coltermorning

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 13 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur get to know the town better, getting to know each other better in the process.

Author’s Notes: This chapter needed some major reconstruction, so I apologize for the wait on it! I split it in half and completely changed the ending, but I’m so glad I did because it’s one of my favorite chapters now. Enjoy all the fluff and these two getting drunk together for the second time :) Chapter thirteen of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Thirteen: Townsfolk

Word count: 5416

You startled awake at some point in the night, darkness pushing in through the lone window. Once you had your bearings, a sudden panic overtook when you realized Arthur wasn’t there until you saw him lying on the floor beside you. You’d slept through his return. And the fool had refused to wake you, had let you have the bed. This was no better than lying under canvas for him. You told yourself you would berate him for it once he woke, but the thought soon eddied away when your tiredness overtook you once more, your panic easing away now that you knew he was there beside you, that you didn’t have to face the bedroom alone. You fell back into dreams of your family, of a past life, of a time when you were never alone.

~

You must have truly needed rest, as you awoke a second time to Arthur reentering the room, having slept through him ever leaving it. You were normally a lighter sleeper.

“Just stabled Harriet and Bo,” he said. “Figured they could use a good rest and plenty of hay.”

“Does this mean we’re staying?” You couldn’t help the hope that lined those words.

Arthur caught it and smirked. “What, my company that miserable?”

Truth be told it was…quite the opposite. But before you could blush over the thought of that kiss, you pushed on. “You don’t see me running for the hills. Yet.”

“Yet,” he replied with a low laugh. He turned to the small mirror and basin the room had to offer, running his hand over his beard. It had grown long in the time you’d been traveling with him. His hair had too, starting to hang down past his eyes when his hat wasn’t pinning it back.

“You’re starting to look like a Montanan,” you told him. Starting to, because most men’s beards were twice the length of his in those snowy mountains.

“I usually keep it short,” he said, still looking at his reflection. “But it’s sure as shit been cold enough not to.”

You shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“The cold or the beard?” he asked, his hand falling as he turned to you. And when his eyes landed on you, the room suddenly felt a little smaller.

“The cold. Afraid I’ve no experience on the latter.”

He smirked, and you hated how much that look burned you up inside. You turned away.

“Well,” he said. “I’m starving. Want to go eat a proper meal? See a little of this country for yourself?”

Your heart gave a nervous kick at the very idea.

“It’s either that, or you’re staying here,” he added, and you knew without having to look at him he was just trying to rile you. Of course you would come with him, no matter how begrudgingly you did.

“Forgive me for not liking either of those options.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, and I can think of worse ones. Especially having to deal with me when I haven’t eaten, so come on.”

You rolled your eyes and wondered when the day would come that he would stop using his humor to get you to agree to things. Or maybe when you would finally find the will not to listen.

You threw your legs over the bedside and stood, realizing you were still wearing his clothes. “It won’t be…odd for me to walk around looking like this?”

“Like that? Sure,” he said with a laugh.

You glared at him. His amusement wasn’t helping.

“Here,” he said, crossing the room. And you let him invade your space without pause as he turned up your coat collar, sticking your hat low on your head to hide your hair. No matter that your heart was racing. That you felt disappointment take hold when he stepped away.

“Could pass for a man now. Ain’t no one looking a man’s way, ill-fitting clothes or no.”

“Great,” you said flatly. But Arthur just gestured to the door, and you scowled and did as he said, making for it.

After eating one very well-deserved meal of oatmeal piled with sugar, you and Arthur explored the town. It was interesting to see how mankind lived all intertwined like this. And sure enough, you got to look around relatively unnoticed. After a stop at the launder for your and Arthur’s clothes in which you weren’t even glanced at, you came out with a newfound confidence. It was nice being looked over, being an afterthought. All you had ever known of other people was unwanted attention, and now you felt freer than you ever had around so many eyes. It made for an enjoyable morning.

Arthur found a barber and stopped in, annoyed with all that hair after all. You sat outside in the sunshine and watched the people mill about. If where you were headed was anything like this for you, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

You were basking in the rare heat when you heard spurs clicking in your direction.

“Ready to go back?” Arthur asked.

You turned to answer, but when your gaze landed on him, words escaped you. His beard was now nothing more than stubble, his hair shorter but still framing his face, his hat in his hands instead of on his head for once. He was…distractingly handsome.

Apparently thinking you had fallen into another one of your spells of not speaking, Arthur put his hat back on his head. “I posed that like a question, but let me rephrase. You’re coming with me.”

The way he cleaned up so well plus him demanding that of you…it had you blurting out words to shake your sudden stupor.

“Why not stay? Get to know the town a little better, I mean.”

He smirked at you. You couldn’t figure why, your nerves at looking at him making it hard to do so.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” he jeered.

“What?”

“You, sitting around enjoying the place.”

“I just- I’ve never-”

“Save it,” he said, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to explain it to me. But tell you what, let’s go back, let it get dark, then I’ll show you around. Town’s always best at night anyhow.”

You could feel the nerves veritably rushing through you at the prospect of that, at all these people, at him. But you just nodded and stood. “Lead the way then.”

You were pondering what it would be like to finally get to experience this kind of life when you looked up and were faced with Arthur’s broad back, his mere presence carving a path through the people walking about. Had it always been that broad? And had he always looked that good in that big coat?

You shook your head to get that particular madness out of it and went back to watching the townsfolk. Anything to distract you from the one thing you wouldn’t allow yourself to think of for the remainder of this trip.

Nearing the hotel, you still felt those cursed nerves, but you had fully convinced yourself they were nothing more than timidness over the town. Certainly not a lone room and a bed and an outlaw to keep you company.

~

Arthur sat in the chair in the corner of the room and drew in his journal. He had stripped his coat, the heat of the day making it sweltering inside the hotel. He was just glad it wasn’t snowing. He’d had enough of that to last him the year. So he took up his time drawing the town you found yourselves in, debating what trouble to get you into tonight. He’d told himself miles back he’d show you how to cut loose for once, only now it seemed not the brightest idea he’d had. Now all he could think of was those men’s eyes on you at that shit hole of a trading post. But he’d given you his word, and he wouldn’t go back on it. Not when you had shown genuine excitement for once, all over seeing the glamor of city living. Well, glamor was a stretch, but it was something to you at least. More than could be said for Montana. So he sketched down a few bricks on a building side, debating all the while some type of harmless fun. Harmless, because his type of fun usually ended up being anything but. He wouldn’t show that particular genius to you lest you both end up in a jail cell. He grinned at the very thought.

The sound of the creaking bed reached Arthur’s ears, and he snuck a glance at you, seeing you sprawled out on your back, lazily reading the ledger you held above you. You were calmer here. He could tell you felt safe when you had been fine staying outside while he visited the barber earlier. And especially when you’d wanted to stay. Considering what happened in the last settlement, he was surprised you even wanted to do that much. But this trip would be coming to an end in a few short weeks, and maybe you, like he, knew it was time you got used to being on your own. Or without him, more like. Though he did feel a certain pride that you felt so safe around him, the same pride that still plagued him while he sat there admiring his shirt on you. It made him want to…well. Best not to think on that.

“Think I could make it as a trader in Nebraska?” Your eyes remained on the ledger despite the question.

“I know you could,” Arthur said, going back to drawing. “Better question is, would you want to?”

You sat up then, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a way that drew his eye.

“It’s what I’m good at.”

“You’re good at hunting,” Arthur said. “Those are two different things. You want to be a traveling salesman on top of that?”

“Maybe. Probably not.” You looked down at the ledger, your lower lip catching between your teeth. It took everything in Arthur not to stare at your mouth. “I don’t know,” you went on. “Maybe I could have a stall in town. I’m sure I could sell something if it was as valuable as what Pa used to sell.”

“Sure,” Arthur said, surprised at your ambition. How far you had come, willing to consider opening your own stall in a town you used to think you would never make it to. Planning a future for yourself. He was proud of you for it.

“Anyway,” you said, shutting the ledger and setting it aside. “You got any thread? Sewing needle?”

He let his amusement show. “No.”

You scoffed. “Of course you don’t. I was going to offer to sew up your coat.” You pointed at it where it lie on a trunk under the window, the afternoon sun shining down on it.

“Well, I ain’t got any.”

“Sure.” Then you stood and crossed the room, headed right for the door.

“Where you think you’re going?”

“To find some. Most women have a needle and thread on them. At least, the ones working here probably do. I’ll go ask.”

“Hang on. I didn’t keep you cooped up in here all day just to get snatched now,” Arthur said.

“I won’t get snatched,” you said, already opening the door and shooting him a glare all at once. Like an entirely different person from the one who had followed his every step just yesterday. For some reason, this sudden confidence shut Arthur up, and he let you be. The door closed behind you with force, leaving him shaking his head and going back to his journal.

The minutes ticked by, and Arthur got to a stopping point with his drawing and stood, moving to the window to have something to do with his restlessness. Looking out over the back street, he spied a small, dingy-looking saloon that didn’t even have a name, just ‘saloon’ written in big block letters. It would normally be a place he would be drawn straight to if it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t take you there. Certainly not with the kind of population that frequented those places. His population, he thought with a chuckle. You were damn lucky Dutch and Hosea had drilled some manners into him, what few they could. But the place did give him an idea for the night’s festivities.

The door creaked open behind him, and Arthur turned to find you with thread in hand, showing it off in triumph.

“Told you. She even had blue.”

“How ‘bout that?” he teased, though he was secretly grateful you had gone so far as to get the proper color thread. No one else would have bothered with something like that.

You motioned to his coat, and he picked it up and threw it to you. You took his spot in the lone chair and set to work, Arthur trying not to watch too closely. He instead went to looking back out the window, thinking of what the pair of you could get up to.

“This is a pretty wide gash. You sure you didn’t get scratched too bad?”

Arthur hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the scratch the wolf had left behind on his arm. He had enough scars to forget to worry about the smaller ones.

“Nah, it ain’t bad. Don’t need any stitches at least.”

You were quiet for a moment, likely thinking of your own nasty scar. Then, “Your shirt needs mending too. I’ll work on it once we get it back from the launder.”

Arthur looked at you then. You were never so nice to him this…willingly. It reminded him of when you’d cleaned the blood off his face, and the thought made something finally click in his brain.

“You do this kind of thing for your parents?”

He knew he’d gotten it right when you didn’t immediately respond. Then, in a small voice, “Momma taught me.”

You didn’t talk about her much. Usually only your father and all he had taught you. But Arthur was willing to bet that defiance in you didn’t come from him. It was a trait best suited to daughters who had learned how to fight through testing their mothers.

“Well, I’m glad she did. I’m dogshit at sewing.”

You snorted a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You may be pretty at shooting a gun, but sewing’s a far cry with those big hands.”

Arthur felt his face heat at the word pretty but barreled through the feeling it brought him. “I sewed you up just fine.”

Now it was your turn to be embarrassed. You went red. “And you’re not going to let me forget it, are you?”

He felt his smile widen of its own volition. “Never.”

You didn’t respond, only smiled down at your sewing. Then you were bringing the needle away, gathering up the thread. “Done.” You handed the coat back to him. He took it and examined the new patch, a small line of darker blue now marring his right coat sleeve. It was a token of sorts—something to forever remind him of this trip.

“Thanks.” He meant it. You just waved him off.

Instead of putting the coat down, he put it on, not buttoning it up to keep the heat at bay. “Well, we may as well get going before the shops close. I have one more errand to run.”

You didn’t hesitate to stand, your eagerness returning. “What errand?”

He grinned. “You’ll see, nameless.”

He hadn’t called you that in a while, and it had you swatting at him as you passed, heading for the door. He opened it before you could, holding it ajar for you with hand outstretched. It made you even madder, and all he could do was laugh as he shut and locked the door behind you both.

The town was livelier at this hour, just as Arthur suspected it would be. Most folks were off work, in town to blow off steam after a long day. The heat had tapered off with the setting sun, turning it into the perfect golden evening. It was as good an introduction to regular life as you would ever get.

“You plan on telling me where we’re going?”

Arthur glanced at you, at your funny-looking clothes. “We could always stop at the launder, get you your clothes back.”

You caught the amusement on his face and frowned. “I don’t want them back yet. I was enjoying blending in just fine earlier.”

He figured. Looking ahead, Arthur found the shop he needed just down the main road. “Going to the gunsmith. I need more revolver cartridges since you shot all mine at nothing.”

“And you wonder why I’m mad at you all the time,” you muttered under your breath. He grinned.

The gunsmith had a fairly bare-bones shop, but it had what Arthur was looking for. He coughed up the money and was soon putting the cartridge boxes in his satchel, getting a few out to stick them in his gun belt.

“As riveting as this is,” you said, watching him do it, “I had hoped for a more…memorable evening. To be one of the townsfolk, if you will.”

Arthur finished and waved at the gunsmith, opening the door for you. “You always gotta be on a man’s case so bad?”

“It’s the duty of every woman.”

Arthur barked a laugh and pointed at the saloon he had already scoped out—the Red Horse. It was the biggest of the three saloons he had seen in town. Biggest usually meant easiest to blend into. “That’s where we’re headed. You up for it, miss townsfolk, or is that not memorable enough for you?”

He could see your eyes catch on it, see the way you clammed up with nerves before you calmed yourself back down. “No, memorable is a good word, I think.”

“Good. Come on then.” You both made to cross the street, but a horse and rider came barreling through so fast from around the corner you didn’t see it in time. Arthur grabbed your hand and yanked you back. He expected you to be cross about his saving your hide, as you tended to be, but instead you looked down at your hand. He was still holding it. He dropped it and cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

You wouldn’t meet his eye then, turning to attempt the street again. Or maybe to get ahead of him so he couldn’t see that blush on your face, but it was too late for that. He had seen it, and it was making him stare after you like an idiot.

Arthur remembered himself and rushed after you, putting all meaning of that blush behind him lest he let some pitiful semblance of hope get to him.

The saloon was lively and growing fuller by the minute, the bar full and nearly all of the tables the same.

“Beer or whiskey?” he asked you, having to talk loud over the man at the nearby piano as he pushed you into the room.

“Beer,” you responded, busy taking in the scene before you. Life at its very simplest. Gambling, alcohol, and a good time. Women, too. There were women hanging off of men’s arms everywhere, and Arthur hoped the sight would settle you some, as it seemed to settle you having women around in that hotel.

“Over here.” Arthur steered you toward the bar and let you stand behind him as he got the barman’s attention. He placed his order and handed more money over, thinking he needed to count through all he had left before the trip was over. He didn’t want to find himself without the means to get back to his gang. The bartender handed him two beers, and all thought of that washed away as Arthur pushed back through the growing crowd with you and made for a less populated wall to stand against.

Enjoying the first taste of his beer with more satisfaction than he could name, Arthur sat back and watched you. He had to keep from laughing at the way your head kept turning in all directions to take everything in. This would be a regular night for him, given that the gang had made it into town, but for you it was likely a whole new world.

“Careful not to hurt your neck there,” he said, smiling over his beer.

You shot him a dirty glance but saw him drinking and seemed to remember the beer in your own hand. You brought it to your mouth to take a sip, and Arthur couldn’t resist watching the way your lips touched the bottle. Something shot through him at the sight that he let be for once.

“God, that’s terrible,” you said, cringing. “Is there any alcohol that doesn’t taste like shit?”

He chuckled. “Probably not. But that’s not why you drink it.” He thought of how much gin he had downed with you that had led to a kiss and knew that to be true.

The pair of you took to arguing over how well you could handle yourself in a town like this before a game of poker across the way got so rowdy it couldn’t be ignored any longer.

“Ever played cards?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Don’t know how.”

“Come watch me then. I’ll show you.” And, at your sudden reluctance, “Relax, I won’t make you play.”

You eyed him and took another swig of beer before cringing just as noticeably, motioning at him to lead the way.

There were only two players left sitting at the poker table, but both had such high stacks of chips that Arthur knew better than to get in on the game until after one busted. Those high stakes were also why a crowd had gathered and was cheering so loudly for one man or the other. The pair of you watched alongside them, most rooting for the yellow-haired working stiff nearest you. The other man, a well-dressed but worse for wear man with a hatted, dark-haired head had men cheering for him that all looked just like him—well-dressed but sloppy.

“Stick it to him, boy!” someone shouted at the working man. His cards were visible to those standing behind him, showing a strong hand—two high-value diamonds to the flop’s two of the same suit.

Arthur knew as the turn revealed the third diamond—giving the man a flush—that he had his opponent beat. And sure enough, he went all in. Either bluffing or drunk, the other man followed suit and swiftly lost all his winnings.

“Now, now hold on,” he slurred, standing. “I saw him stick that diamond up his sleeve an hour ago!”

“Awe, save it, Lawrence!” someone in the crowd shouted back.

Arthur was too amused to notice you leave until he turned to find you gone entirely. Panic overtook him before he spotted you against the nearest wall, watching from a distance. He stormed over.

“What are you doing running off like that?”

“I didn’t want to be in the middle of…whatever that is.” You pointed to the poker table, and Arthur watched as the interaction between the two players started to get heated, the slimy-looking one not wanting to pay up.

He turned back to you. “Fair enough. But warn me next time.”

You eyed him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You turned your attention back to the others, taking another sip of beer. And Arthur was mad at you for it, for distracting him like that when he should have been giving you a piece of his mind. But instead he watched your mouth again, watched as your lips pursed against the glass and thought of how they had felt against his own. He turned away and took a sizable drink himself.

To take his mind off of things, Arthur started explaining poker to you, namely the game that had just been played. You asked a few of the usual questions—what call and check meant and why the seedy man’s high card didn’t win him the game. Arthur finally seemed to explain things well enough that you said, “I get it. Go play then. I’ll watch.”

“I ain’t leaving you over here.”

“I know you want to play, Arthur. Go. I’ll stand closer if it makes you feel better.”

The sarcasm lining your words had him ready to argue.

“Just go,” you said with a small smile, pushing against his chest. Your hands on him made him comply. Made him melt into compliance, more like.

“I’m…getting another beer,” he said. “Then poker.” He hadn’t even realized he was out until then.

“Go then. I’ll be fine here.” Arthur really didn’t want to leave you. But you were looking at him with a light in your eyes you didn’t normally have. And he knew, stubborn fool that he was, that he wouldn’t always be there to protect you. Now was as good a time as any to test you when you were so comfortable being left alone.

“Stay here,” he said, voice filled with as much authority as he could muster.

“Yes, Arthur,” you teased, and even that did something funny to his insides. Christ, what the hell was he doing, getting so worked up? He needed to be drunker than this. Much drunker.

Two beers later and deep in his cards, Arthur kept turning to make sure you were there. You always were, usually shaking your head at him for the way he played his cards—he was almost out of chips to show for it.

He had a decent hand but not a great one when he heard you come up behind him and whisper, “Fold.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw the other man’s cards.”

Arthur had to stifle his laugh, but he did as you said. Then he was finishing his beer, cashing in while he still had some money left, and leaving the table. Only when you were far enough away so as not to be overheard did he turn to you. “That’s cheating, you know. I didn’t take you for a cheater.”

“I didn’t take you for a terrible card player.”

“I walked into that,” Arthur said as he stepped up to the bar to order yet another beer, this time two. Once in hand, he gave you the second one. “Cheers.”

You looked around for something to do with your empty bottle. “Here,” Arthur said on a laugh, forgetting how much you really didn’t know about this sort of thing. He took it, set it on the bar top, and turned back to you. “Now. To long, miserable, back-breaking travel. And not long left to go.” He held his bottle neck out to yours.

You smiled. “To you, Arthur.” You clinked the bottles together.

“Awe, come on, nameless. Don’t get sappy on me now.”

That smile of yours remained, and Arthur returned it before turning his bottle up.

The night went on, more beer drank and more people spilling in the doors than you had likely ever seen in your life. Arthur knew he was due to be cut off when he saw a few patrons dancing and thought it a good idea for the two of you to join them. Just for a moment. Then he came to his senses. But he asked you anyway, knowing it would irk you.

“Spare me a dance?” He held his hand out to you.

You swatted it away. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not. I don’t think you know the meaning of that word.”

He barked a laugh. “Probably not.”

“Why don’t you show me this big, bad outlaw I’m supposed to be traveling with instead?”

“What?” He turned to you, shocked you brought it up.

“I keep hearing about him,” you joked. “Haven’t seen him for myself yet.”

“And you ain’t going to. You don’t want to.”

You leaned in close to talk low, and Arthur made a point not to look at you lest he think about how easy it would be to kiss you. “You mean to tell me you haven’t thought of picking anyone’s pocket tonight? Not one?”

Truth be told, he had. It was overcrowded, the patrons were drunk, and it would be easy enough to get lost or blame it on someone else if things went south. But he wouldn’t risk that with you here.

“Maybe,” he said.

