#send Clemens
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Oh Clemens-
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kieran and javier finding moments or even seconds of domestic bliss in canon pls
my friend i have scoured, deep sea dived, deep cleaned, poker all-inned and i have never once in my rdr2 career ever been able to find a positive interaction between them in canon. i didn’t think they even had ANY for the longest time until someone found one and its literally javier threatening kieran … which i would personally not categorize as “domestic bliss”. i think our best bet for canon content is crossing our fingers and praying that the ai for them in camp has them sit next to each other momentarily
#unless i misunderstood the ask#we javieran shippers are running on slim pickings#talk about rarepair 🤩 we’re on-par with the people who ship characters who have never actually even met in canon#i can make some times up though if you’d like🫶#like that time that arthur rejected javier’s invitation to go fishing and the way javi deflated gave kieran the courage to offer to go in hi#s stead. because javi looked like a wilted flower a wet cat a kicked puppy and kieran felt his chest hollow out and he could never live with#the guilt otherwise if he didn’t at least offer#or when javier plays his guitar next to the scout campfire a night a week so that kieran gets a front row seat (at the early stages of this#javi says its ‘just so he can practice away from prying ears’) (kieran believes him but still feels special and grateful to get to be The On#e who gets to hear and see what no one else is allowed to)#or when javier strained a listen from his tent when kieran was telling sean his life story#like literally if you walk over as arthur you can see javi looking over towards the campfire where they are (obvious lie)#or that time in clemens point where after they’d just got done with a fishing date the night prior that no one knows about#javi is fishing on the bank next to camp and kieran is leading the gangs horses to the lake for a drink#and they make eye contact#and giggle and giggle and giggle#did this help ??? welcome to my mind palace#i really hope i didn’t misunderstand ur ask💔#THANK YOU FOR SENDING ONE THPUGH TO GET AN ASK ABOUT JAVIERAN IS LIKE GOD PERSONALLY VOMING DOWN TO SAY HELLO YO ME#hello !!! and i’m waving back oh so happy#rdr2#text#idk if i should tag the characters#i’ll tag the ship for account organization#javieran#hero's yelling at folks again#(i think that’s my ask tag ?? i forgor)
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Little Rat
Summary: Arthur Morgan saves you from an uncomfortable encounter with Micah.
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The fire crackled low in the center of camp, casting flickering shadows against the trees surrounding Clemens Point. Most of the gang had turned in for the night, save for a few stragglers nursing drinks by the embers. You were tidying up your things near your tent, the quiet hum of the crickets offering a small sense of peace—until you heard the unmistakable drawl.
“Well, look who’s all alone in the dark,” Micah Bell said, stepping into your line of sight with that irritating smirk plastered across his face. His eyes glinted in the dim light, and you instantly felt your guard go up.
“Micah,” you said tersely, keeping your tone neutral. “What do you want?”
He feigned offense, holding a hand to his chest. “Now, that’s no way to greet someone, is it? Just tryin’ to be sociable, sweetheart. Seems like you could use the company.”
You shot him a cold glare. “I don’t need anything, least of all from you.”
Micah chuckled low, ignoring your clear discomfort as he took another step closer, his presence pressing in on you. “Now, now. Don’t be like that. I think you and me, we could get along real well if you’d just stop actin’ so high and mighty. Ain’t nobody else around, anyway. What’s the harm?”
You stepped back instinctively, your pulse quickening. “Back off, Micah,” you warned, trying to keep your voice steady.
He didn’t listen. Instead, he reached out, his hand gripping your arm as he leaned in closer. “Aw, c’mon, darlin’. Don’t be like that. I don’t bite.”
Before you could push him away, a deep voice growled from the shadows. “Touch her again, Micah, and you won’t have a hand left to use.”
Both of you turned toward the source of the voice, and there he was—Arthur Morgan, standing at the edge of the firelight. His hat was pulled low, his jaw set tight, and his hand rested casually on the butt of his pistol.
Micah straightened, sneering. “Well, if it ain’t Arthur Morgan,” he spat. “You always gotta stick your nose where it don’t belong cowpoke?”
Arthur didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze locked on Micah with a look that could freeze the blood in your veins. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried an unmistakable weight. “Ain’t no need to explain yourself, Micah. Just walk away.”
Micah raised his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips, “I was only paying her a compliment, that’s all.”
“You keep your compliments - and yourself - far away from her, or you’ll be eating the dirt under my boots. Got it?”
Micah hesitated, his eyes darting between you and Arthur. He opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur’s hand moved slightly on his pistol, and that was enough to send Micah scowling back toward his tent with a muttered curse.
Once Micah disappeared into the darkness, Arthur turned to you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
You nodded, though your heart was still pounding. “I am now. Thank you.”
Arthur grunted, his hand falling away from his holster as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to get involved, but… couldn’t just stand there watchin’ him bother you like that.”
