#morgan silver dollar

[sandraikonn]

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[arthursfuckinghat]

There's a specific ache in my heart that eats at me every time I go into the Tumbleweed stables and see Silver Dollar, Branwen, Gwydion, Boaz and Ennis there.

Part of me knows it's just a fun bonus for the players to be able to buy some of the gang members' horses, but the other part of me aches because of how much the gang members loved their horses and aren't around to love them anymore.

[roamingtigress]

family portrait Arthur's looking on in envy because he has the shortest horse; he had to settle for Pat the pack horse.

[sudden-stops-kill]

cc $1

[mirandasedai]

My evil, evil brain: “what if I dressed Arthur like Hosea”

[iragoldproof]

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[twofielder]

Coin of the Day #83 (7/26/2024)

I need to start mixing in some more die varieties here…

United States

1880/9-S $1 Overdate

VAM-11 (Hot 50 VAM)

Remnants of a 9 inside the opening of the 0 in the date.

PCGS MS64

[slut4sugu]

𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍- (spencer reid x fem!reader)

𐙚˚ including: toothrotting fluff, Spencer being a sweetheart as per usual, Spencer’s hands omfg, season!10 reid>>, a little suggestive towards the end . 𐙚˚ authors note: didn’t really proof read much, and kinda got lazy towards the end hope y’all like it tho!

Dr. Spencer Reid, Pretty Boy, Kid, boywonder.

But to you? A sweet heart, though Morgan was on the dollar with pretty boy. Puppy dog eyes, a mess of curls, and his hands- dear god Spencer’s hands. Before you two even started dating you would tease him alongside Morgan and prentiss on occasion. Calling him cute or sweet was the norm between you two, over time however those words began to have some underlying meaning to them. Anyone taking a glance at you two wouldn’t have suspected romantic feelings were starting to develop, however the way your voice would soften when you called him Spence was telling to say the least. You two also didn’t make it exactly secretive when you practically jumped into Reid’s arms after coming back from a few days off after a mentally taxing case.

Rossi and Hotch both picked up on you and Reid’s shared closeness first, Hotch occasionally asking about you to Spence in private. Who would answer generally though the unmistaken dilation of his pupils hen your name was mentioned was a dead give away.

It wasn’t until you both walked into the bau months later hand in hand when you made it official to the team. (Who lets be real already knew about your relationship.) Penelope was even more cheery than normal on this day, promising to find you two the cutest couple mugs and matching keychains, plushies, anything and everything. JJ and Morgan were messing with Spence about how he even managed to ask you out, though when you revealed to the team that you made the first move a look of “yeah that checks out.” Was shared among the team.

times like these spent at Spencer’s apartment always managed to make you feel safe and so so loved. Sitting in silence together as Spence would read his 5th book of the night whilst you giggled at whatever rom com was on that night. The feeling of Spence’s body heat was almost like a melatonin, making you want to melt into him. Occasional kisses to your head and cheek would make your heart flutter and a dumb smile tug at the corner of your lips. Nights like these made you fall inlove with him even more. Recently however one certain thing about your boyfriend cemented this fact for you, his hands. His pretty veiny slightly toned hands, the way his fingers scanned the passages of the book was unreasonably attractive.

After a few minutes the couple bickering on the tv no longer had your attention rather it was your pretty boyfriends distracting hands. You noticed his forearms were veiny as well, the silver watch that clinged in his wrist was just the cherry in top. “Do you want me to read to you love?” Reid asked with a witty chuckle, thinking you were actually intersected in the contents of his novel. You hummed in response, “mm you can baby, but I was just looking at your hands, yknow you really are a pretty boy. You say calmly, not even realizing the words that came out of your mouth until you heard his adorable laugh. “My hands?” He asked with a smile, taking a glance at his own hands with a slightly amused look.

Sitting up you mentally cursed at yourself, burying your face in his neck. Amused and curious, Spencer put his book down on his nearby wooden nightstand. Taking a mental not on the page he left off on before admiring at your flustered state with a grin on his face. “They look pretty t’me..” you mumbled. You really didn’t how adorable you could be, it’s almost like you would purposely tease him with that sweet voice or yours and your child like mannerisms. Everything about you drove the fbi against insane, your laugh, your hugs, your sweet goodbye kisses, the way you’d run your fingers through his hair. You were his Eden, his safe place, his sweetheart. He smiled down at you before asking, “Why are you hiding angel? I would like to see your beautiful face.” Spencer admitted softly, which then prompted you to pull back and look at him shyly after a moment, “There she is, hi sweet girl.”

The butterflies in your stomach fluttered at the look he gave you, his eyes so full of love and admiration. A hint of teasing? Sure, nonetheless it made you feel giddy. Even more so when he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “you like me hands huh?” He asked teasingly you could feel his breath on your cheek as his voice softened, yet the way his words fell past his lips made you feel hot. “Shut up, forget I ever said anything.” You mumbled once more before feeling Spencer shift next to you, now laying on his side as he pulled you back into his warmth. His arms wrapping you up in a gentle yet loving hug, “How could I ever? Every word you say is like a sacred poem only I get to hear. Also it’s actually quite normal to be attracted to your partners hands, studies shown that women tend to prefer or even solely be attracted to a man with more rough hands because of the apparent sex appeal-.” You let out a giggle, as you heard your boyfriend catch himself in the middle of his sentence. “You okay honey?” You loved messing with him, this was just too good. You could almost heard the connection he made into figuring out what was so fascinating about his hands. “My hands aren’t rough.”