“Some outlaw you are,” you teased, and the winning smile you gave him stopped him in his tracks. Half for the look of it, half for how happy you could be while talking about the worst parts of him. Like it didn’t matter that he wasn’t a good man. Like you enjoyed his company anyway. He couldn’t say how much that meant to him.

“Anyway,” you droned on, finishing the last of your beer. “Let’s go back. I’m tired.”

“You’re even whinier when you’re drunk,” he quipped, but he downed his beer too, even through the particularly hard hit you landed on his arm for that one.

He got up and motioned toward the door. “Lead the way then.” You shot him a mischievous look he wanted to kiss right off your mouth. But too quickly, you turned and nearly disappeared into the crowd, so for the second time, Arthur grabbed your hand to keep up with you. The warmth of it in his grasp filled him with whatever happiness he had left. Especially when you wound your fingers through his and led him on.

The two of you made it outside, and only then did you drop his hand, never bringing any attention to the fact that you held it in the first place. He wanted to grab yours again, keep it held in his all the way back. But, he realized, you were already walking, not looking back. He jogged to catch up. Then, like a fool, he debated threading his fingers through yours every step of the way back. He never quite found the courage.

It only hit Arthur that you were about to join him in this hotel bedroom, and that he very much didn’t want to sleep on the floor, when you stepped through its doorway. He watched you shed your coat and hat and boots, doing the same so as not to draw attention to the way his eyes caught on you. After he got his satchel and gun belt off, he turned to find you already curled up in the bed like a cat.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor again, are you?” you said through a yawn.

“My back may never recover,” he joked.

“Come up here then.”

You said it so simply—such an easy thing to agree to. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t resist doing it. So he lifted the sheets and laid down beside you, letting you curl around him in a way that had his heart pounding through his shirt. You laid your head right on it and yawned again. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“That’s a relief. Let me know if it stops.”

You let out a laugh. A genuine, easy laugh that had Arthur wanting to turn your face to his and kiss you then and there. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The two of you were just lonely and drunk and had each other for company. That didn’t mean he could do something you may not want from him—something you didn’t understand. Not to mention how it would eat at him when he had to leave you so soon. So, he didn’t turn your face to his. He wrapped his arm around you instead and pulled you close, his head resting atop yours in a way that was so comforting it was almost worse.

“I’m glad you’re here, Arthur.”

Your voice was small, heavy with tiredness. And the words cut into him, because he was the one you wanted to help heal your loneliness. Of all people, him.

“I’m glad to be here, nameless.” He truly was.

After long enough that he thought you asleep, you whispered, “Not nameless.”

“What then?” He had never wanted to know a name so badly in all his life.

You just yawned again, curling against him. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Arthur smiled, looking forward, for the first time in a long time, to waking up.

_________

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Hi there! I hope you’re well! I just binge read Of Love and Loss today and wow… I am beyond impressed and obsessed! You have a forever fan in me. Your writing is impeccable. I love how you are showcasing that grief is not a linear process and setbacks are prone to happen. I also love how you are writing Arthur and their slow burn. It’s just such an amazing story that after I send this I am going to restart it. Such an amazing fic!! Thank you for taking the time to put your writing out into the world. I have thoroughly enjoyed the story thus far!! <3 be well and take care :)

🥺🥺 y’all are too good to me. I’m so honored you like it enough to reread it. Thank you for all the kind words! They keep me going!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

stayed up late binge reading all twelve chapters of Of Love and Loss, i couldnt put it down omg 😭 💞💞 it's so good!

Thank you I’m so glad you like it! Next chapter coming today or tomorrow (it needed some work hah)!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

hold up I’m out here waiting for your fics, esp of love and loss, pls they’re revolutionary no pressure but keep them coming🙏

So I just moved houses and have finallyy gotten settled after weeks of the moving process 🥴 it has interrupted my writing big time. BUT the good news is I already have Of Love and Loss completely planned out, and I have the next three chapters written. They need some fine-tuning, then I’ll post them! I also have the next story I wanted to post written (wrote it forever ago so it needs some editing), and that one is seven chapters long, so I promise you’ll have plenty of content headed your way soon!! Thank you for the love and for your patience!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

@photo1030 This is beautiful and sensual and heartbreaking in so few words. Great work! And thanks for the tag!

Here’s my contribution, a third part to the fic A Rival of Wills I posted a while back. I had enough interest in a part three that I wrote this forever ago and never did anything else with it. But perhaps I shall?

~

You had finally found it. Finally, the thing to break Arthur Morgan enough to have him a pitiful mess beneath you.

It had taken two months of the brutal pleasure you’d grown so used to—two months of letting him have his way, of studying him, of waiting for something to give. Now it had. And what fucking convenient timing, with the two of you all alone, on this bed, at each other’s throats. It was his turn to learn about mercy, or the lack thereof, and you would be the one to teach it to him.

As Arthur strained against the ropes binding his bare body, his voice came out small and needy for the first time.

“Please.”

You couldn’t help yourself. Wanting to hear that word said a million different ways, you let a smile curve your face. And without pause or remorse, you did the one thing you had set out to do months ago—you denied him.

I was thinking it's been a while since we've done this tag. So today, I offer you the last line written for the 3 WIP's on which I'm currently working. I'm not sharing anything for Undead Nightmare since it's the WIP planned for tomorrow 😉

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The Cursed Knight (FC5 Medieval AU)

Jacob's lips were raised to reveal his teeth, like a wolf ready to attack. And that was the first time Diane noticed the strange prominence of his canines. Long, sharp, sparkling... Ready to tear her skin to make her bleed to death.

Don't Come Near (RDR2 Omegaverse)

Charles kept silent, not really sure if confessing to Arthur after the terrible week they had spent trying not to kill each other for Eleanor's favors was a good idea. Then he thought back to the moment they had shared, by the campfire, listening to Eleanor's moans.

The Call of the West (RDR2)

"Let me help you," Eleanor said, getting off Taima.

She walked past Arthur who was rolling the wheel towards the cart.

"You're going to break a nail, little lady."

"I'll take that to be your gentlemanly side speaking, Mr Morgan."

Tagging (no pressure) @josephseedismyfather @inafieldofdaisies @carlosoliveiraa @strangefable @socially-awkward-skeleton @adelaidedrubman @alexxmason @direwombat @photo1030 @g0dspeeed @megraen @voidika @onehornedbeast @simplegenius042 @simonxriley @cloudofbutterflies92 @titiagls @chloekistune @josephslittledeputy @wrathfulrook @readingcoco @redwritr @monaskydancer @noodlecupcakes @zanazirafanfic @thewanderer-000 @skoll-sun-eater @corvosattano @florbelles @kieropal @theelderhazelnut @shallow-gravy @aceghosts @12timetraveler @marivenah @elderglocks @thesingularityseries and you if you want to share something 😊

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #low honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing #nsft #lemon fanfic

[coltermorning]

hey, this is going to be a bit out of nowhere but I genuinely enjoy your writing so much and I want to get into writing as well, but I don’t know where to start, would you have any tips for people who are just starting out in writing? (again im so sorry this is out of nowhere and it is perfectly fine if you don’t answer this bc it’s a bit off topic) :””)

No worries I’m happy to give my advice on this!

So when I started writing this kind of stuff, it was about ten years ago. And I’ll say this about it—my writing wasn’t very good back then because I didn’t read very much. I think reading things, whether that be the same type of stuff you plan to write, books of the same genre, books of different genres, or whatever it is, helps so much. It helps to find writers you like and pick apart why you like their work, then incorporate some of those things into your own when you’re starting out. I read a ton now and I think it keeps my work improving and keeps the ideas flowing. But even in starting out I think it would have helped me so much then just to read! A simple thing, but you really find yourself referring back to the things you pick up in books or other works and putting them in your own writing to get things going. It makes the scary task of starting something new a little less intimidating when you already know the groundwork you want laid out.

Other than this, I would say to write about things that make you happy. You can never go wrong doing this, and it’s easier to stay motivated when you enjoy what you’re doing. It almost becomes second nature to write when you get so distracted by enjoying the subject matter that you aren’t even paying attention to the finer details of writing. Then you turn around and have something to show for it without realizing you put in all that work. It’s the best cheat I’ve found so far, so start with something that gets you excited to write.

As for more specific things, what helped me starting out was to know what I was going to write before I wrote it, to get the characters’ voices down beforehand, and to get a good mix of dialogue and exposition and summary. Knowing where the story is going before you write it helps when you find yourself in the middle of it and suddenly don’t know what to write—if you know where you’re going next, it’s easier to get there when you’re drawing a blank on a certain scene. As for characters, keeping consistency with how your characters talk and think and act makes for someone readers usually like more. Get to know your characters well before you write the whole story, then see someone unfold that is enjoyable and easy to write and read about. Then for writing technique, too much dialogue reads too quick, too much exposition and information and backstory gets confusing, and too much summary gets boring. So attempt to get a good mix of the three when starting out, and you’ll find you have less to go back and fix later. It will also flow better.

That’s mainly all I did or wish I knew when I was starting out. If you want more specifics for any of this, let me know. I’m so happy to see other people getting into writing. Just start somewhere and don’t give up, and you’ll find it was easier than you thought all along. Happy writing!

#writing #fanfic

[coltermorning]

I love you and your fics

🥺🥺 thank you so much this keeps me going

#rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 12 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur attempt to put all thought of your shared kiss behind you, finally reaching a real town and getting some well-deserved rest.

Author’s Notes: Added a few new tags. Chapter twelve of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, masturbation, mentions of sex, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Twelve: A Bath and a Bed

Word count: 5137

He hadn’t meant to do it. Hadn’t meant to kiss you like that. Hadn’t meant to kiss you at all, for that matter. You were drunk for christ sake. He was drunk. Nothing good ever came of decisions made under the thumb of the bottle. But you had outsmarted him, damn it, and gotten under his skin, and he couldn’t deny that small part of him that was curious. What that curiosity had turned into, he didn’t care to ponder. Not as he stood there staring at the fire, pulling from the gin, willing himself to calm down. The thought of your mouth on his was making it damn near impossible. How timid you were until the moment you got lost in it, how your mouth had opened for his, how your tongue—

Arthur shook the thought away. He had no excuse for said curiosity. This wasn’t new to him. He blamed it on the bottle in his hand and did his best to focus on the cutting snow instead, how it should have chilled his blood by now. It hadn’t.

Arthur debated sleeping it off. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do. He couldn’t ride off somewhere and leave you here alone. But the thought of joining you in that tent…

Arthur drank again. Cursed himself for thinking like that. He would just have to sit here until the fire burned down to nothing. At this rate, it was looking more and more like the weather would take it anyway. Then he would be stuck out here in the cold, fighting death itself just to keep his pride. All things considered, he’d done worse for less. He would just have to wait this out, let that moment pass, and be done with it. Tuck whatever feelings he had about the matter far away, lest they plague him for the rest of this trip. He let out a long breath and took another sip.

The wind snuffed out the flames in half an hour. Ten minutes more had Arthur shivering. The supply of gin was running dangerously low, and he had no excuses left. He could swallow his pride for the sake of keeping his extremities.

Arthur stood and stretched his cold-plagued body before leaving the gin in the snow and making for the tent. He didn’t want to consider what you might say to him when he entered. If things would be different now. Instead, he thought of the pain in his hands and feet, hoping the tent was keeping some of the cold out.

He stepped inside, and you rounded on him. You were lying on your side, eyeing him with a look he couldn’t place. So, like a proper fool, he said, “It’s too goddamn cold out there,” and turned away from you, making sure the tent flaps were securely shut.

“Bet you wish you’d gotten that extra bedroll, huh?”

He kept turned away for a heartbeat longer than was necessary, hiding the embarrassment written across his face. Truth be told, he’d only forgotten to buy another one because he’d been so worried over you in that town. Stupid mistake.

“Yeah,” he said weakly, blaming his small voice on the cold. But now what was there to do besides lie next to you after what the two of you had just done? He silently cursed himself for his sudden lack of judgement before remaining facing firmly away from you as he laid down near the edge of the tent. He was so far off your bedroll he laid on more snow than cloth, but at least the wind was gone with the tent’s weighty canvas, and at least you weren’t saying anything. But, he considered, maybe that was worse. Maybe all your yapping and complaining would be a blessing now. It would keep him from the resurfacing thought of your mouth at least.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He was inclined to agree, but he still looked over his shoulder at you. “‘Scuse me?”

You were curled up in that too-big coat, grinning. This couldn’t be good.

“What were you doing sitting out there in the cold so long?”

He turned away again, needing the sight of anything but your mouth.

“I had the fire going.”

You snorted a laugh. “You seem to forget which of us lived in the cold full-time. Trust me, that fire wasn’t doing much.”

“Would you shut up?” he said. “You just like running your mouth at me.”

“No,” you answered, the word said on a laugh. “I like my guide alive, not frozen to death.”

“I came in here, didn’t I?”

“And laid right back down in the snow.”

He didn’t have a response to that. Not one that didn’t draw attention to the very reason he was so far away from you, turned away.

You scoffed. “Unbelievable. Come here.”

He went completely still when he felt your arm come around his middle. You tried tugging him toward you, but he wouldn’t budge.

“I’m fine,” he said with a defiance that left him shameful.

You brought your hand away as fast as if he’d slapped you. “Last time you laid in the snow without a bedroll, you came bursting in this tent demanding mine. Don’t be prideful.”

He nearly winced at you calling his bullshit out for what it was. Pride. Or maybe some misguided form of honor, needing to be as far from you and those lips of yours as he could be right now.

“I ain’t,” he snapped back. But, to his horror, he just felt the bedroll being thrown over him in response, you coming along with it to lay firmly against his back. He went still again as you shuffled around, covering him with the top layer of the roll. Your arm fell over him as you stretched it out and tucked it around him, but even worse was your hand landing on his lower belly. Entirely too close to the most responsive part of him, now overly responsive at that touch.

He was a breath away from moving your hand when you spoke.

“You don’t have to treat me any different because you kissed me.” Your soft voice was right behind him, your breath hot on the only exposed part of his neck. It tethered him against you, caught between your words and your hand so close to his manhood.

Christ, you had no idea. None whatsoever about the effect you were having on him. Yet all he could think about was your hand going lower. And that made it clear to him that he had officially lost his mind.

Arthur bluntly threw his arm into yours, knocking away your hand. Keeping you from feeling how embarrassingly hard he was. Guilt flooded him at the memory of the only other time this had happened, when you had felt it, whether you knew it or not. After those goddamn wolves had tried to make a meal out of him, after he had stormed into the tent and hugged you to him to get some sort of warmth back in his bones, after he had fallen asleep in what had to have been seconds, it resulted in the same thing. He had woken up in the middle of the night so hard he had let out a shaky breath, feeling you still tucked into him, your backside resting against him with the perfect amount of pressure. He had jerked away from you in surprise, in shame, and vowed then and there never to hold you like that again. It was why he had faced away from you every night since, why he had stayed at arms length. You likely didn’t even notice, had hardly even stirred then, but he didn’t care. It was downright pitiful. And now, as he held your arm away from him with his own, he breathed deep to calm himself down. To recall what you said about that kiss, that it didn’t matter. That it was just so you could learn something you were unfamiliar with. He was inclined to agree, but if that were the case, why was he so worked up now?

Arthur didn’t let that thought get far before shutting it down. The predicament he found himself in was already embarrassing enough without matters of the heart getting involved. So he blamed it on the gin and allowed his head to eddy away any further thought about it.

~

Arthur’s silence was as telling as any word he could have spoken. The sharp blow of his elbow lifting your hand away, the sullen way he allowed you to keep against him, but only for your own sake. He regretted kissing you. That much was obvious. He had only come in here to escape the cold, and your drunkenness had you pulling out every stop to get closer to him, to grace the chance of him kissing you again. Because you wanted it. Badly. You had lost all judgement of what was right and what was smart, only wanting to feel his warm mouth on yours again. You had thought he had come back in here wanting the same. You had thought wrong.

Now you were wrapped around him, a breath away from a shiver, glad for his warmth but otherwise feeling like a fool. Wanting something you couldn’t have. Wanting something he couldn’t give you. So you let your bitterness settle in deep but remained against him, soaking in what little he could give you. No matter if it was genuine or not.

~

The snowstorm passed, and so did the days. You and Arthur had moved on and left the kiss behind you, never speaking another word of it. The blinding clarity of sobriety was like a knife that next day, cutting into you with the embarrassment of what you had done, but there was nothing else to do but leave it all behind. So you did, and it had been nearly a week since. Things weren’t quite back to the way they had been before, but they were close. If anything, the two of you were arguing even more now. You were feeling more and more like a human being at least. Plus, you had finally landed on a name for your mule, and she was keeping your spirits up when your circumstances threatened to lower them.

“Harriet says you stink, and she’s tired of following along behind you,” you joked.

Arthur didn’t even deign that with a response. You smirked.

“Where’s the next town again?” you asked for the tenth time.

“Few hours away by now. Why you keeping on me about it anyway? You wanting to ditch me for better company?”

You snorted a laugh. “God yes. I’m even starting to act like you. It’s unseemly.”

He snickered. “I’m surprised you want to see another town, given what happened in the last one.”

As if you needed reminding. “I need a bath and a bed. From all these signs I keep seeing, the place must be big enough for a bed at least.”

“You’re expensive company,” he quipped. You just stuck your tongue out at his back.

After the few hours passed, the town showed itself under a fading afternoon sun, its buildings hard to miss in the flat stretch of land before you. It was indeed much more impressive than that trading post could boast, with enough of a town center that homesteads had popped up here and there along the path. You were passing the first of many when Arthur said, “Come up here.”

You did so, urging Harriet to fall in beside Boadicea.

He leveled you with a seriousness that made you nervous. “I shouldn’t have to warn you this is a big town, and big towns attract crazies and degenerates alike.”

“I figured,” you said flatly, facing forward again.

“I know you know this already, but I want you to keep your eyes open. Watch your back. I may not be enough to stop something bad from happening.”

As animated as the town stretched out before you seemed to be, as full of life as it was, it suddenly took on a darker edge with Arthur’s words. Humanity at its finest.

“I understand,” you said quietly.

“Good. Then let’s go find us a room. Been months since I even laid eyes on a real bed.”

The last bed you had laid in was your parents’. But you tucked that thought away where all the others lay sleeping and dormant, ready to strike when you least needed them. You spurred Harriet onward and rode into the first real settlement this life had to offer you.

After hitching your mounts outside what seemed to be the quieter of the two hotels in town, one off the main drag, you and Arthur stepped up the stairs and inside. The place was well kept, free of much dust and obviously tended under a woman’s hand. The man at the front desk greeted you warmly as you approached. “You two look ready for a warm bath and a few nights’ rest.”

“Putting it lightly,” Arthur responded. “Got any rooms?”

“Plenty. What’s your preference?”

“Just one,” Arthur answered, throwing his money down on the countertop after having seen the room rates on the sign standing atop it.

You didn’t question sharing a room with him. Not for a heartbeat. You wanted to say it was only because you felt safer with him, not wanting to be alone in a bedroom for the first time in your life. But you knew better, knew that small, traitorous part of you that still thought of that lingering kiss.

“How about 2D?” the hotel owner asked, sliding a key across the wooden top.

Arthur plucked up the key. “And a bath?”

“I can have one drawn up for you now. Give it ten minutes or so. Both upstairs on the left.”

“Much obliged,” Arthur said, paying twice what a bath was worth. And when the man eyed him in question, “For me and the lady.”

The lady. How dignified. You’d never thought of yourself as such.

Arthur turned to go upstairs, and you turned to follow him, suddenly feeling more grimy than you had this whole trip. Like you needed nothing more than to get out of your rank coat, your muddy boots, the whole lot of it.

“You need anything off your mule?” Arthur asked.

You didn’t even need to respond to that. He knew you had no belongings apart from the journal still folded neatly against your heart.

He turned to the door of 2D with key in hand and a smirk on his face. “‘Course not.”

“That funny to you, is it?”

To your surprise, he didn’t backtrack. “No.” He looked you over, your dirty clothes suddenly feeling dirtier. “You can thank me later.” He pushed the door in.

Confused by his words, you were a second from asking him what he was on about when you ran right into his back. He had stopped.

“What’s the-” You saw the room and understood. There was only one bed. One very small bed. You felt your heart give a little jolt at the next thought that entered your head, but Arthur interrupted it.

“This ain’t gonna work.” He rounded. “Let me go sort this out.”

Standing in the room, still staring at the bed, unable to tear your eyes away for some godforsaken reason, you asked, “Want me to come with you?”

Arthur’s footfalls hesitated. Then, “No. Lock the door.” That caught your attention. You looked to find him already headed down the hallway. Then did as he said, locking yourself in. Trying not to think of being alone in here. Without Arthur, without your parents—a reality that would very soon be coming to fruition. And yet you were standing scared as a child at the very idea. The room felt too big, too unfamiliar, its cleanliness now unwelcoming. So you just stood there and stared at it, spiraling down far enough that a knock sounded at the door in what felt like seconds.