You offered a small, grateful smile. “I’m glad you did. He’s… persistent.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened again, and he glanced toward where Micah had gone. “He tries it again, you let me know,” he said, his tone sharp with barely restrained anger. “I’ll make sure he don’t forget his place.”
There was something in his gaze when he looked at you—something fierce and protective, but also hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he should let you see it. You didn’t know what to say, caught off guard by how much safer you felt just standing near him.
“Thank you, Arthur,” you said again, softer this time. “I mean it.”
He looked away, his cheeks tinged red beneath his scruffy beard. “Don’t gotta thank me,” he muttered, almost embarrassed. “Just… don’t like seein’ you get hurt, is all.”
As he started to walk away, you caught yourself staring after him, wondering why your heart felt a little lighter, even after what had just happened. Arthur, on the other hand, kept his back to you, his fists clenched as he cursed himself for not saying more—for not telling you the truth about why he couldn’t stand the thought of Micah or anyone else getting too close to you.
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a/n: I’m feeling so unbelievably productive & creative this week and the thoughts are just flowing but I just know I’m going to crash this weekend or next week and not write again for another 7 years
#jealous Arthur Morgan#protective Arthur Morgan#arthur morgan x female reader#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan rdr2#arthur morgan#red dead fandom#red dead redemption 2#rdr2 fic#rdr2 fanfic#one shot#jealousy#protective#fluff#angst#low honor arthur morgan#micah bell#rdr2 micah#red dead redemption community#red dead redemption two#red dead redemption arthur#rdr2 fandom#rdr2
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2:05 am. gojo satoru

"what a mess," you sigh, shaking your head in bemused affection as you take in satoru's disheveled state. his body is sprawled across yours; his head finding a comfortable resting place against the softness of your stomach, while his arms are securely wrapped around your waist, holding you close as though afraid you might disappear.
"yur sho pretty babe," he mumbles, the words slurred but filled with a child-like sincerity. his voice is a low rumble against your skin, sending a warm tingle down your spine. and although the baby blues of his eyes are slightly glazed over from the alcohol, they still hold a look of pure adoration as they meet yours. "sho gorgshus."
"thank you baby," you giggle, unable to scold him for drooling on your shirt like a child. normally, you would say something, but you decide to save it for when he's sober. "you're wetting my shirt, though."
"oh noooo!" his eyes widening in mock horror as he quickly springs up from his comfortable perch on your tummy. the throbbing headache that had led him to collapse on top of you is momentarily forgotten, his focus now solely on rectifying the situation.
"let's take it off then!" he ushers with an eager enthusiasm, his charming boyish grin spreading across his face like a radiant sunrise. he lifts the hem of your shirt in a hurry, as if the mere thought of undressing you is a thrilling adventure, a shared secret between the two of you.
despite your best efforts, the allure of a man in the throes of love, fueled by the intoxicating effects of alcohol, is a force that cannot be easily ignored. it wraps around you like a warm embrace, pulling you closer and blurring the lines between reason and desire. within seconds, you find yourself beneath him, breathless from the fits of giggles he's elicited while removing your shirt.
"looking reaaal nice baby," he whispers, leaning in to kiss the spot beneath your ear and down to your neck. "claire and clementine."
who in god's name is claire and clementine?
confused, you use the hand that was previously caressing his hair to gently tug his head up, only to find his eyes fixated on your chest.
"claire and clemen— oh my god. satoru!"

#SAINTED ⋆#gojo#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo fluff#gojo imagine#gojo blurb#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru fluff#gojo satoru imagine#gojo satoru blurb#jjk x reader#jjk fluff#jjk imagines#jjk blurb
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Posted by Jon Stewart but initiated by John Clemens:
“The 24 hour Economic Blackout"
As our initial act, we turn it off.
For one day we show them who really holds the power.
WHEN:
Friday February 28th from
12:00 A.M. to 11:59 P.M.
WHAT NOT TO DO:
Do not make any purchases
Do not shop online, or in-store
No Amazon, No Walmart, No Best Buy
Nowhere!
Do not spend money on Food & Gas
Do not use Credit or Debit Card.
Do not hire anyone to do work around your house, etc.
WHAT YOU CAN DO:
Only buy essentials if absolutely necessary l
(Food, Medicine, Emergency Supplies)
If you must spend, ONLY support small, local businesses.
SPREAD THE MESSAGE
Talk about it, post about it, and document your actions that day!
WHY THIS MATTERS?
DT and his minions only care about their pocketbooks
Corporations, banks only care about their bottom line
Financial markets rely on consumers to spend
If we disrupt the economy for just ONE DAY, it sends a powerful message.
If they don't listen (they won’t) we make the next blackout longer (We will)
This is our first action.
February 28th
The 24 Hour Economic Black Out Begins.