You let out a laugh into his chest, Spence could really be unfairly cute and not even realize it “Pff- that’s what you take away from this?”

“No, we can address how you’re turned on by the apparent veins on my hands at a different time.”

“Unless you rather discuss that now-?”

“Sometimes I hate your hot little nerd brain.”

[readingcoco]

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 5487

Ao3 Link

Summary: Arthur revisits Rhodes Parlour House, hoping to get information about the Braithwaite gold from working girl Ettie. He leaves with more questions than answers and a gift he wasn't expecting.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honour Arthur Morgan, angst, emotional smut.

Chapter Two - The Whore

[Chapter 1]

Arthur.

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 warring Gray and Braithwaite families. He’s less convinced but far from him to try to 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 parlour house. Bold as anything. 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 breasts, her smile, the way she looked at him, full of doe-eyed devilment. He’s like some hapless kid. Should be ashamed. 

He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 17, 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 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. 

*

“Best I can stoop to is twenty.”

Arthur nods, weighing the expensive-looking silver bracelet loosely in his palm before handing it over. Hosea was better at knowing the worth of fine things, but the fence was on his way back to camp, and it didn’t make sense to make two trips. Still, twenty dollars wasn’t bad for an afternoon playing errand boy to two star-crossed lovers. Not quite the gold Dutch was hoping for, but something at least.

“Deputy.” The man flashes him a knowing wink, touching the brim of his hat. He winces before stiffly nodding back—damn badge. 

He won’t feel too bad about it; the Braithwaite girl, Penelope, had seemed more than content with just the letter, and neither family looked short on finary, as ill-gotten as it was. No, no harm done. 

The sun is at its hottest, leaving him half-blind as it beams punishingly up from the road ahead. Sweat pours from his brow, and he can barely see where he’s going when he finds himself steering Branwen right up the hill towards Rhodes rather than carrying on straight in the direction of camp. 

Only the stench of the butcher’s meat left out too long in the midday heat is enough to break him from his trance and acknowledge where he is. As though Branwen had been steering herself, with him merely passenger. 

Too late to turn around now, he concedes. Might as well carry on heading where he’s heading. 

He takes a long glug from his waterskin before dismounting. Hitching Branwen to the shadiest post of the parlour and making sure she has her fill from the water trough provided—a few extra sugar cubes for good measure. 

“Won’t be long, girl.” 

The heat was just as hard on the horses. 

He assures himself he’s here for reconnaissance— nothing more. If anyone’s likely to have information on the Grays and Braithwaites, it’s her. Probably had enough of them to pick something up the gang could find useful, what with her knack for seeing the stuff folk didn’t want seen. 

The twenty dollars burns a hole in his pocket. 

Ettie had seemed willing the last time, hadn’t she? Not put off or disgusted by him that he could make out. Maybe the badge had its uses, after all. 

Hell, maybe if he slept with her, got it out of his system, he could get on with the job at hand and stop all this silly early morning pining.

*

The parlour house is sleepy as he enters, too late for the lunchtime trade, too early for the field workers to have downed tools and made their way into town. His eyes skirt sheepishly across the bar. 

He’d found himself coming here quite a bit since the gang moved south, not just to avoid Pearson’s cooking but because it was one of the few places that offered solace from the outside sun, the thick leafy green curtains keeping out the worst of the rays. I was nicer than most places he tended to frequent, the white-clothed tables suggesting a level of expected cleanliness from its clientele. And though he’d made sure to kick the mud from his boots before entering, he now chose to stand on the hardwood rather than risk marking the floral rugs that lined the rest of the room.

He can’t see her. Not even sure she's started working yet. And though a couple of girls at the bar make him double-take, none of them are Ettie. 

He’s just about ready to skulk out, feeling old and feckless, when he hears her. Laughter carrying brightly from behind him, awakening the entire place from its slumber. He’d forgotten how alive she was. The rough sketch he’d drawn of her the night he’d got back to camp had barely captured her likeness, let alone her charm. 

She is sat in one of the wooden booths, perched on the lap of a stout-looking man, happy and light, head thrown back, though he’s certain the man at her seat did little to merit such pleasant sounds. 

He stalls for a moment, watching her work and is reminded of Hosea’s ability to tell a person exactly what they want to hear in order to rob them blind — except he isn’t sure who would be robbing who in the current circumstance. 

The stout man’s hand paws lecherously at Ettie’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he ogles up at her. Surely, no amount could be worth the touch of a man like that. Is that how he had looked, too? Leering and pathetic? Sucked in by talk of sketching and paints. She had read him like a book, and he’d allowed it — a fool to think her interest was in anything other than the dollars in his pocket. 

Well, if money is all it will take to get her pretty face out of his waking thoughts, so be it.

“Miss White?” 

Ettie shifts to face him mid-conversation and grins impishly as though expecting his arrival.

“Hello, stranger.” 

But as he opens his mouth to respond, the words of solicitation stick in his throat, and he realises how unpracticed he is at this whole buisness. The man beneath her glares back, warning him off what’s his. Arthur swallows dryly, raising an arm to rest awkwardly on the booth’s divider, the other hooking into the buckle of his belt. 

“I believe— Last time I was here you—”

Ettie raises an eyebrow, choosing to watch him flounder rather than step to his salvation. 

So she’s toying with him. He sees how it is. Hadn’t acted quick enough the first time around and had her plucked from his side by the drunkard Leigh Gray. Now if he wants her, she’s expecting him to do the same to the dolt under her. He grits his jaw. The glint of his badge catches his eye, and he tries a different tack.

“I’ve heard word there’ve been dangerous men spotted in the area.”