“Open up.” Arthur.

You unlatched the door with all the hurried desperation of a creature trapped in a cage, then flung the door open.

“I’m in the-” Arthur stopped at your wide-eyed expression. “In the room next door,” he finished, motioning to his right. “You…all right?”

“Fine”, you said with a hollowness that proved anything but.

His brows curved together with doubt, but he didn’t push. “Okay. They don’t have any double beds so…figured you wouldn’t mind a room to yourself. I’ll be next door if you need me. Just keep your door locked.”

“Sure.” You were gripping the door like a vise. Arthur eyed that grip.

“You sure you’re fine?”

“Yes. I…where’s the bath?” you blurted, needing the distraction of it like you needed air.

He pointed down the hall, all the way to the end where a sign next to the door read ‘bath.’

“You wanna go first?” he asked.

You just nodded, not quite meeting his eye.

“All right then. I’ll, uh, bring you some clothes. Figured you wanted those washed.” He motioned to your shaggy coat, the clothes underneath it.

“Sure. Thanks.” You could barely get the words out.

Arthur nodded and stepped back. “Give it five minutes. I’ll have some extra clothes in there waiting on you.”

He said it like he hoped this would fix whatever was bothering you. And your chest gave an involuntary clench at his kindness. Enough that you had the courage to blurt out, “Mind if I come with you?”

Confusion crossed his face, realization not far behind it. Then, “Sure.” And he was turning and heading back down the hall, you right on his heels, your heart rate slowing with every step away from that room. This was going to be a problem.

You coasted through the motions of following him outside as he got some clothes and a few other things off his horse. He handed you yours, and your skittishness cleared further when you realized what that smirk from earlier had been about—he gave you his clothes. It was obvious just looking at him they would not fit you.

You stared at them a second before he said with a grin, “Problem?”

Words were still coming to you slowly, so you just shook your head. Grateful he even had a set to spare.

He let out a low laugh but said no more, taking the time to check over your mounts before giving them treats then heading back inside. You followed behind him silently, more ghost than girl, clothes in hand the only thing convincing you of your presence. Then Arthur approached his door and stopped, turning to look at you.

“You’re acting funny.”

You looked down the hall to see a woman, likely the bath attendant, stepping out of the room, wiping damp hands on her skirt. Time to go.

“You’re funny,” you managed, shooting Arthur a quick glance before sidestepping him and making for the bath room.

To your relief, he didn’t stop you, and you heard the sound of his door opening and shutting before you gave a swift nod to the attendant and did the same, closing out all thought of that lone bed and that empty room. You were faced with a bath warm and inviting, steam drifting upward, a few brushes and soaps set in a tray atop the tub. Thick towels were folded on top of a stool to your left. You hesitantly set Arthur’s clothes down on top of them, taking a second to feel the softness of the towels. There weren’t all that special, but to someone who had only ever used the same few towels her whole life, they were extraordinary.

You came to your senses and quickly locked the door. Then faced the room and let out a breath. This was better. Much better. You began stripping off your clothes piece by piece, finally able to let in the feeling of reprieve.

~

Arthur laid back on the bed with a hand behind his now hatless head, sinking into the softness below him. After months and months of travel below canvas, this was better than a cigarette, better than a shot of whiskey, worth coming all this way for. He let his eyes shut and let himself relax. He was always on high alert around you, and the excuse to have a moment of rest to himself was welcomed.

He breathed deep, thinking of the miles yet to be traveled before his thoughts turned in all directions like they tended to do before he dreamt. Then he was asleep before he even had the time to notice.

Enough time passed that Arthur heard a soft knock on the door. He was pleasantly well-rested even though the light through the window meant it was still daylight outside. So, expecting it to be you, he answered without rising. “Yeah?”

“Your bath is ready, sir,” said an unfamiliar female voice. Right. You must be done then. Arthur firmly blocked out the thought of you taking a bath before rising from the bed. He wordlessly took the key off the nightstand and left the room, locking the door behind him before turning to the bath attendant. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pleasant smile he was sure she gave to everyone. “Right this way,” she said, motioning to the end of the hall.

He followed her down, knowing what she would say next before she did.

“Would you care for my assistance?” The words were laced with heavy attention, the kind that lesser men than he would believe genuine. But for tonight, he only wanted rest. To relax and be left alone.

“No, thanks,” he responded in as friendly a manner as he could before stepping into the room, trying not to smile at the immediate disappointment on her face. Cutting into some of her night’s wages, he was. But he didn’t care. After him would just come some other sorry bastard in need of a good scrub. He was willing to bet she wouldn’t even have to wait until morning for said customer to step through the front door.

Arthur shut the door behind him and locked it, watching the candlelight flicker around the room. Night was swiftly approaching, the dim light through the window growing feeble. He let out a satisfied sigh and began unbuckling his gun belt, taking in the finer points of the room as he did. The place was clean, more than could be said for most hotels in towns this size. And it was quiet, likely being the less frequented of the two as it was on a backstreet. A pleasant place for a much-needed respite. Arthur stripped his satchel and heavy coat, his boots and socks, his suspenders and pants and shirt. He was undoing the buttons of his union suit and debating how many nights he could get away with staying here when he heard a hard rap on the door.

“Arthur?”

He snapped to attention, moving to the door before unlocking it and yanking it open.

“What’s wrong?”

You were standing there in his shirt, and the sight was enough to fill him with a sudden streak of pride before he remembered himself, looking around you to find that you were alone. He looked back to you and searched your face for the reason behind this impromptu visit. And found you staring at his exposed chest.

You blinked hard before looking to the floor. “Can I, uh…have the key? To your room?”

“What’s wrong with yours?”

You shook your head, refusing to look at him. “I can’t be in there.”

He had figured you weren’t coping well with being alone when you had asked to follow him downstairs before. But then you’d gone off to the bath in a rush all by yourself, so he hadn’t thought much more of it. But now it was obvious the walls of that empty room had been closing in on you.

Arthur grunted in response, somewhat miffed to have his peace interrupted but knowing you needed it more than him. So he just turned and retrieved the key, handing it out to you.

“Thank you,” you said, your eyes again catching on his chest before you turned away just as fast, headed right back down the hallway.

Arthur watched to make sure you reached the room before retreating backward and shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it a moment, thinking of your eyes on him. Your lips against his, softer than they should have been for all the cold. The way your tongue felt as it slid against his, as his breath caught and he kept going, unable to stop.

He shut his eyes tight and let his head fall back, simultaneously locking the door. That familiar arousal was taking hold of him again. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, too filled with guilt over it being you he was thinking about to pleasure himself. So he took a few steadying breaths and stripped the remaining layer of his clothes away quickly, climbing into the bath. The water was scalding, but he ignored its burn and slid into it, needing his mind to drift far from where it was. Far from how perfect you had tasted, from how his heart had leapt when you’d ask him to kiss you in the first place. And your words he was long from forgetting—I wouldn’t ask if that were the case. Proving you wanted him to do it, wanted him to be the first one to show you how. He didn’t deserve that. Where his mind had drifted because of all this was proof enough of that. But damn it if he wasn’t so hard he was gritting his teeth. There was also the fact that you were now in his room. Likely on his bed. His cock strained at the thought, and Arthur let out a small groan as he leaned back, his head falling against the lip of the tub, his hands remaining firmly away from his body. This would just complicate things. He couldn’t allow himself to let it happen. Not when his thoughts were on what it would be like to storm into that room and kiss you again, teach you a few other things along with it. Lay you out beneath him and—

“Christ,” Arthur hissed. He was gripping the tub beneath his fingers. He had to find a way to block all this out. He couldn’t very well go back in that room with you when he was like this. So he did his best to think of anything else—horses, gunfights, the goddamn shit lining the streets outside in the hope that it would curb his arousal.

Teeth still gritted, he grabbed a bar of soap with a too-firm grip and ran it across his arms, his chest, his lower legs, doing everything he could to avoid the one part of his body that seemed to need all his attention. He wet his hair and ran the soap through it too, scrubbing hard. He scrubbed every bit of skin so harshly it hurt, all to avoid what he so desperately needed. And when he was done, he tossed the soap away and laughed bitterly at himself. None of it had made a bit of difference.

He was just worked up. He got this way sometimes, after a particularly close call with a gunfight or after a heated argument with one of the gang members. His usual way of blowing off steam was with a bottle of whiskey, but he sometimes resorted to taking himself in hand when his mind wouldn’t quit. It worked better than the whiskey did. And if he was already this hard…

Arthur considered his options. Either one, he do nothing and go back in that room only to be doomed to repeat all this madness while doing his best to keep it from you. Or two, he get it over with now and forget it. Put it behind him. Pretend like it had never happened. He was leaning toward that option likely due to the need coursing through him, but it certainly seemed like the problem solver of the two. Sure, he would feel guilty over it, but it weren’t like he didn’t feel guilt over countless things already.

Arthur looked down and took his lower lip between his teeth before releasing it, slowly letting his hands drift in the water. He hesitated for all of a heartbeat before he remembered your eyes on his bare chest, the flash of want within them. Then he closed his hand around his cock and let his eyes roll back.

Your mouth against his, how he should have pulled away then. How he couldn’t keep from pressing his lips to yours a second time when he felt how soft your mouth was. He kissed you harder, and you did it right back. He held your head so that you had nowhere left to go as he kissed you and kissed you, your mouth opening for his the second his tongue met it. Surrendering to him in its softness, your easy breathing, your harsh want that was just as bad as his. Then your tongue met his, and he lost it. On all accounts, he lost it. He wanted you so bad it hurt. And he was taking your mouth like a starving man, kissing you again, and again, and again…

Arthur was seconds away from an orgasm when he thought of your mouth on him elsewhere. Kissing him, drifting downward until those sweet lips wrapped around his cock. Arthur groaned loud at the thought and came, hit with pleasure so harsh he let his mouth fall open, blaming it all on the fact that it had been so long. Certainly not because it was you. Certainly not because he wanted you and knew he would want you again tomorrow. No, he was never very good at managing his guilt, but as for denial, he knew it well. And he was the goddamn king of it.

Arthur’s head was emptied, just as he wanted it to be, when he left the bath room and stepped back inside the small bedroom. You were curled up on the bed in his clothes, not even underneath the blanket like you had been waiting up for him but fell asleep instead. And his head remained empty as he threw his old clothes on the ground and walked over to the bed, knelt, and laid down on the cold, hard floor beside it. In every measure, satisfied. He would not allow himself to be anything else.

_________

Chapter thirteen is here.

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#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 11 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After narrowly escaping with your lives, the trip goes on without further trouble as the weeks begin to add up. To pass the time during a snowstorm, you and Arthur exchange questions over a bottle of gin.

Author’s Notes: Nothing like a little alcohol to make you admit your feelings to yourself :) Arthur and reader both get drunk in this one. Chapter eleven of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eleven: The Gentle Act of Teaching

Word count: 5574

It has been a month since we started this journey and, as I assumed it would, it has come with no shortage of setbacks. Rambling like we do, I have seen a lot in my time and maybe even grown used to the pointless violence of it all. The wilderness is unkind and man more so, but I haven’t given it much care or thought until now. Now it seems I’m only leading a woman just to show her how cruel this world can be. That haunted look on her face will stay with me for the rest of my days.

~

Arthur rolled his shoulders, trying to undo the persistent ache that tightened them. Riding three days without much of a break to speak of had worn on his body, his mount, you and yours. In fact, it was so wearying you hadn’t said a word to him since the night before.

Your grief seemed to come in waves. This time it was pulling you back down into that shell of yourself you had been, unspeaking, unreacting, seemingly doing all you could just to make it another day. It was tough to watch, but Arthur didn’t have it in him to cheer you up. He was too worn down himself. That, and there was another nagging reason in the back of his mind he hardly let in for fear of letting it eat at him—that this was all his fault. He couldn’t do a thing about what else had happened to you, but he’d lost his head in that town. The mere thought of that slimy bastard calling you out like that had him bristling even now, fingers twitching with the need to shoot something. That nasty little look in his eye had been why Arthur had drawn iron in the first place, so fast it was more instinct than any sort of decision. That same look that had said plenty without words, that said the man felt he was owed something from you which warranted him following you out of town. Arthur didn’t care to ponder whether the man would have followed had he not threatened his life. It didn’t matter now anyhow. He had killed them all, exposed himself for what he really was. All because he saw red at the mere suggestion of someone wronging you. For protection’s sake, he had done his job. But it was obvious that you needed more from him than that. Your near silence since his shooting those men was plenty proof of that.

The truth was, Arthur suddenly felt that the side of him that town had revealed was glaringly wrong. It was a strange feeling, like denying the truest part of himself. But it gnawed at him now, that who he was did not have to be defined by his talent with a gun, but by the possibility of being something more. That the man he wanted to be became something he actually pondered. Things used to be about survival, about protecting those he held dear and nothing else besides. When had that changed?

As Arthur looked sidelong at you riding beside him, the empty stare on your face like that of a corpse, he knew. He had never had someone pure-hearted enough to warrant the believability of some better version of himself. With the gang, with Mary, there had only ever been a separation of good and bad, white and black, and he was always caught on the latter side of those things. But you made him think he could push beyond that, into some unknown middle ground. That look on your face was making guilt curl low in his gut for the first time in a long time at the act of taking lives. So he would push, do his best to shield you from it all. For you were good, and you deserved to remain so, lest he die trying to make it truth. If he didn’t try, no one would. Then you would be left like this—empty. And he knew enough about that to be determined to keep you from it.

~

The fourth day riding away from that terrible place and those terrible people, Arthur finally relented his pace. You had stopped here and there in the meantime, but never for a full night. The tiredness threatening to roll your eyes shut was testament to that.

Before the sun had even set and Arthur had finished with the tent, you laid back on the hard, thankfully snowless ground and fell asleep, the empty bliss of it like a gift.

When you woke, the sky was already lightening above you. You’d slept the whole night through, mercifully dreamless.

You looked down, curious over the warmth surrounding you despite the cold air, then remembered the bison coat. It was doing its job. The wind could hardly touch you with it on despite your poor judgement in sleeping outside the tent. And, like a pair of fools, it seemed Arthur had done the same. He sat against a nearby tree with his knee up, a gun in his lap and his head lolled down in sleep. Like he had every intention of standing guard but had let his exhaustion get the better of him. You couldn’t blame him.

No, the past few days had been anything but easy. You had been so plagued with guilt and worry and shame and regret the whole time it was a wonder you hadn’t given up. Given Arthur your mule and laid down and died right there in the dirt. In fact, the mule had been the only measure of happiness tethering you to the world at all. She still was. Though, sleep had helped clear your helplessness some. Instead, you were left feeling like you could go on but that there wasn’t much point in doing so. There was only brutal, unknown life ahead of you. And just like every interaction with strangers on this trip, that terrified you. The only comfort you’d known since losing your parents had been Arthur’s steady company. But that wouldn’t always be there. And, it seemed, you weren’t cut out for simple comforts anymore. It was time to grow up and see the world for what it was—unforgiving.

After plenty of rest, the pair of you packed back up and set out again. This time, you went two weeks without a break in routine. You passed over into Nebraska in the meantime, plenty of snow and cold following you in. You finally admitted to Arthur just how far you had left to go, nearly midway into the state, with no small measure of annoyance resulting on his part. But he agreed nonetheless, saying he had come this far. At least the railroad would tie into the trail soon, and he could take it back down to Denver instead of riding all the way back alone to join up with his gang.

His gang—you still hadn’t grown used to that. You hadn’t brought up the subject of his killing those five men, though it often crossed your mind to. The only thing stopping you was the fact that he didn’t owe you a thing, squeaky clean reputation included. In fact, his killer instinct had probably kept you alive thus far. Your judgement would be no help. If anything, it would just set you two to arguing again, as you often found yourselves doing. And the fact of the matter was you were tired of arguing. You were tired of a lot of things.

When the trees finally seemed to give up their steady growth, leaving behind nothing but wide open plains and brutal cold, Arthur stopped midday for the first time in a long time. The snow was blowing in sideways, and you nearly groaned in relief when he stopped his horse and swung off of her, saying, “Forget it. I ain’t freezing my balls off just to wait ‘til nightfall to do it again.”

You gave a pitiful laugh and dismounted, your legs like ice picks themselves when the pain of reaching the ground shot up them.

You and Arthur cleared a circle of snow for your camp, then built the tent and the fire. Arthur had been carrying kindling and a bit of wood for miles considering there wasn’t much of it to come by anymore, and you were impressed with his campfire skills when he got the thing burning despite the pelting snow. He had built it on the far side of the tent so that the canvas was blocking the weather, and when the flames began small then built, it took all you had not to shove your gloved fingers and your booted feet right into them.

You were both huddled close enough to the fire that Arthur suddenly took to laughing, calling you both idiots for being out in this kind of weather.

You managed a faint smile. “Montana got a lot colder than this, but…cold is cold.”

“Cold is cold,” he agreed. “How was it up there anyway? In the winter.”

“Brutal,” you admitted. Lots of days spent inside, chores finished as quickly as possible, week-long stretches where you didn’t know if the food would last. But it always did. Lucky you and your father were good hunters, your mother a good motivator.

“It wasn’t always like this,” you went on, having to raise your voice to talk over the wind. “It was sunny and pleasant some days. But still cold. The snow never left.”

Arthur just hummed his acknowledgment before holding his hands out to the fire, black gloves and harsh light eating up the reflection of the flickering flames.

After long enough, he reached around to his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Not a day went by he didn’t do this, whether for habit or enjoyment you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the experience of smoking one to know. But when he lit one, the butt smoldering to life beneath his inhaled breath, it suddenly seemed like just the thing to warm your bones. So when he offered, as he always did regardless of how many times you turned him down, you took one.

“Well,” he said with a drawl. “Finally become a bad influence, have I?”

You didn’t respond, sticking it in your mouth, rolling it over your tongue. It was faintly earthy. Bitter.

You watched him light a match, touching it to the end of his own. Then he brought his hands over to you, cupping them around the flame to keep the wind from snuffing it, touching the match head to your cigarette.

You didn’t know what you expected to happen, but nothing did.

He grinned at you. “You gotta breathe in. Just- small breaths-” he added, but too late. You had taken in such a large breath that your lungs crumpled beneath it, burning from the inside out. You took the cigarette away and coughed and coughed, the feel of it like hellfire trapped inside your chest.

He was laughing at you, but you couldn’t quit coughing enough to berate him for it. You did hand it to him, the disgusting taste and the horrible feeling enough to convince you that it wouldn’t be your new pastime. Then the cold set back in, frosting over your throat and combining with the burning feeling in your lungs. All in all, it only served to make you feel worse.

Arthur’s chuckling finally tapered off. “At least you didn’t get sick on yourself.”

“Does that happen?” you asked, hoarse.

“Sometimes.”

“Lovely.” You wrapped your hands around your knees, scooting closer to the fire, glad for your shaggy coat. It was nearly unbearably cold, but your only other option was inside the tent, and without the fire it would only be colder.

You watched Arthur smoke both cigarettes with ease, one after the other, like he needed their smoke to breathe.

“Why do people do that anyway?” you asked, still miserable from the rawness in your throat.

“What, this?” he said, putting the one that had been yours to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew out of his nose like a dragon would, smoke billowing out of both nostrils.

You didn’t answer, knowing he was just trying to show off or work you up or both.

He finally turned to you. “Calms you down. Takes the edge off.”

The first time he’d offered you one, he’d said the same thing. What edge had he been so desperate to dull back then? And each day since? It wasn’t hard to figure now—cold like this could drive any man to madness. It was certainly making you want to run circles around the camp like a crazy person.

“Same as anything I guess,” he went on, blowing more smoke. “Why does anyone do anything? Alcohol, sex, drugs, they’re all the same.”

You didn’t quite understand the sex part but let it pass. One conversation with him about it was enough to last you a lifetime. But the mention of alcohol had you suddenly desperate to try that too. You had before, what little you’d been able to get your hands on up in the mountains, but it was never enough to take much effect.

“Would alcohol warm me up?”

He eyed you, that boyish gleam returned. “Not necessarily. Though it can make you too busy thinking about other things to remember how cold you was before.”

Anything would help at this point. “You got any?”

He huffed a laugh and stood, walking over to his horse. The poor animals were both standing with their backsides to the wind, close enough to share body heat. Arthur pulled a small glass bottle from his saddle bag and shuffled back over, kicking snow as he went. He tossed you the bottle, and you caught it, flipping it. It had no label.

“What is it?”

“Gin. ‘Fraid I drank all the whiskey.”

You eyed it. “How can you tell? There’s no label.” The liquid was clear, tinged green due to the tint of the glass.

“I can tell,” he said with amusement. “Can’t afford the labeled stuff.”

You eyed him for that, wondering about your saddle and bridle and the mule standing beneath them. He was either exaggerating, or you owed him more than you thought you did if one bottle of good gin would put him out. He just inclined his head toward the bottle in your hand with a slightly upturned mouth, not giving whatever worry you had about owing him a moment’s thought.