PLEASE PASS IT ON
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I replayed blessed are the peacemakers the other night and had a radical idea,,
What if Micah coordimated the parley with the o'driscolls, specifically to get Arthur out of the way? He's definitely not above it, and he's definitely clever enough to pull it off.
See like, Dutch aside, I think Micah is jealous of Arthur. Arthur is considered one of the most, if not /the/ most capable members of the gang. They respect his opinion on things and usually follow his lead without much fuss. They invite him to take a load off, sit by the fire and have a drink. The girls invite him to chat. He has an easy camaraderie with the rest of the gang.
Contrast this with Micah, who seems constantly at odds with everyone. Crazy homicidal tendencies aside, he does seem to want a connection with at least some of the gang. He'll sit by the fire and tell a story. He'll try to talk to the women, who brush him off with disdain or scorn. His sense of humor is fucked 9 ways to Sunday, so most of his "jokes" involve blatant sexism/racism, or he's just otherwise cruel (though I think his cruelty is half him lashing out, half him being cruel for the sake of it)
Half of the gangs rejection has to do with him just being a shitty person, but I think Arthur's attitude also plays a big part. Arthur makes no effort to hide his feelings about the man. He doesn't like him, he'd wish he'd get gone, he only tolerates him bc Dutch, ect. And because Arthur doesn't like him, the rest of the gang, subconsciously or not, follows his lead. I say this because you also have a man like Williamson, who is racist and filthy and a drunk, and yet because Arthur doesn't outright hate him, the rest of the gang tolerates him well enough.
And then there's Dutch. If there's anyone's opinion, anyone's esteem Micah truly wants to be held high in, it's Dutch's. And yet again Arthur stands in the way of this, at least in the early chapters. When Dutch wants something done, he sends Arthur. When Dutch wants to take a load off and fool around, he fucks off with Arthur and Hosea. On the rare occasions that Arthur offers his opinions on things, Dutch takes it into consideration, even if he ultimately does whatever he wants anyways. And oh I just know that Micah was stewing over the fact that the gang moved camp to Clemens Point, the place that Arthur and Charles found, instead of Dewberry Creek, the place he suggested.
All in all, Micah is envious of Arthur's place in the gang. He wants that for himself. Ultimately he manipulates his way to Dutch's right hand, but before he got to that point, he may have figured the best way to the top was to simply remove the competition.
So he runs into a few stray Odriscolls and instead of killing them, urges them to pass a message along to Colm. He plants the idea of kidnapping Arthur to lure the gang out, except he was never planning on turning them in, at least not yet. He has them suggest the meeting via Pearson to avoid arousing suspicion, though he throws his weight behind Pearson to make sure everything falls into place.
All so that Arthur when fails to meet them at the fork in the road after the parley, he can convince Dutch that it's fine, he probably saw some pretty buck or damsel in distress and went after it, you know how he is, he'll turn up.
All the while betting on the fact that Colm will eventually get tired of waiting for the rescue and just kill Arthur and be done with it. And with him out of the way, Micah can finally secure some authority within the gang.
#red dead redemption#red dead redemption 2#rdr2#rdr2 meta#rdr2 community#blessed are the peacemakers#Arthur Morgan#Micah Bell#dutch van der linde#jaybird rants#jaybird analysis#meta tag
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Thinking about Lenny and Sean.
Thinking about how Sean, representing the liveliness and optimism of the gang, has to be unavailable in Colter, just so that we, upon arrival in Horseshoe & his return to the gang, can really remember Colter as a dour opposition to the light, fun, easiness that is Horseshoe Overlook.
Thinking about how Sean is the last to be introduced and the first to die; how he HAS to be the first to die, as the most light-hearted, easy-going, fun-loving one of them. Every camp after Clemens Point is decidedly more dour, less light, mirroring what they have lost with his death. Even the two parties are noticably different, from Sean's party in Horseshoe being genuinely fun and full of hope, to Jack's party, while starting as well as one could hope, being marred by anger and sorrow; fights, and sadness, and quiet. It ends in a storm which cuts the party off; sends everyone inside and to bed, where Sean literally stays up singing and drinking until light. The game is telling us that things are no longer the same, through the environment. Things have changed, irrevocably, and they will only get worse from here on out.
Sean dies at the game's halfway point; end of chapter 3 of 6. He is the first to die of the gang members we truly get to know. It is surprising and jarring and grotesque. The effect is IMMEDIATE, although subtle, but absolutely there. Sean dies, and the dread starts creeping in. His death is the underlining of Arthur's kidnapping; Arthur might be fine for now but that doesn't mean things aren't getting worse.
Then Lenny, who alongside Jack represents the future, and the gang's hope. Note how they're both acknowledged as exceedingly smart; Jack for his age, and Lenny just in general (though he is also young by everyone's standards), and that Hosea is fond of both of them. The critical difference is that Jack represents youthful innocence in a way Lenny doesn't; Lenny is fully aware of what the gang is, what it does, and why it exists. He is seen talking about and understanding the societal factors that have led him to this way of life; specifically pointing out the impact of slavery and its abolishment on his quality of life as a black man.
