue became more insistent on a very particular spot, and the pulsations became deeper, more exquisite. Eleanor's toes curled in her boots. Her hand slipped from her mouth to rest against the tree behind her, and her nails scraped across the moss and hard bark in a vain attempt to grab onto a rough spot. She needed to hold on to something, she felt her legs trembling under the effect of these strong sensations, of these pressing waves which came to concentrate in a very precise point of her body, where she had always been taught that it was dirty, shameful, impure. She should feel embarrassed for indulging in lust, unmarried, while engaged to another man.
But deep inside her, a certainty had sprouted. None of this was outrageous. Arthur seemed to worship her as if she were the most precious thing he had in this world. The way he looked at her while licking her for the sole purpose of giving her pleasure. This raw desire that darkened his blue-green eyes. The way his mouth moved against her, the way his beard scratched the inside of her thighs every time his jaw moved. Was it really a sin to feel desired and adored by a man who did everything to protect her ? Was it sin to love and be loved ?
With a sudden and firm gesture, Arthur grabbed her left leg and while giving her a deep look, he lifted her to place her on his shoulder, giving him a better angle to suck on that delicious spot, the source of a pleasure she had never experienced before. And this seemed to upset Arthur.
"I want to hear you, Eleanor," he muttered with authority. "Open your mouth."
To force her to give in, he gave another lick with formidable precision. Although accustomed to balancing on one leg thanks to dancing, Eleanor thought she was going to tip over onto her side.
"The others will hear us…"
"I want to hear your first moans of pleasure," Arthur replied, his face still between her thighs, his lips brushing against her intimacy with each word he spoke, sending small waves which were enough to make the young woman tremble, making her needy.
And a little mouse cry escaped her. The rays of the sun which managed to pass between the foliage illuminated Arthur's face and Eleanor could see the black of his pupils engulfing the ocean blue of his eyes which became strangely glassy, ​​as if he were in a daze. The hand holding her thigh in place on his shoulder tightened and his nails dug into her flesh in pleasant pain. Then his rough palm slid along her skin, up to the curve of her buttock and began to feel it passionately. His other hand was quick to release her wrist and follow the same path.
"I have never heard anything so beautiful. More."
His tongue began to drift between the two petals of her intimacy before his lips closed on them to suck them like two treats. Eleanor decided to let go and let herself go. She no longer tried to contain her sighs and in response, Arthur bit her gently.
"More," he repeated, starting to lick her again without the slightest restraint.
His tongue delicately parted her lips, opening them like a flower under the spring sun, then certainly not to rush her, he passed cautiously over her heart several times. Eleanor's moans became strangled and she lowered her head, her eyes wide.
"A-Arthur…"
"It hurts you ?" he asked in an alarmed tone, stopping immediately.
Eleanor raised her hand and buried her fingers in his thick blonde hair in a tender caress.
"No... No it's... It's so good, Arthur," she whispered, shocked by her own audacity in expressing such immodest thoughts. "Please continue. Keep on going. Lick me, please !"
And Arthur obeyed her pleas with a playful growl, his eyes locked on hers. The tip of his tongue flattered her heart with great talent.
Eleanor's thighs were now sweaty, covered in the dew of her growing pleasure. Finally, his tongue passed through the door of her garden.
The hand in Arthur's hair tugged sharply on a handful of strands, extracting from him a hoarse growl similar to that of a predator. His eyebrows furrowed but at no point did he stop his back and forth. On the contrary, he accentuated at a pace difficult to bear for someone who had never experienced such pleasure.
The waves grew bigger and bigger, closer and closer, crashing into Eleanor with such force that she felt herself staggering.
"Ar-Arthur... Ar-Arthur..." she panted, trying to remember how to breathe, while the small of her back seemed to be completely consumed.
Something flashed in Arthur's eyes. He seemed to have understood that something was happening.
"Arthur… I… I’m going to die…"
"Oh no, sweetheart."
His mouth quirked into a slight smile. Not a mocking smile. A kind, affectionate, tender smile.
"You aren't dying."
His grip on her buttocks tightened further to bring her as close as he could to his insatiable mouth. Her whole body was trembling now. Eleanor threw her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth parted. She had the feeling of being the very image of debauchery. On the verge of ecstasy, trembling, moaning, a man on his knees before her, using his mouth and tongue with such skill that she wondered if it was humanly possible.
The tension in her lower abdomen grew to a point where it was no longer bearable. Arthur's tongue, warm and wet, passed once again over this sensitive and pleasant spot. And everything exploded. Everything went white and blinding. Eleanor suddenly found herself propelled into the air, as if her body no longer weighed anything and wanted to reach the stars. Fingers tangled in Arthur's hair, she clung to him, screaming for release.
Arthur had stopped licking her but his mouth continued to place tender kisses on her quivering flower on which a few drops of pleasure beaded which he lapped up with a sigh. Before drifting towards the hollow of her thighs which he sucked insistently. Short of breath, her head full of cotton, her body suddenly soft and soothed, Eleanor was no longer able to stay upright. Feeling her stagger, Arthur took her leg off his shoulder and helped her slide down the trunk before snuggling together.
"Did you like ?" he asked, his voice hoarse and velvety, his eyes filled with raw desire.
Eleanor nodded, unable to answer. She nestled her face in the crook of Arthur's neck and let herself doze for a few moments, the time for her to regain her senses. And the soothing hand in her hair didn't help her emerge.
But soon it was time to return to camp, before their absence was noticed and became suspicious. Eleanor reluctantly pulled away and looked down at her bare legs. She frowned, noticing a dark spot on her pale skin.
"What is this ?" she asked, pointing to the small purplish mark, similar to a flower, which unfurled its petals on the skin of her thigh.
Looking up, she noticed the blush that had taken on Arthur's cheeks. He ran his hand through his hair hesitantly.
"I couldn't resist. Your skin is so soft."
Eleanor let her fingers trace the outline of the mark. Then Arthur's hand came to do the same. It didn't take long for their fingers to intertwine. And in a last attempt to hold back time, they kissed gently.
"Damn it ! Has anyone seen Miss Muldon ?" Miss Grimshaw's loud, commanding voice barked. "I've never seen such sloppy laundry !"
Eleanor giggled against Arthur's mouth. Here she is unmasked. So even if it meant suffering reprimands, she decided to stop time and lose herself in his arms. She embraced him as much as her arms would allow and let herself be lulled by the beating of his heart against her ear.
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Taglist : @elderglocks @amara-among-the-stars @onehornedbeast @justasmolbard @skoll-sun-eater @photo1030 @clevergirl74 @shallow-gravy @cloudofbutterflies92 @g0dspeeed @thornswillgrow @12timetraveler @justme12200 @bokkybokky @xvxvcaspervxvx @escherichiacolli @sweet-girl420
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cheesewedge · 8 months
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Listening In (18+)
Summary: Drunk and nosey, Micah sneaks around at night and listens through the walls of Maria's tent as she enjoys time to herself. When he discovers that she's not alone, Micah tries to antagonize her the next morning, but is immediately put in his place.
Word Count: 3,080
Tags: sexual themes, cursing, dirty talk, arthur x original female character
A/N: We may not *see* anything in this one, but we sure do hear lots of it.
Originally published June 2022. Thank you for reading!
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Wood crackles and snaps in front of Micah, sparks flittering into the air like fireflies. It’s late, past midnight, as he sits by the campfire with a bottle of tepid beer in his hands, left alone with nothing but his thoughts under the pinprick stars. Another frigid Heartlands night chills him right down to the bone, forcing him to burrow further into his jacket as his eyes wander to Maria’s tent a few feet away. The flaps hug each other, cinched tightly shut, and Micah frowns at the maroon canvas, wondering if she’s in there and disgusted with himself for caring. 
Though he’s only been with Dutch for six months, it took even less time for Maria to captivate him. Micah found it easy to ignore her when he first joined; he dismissed her as just another woman to scrub tables clean or patch up clothes. But his ultimate reason for shunning her was simply because of her features. Micah didn’t know what she was, but it didn’t matter to him. Her skin was darker. Her eyes and hair were darker. She was beneath him. 
But he soon soured at the fact that she was seen as one of the men. Try as he may, he couldn’t escape seeing her on jobs and refused to hide his dismay at her unwavering talents, sneering as she single-handedly took out camps of O’Driscolls or arrived back at camp with wads of stolen cash. Micah tried to kick away his developing affection, but the harder he fought, the deeper she clawed into his thoughts and some days it took everything in him not to just turn his back on the whole camp to finally be free of her.
But he never left, regretfully paying even more attention to her idiosyncrasies as time went on. And as Micah watches her tent, canvas walls shutting him out, he grimaces at her most maddening peculiarity — an affinity to cinch the flaps shut before leaving camp.
He looks around. Javier and Reverend Swanson snore softly from their bed rolls beside him. Uncle lies hunched over next to Dutch’s tent. The women, curled next to each other in a line of lily white bloomers, barely stir from their spot behind Maria’s tent. It’s a risk to assume no one would catch him peeking at Maria’s space, but he’s tipsy enough to fall victim to his intrusive thoughts. 