You uncorked the top with stiff, numb, gloved fingers then lifted it to your lips. The burn of it was immediate. Almost as bad as the cigarette. You forced yourself to drink it down but let out a wincing cough after you did.

“Christ. Are all the vices so terrible?” you asked, wiping the excess off your mouth and handing the bottle back to him. It had to be a punishment, for people to drink that. Addiction born of the need to punish one’s self.

Arthur was snickering again, but this time you joined him in it.

“Tastes smooth to me,” he said, lifting it to his own mouth. You watched him drink it down with near reverence, his eyes half-closing as he did. Savoring it. He brought the bottle down and examined it. “Shitty, but smooth.”

You leaned over and snatched it from him. Like hell was it smooth. It was as cutting as swallowing ice. But the aftertaste wasn’t near as bad as the cigarette had been, so you took another sip, letting it cut all the way down.

Arthur took it back. And after some back and forth, minutes passed and enough swallowed to dull its burn, he stopped you from taking it again. “Slow down there, or it’ll come right back up. I ain’t letting you put out the fire with your own sick.”

You cringed at the thought but felt that familiar defiance within you stand up at the challenge. You went for the bottle, but he snatched it away before you could grasp it.

“Don’t be dense,” you spat, going for it again. He again held it out, far enough you couldn’t reach it. And the resulting smile curving across his face was making you mad enough to tackle him for the damn thing.

You were about to lunge for it when he stopped you with a hand held out. “All right, all right, quit it. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You already didn’t like where this was going. To hell with the gin. Now you were just angry. You crossed your arms at him.

He grinned then said, “You answer a question, I’ll give it back.”

As annoyed as humoring him made you, you just shrugged.

“Agreed?”

“Go on,” you snapped. Better to get it over with, get the bottle back and walk away so as not to have to deal with him anymore.

He thought on it a moment, taking another sip as he held your gaze, an amusement lighting his eyes you didn’t much care for. Then, “What’s something you never told anyone?”

That you still wished you had died with your parents. That life didn’t feel like it had much meaning after their deaths. That one of the sole reasons you went on was because the man staring back at you had given a damn at the right moment. But you didn’t want to go down that slippery slope, not right now and not with him. So you reverted back to your younger years, to the girl who was full of life and grit and the ability to get her way. What had you kept hidden even from your parents?

You landed on it then hesitated, heat staining your cheeks from embarrassment.

“Spit it out,” he said accusatorially, sensing that hesitation.

“I…” How to word it and not sound ridiculous? “When I was a kid I…fancied the postman.”

Arthur burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” you said miserably.

“That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

The deepest, maybe. Certainly not the darkest. But his laughter was slightly contagious given how stupid the confession had sounded, so you just said with a laugh, “I was little! He was handsome!”

“I’m sure he was,” Arthur said, tilting his hat to you in obvious sarcasm, his grin never leaving.

“And I never got to go to the post office,” you went on, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “So when Pa let me come with him, the hours that it took to get there, it was…it was just nice to see the man is all!”

Arthur was veritably howling with laughter now.

“Shut up!” you said, leaning over and shoving him. “Like you never had an infatuation with a girl.” This did seem to sober him some, and that gave you an idea.

“Give me that,” you snapped, yanking the bottle away. “And it’s your turn for a question.”

“Well, I never said-”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. You’re answering one.”

He settled back with a sigh but didn’t protest. So you took a swig of gin for courage and looked him straight in the eye. “Who taught you to shoot so well?”

Surprise crossed his face, lining every inch of it. He had obviously assumed you were going to ask about said girl, whomever that may be. But no, you wanted to know how he had taken down five men in a matter of seconds.

His face turned contemplative. Then, “No one, I guess. I always had a good eye. Good aim.”

“That aim was better than good,” you admitted. And the reference to what had happened back in that town seemed to sour his mood. He snatched the bottle back and took a long pull from it.

“Yeah, well, you’re either a decent shot or you get killed pretty quick in my line of work.”

His line of work. On the opposing side of the law, where bullets were aimed at you as often as a dirty glance.

“Do you ever get scared?” The question pushed out before you could stop it.

Arthur just looked at you, face tinged with mild curiosity.

“Not really,” he said. “Not anymore. But—” He tipped the bottle at you. “It ain’t your turn.”

You rolled your eyes and sat back, looking into the flames instead, knowing he would fire off another stupid question whether you got on to him for it or not.

Sure enough, he spoke, the amusement in his tone not lost on you. “You ever get into trouble up in them mountains?”

“What kind of trouble?”

You shouldn’t have asked. The smirk he shot back was enough for you to know he didn’t mean the kind where you got lost in the snow, where your life was in danger.

When he didn’t answer, you sighed like he usually did, drawing it out. “A few times. Once for this,” you said, taking the gin from him.

“What, getting drunk?”

“No, they caught me before it got to that point. I raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t much, a bottle of whiskey and some wine. But I was trying both when Momma and Pa came back from town early. They gave me hell for it.”

Arthur snickered. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” you answered. “But it’s not your turn,” you said sweetly, making him shake his head, though his smile never left.

You took a sip of gin, wondering what it took to be drunk. But you wouldn’t waste a perfectly good question asking Arthur about it. Instead, you asked him something you had wondered since the night after leaving that trading town.

“Why didn’t you buy another bedroll? At that trader stall.”

Again, Arthur seemed surprised by the question. He took some time to answer, gesturing for you to hand him the gin. You did so, and he took another long pull of it. Long enough that you wondered how often he did this, drinking his thoughts away.

“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I was trying to keep an eye on you when I was talking to that old croak. Weren’t thinking about it.”

You let out a breath of relief at his response. You had assumed he’d spent all his money and resources on you, that he couldn’t afford one. And, as it stood, he had been using the very edge of your bedroll ever since, both of you colder than you cared for but too prideful to cling together for warmth like you had that night after the wolves. So you had thought all this time another bedroll had been neglected at the cost of the coat on your back. But now that you knew otherwise, you didn’t feel quite so shameful. And you were grateful, too, that it had been because Arthur had kept such a watchful eye on you.

He took another long drink from the bottle, and you watched him, watched his throat work and his mouth purse with the harsh liquid. This man who you thought you knew—you didn’t really know him at all.

Arthur looked over and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head, pushing the thought from your mind. Not because it scared you, but quite the opposite—you always assumed he was bad, that he was the low-down outlaw, and at every turn, he proved you wrong.

“Nothing.”

He chuckled lowly. Then, “You ever kissed anyone?”

“Excuse me?” It was all you could manage through your embarrassment. Not this again.

“Couldn’t ask it any clearer,” he said, about to take another drink. But you snatched it away before he could, taking a long pull yourself. Drunk. You needed to be drunk.

“How much of this do I need before it blocks out the sound of your voice?”

“So, no then,” he said with that god awful smirk.

You drank again.

He laughed. “Easy there.”

“I told you,” you said, voice hoarse from the harsh liquor. “There wasn’t anyone up there to kiss.”

“Not even the postman?”

You could have hit him. Instead, oddly enough, you laughed at that stupid smile on his face. “No, not even the postman. He was twice my age. Maybe more.”

“Hm.”

“What?” you fired at him, the bottle clutched tightly in your hands.

“Nothing, just…” He smiled again, his teeth showing. “Imagining it, is all. That life you led.” He pried the bottle from your clawed grip, smiling as he brought it to his lips. “Sounds…boring.”

You tried not to think about his mouth kissing the bottle, his mouth kissing anything, as you replied, “It was what you made of it. I enjoyed it.” At your nerves, you reached over and took the bottle away before he was even done drinking. He made a noise of protest, but it didn’t register before you had the bottle at your own mouth, trying desperately not to think of how his lips had just touched the same spot.

When you brought it away, you looked at him. Really looked at him, all notion of it being improper to do so suddenly lost. “There are other ways of enjoying yourself, you know.”

His brows rose high, either at the way you were looking at him or at the implication in your voice.

After long enough, he said, “You plan on enlightening me?”

“I…” Your eyes dipped to his mouth before you took another long pull, the bottle blocking your view of him. Shaking loose the thought that began to plague you. The urge to experience something new, something you were afraid would be addicting in its own right, alcohol aside.

When you didn’t respond, just pulled the bottle back down and looked to the fire, Arthur said, “I can’t imagine it would be much beyond snow sledding or the like all the way up there. You telling me that’s the secret to happiness?”

There it was, an out. A diversion to the path this conversation had led you down. And in anything other circumstance, you would have taken it. But for some reason, you were starting to believe that drunkenness snuck up namelessly after all, a haze of intuition lost.

You looked to Arthur, to the soft amusement on his face, to the casualness that seemed to always weigh on his shoulders and make its way to his mouth.

“You could teach me.”

“Come again?”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth again, seemingly of their own volition. Then words spilled out of you like gin from a bottle.

“Kiss me. Show me how.”

His face softened. Surprise, realization, a bit of embarrassment. Then deflection as he chuckled, his face tingeing redder in the gray light than the cold could account for. “Nah, you don’t want that,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Not your first-”

“Kiss me,” you said again. You couldn’t imagine it being anyone else in the world. There was no one else you trusted. “I wouldn’t ask if that were the case.”

He looked at you then with such raw surprise you wondered when the last time anyone had shown him such affection was.

He stared at you, and you stared at him, and before you could ask if his brain had shut down entirely, he looked to the fire and said defiantly, “No.”

You scoffed. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal. Just think of it as teaching me something new.”

“But it ain’t that,” he fired back. He still wouldn’t look at you. “It’s…kissing someone to learn something and kissing someone because you want to are two different things.”

“Exactly,” you said, taking another sip of gin. “If it‘s just for learning’s sake, what’s the problem?”

He shook his head, disgruntled. “Forget it. I ain’t doing it.”

You groaned aloud, unbelieving he was being the stick in the mud for once. “You know, for an outlaw,” you said, standing, pointing the bottle at him. “You’re awfully honorable.”

He let out a barking laugh like he didn’t believe that in the slightest but still didn’t take the bait. The stubborn fool.

The ground swayed a bit beneath you as you added, “And cowardly.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, the question poised somewhere between annoyance and a threat. But he had finally looked at you at least.

“Woman asks you to kiss her, and you won’t even consider it.”

He stood now, swiping the bottle from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” But you couldn’t have pried the glass from his grasp if you wanted to, your vision starting to swim. “You don’t want to kiss me that’s fine, but don’t tell me what to do.”

He laughed that annoying laugh again. “I ain‘t kissing someone who can barely keep her feet.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, stepping over to him to prove a point. Close. You could have leaned over and kissed him yourself you were so close. In fact, the thought was a breath away from being turned into reality when he lifted the gin to his own lips, blocking you, his eyes catching on your mouth. Or maybe that was your shoddy vision making things up.

When he brought the bottle away, he was grinning. “Real impressive, being able to walk.”

“Shut up,” you said, but didn’t shove him like you wanted to. His closeness was…distracting you. And any forceful movement would likely land you on your backside.

“Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight so that he stood even closer. Not backing down from you in the slightest, that cocky grin lighting his face. “You answer one more question, and I’ll kiss you.”

Your face burned with those words, like your body was realizing this might actually happen.

When you didn’t respond, his grin went wider. Feral. Then, “Tell me your name.”

Damn him. Because he knew it was the one thing you wouldn’t give him.

“That’s not a question,” you said simply, holding his eye.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want me to know it?”

Now it was your turn to grin. “Because they were the last people to call me that.”

Arthur was confused by your smile despite your words, his brows pinching together. And you said without hesitation, “And I just answered your question. So kiss me.”

Realization hit him again, and he immediately let out an unbelieving laugh. “You’re a damn sneak, you know that?”

When his eyes met yours, his gaze shifted the slightest bit toward serious in the harsh daylight. And he definitely eyed your mouth this time. Alcohol or no, you could see it plain as day. Then at last, he groaned his annoyance, or tried to shake how flustered he was, and said, “All right then. You win.” He dropped the gin and stepped toward you.

All you had ever known of this suddenly became futile, juvenile, worthless in the eyes of him bringing his gloved hands to the back of your head. Your scant knowledge couldn’t hold a candle to the gentle way he brought your mouth to his, meeting you at last in a kiss so tender it sobered you. This was happening. Arthur was…

All thought was lost when his mouth pressed against yours a second time. Slow. Caring. You let him be, forgetting entirely what this was supposed to be about, instead navigating the newness that was kissing someone back.

The kiss went on for an eternity, the effect better than any cigarette, any gin, anything in the world. There was no snow, was no cold, was nothing but the way his lips parted. You did as he did, and soon your mouth was at his with a fervor, his tongue warm against yours, the taste of gin and tobacco all you knew and all you ever wanted again.

Then he was stepping away, letting his hands fall, his gaze shy as it hit the ground.

“Was that…what you wanted?” he asked softly, meeting your eye as his hands fell a bit nervously onto his gun belt, fidgeting.

You just stared at him. Dove deep inside yourself to remember your words, to remember your circumstances and who you were supposed to be to each other. Because it was certainly blurring as the warmth of his mouth lingered.

After long enough that he kept shifting his weight, you spoke. “I understand it now. Why people…enjoy that.”

You thought you saw the smallest softening of his gaze before the mask returned, his teasing smirk back in place. “You really don’t know nothing, do you?”

You couldn’t even be bothered to chide him. Not after what he had just given you.

You pursed your lips like you could hold that kiss forever then looked at the bottle at your feet. You knelt and picked it up, pushing it into his chest. He grabbed it. And you wouldn’t meet his eye for fear of wanting him to kiss you all over again as you said with a giddy smile, “Thank you for teaching me,” and stepped around him. Aimed for the tent. Focused on keeping your feet beneath you, keeping your head somewhere inside reality, keeping your thoughts away from the man at your back. Away from just how much you truly felt for him, your fondness veiled like the unfamiliarity of a kiss until now.

_________

Chapter twelve is here.

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#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 10 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You come upon your first settlement, the small trading post lending itself to the rugged natures of the people who gather there.

Author’s Notes: Sorry for the delay, needed a break from this one for a hot minute to keep the ideas flowing. Also there is a gunfight in this chapter. Chapter ten of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Ten: Bison Coats and Molly Mules

Word count: 3936

You were dreaming of the wolves. Even in sleep, you could feel your body tense, hear the soft exhale of shuddering fear. It was like being half-awake, buried beneath sleep just enough to hold you under its thumb. Aware but not.

You could feel the edges of a scream coming and subconsciously held it. Your horse, eyes wide. A wolf leapt, and you jerked hard, hard enough to wake the man at your back.

“Hey.” You felt a hand at your shoulder shaking you awake. But it still took a moment to open your eyes, to convince yourself of consciousness.

“Wake up.”

You did so, eyes finding the side of the tent before you. No wolves. No death at the door.

You turned over onto your back, taking in a long breath.

“You good?”

You looked over at Arthur. He was closer than usual, and you were reminded of the night prior when his arms had held you close, tucked against him. You quickly looked away, glad he was at least an arm’s length away now. You didn’t know what you would have said to him if he weren’t.

You nodded to give him some sort of response. Then stretched, trying to rid your brain of its addling dream.

“Same dream as before?”

You met Arthur’s gaze with an empty stare of your own. He seemed to get the message, not pushing you to talk at least. But looking at him made you realize he still had blood on his skin. It had been hard to see in the dim light of night. Or, more likely, you had been too riddled with distraction to notice yesterday. Making up your mind, wanting to be the helpful one for once, you sat up and crawled out of the tent.

You were met with a nearly blinding blanket of snow, the sun rising and warming you. It was a shimmering day, beautiful enough to give you pause. You looked over at Arthur’s mare and felt your contentment stagger, trying not to dwell on the fact that she was alone. With a sigh, you made for her.

Once you had gotten hold of what you needed from Arthur’s saddle bag, giving Boadicea a good scratch and a treat in the mean time, you reentered the tent. Arthur was laid back, stretched out with an arm behind his head, eyes closed.

“Wake up sunshine,” you said, kicking his boots.

“I’m awake,” he grumbled.

You sat cross legged beside him. “Good. Because this’ll sure wake you up if you aren’t already.”

His eyes shot open and he looked to the cloth in your hands, his lack of understanding crossing his face.

“Sit up,” you told him.

He let out a groan to shake off any remaining sleep then did as you asked.

“What’s that?” He nodded his head at the cloth in your hands.

“Hold still.” You brought the damp cloth to his face, meaning to clean the remaining blood off for him. Only he jerked back before you could.

“What’re you doing?”

“Helping,” you said, reaching out again.

He hesitantly let you this time, though he winced when the cloth met his face. Likely from the ice cold water you had used to soak it.

You began wiping the blood away, not meeting his eye as he looked at you suspiciously. You didn’t say a word, knowing he would no matter if you did or not.

“This kindness, it’s…unsettling. Should I be worried?”

You shrugged. But it felt good to be the one doing something for him, not the other way around.

Once you’d cleaned him up, taking the time to get what you could out of his hair and beard, you sat back and looked at him.

“That’s better.”

His eyes snagged in your hair, and you realized why when he said gently, “I’m sorry about your horse.” The horsehair.

You shook your head, looking down, folding the cloth up to have something to do with your hands. It was a strange feeling that ran through you at those words. Almost like the guilt had reached you, but the grief had not. Unbelieving that it had happened at all. As if the loss of your parents was too much, your brain not having the capacity for more.

“Me too,” was all you could muster.

Arthur let out a long breath, the noise saying what you both felt better than any words could. It was a shame what had happened. No animal deserved that.

“Can we get going soon?” you asked, avoidant. Not wanting to dwell on the hair braided into your own.

“Sure.” But he didn’t make a move to get up. Just watched you.

You didn’t know why, and you caught his eye a moment before getting up yourself, a little shaken by it.

When you were on your feet and halfway out of the tent, his voice stopped you.

“Thank you.”

It took you a second to realize why he had said it, the cloth in your hand cold against your fingers as if in reminder. For a fleeting moment, you had thought of last night. Of letting him hold you. You shook the memory away and went on, going about the usual way of packing up, leaving, filing your thoughts away so that they wouldn’t take hold before you could stop them.

~

The first settlement made its appearance that day, squatty and bare. It was midday when you and Arthur rode into town, the sun high and hot enough to melt the snow, making it run off the nearby roofs in an almighty race to the ground.

Town was a stretch for this place. It was ten or twelve buildings, a few trader stalls. Not much else. But it was hope enough that you were headed in the right direction. And what better time to come across a place like this than when you had lost nearly every one of your belongings?

You wrapped your arms tighter around Arthur when a few of the townsfolk eyed you. Suddenly, wolves seemed trivial. It was mankind you needed to fear. Your life had been nearly absent of people up to this point, and now that you were surrounded by them, you felt no different than a wild animal caught surrounded. Unbelonging.

As if Arthur sensed this, he distracted you. “What all you need? I’ll stop and see about another horse if they have one to spare.”

“A coat,” you replied. A bed and a meal couldn’t hurt either, but you didn’t much take to the idea of staying here longer than necessary.

Arthur shot you a look over his shoulder.

“What? You have a big coat.”

“And all the money,” he said, turning forward again with a smirk.

“I’ll pay you back.” Though you weren’t sure how you would.

He sighed long and loud. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Forget I said it then. You asked.”

He chuckled but said no more.

He pulled off next to one of the trader stalls and dismounted. “Stay here.” Arthur met your eye to make his seriousness known, and you were again troubled by the many eyes of the townspeople you could feel following you. You moved up into the saddle and took the reins for good measure.

You watched as Arthur made way to the trader stall and struck up a conversation. The trader looked to be an old man, older than he likely was due to the dirt caking his skin. His croaking voice reached you, but you couldn’t make out a word of it. Arthur seemed to understand him though, as he was soon pointing at a particularly harry skin behind the man’s head, hung up on a makeshift rafter. The trader nodded and spoke again, not unlike a frog in the way he forced his voice out. Then Arthur was turning, making for you.

He reached Boadicea and began digging through his saddle bags. He pulled out a rolled-up wolf pelt, the sight of it surprising you. You hadn’t even thought to skin the wolves, use the pelts to trade. Your father would have berated you for that, calling it wasteful not to.

Arthur rounded his horse and pulled another out of the other saddle bag, then returned to the trader, handing them over. The trader took them without a fuss before pulling down the garment you were just now realizing was a coat. Arthur walked back over with it in hand, tossing it up to you as you moved back out of the saddle to let him up.

“How’s that for a coat?”

Truth be told, it stunk. The bison hair was shaggy and unkempt, the inside of the coat made a little hastily, but you had no doubt it would keep you warm.

When Arthur settled in the saddle and got Boadicea back out in the street, you had already pulled it on. It was roomy, made for a bigger man than you, but you were grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you.”

It was the second time the phrase passed between you. And just like before, it remained unanswered.