Lenny is the only one who can be seen challenging Dutch at an intellectual level. Lenny dies, and there's little rationale left in the gang. And we are immediately treated to watching the start of Dutch's more rapid decline in Guarma. Lenny is buried next to Hosea, the (arguably) oldest gang member, with the most experience to guide them. There goes the future and past of the gang; the only voices which arguably could've made a difference.
He is also, notably, the only death who is not given a cutscene. Blink and it's done, and you're left in shock and disbelief, watching Arthur stay until the last second to not let the youngest member of the gang die alone.
So what's my point here? Well, I think it's worth pointing out that these two, alongside Molly, are the ending notes of chapter 3,4, and 5, all setting the tone for the chapter to come. Each signify the further detoriation of the gang -- they lose something with each death; a life and gun, sure, but also what that person in part represented. Optimism, reasonability, compassion. And each death is brutal; sudden; jarring, in distinct ways. Then, at last, Arthur is the final death, at the end of chapter 6. The gang is already done, by that point.
I also in part think it's interesting that part of the reason Sean and Lenny die is their own flaws. Sean's easy-going inattentive nature leaves him wide open, too busy making a quick-witted quip to keep an eye out -- even when Arthur, the most senior member among them, makes it clear something is wrong, which SHOULD put one on guard in that situation. Lenny, who believes himself lucky and intelligent, also has a sense of arrogance and recklessness which has him running headfirst into danger without looking.
I love them a lot, but I think their survival inherently would mean a very different story from the one RDR2 is. Also think they absolutely would have sided with Arthur in the end, but those are both completely different rants I'll save for another time :'^)
#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#sean macguire#lenny summers#teki talks#long post#IM BACK IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN AGAIN#its another late night rant i keep doing these#rdr thoughts
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dating sadie adler, kisser of women hcs ♡

obviously i had to do this for my bbg sadie. she deserves MORE appreciation and if nobody will write for her I WILL!!!! i gladly will. i love her, so enjoy these! luv u all!
[also just pretend this is historically accurate bye!]
Sadie is a very intelligent woman... she knows how to hunt, how to use a gun, who knows what else is in that brain of hers. She must have so many hidden talents and skills, and you intend to find out what.
Though her addition to the group was somewhat abrupt, you and Abigail do your best to make her feel welcome. You aren't sure if Sadie feels the comfort that you hope your words provide to her at first. Once the group moves to Clemens Point, you find she's coming out of her shell little by little. You see it in her pristine new outfit when she returns from a run with Arthur, and the way she holds herself is much different than before.
This new version of Sadie Adler was fiery, confident and stickin' it to the man– you quickly found out not to get on her bad side. Though you think you'd let her do anything to you if it were the right situation.
The minute Sadie realizes what she's feeling for you is more than platonic... it takes her back a step. She never thought she'd find someone other than Jake to want in that way– but here you are. You're always at her side, perfect to her, and she will protect you like her life depends on it. When she silently swallows her feelings and pretends she doesn't care, you notice.
You all but have to drag her out of camp in the middle of the night to get a minute alone with her; otherwise there's prying eyes and others whose attention you really didn't wish to grab.
Once the two of you are alone you'll go off on how she's been avoiding you at every turn, rambling on and on like you'd done something wrong. "What happened to you?" you'd ask. She sighs and goes "You happened to me."
"I've been a fool. Do you hate me? What have I done?" statements flow from her when she notices you're silent, staring while she stutters over confessing her feelings. It's at that point you shut her up by kissing her and you can almost hear the sparks flying from the two of you. There's a big ass smile on her face afterwards and she kisses you in between her smiles. Sadie Adler is a smitten fool for you.
She's observant, patient and good with her hands. That is: she teaches you how to shoot a rifle, since you're more comfortable to ask her. She gladly shows you, and when you think you've got it, her arms surround you from behind to adjust your aim– and you're blushing. After she takes her hands away, you're flustered by the loss and silently begging for her to put them back.
Will match outfits with you nonchalantly as a statement to your relationship with her. Like say you're wearing an outfit with blue or white, she'll wear a blue scarf and her white shirt to match you. She'll even give you a piece of her jewelry to wear in that instance, or get you a piece of your own to match hers. Sadie's sentimental & cute like that!!!
Sadie will also leave you notes secretly, to which you fawn over every time. She also definitely gushes over the ones you leave her, when you compare her to the sweet flowers you pick for her. [Arthur noticed how hard she was blushing one time and got curious, she's had to read your notes in private ever since!]
Definitely gets veryyy touchy and affectionate when she's had a few drinks. She's slurring out "Heyyy pretty girlll I know where you can find a nice place to stay for the night..." in your ear and you have to excuse yourselves in *attempt* to get her to sleep.