Ettie scans the empty bar and looks back at him plainly.

“Everything seems fine from where I’m sittin’, Deputy.” She puts a playful hand on the stout man’s knee. “Wouldn’t you say so Ernest?” The man nods, wrapping his arm ever tighter around Ettie’s waist. 

“Would you just—I’d like it if—” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn as he avoids meeting her eye and instead looks over his shoulder towards the central staircase. He speaks low, “Last time I was in, you asked to show me your work— but we was interrupted.”

A twinkle of recognition from Ettie. “Oh? You still interested?”

“Yes.” He sniffs. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back. 

She silently weighs up some mental calculation before placing a palm on Ernest’s chest. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. Would you mind terribly if you bought me a drink some other time? The Deputy and I have a prior arrangement.” 

He almost sympathises as he watches the man’s face shift from confusion to disappointment, but before it has a chance to twist into anger, Ettie kisses Ernest squarely on the mouth. “Wait right here. I’ve got someone who’ll know how to make it up to you.” She leaves with a wink and no room for protest, springing up and scurrying across to the bar. 

Arthur regards Ernest with an awkward salute, unsure what to say given the circumstances. At least when he robbed men at gunpoint, there was no pretence of polite conversation. 

It’s Ernest who is first to break their silence, “She’s a wily one, Deputy. Not as perky as some of the younger girls, but makes up for it with experience.” He slaps Arthur’s arm in a fashion far too familiar. It makes his skin crawl. “Clean, too.” 

“They’ll be cleanin' you off this floor if you speak about the Lady like that again. We understood?” He’d done his best not to raise his voice, Dutch’s instructions of keeping a low profile never far from his mind, but the man is still white as a sheet as Ettie arrives back at the booth. With her is a lofty-looking girl with ashy blonde hair, who regards Arthur with an amused up and down as she passes. She doesn’t bother to say hello, instead making a beeline straight to Ernest’s side. 

“A birdy told me you were in need of company since yours is being so rudely snatched away,” she says pointedly. 

Although Ettie rolls her eyes, it’s obvious she’s in on the bit. 

“Ernest, Ida’s going to take good care of you while I take the Deputy upstairs. Don’t have too much fun without me now.”

*

The walk up to Ettie’s room is long enough for the dread to start to kick in. He can feel his heart pumping in his throat and remembers why he stopped all this nonsense years ago, but then the warmth of her touch meets the small of his back, and she smiles at him gently from under her lashes.

 “I’ve been wantin' to get you away from prying eyes,” she says quietly, for his ears alone. “Here’s my room, first on the left.” 

As the door closes behind them, he can finally allow his shoulders to relax as he is greeted by the smell of lavender and something sweet he can’t quite place—chamomile, maybe? Her room is small, with sunny yellow walls and surfaces laden with bric-à-brac, the type which collects only once a space has been lived in for some time. Things that would be prone to getting lost or damaged travelling from pillar to post as he did, things he wanted to pick over and admire. 

A painting hung to his right catches his eye: a handsome-looking dark bay drinking from what looks like Flat Iron Lake. He moves towards it to inspect it up close.

“You wanna leave your gun by the door, Deputy?” Ettie says softly.

He looks down. Of course. And undoes his gun belt, wrapping it around itself before setting it on the side, along with his hat. He stands before her, disarmed, not quite sure what to make of the curious way she watches him or where to rest his twitching fingers without the cool metal of his buckle to anchor to. He folds his arms.

“That’s Burdock, my baby. I take him out ridin’ whenever I can.” Ettie says, gesturing to the painting that caught his attention. 

“You painted this?” 

She grins, sticking up her nose with pride. “I did!” Her lack of reticence surprising. 

“S’good.” 

He’d never been much of a smooth talker when it came to women. Even when first courting Mary it had taken months to build up to asking her for a kiss. But this wasn’t courting, and he’d do best to remember that. 

“As flattered as I am, I know you didn’t come up here just to look at my art.”

“Can a man not appreciate a paintin’?”

“They can,” she says, slinking up to him and running a trail of fire across his chest. Pressing herself flush against him. Her hair smells like rose water — not mud, or sweat, or blood. And it disturbs him to think that the last time he felt the heat from another’s body so close, his hands were wrapped around their neck. The tip of her nose aligns with his collarbone, and he could rest his chin on her crown if he felt bold. “But it would be an awful expensive trip just to look at a picture.” 

She steps back slowly to look at him, her absence leaving him cold. For a moment he fears she’s sensed the danger he’s sure he radiates — realising a beat too late, the expected next step of their dance. 

“How much do I owe you?” he says, flusteredly reaching into his satchel. 

“Five dollars. Anything ‘French’ is an additional two — Though considering I’m due payment from our little sweepstakes, I’d be happy to waive the fee for that on this occasion.” 

He’d almost forgotten about the bet placed on his head and wondered how often the women discussed what went on behind closed doors, how he would fair in comparison. He cringes at the thought and tries to push it to the back of his mind. 

“I ain’t expectin’ special treatment, don’t worry.”

He hands over five dollars, and with the money on the dresser, Ettie retakes her position. The plainness of the transaction and the affection it now entitled him to feeling implausible. 

“Relax a little,” her voice comes out like a breath, encouraging him to breathe deeply in time with her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna have fun.” She guides him over to the bed before stepping back to remove her shirtwaist and skirt, each button revealing new skin he now had permission to touch. 

As he stands there watching, something about the ungraceful practicality of her undressing fascinates him, how in contrast it felt to the choreographed movements of the rest of her performance. He wonders if this is her more natural state, all furrowed brows and uncoordinated limbs, and if so, what it took for her to keep up appearances. 