Toward the southern edge of town, a man had erected a corral of sorts to pen in livestock. Livestock, not horses, as there were all manner of beast in there. Donkeys and mules and even an ox. There was one draft horse that you could see, but judging by the way he looked older than the dirt showing through the snow-packed ground, you were suddenly interested in owning a mule.

“Wait here,” Arthur said, swinging over the saddle and tossing you the reins.

“Can’t I pick one out?”

He looked ready to argue, but when he turned and met your eye, he stopped. He considered you a moment, either thinking you pitiful enough in your too-big coat or sorry enough from already having lost a horse that he relented with a groan. “Come on then.”

You kicked the mare on closer then dismounted, holding her reins as you looked over the various head of long-eared, soft-eyed mules.

Arthur went over to speak to the man at the gate, and you didn’t follow, deciding which mount looked to be young enough and calm enough for a rider. Most were likely just pack mules, not used to carrying a rider. They were an adaptable breed, but that didn’t mean one wouldn’t buck you off into the dirt if it got the chance.

You were eyeing two in particular, a tall seal brown and a barrel-round gray, when Arthur waved you over.

“Pick one out you like. This feller’s willing to make a deal.” You saw a gleam in Arthur’s eye you didn’t understand but handed him the reins anyway, making for the corral.

You stepped inside and moved over to the two mules you had been eyeing before, all of them in a big bunch, swishing tails and knocking off flies from their long, twitching ears.

The gray was nearer, and you made for him first. It took some maneuvering to get to him, but when you did, the way he turned his ears back and swung his head away from you was enough to prove the last thing on his mind was work. So you let him be and made for the taller brown mule instead.

Upon reaching her, she pushed her nose into your hand, curious. You let her nuzzle you a little before stroking her long face, scratching her ears. She let you, her eyes going half closed. In terms of mounts, you could do worse.

“How about this one?” you called out.

Arthur looked to the corral owner in question. After some back and forth, money exchanged hands. She was yours.

“How’s that, girl? Come on. You’re coming with me.”

You slipped the makeshift reins over her head—what they all wore, little more than rope—and led her out.

Arthur was asking after a saddle when you passed through the gate.

“What do you know, I sell those too,” the man replied.

You had to stifle a laugh when Arthur leaned in close, muttering sarcasm. “What do you know?”

Within the next twenty minutes and after knowing you owed Arthur for how much he had just forked over (or gotten “cheated out of” as he put it), you had a saddled, bridled mule.

It was now time for the true test—riding her out of here.

Arthur mounted his mare and looked down at you with amusement, crossing his arms over the saddle horn.

“Well go on then. Let’s see if you picked a good one.”

You shot him a look then stepped into the stirrup before you could think better of it, before you could think of what falling for the second time would do to you. But to your delight, the mule just stood there, patiently waiting on you. You swung onto her without a fuss. When you put your heels to her, she jerked a little in surprise, then slowed. You tried again, and she moved out. No problem.

Your smile took over your whole face. She had definitely been ridden before.

“I was expecting a little more of a fight,” Arthur said with a tinge of disappointment, his mare falling into step beside you.

Catching the stares of more than a few onlookers, you tensed. “Seems you weren’t the only one.”

While passing a nearby outpost, a man on its back porch called out to you. “Such a pretty lady with such an ugly ass!” A few of his fellow porch dwellers laughed.

You weren’t sure if he meant Arthur or the mule, but neither was good. Neither fared well with Arthur’s temper you had only seen once before. But return it did, in full force.

“You best be quiet, buddy,” Arthur responded, the words laced with malice.

The man guffawed. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll put a bullet in you,” Arthur said simply, cutting you off and moving his horse over so that he was closer to the threat, landing you on the outside.

You didn’t even have time to be afraid before you noticed Arthur’s gun in his hand. You hadn’t even seen him draw it.

The man glared at him, all amusement gone. And the moment sat on that glare—you, praying no one shot for fear of your new mount parting ways with you, and Arthur, just daring the man to make a move.

Finally, the man spit in the melting snow at Boadicea’s feet but said no more. He didn’t look away though, staring a hole into Arthur’s head as good as a bullet.

Arthur turned to go but left his gun in his hand. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice.

You were both setting a trotting pace out of town when you turned back, looking for the same man. He was gone, and somehow that was worse. It settled like a heavy stone in the pit of your stomach, not knowing where he went.

Arthur saw you turned, watching, and whistled to get your attention. “Eyes on the road.”

You looked to him, then to the road, and knew why he’d said it. Nearly every pair of eyes was on you. On the gun still in Arthur’s hand.

When you skirted the edge of town, taking a small ridge upward and farther east, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

You felt more than saw Arthur’s gaze turn in your direction.

“What’re you going to name her?”

Another distraction. But you smiled at the irony as you patted the animal’s neck, thinking that he still didn’t even know your name.

“I don’t know yet.”

Before he could respond, a voice rang out above you both, making you stop.

“Best hold it there, you two.”

Your eyes landed on the very man you had been so nervous to lose sight of. Him and four others, all mounted, all armed, all sitting at the highest point of the ridge out of town. They must have galloped up here, circled around to beat you.

“What you want?” Arthur asked with more annoyance than anything. How could he not be overcome with fear? You certainly were—you were outnumbered, had the low ground. And three of the men, including the one who had spoken, were looking at you like you were a prize to be won, a toy to be broken.

“I want that pretty little lady on the mule, since you don’t seem to know how to show any respect.”

Although obvious he was speaking to Arthur, his eyes never left you as he said it. Your blood ran cold.

“Not gonna happen, I’m afraid,” Arthur said, so nonchalant you almost took your eyes off the man to look at him.

The man chuckled. “And you’re gonna stop me, are you?”

“I will if I have to. But, best not let things get ugly. You be on your way and we’ll be on ours.”

Was he insane? How would that kind of talk earn anything but violence?

As if thinking the word drew it out of the men, the one who had spoken moved in a flash, aiming his rifle. You ducked and kicked your mule, spinning her around when the inevitable report of a gun rang loud, echoing and repeating, echoing and repeating. The noise stopped before you could get so much as a few feet out of the line of fire, your mule panicked below you. Terrified of what you would find had become of Arthur, you waited with hands uselessly covering your head, waiting on them to drag you off the mule.

“Let’s go. Quick,” you heard, and the familiarity in the voice made you balk. You turned to find Arthur motioning to you, already turned onto the snow-covered path out of the valley. He was whole. He was alive. And the five men…

“How did you-”

“We got bigger problems,” Arthur said, turning back to look at the town below. You followed his gaze to see much more unwanted attention. The whole town’s attention. A few men were already mounting up with guns drawn, in defense of their own.

“Shit,” you said and, praying your mule was a fast one, kicked her hard and were galloping up the slope in a moment’s breath, snow flying with the way her feet struck the earth. You took her around the five men that lay dead on the ground, trying not to trample them. “You killed them!” you said uselessly.

Ahead were their respective horses, running wild at their fright over the gunfight.

“No shit,” Arthur yelled, his horse pulling ahead of yours with ease. “Come catch one of these horses. They’re faster-”

“No time!” you interrupted, though that wasn’t the real reason. Your mule hadn’t stepped a toe out of line of where you’d asked her to go. So you pushed her hard, galloping away from your pursuers into the flattening countryside, hot on Arthur’s tail.

It took entirely too long to reach the safety of a spance of trees, a few shots ringing out behind you just before you did. Arthur shouted, “On me! We’ll lose ‘em down here!” and you didn’t bother turning to see how close your pursuers had gotten. You could hear the distant hoofbeats. A cacophony of them.

Arthur shot through the woods on his mare like water down a hill, and it took all you had to keep up. Your mule placed her feet well, but she was bulky and slower.

“Quick!” Arthur said, and turned a sharp left behind a huge rock face that hid him and his horse from view. You followed, nearly overcome with relief when you saw how the rock turned inward on itself. It was a small overhang, almost like the mouth of a cave—the perfect hiding spot.

You followed his lead and jumped off your mule, leading her as far inside as she could go. She was breathing heavy beside Boadicea but otherwise stood firm. You felt so much pride for her you nearly choked on it.

Arthur threw you his reins and peeked around the rock face, the sound of distant riders still approaching. But the sound was farther off to the right, likely not heading in the right direction. Could you have gotten so lucky?

You put your hands on your knees and sucked in breaths, trusting Arthur to warn you if you needed to run again.

“Stay quiet,” he whispered, coming back over to stand beside you.

Finally, the weight of what just happened bore down on you. It was too much. It was all too much. The fall, the men in the woods, the wolves, and now this.

You fell to your knees, using every ounce of strength you had left just to breathe.

“It’ll be all right,” Arthur said lowly. “We’ll get out of here soon enough, leave that shithole of a town behind us.”

“We almost died two days ago,” you said, voice small. “Now this.”

That must have struck a chord with Arthur, as he didn’t immediately answer like he always did.

Then, serious for once, “I know.” He looked back out toward the sound of hoofbeats, their growing distance reassuring. “I know.”

The pair of you waited for what had to be an hour. The closest anyone ever got was a distant shout away, though they eventually either gave up or went into hiding themselves to try to draw you out. Arthur banked on the former.

“Let’s go,” he finally whispered, testing the waters by leading Boadicea out, her hooves clacking against the rock. You followed behind, waiting for the inevitable sound of a horse, of a shout, of another gunshot. Anything. But it never came. And once mounted, the farther you and Arthur rode, the more that weight on your chest eased. The sun was setting, and you were getting farther from danger’s reach with every step. Soon it would be night, and you could ride through the darkness until no one from that town had any chance of finding you.

A few more hours had the trees thinning further. You were getting nearer to the prairie lands of Nebraska. Arthur had slowed his horse to a walk a while back, and now he was checking over his weapons as he rode. You eyed him, still wondering how he had killed five men without a scratch. There was no doubt in your mind he was a dead shot with that revolver. But, you figured, outlaws had to be. At least the living ones did. It still befuddled you that he was an outlaw, as good as he had been to you. His protectiveness over you was no small thing, and all you could think was that you were grateful, immensely, that if you were forced to live without your parents, you had at least been granted this man in their stead. You would have wound up dead otherwise. Three or four times over now.

When Arthur pushed on well past sunset, you settled in for the night on top of your molly, reeling. The life you were leading was different than any you could ever have dreamed. It scared you, it wore you down, but it was something to reflect on. It only leant to that story you would get to tell your parents someday, if you ever found your way back to them. You had a feeling you were heading in the right direction.

Stiff and scarred and terrified still, you rode on. That was all you could do. It was all this life had left to offer.

_________

Chapter eleven is here.

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[coltermorning]

A Christmas to Remember

Part One - A Christmas to Remember

Part Two - A New Year to Remember

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

A New Year to Remember (A Christmas to Remember Pt. 2, RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: With another meeting planned on the first day of the year, you eagerly await the possibilities it could bring.

Author’s Notes: I just had to write this one—it was too cute for me not to :) Part one is here.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, fluff

AO3 Link

~

A New Year to Remember

Word count: 3238

Monday, Emerald Ranch

You clutched the concise letter in your hand, like doing so would bleed the words from the page enough to make time pass with urgency. But it wouldn’t. You would wait. This would be worth it.

It had been five days since you’d seen Arthur, five days sitting on the feeling that drawing of his had bloomed within you. He wanted your hand in marriage. You were still a little dumbfounded over it, still unbelieving you had ever earned something so good in this life, especially considering the circumstances. But he, like you, had come to know one thing—love was stronger. Consequences be damned. So you waited.

You sat under the awning at the livery, ready to rid yourself of Valentine entirely if not for the rain that fell in a torrent. It wasn’t cold enough for snow, and the downpour deterred you unlike anything the colder weather could do. All you wanted was to be in Emerald Ranch. No matter that you had two days left to wander around without cause, without purpose other than the need to see the man you loved. But the weather had other ideas. You wouldn’t find yourself ill for stubbornness either due to the drenching weather, so you would force yourself to wait, to dream, to imagine what this meeting would lead to.

The very idea of marriage had always been picturesque to you. A slow-moving march in a wedding gown. Love so full the smiles caught. Daily life made better by another, by a partner. And putting a face to the man who would stand at the other side was more fulfilling than you thought possible. Arthur’s awe as you approached him, heart in hand. His smile over getting to call you his in fondness and in name. The days yet to come, endless days made for being together and nothing more. It was too good to be true.

It wouldn’t always be easy. You knew that, though you didn’t care. It was certain the pair of you would have to leave this area of the country. Even using Arthur’s name here was dangerous, in the place where everything had gone wrong for him. Fingers pointed and blame thrown around like fire, catching, spreading, destroying everything it touched. But somehow, not him. He was pure as gold, his soul coming out more gilded for all that harrowing encounter put him through. A second chance at life. A chance to do it better this time. And oh, how much better he was when it came to you. He was a boy in a man’s clothing, his love as fragile as a bird, never knowing anything but betrayal yet wanting more still. Wanting and wanting and wanting, enough to make your heart break for him. Because you would give that to him until the end of your days, until he didn’t feel the need to want so desperately anymore. It would be natural to him one day—to love and be loved in return. You would see to it with absolute surety. Because if you knew anything about him, you knew this: a man so hardened by life, so broken by it, to still have such a strong love for the very thing that rejected him…he deserved it more than anyone. And you, of all people, had the privilege of bestowing that love on him. You would do your best to make it count. To make him believe in it once more, to never have to fear losing it. What an honor.

Sitting on an upturned crate hiding from the rain, you dragged out the journal he had given you and began to draw. You drew the feeling in your chest until it turned into Arthur on the page, your hand mimicking the love he held for you despite all odds. His hands resting on his gun belt, his broad yet relaxed shoulders, his smirking grin with a cigarette between it. All things that made him the man he was, all things that he gave to you without even knowing it. What did it mean to love someone? As you drew line after line, stroke after stroke, the image coming to you as natural as breathing, you thought you knew.

~

It was Monday. The first day of the new year. The rain had stopped early yesterday morning, and you had chased its end out of town and straight to Emerald Ranch. You had been not-so-patiently waiting around, wondering what time to plan on seeing him. Even your horse had grown restless beneath you, perhaps wondering why you led it in endless circles with no true destination. Alas, where you were headed couldn’t be reached by map. The thought made you smile.

You were riding through the middle of the small settlement, straight out of town only to inevitably turn back, when you heard it.

“There she is.”

The familiar voice made your heart leap, and you turned and found Arthur atop his horse, hands crossed over his saddle horn, smiling at you. For all the world, like this was the most regular meeting in it. You rolled your horse back and spurred it on, going to him, dropping to the ground before you could even pull up the reins.

“Arthur,” you said, all the happiness felt for him pouring out in the utterance. He was dismounting and pulling you into a hug in seconds, his smile contagious.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t be apart from him a moment longer, all the waiting around doing a number on you. You pulled away and leaned up, kissing him. Then kissing him some more. Enough that when you broke apart, he was laughing fondly, his face red as a beet.

“My drawing didn’t scare you off I see,” he said, though he knew the answer to that. You had written him within minutes of seeing the damned thing, telling him to get his ass back to town, berating him for leaving it in the first place.

“No,” you answered anyway. “Quite the opposite.”

“Hm,” he muttered, tilting his head in feigned thought. “Guess we’ll have to do something about that.” And the smug look he gave you, his face so close and so darn kissable, what he was proposing—literally proposing…

“Come on,” he said, turning before you could blink. So that’s how it would be—never knowing the moment he would pop the burning question until he did it. You smiled so wide your face ached with it, but you could only shake your head and return to your horse, mounting back up, seeing where this day would lead.

“Got a ride ahead of us,” Arthur said as he settled into his saddle. “You sure you’re up for it?”

Whether he meant the day or the rest of your life, you didn’t care. As long as you were with him.

“Lead the way, cowboy.”

The pair of you rode and rode, along winding paths, past a lake, up into the mountains where the air got thinner and the wind had a bite to it. He lead so aimlessly you were beginning to wonder if even he knew where he was going, until he stopped suddenly and said, “Here’s good.”

You just watched him swing down off his horse, a little confused. “Here?”

You were in the middle of the woods just off the path. The most nondescript place on earth.

He smirked. “What, this not good enough for you?”

“No! Not that, I just-”

“Relax,” he said, waving you off as he untied his bedroll from his horse. “Let’s leave the horses here. You up for a walk?”

You knew him, knew he didn’t like his horse being far. This was strange behavior coming from him. But it seemed he had planned this out, so you went with it anyway.

“Sure,” you answered, dismounting, tying your horse where it stood.

“Good.”

Then you walked over to him to let him lead the way. But he hung back, switching his bedroll to his other side and reaching for your hand. You grinned like a fool and took it.

“Such a sap.”

“Shut up.” But he held on tight and walked with you, not quite so big and tough as he looked for once.

He led you deeper into the woods for about a quarter mile, then up. The woods turned to rock, to hills verging on mountains. He held your hand firm, the ground uneven and littered with rocks enough to make both of you stumble a bit. Finally, the rock gave way to a flatter, more grassy spance of ground, and he stopped.

“How’s here?”

“Here’s…anywhere’s fine. Really, I didn’t mean-”

He stopped you again. “Don’t worry about it.” He finally released your hand and undid his bedroll, flaring it out to its full extent so that it fell wide to the ground. He set it down and turned to you with a mischievous look as he made to sit on it. “Care to join me?”

Gladly. You didn’t even have to respond before you were moving, missing the touch of his hand already. He settled and leaned back, and you sat close enough to lean into him, to take in the scent he wore like a second layer of clothes.

He sighed then, content as could be, content as you were. Though you couldn’t deny you were nervous. Unknowing about when he would ask what you so desperately wanted him to. But instead of worrying about that, you caught sight of the view. He had taken you high enough to overlook the trail you had ridden, the woods surrounding it. The lake below. It was a beautiful day, the storm from yesterday long gone, the sun beginning to sink in the sky and light up the trees, the water, the world. Even your two horses far below could be seen, and you understood then why he was okay with leaving them. They were never quite out of sight.

“Missed you.”

His low, warm voice was like honey, and you relaxed into it and into the feel of his hand coming up to your head, his fingers running through your hair.

“Didn’t have to, you know. Could have stayed.”

You watched the view as you said it. You would normally want to look at him, but the way his fingers tugged through your wind-tangled hair with the easiest pressure was relaxing you.

“Couldn’t have done that,” he said. “I owe my woman a little ceremony at least.”

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, leaning into his touch. “But you know I would have married you right there on the street. In the mud and the horseshit.” You turned to him then, smiling.

He smiled back, a flash of teeth. “I know you would, darlin’. But you deserve more than that.”

He admired you a moment before reaching around himself, into his satchel. Your breath caught in your chest until he pulled out a cloth full of berries—raspberries. Your favorite. He offered them to you, and you happily obliged.

Soon, you were both eating them and talking about the day, about your time spent apart, about your lives. He told you about his past, most of which you already knew, but he delved into his childhood, his parents—subjects he had hardly breached. Even his son who had passed. He talked about how he was afraid he was turning into his father, how ashamed his mother would be over the man he had become. You countered that he was a good man, that any mother would be proud of who he was despite all he went through. He argued that he could never escape his past, no matter how good he tried to be. That his son was killed by the same type of man he was. You shut that down quickly, saying he would never kill a child. Then his words became slow and strained, explaining how terrified he was of starting a life with you. How scared he was of losing you too. That no matter how far the two of you went, his past would always catch up to him. You just shook your head, the guilt written across his face crushing you. Then told him simply life was too short to worry with that. That you would rather have him and lose him than not have him at all. He went quiet then. And you let him be, berries long since eaten, sun sinking lower. You let him wage war within himself, decide who he wanted to be. No one could make that decision but him.

After long enough that the sun was beginning its final descent, his hand found the back of your head, and he pulled you to him in a kiss. One hard, heart-felt, emotion-filled kiss. He started taking your breath away, leaning into you. But just as quickly as that passion had flared, he stopped, pulling back, breathing heavy. Holding your face in his hands.

“I love you.”

His eyes met yours. And what you found lying within them made you smile. He had made up his mind.

“I love you,” you answered. Nothing on this earth truer.

He rose. Frozen with sudden nerves, you just watched him as he looked down at the horses, his expression clouded like he was making up his mind. Then he looked at you and offered you his hand.

“I have an idea.”

You took it without asking for more, though your curiosity was burning with the unanswered question. When will he do it?

Once you were on your feet, he turned and whistled for his horse. You did the same, both mounts running up the rocky hillside in response. They navigated the loose shale well and were soon greeting you with ears pricked.

Arthur rolled up his bedroll, the place you had sat lacking any evidence you had been here. It seemed strange—such a perfect place for Arthur to ask you to spend the rest of your life with him. But he hadn’t and was instead tying his bedroll down on his horse’s back, smiling at some unknown thought.

“I want to show you something,” he said, turning to you. “Will you ride with me?”