Sadie is definitely the type to say "i owe you a hundred kisses" if you had a bet with her about something. Usually it was silly, harmless contests that either of you could compete against each other in playfully.
Sadie also introduced you to pranks, which she loves to pull on the other guys. One time the two of you messed with Arthur, sending him silly letters from someone named "Hugh Janus". The two of you tried to hold in your laughs when he got frustrated and yelled out "WHO THE HELL IS HUGH JANUS??" in camp unprompted.
Sadie is a huge cuddler at night, intertwining her whole body with yours to keep warm, especially when it gets chilly at night. There's not a smidge of space to have for yourself, it's shared with her always. Other examples of this are her linking her pinkie finger with yours when you're standing around the group. She loves physical touch so much that she'll do anything to have her skin on yours no matter what; if it's riding on the back of the same horse, or pouring her a drink, she's making some sort of contact. It's her way to say "I'm here & I love you". She's such a sweetheart to you.
NSFW
Yeah Sadie is a top this Sadie is a top that... may I suggest... she's a switch. On rare occasions, Sadie Loves being on her knees for you. She's a real freak like that. She'll beg and beg and beg until you cave and give her what she wants: you.
“Please, stop teasin’ me, just give me what I want. You know I’ll return the favor, sweet girl.” Her raspy voice, her gentle commands, her pretty thighs spread for you..
But when she's in control? Oh it's absoluuutely over for you. She'll praise you constantly cause she knows it's what you want to hear. “Doin’ so good for me, pretty girl. C’mon, let me hear you, use your words. I know you can.. Such a good girl.”
Her soft little whimpers & pleas as she climbs higher & higher. she’s so desperate for release & your touch, she’s basically sobbing for it. her eyes never leave you once she hears the same needy whine come from your side of the room, wanting to watch you come undone from the sight of her spread out for you.
You can't tell me she doesn't get off on you pulling her hair when it's in a messy braid. You love to run your fingers through it and grip, but it's too hot out for that. Plus she thinks it's easier for her braid to be pulled, and fucking loves it.
Her skilled hands could make you a whimpering mess, easily. She knows her way around, and boy if she isn't good at what she does.
"There you go, you got it, takin me so well..." in that accent of hers.. You'll fold every time. “Oh, look at you, pretty girl. Fallin’ apart for me so easily. D'ya know how whipped you got me?" Yeah, she's a lady who knows how to drive you crazy.
Then again... she's a goddamn tease. Especially if you've been bratty? Oh it's over for you. She feels your body up and down, making you work for any other sensual touches by begging. It's music to her ears. She lovesss to make you work for it.
She'll take her time for however long edging you with her fingers, then her tongue, and once you've had about two orgasms from just that, she sticks her strap inside you and gets another.
For aftercare, she'll ask you if you're feeling alright and lay with you after she cleans you up. Usually the both of you fall asleep afterwards, or take a bath or a shower before you do. Her brown eyes shine in the light while she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your cheeks while you lie together.
#sadie adler#sadie adler x afab reader#rdr2 fanfic#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#dividers by cafekitsune#dividers by plutism#ryes ff#devnmon writes
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❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader
Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.
Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.
Word Count: 5,3k
Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.
Please only read if you're +18!
A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!
Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.
It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.
When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.
Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.
In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.
Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.
“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”
“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”
“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”
Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking ��� which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.
Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.
“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.
An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.
From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”
“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”
“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”
The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”
Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.
And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.
Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.
“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”
A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.
“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”
And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.
It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.
“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”
To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?
Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.
✤ ✤ ✤
Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.
You were to resume the laundry you left behind.
“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.
Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.
For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…
…no one.
The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.
You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.
For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.
Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.
Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.
“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”
“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.
“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”
The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.
“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.
“It’s… It’s…”
“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”
Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.
“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.
“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”
“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”
The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.
“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”
“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.
“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”
A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”
“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”
“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"
"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”
Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.
Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”
“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”
It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.
“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”
O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.
“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”
✤
Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.
But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.
What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?
You began to taste blood.
Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?
The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.
“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”
“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”
“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”
“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”
For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.
It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.
The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.
“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, “he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”
Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”
Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”
“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”
Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.
“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”
You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.
The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”
“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”
“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”
Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.
As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.
“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.
O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”
“And to me? What’ll you give?”
Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…
“Everything.”
You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.
Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.
You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.
“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.
Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.
Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.
Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.
You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.
“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.
“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”
“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”
“Mhmm.”
It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”
Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.
On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.
With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.
The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.
Yes.
Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.
Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.
It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.
#molly o'shea x reader#rdr2 imagine#red dead redemption imagine#rdr2 community#rdr2 smut#red dead redemption 2#time to blast chappel roan#sapphic#molly o'shea#molly o'shea x female reader#one shot
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Hello!! For Thedas Weekend: Dorian + galvanize - to arouse to awareness or action (from the rare or unusual words list). Happy writing!!
Hey!! Thank you so much for this prompt- it's been a minute since I've gotten to wax poetic about our dear Lord Pavus. I wanted to get one fill done this week because I've been in writing hell lmao so this was a lovely palate cleanser 🫶🏻
For @thedasweekend!!
No warnings - 437 words
Dorian is alone in his chambers, staring at the vanity mirror. Today is the day he is to be sworn into the Magisterium as the next Magister Pavus. His father wasn’t yet cold, and already the vultures were circling his seat. He fidgets with the sending stone around his neck, the words of his amatus playing over in his head. "You're going to do great things, Dorian. Your father would be proud. I'm proud. You know I am going insane counting the days until I am able to return to Minrathous— to you."
His father, Dorian mused. Would he be proud of his son? So many things left unsaid, but they were able to reconcile if only a little thanks to his beloved. How could he do this without him? He certainly didn't have many friends in the Magisterium— only fellow rabble-rouser Maevaris Tilani.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of his attendant knocking on the door. "Are you ready, Magister Pavus? You're expected on the Magisterium floor within the hour." He sees that Dorian is still in casual attire, unusual for him.
Dorian laughed bitterly. "Magister Pavus was my father. I haven't been sworn in yet and already I'm being micromanaged. I suppose you're here to lace my boots for me too?" he snaps, but reels it in. "I'm sorry, Clemens, I’ve been a little out of it this morning. You know how exhausting these things are." His attendant gives a sympathetic smile.
“As you say, my lord. I will wait for you downstairs,” he said. As he turns to leave, Clemens turns back to Dorian with a gleam in his eye.
"There are more people out there that think as you do than you realize, Not-Yet-Magister Pavus. You can be their light." With that, Clemens takes his leave.
Dorian looks back at the vanity mirror, at his creased brow and his dour countenance, mulling over Clemens’s words. Now that he's finally here, finally in a position to make waves, he shies away? No, he thinks, I shall be the brightest star these fools will ever see. There will be no corner of the Imperium his light won't shine over, revealing these underhanded Magisters cowering in the darkness. In light, there is hope; there is accountability; there is freedom.
Dorian wraps himself in his ceremonial robes, the same his father wore on his confirmation. He tucks the sending stone necklace underneath, right next to his heart.
"Amatus... your faith will not be misplaced," he swears to himself. He throws open the doors and walks to meet his fate, his head held high.
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Loreley

According to the legend, Loreley is a beautiful woman with long blonde hair sitting on the eponymous slate escarpment in the rhine gorge where it makes a sharp bend accompanied with rocky riffs and rapids, which endangered ships and frequently caused the loss of life of fishermen.

Loreley is a relatively recent figure. While the escarpment was associated with dwarfs, the devil, or other evil spirits in the medieval ages, prompting sailors to say prayers before attempting to tackle the rapids, the figure of Loreley first appeared in 1800 in a ballad by Clemens Brentano.

In the ballad, Lore Lay is introduced as a sorceress whose magic is based on her beauty. Every man falls for her and dies as a result. So a bishop has her summoned before a spiritual court. But he too succumbs to her magic spell and cannot break the staff over her, cannot sentence her to death, because he immediately falls in love with her.

But Lore Lay asks for her sentence to be brought. Since her lover has left her, she is tired of life, her mind is depressed. Exactly where her magic spell should have worked, on the man she really loves, it didn't work. Now Lore Lay doesn't want to love anyone anymore, her magic is useless.

Lore Lay begs the bishop, but he does not send her to her death, but to a monastery. Three knights accompany her. On the way, Lore Lay wants to see her lover's castle one more time and climbs a rock above the Rhine. Then she sees a ship, thinks her lover is on it and bends so far forward that she falls into the river. The knights who accompany her follow her to her death.

This motif was taken up and processed by many other authors in the following years, with the figure transforming into a mermaid or siren-like figure who distracted passing sailors with her singing and beauty and thus led them to their doom.

The most famous adaptation is Heinrich Heine's poem I don't know what it should mean (The Lore-Ley). By the 19th century, the story of the siren-like Loreley had become so widespread that it was considered an ancient legend and still is today.

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Headcanon time!
Since Erhard has been removed from the Warden lineup, I want to send him off with the headcanons I’ve made of him over the years
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Behold, the living furnace. Warm as a heated blanket all the time
Although his parents forced him and his siblings to grow up far too fast, he always managed to make time to play with Clemens and Claude. Drawing silently with Clemens, play-wrestling with Claude, a game of house with Frieda. There was always sibling bonding time, until their parents came back at least
If you gave this man a back massage, he would fuckin melt.
Highly admires a woman in charge. He has always hated the gender discrimination of his time because he loves both his brothers and his sister equally, so seeing a woman so headstrong makes him wonder if Freida grew up to be big and strong too
Deep down, all this man wishes is to revive he and his brothers inner child, but he knows that is an impossible goal
Gives his brothers kisses on the head. He loves them to death
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James Thaber, born in Lebanon, of Mount Clemens, Missouri, listens to President Eisenhower's broadcast of his decision to send troops to Lebanon on July 15, 1958. His son, a recent high school graduate, is in the U.S. Army.
Record Group 306: Records of the U.S. Information Agency
Series: Photographs Used in Picture Stories
Image description: A man leans on a large radio with his head in one hand. He is holding a newspaper with the headline “MARINES IN LEBANON!” On the radio is a framed photo of a young man in a cap and gown.
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she knew exactly what her best friend was doing, and she was nothing but appreciative for the effort put in to make this an enjoyable evening, rather than a sad, depressed ordeal. the smile on her lips was genuine as she looks over her friend, one hand lifting to adjust her hair just slightly, wanting everything perfect. " don't tempt me, april. you know how much i love shopping ! " stepping back running gentle fingers over her own outfit, eyes rolling at the question. " lucky for you, you get all of this all for the very low price of a few drinks ! " she laughs, adjusting her own hair before turning away from the mirror. " here. the final piece ! " she declares, handing over a purse that matches her friends ensemble perfectly. " i think we're all set ! "
@starlcved said : 👗 - a starter where my muse helps yours get ready for a fancy event from annie // trope starters.
even after the breakup, the firehouse gala is an event that neither of them will miss, even if only for august's sake. she's already taken it upon herself to be the designated buffer between her best friend and any possible run ins or even mentions of said ex. there's been upbeat music playing while they were getting ready, a playlist she'd carefully curated in advance to avoid any references that might hit too close to home, and she's allowed annie to make her over for the occasion. there's nothing like a good project to take someone's mind off things they'd rather avoid. and honestly, as she's looking in the mirror, she can't help appreciating the efforts of her friend. it's all come together quite nicely, between the neutral tone silk dress and the gently tamed curls pinned back just so. " i should let you pick me out an entirely new wardrobe, " she jokes with a smile, brushing her hands over the length of the dress. nudging her with an elbow, she grins teasingly, " how much are you charging, again? "
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Bloody Knuckles (Arthur Morgan x Reader)
Prompt: Gender neutral reader takes a dip into Flat Iron lake after a fight to get clean. But when the lake-side breeze sends a chill to their bones, they need some help warming up.
Content warnings: Violence, assault
Takes place at Clemen’s Point, continuation of Stress Relief but not necessary to read it first.
Not proofread
You rode into the newest camp location in a sour mood. You had just been at the saloon in Rhodes. You just wanted a hot meal that was something besides Pearson’s stew, but every single person in the building was drunk as hell. It would have been fine if everyone minded their own business, but they didn’t. Right after you ordered your food some jackass was trying to put some moves on you. You told him you weren’t interested, but perhaps the alcohol or maybe he was just a sleazeball, he persisted. He crossed the line when he placed a hand on your back and called you “baby”. That’s when you punched him in the cheek and things went to shit. He tried to fight back, but he lacked the coordination to do so. Seemingly in the same instant you landed your punch, the rest of the saloon erupted in violence. So, you had to fight your way out of the saloon, getting and giving out a few more punches. You didn’t even get to eat the food you paid for, and Dutch would give you hell if he found out you started a brawl in the town he specifically told everyone to be on their best behavior in.
You hopped off your horse and headed straight to the lake. You wanted to get cleaned up before anyone saw you. The sun was starting to set, and everyone seemed to be eating in camp. You decided that no one was going to come bothering you and stripped off your clothes, but leaving your final layer of underwear on. You began to walk into the lake. The water was a little cool, but not frigid. You got out far enough so the water was up to your waist and crouched down to submerge the rest of your body, up to your shoulders.
You lifted your hands above the water and examined your red, bloody knuckles. You let out a sigh and began to rinse off the dried blood. Next, you rinsed your face, sore and exhausted from the earlier events. You leaned back and dipped your head under the water as well. The cool water felt nice on your body, especially the spots where bruises had begun to form. You don’t know how long you were in the water, taking care to rub any dirt and blood off your body. But your attention was broken when you heard a familiar voice.
“There you are. Been looking all over for ya.” Arthur called to you, standing at the edge of the shoreline.
Your back had been turned to him so you spun around and saw his figure in the distance. It was dark out now, you must have been in the water for at least an hour. You moved closer to where Arthur was standing, but stayed crouched in the water so your body was covered by the water.
“You stalking me or something?” You joked with him, the water had washed away a lot of the tension and anger you were feeling when you first got in.
Arthur chuckled lightly, “Well I went into town to catch up with you, but I just found a shitshow.”
“Ugh, don’t get me started…” you groaned, I guess hoping no one would find out about the uproar you started wasn’t very realistic. But at the same time, the face that Arthur went looking for you made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Arthur sat down on the small patch of sand that met the lake and looked at you, willing you to go on. But you didn’t want to.