When down to her corset and underthings, Ettie faces the mirror to unpin the hair fixed neatly atop her head. He is silent as it falls like water, spilling over the ridge of her shoulders and pooling loosely at the base of her spine. 

“Your turn now.” She says, and he hardly has time to react before her nimble fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt. 

From this angle, he can see how the sun has caught the high points of her face, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles lightly masked by powder. The slope of her neck is decorated by loose curls and a small silver locket that bobs up and down above her— He dares not gaze lower. Only as she begins to work at his fly does his sluggish brain arrive at the moment in hand.

“You ain’t taking this off?” His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, and for the first time, Ettie looks a little startled, stepping back to look at him hesitantly. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“I wasn’t planning on. My draws are split, and this unties. Look—” She pulls the ribbon at her shoulder. And he hates that it’s Ernest’s words that colour his view as the loosened cotton strap of her chemise falls away to expose a pretty breast, pushed up by the boning of her corset. Was the man blind? “It’s a little cumbersome to get on and off.” He aches to see her fully, to touch the skin still hidden from view, but he won’t push. 

Her hand dips back into his open fly, sliding between a gap in his union suit. He lets out a wince to feel the pads of her fingers making contact with the base of his dick. “That feel good?” she goads. His whole body gone rigid. Barely able to summon words. Nodding sharply in response, as she begins to ease him out. 

The pace in which she palms him feels foreign compared to his hand's efficient strokes, but she is responsive to each breath, learning him with every shudder and tense of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sensation of her experienced hands. Rare he is permitted such selfish pleasure. Rare anyone did anything for him without expectation of its return tenfold. And yet— The lopsidedness of the arrangement suddenly feels too much to bear. He needs to touch her, needs to make her feel as good as she’s making him. 

As her speed quickens, he moves a cautious hand to her breast, cradling her delicately before lightly skimming his thumb across her nipple. Testing. Her rhythm falters slightly, and he is rewarded with a small whimper that escapes half-bitten through her lips. That’s it. He circles the pebbled skin, harder this time, and delights to feel her swell under his touch. Confidence growing, he dips his head lower to taste her. She moans again, but this time unrestrained, head lolling back as he sucks. 

“Arthurrr—”

Her strokes hasten, and he needs to hear her keen for him again. Needs to touch her. He reaches down between them, between her legs, trying to find the source of her heat amongst rumpled cotton, but then she is pulling away. Stepping back. Straightening up. 

“Hey, this is about you. Don’t worry about me, okay.” She says.

“But—” 

“Shhhh, trust me,” Ettie whispers calmly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He worries that he has done something wrong, hurt her in some way he didn’t intend, too forceful, too coarse. But like she can read his mind—

“Stay put, I ain’t goin' nowhere.”

She’s good at that, he thinks, toeing the line between gentle and firm. Never going as far to bruise a man’s ego but not coming across as a pushover either. Had she always been that way, or had she learnt how to soothe a man, just as he’d learnt how to intimidate them? Through necessity. What was her natural temperament? What was his? 

Ettie walks over to the dresser and grabs a small glass jar, scooping out a little of the contents before returning to the bed. 

“You wanna get a little more comfortable?” She says, eyeing his half-open union suit and the jeans around his ankles with amusement. What a sight he must look. But if she was going to remain in her underthings, shouldn’t he? It didn’t seem proper to be exposed when she was not. He kicks off his jeans but leaves his Union suit open, but on. 

“What’s that?” He nods to the creamy concoction cupped in her hand.

“Just a little somethin’ for my comfort.” That playful look again. “You are quite… sizable. I wanna make sure I’m ready for you.”

His cheeks darken, her lack of arousal confirming his worst fears.

“Maybe if you let me touch you, you might enjoy it more.”

Her sigh is affectionate. “Who said I wasn’t enjoying myself? Anyone ever told you you worry too much?”

They face each other at the precipice of the bed. His toes curling whilst she slicks up his length with the salve in what feels like one continuous gliding motion, till he is rock hard and panting before her. She shifts herself to bend over the bed, guiding him behind her with a hand on his hip. She arches her back to rest with her forearms on the mattress. 

“You ready to show me what you can do, Deputy?”

“Arthur. Please.” He manages to huff out, unable to look away from the way she is presented so brazenly for him.

Ettie gives him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Arthur, I want you to show me what you’ve been dreamin’ on since we first met.” And he wants to show her, too. 

Swallowing thickly, he carves a hand between the slit of her draws, spreading them open to finally expose the supple flesh of her backside. The sight alone has his dick twitching in anticipation, helpless to prevent the full handful of her ass he takes in his grasp. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He croaks.

“Might have heard it mentioned.” 

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, steadying his breath, before aligning himself with her entrance. He is mindful not to push into her too quickly, and though the salve helps some, he hears her breath hitch in her chest as she takes him, inch by inch.

“Too much?” He asks, trying to mask his trepidation, but he is answered by an enthusiastic grind of her hips, which sheaths him fully inside. He stops breathing for a moment, caught by the clutch of her cunt. Senses all but lost to the sensation of her heat. His lids grow heavy, but the sight of his cock buried to the hilt has him straining to keep them open. Hypnotised by the way she encases him. 

He gently rocks himself backwards and then forward, shallow at first and then deeper, slowly increasing his pace with each slap of their hips.

“Ettie-”

“That feel good, Arthur?” So good. So good. And he wishes he could look into those teasing eyes as she spears herself back onto him. At first, matching his tempo and then provoking him to speed up, take her faster, harder. 

He won’t last much longer at this rate. And tries to bat away the sinking feeling that that might be something she wants. For this to be over quickly. She’s making all the right noises, but then again, he walked into this room with a badge on his chest, so honesty was hardly something he felt entitled to. 

He wants her closer, craving the reassurance only her face could bring. He arches down over her, carefully hooking an arm around her chest, drawing her up into him, until she kneels upright on the bed with him holding her weight from behind, bodies remaining locked. 

“This ok?” He huffs.

“Mhmmm” She nods back hazily.

From this position, he can see her better, the rise and fall of her chest, the growing flush that has spread from her cheeks down her neck, the way her eyes shutter when he reaches for her breast, his other seeking out her heat from below. She hums a little then, a sound so pure it answers all suspicions about the authenticity of those proceeding it. God how he wants to watch her come around him, if only he can last long enough to get her there. 

His fingers slip between her folds, spreading her open as he continues to fuck up into her, the slick of her cunt undeniably her own making now. Ettie’s back arches wildly as he begins to rub a tight ring around her clit, and she lets out a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan like she is surprised by the pleasure. But when he tries to continue, she is grasping his wrist, pulling it away from her core and bringing it up to her mouth to suck hard on his fingers. The debauched way she looks at him then almost sends him over the edge. 

“Come for me, Arthur.”

God, his name sounds like honey on her lips. 

“Just like that—”

 Surely she’s not inferring what he thinks she is? But he is near losing himself in the thought alone.

“So close—” She coos, “Just let go, fill me—” 

Fuck. Fuck—

He drags his erupting cock out of her just in time as he spills violently onto her ass and then the floor, staggering backwards, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus! Jesus. I nearly— I’m sorry.” He babbles, feeling boorish and out of control. 

“Hey there. I know. I said you could.” She says, turning around to run her fingers through his ruffled hair. He looks back at her, confused, still out of breath. 

“Ain’t you worried about—” he stops, trying to find the correct phrasing but becoming aware of the fond, almost patronising look on Ettie’s face. 

“I ain’t worried, no.” She smiles gently, “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t take precautions.” 

He nods sheepishly, though still not entirely at ease, before sitting back down at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply, struggling to enjoy the last twitches of his high. 

When his breath returns to normal, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed, trying not to cringe at the mess he’s made of her and her floor.  

“Don’t feel like you have to rush on account of me,” Ettie says, making her way to a small porcelain jug and basin in the corner of the room. She dampens a washcloth and wipes away all trace of his spend still marking her skin. 

“Want me to clean you up?” She approaches him cautiously.

“I’m alright.” He says. 

She raises a silent eyebrow. 

“I mean, I can manage for myself.” 

She nods and hands him over the rag. He’s not sure how to feel as he tidies himself up, but he's aware of her eyes on him, watching, trying to figure him out. Knowing he’s been read before she even opens her mouth. 

“When did you last lay with a woman, Deputy?” 

He pauses. That bluntness that throws his head through a loop. Dangerous. And he doesn’t know how to answer—what she’s wanting to hear— that it was likely five years since he’d been touched like that? That he’d touched someone else? Was she looking for an explanation for his rustiness or an apology? 

“Was it obvious?” he asks, unable to fully meet her gaze. 

“Well, you ain’t got a ring and—” She hesitates momentarily. “I shouldn’t say it,” The apples of her cheeks start to ripen uncontrollably until she breaks into laughter. “You fuck like you’ve somethin’ to prove.” 

He might be inclined to take such a comment to heart if it wasn’t for the pleasure he took in seeing her so genuinely amused, and before he knows it, he’s chuckling too.

“I just didn’t want it to be awful for you.” 

Ettie nudges him with her heel. “You paid me to make you feel good. So as long as you had fun, I did too.” 

She lights a cigarette and offers him one from her case: silver, engraved with the initials A.B. in an ornate filigree. He accepts and allows her to light the smoke from the tip of her own. He still doesn’t quite know how to make conversation but is relieved to have something to occupy his hands. 

“Still wanna see my paints?” She asks after a few moments quiet.

“That’s why I’m up here, ain’t it?” He says wryly. She scoffs before darting across the room, opening draws, rooting through cupboards, pulling things out left and right—a tornado, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. 

When she returns, her arms are laden with supplies, and she settles down next to him cross-legged on the bed, spreading out her wares between them. She opens a battered-looking sketchbook and smooths out the page.

“See,” she says, stroking the paper and encouraging him to do the same. “Just like the paper in your journal—Oh, wait a second.” 

She stands abruptly before dashing off again, this time to the water jug. Her back turned, Arthur flicks through the pages and is rapt by a flurry of faces looking back at him. A few he recognises as girls from the parlour, but there are others too: an elderly woman in a bright feathered hat, a rakish-looking man in spectacles, a little girl with pigtails holding a ragdoll, each of them living and breathing on the page like she had rendered their very souls. 

“You snoopin’?” Ettie tuts in mock disapproval, though she doesn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And after all the grief you gave me for looking at your art.”

Art. 

Arthur had never thought about his sketches in that way before. Sure, he sometimes felt pride if he managed to capture something or someone’s likeness in a way that felt true, but he’d never had any training to consider what he did art. Not like the pretty pictures spread out in front of him now. These felt so full of life he swore he wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them moving.

“These are good,” he says as she settles beside him, her thigh resting lightly against his. 

She rolls her eyes, then nudges his arm. “Get your journal out— Don’t worry, I don’t wanna look at any of the drawings— Well, I do, but I’m not going to force you. Just want to show you something.” 

He relents and gets his journal from his satchel, handing it over suspiciously, realising only after it’s in her hands how reckless he’s being, and for what? He hadn’t asked her about the blood feud between Grays and Braithwaits, nothing about the gold. The only information gleaned was that his dick still worked, and even that had only served him.

Keeping to her word, Ettie opens the book to an untouched page and submerges her paintbrush into the jug, tapping off the excess water and swirling the tip into a square of dried paint. Her hand hovers over the blank page before gliding the brush across the paper in a flourish of crimson, blooming as it settled, like petals opening at dawn. 

“Here, you try.” 

She dips the brush back into the jug to clean it off before holding it out towards Arthur. Following her direction, he scrubs the brush into a dark green pan and brings his hand to the paper. His line comes out fainter than hers and less fluid, the brush strokes looking scratchy as he reaches the edge of the page. 

“Not enough paint. Got to get it saturated.” She smiles. “But look,” she flicks over the page, “it hasn’t gone through.” She starts to explain about wetting the paper before applying the paint, working in layers, letting stuff dry, getting more and more animated, that he starts to laugh. 

“You have to start adding colour to your work. I could—” She stops. “You planin’ on seein’ me again?” The question is abrupt, as though she realises she is getting ahead of herself and needs to square off the basics first. 

He hadn’t considered that this would be more than a one-time occurrence but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sense of relief that had spread throughout his body and mind in the past half hour. More settled than he’d been in months, maybe even years. Perhaps next time he could get some information out of her. Perhaps next time he could prove himself a less selfish lover.

“I’d like to if you’ll have me.”

“Marvellous! Here—” She thrusts a small wooden box into his hands.

“What’s—?”

***

“A watercolour set for travelling. Not amazing quality but perfect for a beginner or someone on the move.” She gives him a wry smile “You can borrow it and show me how you get on next time you see me.” 

She’s a whirlwind, and even as he’s riding Branwen back into camp he still feels bowled over. Not sure how he’s agreed to as much as he has, or if he’s being played, or if he cares to stop it.

Tag list: @redwritr, @twola, @ultraporcelainpig, @cassietrn & @milesology

If you would like to be added/removed from the tag list, just let me know! x

[terms-and-conditions-if]

What do you do when you start to fall in love with someone you shouldn’t?

Being a divorce lawyer in Hollywood, you’d think that you would have seen it all. After all, you have covered some of the biggest divorces in the last decade. From the multi-million dollar dynasty that was the Mercier Family to the scandal that surrounded the affair of Trevor and Jaime Reynolds.

You’ve truly seen it all, even with the ever changing entity that was Hollywood. But, through all of that, you maintained your one golden rule: never get involved with clients.

To fall in love with a client would end with disastrous results that could destroy the very business you’ve strived to grow. It’s something you’d never even think about doing.

Until the Blackwood Family entered your life.

Customizable MC: name, nickname, appearance, sexuality, gender (male, female, and non-binary), hobbies, some decorations within your house, and portions of your past.

There will be 4 ROs within the game. From the Patriarch and Matriarch of the Blackwood Family to your business partner and the bodyguard. (Gabriel and Anastasia Blackwood are inspired by Gomez and Morticia Addams.)

Can you fight the connection you feel with one, or both, of the Blackwood’s? Or is it just a futile attempt to stop fate? (Yes, there will be a LT with them… if you decide to do so.)

Or will you be able to go down the safer routes of your business partner or the loyal bodyguard.

This game is meant to be a fun adventure for you all. It will have angsty moments, but it’s not meant to be a super dark story. It is rated 18+ though.

Gabriel Blackwood [M]

One of the biggest names when it comes to the business world; Gabriel Blackwood, while oddly eccentric, is known far and wide for his generosity when it comes to his vast fortune. It’s for this very reason that you’re not surprised that he’s more than willing to give his soon-to-be ex-wife almost half of his estate. He’s not one you could ever pin down into one category, but you know your time with him going forward will be more than interesting.

Anastasia Blackwood [F]

A soft spoken woman that’s rarely ever had to raise her voice to be heard. After all, many who share the same room with her have a hard time shifting their focus to anyone else. Having made a name for herself within Hollywood on the silver screen, from quite a young age, Anastasia has been taking a break from the hectic day-to-day life of being an A-List Actress. Now that her pending divorce has become public, and the paparazzi have come flocking in once more, Anastasia’s cool stoicism has never been harder to penetrate. Will you be able to soothe her wounded heart?

Peyton Lewis [M/F]

Your business partner and closest friend within the world. Having them by your side, in all of their flirtatious glory, has always been like a safe haven for you after a tiring day. You know that all you would have to do is walk across the hall and into their office; where they’d stop whatever they were doing to make sure you were okay. With everything that’s going on, with yourself and the Blackwood Family, you’re going to need them now more than ever. And maybe along the way you’ll discover something that’s always been there.

Morgan Reese [M/F]

The Head of Security for the Blackwood Estate. They’re a person that sticks by you whenever you visit to make sure that everything goes smoothly. Though you also think it’s because they don’t trust you at all. You don’t know the story behind their relationship with the Blackwood Family, but you can definitely see that it’s caused them to be unwaveringly loyal. Maybe, given time, you’ll get a glimpse at that loyalty as you learn more about them.

DEMO (TBA) || RO APPEARANCES

[gunslingerblues]

Yet another modern RDR2 AU, yeehaw!

Arthur was orphaned at a young age and bounced between foster parents and group homes before being fostered and subsequently adopted by Hosea and Bessie at ~13 years old

He had just been doing art to cope with the [gestures at everything in Arthur's life], but with Hosea and Bessie's encouragement, Arthur decided to pursue art and get a degree in art and art history

When Arthur was ~20 years old, Hosea and Bessie adopted another 13-year-old, John Martson. Despite the gap in ages, Arthur was quick to become fond of John and help him let go of the "I'm on my own and no one cares" mentality

Arthur, now 27, has a relatively popular art account on Instagram. His username is something generic like 'morgan.makes' or something. There are no pictures of his face or mentions of his gender/pronouns, so his followers have assumed Arthur is a woman named Morgan. He's aware of this and doesn't really care lol

He also works as a cashier at Dutch's pawn shop and sometimes evaluates things people bring in to sell. Dutch does run a shady side business out of the pawn shop (drugs or gambling, idk lmao), but Arthur isn't involved. Partly because he doesn't want to be, and partly because Dutch knows that Hosea and Bessie would not hesitate to kick his ass if Arthur got tangled up in illegal shit because of Dutch

Hosea and Bessie’s property used to be a bustling farm, but is now home to a handful of hens, a few cows, and horses. One is Hosea’s, a grey-coated Turkoman stallion named Silver Dollar, and the other is Arthur’s, a chestnut Arabian mare named Sweet Pea

Arthur also owns an old truck he calls Horse

More often than not, Arthur is the one who picks John up from high school, and he never tells John if it’ll be with Sweet Pea or Horse. John complains whenever Arthur rides up on Sweet Pea, but all of John’s friends think it’s so cool (John also thinks it’s cool but like hell he’s going to admit it)

John's friends are Javier, Lenny, and Sean. He has a huge crush on Abigail, a girl in his English class. Hosea and Bessie think it's very sweet and Arthur (lovingly) teases the shit out of John about it

I have lots of other thoughts about this AU, so if anyone has questions 👁️👁️ feel free to ask!

[sandraikonn]

ShopCSNTV: Exclusive Deals on US Dollars for Sale

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[arthursfuckinghat]

"I don't talk about him much.. but I think about him"

[pancake-breakfast]

Aight, a quick note for Trigun Volume 2, Chapter 1. Disclaimer: I'm not exactly a coin expert; I just got curious and hopped down the Google rabbit hole. But here's what I found.

This coin from the end of the chapter...

...is what's called a Morgan dollar or a Morgan silver dollar.

It's actually got a very unique design, as most of the eagles appearing on the backs of U.S. coins are either in a very different pose, or they have their feet spread wider and are far less concerned with anatomical accuracy.

Here's the front:

According to Wikipedia, the Morgan dollar was originally minted from 1878 to 1904, which would make it very fitting for Trigun's desert punk setting, since that point in time in the U.S. was the tail end of what we think of as the Wild Wild West. (It's actually recently been re-minted, but that's irrelevant to the discussion since Trigun was written well before any re-mints.)

So... the coins didn't come up in the '98 anime (as I doubt they intended to try and hash out everything with these twelve assassins at that time), and if they come up in Stampede, they're definitely Season 2 material. That means I, someone who is functionally a first-time reader of the Trigun manga, don't know all the details about the coins in the manga, such as whether everyone has the same type of coin or if each of the assassins has a different type of coin, or if Nightow even bothers to continue this particular plot device.

But I do know some of the imagery for this particular coin. (It's... not that complicated. I just wanted to sound dramatic.)

The front has an image of Lady Liberty (artist's rendition, not the statue in New York, which wouldn't become a thing and proceed to overwhelm U.S. imagery of Lady Liberty until this coin had been circulating for eight years), who of course represents liberty, and the back has a bald eagle, which I think we've impressed on the rest of the world enough for most people to know we use it as a symbol of freedom.

Freedom and liberty; not that different of concepts. Not that complicated.

But the coin in the manga panel is split. It's damaged beyond repair, no longer functional as legal tender and only really good as a novelty trinket or for melting down.

Which makes it a really interesting thing to give a man who's been caged in a cellar for 20 years and is forced into the service of any sort of master.

[sudden-stops-kill]

[hannibalzero]

Cut loose and set free

Charthur wip

🦬🦌🦬🦌

I’ve been trying to get into my writing grove again so I’m throwing things to the wall and seeing what sticks. Let me know what you think!

“And just where were you, Mr. Morgan?” Dutch demanded, turning around on The Count with the gang behind him. It reminded Arthur of those Greek myths of the gods of Olympus, the ones Dutch and Hosea had taught him to read. Dutch in front of the mountain pass that led into a dark snowstorm sky, each member of the gang another god in their own right.

Dutch was Zeus, king of the gods. Molly was his queen Hera, Hosea was Hermes, John had to be Ares, Grimshaw was Demeter, and Uncle was Dionysus.

Arthur could almost see the white robes and gold leaf crowns.

What did that make Arthur? Apollo, he supposed.

“Where were you?! Answer me, boy!” Dutch bellowed like the gods of old. A clap of thunder followed his voice, as if nature itself was blessing this moment with its presence. The rain started to fall slowly from the sky.

Swallowing a few times, eyes wide, Arthur found his voice. “I told ya, Dutch! I was working with Hosea on that real estate job.” He proclaimed his innocence. Arthur had told Dutch this was a crazy job, that the law would find them too quickly. Hell, Arthur had even done the leg work by scouting the boat, its route, and what it should be hauling. “I told ya what I thought of the job, ya said it would be fine!”

“Enough! You have the balls to talk to me like that! You should have been there, Arthur! It’s your job as my enforcer! My hunting dog!” Dutch snarled, showing his teeth, which looked more like fangs at the moment. “If you can’t do your job, then you have no place here with us! I’m cutting you loose, Arthur Morgan.” He pointed at Arthur now, casting him out of the only family Arthur had ever known.

Arthur physically flinched, feeling like a little boy again. He wanted to hide away in a closet like he did when he was a boy, when Lyle was drinking. Arthur could remember just last week when Dutch was singing his praises for bringing in two gold bars from a stagecouch job he ran by himself.

What had changed so quickly?

“Dutch! Ya can’t be serious!” Hosea cried out, turning himself and Silver Dollar towards Dutch.

“Quiet!” Dutch roared back to Hosea, shutting the man up and causing him to stop in his tracks. “This gang doesn’t need any more deadweight. Already have more than we need. This ain’t a charity!”

Hands shaking while holding the reins, Arthur hid his eyes with the brim of his hat. “…That how ya really see me, Dutch?” Arthur asked quietly but knew his answer and gave a long, slow sigh. “Alright then.” He gathered his emotions for the time being, pushing them way down until he could understand them.

Arthur looked Dutch in the eye, his eyes a dull blue, almost gray now. “I ask for my tent, chest, and horses…won’t take any money. That fair, Dutch?” Arthur bargained. He didn’t want to start over with absolutely nothing. At least having the items he had since he was a boy would be nice.

Dutch stroked his beard in thought, tilting his head. His gold and ruby rings glittered like lightning in the stormy light. “Yes, think of it as your hope chest.” He held out his arms with a grin. “It’s what young people take when they leave home.” He mocked, pointing with his head to Molly, who was riding in her stagecoach. “At least Molly came to me with a few gold bars.”

Arthur nodded, slipping off Rum’s back and got to work. He retreated to his lean-to, setting his chest beside his beautiful mare. Walking over to the extra horses, he gathered his beloved Brandy, Gin, and Absinthe. “…Y’all be safe,” Arthur called out to the gang as he packed up his supplies and attached leads to the horses.

Javier grabbed Arthur’s hand in a good shake. “Until we meet again brother.” He whispered. Giving Arthur a set of his throwing knives, Javier was a fan of throwing knives so this was special.

Bill practically turned his nose up at Arthur, riding ahead. But tossed Arthur a container of Dapper dan hair pomade.

“Good day, Mr. Morgan.” Dutch turned The Count around and headed up the mountain. The gang slowly followed behind their leader, most looking at Arthur with sad eyes or as if he were a traitor.

“Look at the bright side, cowpoke. Ya were too soft-hearted for real man’s work,” Micah Bell teased.

Arching a brow, Arthur crossed his arms. “Baylock, come.” He ordered.

Baylock was a smart boy; he knew who gave him treats and who burned him with cigarettes to make him run faster. At Arthur’s orders, the horse reared and knocked Micah off before trotting over to Arthur with a happy whinny.

Micah hit the ground with a thud. “Baylock! Baylock, come here!” he demanded, struggling to get up like a turtle on its back.

Arthur undid Micah’s saddle, letting it fall to the ground with its owner. He slipped Baylock a peppermint. “Come on, Baylock, ya join my ladies.” He ordered the horse, who was eager to be with Arthur’s beloved herd. “Have a nice life, Micah.” Arthur climbed onto Rum’s back.

The wagon with the gang’s women rode past. Mary-Beth passed Arthur her old romance novel, the one with pressed flowers in it. “Goodbye, Arthur. Love you,” she whispered, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Until we meet again.” Karen gave Arthur her old compact mirror. “Best man I know,” she whispered to Arthur, giving a sad smile. “I owe ya a drink.”

“You better write to me, Arthur Morgan.” Tilly was actually crying, Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he saw Tilly cry. “You’re my big brother.” She reminded him, giving Arthur her pestle and mortar, which had red flowers on it.

“I will. Love ya all,” Arthur whispered back, holding his new treasures close to his chest before hiding the items in his saddle bags.

Hosea approached now, with sad eyes. His shoulders slumped and looking far older than he should. “You write to me, boy. I’ll work on Dutch. See what’s really going on. John too.” He leaned over and gave Arthur a hug. Arthur held Hosea back, trying not to sniffle. “Be brave for me, son.”

“Love ya, pa. I’ll write you,” Arthur promised before moving back some. “I-If I settle somewhere good… I’ll send for you.” He looked around, giving a sniffle as his facade started to crumble. “I have a few places I will check out.” He gathered himself up a bit more before looking back to Hosea. “I’ll be fine and dandy,” he promised, giving Hosea another hug.

“I know you will, son. Ain’t no doubt you’ll be just fine. I’ll see ya soon.” He hugged Arthur back before moving forward to follow the gang.

Leaving Arthur Morgan at the bottom of the mountain, Zuse the king of the gods returns to his mountain with his court by his side, leaving the rejected god at the base of the mountain far from the gates of Olympus.

Arthur’s home.

He watched the gang go until they were out of sight and disappeared into the white snow caps. Arthur felt his shoulders drop before shaking and hug his head as he sniffled loudly. Arthur cried like he did when he lost Mary…like when he lost...Eliza and Isaac…when he lost his Mama. Big heaving sobs wracked his body, not noticing that Rum had started moving.

Rum was a very smart horse. an appaloosa mare with a white front and a brown bottom. She had to be three years old, but she was the leader of Arthur’s herd. Being a horse, she had no idea what was going on with the humans but Arthur was upset and they didn’t need to be here.