What you wanted to ask was how far. Instead you answered truthfully, “Of course.” And you mounted without hesitation, your curiosity making you smile, especially when it came in the form of this man’s fondness for you.

Soon you were back on the trail, having headed back down the mountain then west. The path slowly turned north, beautiful in the late-day sun. It was going higher up and rockier still, treacherous if not for the well-minded horses below you. Then Arthur was once again straying off the path when it flattened out, taking his mount into the grass that had grown up between the rock despite itself.

Then you caught sight of the view.

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped until Arthur turned his horse, looking back at you with a smile. “You coming or what?”

“Arthur, this is…” Stunning. Absolutely stunning. The entire country seemed to lay out before you, the height of the land making you the tallest thing on earth.

“I know,” he said, dismounting. “Come on.” And when you swung off your horse too, he walked over and took your hand, still facing you as he said, “You didn’t think I’d lead you on some wild goose chase without a view, did you?”

“Where we were before was a view,” you said. “This is something else.”

You let him lead you onward with a smile, closer to the edge of the mountain, toward where the sky stretched into endless day. You could see Emerald Ranch, all of the heartlands, even a bit of Valentine. So far south you could just make out the lake that looked to be more of an ocean from here.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

“How’d you come upon this place?” you asked, turning to him. Though he had already been looking at you, his soft smile breaking over you in its endearment.

“Did some traveling around these parts a few years back. Believe it or not, there used to be some sort of monk or some other crazy who sat at that cliff edge all day, taking it all in,” he said, gesturing to where the mountain ended and the sky began. “So I guess you have him to thank for introducing me to the view.”

“I have you to thank for this,” you said softly, stepping forward and letting Arthur’s hand drop. You walked all the way to the edge. This was worth filling page after page of your journal with. If you had known about it sooner, it would be what covered Arthur’s shotgun stock. It was so vast and powerful, you could feel your heart racing with it. Enough to make a person ponder their small existence. Unlike anything you’d ever seen. And when you turned to tell Arthur so, he was kneeling.

Your mind stopped turning. Stopped working entirely.

He was down on one knee, looking up at you like you held all the love in the world. In love with you. He held something small and shiny between his fingers.

“Y/N,” he started gently, his voice shot through with care. He held up the ring, a small, gold thing. You had thought before that a ring didn’t matter, that you would marry him without one in a heartbeat. While that still held, seeing the small band now with its tiny, sparkling gem—your favorite color…

“I have loved you for as long as I’ve known you.” You felt tears fill your eyes for the way that he said it. Raw.

“You’re the only person I want to spend every day with. The rest of my life with. In fact it…scares the hell out of me how much I like you.” He smiled as he said it, and you let out a laugh through your tears.

“So, Y/N Y/L/N…” He looked you straight in the eye. “Would you do me the honor of marryin’ me?”

There was no question in you. Not a shred of doubt. In a blink, you were falling to your knees before him and grabbing his face and kissing him and saying, “Yes,” over and over, kissing the word into his mouth. He just let you, kissing you back. And when you finally broke away to look into his eyes, he was pulling your left hand toward him, placing the ring on your finger with a look so proud that your chest tightened with it. He just admired it a moment, that ring on your hand.

Then he met your eye and smiled wide, muttering, “Looks like you’re stuck with me now,” before tackling you backward in a grinning kiss.

You were both laughing into each other’s mouths, high on the feeling of mutual love. Of belonging to each other. And when he rose up onto his palms above you, grinning down as he told you he loved you again, you took his face in your newly-ringed hand.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

His eyes skipped between yours, his grin contagious. “Y/N Morgan. I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.” And he was on you again, kissing your breath away, happy like you had never seen him.

Yours.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Fitting for my blog. Beautiful work

Final painting of the year and I’m ending it off with Arthur, Happy new years everyone and stay safe! 🫶

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2

[coltermorning]

A Christmas to Remember (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur have agreed to meet on the night of Christmas Eve. The evening and the following day turn out to be more than either of you expected.

Author’s Notes: Just some good ole fluff for the holidays! Set a year or so down the road from the events of RDR2, and in this instance Arthur never got sick and rides alone now.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, implied sex, fluff

AO3 Link

~

A Christmas to Remember

Word count: 5994

The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across the wooden walls, shimmers of gold rising and collapsing in the night. The room was warm, comfortable for all the drafty air threatening to cut through it. It never quite managed to get in, like the flames stood guard in their grate, pushing against the inevitable winter.

The room had been decorated for the season with a tree and garland and ribbon and light. This place had likely never seen such decoration until the end of the year, the woody smell seeping into the very walls it was so thick. The source of it, a small pine, was standing crooked in the corner. It was a promise of what was to come. Inviting and, had the room not already held its heat, warm. Perfect for the occasion.

On the night before Christmas, you were perched by the window, ignoring the beauty of the room surrounding you in favor of the company you awaited. Mr. Morgan, a promise to meet you here not having left your thoughts since the moment it parted from his lips. You had your gift, your best clothes, expectation wrapped around you like a bow. And yet, all there was to do was wait. To feel the anticipation for his arrival and let all else fall away.

The minutes passed, and soon there was a horse coming up the path with its familiar white spots flashing in the night. That white would normally stand out more but for the snow, falling thick and slow in the December air. It made Valentine prettier. It made the mud seem less untidy somehow, more familiar.

You felt a smile curve your lips when you saw just the man you waited for approach, his hat slung low, his blue coat fastened tight around him. You watched him encourage his horse onward until he rounded the building out of sight. You wondered if he would stable the animal or not, caring as always or too taken by his haste at seeing you. How that eagerness of his for you made you giddy. To be known and to be wanted anyway.

You left your place by the window and took in the room with a sweeping glance. The lights, the smell, the warmth. It was homey in the same way he was. A welcome respite to come back to, a place to look forward to when things got hard.

You stood closer to the fire, knowing sitting was useless when all you wanted was to embrace him the moment he walked through the door. It had been too long. So you remained standing if a little impatient, feeling the nerves that quickened your heartbeat course through you. You would be parting with more than just a gift tonight, and the very thought made you restless. But you owed it to him. He deserved it.

You fiddled with a piece of ribbon tied on the garland that framed the fireplace when you heard bootsteps in the hall, heavy and determined. They made you smile. But for all his bravado, he knocked softly on the door when he reached it, as if you would whisk away into nothingness the moment he did. Like a dream and nothing more.

“Come in,” you answered, and your gentle words were all it took for him to regain that sense of pride. The door swung open, and nothing could have suited you better than the smile he wore, the light in his eyes when they landed on you.

“Y/N.” It was a happy sound. Not a greeting so much as a satisfied release of breath. Your feet were moving before you could respond.

You hugged the man you had been missing for weeks, wishing like always that the pair of you could make this permanent enough to keep you together for longer than an evening.

“I missed you,” you whispered, sinking into the feeling of him holding you. His coat was cold but his warmth outweighed it, swallowing you in the scent of tobacco smoke and outside air. You had missed that smell so much your chest ached with it.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he said. Always so intentional. Always saying just what he thought. You adored that about him.

You pulled back to look at him but remained in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Morgan.”

“Christmas Eve,” he corrected. “We still have a few hours yet.” Then his eyes were filling with meaning like they always did before he kissed you. The look that said nothing in the world mattered more than this. You tilted your chin up, happy to greet it with all the love you held for him. He leaned in with that enamored look, and his lips met yours with the soft release of anticipation for all the days spent waiting. All the days apart that would be dreadful if not for the knowledge that you would have this again. You kissed him back just as slow and soft, like this was what it took to remember.

The pair of you got a bit lost in each other until you could hear his breathing grow heavy. It always did that, and it never failed to make your heart race in kind.

You pulled away and looked into those ocean water eyes. “I got you something.”

He quirked an eyebrow, running his lips together subtilely like he could still taste your kiss. “Did you now?”

“Yes.” He had told you not to. This was your first Christmas spent with him, the first chance you had to give him a gift. But, just like his birthday that had come and gone without your knowledge, he didn’t want a gift. Just your company. You had already gotten onto him plenty for letting his birthday squeak by. You wouldn’t let it happen again.

You stepped to the side and motioned to the bed, to the small parcel laying atop it. You had done your best with wrapping it, a small bit of twine done up around the paper with a bow.

“It’s two, actually. I’ve been working on one for a while.” When you turned back to him, the small flash of concern on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t worry,” you assured him. “I didn’t expect anything in return.”

His eyes snapped to you then. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said lowly, and before you could ask why, he was reaching inside his coat and pulling something out. A present, a little battered from his travel, the paper wrinkled and the tie around it crushed. You only loved it more for it. It was endearing in the same way he was.

“Arthur,” you chided with a smile. “You were just going to let me show up without a present when you had one for me?”

“‘Course.” He smiled with his teeth, that toothy grin that reminded you of the boy he had once been.

You gave him an incredulous look, and he laughed, the sound spiraling upward and into your bones like liquid gold.

“Fine then. You open mine first,” you said, unable to shake the high that was being with him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender before repocketing his gift and making for the parcel. You felt nerves flash through you, hoping against hope he would like it. One you knew he would, but the other was…a bit different.

“You didn’t have to spend your money,” he said, picking up the package and pulling the string so the bow slipped apart.

“I wanted to,” you told him. “It didn’t cost much anyway. More time than anything.”

He eyed you, the remnants of that grin still on his face, then the paper crinkled as he undid it. It finally gave way to fabric—his favorite color. He smiled.

“Darlin’,” he said endearingly as he pulled out a new shirt. Nothing special, nothing fancy, just something for him to ride in, the softest blue you could find. You always teased him that everything he owned would be blue if he had his say in the matter. “I love it,” he said with a smile bright enough to make you return it. “Thank you.”

He made to hug you but you stopped him. “Unfold it.”

He hesitantly did so, dropping the wrapping to the floor. He held the shirt up, and the moment he did, a loud thunk sounded—his second gift hitting the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, reaching for it.

You could only laugh. “It’s not breakable.”

He picked it up, and the low light in the room was enough for him to see the wood. To see what you had carved into it.

He flipped it over, examined it from every angle. “You did this?” He met your eyes with such an open admiration in his that you felt your face heat.

You nodded. “It’s for your shotgun. The stock. I made sure it was the right kind to fit your gun if you wanted to…swap them out.” You suddenly felt that was a little presumptuous of you.

He stared at it so long your nerves got the better of you.

“You don’t have to, of course-”

“No,” he said, meeting your eye with sincerity in his own. “I love it. I mean it. Thank you. I’ll get it put on there first thing tomorrow.”

You were beaming. “Really? It’s not too…I don’t know. Effeminate?”

He gave you a chiding look so you kept on. “You’re just…you, and I want you to like it, but you don’t have to use it if you-”

He stopped you with a kiss, sudden and sure enough to melt away your doubt. Then there was nothing but him. No worry about some gift that he ended up liking after all.

Arthur pulled away from you slowly, reluctantly. “Open yours.”

He pulled the parcel out of his coat and handed it to you as he sat on the bed, urging you to sit beside him. You joined him, admiring him as you took it. There was no nervousness about him like there had been in you. His mind didn’t even seem to be on the gift. He was thinking of you and little else. So you smiled when you opened it, knowing you would love it before you even knew what it was.

Sure enough, he knew you well. “A journal?”

He nodded as your smile stretched wider. You thumbed through the empty pages, yours to fill. The two of you had that in common—a need to record in drawing as well as words. He was heavier on the words, journal entries lining the pages of what little he had let you see of his leather-bound book. But you preferred drawing. Mimicking art. It was why you had carved the woodland scene into a gunstock for the better part of a month, knowing upon seeing its inspiration how special it was and that it needed to be remembered. So maybe now, that proud deer on the foreground of a valley would forever be cradled in his appreciative hand just as this journal would be cradled in yours.

“Thank you, Arthur.” You met his eye to show that you meant it then melted all over again at the way he was looking at you. You debated speaking the feeling that bloomed within you but didn’t, not when he picked up the stock again and brushed a thumb over your handiwork.

“This is fine work.”

The words made a blush tinge your face. You couldn’t help it. He always bragged on you in a way that would make any woman blush, much less the woman who somehow found herself on the doting end of this rugged, outlawed man. He was a blunt instrument, violent and determined, yet all he trained on you was softness. Kindness you didn’t know how you had come to deserve.

“I told you you was better than me.” This meaning your artwork.

You snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. And I told you, maybe I’d be a better judge of that if you let me get my hands on that journal of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm as the room surrounding you. But to your surprise, for the first time since you’d found out he carried a journal, he didn’t protest.

“Actually,” he said, reaching around to his satchel. “I got you two gifts too.” And, to your shock, he was turning back to you with said journal in hand, holding it out like a bough of hard-earned trust.

“What?” It came out as a whisper, all you could manage in your surprise.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out farther. “I used up all the pages anyway. It’s nigh time I offload it, and I’d feel better about it being in your hands than lord knows who else’s.”

“You mean…” You looked from it to him. “You’re letting me have it? Read it all?”

He nodded his head to the side, a self-conscious gesture. What it must take for him to trust you this much. What he must feel for you.

You took it from him and ran your hands over the worn leather face. All Arthur. Your heart leapt in fondness for him.

You set the journal down atop the new one he had gifted you and turned to face him fully. You felt so deeply for this man. You had for a while. And you wanted him to know it. The journal was just proof he felt the same.

Before you could utter a word, Arthur swept in close and kissed you on the cheek, then stood. He offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you up and against him in one fluid motion, his fingers tangling with yours, his other hand finding your back. Then he was moving back and forth. Dancing. Arthur Morgan, outlaw of the state, dancing.

You laughed aloud. “What’s this?”

He ignored whatever gruffness he would normally have over something so carefree and led you in a soundless dance around the room, the only music the warmth, the lights, the way you felt for each other.

“You know how to dance, don’t you?” he said.

“Vaguely,” you replied. “Do you?”

That really got him going. He gave you a roguish grin and spun you, making you twirl with his fingers alone before pulling you back in. And when he did, he crushed you to him. Then his lips were on yours, and there wasn’t anymore air in the room apart from the love he granted you, how it filled your lungs.

Now. Now, in this perfect moment. It was time. You pulled away.

“Arthur?”

His eyes were closed, his hands cradling your face as he rested his forehead against yours as best he could with his hat. And still he swayed, a subtle back and forth even though it couldn’t quite be considered dancing anymore.

“Hm?”

You didn’t care that his eyes were shut. Didn’t care that he didn’t know what you were about to say or how long you had mulled over saying it. Because you felt it. And it was never more real than it was when you were with him.

“I love you.”

He stopped swaying.

You watched his blue eyes open slowly, like he didn’t quite believe what he had heard. Then his gaze met yours, soft and searching under those eyelashes, complicated as he was.

He didn’t answer. Just held you, watched you. In disbelief, you realized. Or maybe wanting to hold onto this moment like you were, committing it to memory. Too bad he no longer had a journal to draw it in. The thought made you smile. Then words were spilling from you like a flood.

“I’ve loved you since the day I saw what kind of man you really were. I’ve loved you since I saw that page in your journal with the deer drawn on it. I’ve loved you for so long it’s like I was just waiting on you to get here. Like you were made for me.”

His eyebrows drew together in emotion. Still, he did not speak.

“I love you so much it hurts when you’re away,” you muttered, finding his coat in your hands and clutching it, pulling him closer. When you met his eyes again, he was so close you could see every fleck of color in the firelight, the blue and gold that crashed together into green. You kissed him, and this time he was reluctant. Unsure. So you moved back just enough to give him room to breathe, time to think enough to speak.

His eyes never left you as he said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

It was quiet and vulnerable. So true of him, that he didn’t think he deserved to be loved.

“You’re you,” you said. “And that’s enough for me. Enough and then some.”

He was pulling you to him in less than a heartbeat. Crashing his lips to yours with all the passion of a man born again.

He broke from it for a breath, whispering, “I love you too,” before kissing the words into your mouth.

Nothing would ever be better than this. Nothing. It didn’t matter that the feeling was temporary. That Christmas would be over, and he would be gone, and you would ache at the loss of him again. There was no losing this. This memory would hold on forever as the happiest you’d ever had.

Arthur pulled back, and you were both breathing heavy. Far beyond any arousal or want. This was deeper.

He held your face like he held his life in his hands as he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.” Just because he could. The privilege of getting to say it addictive.

You looked at him and couldn’t keep the smile on your face at bay. He met your gaze and kissed you softly, a press of his lips against yours. A guarantee.

Wordlessly, he led you back to the bed. Your heart started to pound with thoughts less innocent until he picked up his journal, flipped toward the back, and held it out to you again.

“I may not have admitted it until now but…well. See for yourself.”

You took the book and turned it toward you, sitting back on the bed. The page you were met with had a drawing of you on it. Patiently drawn, thought out enough that it truly resembled you. You had wondered that—if he had ever drawn you. And now you had your answer. There were no words inscribed beside it like usual, like he just wanted the memory of you down on the page. Absentminded fondness. It burned you up inside.

“Keep turning.”

You looked to him. He wouldn’t meet your eye, embarrassment keeping his gaze glued to his journal, but it was endearing on him all the same.

You did as he asked and saw drawing after drawing after drawing, a few entries here and there. A few animals, a few towns, and nearly every other page, you.

It amazed you. You had thought you’d fallen first, and hard, but seeing this proved otherwise. Based on the entries, these drawings were done mere weeks after you met him.

“I could never seem to get your likeness just right,” he admitted quietly.

“Arthur, these are…” You wanted to reassure him. That this warmed your heart to him more than anything. You looked at him. “Thank you. I never thought…” You had stopped on a page that drew your gaze like none other. Because it captured a look in your eye you had only ever given to him. It was your admiration for him sketched out on the page, all subtle shades of black and gray. And the entry beside it nearly made you tear up.

I get to see her again.

He had drawn a heart beside it. You sobbed a laugh, a sound so happy it was all you could speak.

“I’ve been pretty damn fond of you from the beginning,” he admitted.

You set the journal aside and rose to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you.” You said it on a smile. Because that’s all there was for it.

“Well if it ain’t obvious now…” he started. And he didn’t have to finish. Because you knew he loved you back.

You kissed him slowly then hugged him tight. He was yours.

You had a sudden idea and broke away from him, sitting back on the bed, reaching for the unused journal. “Here.”

“You don’t want it?”

Even the thought crushed you. “No, I want it. But I want you to christen the first page.”

“It’s yours,” he said. Like that would change your mind.

“I know it is. And every time I open it, I want to be reminded of the night I got it.”

He just stared, so you spoke. “Draw me.” Not from memory. Not without your knowledge this time.

“What, now?”

It was true, the pair of you didn’t have long together. But this was more intimate than anything somehow.

“Yes.” You smiled at him. And the look you gave him must have made up his mind, because he took the journal from your hand, the motion subtle and soft in the firelight. He went to the corner and pulled the lone chair over, setting it before you and sitting in it. He reached in his satchel and pulled out a drawing pencil. Then he sat back and looked at you. Really looked at you. He smiled. And he opened the journal, set pencil to paper, and began.

Every time he studied you, you admired him. The way his eyes focused, the way his pencil shaded gently. Such a light hand, easy in the same manner he was to you. A vast difference from when he was holding a gun, just as he treated everyone else so differently. This was the real Arthur. Only yours to see.

Minutes passed, and you shifted as you watched him, the big, tough man hyper-focused on the small journal in his hand.

“Hold still.”

When he met your eye, his were glinting with playfulness. You knew he was only kidding. You had seen him capture birds in flight, fish mid-leap out of the water, animals of all sorts on the run. He didn’t need you to be still. And just being here with him, letting him draw and joke and tease, filled you with such happiness as to make you want to plant this in your memory forever—a warm room and a man who loved you.

When he finished the drawing, he closed the journal and stowed his pencil, standing.

“Let me see.”

He shook his head with a lazy smile as he bound the journal back up. “Later.”

“Why later?”

Then he was stepping closer, the air in the room going thin as his eyes fixed on you.

“Open it when I ain’t here,” he said, eyes full with want. He tossed the journal on the bed and boxed you in with arms on either side of you, leaning in and kissing you slow and lazy. You soared. In this room full of merry light and special occasion, you soared. You hadn’t known what to expect when you first met this man, certainly not the gentle, easy love you had fallen into with him, but as he laid you back and began kissing you like you were the very air he breathed, you were more thankful than you ever had been. He was yours, and you were his, and nothing else in this inconsequential little life mattered. Maybe one day, it would even be enough to make him stay. Or better yet, for you to gain the courage to go with him. Whatever he asked of you, you would do it. For him, you would.

“I love you,” you whispered into his mouth again, eager to be able to say it. And then he was losing all semblance of patience and control, borne on the back of the desire that was having you all to himself for the night, those full words repeating and repeating.

“I love you,” he said, low and true. You smiled.

~

The following morning, Christmas morning, the two of you hesitantly stepped down the stairs of the hotel together, neither wanting to leave the other.