Micah drops his empty bottle next to the others at his feet and rises with a small grunt, glancing at the men beside him and waiting for their placid snores before he continues. He treads over to Maria’s tent, sidestepping Uncle’s slumped body, and inches his hand over the string tying her world off from his. He stands there, waiting for a breeze or an act of God to fling open the flaps, but impatience buzzes through his chest like a swarm of bees. He looks over both shoulders once more before pulling the tent open with a shaky finger. 
A voice. It’s quiet and Micah can’t even be certain he heard it, but he jumps back, maneuvering to the side opposite Arthur’s tent right beside her. He’s in full view of the women behind Maria but none of them have moved throughout his clumsy shuffling. He listens in the darkness, eyes darting back and forth between her tent and theirs. 
The voice calls out again, a muffled whisper from somewhere inside Maria’s canvas. He creeps around the back, avoiding the wagon of bitters and tonics holding up the end of her tent, and peeks at Arthur’s cot. It’s empty and a bullet of relief rips through Micah’s chest as he exhales; no excuse would pardon him from Arthur’s wrath were he to catch him lurking like this. Nothing would save him from Maria’s either. Yet he inches back towards the front of her tent, not making it more than a few steps before the voice gets louder. He pauses. 
“God, yes…oh, yes. Yes…there…” Micah’s eyes widen. The sound is soft, more breath than language, but it’s unmistakable. 
A brew of panting and half-baked words hit his delighted ears and Micah can’t help the grin that crawls onto his face. She’s haunted his dreams over time, writhing with pleasure beneath him and warbling a song just like this as he ravages her. But he never could have imagined tonight, her melodic voice a mere sheet of fabric away. 
“Fuck me. Oh, yes.”
His eyes close as he envisions what she must look like. Stark naked on her cot, fingers deep inside her cunt, she rolls and caresses her hardened nipple until jolts of pleasure shoot through her chest and into her stomach. Tufts of grass catch in her curling toes, one foot off the cot to spread as wide as she can while she works another finger into her soft, slick core. Beads of sweat slip down her chest, down the curve of her back, Maria’s abs tightening the quicker she rubs her bundle of nerves. Her hair is free, those thick, brown curls pouring over her pillow. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyelids flutter. She thinks of him.
“Ah!” 
Micah’s eyes spring open and he nearly topples into Arthur’s tent as he backs away. He looks to the sleeping women, to a keeled over Uncle. No one glares at him. No one speaks to him. Micah holds his chest, heartbeat punching his hand, a gentle rustling of leaves the only sound he hears through the rush of blood in his ears. Inside Maria’s tent the panting evolves to delirious whining and with a deep breath, he creeps back.
“I’m com—I’m com— plea—fuck—” each atttempt is punctuated with a sob and Micah readjusts himself in his jeans as her pleas get louder, desperate. After a few frantic breaths she tries again, but her words dissolve into mewls, and Micah’s dick twitches. 
“Oh—please…please—I’m com—” A slap of skin claps through the air, muffling her voice. Micah smiles at her panicked attempt to keep quiet and relishes in her suppressed moans, the feverish breath that rushes out of her nose as her lips undoubtedly lie clamped shut under her hand. He closes his eyes again to allow himself the pleasure of imagining her, face reddened from the effort of her movements, strands of hair clinging to her dewy forehead. 
A deep chuckle rumbles through the tent. “Easy, sweetheart.”
Micah stiffens. His eyes shoot open. Every blade of grass, every fleck of dirt, every star in the sky is swallowed into the hole that opens at his feet. He snarls at the undeniable voice, gritted teeth throbbing all the way into his gums.
Frenzied breath continues to puff out of her nose, occasionally interrupted by chirps into Arthur’s hand. He chuckles again amid a quickening squelch. “Y’like that?” Her breath hitches and Micah hears another slap, though he doesn’t know what it could be. “Easy, girl. You’re gonna wake the whole camp.”
“I can’t… Arthur, I can’t—” her sentence withers to a whimper. “Arthur, please please please…” Each directionless request churns the beers in Micah’s gut. 
“Y’want me to stop?” He can just about hear the smug grin in Arthur’s tone. “Tell me… tell me to stop, sweetheart.” Kisses, hungry and sloppy, break through her moans. 
“I want you to fuck me,” she pants.
All is quiet for a moment as Micah stands there, incandescent and nauseas. He wants to pull away, maybe even lose his alcohol in the trees outside of camp, but the shock of the evening’s events root him to the ground. His perfidious legs anchor him to the grass just outside her tent, forcing him to listen to Maria’s sharp inhale as the cot squeaks. “Oh, Arthur…” 
“Jesus,” Arthur snarls, breath accelerating between her mewls.
Every curse Micah knows is unleashed on his unmoving limbs, muttered under his breath as a rhythmic slapping emerges from the tent. He tries to wrench away but submerged somewhere in his mind is a desire to listen. An aching need for affirmation that his drunken mind isn’t playing tricks on him, that this entire time Maria was the kind of whore he always suspected her of being. 
“Oh, Arthur. That’s it,” she hisses. “Just… just like that.”
“Yeah?” Maria whines an affirmation and the slapping grows louder. Her whispers escalate to fervid moans that she tries to bury in the clammy skin of Arthur’s shoulder. Through his own weakened breaths, Arthur pants, “You my girl?”
She tries to answer but can only sing a series of muffled, high-pitched notes. The slaps continue, growing faster, angrier. “Your girl,” she whimpers and Arthur moans. “All… all yours.”
Maria releases pieces of Arthur’s name into the night, too close to the edge of her release to get out more than a letter or two, and when the only word she can chant anymore is “yes,” Micah finally rescues himself from their execrable lovemaking, mounting his horse to gallop into the nearest saloon.
* * * 
A gold pocket watch, engraved with someone else’s initials, ticks away on Maria’s nightstand well past her usual wake-up time. Soft snores roll through her tent, the camp already alive outside its walls, and she grumbles into existence at the sound of Pearson on his accordion. 
Despite the morning chill she rises with no chemise, Arthur having tossed it somewhere on her desk last night, and goosebumps explode across her bare arms and chest. She rises with a grunt and retrieves it off the back of her chair, slipping it over her shoulders. Spots on her neck tighten and throb under the movement and she touches her fingertips to her skin. Even the gentle graze is enough to elicit a sharp sting and she smiles as she dresses, proud to have been marked by Arthur. 
The camp bustles with women chattering and Dutch’s gramophone by the time she vacates her tent. Hunched over the dominoes table, Micah waits for her, has been waiting for her since the first rays of sun burned his retinas. He’s hungover. A headache radiates through his temple and pounds the backs of his eyes under the brim of his hat. Whatever beers he didn’t piss out or sleep off slop around in his stomach, a faint craving to hurl making his mouth water.
Maria saunters over to her horse, readying herself to rob a homestead with John and Javier, and Micah examines her body for evidence of last night. She has her hair down, long curls tumbling down past her breasts, but Micah can spot bruises on her throat and into the collar of her blouse. They’re noticeable, like splotches of spilled merlot, and his need to puke worsens. 
Maria doesn’t even acknowledge him on the way to her mare, instead greeting Hosea and Lenny in their tent, both looking up from their reading material to share a smile. 
“Mornin, miss,” Micah spits. She rolls her eyes and keeps walking, but Micah’s on her heels. 
She spins around and shrugs, already exhausted. “What?”
“You know, I always wondered why you kept turnin’ me down. Never knew you were Morgan’s whore.”
Maria blinks, though a fist clenches in her stomach. “Don’t you have a hole in the ground to fuck?”
“All ya had to do was tell me, honey pie. I wouldn’t have wasted my time if I knew your handsome little Morgan made you squeal like a pig in heat.”
A breath of silence. In hindsight, Maria knew she was too loud. She and Arthur usually compose themselves until they’re out of camp, but neither had the restraint last night, disrobing in a flurry of denim and leather before their hands sought relief on each other’s skin. Worried that one of the women directly behind her would overhear, she never thought to concern herself with Micah’s intrusive presence.  
They lock eyes with one another. For a moment Micah deludes himself into thinking he’s won their latest argument, but Maria’s expression darkens. She gasps. Presses her hands to her chest. “Aww,” she draws out. Lenny peers up from the newspaper in his hands. “Micah, do you think Arthur’s handsome? That’s so cute!” She walks back into camp to ensure there’s an audience. “Sure, Arthur’s nice to look at, I just never knew you thought so.” Hosea lays his book down, eyes flicking between the two of them. “God, no wonder you’re such an asshole all the time. Walkin’ around with a schoolgirl crush can’t be easy.”
Lenny grins with a shake of his head and returns to the paper without reading a single word. Hosea’s book sits forgotten in his lap as he watches on, snickering at Micah’s flushed cheeks. Even Dutch has joined as he stands outside his tent, smirking before he stuffs a cigar in his mouth.
“I mean, I don’t necessarily know that Arthur would be interested, but I’m sure there’s no shame in asking,” she continues. Micah’s hands tremble at his sides the louder the giggles get. “Just look at that big fella in Valentine. Thought Arthur was a ‘pretty boy.’” If the men weren’t here, Micah would charge her. Tackle her to the grass and crack across the face with the back of his hand. Maria acknowledges his anger, sneering just long enough to serve as a warning shot before she carries on. “Maybe you should get out your frustrations with him. Last time I checked the guy can’t even talk anymore, but at least he’ll be as smart as you.”
Dutch coughs out a chuckle and retreats back into his tent while Hosea openly laughs. 
“Y’alright?” Arthur asks. A sheen of sweat lines his forehead as he makes his way back from Pearson’s tent, running bags of chicken feed and bales of hay across camp for the last thirty minutes. He has an extra button done up on his overshirt and she knows it’s to hide her teeth marks.
“Oh, Arthur,” Maria coos. “We’re fine. We just made a real breakthrough in fact.” She rests her arm on his shoulder. “Did you know that Bell here thinks you’re mighty fine to look at?” Arthur immediately grimaces and she chews the inside of her lip to prevent breaking character. “Just told me, in fact. Called ya real handsome.” She spreads her arms and curtseys. “There, I got the ball rolling for you. Don’t be shy.”
Micah’s cheeks burn and he glowers at her, hands trembling at his sides as he contemplates putting a bullet between her eyes. A smile remains on her face as she skips between her tent and Dutch’s, but as soon as she’s out of sight from everyone but him, Maria’s facade splinters and she snarls, jutting her middle finger at Micah before she stalks off. 
Arthur stands there, hands on his gun belt. “What—what’re you lookin’ at cowpoke?” Micah stammers. “It’s a goddamn lie.”
Arthur chuckles, shakes his head. “I hope so.”
“Maybe you should speak with Bill,” Hosea suggests from his tent. “I’m sure he knows what you’re going through.”
Arthur barks out a laugh and Micah spits on the grass. He wags a finger at Hosea, “Very funny, old-timer…” before he stomps away to his horse, riding out of camp where he remains for the rest of the afternoon. 
With a quick nod to Hosea, Arthur ventures into camp to find Maria, though she’s exactly where he knew she would be. Hidden in the outskirts of camp, she blows away threads of steam from her coffee mug, smiling at the mountaintops in front of her. Skinny tree trunks and overgrown brush hide her from Abigail’s tent nearby, good enough for Arthur to join her, and he touches his hand to her back once he’s beside her. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”
“Ah, nothing. The idiot heard us last night,” she whispers. “Or at least he claims he did. I took care of it.” She sips a mouthful of coffee, gaze lost to the landscape.
“Y’think he’ll be a problem?”
“I doubt it. We could have sex right in front of him and he won’t say anything now. Not unless he wants me to tease him as mercilessly as he does Bill.”
Arthur chuckles. “‘Spose you’re right. Though let’s not test that theory.”
“Ugh. Please, not while I’m drinking.”
He takes a step closer. “...Had fun last night, though.” 
“‘Course you did,” Maria replies coyly. “You were with me.” Arthur playfully nudges her, a wide grin on his face, and she giggles. “I did too, sweetheart.”
“S’been a while since I’ve been able to see ya like that.” He presses against her, their shoulders brushing.
“You undress me with your eyes every day, mister.” 
“Ain’t that the truth,” he grumbles and Maria smirks.
“You filthy man.”
“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you, miss.”
“I like you that way,” she says. Arthur peers down at her, flushing at the fact that he can smell notes of his scent in her hair, her clothing. He shuffles beside her and Maria smiles into her coffee, eyes stuck on the snow-covered mountaintops. 
“You like rilin’ me up, woman?” 
“Can’t say I mind what it does to me.” Another sip of coffee. “...Or what you do to me.”
Arthur expels a rumble of thunder and she bites her bottom lip, core tingling as his chest nuzzles her shoulder blade. “Y’got no idea what I’m gonna do to you.”
She slowly turns to face him, roses blooming on her cheeks. Arthur trails his gaze along the features of her face. Her plush lips. Her eyes, rich and brown and powerful as blackholes. The little scarlet spider vein on the tip of her nose. Lost in her beauty, he exclaims when she pulls his gambler hat over his eyes, sealing their mouths in a kiss. “It’s not polite to stare, Mister Morgan.”
“Can’t help myself,” he mumbles.
Maria smiles. “I’ll see you tonight…” she presses a second kiss to his lips, “...pretty boy.”
Arthur groans at the reminder and she laughs against his skin. With a gentle tug, she pulls his hat further over his eyes and saunters back into camp, taking a seat next to Reverend Swanson at the poker table to finish her coffee. Arthur looks towards the mountains, the dirt road swivelling all the way to the river, and smiles at the subtle breezes that stirs the trees, wondering how hard he’d need to pray to make the sun go down a little faster.
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Your eyes stole all my words away
Gift for Valentine's day for @cassietrn and her pairing Arthur and Eleanor🌹
21 notes · View notes
gangofoutlaws · 4 months
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Here's another chapter! I haven't posted every chapter here, so if you're missing any, you can find them on my AO3. We're approaching the conclusion, and while I'm hesitant for it to end, the storylines are coming together for a satisfying closure. I absolutely, positively don't want it to end because I am head over heels in love with Evalyn and Arthur together! OMG…
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monaskydancer · 2 months
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Into the West - Chapter 1
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fOC
Genre: romance, adventure, drama
Summary: The peaceful life of a farmgirl turns upside down one day as a brutal incident took everything she loved. With luck on her side she finds a new family. A family of outlaws and misfits, always on the hunt for the next big score. Her one constant in this new life is Arthur Morgan. The man who had saved her life. And maybe, one day, she could save his too.
TW for this chapter: (implied) rape
@cassietrn
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The fields stretched for miles, interrupted only by a steep mountain cliff casting its shadow this morning. Goats and sheep gently grazed in the breezy pastures. A muddy road ran alongside many of the fields.
The road eventually led to a beautiful farmhouse. It showed signs of wear and tear, but was otherwise in good condition. A chicken coop stood next to the house, with birds rummaging all around the yard, unaware of what was to come. Several grape vines climbed up and over the open gazebo on the side of the yard.
The farm had a mellow feel to it, aided by the gentle breeze carrying the scent of ripe fruits across the fields. However, this morning, it also bore the heavy scent of fear and death. A gunshot cut through the silence of this fine morning, followed by a blood-curdling scream. The chickens scattered, and the sheep and goats bleated nervously.
The door burst open, and a young woman stumbled out. What had once been a shirt was now nothing more than pieces of fabric barely held together, hanging from her shoulders like a discarded towel. Blood clung to her shirt, pants, and face. The shoes she wore left a trail of blood with each stumbling step.
Every movement sent waves of throbbing pain through her chest and back. It was exhausting, and she felt sick, but there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. Only one thing was on her mind: she had to get away. Away from her home. Away from the house where the bastards had dared to enter earlier this morning, pretending to have a civil business talk with her father. Now, her father lay on the hardwood floors with a hole in his forehead, half of his brain splattered against the cream-colored dining room wall.
She grunted, determined to block out the pain. Her head felt heavy, and dizziness started to kick in. Surely, this pain would stop soon. Surely, there would be an end to this. The man had laughed, hissed dirty comments at her as he had pushed her against the kitchen table, ripping her clothes, trying to take her dignity. As she had felt her pants rip, she noticed a glinting knife beside her. That was her only opportunity. One chance to escape. She waited for her attacker to be occupied with his own pants, the other three men too busy ransacking the house. With a swift move, she had grabbed the knife. A quick moment of surprise flashed in the man's eyes right before she rammed it into his neck. Blood gushed out, splattering over her as he dropped on top of her, wheezing and gurgling until his body went limp. Summoning all her strength, she pushed him off, rolled from the table, and hurried outside, hoping to have at least a bit of a head start before his friends would notice what had happened in the kitchen.
She cast a glance over her shoulder as she suddenly heard the commotion in the house. They had found their dead friend. It would only be a matter of seconds until they would burst outside, chasing her, dragging her back inside, and finishing what their friend had started. Her entire body was trembling now. Weak and exhausted, it cost all her remaining strength to keep running. There was no way she could give in to the pain, to the fear. There was no way she'd ever give up.
She pressed on, every movement adding to the barrage of pain, but she kept going even as she heard the men's voices shouting after leaving the house. Finally, she reached the stables. She stumbled inside and hurried to the box where her horse, Skydancer, nervously pawed the ground as she mounted him. A groan escaped her as another sharp pain ripped through her leg.
"There she is!"
She looked over and saw the men standing in front of the stables, one of them raising a shotgun.
"Go, Dancer! Go, boy!" She spurred the black stallion, and with a loud whinny, the horse surged forward fast and swift. The man with the gun was taken by surprise; he tried to get out of the way. A gunshot ripped through the stables, and with a loud cry, she clung to Dancer's reins as he carried her away from the farm. Away from home. And into the wild.
______________________________________________________________
From outside, the saloon looked rough, broken, and dull. Large and small stones, along with hardwood beams, made up most of the building's structure. It was nearly impossible to see through the large, curtained windows, but the gloominess from within could be felt outside.
As Arthur entered the saloon through the old, wooden door, he was welcomed by the smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and dust from all places. The bartender was trying to catch a spider and made no effort to acknowledge his presence.
Arthur cleared his throat, knocking against the wooden bar. 'Hey, partner, one whiskey,' he said.
The bartender looked up, startled, an apologetic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 'Sorry, didn't see you, Sir,' he said and grabbed a bottle of golden liquid, pouring a shot glass for him. Arthur knocked it back and bumped the glass on the counter again. He turned, leaning with his back against it, casting a glance around the taproom. It was as dreary inside as it was on the outside. Several walls were decorated, if one could call it that, with old paintings covered in dust.
The saloon itself was almost completely abandoned. The few people inside appeared quite ominous and suspicious in his eyes. Whoever they were, he wanted to stay as far away from them as possible. Arthur signaled the bartender to pour one more shot. He had heard rumors about this saloon, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what for. Judging by the dirt, it probably was food poisoning, he thought as he felt a rumble in his stomach. He hadn't eaten all day yet but decided against trying his luck in this place. He'd go check out the convenience store instead. He downed his drink, paid the bartender, then pushed away from the counter. The floorboards creaked under his heavy footsteps as he made his way over to the exit again.
"Have you heard what happened down at the Grapevine Farm yesterday?" An older man at the table near the exit said in a hushed tone to his friend sitting across from him, both nursing their beers.
Arthur lingered by the window next to the door, curiously trying to catch the rest of their conversation. He knew Grapevine Farm, about a two-hour ride away from Valentine, right in the middle of the Heartland. If he remembered correctly, it was the farm where Dutch had bought his horse, The Count, a couple of years ago. Russel Cohen was the name of the farm owner. They produced quite some fine wine too. Arthur himself had never been there and didn't know much about the Cohen family, only that they were one of the wealthier farm owners in the Heartland.
"No, what happened?" The other man at the table now asked curiously.
"Heard the sheriff talking this morning. Word is they found Russel Cohen dead in his dining room. Shot in the forehead from short distance. Ransacked the house and burned the stables down."
The man sighed and sipped from his beer. "What about his daughter?"
He shrugged. 'No trace of her. There was a dead body beside Russel's. Rumor has it that she killed one of the attackers and escaped. Her horse was missing from the stables, apparently."
Arthur had heard enough. He left the saloon and stepped outside onto the street. He whistled and just a moment later his brown and white spotted horse, Bounty, trotted over. She nudged his hand.
"Yeah, good girl." He reached into his satchel and offered her an apple. She munched on it while he mounted her. "Let's go home." He spurred the horse and galloped out of town, heading for the Horseshoe Overlook camp.
The sun was already setting by the time he passed Caliban's Seat. He slowed down a bit, riding past the stone formation. His gaze drifted to the west, where the orange sun was setting over the grassy plains. A wistful smile curled his lips. He would never get tired of the sight of the sunset. Suddenly, Bounty began to whinny, shifting nervously.
"Ho, girl, what's wrong? What spooked you?" He patted the horse's neck gently. That was when he heard it too—a soft whimper not far from him. He cast a glance around, wondering where it came from when he spotted a big, dark lump about a hundred feet to the east. He turned Bounty and warily approached the shape. The closer he came, the more he could make out, and saw it was a horse lying in the grass. It was still breathing, looked unscathed. Yet, he spotted some blood in the grass as he dismounted, his boots heavily connecting with the ground. His belt holster tinkled softly with each step.
"Hello?" He said and heard shuffling next to the horse. As he approached it, he saw a figure lying beside the stallion, the horse's nose softly nudging the young woman's face. Arthur stepped closer and crouched down beside her. "Miss? What happened?"
She looked up, her head feeling eerily light. Everything seemed to spin around her in a blur of motion. Soft moans and groans escaped her. She longed for a bed, a hot bath, and a fluffy pillow, but right now, all she could do was lie in the grass beside her horse, looking into the face of a stranger. She blinked slowly, trying to get rid of the blur.
"D-Dead... he's dead..." She sobbed and tried to sit up, but the stranger gently pressed her down again. She growled and lashed out.
"Easy there, miss. I'm just tryin' to help you, is all. Here, drink this." He offered her a flask. She shook her head lightly, but he smiled encouragingly. "It's water, don't worry." He lifted her head a little and placed the flask against her lips. She drank eagerly, as if she hadn't drunk in days. With a sigh, she leaned back down and felt her vision clear up a bit now.
"I can't leave you here," he said. "My camp is not far from here. There's a doctor; he will check on you." He reached out and lifted her up onto his arms carefully. She groaned again, and he could see that her leg was badly injured. He placed her onto the back of Bounty. "Hold on." He made sure she clung to the horse's neck, then went back to check on her stallion.
"Come on, boy, let's get outta here." He reached for the reins, and the horse slowly got up. He eyed Arthur uncertainly, yet let him lead him over to the other horse. Arthur mounted behind her. He signaled the stallion to follow them. He put his arms around the woman and took the reins in his gloved hands, spurring Bounty gently.
The horses galloped further on towards Horseshoe Overlook. Silence had lapsed; the only sound was the rhythmic beat of the hooves on the grassy ground. After a while, he felt her stir against him.
"Who..." She coughed. "Who are you?"
"Name's Arthur Morgan," he replied shortly, making sure to keep her securely on top of the horse. "And who are you?" He finally asked as Bounty turned to the path that would lead them to the camp soon.
She sniffled quietly, and Arthur felt his heart drop a little as she spoke again.
"Nancy. I'm Nancy Cohen."
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alicevanderlinde · 7 months
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Echos of Love
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TW: Torture, Blood, Gore, Mutilation, Amputation, mentions of death, starvation, dehydration- the works. If you're easily triggered by any of those things above, I highly suggest you don't read this.
Additional tags: Angst, Love, Emotional (I cried while writing this) Dark, Tragedy, Hurt, Pain, Recovery, mentions of pregnancy, Pregnancy. There's more I probably should add but my two brain cells have worked hard on this and I think they've reach max capacity sooo... Yeah.
I left this off on a small cliffhanger but I do have intentions of finishing it but also I was thinking about writing about the events leading up to this, so if you're interested please let me know.
Word count: 7064
Anyway with that, let's get into it. Hopefully you enjoy!
Alice's body jerks as the sensation of ice-cold water cascades over her, silencing her gasp with a cloth gag. Her eyes snap open, momentarily startled by the unexpectedness of the situation before quickly shutting again, wincing at the harsh brightness that intensifies her throbbing headache. The muscles in her arms ache, pleading for relief under the weight that agonizingly strains them. Judging by the relentless pain coursing through her, she surmises that she has been suspended like this for a significant amount of time.
Summoning all her strength, Alice forces her eyes open once more, only to find three men standing before her. While two of them remain unfamiliar, the man in the middle is unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll, her father's long-time rival. Alice scolds herself internally for allowing herself to be apprehended, despite her valiant attempts to elude them. She had resorted to violence, even inflicting harm upon some of them, but it all proved to be in vain.
In contrast to his associates, Colm appears immaculate, save for his unkempt, graying hair. Dressed in a white suit and matching hat, he exudes a certain elegance that clashes with the rough appearance of his companions. He commands the others to depart, and they promptly comply, leaving Alice alone with him.
"I must say, Miss Van Der Linde, or should I say Mrs. Morgan, I am delighted that you could join us." Colm remarks, his tone dripping with an unsettling satisfaction.
Alice mumbles something unintelligible, her words muffled by the gag. Frustration pushes her to exhale forcefully through her nose, eliciting a pleased chuckle from the well-dressed man.
"You see, my dear, it is quite rude to speak with your mouth full." He taunts with a touch of amusement, his grimy fingers tenderly tracing her cheek. Alice instinctively pulls her face away, desperate to escape his nauseating touch, but her bound position restricts any significant movement.
"I thought your daddy would've taught you better by now." Colm jests, his fingers now slowly exploring the contours of her jawline and descending towards her exposed chest to the small swell of her belly.
As Colm's fingers trace her small baby bump, she shudders, desperately trying to pull away, but the unforgiving chains that bind her keep her in place. She feels dwarfed and helpless, like a mouse trapped in a lion's den.
Tears stream down her face, uncertainty gnawing at her as she wonders if Dutch, her father, or Arthur, her lover, even know where she is. She had never meant to run off like she did, but the overwhelming influx of pregnancy hormones and anger had driven her away from the safety of the camp. Surely, they would've figured something was wrong by now, it's been weeks.
"Now, I demand answers, and you will provide them to me," Colm states, pausing momentarily to remove her gag. "If not, I will be compelled to do something I would rather not."
Her glare is defiant, but she remains silent.
He retrieves a cattle brand from the glowing embers of the fireplace, brandishing it dangerously close to her face, the intense heat radiating towards her. She instinctively closes her eyes, exhaling a breath she had unknowingly been holding.
"I won't tell you a damn thing." She declares with unwavering confidence, despite the fear coursing through her veins.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Colm clicks his tongue disapprovingly. The brand makes contact with her ribcage, causing her to scream in agony as she tries to lurch forward. Her hands, securely tied above her head, prevent any significant movement, intensifying the numbing pain that had plagued her arms for what felt like an eternity.
Her stomach churns, threatening to reject whatever little contents it holds as the stench of seared flesh lingers in the air. Struggling to catch her breath, every gasp a reminder of the torment, her cries transform into mocking, humorless chuckles.
"Go to hell." she croaks, her voice dry and hoarse from dehydration. Her head hangs low, her body growing weary from weeks of relentless torture. Every inch of her being throbs with excruciating pain, no part of her spared from these unspeakable acts.
"Now, I've instructed my boys to go easy on you because of your condition, but my patience is wearing thin, and your time is running out." he sneers.
Lifting her sunken head, she meets his gaze with a hollow chuckle. How could he possibly consider daily beatings as a lenient treatment? "You can't kill me... I'm too valuable, and we both know it."
"Don't flatter yourself, Alice. You're just as disposable as your mother was." he says, his voice laced with a sinister chuckle, aware of the pain those words cause her.
Her face twitches with sadness, the mention of her mother striking a devastating chord within her.
"You remember that, don't you? The way her head rolled on the ground after I severed it." he cruelly recalls.
Of course, she remembers. She was forced to witness the horrifying act as he took her mother's life. Her mother's agonized cries still echo in her mind to this very day.
As if on cue, the two men from before enter the room, brandishing the very axe used in her mother's brutal demise. The blade, still stained with her mother's blood after all these years, glistens menacingly.
She closes her eyes, desperately trying to transport her mind to a different place, but Colm grabs her chin with an iron grip, forcing her to confront the horrifying reality before her.
"Bring her down." Colm demands to his men, and they swiftly comply, handing the axe to Colm before approaching her and releasing the chains that had bound her wrists.
She collapses to the ground, her legs tingling painfully from being suspended for what feels like an eternity. Before she can gather enough strength to lift herself, the men forcefully drag her to the coffee table, compelling her to extend her right arm onto its surface. She resists, but his henchmen quickly remind her of her defiance by pressing a knife against her throat, while another firmly holds her arm in place.
Colm stoops down, examining the exquisite wedding ring on her finger-a symbol of the love Arthur had bestowed upon her-while the axe remains slung over his shoulder.
"Morgan spared no expense, did he?" he remarks, before straightening himself up and bringing the axe down with a brutal force that severs her arm right at the crook of her elbow. A blood-curdling scream escapes her lips, so loud and chilling that she can hardly believe it emanates from her own lungs. Through tears clouding her vision, she witnesses the vivid crimson spurt from the wound.
She slumps to the ground, clutching her severed arm, tears streaming uncontrollably as the pulsating pain resonates with each beat of her heart. All she yearns for is to be in Arthur's comforting embrace, where he would cradle her and whisper reassurances, promising that everything will be alright. However, the harsh truth sinks in-she is all alone, bleeding out.
Lost in her anguish, she fails to realize that Colm and his men have abandoned her, perhaps assuming she poses no threat or could easily escape.
With every passing second, her strength wanes, and she desperately scans the room for something to stem the bleeding, only to find nothing. Just as hope begins to fade, her gaze lands on the glowing embers in the fireplace.
Tears streaming anew, she shakes her head in disbelief. "Oh God, please, no!" she pathetically whispers, her throat raw and sore from her agonizing screams.
Summoning every ounce of strength, she painstakingly drags herself along the floor, reaching the fireplace. With great effort, she pulls herself up the small step, cautiously bringing her severed limb closer to the flickering flames. Through whimpers of pain, she feels the warmth searing the agonizing spot. Deep down, she knows that unless she cauterizes the wound now, death will be inevitable. Bracing herself, she presses what remains of her arm directly into the scorching flames, releasing a gut-wrenching scream as searing agony engulfs her.
She senses the blood curdling under the intense heat, every flicker of the flame reverberating through her entire being.
With sheer determination, she grits her teeth and forces herself to maintain her severed arm in place, emitting pitiful cries as the wound sears shut under the scorching flames. A mixture of relief and anguish washes over her when she finally deems it sufficiently cauterized. Slowly, she withdraws what remains of her arm, gasping for precious air as she teeters on the edge of consciousness.
-
The gang's tireless search for Alice has yielded no results, except for the sight of her trusted steed abandoned on the roadside, alongside her discarded weapons. The absence of any clue regarding her whereabouts, the unknown identity of her captors, and the uncertainty of her survival all mount with each passing day.
Over a month has elapsed, and the flickering flame of hope, once burning bright, now wavers perilously close to extinction.
Dutch bears the weight of guilt more heavily than the other members, haunted by the memory of pushing Alice away in a fit of rage when she dared to voice her dissent about their outlaw lives. She never revealed the reasons behind her stance, yet her resolve was unmistakable-leaving Dutch tormented with regret.
Arthur, returning from a mission assigned by Dutch, remained blissfully unaware of his wife's absence until a week had passed. Eagerly anticipating Alice's customary warm welcome upon his return home, he was instead met with somber faces and evasive gazes from his fellow gang members. In that moment, the sinking feeling of something being terribly amiss settled deep within him, amplifying when John urged him to speak with Dutch.
Reluctantly, Dutch disclosed the devastating news to Arthur, who, despite his exhaustion, roused himself and ventured once again into the unforgiving wilderness, embarking on a desperate quest to find his beloved.
Arthur, Dutch, John, Javier, Charles, and Kieran persistently continue their nomadic search for Alice, yet every day seems to lead them to another disheartening dead end. Assailed by sleepless nights, Arthur rises at dawn, unable to find solace in more than an hour of rest at a time, acutely aware of Alice's absence and longing for her comforting presence. He, in turn, rouses his weary comrades, commencing their search before the sun truly graces the sky.
Weeks turn into an agonizing blur of fruitless endeavors, leaving the men utterly fatigued. While their shared worry is palpable, hope has relinquished its grip on all but Arthur. His heart relentlessly yearns for his love, shattering a little more each day in her absence.
"Arthur, my boy, I understand your anguish, but we must return." Dutch's fatherly tone contends as Arthur finally succumbs to the overwhelming weight of exhaustion.
"She's out there somewhere, Dutch... We cannot abandon the search now." Arthur pleads desperately, his entreaty conveying the depth of his desperation.
"We will take two days to rest and regroup. We're going to find her, son." Dutch states firmly giving Arthur's shoulder an reassuring squeeze.
As Arthur prepares to protest, his gaze traverses the countenances of his comrades, their visages mirroring the toll their relentless quest has taken. Their exhaustion is unmistakable.
Arthur's thoughts consume him, separating him from the company of his fellow men as they journey back to camp. Haunted by the ghosts of Eliza and Issac, his mind is plagued by the agonizing memories of when he failed his own family. Fear grips him tightly, leaving him to dread the possibility that Alice will too become nothing more than a specter, leaving behind a trail of haunting recollections of their once cherished moments. Every stolen glance, every tender kiss, every loving embrace, and every passionate night of affection will be transformed into memories too painful for him to bear. Though these moments were filled with happiness, they now serve as cruel reminders of his own shortcomings.
Lost in his own inner turmoil, Arthur fails to notice the men have moved ahead, drawing nearer to the familiar refuge of the camp, hidden within the embrace of nature's lush thickets. The weight of the world seems to collapse upon him, draining the very life from within. His heart throbs with an anguish he could never have conceived, not even when Mary had shattered his heart.
Silence engulfs the world around him, depriving him of the once beautiful songs of nature. The vibrant hues that once charmed his eyes and mingled to create breathtaking sights are now invisible to his desolate gaze. Lost and trapped within the depths of this darkened pit of despair, Arthur finds himself unable to locate the way out, sinking deeper into the abyss.
The piercing shriek of a woman from the gang shatters Arthur's thoughts, snapping him into action. Urging Boadicea into a fierce sprint, he leaves the other men trailing behind in a swirling cloud of dust.
As Arthur reaches the scene, a cluster of women obscures his view, shielding him from something he is unsure if he is prepared to witness. Dismounting with remarkable speed, he moves through the gathering, his heart racing with desperate hope for answers.
Navigating through the crowd, a glimmer catches the corner of his eye, drawing his attention. And then he sees it: her arm, severed and coated in a crimson sheen of blood. His gaze fixates on the ring he had once given to her, still adorning her finger - A promise of a better future. It serves as a grim message delivered to the gang, a haunting message directed squarely at him.
A roar of anguish rumbles from Arthur's core as he crumbles to his knees. In that moment, all the pent-up emotions that had been simmering within him surge forth, overwhelming him. The hope he had clung to for finding her alive starts to slip away, leaving only a void of despair.
The men wade through the scene, their gaze fixated on the gruesome message laid bare before them. Dutch's eyes meet those of his gang members, seeing the distraught in their eyes, it break him. They yearn for his charismatic words of guidance and inspiration, but in this moment, his well of eloquence runs dry. He turns his back on the gang, just when they need him the most.
A heavy silence settles upon the group, broken only by the sound of shared sobs intertwining with Arthur's anguish. In this harrowing moment, every untamed soul within the gang is subdued, their spirits momentarily quelled by the weight of grief.
-
Alice stirs, awoken by the sharp pang of pain coursing through her weary and battered body. Trembling, she musters the strength to rise from the unforgiving ground, her every movement a testament to the weight of her abuse and the loss of her own precious blood. Leaning against the wall for support, she feels its steadfast presence providing a meager solace.
A deep breath steadies her as she observes her now cauterized arm, the wound still fresh and angry, radiating heat. The acrid scent of seared flesh lingers in the air, intensifying the nauseating feeling swirling within her gut.
Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Alice's left hand begins tracing gentle circles on her belly. Throughout her cruel captivity, she has watched her belly slowly swell, a constant reminder of her entrapment. Bound and without respite, she has longed for the chance to touch and connect with the life growing inside her, a torment in itself.
Yet, a sense of empowerment surges within her as she realizes that this growing life within her has endured every ounce of suffering the O'Driscolls inflicted upon her. Against all odds, this child has clung to her, bringing a flicker of hope amidst the depths of her nightmares. Tears well up as laughter escapes her lips, envisioning the resilience and stubbornness inherited from his father. From the moment she discovered her pregnancy, she knew deep within that she would be blessed with a son.
And then, in that fleeting moment, she feels it-the delicate flutter of a tiny kick dancing at the tips of her fingers.
A loving smile graces her chapped lips as tears of joy spill from her eyes. "We're going to make it, Jr." she murmurs tenderly, embracing the glimmer of faith in their shared survival.
Grasping the mantle of the fireplace with a whimper, she hauls herself up, the soreness crashing over her body in relentless waves. Every fiber of her being protests, aching with the weight of agony she endures. Yet, fueled by an unwavering determination for her son and Arthur, she persists, forging ahead despite the torment.
With a sense of haste, she rummages through drawers, desperately searching for anything to cover her exposed flesh. Finally, she uncovers a worn shirt, its size engulfing her form, but she lacks alternatives and time is of the essence. Slipping it on, she finds solace in the makeshift garment, even if it embodies the appearance of a nightgown. Carefully, she knots the sleeve at the site of her missing arm, a task made all the more difficult without the aid of her right limb.
The longing for freedom tugs relentlessly at her heartstrings. The thought of breathing in the fresh air and feeling the comforting warmth upon her skin consumes her thoughts. As her fingers brush against the cold metal of the door handle, a gentle yet distinct kick in her belly redirects her attention, drawing her focus to the hushed voices of the O'Driscolls looming just beyond.
She scolds herself for allowing her desires to cloud her judgment, realizing the potential dangers that lie beyond the walls that confine her.
Realizing that her initial plan of simply walking out of this place is highly impractical, she starts to formulate a new, more cautious strategy. Being surrounded by O'Driscolls in their territory, she knows she must proceed with extreme caution to ensure her safe return home.
Without a clear idea of her location or the distance to camp, she understands the importance of careful planning and execution to navigate her way back.
She finds a fire poker and arms herself, preparing for whatever may lie ahead. She carefully assesses her surroundings before quietly making her way through a window, mindful of her limited mobility caused by the absence of her right arm. In a moment of misstep, she accidentally hits her seared stump against the window frame, suppressing a cry of pain and biting her lip to mask it. Instinctively she adjusts her position to protect her pregnant belly from any harm, landing on her side directly on her nub.
Lying face down in the dirt, she takes a moment to compose herself, determined to remain as inconspicuous as possible, breathing softly so as not to draw attention to herself.
She resents her own weakness, engulfed in feelings of self-pity as she becomes acutely aware of her helplessness in this moment. Overwhelmed by defeat and fury, she unleashes her frustration by forcefully punching the ground, silently weeping as the unrelenting pain taunts her body.
Upon hearing approaching footsteps, she swiftly hoists herself up from the ground, seeking immediate cover behind a crate. Her grip on the fire poker tightens so intensely that her pale skin turns even whiter.
For a brief moment, she closes her eyes, fully cognizant of the potential consequences her next move may bring. Her ears strain to catch the distinct crunch of gravel as the man's boots draw closer, his spurs audaciously jingling, taunting her senses.
As the man notices the open window, cursing under his breath, he becomes aware of the fact that she must be somewhere out here. He begins to open his mouth, likely to alert his comrades, but before he can utter a word, Alice bursts out of her hiding place, consumed by an unhinged rage. With a swift and brutal strike, she delivers a devastating blow to his head, splitting his skull open, causing his eye to violently dislodge from its socket.
He collapses to the ground lifelessly, already gone before his body hits the earth like a sack of potatoes. Alice, consumed by a red haze of rage, continues mercilessly attacking his lifeless form with the fire poker. With each crushing blow, his head becomes an unrecognizable mess of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter.
Gasping for breath, she fights to steady herself, battling the encroaching dizziness as she surveys her surroundings. Her eyes lock onto the horses tethered a few yards away from the entrance of the dilapidated cabin, but to her dismay, she realizes that four O'Driscolls are standing alongside them.
Her trembling hand retrieves the revolver from the fallen man's gunbelt, attempting to aim it at one of the O'Driscolls. But the horrific shaking in her hand, coupled with the fact that her dominant arm had been severed, makes it almost impossible to steady her aim.
In a desperate attempt to assert herself, she fires a warning shot into the air, hoping to catch their attention and draw them towards her location. Her heart pounding, she swiftly heads towards the woods, her plan to lead them away so she can seize one of the horses and embark into the unknown wilderness.
Moving with a lightness in her step, she cautiously observes the O'Driscolls from a safe distance as they cautiously approach their fallen comrade. Desperation fueling her movements, she sprints towards the horses, pushing against her body's desperate plea for rest.
With a swift motion, she mounts the closest horse, urgently digging her heel into its side, urging it into a full gallop. Struggling to control the horse with her remaining hand, she dreads the prospect of having to relearn everything. However, for now, such thoughts must be set aside. The sweet taste of freedom is tantalizingly close, and she is determined to grasp it.
She desperately scans her surroundings, her line of sight flickering in search of any clue about her location. Determined to focus on the journey and the destination rather than the pulsating pain at the end of her severed arm, she tries to ignore the agonizing throb that intensifies with each powerful stride of the horse. However, her hopes are dashed as her gaze is met only with the vastness of untouched nature stretching along the road. Normally, she would relish these moments, savoring the sights of new places at her own leisure. But now, her mind is consumed with finding her family.
Just as despair begins to creep in, her eyes catch sight of a weathered road sign, its carved wooden surface revealing the word "Annesburg." Relief washes over her, knowing that she has found what she sought. However, a heavy sense of trepidation settles in her heart. Recalling from memory, she realizes that Annesburg is a challenging two and a half days' ride from her current location, and that's without any breaks. Already drained by exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition, the thought of enduring such a grueling journey fills her with apprehension. She knows she must remain vigilant, constantly watchful for any danger lurking in the shadows.
Adding to her worries, she has no idea how to navigate her way from Annesburg to Horseshoe Overlook. The mental image of the map Arthur had gifted her is now nothing but a blurry recollection, leaving her feeling disoriented and lost.
-
Arthur finds solace within the confines of his tent, purposefully keeping the cloth flaps closed to shield himself from the outside world. Tears flow freely down his face, grief consuming him like never before. Clutched tightly in his hands, he holds onto the dress she wore on that fateful day, the day she became his.
As his fingers delicately trace the intricate designs woven into the soft fabric, memories flood his mind. He recalls how she transformed into a vision of ethereal beauty, her hair cascading in lustrous black curls, dancing freely in the wind. Accentuating her curves, a dress Arthur bought embraced her figure flawlessly. In that moment, she seemed otherworldly, a goddess worthy of adoration.
Arthur is forever captivated by the sparkle in her emerald green eyes, which shone with the warmth of the setting sun. Those eyes, filled with unconditional love and unspoken promises, are etched in his memory, an everlasting testament to their unbreakable bond.
He had always felt unworthy of her affection, constantly believing that she was far too good for him. She possessed an innate goodness, a selflessness that pushed her to help everyone within the gang and extend her helping hand to strangers in need. She would even put herself in harm's way to protect those she held dear. It was through these selfless acts that he had uncovered the depth of her feelings for him, as well as his own for her.
Their hidden emotions were finally revealed during a harrowing encounter with Bounty Hunters on a job. Surrounded and outgunned, fear may have gripped her heart, but her stoic facade remained unyielding. In the face of danger, her unwavering strength ignited a fire within Arthur, inspiring him to fight tooth and nail to escape the perilous situation they found themselves in...
As they cautiously made their way back to safety, Alice couldn't shake off the unease that lingered in her gut. She expressed her worry to Arthur, a faint whisper hinting that they were still being watched. Yet, her concerns were swiftly dismissed, her nervousness brushed aside as baseless fears. Arthur assured her that there was nothing to be concerned about, oblivious to the imminent danger.
But Alice's instincts proved sharper than his awareness. In an instant, she spotted the glint of a sniper's scope, long before Arthur even registered its presence. Time slowed as she valiantly threw herself in front of him, taking the bullet intended for his heart. It was a kaleidoscope of surrealism as a mist of crimson paint splattered the air, staining his face, forever etching the price she had paid for his safety. They narrowly escaped the ambush, and Arthur emerged unscathed, shielded by Alice's selflessness.
Her body bore the consequences of her heroic act, hanging on to the last remnants of consciousness. The following day, as she awoke from her slumber, Arthur hovered nearby, a mixture of anger and regret clouding his expression. He unleashed a torrent of emotions, blaming her for her recklessness, unable to comprehend why she had thrown herself into harm's way to save him. Initially, he allowed no room for her to respond, cutting her off at every attempt. But then, something within her snapped, and her voice rose defiantly, declaring, "I did it because I am in love with you!"
As her words hung in the air, Arthur fell silent, his hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. He yearned to protest, list all the reasons why she should not love him, highlighting scars and mistakes that marred his being. Yet, before he could utter a single word, she took advantage of his slightly agape mouth, meeting his lips with her own in a tender, passionate moment. In that unexpected kiss, he realized the truth - that those stolen glances, those blushes, and that sweet, innocent smile she reserved for him were all a reflection of her love. A love that accepted him for who he was, flaws and all, warming even the coldest reaches of his heart.
His lips quivered with a bittersweet smile as he recalled the extraordinary transformation that unfolded from that fateful day. A love story that once seemed unimaginable had unfolded before his eyes.
Their first time together was a tapestry of vulnerability and tenderness. He couldn't help but notice the scar on her shoulder, a permanent reminder of the sacrifice she made for him. It haunted him, threatening to overshadow the beauty that lay before him in the dimly-lit hotel room they had sought refuge in. Overwhelmed by guilt, he turned away, fearing for her safety and the uncertain future they faced. But, in that moment, she reached out and gently took hold of his hand, her eyes speaking volumes.
Their stolen moments of affection, concealed from prying eyes and her overbearing father, burst forth after a night of drunken vulnerability. Craving each other's touch, they longed to break free from the confines of secrecy. And, fueled by their profound connection, she summoned the courage to defy the disapproval of Dutch, choosing to stand by Arthur and declare her love.
The day he proposed to her was a moment suspended in a world beyond their troubles. Overwhelmed with stress from Dutch's interference in their relationship and her own fears of Arthur pulling away, she had been carrying a heavy burden that week.
Unbeknownst to her, Arthur's distant behavior was not due to Dutch but rather his own struggle to find the perfect way to propose. His heart ached with memories of Mary Linton rejecting his marriage proposal, her father's disapproval leaving him feeling unworthy. That night, as the gang gathered around the comforting glow of the campfire, Arthur felt a surge of determination.
Taking her trembling hand, he admitted his regrets for the distance between them and revealed his intention to make amends. With a tender sincerity, he knelt down before her, offering a ring he had saved for months. The emotions consumed him, causing him to deviate from the rehearsed poem he had written. Instead, his heartfelt confession of love flowed effortlessly from his lips, surpassing his anticipation.
The joyous reaction she unleashed as he slipped the ring onto her finger remains etched in his memory. The exhilarating sound of her excited squeal reverberated through his mind, propelling him to rise and meet her lips with an overwhelming surge of affection.
And on the day they joined in matrimony, a month before her eventual disappearance, everything fell into place with a sense of urgency and secrecy. With the assistance of his loyal gang members, Arthur orchestrated a spontaneous celebration, transforming the camp into a romantic haven. John, understanding the importance of the day, took Alice into town to keep her occupied.
Little did Alice know, as she went about her day, that her own secret was about to be revealed. Seeking answers for occasional sickness, she had visited a doctor who confirmed the miracle growing within her womb-an unexpected pregnancy already one month along. Overwhelmed with worry that Arthur might abandon her, she confided in John, who reassured her that Arthur would embrace this second chance for family.
As the day wore on, anticipation built within Alice. John brought her back to camp, her eyes widening in astonishment and disbelief at the sight before her. A trail of delicate rose petals guided her, until she found Dutch standing proudly, his arm outstretched to escort his daughter down the makeshift aisle. Tears brimmed in Dutch's eyes, a mixture of joy and bittersweet emotions as he fulfilled his role.
Arthur, having taken meticulous care to prepare himself, stood awaiting his bride. He had meticulously groomed himself, receiving a fresh haircut and trimming his beard to a handsome 5 o'clock shadow. He even had a suit tailored for the occasion. Alice's heart swelled with love and admiration as she took in his dashing appearance.
To set the perfect ambiance, Javier strummed his guitar, serenading the couple with heartfelt songs of love. The melodies filled the air, enhancing the profound significance of the moment.
The kiss they shared in that poignant moment, right after sealing their vows, transcended any previous display of affection. It was an electrifying connection that stirred their very souls and left an indelible mark on their lives.
Aware of the profound impact this news would have on their future, Alice made a conscious decision to keep her pregnancy a secret for the time being. She understood the responsibilities of Arthur's upcoming lengthy and perilous job, which would separate them for at least a week. Alice was determined not to distract him or inadvertently endanger him.
The entrance of the tent allows a stream of blinding light to infiltrate, momentarily obstructing Arthur's vision. Shielding his eyes with his arm, he discerns the silhouette of a familiar figure, John.
"Hey Arthur, how are you?" John's voice carries a blend of hesitancy and sorrow.
Arthur's mind is consumed with thoughts of Alice-how she's faring, or if she's even alive. "I'm... alright." he musters weakly, hardly convincing even himself.
"I know you miss her, Arthur. We all do." John offers empathetically.
"She ain't your wife." Arthur retorts defensively, unintentionally lashing out amidst a whirlwind of emotions. His frustration unwittingly directed at John.
"No, but she's like a little sister to me." John utters with a heavy sigh, taking a seat on the chair beside the cot. His eyes dart nervously, while he rhythmically taps his knees.
"John, I appreciate you checkin' in on me, but right now, I just want to be alone." Arthur confesses solemnly, yearning for solitude with only her presence.
"There is something I need to tell you... about Alice." John discloses, sensing Arthur's eagerness. However, an overwhelming hesitation freezes him, unsure if he should share the information.
John's continued silence exacerbates Arthur's sense of foreboding.
"What?" Arthur presses, observing the wheels turning in John's mind.
"I... It can wait. It ain't my place to tell." John says, shaking his head. He alone bears the knowledge of Alice's secret, the life growing within her, and the burden weighs heavily upon him. John acknowledges that Arthur deserves to know he will be a father once again, but he can hardly begin to fathom how Arthur will react. With the uncertainty surrounding Alice's well-being, adding news of her pregnancy to the mix would only deepen Arthur's anguish.
"What the hell do you mean it's not your place to tell me?!" Arthur stands tall, gripping John's shirt and forcibly lifting him from his seat. "What do you know about my wife?!"
"Arthur, you can't handle what I have to say!"
"Tell me, damn it!"
"I can't." John insists.
"You sure as hell can!"
"Arthur, please calm down."
"Just tell me! I can't stand not knowin' any more!"
"She's pregnant, Arthur!" John finally confesses. In that frozen moment, the world stands still. Arthur's grip on John's shirt loosens, causing John to stumble and collapse onto the ground.
Arthur's anxiety causes his chest to heave uncontrollably, his world crumbling around him with even greater intensity. Observing the flicker of unwavering determination within Arthur's piercing icy-blue eyes, John quickly rises and places a steadying hand on his chest.
"Arthur, you can't venture back out there." John pleads urgently.
"I won't waste another moment waitin'. I'm goin' to find her." Arthur declares resolutely, forcefully bypassing John and striding purposefully across the camp.
"Arthur, you ain't in the right state of mind. You need to rest." John implores, trailing closely behind.
"And sit idly while whoever has her inflicts more harm? There's no way in hell I'm stayin' here." Arthur retorts, his gaze fixed ahead as he forges onward, with John doggedly following in his wake.
"She wouldn't want you to sacrifice yourself, Arthur." John says, his voice filled with genuine concern.
Those words strike a raw nerve within Arthur, causing him to abruptly turn and stalk over to John. He halts inches away, leaning in close with a dangerous intensity. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers on Arthur's breath, a testament to his inner turmoil.
"How could you possibly know what the hell she would want?" Arthur growls icily, his fists clenched tightly by his side.
"What if something were to happen to you? What if you were to die? If she's still alive, it would devastate her."
"I can't bear not knowin' if she's alive or dead. And now, knowin' that my child is growin' inside of her, I won't rest until I find her, even if it means dyin' in the process."
"What if she returns and you're not here?"
"I failed her once already. I need to find her." Arthur asserts, his voice filled with anguish. "She's my entire world, John. The pain of not knowin' if she's safe is tearin' me apart."
"We don't have any leads on her whereabouts. We don't even know who has taken her. You know she would never forgive herself if anythin' were to happen to you. Alice is strong. She'll find her way back to us... But you have to stay. If you don't, you'll only end up gettin' yourself killed."
-
With each passing moment, the battle against her exhaustion becomes increasingly daunting. It has been over a day and a half since she escaped, and her body's desperate need for sleep grows harder and harder to ignore. Every second that ticks by serves as a testament to her unwavering strength and determination, pushing through the waves of pain that crash relentlessly against her weary form.
Her eyelids struggle to stay open, heavy with fatigue. A cacophony of growls erupts from her belly, a painful reminder of the hunger that gnaws at her from within, as if her insides are being devoured. The sight of water makes her mouth water uncontrollably, a relentless plea for respite from the unquenchable thirst that courses through her. Yet she soldiers on, fueled by an unyielding determination to reach home, to once again find solace in the embrace of Arthur's arms.
Lost in an unfamiliar landscape, she questions if she's even heading in the right direction. Everything blends together in an indistinguishable blur, creating a disorienting maze of uncertainty. She cannot even be certain if she is still among the living, though the excruciating pain she endures seems inconsistent with her imagination of the afterlife.
In an instant, her senses are blanked out, only to gradually return as she awakens on her back, sprawled out in the unforgiving embrace of the dirt road. Though she has fallen from her horse, the pain that courses through her body somehow feels distant, as if her senses have numbed in response to the impact.
A familiar warmth envelops the tightly wound sleeve that conceals the space where her arm used to be. Weary eyes trace the crimson stains that saturate the grimy fabric, a stark reminder that she is till alive as blood flows from her wound. She shuts her eyes, summoning every ounce of strength within her to rise from the ground, but all she manages is to shift onto her side, slowly dragging herself along the unforgiving road.
As she inches forward, a gradual seepage of blood permeates the threads of her shirt, each step reopening the raw, tender flesh beneath Colm's branded mark. The fabric clings to the jagged edges of her torn skin, amplifying the pain that accompanies this hellish journey.
-
John successfully persuaded Arthur to take a stroll along the outskirts of the camp, leaving behind a departed Dutch. The gang can't shake off the feeling that their unity is gradually unraveling, similar to the frayed fabric of a well-worn shirt.
The sight of Arthur in such a distraught state is an unfamiliar one for John. He's used to seeing Arthur hold his composure during even the most critical moments. However, something vital has been torn away from him, leaving him disoriented and incomplete, as if a part of himself is missing.
Meanwhile, Dutch has been absent since last night. He ventured into Valentine, seeking solace in a few drinks to clear his troubled mind. Unfortunately, the whiskey only amplifies his dark thoughts and intensifies his longing for his daughter. Ever since Alice's birth, Dutch had made a solemn vow to protect her at any cost.
Still teetering on the edge of intoxication, Dutch sets off, without a clear destination or purpose. He can't determine if his little girl is even alive anymore, which weighs heavily on his conscience. The loss of his daughter, coupled with witnessing the hardship inflicted upon her husband, reminds him of the tragic events surrounding Annabelle. At least, in Annabelle's case, Colm killed her swiftly, sparing Dutch prolonged uncertainty. In this instance, he finds himself caught in a similar torment.
Continuing down the road, Dutch estimates that he's roughly a mile away from camp. Consumed by his thoughts, he edges closer to succumbing to defeat when a sight catches his attention: his little girl, slowly dragging herself along the road in agony.
Dutch's heart both leaps with anticipation and sinks in despair. A trail of blood follows her, evidence of her desperate attempt to find her way home. Tears well up in his eyes as he dismounts his horse and rushes to Alice's side. The sight of her tortured state is gut-wrenching and heartbreaking. Her body is adorned in bruises, and her arm has been cruelly amputated. He already knew her arm was cut off thanks to the horrid message sent to them but seeing it first hand was something he wasn't ready for.
The phrase "My poor baby" escapes Dutch's trembling lips as he struggles to maintain composure. Alice gazes up, her pain-stricken face managing to muster a smile. Through labored breaths, she utters, "Daddy." The relief is palpable as she realizes that he has found her.
Without a moment's hesitation, Dutch scoops her up into his arms. Despite the weight loss she has endured, Alice still feels somewhat heavy in his arms.
"Don't worry, Alice. We're going to make it back home." Dutch reassures her, determination burning in his eyes. He sets off on foot, determined to carry her the entire mile back to camp. He knows that in her current weakened state, it's not safe for her to be on horseback.
Speaking softly, Alice's fragile voice breaks the silence. "Daddy... is Arthur alright?" Her words tug at Dutch's heart, but he masks his worry with reassuring strength.
"He's going to be just fine, sweetheart. Right now, our priority is getting you back home." Dutch responds, his voice filled with both love and conviction. With each step, he holds Alice closer to his chest, enveloping her in his familiar warmth.
A faint, weary smile forms on Alice's lips. She nods briefly, understanding the need to conserve her diminishing energy. Closing her eyes, she succumbs to the overpowering urge to sleep, finding solace in the thought that her father has found her and will keep her safe.
Author's note: I've been in a dark place so this fic got dragged down with with me. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. I'm bad at this shit, I've also been procrastinating about posting this because like, I'm me and I'm fearful of putting this out there and people won't like this but here we are... Bye
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nataliabdraws · 5 days
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Since you all seemed to like my last Ramona and Arthur art here are more!! They are so fun to draw
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readingcoco · 3 months
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WIP Game
I was tagged AGES ago by the wonderful @cassietrn to share some of my WIP, and I have only gotten around to doing it now (sorry). This is a snippet from a long fic I'm working on called Painted Red. I'm hoping to have the first chapter out at some point next week. Weirdly enough, this is a snippet from chapter 3...
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Photo credit - Working Girls: An American Brothel, circa 1892 by William Goldman
❣️Painted Red❣️
CW: Masturbation, Sex Work, Period-Typical sexism, solitary tent pining
The air in Lemoyne is cloying. Sticky and thick like Molasses. He hates it here, hates waking up wet with sweat, bitten to an inch of his life by the mosquitos that swarm the lake behind his tent.  He’s never been this far south and would gladly leave soon as convenient, except for Dutch’s insistence that gold lies somewhere between the two warring Ex-Slaver families. Arthur’s less convinced but far from him to try and question Dutch once his mind is set on something. 
A high-pitched buzz by his left ear is met with the thwack of his open palm. Gotcha.
Something else is gnawing away at him, too, besides the mosquitos. A stirring in him, he thought all but laid to rest after Mary, after -. The kind that makes itself known only when he’s here, lying alone in his tent, staring up at the ceiling. 
Want. 
Fuck. He wants her so bad. Ettie, that working girl, up in Rhodes. With her daring eyes and smart mouth - her hands on him, days ago, in the bath at the parlour house. Gentle yet insistent. God, if the very thought of her didn’t make a beeline straight down to his cock. He don’t like it, don’t like it at all - what she does to him, how she makes him feel. Unarmed. Weak even. But also lighter.
He is appalled to admit he’s considered taking himself in hand more than once now to the thought of her loveliness - like some hapless kid. He should be ashamed. He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 18, a string of them after Mary ended things the first time around. Abigail? Once. The last time he lay with a woman was when he and Mary briefly came back together just before she married. What was that 94… 95? Would he even remember what to do? Would he be able to last? As a whore she ought not to care, especially if he’s paying for the privilege… but he wants to please her… wants to fill her smart mouth with sounds of pleasure, watch those daring, teasing eyes roll back in her head as she comes undone for him. 
He’s stroking himself now. Her imagined sighs. His name on her lips-
Arthurrr-
“-ARTHUR!”
Dutch shouts him from outside his tent. Inescapable like the soupy Lemoyne air. Goddamnit, he hates it here.
******
No pressure WIP tags: @rivetingrosie4, @cassietrn, @photo1030, @redwritr, @twola, @shootybangbang and anyone else who wants an excuse to share their work!
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morning-star-joy · 8 months
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morning-star-joy fic masterlist
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Important: Please read this post about the creator of tlou being a Zionist, this article from 2020 that explains that link in tlou2, how to help Palestine.
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Joel Miller Masterlist
Arthur Morgan Masterlist
Joel Miller x F!Reader x Arthur Morgan
Tommy Miller x F!Reader Series (Hiatus)
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shittybundaskenyer · 1 year
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In October, let there be fire...
In October, let there be fire—in the hearts, in the eyes, burning between thighs, bubbling under a spine, inside the guts. Let it scorch and destroy, and then let it build and give warmth. 
Dying moths circling, half-frozen night bugs dancing, but only the birds fly, and souls somewhere with them, up above clouds where the sun is still warm and gentle. 
A tender caress. His eyes and hers, meeting. Embrace, fight, poem, light. 
A kiss, a touch, motions of love, hips and thighs and fat and muscle. Blood, aching, rushing, a heart settling at the rhythm of galloping horses. 
Wildfire, born not from the sun but from a home. A campfire, a hearth. 
Frosty mornings spent warm, inside a cocoon of arms and legs and hair and sweat, yesterday's lovemaking still buzzing with the force of swarming bees inside tired systems. A goodnight kiss, soft and chaste and innocent, and its twin, the morning one, dizzy with want and need and the same fire that can turn a forest into a handful of black ashes cupped in broad, trigger-calloused palms.
Fire, fire, fire.
Love, love, love.
Four letters. Syllables of two words, both burning bright and fierce. His lips, doin' just the same against her mouth. 
"Whatchu want darlin'?"
"Can I be selfish?"
The summer burns up in a cold death-dance. It rests, cradled by the soothing arms of rare October daylight.
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artnevoa · 11 months
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Been a while since I did some arthur x oc stuff. Sorry you guys have to see it lol
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