“Did you tell Dutch?” You asked him cautiously. The last thing you needed was him yelling at you.
“No… You want me to?” Arthur replied teasingly.
“No! God, no.” You ran a hand down your face before standing up and walking towards Arthur.
The darkness hid a small blush that crept onto Arthur’s face when he saw your wet undergarments clinging to your skin. He turned his head to the side to avoid your figure, out of respect but also because his body seemed to betray him when you were around.
The cold air pricked at your skin, giving you goosebumps. You hadn’t brought anything to dry off with when you came down here earlier.
You sat down next to Arthur, leaving enough space so that your sopping figure wouldn’t get him wet as well.
Still avoiding eye contact with any part of your body, Arthur spoke up, “What happened back there?”
You let out a shaky sigh and brought your knees up to your chest and hugged them in an effort to warm up, “Just this jackass…” you started, “He kept trying to sweet talk me, and when that didn’t work he started gettin’ touchy.” You explained.
This caused Arthur to turn his head to you, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, “Who touched you?” he asked, voice protective and stern.
You shrugged and met Arthur’s gaze, “It’s not a big deal, I took care of it.” You glanced down at your hand.
Arthur followed your gaze down and looked at your red knuckles. He looked back up to your face and noticed a bruise on your jaw. Anger and sadness was mixing in his chest and he clenched his fist, “You tell me what he looked like an’ I’ll go kill him.” He was getting ready to stand up.
You shook your head and grabbed Arthur’s forearm to keep him seated, “No, it’s really fine. He was drunk, and put his hand on my back, nothing more… Plus I already knocked him on his ass.” You assured Arthur. But his facial expressions weren’t softening. “You don’t need to go into town and stir up more drama by killing folk. Dutch’ll have your ass.” The warmth your hand was getting from the contact with Arthur was making you realize how cold you were. You tried to suppress your teeth from chattering.
Your shivering pulled Arthur’s attention away from his rage.
“Here.” Arthur took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
“Thanks.” You pulled his jacket tighter around your body.
“Let’s go warm you up.” Arthur said as he stood up. He helped you up as well and walked with you to an empty fire pit in camp.
“You sit here, I’ll be right back.” He instructed you.
You nodded in compliance, sitting down on a log in front of the fire. The warmth radiating towards you was a welcomed feeling.
Arthur grabbed a blanket from his wagon and walked back over to you and draped it over you and sat down besides you.
“There… You warming up?” He questioned, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on his knees.
You nodded in reply and scooted as close as you could to Arthur. You extended the blanket to encompass him as well and you rested your head on his shoulder.
“Thank you.” You spoke softly. You know it’s not right, but seeing Arthur ready to kill a man for causing you an inconveince made your heart flutter.
Arthur cautiously wrapped his arm around your shoulder. He hoped you couldn’t feel his heart pounding in his chest. He also hoped no one could see the two of you. The constant teasing from when the two of you had fallen asleep in front of this very campfire had just begun to die down.
“Anytime, darlin’” He assured you.
#arthur morgan#rdr2#arthur morgan x reader#rdr2 fanfic#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan x gn reader
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My mother's Very Strong Opinions, part 2....no, actually, part II:
"JESUS CHRIST! It's a Pope, it's not like one or the other will make a difference worldwide! Did he stop any war?? NO! Look, today we even have one more! Do you have to take all the time you do?! Just write all the names on the cards and put them in the bowl, and like, pick one randomly!" (about the first smoke being one hour late)
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"I think at this point everyone would be good, we know they have to distance a bit from Francis’s progressivism. Not a fucking American, though. They've done ENOUGH. Leave them at their own home to make a mess!"
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Mom: The name. That's the problem.
Me: Which name?
Mom: The Pope name. Can't take Francis II, too haughty, it's not a firstborn. Same as John Paul III, there was John Paul II and there it ends.
Me: Benedict XVII?
Mom: Seventeen??? Bad luck, won't choose that, plus can you see people juggling all those sticks??
Me:.....solid point indeed. John? How many John do we sit at?
Mom: Would be the twenty-fourth. Too long. People will mess up. No John. Let's see...Pius? Nah, that would be Pius XIII, bad luck, too many sticks.
Me:.....Peter?
Mom: Jesus Christ! Didn't I send you to Sunday school?? There was ONE Peter, the first and only!
Me: Leon? Gregory? Clemens?
Mom: Too much Middle Ages. No. It'll be a Paul. Paul VII. Short, simple. Paul VI was as strict and ramrod as a broom shaft. All liturgies in Latin, and if you didn't understand Latin, fuck you moron. Fit for the times
Me: Great. I'll make sure to let them know....
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Mom: I think they should just put the cardinals in a ring to fight for their life and decide over the name. The one who survives, wins.
Me: Street Fighters? We'd have 132 cardinals less....well, 133 since one would be Pope.
Mom: But we'd have a Pope and I could watch S.W.A.T. again!!!
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