Sure enough, Arthur’s horse stood just beside yours, hitched to the post outside the hotel. He, like you, had been too full of anticipation over seeing you and had refrained from taking the time to stable his horse. No matter. The two animals had always seemed to get on well. Like they knew their owners had something special and got along like old friends, like siblings, because of it.

Arthur stepped up to his horse, giving it a treat and a loving pat. Not saying a word, not wanting the moment to end.

“Want to go get that stock put on your gun?” you suggested, knowing whatever else there was could wait.

He eyed you. Then turned, stepped closer, took your hand.

“Come with me.” He looked down at your hand as he spoke. Like the mere act of holding it was precious.

“Of course,” you said, a smile already forming.

The pair of you led your horses together down the main thoroughfare, the slight worry of someone recognizing Arthur lingering in the back of your mind. It had been a long time since that gang of his stirred up so much trouble here, but not long enough.

You got to the gunsmith without a fuss and offered to hitch Arthur’s horse while he went inside. He just rolled his eyes at you before taking your mount, leading them over himself. Ever the gentleman.

When he returned to your side with his shotgun strapped over his shoulder, he led you up the steps with a hand at your back. He used to be so nervous about touching you. It only made you fonder for him over time, and especially now that he had gotten over it.

He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, looking over the racks of guns, the counter display, the gunsmith. He eyed Arthur a little when he came in behind you but didn’t say a word about it if he recognized him. He only gave a Christmas greeting and an offer to help.

“Need to change the stock out on my shotgun,” Arthur said, laying the weapon down on the countertop.

“Sure. We have a fine selection of-”

“No need,” Arthur said, holding a hand up and using the other to pull the gift you had carved him out of his coat.

“This is a fine piece,” the smith said upon seeing it laid down.

“She carved it,” Arthur said with pride as he turned to look at you, eyes alight.

“You?” the man said, drawing your attention away from Arthur’s loving gaze. “Well, if you’re looking for work, I could use someone with this kind of talent.”

“Thank you but no,” you said respectfully. “I don’t live around these parts.” Just a passerby, choosing this spot to spend one perfect evening because you knew how the hotel room would be decorated, how homey and worn the town was. Just like Arthur.

The smith nodded his head and got to work, taking Arthur’s gun. When he was halfway finished and Arthur said, “That piece goes on first,” realization hit you like a slap. Arthur never said he needed to go to the gunsmith to get the new stock affixed to the gun, just that he would get it put on. He would. He knew how, likely knew more about guns than most gunsmiths. Including how to take one apart and put it back together. So why had he agreed to come here, pay what little penance the labor would cost?

When Arthur’s gaze shifted from his gun to you, the answer dawned on you. He wanted to spend what little time he could with you. Your whole being melted at the very idea. He was such a sap.

You held his eyes then let the moment pass when the smith announced he was finished. Arthur checked over his gun and smiled when he brushed his hand over the carved wood. “Perfect,” he said. You felt your face heat again, just glad that he liked it. Even more glad he was willing to carry it around like a badge of honor.

He turned to the smith. “What do I owe you?”

“You let me keep this stock and we call it even,” he said, holding up the old one. It was worth more than that, but Arthur let it slide, seemingly favoring his new one too much to care.

���You got a deal,” Arthur said, tipping his hat. “I appreciate it. And uh, merry Christmas.” He shouldered his gun and placed his hand at your back once more, leading you out.

“To you as well,” the gunsmith replied. Then you were out the door and away from any remaining worry that Arthur would be recognized.

The two of you ambled back over to the horses, wordless. Not wanting this to end so soon. Arthur stowed his gun. You stood and watched him. Then he turned and sighed as his breath plumed in the cold air, like he had to remember how to breathe when leaving was inevitable. Maybe one day it wouldn’t be.

He pulled you in for a hug, resting his head atop yours. You nuzzled into his warmth.

“When will I see you again?” The words had more sorrow in them than you intended. He must have noticed, as he moved back enough to place a finger under your chin and lift your head to look at him. The smile under his eyes was sad too, but filled with hope.

“Soon. Real soon if I played my cards right.”

“What does that mean?”

He just shook his head and smiled, that boyish grin. “Just write me when you feel like putting up with me again.”

That was odd. Normally he gave you a time frame. “That’s always, Arthur,” you said. “You may as well stay if that’s the case.”

He laughed. You’d been over this before. He only refrained from asking you to join him in fear of his past catching up with him. You used to want to keep a healthy distance from that past, but now you weren’t so sure. Things were different when love was involved.

“Well, if you’ll have me, I’ll be back then. How’s that?”

That still raised more questions than it answered, but you didn’t ask them. His smile was distracting you. He was normally more solemn than this when he left.

“Why are you acting so funny?”

He leaned in and kissed you, a quick peck on the lips. Then he held your eye, the look on his face smug. For the life of you, you couldn’t decipher why.

Finally, he gave some. “Just take a look in that new journal of yours for me. When I’m gone.”

Your eyebrow raised high. Or even higher. “Why not now?”

“Just…” He let out another long breath. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

The dashing, bashful smile he leveled on you would have had you agreeing to murder.

“Yeah. Of course. You know I do.”

“All right then.” He pulled you in for another hug. This one tighter. This one more like a goodbye. It was a strange place to end things, almost unlike an ending at all. It had you wanting to rip open that journal right now and figure what on earth he was on about.

He pulled away and, with a calmness in his eyes, said, “I love you.” He held it like a breath. “And merry Christmas. I’ll see you…real soon. I hope.”

As suspicious as you were, you let him be. If he wasn’t telling you what was up now, he had to have a reason. So you held onto the hope that the promise of soon was a surety, that you would see the love he had for you made just as palpable as it was right now, stretching across his face in the morning light.

You loosed a breath and gave in to that love. “I love you too. More.” He grinned, color reaching his face. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

“Indeed,” he said. Then he was kissing you again and letting you go. Heading for his horse all too soon.

He mounted and turned to look at you. “Remember, don’t open that journal ‘til I’m gone. Long gone.”

“Why? What’d you put in there, a stick of dynamite?”

He let out a happy laugh. “Oh, it’ll blow something up, that’s for sure.” That left you stumped. “Just relax. You can read it as soon as I’m down the way, how’s that?”

You shook your head at him but couldn’t help the smile that turned your lips. “You’re something else.”

“You love me,” he taunted. And he was right.

“Go then,” you said, shooing him. “Go on. I have journals to read.”

“Good day to you too, miss.”

You laughed, and he kicked up his horse, rounding you. He got close enough to duck down and lift his hat, planting one last, brazen kiss on your lips. It had you blushing like a kid.

He straightened and donned his hat, his face the same red as yours likely was, though neither could be contributed to the cold.

“Bye. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Arthur. It’d better be soon, or you owe me an explanation.”

“It will be. I hope.” There he went again. You just waved him off, and he passed you smiling wide, his horse stepping out into the muddy, snow-logged street. You watched him go with awe. That handsome, proud man. How you had ever won him over, you couldn’t be sure. But you had. And you were pulling out your new journal to find out why before he had even gotten halfway down the street.

You unwrapped its binding in haste, feeling the new pages crack and reluctantly give in your hands. You flipped and flipped and reached the first page and were…struck dumb. Utterly.

On the left was a drawing of you. Subtle and suggestive with its shading, perfect, the way all of Arthur’s drawings were. But on the right, in big, bolded letters: The future Mrs. Morgan. And underneath, May she forgive me for not having procured a ring yet. I’ll make it up to her in kind as soon as she’ll let me.

You could have cried. You couldn’t believe it. The decision to stay apart all this time had been both his and yours, and knowing now that he had changed his mind…

You looked up and found him to be nowhere in sight. You wished he still were. If he were, you would drag him back here and tell him a ring didn’t matter. Of course you would marry him. It didn’t require any thought. The decision was already made the minute he whispered that he loved you back.

The future Mrs. Morgan. Having that down in his writing, on the very first page no less…you could die happy.

You took one last look and shut the journal, stuffing it back inside your coat. And, riddled with giddiness, you faced the street and the daylight, soaking it into your bones. For all the chill the wind held, it couldn’t cut you. For all the months spent away from Arthur, you couldn’t feel sorry that you had needed to be so patient. Because this was real, and true, and unlike anything in the world.

On Christmas Day and for the first time in years, you faced your future with surety. And what a beautiful, merry sight it was.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Finishing up an Arthur Christmas fic and trying to get it posted while it’s still Christmas! Stay tuned.

P.S. It is filled with fluff and sure to make you merry :)

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 9 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: A pack of wolves descend on the camp when you and Arthur are least prepared for it.

Author’s Notes: Chapter nine of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Nine: Warm Embrace

Word count: 4341

You awoke to the sound of a man’s voice. A yell. Then a horse’s screaming terror. Before you could pick up on anything else, you were on your feet.

You made to grab your rifle, but instead, a sidearm lay at your feet. Arthur’s revolver. You would wring that man’s neck. As soon as you had the thought, you heard a noise that sent cold fear sliding down your spine and made you lurch for the gun anyway—a snarl. That was no man-made sound.

You burst out of the tent and nearly fell backward in retreat. There were six wolves closing in on Arthur and the horses, the two mounts squealing and trying desperately to pull loose. Arthur stood firm with nothing but a knife. Nothing but a goddamn knife, because the fool had given you his gun. You couldn’t do a thing beyond stand there, absolutely stunned. He was going to die.

“Stay back!” Arthur yelled at them, but it was useless. The animals knew they had the advantage and crept forward still. Before you could think to shoot, the one closest to the horses bound forward, causing your horse to swing around and kick out. Another wolf joined the first, jumping high enough to sink teeth and claws into the animal’s rump. You had to fight the urge to cover your ears from the resulting sound that came out of that horse. Pure agony.

“Throw me the gun!” You met Arthur’s eye, and the second it took for him to spot you cost him whatever had been holding the other wolves at bay. The nearest leapt, and Arthur went down. You couldn’t pull the gun up fast enough, like the seriousness of the shot was slowing you. You sent up a prayer that you wouldn’t hit Arthur and shot into the mass of fur and teeth that stood atop him, all while he stabbed at its throat, trying his best not to have his own torn out.

You missed them both.

Another wolf joined the first, going for Arthur’s leg, but he kicked out hard enough that it whined in pain and retreated a step. The last two wolves joined in on the horses who were putting up much more of a fight, but you couldn’t care about that, couldn’t take in the terrible noise of violence and death that resulted. Not when there were two on top of the man who was your only chance at survival.

“Shoot them!” he yelled, the sound muffled from under the massive animal.

You brought the hammer down and shot again, aiming as best you could. You missed the closer wolf but hit the other this time, right on the shoulder. It yelped and turned, biting at the pain under its skin. Arthur thrust his knife up and gutted the wolf atop him in nearly the same moment, and you knew without having to know he had killed it. He was throwing the wolf off of him and yelling in less than a heartbeat. “Give me the goddamn gun!”

You did as he said, tossing it to him as he rose, retreating father against the tent at your back. You had to cover your ears, couldn’t look at what the other wolves were doing to the horses. Not with those horrible sounds coming from them.

Arthur immediately turned and shot the wolf you had in the head, then shot the one he had stabbed for good measure before reloading quick as lightning. He rounded on the other four. Alone.

You stepped backward into the tent. Cowardly. Covering your ears, closing your eyes, knowing he would get himself killed. He would die, and the horses would suffer, and you would get eaten alive. What was worse? Would you rather have died before, falling into nothingness? When the first shots began ringing out, you had your answer: absolutely. Because then you wouldn’t have to bear the pain of losing not two people that meant the most to you, but three.

More shots rang out until you were sure it was six, the revolver not having capacity for more. Then there was nothing but silence, and you started sobbing, knowing what came next. They would find you in here. They would maul you like they had him. Maybe they wouldn’t if you surrendered to them. Did animals recognize submission? Mercy?

The tent flaps rustled and you braced yourself for death until you felt arms folding around you, warm and gentle. Your sobbing turned to broken heaving as you took in the only scent you ever wanted to smell again.

“Shh, it’s okay. They’re gone. I got ‘em.”

You could do nothing but cry into his chest. You should have lost him. Should have died.

You moved your hands until they were grabbing at his coat, pulling him closer, needing to feel the life beating through him.

“I got you,” he said softly. “I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest, his warmth the only tether you had to sanity.

“We’ll be all right,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down your arm to get warmth back in you. Or maybe life back in you. “My horse got away. We’ll be okay.”

That broke through your shock like a slap. You pushed back and looked at him. “And mine?”

He hesitated then shook his head. Dead then. The horse that had carried you miles and miles. The stubborn thing that you hadn’t given much thought to, all because you were too worried about what you had already lost. Just like Arthur. You couldn’t take that. You pushed Arthur back and got up.

“I wouldn’t go out there,” he warned. “Ain’t too pretty.”

You disregarded him and wiped your tears on your coat sleeve so you could see, stepping outside. They continued to well up anyway, your vision blurred and stinging as you took in two dead wolves. Then you turned and saw a sight so grizzly as to make you nearly lose what little you had in your stomach.

Four dead wolves, one dead horse. If it could be called that. It wasn’t so much something that had just been living as it was pure carnage. You were suddenly glad for your blurred vision. Seeing it clearly would have broken you.

You looked away and stepped back, needing a moment. Arthur was just behind you, and you felt the urge to cry into his chest like a child again but fought it off.

“Can you…” You sniffled, letting out a strangled breath. “Can you cut his tail? Bring me his hair?” God knew you couldn’t do it.

“Sure,” Arthur said. He didn’t hesitate, walking over like the scene before him was something he saw every day. Maybe it was.

If he thought the request odd, he didn’t say anything. It was something your parents had taught you. The good horses had their tails cut, their hair saved and braided and used so there was always a piece of them left behind. You felt guilt swallow you over not doing the same for your own two horses back at that cliff, but you had other things to grieve then. This horse had likely saved your life. You had escaped death a second time. And all you could do for it was trudge back into the tent and cry until you didn’t have any tears left.

~

Goddamn wolves. Arthur was finally starting to see the woman who had existed before the death of her parents. But that woman was gone again. Holed up in a tent for the better part of an entire day. Apart from bringing you that horsehair, he didn’t have the heart to go in and talk to you. He didn’t know what to say. And, lest he forget, it had been his fault you hadn’t had your rifle and he hadn’t had his revolver. You could have taken those animals on together no problem if you had.

Arthur spent the early hours of the morning finding his horse and cleaning up. He dragged the wolves off and skinned the ones worth skinning, taking meat from one. He looked over the damage done to his bedroll and knew there was no fixing the thing—the wolf had shredded it in an attempt to shred him. He tossed that away too. The dead horse was too heavy for him to move. He didn’t have any way to tie it to his own mount for her to drag it away either—it was torn into too many pieces. It would leave the place looking worse than it had been. So he left it, deciding when and if you ever reappeared, he would lead you straight south out of camp so the few trees could block your view of the damage.

He was now plagued with the thought that he had narrowly escaped death and that he had gotten too reckless in leading you. He knew how to survive on his own no problem, but you were distracting him. He had gone to sleep unarmed for christ sake. It was time for him to quit fooling around and do his job.

When Arthur ran out of things to do beyond keep watch, he checked himself over for wounds. His adrenaline wore off a long time ago, and he ached all over from the fight with that monster. He could be hurt anywhere and wouldn’t really know it. He was covered in blood from what he had managed with his knife, so he shed his coat first, seeing what damage it took. There was a gash in one of the arms, the fur along the inside showing. He looked to his arm and saw the resulting scratch cutting through his shirt, but it was shallow. Not warranting stitches. He looked and looked but didn’t find anything else. He was nearly untouched—a goddamn miracle.

He walked to his horse and gave her a few loving pats, glad she had gotten away. She was the best mount he’d had in a long time. He gave her a carrot and checked her over too. She must have gotten away before he had finished his own fight with the wolves. She was unharmed. He would never forget the sight of those four wolves eating the other horse alive though. On its back, on its legs, under its belly. Ruthless animals.

Arthur retrieved a cloth to clean his wound and coat with, pouring water over it. He shed the right half of his shirt from his arm, and the moment the damp cloth touched his skin, he winced. It was so cold he couldn’t feel the pain of the cut, just the frigidness of it. He could sense it now, how low the temperature was dropping. He just hoped the rain that would inevitably turn to snow would hold off.

He finished cleaning the shallow wound then redressed, deciding to stitch up the coat and his shirt later. It was too cold to be without them. He wiped the blood off his face best he could, doing the same to the front of his coat. Cleaning away all the evidence. The blood would just make him hard for you to look at. Well, harder. He weren’t exactly a pleasant sight to begin with.

Satisfied that things were as good as they would get, he went back over to your horse and took everything of value off it. The saddle was scratched to hell, and you wouldn’t be needing it anyway. Boadicea could carry you both. So he left that, digging through the saddle bags. There wasn’t much of anything beyond a few supplies and treats. You must have had that journal of your father’s on you. He did take your rifle out of its scabbard, knowing you could use his, but he was guilty enough over taking it. The least he could do was give you this one back.

He carried the rifle over to the pile of wood that had once been a fire and sat. There was nothing else to do. He could build another fire but didn’t want to leave you long enough to get more wood. All that was left was to wait. The two of you did need to get going soon. All that blood would draw unwanted attention from the local population. He just hoped there weren’t anymore wolves about. He would give you as long as he could, then he would pack up the tent, and the pair of you would move on. Putting all this behind you.

When the snow began again, Arthur cursed it. The weather had been delaying your travel every chance it got. He knew this wasn’t a good time of year to be going so far, but he had still hoped for better than this. The only positive that came of it was your attention, as you soon peeked out of the tent into the dim-lit evening to confirm it was snowing. And from his vantage, he saw that you had braided a piece of horsehair into your own, almost hidden under the shadow of your hat brim. Having your hat on meant you hadn’t been sleeping. Arthur felt the same guilt rise up within him. It was time.

“We better get going if you want to move camp.”

You just looked at him with that troubled expression, like your thoughts weren’t with him. Back to who you’d been before, unspeaking.

He stood, your gun and metaphorical hat in hand. “Listen I’m…sorry about the gun. I didn’t think-” That was it. He didn’t think. Why else did you keep guns at your sides at night other than to ward off trouble? And trouble had come, as deadly as it could have been. There were no more words for it, nothing that could fix what he’d done.

“Arthur?”

He looked at you, surprised to hear you speak. Surprised you had stepped out of the tent and weren’t building up that insurmountable wall within you he was all too familiar with.

“You ever do that again and I’ll shoot you. That’s a promise.”

He couldn’t help the smile that lifted the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t smile at me,” you quipped. “You aren’t forgiven.”

His smile only grew. He just knew you would retreat into that shell of yourself you’d been before. Not this. It made him giddy enough to put his foot in his mouth. “You will forgive me eventually though, right?”

“No shot,” you said, going back into the tent without taking your gun. That panicked him. This was a fine line you were walking between the person he had come to know and the one who was so overcome by grief. Exactly how angry were you?

“Wait, I…I mean it,” he said, making you stop at least. “I’m real sorry. That all this happened. That it’s my fault it did.”

You shook your head. “I don’t care about the wolves. They would have come anyway. But we could have taken them on easy if you hadn’t taken my gun. If anything, you owe my horse an apology.”

That cut him. The poor animal had fought a painful death and lost, suffered, because of him. He was just glad one of the two had gotten away, or the pair of you would have been soon to follow.

Arthur nodded, looking to the horsehair in your hair. He could never really make up for this, but he could at least keep his big mouth shut and keep from making it worse.

You went back inside the tent without a word. Arthur let you be and was surprised to see you come back out with bedroll in hand before starting on the tent. He wordlessly joined you in taking it down. It was the least he could do after all the drama that had begun with you hammering the stakes in.

After the two of you finished, he loaded up Boadicea and let you on her first. Then he mounted and went straight south as he had promised himself he would, avoiding any further thought of what you were leaving behind.

~

You and Arthur traveled through the snow for a long time. It wasn’t falling heavily enough to slow you down, so you rode right through it.

You missed your horse. Your backside ached, your back protesting all the same at the lack of a saddle. If you ever came across a town, you would get another one. You didn’t care if you had to steal it and the horse underneath it too.

At least one good thing had come of the tragedy those wolves had brought—Arthur was subdued. Whether from narrowly escaping with his life or regretting costing your mount his, you couldn’t tell. It was a harsh thought, but seeing him so reflective showed you a side of him you didn’t know existed, and you were glad it did. It certainly existed for you, and you didn’t want to be the only one grieving again. You didn’t want to feel like a child. The way you had broken down in front of him when you thought the wolves were coming for you was embarrassing enough, and you decided then you wouldn’t let that part of you resurface. You had come this far. You were healing. You weren’t letting those wolves take that away from you.

When it got dark enough and you ached enough for two, you broke the silence the snow brought. “Do you know if there’s a town anywhere near?”

You felt Arthur shrug against your hands on his sides, his coat rising and falling beneath your gloved fingers. “Can’t be sure. Usually there’s something this far down the trail. May not be a town, but something.”

That much was true. You could still see a trail to follow, so that was a good sign. The snow hadn’t covered it completely yet.

“Why?”

“Wonder if I can find another horse. Maybe a warm bed to sleep in for a few nights.”

“And here I thought you was a woman of the land,” he jeered.

You swatted him across the arm. He chuckled. “If there is one, we won’t find it tonight. I’d be able to see it from here.”

True again. The land was growing so flat that any settlement lit by lantern light would be bright as a beacon in the darkness.

“Let’s stop then,” you said, tired in more ways than one.

Arthur obliged you, and you were soon rebuilding the tent, tending a fire, eating a bite. Routine.

Arthur shed his coat and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a jagged line across his upper arm, no doubt from the claws of that wolf that had tackled him. You’d forgotten completely to ask if he had been injured.

“Where’d it get you?”

“Just here,” he said, tending to it.

Jealousy flared within you. You had a scar a mile long down your side from a fall. A fall, and Arthur had a full grown wolf try to eat him, and he only left with a scratch?

“How’s yours by the way?” he asked without looking up.

You had kept your side wrapped for about a week after the stitches came out, then had made sure it was clean but done little else. It was healing over now, all that was left a bit of tenderness and a scar that you would never rid yourself of, no matter how badly you spited the memory.

“Fine,” you answered flatly. Arthur’s eyes flicked to you then.

“I have you to thank, you know.”

Of course he did. But you weren’t going to rub it in.

“You hadn’t shot that other wolf and my leg would be dog meat.”

“Yeah, well. I wasn’t exactly aiming for that one but…”

“It don’t matter,” he said, rolling his sleeve back down, satisfied with the cut. He stood and donned his coat. “We’re alive, that’s all that matters. And I wouldn’t be without you.”

“You keep saying that,” you muttered, resentful.

“I mean it.”

“No, not that. You keep saying it doesn’t matter that I can’t shoot that gun. Well it does. It did. That was as close to dying as it gets, Arthur.”

He shook his head. “I’ll make sure your rifle’s close from now on, and you won’t ever have to shoot mine again. Don’t worry about it.”

That response was so typical of him you wanted to strangle him. He was so lax about life, so unconcerned. There was a such thing as learning from your mistakes, and it made you mad that he didn’t have to. Because he needed to.

“Forget it,” you spat, crossing your arms.

He smiled, and it only made you madder.

“I’m starting to think you like picking fights with me.”

“I don’t. You’re just easy to stay mad at.”

“Awe, you could never be mad at me, nameless.”

You flashed him a dark look. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What would you prefer I call you?”

You turned away, seeing red. Because he was right. He didn’t have a name to call you. But like hell would you surrender it now.

“It would have been helpful back there,” he said, stepping closer to the fire and crouching, holding his hands out to warm them. “Knowing what name to yell to wake you up so we didn’t both get eaten.”

That was something you didn’t want to dwell on. “We didn’t get eaten last I checked.”

His smile turned crooked it went so wide. So damn satisfied you wanted to wipe it off his face. “Exactly.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. Had he made his point? That you were alive and nothing else mattered? Yes. Were you about to admit it? Absolutely not.

You got up and stormed to the tent in much the same manner as you had the night prior, only rather than teasing you this time, he had made a fool out of you. So you didn’t regret it a second when you shut him out for the second night in a row, even if he was without a bedroll. The snow would be cushion enough.

When you’d finally shaken your anger enough to drift off, Arthur came bursting into the tent. It scared you at first, the memory of those wolves still fresh.

“What is it?” you rasped, shooting straight up.

“It’s freezing,” he said, his arms wrapped around himself as he tried to rub the cold away, his coat damp with snow.

You groaned in annoyance and laid back down. “I didn’t invite you in here.”

“Too bad,” he said as he knelt down anyway. “It’s my tent.”

“Well keep the cold on your side,” you argued, turning your back to him.

You felt something press against the exposed skin of your neck, so frigid you rounded on him. He had taken his glove off, purposely pressed an ice cold hand against you. “Excuse me!” you yelled, incredulous. Then he was laughing like a kid as he settled beside you anyway.

“Little cold ain’t gonna hurt you. Now move over or share.” Meaning your bedroll. The gall of this man.

“Absolutely not.”

He had a laugh on his lips as he said, “Don’t make me fight you, woman. We already seen I’ll win.”

Then his arms were snaking around you, pulling you into him so tight you could feel a heat sting your cheeks that had nothing to do with the temperature. Your heart started racing. You knew he would have been able to feel it had he not been shivering himself. But he was, his frame shaking against you. It thawed your annoyance some, though it didn’t stop you being struck with disbelief at him doing this.

“Just so we’re clear,” you said, needing to make it known lest he realize you weren’t fighting him. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Like you wasn’t in here freezing your ass off too.”

You had been. You couldn’t deny it was much warmer lying against him. And worse, it was…oddly comforting. Kind of nice. But still your heart pounded, not knowing much, but knowing this was intimate somehow. The last time you had laid against someone this close, it had been your own mother. You didn’t want to think about how differently you seemed to react to it this time. To why. Instead, you let yourself be for a moment, ignoring what you should do, ignoring what was expected of a man and a woman who hardly knew each other. You allowed yourself the simple privilege of touch, something you had never had before. Even if it didn’t mean a thing to Arthur or to you.

After too little thought and lots of silence, you realized he was relaxed, his shivering long gone. You should push him away. Should take his steady breathing in your ear to mean he’d fallen asleep like this. But for some reason, you thought he was just as awake as you were. And that made your heart race even worse. Was he doing the same thing you were, holding you just because he could? Surely he knew better. You could claim ignorance, but he couldn’t. Not after how he had talked just last night.

Afraid he would feel your nervousness through your coat, you whispered to him.

“Arthur.”

He didn’t stir. Asleep then. You were overthinking it. And, like a true moron, you didn’t want to wake him. You realized with no small amount of embarrassment that you wanted to sleep like this too. You were just curious about it all, you told yourself. Nothing more. So you let him be and closed your eyes, melting into his warmth. It took a long time for your thoughts to stop lingering where they shouldn’t, and when they finally did, they didn’t improve much. You were left wondering why you had ever wanted to stay on the opposite side of the tent from this man.

_________

Chapter ten is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 8 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After further revealed details about your past, Arthur realizes you’re not quite as knowledgeable as he thought.

Author’s Notes: Chapter eight of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eight: A Lack of Expertise

Word count: 3268

The land is finally flattening, the trees thinning, taking us east into land I hardly know. Every step away from the mountains seems to make my traveling companion quieter still, if that is even possible, but we are making progress at least. A few weeks yet and we will hit Nebraska. I just hope all this promise of safe haven and wide open turns out to be true. For both our sakes.

~

The snow had turned back to rain, the sting of it like ice on your exposed skin despite the fact that it was too warm to freeze. That plus enough travel warranted the return of the grayed landscape of approaching winter, dull in color and twice as lifeless. You already missed the mountains.

“Well, forgive me, but that don’t make much sense.”

You were simultaneously arguing with Arthur and trying to speak as little as possible. You gave up thinking he would get the hint to stop badgering you miles ago. The way he riled you kept out the worst of the cold at least.

“To you it doesn’t,” you shot back at him, rubbing your hands together to get the warmth back in them. Riding in the rain was always misery, but at least it wasn’t falling hard enough to stop your progress yet again.

Arthur laughed. “True enough.”

After a second’s peace, you thought he would finally give it up until he said, “But we both know alone wouldn’t have cut it. Hell, it’s why you got me riding with you now.”

You sighed, not granting him a response. You had told him a little about your past in Montana, working alongside your parents ever since you were old enough to ride. You sincerely wished you hadn’t now that he was picking apart every piece of it.

He pushed again, his relentless words making you grit your teeth. “I mean, you could have easily found someone to marry up there, someone to help you with the ranch. It ain’t like a man would have turned you down-”

“There was no one, Arthur,” you interrupted, shooting him a look. This was all hypothetical anyway. A life long behind you. You faced forward again when he finally fell quiet. Then, because it left bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue, “We were the only people for miles around. The closest men were all twice my age, older than my father. I was the only child. My parents were the only ones foolish enough to have one in such harsh country.”

“You seemed to like it well enough.”

True. Your love of your home had been how this argument began—the explanation of your parents wanting a better life for you, why you had wanted to stay behind. Arthur was siding with them, the aggravating bastard.

“Who says you can’t have the same life in Nebraska anyhow?” he went on. “Hell, you may prefer it a year from now, and all your qualms about your old life will be long behind you.”

“It isn’t that. It’s…”

It wasn’t the loss of Montana. It was the life that would be forced upon you in Nebraska. The threat was still there, worrying you every step you took toward your new home. But you didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“What?” he pushed.

You could feel his eyes on you. You stared straight ahead, keeping your horse pointed down the path as you said, “I know why they wanted me on this trip. And it wasn’t for any reason I was interested in.”

“Which was?”

You almost couldn’t admit it. You never had. And it tarnished their memory somehow, like they didn’t know their daughter well enough to know it was wrong for her. But you bit it out anyway, needing to clear the air. Needing the sharp cold of the rain to stave off the resentment you held so close.

“They wanted me married off.”

Arthur was silent a moment. Then, like he couldn’t believe it, “They told you that?”

No. They had tiptoed around it, never quite admitting it. But all their talk of how happy they had been together was enough to clue you in. You weren’t them though. You were raised wild, meant for the mountains and the land and no man on earth. Couldn’t they see that?

“No,” you finally managed, your voice small and wavering.

“Maybe they didn’t-”

“Arthur,” you warned. You were dangerously close to letting tears spill. “Enough.”

He seemed to finally sense the conversation had crossed into forbidden territory. He sighed long and loud. “Fine. But don’t go moping over something you don’t know to be true.”

He had a point, yet it only served to make you feel guiltier. Why were you assuming the worst of them? Maybe because you had wanted a reason to hate Nebraska. Maybe you had wanted a reason to hate them. But now they were gone. You wished more than anything you had been kinder during their last days.

You were thankful for the rain when tears finally spilled over, warming your face at the memory of your bitterness, your stubbornness. At least you wouldn’t have to explain yourself, as it seemed everything but the rain had gone quiet. For once, that included Arthur.

The rain grew harder and harder until Arthur finally called it. The pair of you stopped for what had to be the fifth time due to weather, building a camp once more.

Arthur had asked you to drive the tent stakes in while he gathered firewood in case the rain turned to snow. Sitting there utterly confused, you wished you had asked him to switch jobs. For he had handed you his revolver without explanation, and you sat there staring at the thing like it would turn and shoot you of its own volition. You’d only ever used rifles, repeaters, shotguns, bows. Longarms. You never had need for something so close-range and deadly—a man-killing gun. You could do that just fine with the others if the need arose. But Arthur was an outlaw, as you were so begrudgingly reminded when he handed it over. You thought about using its grip like a hammer, banging the stakes in, but you hadn’t a clue if it was loaded and didn’t know how to unload it if it was. So you sat there, half-drenched in the rain, waiting for his return. Knowing what his reaction would be when he did. The thought spurred you to action.

You approached your horse and got your gun out instead, knowing how to unload it. You did so before bringing it back over to the tent, working the first stake into the ground with your boot. Then you reared back with the gun, just high enough to aim true, and brought it down butt-first. The stake sunk a satisfying few inches into the soggy ground. You made a few more hits and got it deep enough before moving on to the next one. You had the second nearly done when Arthur returned.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You stopped and looked at him. “What you asked.”

“What, my gun ain’t good enough for you?”

You felt your face heat and returned to your work, sparing yourself the embarrassment of knowing next to nothing about sidearms.

He stormed over, forcing the gun from your hands. “Stop before you break it. Here.” He picked his gun up off the ground, holding it out to you. You wouldn’t take it. Too prideful to admit your shortcoming.

He scoffed, a bitter sound. “Figures.”

You didn’t understand. You didn’t know him well enough to know what riled him.

Before you could rush to fix whatever had gone wrong, he handed you back your gun, spinning his in his grip. “Move then.”

You did as he asked but said, “I can help,” thinking maybe that was why he was annoyed.

“I’m sure you can.” The sarcasm in those words made your anger rear its head in turn.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, watching him start on the stake much gentler than you had.

“I thought we were past this,” he said, not stopping, not even looking at you.

“Past what?”

He shook his head, moving to the next stake. You followed him and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look at you. “Past what?”

“Past you, shying away from my gun. Past who I am and what I’ve done. You didn’t want an outlaw leading you, you should have asked me to get lost the minute you found out.”

Oh. A complete misunderstanding. “Arthur, I-”

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t…” The reason behind not using his gun suddenly seemed a bit juvenile.

Your hesitation made him speak, bitterness lining his words. “I don’t want to hear whatever bullshit excuse you have for keeping me around,” he spat.

“I want you around.”

He stopped nailing the stake in. Just froze.

“I do. I just…didn’t know how to use the gun. And I was embarrassed. But I do want you here.”

He looked at you. Didn’t say a word before turning back to his work. You were a second away from getting onto him for jumping on your case when he spun back around. “You don’t know how to shoot this?” He held his gun up, the way he had twirled it in his grip unnaturally fast slightly unnerving.

“No. But-”

“Well we’re about to change that right now.” He stood, making for his horse in the still-pounding rain. “I ain’t letting you die for ignorance neither.”

“Arthur,” you chided, grabbing his shoulder again. He finally stopped and looked at you, all anger gone. “You can’t keep doing that,” you said quietly.

“Doing what?” Either he was a damn good liar, or he really was clueless.

“Wanting me to be upset with you over your…lifestyle.” His eyes clouded with thought, but he didn’t respond. You continued. “Whatever qualms you have with yourself don’t extend to me. I’ve only ever known you to be helpful. Kind.”

He forced a grin, a non-genuine one. “Yeah, well, you don’t know me very well.”

Maybe not. But you were tired of him wielding his insecurity like a weapon. “So be it. But stop getting upset with me over it. I’ve moved past it. So should you.”

He wouldn’t meet your eye then, his hat hiding his expression. Then he sidestepped you with a low, “Sure,” like you had asked the simplest of favors. “Come on then,” he said, his boyish ways returning. “This gun ain’t gonna shoot itself.” You swore you caught him grinning. Like a damn child, he was.

You and Arthur worked on your shooting for the better part of an hour. Truth be told, you weren’t very good at it. At least, you had expected better considering you were a dead shot with a rifle. This was close range. It should have been easier. But using one hand was harder, especially since that hand was a bit shaky and slicked with rain. Shooting a rifle required your entire upper body—a very steadying frame. But this was pure, blind faith that your eyesight saw true. Usually, it was close, but no dice. Other times it had Arthur damn near laughing at you.

“One more crack out of you and I’m quitting,” you told him, missing wide left of the tree trunk you were aiming at.

“I’m sorry,” he said on a laugh, most certainly not sorry. “I just didn’t expect this after seeing you hunt.”

You hadn’t really either. And it was beyond frustrating.

You took one more shot that hit the trunk at least, not nearly dead center, and called it good enough. “Here,” you said, holding out the gun to him like it was poisonous.

“Awe, come on, nameless. It ain’t that bad.”

You shoved it at his chest at the nickname with a sharp look before spinning on your heel and leaving him standing there.

“Relax, would you?” he called out after you. “Ain’t like it matters much, what with you and that rifle of yours.” At least he was right about that.

Darkness fell when the rain finally ceased, though the pair of you were content in staying camped for the night anyway. Arthur lit a fire, and you both sat around it like you had for the past month, the feeling becoming oddly familiar. This was usually the most peace you got, as he normally preferred to talk on the trail. When he sat by the fire, he ate, and it granted you a few moments of respite.

Tonight, you sat there watching the fire, thinking of Nebraska. Of the life that awaited you there. Could it really be just as good as your old life? Like Arthur had said? That was a fool’s hope and you knew it. It was out of reach the moment you lost the two people you wanted to spend it with most. But maybe it would be different enough, distracting enough, to give you a chance. That was all you had left anyway—a chance to live again. A very different life, almost like part of you had died back on that rocky hill. You knew you had, and yet here you were. You were torn between feeling guilty and proud over it.

“So you’re telling me,” Arthur said, mouth full of food and mannerless as ever. “There weren’t nobody even close to your age around. You didn’t even have any friends?”

Gee, what a lovely interruption. “No,” you spat, not in the mood to have this conversation again.

“No lovers?”

If the discontent in the look you leveled him with didn’t make him shut up, nothing would. And unfortunately, he opened his mouth to say something else. You couldn’t bear to hear it.

“Shut up. Just please, shut up.”

He smiled. “Touchy subject?”

“No,” you said with too much venom. It only widened his smile.

You rolled your eyes, thoughts of the very subject you didn’t care to ever think on pushing through. The only reason you even knew what sex was was because of a life spent hunting and watching animals. That, and the romance book of your mothers you had gotten your hands on in your younger teenage years. You read that thing cover to cover, read until your eyes felt like they would fall out of your skull, too stubborn to put it down because you wanted to know more. Now you cringed at the memory, attributing it to puberty and the impulsiveness that came with it.

“I can’t imagine that life,” Arthur said, drawing you away from those embarrassing thoughts. “I didn’t have many friends around neither growing up, but there was always people around. Always someone to…get to know.” The suggestion in those last words made you look at him, and the smile under his eyes confirmed their meaning.

“Congratulations,” you said flatly, standing. “I’m going to bed.” You would most certainly not be having this conversation with him.

He laughed. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“And you could talk the bark off a tree.”

“I bet you could too, get you talking about the right thing,” he teased.

“And you think sex is what’ll get me talking?” You crossed your arms, needing him to see how stupid that was.

He shrugged. “Maybe. How was I supposed to know unless I asked?”

“Common sense,” you answered. “I told you I was alone up there. It isn’t that difficult to put two and two together.”

“I guess not.”

The gleam in his eye was boyish again, like when he discovered you didn’t know how to shoot his gun. Proving he was an idiot was futile, that much was obvious. You threw your hands up in defeat. “Forget it. Good night.” You stormed over to the tent, bundled up his bedroll, and threw it outside. “Enjoy the weather!” you shouted at him, not even looking to see if he would protest before you were back in the tent, yanking the flaps closed to block him out.

~

Arthur was starting to realize two things about you—the woman who existed before that nasty fall was mean. Not in a bad way but in an amusing one, almost like a rabbit baring its teeth. The second thing was that you had been raised by two adults, never around any siblings or friends, and the result was someone who didn’t know how to have any fun. He was going to have to break you of that. He would start later though when you weren’t so fired up. Maybe when you came across a town somewhere. No, in the meantime he would let you wallow in your self-righteousness, even if it landed him on the cold, soggy ground without a tent for cover for the remainder of the night.

He did draw his gun, cleaning it from your sorry attempts at firing it straight earlier. He’d have to find more ammunition to buy somewhere along the way. Definitely would if your skill didn’t improve, because he wasn’t letting you get away with being such a terrible shot. Not when he knew how good you were with that longarm. In fact, that gave him an idea. He waited long enough to know you were asleep before silently stepping into the tent and laying his revolver down, switching it with the rifle that stayed at your side while you slept. You’d have to practice somehow. He liked to think that was why he was doing this, not because of your earlier conversation. Certainly not because he still felt guilty and undeserving somehow, and that seeing you hold his gun eased that feeling.

Arthur shook that thought off as idiocy, walking to your horse. He stowed your gun for you, not wanting to give you an easier chance at protesting using his. Because if one thing was for certain, you liked to protest. Nearly anything he said. He thought you were just doing it out of spite at this point—your new state of existing. He didn’t care. He could take that, and he much preferred it over the sadness that used to haunt your eyes when you first met. As he said, mean. But in a way he almost enjoyed. It reminded him of Hosea.

Arthur laid out on his bedroll, glad for his coat since the wind couldn’t be kept away in the open air. He thought of his gang miles and miles behind, what trouble they were likely getting into without him. He usually kept the stragglers in line. Always the degenerates. He wondered who was doing it for him, since he knew hell would freeze over before Hosea did it. Or John. Maybe Dutch was finally falling into his old role of reluctant caretaker. Arthur smiled at the thought. The man had certainly done a number on him and John.

Arthur drifted off to thoughts of that past life, when the hardest decisions had lain in where they would go next. Not where to run, how to keep their heads down, how to survive. Things were simpler then. And in a way, you reminded him of those times. This whole trip had.

Arthur began to dream of Dutch and Hosea, you and him. The strangest mix of lives he could ever imagine. And when he awoke suddenly, he found himself in a nightmare. Eyes. There were eyes everywhere, low and stalking. Wolves. And like a fool, he had clean forgotten to get another gun from his horse. He was a sitting duck.

_________

Chapter nine is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing