#can you tell micah named her

[dissectress]

remembering my girl lux.. my idea of autumn and micah’s daughter that autumn rightfully surrenders to an orphanage and gets adopted by a rich oil heiress aaaand goes on to star in famous silent films and! doesn’t find out who her father was until she’s middle aged

#lux #fan oc #rdr2 #old art #can you tell micah named her

[theladyofbloodshed]

Hunt x Nesta - Chapter 8

The sounds of the shower roused Hunt from sleep. Since Nesta had discovered that her cell could access music at any moment, she was unstoppable. A symphony blasted through the wall; violins were reaching their crescendo alongside a barrage of brass instruments that were accompanied by a flurry of percussion. Then the cannons came as she turned off the shower.

Releasing a groan, he rolled onto his side to check his cell. Eight messages. All from Nesta at various points in the morning whilst he still slept. Each one made him laugh.

‘Hey, when you text, you don’t need to write an address line or a sign off. I know it’s from you because I have your contact saved,’ he explained as she entered with a towel wrapped around her body.

‘What do you mean?’

Hunt motioned for her cell that was churning out another classical song. ‘What am I saved as?’

Nesta paused the music. ‘I don’t know. Plus five zero five eight two-’

He yelped like he’d been shot and threw himself down. ‘You didn’t even save my number? Do I mean nothing?’

‘I don’t know how.’

With Ruhn’s number, he showed Nesta how to save it. He pulled a photo from the web of Ruhn being arrested before he was legal to drink – of course, his daddy had the charges scrubbed but the photo remained – and saved him as the Prince of Pricks.

‘There, now try with me.’

A devious smile flitted over her lovely face as she stood in the middle of the room typing at the speed of a snail.

‘That index finger is getting quite a workout,’ he commented.

Surprising him, she raised her middle finger.

For the second time that morning, Hunt collapsed back onto the pillows, laughter rumbling out of him. ‘Who the Hel taught you that?’

‘We have that in my world.’ She flashed the phone towards him.

His contact name had been updated to Orion Athalar – my favourite angel along with as many emojis as the name would allow. The picture was of him shirtless with ridiculously fluffy wings.

‘You said you’d deleted those, liar.’

‘I’m leaving today. I need a memory to keep.’

‘You’re taking the cell with you to plug in where exactly?’

Nesta shrugged and pressed it to her chest. ‘I will invent electricity in my world so I can always look at these photographs.’

There was no doubt in his mind that Nesta could do anything that she set her mind to. He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person she’d be if she stayed in Lunathion. They’d stayed up late in each other’s arms talking for hours; Nesta had wanted to know everything about him and the land she was leaving behind. They’d talked about university for over an hour with Nesta needing to know what could be studied, what the fees were, who could study, when it could be studied, and what happened upon graduation. Hunt had listened to her talk about Prythian but most of it left him seething. Nesta couldn’t tell him anything about the place she lived because they stuck her in a fucking house and cut off her funds so that she was entirely dependent on the king and his lackey. That one, Cassian, he’d quite like to meet so he could knock him into next week. She’d grown upset when she talked of her sister whose pregnancy would cause her death. Beyond kidnapping a couple of surgeons and a midwife, Hunt didn’t know what to do to help. The male, Cassian, who forced her on a hike as punishment for telling her sister the truth deserved to be punched. He didn’t like any of these fae males, but this one sounded like the worst.

He'd even come clean about Micah and the awful things he did to inch towards freedom. In a way, Hunt wanted her to be repulsed or to pull away then at least it would soften the blow of her departure. But this damn female just said that she understood why he did it and held him a little tighter.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

Nesta snickered. ‘Don’t tempt me, Hunt.’

It wouldn’t be that hard to adjust. He’d grown up in a time when technology was near enough non-existent then emerged from a dungeon and everybody had cell phones or were driving cars. He’d cope again going backwards. Anything was possible with her at his side. But maybe Hunt would cause a few too many fights with the fae that ruled her.

‘Just stop letting them put you in danger and using you. Or I’ll fly all the way there and kick their asses.’

Hunt sat her down on the edge of the bed to start drying her hair. She was nervous about him doing it although he thought he did a fabulous job of his own. Truly, he was desperate to do it. Nesta was leaving back to a world where the male that she was tangled with didn’t seem to care for her at all. He needed to show her that males could be gentle – that it was a choice not to be caring. He wanted to dry her hair and take care of her because that was a male’s duty – not fucking her then leaving with his seed still dripping from her.

Vik was expecting them when Hunt took Nesta through a private entrance into the Comitium that was strictly for workers only. Worker was laughable. The slave’s entrance was a better name for it.

‘The sword and the Harp as promised. And I don’t need to remind either of you that it would be a good idea for Nesta to return today, do I?’

‘No, mom,’ Hunt replied, kicking her boot lightly.  

‘And I needn’t advise you that walking through Lunathion with a sword will likely have you arrested.’

Hunt frowned. ‘Danika Fendyr and Ruhn Danaan do it.’

‘They’re leaders of the aux and will be the heads of their species one day,’ Vik said.

Sensing Hunt was about to argue with Vik, Nesta rested a hand on his forearm. ‘I’d rather spend my last hours here with you rather than in an interrogation room.’

‘I’d still be there. We can play cops and robbers.’

‘Gross,’ muttered Vik before she turned back to her computer.

For once, Nesta had left most of her hair down. She’d pulled it from her temples with a twist and a couple of hair pins. Paired with a pale blue summer dress, she was utterly stunning. But his dreams of strolling through Lunathion with her again hit a snag when Micah’s name flashed on his cell.

‘You should answer that,’ she said, peering at the name.

‘I want this day with you.’

Nesta pushed the phone towards him. ‘I’d be glad for time with my thoughts. Answer that. Do whatever it is you need to do. We can meet later.’

‘I’ll fly those to the hotel,’ he said, gesturing to her returned items.

Nesta kissed his fingers then strode into the sun, hips swaying as she went.

***

How many different ways could Nesta try to convince Hunt to leave with her – or for him to ask her to stay. She didn’t want to impose. She’d done that enough already on his life. But if Hunt asked her to stay… No, she couldn’t. Feyre was dying. What sort of sister would she be if she left her in those final moments?

Nesta sighed.

The same sister they all believed her to be; worthless, spoilt, and needing redemption.

A shadow bumped into her arm then a figure took up the seat beside her on the bench. Ruhn Danaan wore his typical black jeans and t-shirt with a pair of sunglasses to protect his hungover eyes from the bright sunlight.

‘It’s very loud,’ he said, wincing.

Children were playing at the park where Nesta’s feet had taken her to. Their squeals and joy made her think of the children who never stood a chance in Prythian; the ones who were exposed to war, Illyrian girls who were clipped and beaten.

‘I didn’t think you would come.’

‘And miss the chance to say goodbye?’

Following Hunt’s advice, Nesta had sent a text that merely asked Ruhn to meet her – and she received a reply asking who it was in return. Then another saying if they had once had a date, he wasn’t the sort of guy to want to settle down and he was sorry.

‘I need to return this.’ Nesta held out Tristan Flynn’s credit card. ‘I’d like to keep the cell phone. If that’s alright.’

‘Of course you can. Flynn will be devastated you gave this to me and not him.’

A messenger otter scurried along then stopped in front of Ruhn, brandishing a letter. Nesta couldn’t stop her fawning.

‘Tharion Ketos. What a weasel,’ he muttered, pocketing the letter.

‘I wish we had those.’

‘Mer?’

Nesta tutted. ‘Otters. We have otters, but not ones that wear little jackets and deliver letters.’

Ruhn gave a slight laugh then folded his arms over his chest. He looked at her, really looked at her. ‘You don’t want to go back, do you?’

Everything suddenly felt hot and painful. Nesta tipped her face upwards, blinking as quickly as she could to keep from crying. Ruhn stroked her bare arm.

‘I can’t sugar coat it. My father will not stop until he finds out who you are. You’re technically under his jurisdiction as one of the fae. Hunt is a slave – there isn’t much he can do for you. If Micah sells his ass to Sandriel, he won’t be here.’ Ruhn winced. ‘Is it really better here for you than there?’

Yes, she thought. Because I can be somebody here. I can study and learn and be my own person without history trailing me. And I’d have Hunt.

‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I know I have to.’

‘Let me walk you back to your hotel at least.’

Despite the beauty of the day, Nesta had gone cold and hollow with every step closer to the hotel.

Nesta steeled her wounded heart. She held the pieces together even if they felt like they would shatter from the force. It wasn’t fair.

‘How much would it cost to buy Hunt?’

Ruhn let out a whistle. ‘The Umbra Mortis?’

‘What if I offered my Harp or my sword?’

‘It might sweeten the deal but Hunt Athalar is one of a kind.’

Visions of her putting on the Mask or Crown and forcing Micah to release Hunt to her came to Nesta. It was a bad idea, but a tempting one. There had to be some way for them to be together. Maybe destiny was forged by their own hands.

‘That Harp of yours,’ Ruhn said. ‘It wouldn’t be related to the Horn, would it?’

‘Why would it be?’

Ruhn shrugged. ‘It’s just that the Horn went missing the other day. I came to see you just afterwards and you looked pretty panicked. Then Athalar appeared looking sweaty just after there was a freak lightning storm at Luna’s Temple.’

‘How odd.’

‘Odd indeed.’

On an instinct, Ruhn grabbed the strap of her dress with two fingers at the edge of a busy road without a crossing. Nesta hadn’t quite mastered it yet, but she knew not to walk out now – but his care was appreciated.

‘I heard it’s broken anyway,’ Nesta said with an airy tone. ‘It wouldn’t be any use to the person who now has it.’

‘Unless they knew how to create Made items like a magic sword that doesn’t like me.’

‘What would it mean if there was somebody in Lunathion who could create Made items – theoretically, Ruhn?’

The hotel came into view and they slowed their pace to finish their theoretical conversation. Ruhn pretended to stroke an imaginary beard then slung an arm around her as they walk so he could lean towards her ear and speak in a whisper.  

‘If the Asteri knew there was somebody with those powers in Lunathion, they’d be the public’s most wanted. And Hunt Athalar would be ordered to bring them in dead or alive. I don’t think that theoretical person would want the Umbra Mortis in that situation, would they?’

There was no telling if Hunt could disobey direct orders although she knew he’d try. For her, he’d try. And she couldn’t do that to him.

At the doors to the hotel, they stopped opposite each other. Amidst the vibrant colours of his tattoos, Nesta could make out damaged, scarred skin.

‘I’m sorry that it can’t be the way you want it.’

Nesta offered a half-smile that felt like a veneer slapped over a rotting foundation. ‘Do any of us ever get what we deserve?’

‘Maybe in another life.’

This was her other life, her other chance. When Ruhn embraced her, she didn’t know how to respond because the males here treated her with kindness without expectation.

‘I’ll tell Flynn you love him. He can peddle that story about unrequited love to simpering females.’

‘Goodbye Ruhn.’

***

Five names. Five names for him to kill.

Hunt felt sick from it. Sick with himself. Because five on one night was more names than he usually had in half a year. He shouldn’t rejoice in death, but it would shave off a little more of his debt.

He was wrong for it. Wrong for being glad that he could exchange a life for his debt.

Nesta deserved better than that. Better than a slave. A killer. A worthless male.

When he met her in the hotel room, he didn’t mention that he could smell Ruhn Danaan on her clothes despite her desire to spend time alone. He’d let her keep that secret if he could keep his. She might have held him last night and waved away his debt to Micah as something he couldn’t control, but it was Hunt’s action that led him to this point. Nobody forced him to lead a rebellion. And it wasn’t just killing. A single bullet to the head was merciful; the sorts of death Micah had him enact would send Nesta running from him.

Hunt bundled up his grief and disgust. He could hold it back for a few hours. Give her a good few hours before she returned. Let Nesta go home beneath a golden sky rather than his storm.

‘I did something. I think.’

Nesta held out the Horn to him which was glowing with an iridescent light. Faintly, he could feel a thrum of magic through his core.

‘How?’

‘The sword is a Made item. Made by me. I was Made by the Cauldron then took its power.’ Nesta swallowed then looked at him. ‘I fixed it Hunt. It can open to new worlds. It’s a safer bet than the Harp. I fixed it.’

‘If anybody could fix a relic that is thousands of years old, it would be you,’ he said, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone.

Every now and then, a silver flame would skitter across the instrument that she clutched in her hands. The Harp would hum in unison with it. Whoever – whatever – Nesta was, Hunt didn’t care.

‘Are you going to blow it?’

Despite her nod, Nesta didn’t move for a while, just stared at him with wide eyes.

‘It’s alright if you’re scared. I’ll be with you.’ He kissed her forehead and the Horn buzzed between them like a hornet. ‘I’m talking to Nesta, not you.’

*** ‘Ready?’ She wanted Hunt to call it off, to tell her to stay at his side until the stars fell. No matter his warnings about the Asteri or Micah or the Autumn King, none of it could be as bad as what was waiting for her in Prythian. A vengeful queen, a sister who was to die, and a high lord who only wanted her to suffer. It didn’t matter what danger she faced in Lunathion because with Hunt at her side, anything was possible. There was no storm they couldn’t weather together.

Hunt squeezed her knee. ‘Ready. To the stars.’

Pursing her lips, Nesta touched the horn to her lips and blew.

A pathetic, raspberry echoed through the horn.

She glanced at Hunt, heat building in her cheeks, and saw that he was screwing his face up. After a moment, he burst into riotous laughter.

‘What was that?’ He asked between his booming laugh.

She found herself laughing in answer, infected by his merriment. ‘I’ve never blown a horn before. I don’t know how to do it.’

Hunt slapped his thigh, trying to right himself. ‘Not like that!’

The pair of them lost it. Whatever tension had been clinging to the room soon evaporated as Nesta tried again and again to put her lips towards the horn. Each time she pouted or made a trumpeting noise, Hunt roared with laughter, setting her off too.

‘Stop looking at me because you’re putting me off.’

Tears rolled down Hunt’s cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut although a large grin spread across his handsome face.

Nesta pulled out her phone and searched how to blow a horn. In a world where knowledge was at her fingertips, it seemed terribly wasteful not to utilise it.

‘Maybe the Horn is still broken, Starlight.’

But it couldn’t be because her magic had been drawn to it and the Horn had been buzzing with possibilities since.

‘I can do it,’ she insisted.

‘I know you can,’ he replied, touching her leg again. ‘Not looking again.’

Easing out a breath, Nesta formed her lips in the shape her cell phone told her to. A low, well-held note emitted from the top of the horn.

Hunt whispered her name.

Near the wall, a great portal had opened, its edges rimmed with her silver flames. Rather than offering a view of Crescent City, Nesta saw into the library in the House of Wind. There was her favoured arm chair with the foot rest pulled close by. A little stack of books that she’d pulled out a couple of weeks earlier was upon the three-legged table.

‘You did it,’ he praised, stroking her cheek. ‘Is there anything you can’t do, you wonderful girl?’

Nesta grasped for him, too emotional to speak. Her hands reached for his face, pulling it to hers to kiss one final time. Strands of his hair fell onto her cheek as they kissed and she stretched out a hand to brush the inside of his wing one last time.

‘Mother above, what the fuck.’

She leapt away from Hunt, startled by the voice.

Lucien Vanserra stood in the library opposite them, peering into the hotel room, a full cup and saucer held in his hand.

Hunt braced his legs then lightning wreathed his body.

‘No,’ Nesta urged. ‘This is my sister’s mate.’

His voice took on a lethal edge. ‘This is Rhysand?’

‘Definitely not,’ called Lucien.

‘Elain’s mate. The eye.’

‘The eye,’ confirmed Hunt, finally taking in the golden eye and the scar rippling down Lucien’s face which was paler than usual.

‘We thought you were dead or kidnapped or trapped in the Prison.’

‘Surprise,’ Hunt said drily.

They passed the bag through first to test it. Lucien, baffled and muttering to himself, waited on the Prythian side to accept it. Maybe it was odd to keep all of the clothes from Lunathion as they’d have no place, but Nesta didn’t want to part with anything from her week there. Everything was taken from her in the war, so she wanted to keep this.

When the Harp and Atraxia were passed through safely, she said it was her turn.

The portal was too high for her step through easily so Hunt lifted her over it and Lucien, gingerly, accepted her on the other side, lowering her to the floor as if she was a sack of potatoes.

‘I think if I blow the Horn again, it will close it.’

She lifted it near to her lips. ‘Don’t make me laugh this time.’

‘It’s my last chance. I have to,’ Hunt insisted, brown eyes sparkling with joy.

But when Nesta did press the Horn closer, the amusement drained from Hunt’s expression, accepting it was the end.

A single note emitted and the flames collapsed in on themselves, leaving Nesta with a view of the tall windows in the library. She dropped the Horn then sank to her knees and wept.

#hunt x nesta #hunt athalar #nesta archeron

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 22: To Pick a Lock

Summary: The gang discovers a one of your "talents" and puts it to good use.

*This amazing images comes from one of my faves, @papaue00

*Thank you to @readingcoco for beta reading for me! You are amazing!

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - TBD, but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

“Explain to me how this happens.” 

You stand in front of Arthur, arms extended out as far from your body as possible as you shake out a mud-crusted shirt of his, cautiously squinting as bits of dirt fly through the air in front of your wrinkled-up nose. “Do you literally lay down and roll in mud to get your clothes this dirty?”

“Sometimes,” the man in question shrugs. “Other times we draw straws to see who stands in the middle while the other fellers throw dirt at him.” He snickers as he makes a whipping motion with his arm.

All you can do is give him an exasperated look as your arms drop down in defeat in front of you.

“See, when you say dumb things like that, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” 

Arthur playfully shakes his eyebrows at you as his arm shoots out, snaking around your waist to quickly pin you to his chest, causing you to giggle and squirm as he plants a few teasing kisses along the side of your neck. Standing a few feet away, Abigail can only shake her head at your flirtatious nonsense. 

It’s a brisk fall afternoon, and the sun hangs in the sky like a dollop of golden yellow paint dropped on a canvas of grays and purples. Arthur is helping you with laundry. He’s bored and hovering over you as a means of distracting himself, wanting nothing more than to take you back to your shared tent for something more stimulating. But Ms. Grimshaw is keeping a keen eye on you to make sure you get your chores done. 

With the year well into the fall now, daylight is limited as is the time available to get things done along with it. So rather than dragging you off, Arthur figures it would be best to help out in order to get your work done faster. And by “help”, he means carrying the baskets for you and keeping you company while you wash and hang alongside Abigail. You don’t mind, really. Arthur doesn’t get to spend as much time with you as he’d like and rarely does he ever have “nothing to do”. So you will accept his company in any manner you can get it.

The sound of thunderous hoofbeats echoes into the new camp, causing your small group to lift their collective heads towards the path. A few of the men had gone out earlier this morning and it appears the commotion is a sign of their imminent arrival. Excitable voices carry through the air, wound up and hollering about something. It doesn’t take long before you eventually hear a loud metallic banging sound, coupled with shouts of frustration.

“What in god's name is all the noise?” huffs Abigail, craning her neck in the direction of the racket to try and see through the maze of tents and wagons.

“Who knows.” You toss the newly folded shirt in your hands into the basket at Arthur’s feet with a sigh. “But we should probably look into it before someone ends up losing an eye or a finger,” you snort back with a lofty eye-roll. 

Arthur can only chuckle as he follows after you like a puppy as you head over to investigate. It warms his heart how you’ve taken to looking after everyone in the several months that you’ve been with the gang, becoming more and more like Grimshaw everyday—in a good way, of course. 

You, Abigail, and Arthur amble into the common area, and see Bill, Javier and Micah standing over a table, their attention acutely focused on something set upon its surface, as the rest of the gang jostle to make room for Dutch. 

As you get closer and peer around Bill’s massive trunk of a torso, you realize that the boys have come back to camp with an ornate travel chest. A pounding noise ricochets within your skull, grating against your nerves as Bill beats the lock with a rock in a hopeless attempt to get it open. 

“What’d you all find out there?” questions Arthur, striking a match across the tabletop and lighting the cigarette that precariously hangs from his plump lips. You and Arthur exchange a cynical glance before he curiously eyes the chest then looks to Javier for more details. 

“Found ourselves a fancy box!” quips Javier, his nimble fingers coming up to rub his chin as he watches Bill intently. “And where there’s a fancy box-”

“-There’s even fancier things inside,” finishes Micah with a smirk, his hands twitching by his gun belt as he too anxiously awaits the trunk’s unveiling. 

You try not to chortle as you watch Arthur roll his eyes with trademark skepticism, thumbs coming to rest in his gunbelt as he shifts his weight from hip to hip.

“So why ya beatin’ the damn thing?” Arthur’s head cocks to the side, amused as he watches Bill get more and more frustrated by the second, his face turning red and flustered with each striking blow. You defensively step back from Bill, holding your hands up in front of you to make sure you don't get caught in the swing of his burly arm.

“Tryin’ to get this damn thing open, Morgan!” grunts Bill. “We were in town and saw this rich-looking coach unattended. Seemed like their own fault, so we started digging around inside and found it. Didn’t have time to crack the thing open so we just grabbed it and took off before anyone noticed.”

“Stop banging away at it!” you scold, grabbing Bill’s beefy forearm before he can make another strike. “See that gold leafing along the surface? This is an expensive piece.” You loosen your grip to run your fingertips along the gilding, tracing the fine craftwork with a feather-light touch. “You can sell this trunk alone for $30 to the fence.” 

Bill halts immediately, a bit shocked when he feels your soft hand on him. But he’s also now stumped at how to proceed in opening the chest and looking to you for the answer. Poor Bill, always in a battle between brains and brawn, and unfortunately for him there is only ever going to be one winner. 

A motherly sigh escapes your lips as you shake your head sweetly at Bill. “As usual, all this needs is a little ‘woman’s finesse’,” you purr sweetly. You reach over to Abigail and pluck a hairpin out from her bun, setting yourself down at the table with the box laid out in front of you. The crowd watches silently as your hands rest upon the chest, and you start to wiggle the pin around inside the lock. Within a minute, the lock pops open with a simple and gracefully little clicking sound. 

“There, now. All yours.” You turn the box towards the group of waiting men, with a satisfied smile on your face. They all look at you, stunned as to what just happened, but then quickly begin to dig into the mysterious case. And they are not disappointed. Inside they find cash, jewelry, bonds and other precious mementos belonging to the previous owner. You lean forward with your chin resting in your hand, watching as they excitedly pull items out to admire.

Bill plucks something out of the box and hands it to you. “Here you go, Y/N. There’s your cut.” 

Accepting the glittering item from his meaty bear-paw, you roll it in your hand, instantly realizing it’s a broach. He gives you an earnest smile, proud of himself for landing such a score. Bill is always such a beast of a man, not graceful in the slightest. But he does always try to be gentle around you, at least.

“Why, thank you, Sir,” you grin in return, admiring the beautiful jade-green stone that nests in a filigree of polished silver.

“Where did you learn how to do that, Y/N?” asks Abigail as she, too, begins to curiously finger through the jewelry inside.

“I have friends who taught me when I was in Rosewood.”

“How do you have friends that know how to pick locks?” asks Javier incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, before meeting us, that is.” He gives you his suave smile and a wink.

A demure little grin pops across your face, relishing the idea that you can still surprise these people, even after all these months. Your chin coquettishly dips to your shoulder. 

“Never you mind, Javier. A woman needs a little mystery.” 

“Wait a minute, you never said you knew how to pick a lock!” Arthur turns his attention from the stack of cash in front of him to face you now, fully realizing what you’ve just said.

“You never asked,” you reply plainly with a simple shrug. 

Micah lets out a patronizing little huff. “Maybe you should be doing a little more talking at night in your tent, cowpoke,” teases Micah. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t concern yourself with what’s happening in my tent at night,” Arthur shoots back with a glare. 

“Hold on,” Dutch interjects with annoyance, his hands raised in the air to silence everyone as he acutely directs his attention towards you. “Are you saying you can do this with any lock?” 

You shrug again. “I don’t know if I’d say any lock,” your voice somewhat uncertain under Dutch’s intense gaze, ”but probably.” 

“Why the hell am I just hearing this now?!” Dutch huffs, planting his hands onto his hips. But before you can answer him, you see an idea forming in that deceptive mind of his, coiling like fog creeping through the valley in the morning. “Ho, ho, have I got an idea, gentleman,” he smirks, tapping his ringed finger against his mustached lips. 

“There’s a bank over in Red Rock that I’ve been eyein’. But I’m told it's next to the law office— strategically placed there to ward off robberies. Any attempt on it would have to be quiet. No shooting, no explosions of any kind.” Dutch shakes his finger at you. “If we can get her in there, into that vault-”

“Now, hold on a minute, Dutch. Y/N ain’t ready for anything like that,” Arthur cuts in, his hand waving firmly against the very idea of it. You watch his handsome face immediately turning into a deep, disapproving scowl.

“Well, she’s gonna have to be ready sometime,” argues Dutch. “I ain’t about to let a resource like her go to waste.” He counters as he waves his hand in your direction. “Besides, you’ll be there, too Arthur, and we all know you ain’t gonna let anything happen to her”. 

Dutch is right about that. Arthur would sooner take a bullet himself than put you in harm’s way. But still, the very idea of you being in danger sets his stomach turning. It’s the thing that he’s dreaded the most ever since you met, let alone started your relationship. He can’t fathom intentionally endangering you, yet he doesn’t want to disobey Dutch, either. The conflict is apparent on Arthur’s chiseled face as his eyes skip to the treeline, trying to find a suitable excuse to get you out of it. But all Dutch needs to do is shoot Arthur that glare to put him back in his place. 

When satisfied that Arthur’s silence means that he has succumbed to his will yet again, Dutch turns back to you. “You continue to amaze me, Miss Y/L/N.” His voice floats with that smooth, silky tone he uses when he needs to seduce people into doing his bidding, even against their better judgment. Like a snake that lures its prey, the man can be almost hypnotic when he needs to be. But you’ve never felt directly threatened by Dutch…until now. 

A slight chill dances up your spine as you stare at him with your large doe-eyes, an animal trapped by a hunter. And all you can do is sit there mutely as they all begin to discuss how to best use your newly-discovered “talent”. 

—-------------------------------------------------------

The crisp autumn breeze caresses your face, lifting the rogue strands of hair from your cold cheeks as you find yourself standing on the edge of the street. Across the way is the large green building that will be your target. It is adorned with black window-shutters and trim and looms ominously over you. A large sign hangs above the entry doors:  Red Rock Savings and Loan. The letters leer at you in an almost mocking and intimidating way. You try in vain to swallow, your mouth dry as the desert. Fingers betray a slight shake as you fidget with your hair and nervously smooth out the skirt of your emerald green dress for the third time in the last five minutes. 

You are going to be on your own for the first part of Dutch’s plan. You take a deep breath, slowly letting it out through trembling lips in an attempt to quell the butterflies in your stomach, going over the scheme one last time in your head. Your palms are sweaty, even in the chill air, and you continually wipe them along your hips, before absentmindedly playing with your hair yet again.

And then it dawns on you:  you are not sure if you can do this. What if Arthur is right and you really aren’t ready? You’ve never done anything like this before in your life. You’ve listened to the wild escapades of your fellow gang members but have never actively participated yourself. The most you’ve ever done is act as a decoy, never actually getting your own hands dirty. This will be your first act at truly committing a crime. 

What if something goes wrong? Will you have the where-with-all to know what to do? Could you ever defend yourself if something needed to be done? Arthur and the others will be there to protect you, but what if you are a liability to them? What if they need you to help them? You know how to shoot a gun, as you’ve hunted with Arthur and Charles plenty of times. But to point a gun at a person, to look them in the eye as you pull the trigger, that is something else entirely. If the nightmares and restless nights that Arthur has, ones that he pretends don’t happen, are any indication, the weight of taking someone else’s life leaves a heavy burden on one’s soul. Are you ready for that?

But as you stand there in the street, you eventually force yourself to steel your nerves with a slow deep breath. Closing your eyes, focusing on how your heart beats in your chest, the monotonous thumping echoes in your ears. You are part of the notorious Van Der Linde gang, you tell yourself. You are Arthur Morgan’s woman. And it is about damn time that you act like it. 

Your life before joining the gang, before meeting Arthur, had always been at the mercy of others, being subservient to the demands of men and your class. You have always done what was right and proper, falling in line with other people’s expectations and look where it got you: family name in tatters, your father gone, assaulted by the men who killed him, and left destitute by the high society that had pretended to care. 

But you are past that now. No need to hide in the shadows, no need to take anyone’s bullshit anymore. If joining Dutch Van Der Linde’s gang has taught you anything, it’s that. Running with a gang allows you to be free to do as you please and you do not have to answer to anyone. 

You need to pull from the strength of your new family, as they are counting on you. Arthur is counting on you. No turning back now. And with a grin of determination on your lips, you lift your chin, shaking off the last bit of nervous energy, and get into character to boldly stride over to the bank. 

You pull open the heavy wooden door, gliding confidently through the opening. Remembering all of Hosea’s training, your sparkling eyes take-in the scene as you stand at the threshold: Large room, main exit behind you, hallway towards the back that must lead to the vault and safes. You can’t tell if there is a second exit or not. (Arthur says ‘Always gotta know how you can get in and get out.’) Three tellers to your right, a ring of desks with other bank personnel to your left. All in all, with customers, you have twelve people to account for. 

The bank lobby is fairly large to accommodate a town of this size. You look up to see the clock about to strike 4:00 in the afternoon, a time strategically picked so that there is money in the vault from a full day’s transactions, and close enough to the encroaching nightfall to cover the escape that will eventually come. 

You stride over to the first available teller who comfortably sits behind the counter, your heels confidently clicking on the floorboards as you move.The squat, bespectacled man looks up from his newspaper as you approach his counter. 

“How may I help you today, Miss?” He is a mousey little man, very bookish and unassuming in his worn tan suit. His hazel eyes are made to appear larger by the bottle lenses of his glasses as he blinks expectantly at you. 

“I would like to talk to someone about opening an account here,” you inform him in your most authoritative tone. “My husband and I recently arrived in this area and are in need of getting our affairs in order.”

He looks past you into the lobby. “And where is your husband? Will we be waiting for him to assist you?” he asks.  

A slow, deliberate inhale gets pulled through your nose in aggravation. You bite your tongue and give a forced smile. “Sir, I will have you know that I do not need my husband with me to handle our finances. I know quite well how to manage our money, as we have quite a bit of it thanks to me.”

The teller shrinks back a bit at your angry, snapping comments which are now causing a bit of a scene amongst the small crowd within the lobby. 

“My husband is occupied elsewhere, making arrangements to have our cattle moved to our new ranch and does not have time for such things,” you continue. “He handles the labor, I handle the business. But, if you do not want to help me, simply because I am a woman, then I can certainly take my business and my money elsewhere.” Your eyes burn into the teller, making his insides cringe.

“Excuse me.” You hear a nervous throat clearing as a man in a tailored black suit interrupts the conversation and steps up beside you at the counter. “I couldn’t help but overhear the commotion. By all means, we will be more than happy to assist you with your money, Madame.” He sweeps his arm out towards one of the desks on the other side of the room and encourages you to follow him to sit. “Mr. Ferris,” he hisses back at the teller. “Stop badgering the customers! If the lady wants to open an account to secure her money here, then by all means, let’s assist her.”

The poor teller’s eyes shoot open. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss, I…I didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammers, adjusting his thick glasses on his nose. “I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just-”

“It’s just that you don’t see many women with such influence, I assume. Well, Mr. Ferris, you’d be surprised at what a woman can do.” And with an indignant flourish of your skirt, you spin on your heels to follow the other banker as he pulls out a chair for you to sit at his desk. Once he is sure you are comfortably seated, the banker fixes his tie and smooths his hand over his hair before taking a seat across from you. 

“I apologize, Mrs…” he leans towards you, eyebrows raised expectantly for the proper introduction. 

“Callahan. Mrs. Callahan,” you reply with yet another forced smile. 

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Callahan,” the banker confirms the name to himself, trying to work out if he recognizes it from affluent society circles. “So,” he clears his throat, “you need to set up an account with our bank, is that what I am understanding?”

“Yes, that’s right.” And you proceed to spin your web of lies about how you and your cattleman husband have traveled across the state to find a new ranch for your burgeoning cattle business that has grown two-fold in the past year. With new property in the process of being purchased, your husband is securing the land and overseeing the move of the herd, while you are here in town to get your affairs in order:  banking setup, food and provisions acquired, things of that nature.

You smugly watch the banker’s face grow more and more interested at the prospect of such a prosperous new client, as he eagerly takes notes as you speak. You lay it on thick, too, casually bragging about your fictitious husband’s endeavors, with a nonchalant wave of your dainty hand, but not so much as to be too unbelievable, just as the socialites and high-born used to do back east. 

It is amusing to you how easily you are able to slip back into the social lifestyle that you were so readily willing to leave behind. It’s always a matter of presentation and flourish, a constant upkeep of appearances. It’s that ‘cat and mouse’ game that you never cared for. You never thought you were that good at it, but it seems to be rather advantageous for you now. It is amazing to watch how eager and greedy people are, wanting to get a part of something that they themselves do not possess. Basically, you feed Mr. Bagby the life of one of the families you had known. You change the topic from “real estate” to “cattle” but it’s the same setup, the same panache. And just as enticing to the banker.

“Well, that sounds just fine. All well and good!” he replies excitedly. “We can certainly take care of you, Mrs. Callahan. My name is Mr. Bagby. Raymond Bagby. And if there is anything you or your husband need, well you just be sure and let me know.” His eyes light up at the idea of such a wealthy new prospect coming into town that he can latch his greedy fingers onto.

“Thank you, Mr. Bagby.” You give him a smug, self-satisfied little grin. “I do appreciate th-“

Suddenly, the doors to the bank are flung open and a handful of men with bandannas around their faces storm in. The small crowd of people gasp at the sight, with one of the older women stifling a scream. You jump in your chair at the loud commotion, your hand shooting to your chest. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery,” one of the men announces, his low gravelly voice commanding over the crowd of cowering townsfolk. He is broad and tall, with a leather trench coat that hangs off his frame perfectly. He brandishes a large pistol in each black gloved hand while a shotgun hangs conveniently across his wide back. “I highly suggest you keep quiet and cooperate and this will be over shortly.” He carries himself with a bravado and swagger, one that instantly lets everyone know that he is not to be questioned. His stony gaze passes over the collective group, alert to any minute movement.

Your eyes shift to the employees and patrons as they cower in fear. The look of horror skips across their faces as the realization that they could die right here and now settles into their scattered minds. 

“Everyone, down on their knees. Now!” another burly man shouts, his shotgun prominently displayed across his body. A few shrieks of panic echo through the room, but everyone quickly complies. 

“Everything will be alright, miss,” Mr. Bagby whispers to you, patting your hand in a feeble attempt to comfort you. “Just do as they say and you’ll be fine.”

You nod your head in understanding, averting your fearful eyes to the ground as you crouch down to the floor with the others.

The man who is apparently the ringleader of this event walks into the back where the vault is, his movement seems to glide in a way that belies a man of his stature, his calmness about such a thing almost unsettling. He points his gun at the row of tellers he passes before disappearing down the short hallway towards the safe. Meanwhile, the rest of his group stands at attention in his absence. One man wearing a dark gray hat and jacket stands guard at the door with his revolver at the ready, watching for any incomers. Two others survey the room, making sure no one tries anything stupid.

Until finally, the other large man with the shotgun lets his eyes land on you, sitting hunched up uneasily on the floor. 

“Well well, ain’t you pretty!” He strides over and leans down to get a better look at you. “Maybe you should keep my friend in the back company, hmm? He’s been awfully lonely lately,” he chuckles with a sickeningly sweet voice.

“I’d rather die!” you spit out stubbornly, pitching a heated glare at the man.

“Oh, that can be arranged, ma’am. I guarantee.” He reaches down and roughly grabs your arm, abruptly yanking you to your feet. You try to push against his burly chest, but the man is simply no match for you as he towers over your height. 

“Leave her be, you animal!” shouts Mr. Bagby. 

The robber seems more amused than anything at the empty threat, saying nothing but simply turns and points his shotgun at Mr. Bagby, the barrel inches from his face. A gasp of alarm escapes your lips, your heart leaping into your throat, as you are terrified that this is the moment when shots will start to be fired.  

“Please, don’t!” you shout in a panic, eyes blazing with a newfound fear in them as they dart back and forth between the two men.

All color drains from the banker’s thin face as his beady eyes slowly move from the end of the barrel up to you, and then back to the robber before he settles down into submission. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” chuckles the robber in smug satisfaction. He then proceeds to drag you across the room behind him as you desperately try to pry his thick fingers from your bicep. 

“I got a little something for you, my friend!” he announces as you make your way towards the vault room. The man kicks the door open with his heavy muddy boot and heaves you through the doorway before slamming the door closed behind you. 

You stumble into the room, recovering from the violent shove, and straighten up to come face to face with the other robber who watches you with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. A smile begins to form on your lips. 

“Is Bill always that handsy with women?” you ask.

Arthur pulls down his bandanna, exposing his face as he chuckles. “No. Actually, I think he’s afraid of ‘em, to be honest”.  

You’d be lying if you said that Arthur’s raw masculinity doesn’t excite you right now. The adrenaline that is pumping through your body is exhilarating, causing your whole body to tingle with electricity. And seeing Arthur calm and collected as if this were just another chore back at camp is an amazing thing to witness. 

It is hard not to stare at his thick muscled arms as he works over the surface of the grand safe. His face carries such intensity, making the green and amber flecks that ring his blue irises even more pronounced as if he were possessed by something otherworldly. Were it not for the group of innocent bystanders in the other room, the desire to reach out and touch him would consume you. 

But no time for that now. A quick shake to your head to refocus and you quickly walk to the back wall where the row of heavy safes are. Arthur works on the dial combination of the larger vault, while you pull a few pins out of your wristlet and begin picking the locks of the smaller, personal safes. Your heart beats loudly in your ears as your fingers work over the cool metal, knowing that the law could be upon you at any moment. 

Not a word is spoken between you and Arthur as you focus on your work, the only sounds in the room besides your nervous breathing are the gentle tinkling of the metal locks being forced open and the soft creaking of their door hinges. You manage to get four of the coffers open quickly with little issue. They are filled with cash and coins, jewelry, bonds and deeds, all of which get dumped into a large leather saddle bag. 

Arthur keeps track of the time as you work, periodically checking his pocket watch. He is always mindful not to get too greedy on these jobs. Best to stick to the timeline and get what you can, rather than push your luck and risk getting caught. The plan is to be in and out in fifteen minutes before the bank is due to close. ‘Live to fight another day’, as they say. And keeping a mental note in his head, Arthur determines that you’ve been here long enough. 

Deciding that the two of you have collected more than enough, Arthur adjusts the contents of the overstuffed saddle bag before he ties it shut. Smirking at you, Arthur pulls his bandanna back up over his face. 

“Ya done good, girl,” he praises as he hoists the saddle bags over his broad shoulders. “You ready to finish this?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Your voice is a quaking whisper, filled with nervous energy as the realization suddenly hits you that you still have to make it out of the bank, yet. Robbing the bank is one thing. Getting away with it is something else, entirely.

“Alright, then. Remember, just act natural, we’ll do the rest,” he nods to you, placing a comforting hand on your arm as you give Arthur a tentative smile in return. The look of nervous fear on your face is not much of an act, but of true feelings, to be honest. Your eyes rim with the slightest bit of moisture as your lashes begin to flutter with anxiety. Arthur quickly notices how your chest begins to rapidly float up and down and your fingers fidget against your palms.

“Hey,” he pulls his mask down again, stepping up closer to you until you can feel his body heat radiating off of him. His eyes are like the ocean, endless and all encompassing as he stands over you. “Remember our deal? You look out for me and I’ll look out for you. Got it?” His voice is low and calm, centering you before you get too lost in your thoughts of doubt or hesitation, for it is hesitation that will derail any best-laid plan.

The cool feeling of Arthur’s leather gloves against your tender skin as his heavy hand cups your face settles your nerves. And the worry begins to ebb away, knowing that you will be as safe as you can be with him. Arthur won’t ever let anything happen to you. And it is within this commanding, yet calming aura that the outlaw carries within himself that you can find a sense of peace. 

A quick, sharp breath gets pushed past your pink lips as your head gives a short nod in confirmation. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good girl.” He winks as he pulls the bandanna up again. 

This is it, the grand finale. If you and Arthur can get the gang out of the bank in one piece, you’re gold.

Arthur abruptly opens the door again and roughly shoves you through it back towards the lobby for the last bit of the show. 

“Sit down!” he yells, tossing you to the floor in a heap into the middle of the room. “Goddamn useless woman!” You say nothing in return, hiding your face in what appears to be fear.

Arthur then turns his attention back to the room of nervous onlookers and fellow thieves. “Thank you kindly, people, for your cooperation. Sit still and quiet and no one will get hurt,” he announces with an all too casual tone. As his dusty boots carry him across the room, he strikes one of the cowering men in the face with the butt of his gun to make his point. 

“If anyone even thinks about leaving to go get the law, we’ve got a shooter on that rooftop over there.” Arthur points his gloved finger through the window. “He’ll drop you dead the minute you open that door.”

And just as quickly as it had begun, the group of bank robbers swiftly ducks out of the building without so much as a creaking floorboard in their wake. 

The group of you sit there on the floor of the bank, stunned and quiet, each looking at the door in case the thieves should decide to come back. After about five minutes, you are the one to break the stifling and tenuous silence.

“Are you all going to just sit there and let them rob us?!” you demand, scanning the faces of the patrons. You are quite the actress. If only Hosea could see you right now, how proud he would be. 

No one moves out of sheer fear, staring at you with the eyes of terrified lambs as if you are crazy-talking. ‘Good Lord, these people are ripe for the picking’ you think to yourself.

“Who’s ‘us’? You don’t have any money here, yet. Remember?” one of the women in attendance hisses at you. “Keep your mouth shut, or else you’ll get people shot!”

But you disregard her warning. “Go get the sheriff!” you screech at the man laying next to you, who just stares back at you with a dumbfounded expression plastered across his face. “Go!” you reiterate, waving your hand towards the door. With no one else stepping forward, you seize the opportunity to take control of the situation, hoping to draw the lawmen towards the bank and not out looking for the gang, buying them more time.

The poor man startles at the sound of your shrill voice and sprints to his feet as if he’s not sure if he is more afraid of the robbers or you. He trips over himself as he quickly makes his way across the room. He cautiously ducks his head as he opens the door, mindful of the shooter you were all warned about. Everyone else waits with paralyzing apprehension. When no shots are fired, the man proceeds to stumble out the door. 

Now that the tension is broken, the people are abuzz with activity. Loud, nervous chatter fills the lobby as one of the women rushes to the man Arthur had struck in the face earlier. Within a few moments, the local sheriff and a handful of lawmen come barreling in through the bank doors. 

“Alright everyone, calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” the sheriff declares, trying to assess the situation. “Carl, take a few men and post them on either end of the town. If those sons-a-bitches are still here, they won’t get too far.” 

The sheriff proceeds to get statements from everyone in attendance and eventually makes his way to you. 

“This one, Sheriff,” Mr. Bagby points at you as his agitated body ambles to stand next to you. “This lady was tossed in with that heathen.” 

“Is that so?” The sheriff eyes you up and down. 

“This is Mrs. Callahan, Sheriff,” Mr. Bagby nervously prattles on. “This here is Sheriff Langston, our top lawman, Ma’am.” You extend your arm to shake hands at the introduction. The sheriff is an average height, medium build, but nothing too impressive. He is clean-cut and neat, obviously taking his position of authority very seriously. 

“Are you alright, ma’am? Did they hurt you in any way?”

“No, no I’m fine,” you huff in an exasperated tone. “They just shoved me around, is all.”

“Any idea who they are? Where they may be headed? Did they say anything to you?” the lawman presses.

“How would I know?! I wasn’t exactly paying that close attention,” you snap in annoyance at the barrage of questions. “They were filthy, I can tell you that much. The big one had red mud caked all over his boots.”

“Red mud?” Langston ponders, turning to look at one of the deputies.

“Yes, red mud. Why?” Your eyebrows furrow in exaggerated agitation. 

The sheriff’s face twists up, lips pursed in thought for a moment as if piecing something together in his mind. “We have caves outside the western side of town. They’re covered in red clay. Would make a perfect hideout for a group of outlaws.”

“Not far from the rail line, too,” agrees the deputy. “That could be their way out, Frank.”

The sheriff nods in agreement. “Head on over there, see what you come up with.” The sheriff turns back to you with a self-satisfied smile. “Thank you, ma’am. You may have just led us right to those bastards.” (More like led them in the exact opposite direction of those bastards. And your heart settles a bit knowing that the law has taken your bait.)

“Good! Serves them right, attacking innocent people like that,” you snap with disdain dripping from your words like rainwater. A silent prayer of thanks rolls in your mind that not only does the sheriff not suspect you as an accomplice, but you have led them away from your friends, and more importantly Arthur.

Sheriff Langston looks you over, contemplating what to do with you next. “It’s getting dark soon. It won’t be safe for you to be walking around unchaperoned, especially since you’re a witness to a crime. These thieves may be looking for you.” His lips get pulled in slightly as he tentatively bites down in thought. “I don’t know what your plans are, ma’am, but you should stay here in town where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, I doubt that’s necessary,” you brush him off with a nonchalant wave, standing as if to take your leave. 

“‘Fraid I’m going to have to insist, ma’am.” The lawman moves to block you from the door, his hands held up and halting you where you stand. “We’ll escort you to the hotel for safe keeping. The owner there is a friend of mine. In fact, I’ll keep an eye on you myself, at least until your husband arrives, that is. It’s the least I could do after everything you’ve been through.” 

You can’t help but notice how his dark eyes cast over your form with a slight hint of a smile on his lips as he speaks. It’s slight, almost imperceptible, but you've seen that look in a man’s eyes before and a boulder drops on your stomach, making you slightly nauseous.

Shit. This was not part of the plan. And you have to be careful with how you handle this, as you are all on your own to do it. You expected to be questioned by the law, making sure that they have no information or lead to the gang, and then released. You are supposed to meet Arthur by the garden wall alongside the mill by nightfall. If you don’t show up, he’ll worry. And then God knows what he’ll do. 

“Alright, then. If you think that’s what’s best, Sheriff,” you reply with your best fake smile, hoping that the sheriff will take your uneasiness as a reaction to the robbery and not your reluctance to stay. You can’t seem too eager to leave. If the sheriff gets even an inkling that you were in on the job, he’d hang you for sure. A cold sweat begins to mist across your chest under the silk layers of your dress as your fingertips start to tingle and go numb. 

And so you concede to go along with whatever he suggests, playing the “innocent victim” as best as you can.

—----------------------------------

By the time everything is said and done at the bank, night has begun to drape its shadowy blanket upon the town. The moon casts its milky all-knowing eye over you and Sheriff Langston as you head down the steps of the bank together. Using a lantern to guide you, the sheriff's hand catches your elbow and leads you down the street and over to the hotel. You go along amicably, as to not rouse suspicion, and all the while, the sheriff babbles on and on with small talk in a feeble attempt at light flirtation. 

Arriving at the modest hotel, the lawman checks you in, the hotel owner assigning you a room with a nod. You graciously accept the key and quickly bid the sheriff goodnight. 

“Oh no, I’m going to have to stay with you while you’re here,” Langston asserts smoothly, leaving no room for argument.

“I’m sorry, you’re what?” you sputter, eyes shooting open to your hairline in shock at his brazenness. 

“What if someone tries to break in on you? No, I’ll feel much better if I have eyes on you at all times.”

“I’m sure you would,” you mumble. Desperately trying to mask your frustration, you turn and head up the stairs with the man in tow behind you. You only make it up to the third step before you feel his hand on your lower back. Your skin shudders at the touch of the sheriff’s fingertips, and you try not to bristle too much because of it. If Arthur were to see this, he’d surely plant his fist into the man’s face. And in the depths of your ever-tightening chest, you are not sure if that would be a bad thing or not. 

The hotel room is simple, but pleasant. But you have no designs on staying long. Your eyes skip about to take inventory of your surroundings, trying to devise a plan on getting the hell out of here before the sheriff gets too comfortable. You stand in the middle of the room, hands continuously turning over each other with a white-knuckled grip. 

Sheriff Langston must sense your apprehension, though. He studies you out of the corners of his eyes as he sets about the room to light the oil lamps, their amber glow quickly illuminating the space. “Can I get you anything while we’re here, miss?” he asks you in an attempt to put you at ease while in his presence. 

“Missus,” you pointedly remind him. “Mrs. Callahan.” You shoot him a stern look, giving him that unspoken warning that you are not ignorant and know exactly what it is that he’s hoping for. 

Langston smiles with faux innocence. “Right. Mrs. Callahan.”

“I’d love some hot coffee, please. If you don’t mind, Sheriff.”

“Sure. I’ll have the kitchen send some up.” He opens the door and steps out into the hall but your hopes plummet when instead of going down to get it himself, Sheriff Langston yells down the stairs to have coffee brought up for you. Damn. You were hoping to get him out of the room, giving you time to go out the window or something. The icy reality settles over you that this man will not be letting you out of his sight. 

After about ten minutes, one of the hotel maids arrives at the door with a tray with a steaming pot and two cups prettily displayed upon an embroidered linen. The sheriff takes the tray from the woman with a nod of thanks and places it down on the table in the middle of the room to allow you to fix yourself a cup. 

“There we are. This should do the trick,” he grins at you.

You offer a small smile in appreciation and float towards the table, careful to place yourself on the opposite side of him. Sheriff Langston circles around, striding over to the window located on the wall behind you. The fact that his dark gaze cascades over your backside as he passes is not lost on you, either. The sheriff casually pulls back the curtain with his two fingers, looking out into the street for any activity. 

“Do you like cream or sugar in your coffee, Sheriff?” you ask sweetly. 

“Just a bit of sugar, ma’am. I like sweet things.” The words purr from his lips with a slow and unsettling drawl.

“Of course, you do,” you reply with just the hint of sarcasm. Turning your back as you set out the two cups, your fingers pull a small vial of nightshade out of your cleavage. You thank the heavens that you thought to bring it and discreetly pour its contents into his cup. Adding the steaming dark liquid from the coffee pot overtop, you plunk a sugar cube in and sir until the contents are finely mixed. A gratified grin dusts your lips as you tap the silver spoon along the cup's porcelain edge. 

You turn around and stride across the floor, skirts swishing around your feet and hand the sheriff his cup with a demure little smile before sipping from your own. “How long do we have to wait here?”

“Until sunup,” Langston quips. “By then, I’ll check in with the boys and see if they tracked down that gang.” His eyes rake over you again as he sips from his cup, that same cold and uneasy feeling washing over you as your mind jolts to the knife Javier gave you that is tucked into your high-lace shoe. 

“Don’t you worry, ma’am, I’ll catch ‘em. I don’t abide by that sort of thing in my town. They think they can walk in here and rob me right under my nose and get away with it?” he scoffs.

“They robbed the bank, not you,” you remind him.

“Same difference.” Sheriff Langston offers a dismissive wave at your seemingly irrelevant point. “Either way, they ain’t getting away with it, mark my words. I'll shoot first and ask questions later if it comes to it.” He cocks his head just slightly, reaching up to remove his hat and tossing it on the bed behind you. “Not in my town.”

You nod in understanding and wander over to the balcony doors for some fresh air and to put some much-needed distance between the two of you. You step out onto the landing that overlooks the street below, trying to get away from the sheriff's incessant staring. You are desperately hoping the nightshade kicks in before this sheriff gets bolder with his obvious interest in you. The sheriff is not a large man, such as Arthur or Bill, but he is still larger than you and your mind begins to search for ways to defend yourself if necessary. With your hands resting on the railing, you look out over the side and anxiously sigh. 

While lost in your thoughts, your gaze falls to the shadows of the mercantile building across the street. Smoldering in the dark there, you notice the red pin-point glow of a cigarette end. Squinting to get a better look, you see a figure cloaked in the darkness, and softly smile as you instantly recognize the silhouette of the broad shoulders that you know so well. The silvery moonlight highlights the edges of that familiar worn gambler’s hat and your anxiety instantly melts. A wave of relief washes over you and you suddenly feel more emboldened, knowing that your beloved is mere feet from you should you need him. You are not alone. You never were.

Knowing the sheriff is behind you, you carefully lift your hands slightly off the rail and flatly cross them in front of you, a signal to Arthur not to come for you as it’s not safe for him. But he’s seen you and knows that you’re okay, at least for now. So he’ll wait, watching vigilantly over you until he can get you out of town safely.

—-------------------------------

A few hours go by, and you quietly collect yourself to head out of the room. The sheriff sits slumped over in a chair, the white coffee cup laying precariously on the floor next to him, deposited there by the hand that dangles limply above it. He’ll be knocked-out for a bit, with a nasty headache when he wakes, but you’ll be long gone by then.

The sun is nowhere close to being up yet. The whole hotel is dark with the inhabitants slumbering quietly in their rooms, the occasional snoring to be heard behind closed doors. Creeping down the stairs, you move slowly and carefully as your feet pad soundlessly upon the wooden steps. You glide imperceptibly past the front desk where the clerk is sleeping with his feet propped up on the wood, passed out in a deep slumber. Just a few more feet and you are able to slink out the front door with no one the wiser.

You cautiously step out into the street, looking both directions for any signs of life. Everything is dark and empty, not even a stray dog out at this time of night. The faint sounds of the night owls in the trees is the only thing to indicate that time has not stopped altogether. With a sigh of relief, you begin to head down the road towards the edge of town. Since no one is awake and out yet, you should be able to walk right out without even being noticed. The only witnesses to your escape are the shimmering stars above as they hang in the ink-black sky.

And it doesn’t take too long before you hear the melodic beat of a horse’s hooves behind you and that familiar voice that you are waiting to hear. 

“You lost, pretty lady?” 

The gravelly voice floats in the air like a tether to anchor yourself to. You close your eyes and release a slow exhale of gratitude, knowing that you are indeed safe now. Your flower-petal lips turn up into a soft and comforted smile at the very thought of your protective cowboy being a mere breath’s distance from you.

“Nope.” A contented sigh escapes your chest. “I know exactly where I need to be.” 

You slowly turn around and look up at the handsome rider as he leans out on the saddlehorn. Even in the dark, you can see Arthur’s beautiful eyes as the moonlight shines down and casts his body in a silvery backlight, the edge catching upon his face. 

“I could use a ride, though.” Your whole face radiantly lights up at your statement as the two of you stand quiet for a moment, taking each other in. 

A sense of deep pride fills you as one thought rings prominently in your mind above all others:  ‘I did it.’

**ok I know this isn’t my best work. Writer’s block is a cruel bitch. But, this is meant to be a turning point in my reader’s/oc’s development. Things will get harder from here, as we will get into the game story now, with the events of Blackwater coming up.

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4​ @bimbo-dollz​ @pine4pple-b0i​ @redwritr​ @kuri-chans-blog​ @queer-sadie-adler​ @joelmillerswifey​ @gimmethosedaddymilkers​ @pcotarelo​ @delilah-grimes​ @maemortem​ @wistfulwisteriawitch​ @lilacxxdreams​ @mentallyillfrogs​ @absolutegeek​ @spurz​ @sophiaj650​ @uniqueclodzinevoid​ @lookingformaurice​ @pawoui​ @randomidk-123​ @yyiikes​ @eddiemetalheadmunson​ @twola​ @kmartkiddieisle​ @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic​  @rhehr241​  @earwen-x​ @akariver75​ @djennty​ @nervousmumbling​ @xliliths​ @unbotheredbeeeee​ @onnetonprinsessa​ @kittiowolf210​ @ezrynn​ @suhiss @arthurmargon​​ @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler​​ @alice-vanderlinde​​ @sweetandstoned21​​ @j4llyf7sh @spooky631​​ @m0r4rx @ilovrxats​​ @i-69-urmom​​ @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo @lea-khena @brccklynbaby1 @foundynnel @readingcoco @carmelamontezlikr @ultraporcelainpig @sofiaa-xcx @namesaretomainstream @miphy @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @loveheartabby @daisybvck

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #photo1030

[dearladynightmare]

Good day my friends! Today I want to share with you my very well-considered theory about Hordaks “defect”. This idea really makes sense to me which is why I use it canonically for my comics (especially the next one). So, if you are interested in how I spent my nights, not able to sleep because of this head-canon, GO AHEAD! ;)

While watching the show I noticed some inconsistencies according to what Hordak said about his defect and how Horde Prime (HP) dealt with it. But what exactly do we know about his defect? Well, he told Entrapta that he was a clone of Horde Prime, that he had been his “top general” but he a had a defect in his cloning. So Prime declared him worthless and sent him to die to the front lines.

When I rewatched that episode I was confused. Horde Prime had a top general? Horde Prime himself chose a “worthless” clone to be his top general??? A clone who’s not even worth to have a name?? Later we found out that Prime does not distinguish between his clones. None of them was special in any way. Their only reason for existence was to serve HP. The clones also don't have fixed positions or tasks. You can follow this thesis well following Hordak. One time he stands at Prime's side, one time he is a guard in the corridors, one time he is a sentry on Etheria, ... It doesn’t matter to Prime - They doesn’t matter.

My first explanation was that Hordak just made the “top general” story up. A story he was telling himself to feel less worthless. An attempt to ascribe value to himself and in the eyes of Prime. And to give meaning to what he was doing on Etheria. It seemed simple – to simple. So, I thought what was if Hordak told the truth? And now hold on my friends!

Hordak wasn’t like the other clones. He had something which made him special – his defect. And I am not talking about his physical health problems which we were able to see in the show (I`ll come back to this later). I am talking about Hordaks ability of independent thinking and slight resilience against HPs mind control. Sounds weird but pls hear me out!

After Hordak returned to HP, his story could have ended. Prime wiped his mind and Hordak should have been like all the other clones. He should have been unable to remember who he was and his complete past on Etheria. But his story wasn’t over. From that time Hordak showed us that Primes mind control does not really work on him. And I have proof!

1. Prime is barely able to see Hordaks thoughts

Primes wasn’t able to see his thoughts right after their reunion. He seemed to wonder and came closer to touch Hordaks face. Then it worked. Later Hordak started to question everything, he was thinking about Entrapta, the first ones writing, She-Ra, the rebellion and was able to keep all those thoughts from the all knowing- all seeing Horde Prime, even if he was standing right next to him. Even if Hordak shouldn’t been able to remember any of those things in the first place.

2. Hordak remembers things without even trying

Before Hordak noticed that he had forgotten something he already remembered things without trying. For example when he met Catra on the corridor and called her by her actual name and not little sister like all the others.

3. Only Hordak was able to fight the mindcontrol

In the show we see various characters being controlled by Prime. But no one was able to resist as much as Hordak did (and he sometimes didn’t even try). Catra was the first to fall victim to the control. she could only defend herself when the chip in her neck got damaged, and even after that she was barely able to. Later, many other protagonists became victims, without the capability to defend themselves. In the end, even Micah was under the control and would have killed his own daughter if Glimmer wasn’t stronger than him. The mind control was stronger than his fatherly love and the fact that he was a mighty sorcerer!

Fact is, even if the controlled characters stood in front of the person they loved the most, they weren’t able to fight the control BUT Hordak (who only exists to obey Primes orders) found the lil first ones writing and went all like “ENTRAPTA! MY TINY WIFE!” ... Well kind ofxD

He also refused Primes orders when he met Entrapta back on Etheria again. He recognized her and wouldn't hurt her. He let her run off! And don't forget when Prime wanted him to get disposed of her. Prime ordered him personally to get rid of her, and he refused! BETTER he turned against him.

And tbh I don’t think theres a difference between a clone under mind control or an controlled Etherian. After all, the clones also had their own personalities, as we were able to see from Wrong Hordak.

And if all that is true, it is possible that Hordak really was a top general of Prime. Maybe HP recognized that Hordak is “smarter” than the others. Maybe he has used Hordaks feature at the beginning and gave him the post as top general. Maybe in form of a consultant? But we know Prime and we know that he wanted to control everything. And maybe he started to question whether he really wanted to grant Hordak this worth. He created a very own “security gap” and so he got rid of Hordak. Of course he didn't tell Hordak about the real reason why he wanted to get rid of him. He just told him that he was a defect! Hordak wasn't aware of what his actual defect was (that he was special) until he started to experience his body betraying him.

Which leads us to his obvious health problems! But what are they if they are not the original defect? Hordaks body turned out to be very weak. He made himself an amour to hold himself together (btw I think that’s very impressive since he’s „just“ a clone, it shows how smart he was!) because his body was betraying him. Well I noticed sth Wrong Hordak said and showed us. THE NUTRIENT-RICH AMNIOTIC FLUID. Remember? When he cooked together with Glimmer he said “True nourishment comes from the favor of Horde Prime, also from nutrient-rich amniotic fluid.“ After that, he showed off an ampoule of this green liquid stuff that we've seen often in the show. Soooo since I´m sure that HP has better things to do than share his rare food with his clones I think they also ate things like ration bars BUT this green liquid seems to be most important to Horde Primes species… He himself is treated with it and even a “simple and worthless clone” like Wrong Hordak is equipped with it. It´s a property he carries with him, so it must be important. Maybe important for their state of health??

If that’s true… and I think it is… Hordak has had a massive lack of an indispensable substance his species requires! And that over years since he has been parted from Prime! No wonder he was doing that horrible! This would explain why his state of health got worse over time and why he no longer had green eyes. His own technologies helped him for a long time but soon failed. If Entrapta had not been there, to make him a new suit he probably would have died or sth.

But even Entrapta's technologies could not entirely help him. At least not enough. Not until he returned to Prime, because Prime had no trouble healing Hordak. It was Prime's technologies that Hordak needed, so why did he throw Hordak out when his defect was only a thing that HP could easily cure? So the physical defect was just a concomitant symptom of years of neglect.

In the end there’s one question left: Why did Prime accept Hordak into his ranks again if my theory is right? Why would he take Hordak back if he was able to resist the mind control. Easy. Horde Prime is an arrogant and selfish dumbass. He was sure that after all that happened he must be the one Hordak loved the most. He decided to watch and test Hordak and his faith (when he asked him to kill Entrapta). He wanted to see him suffer. And he knew if Hordak wasn’t faithful he could easily get rid of him. But he decided to play that sick game… and he lost because Hordak chose to break the chain of abuse.

So that’s it. My theory about Hordak! Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoy!💜

#hordak #entrapta #she ra entrapta #she ra netflix #she ra 2018 #horde #horde prime #theory #headcanon #hordaksdefect

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It��s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

���Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #might get a part two

[river-of-wine]

I know I’ve been talking about Molly and Abigail a lot but I love them and people are way too mean to them, and when I see people blaming them for things such as the failure of the bank robbery all I can think is this. Do you really think that the game wants you to dislike Molly and Abigail? These two are portrayed incredibly sympathetically throughout the game, and it could not be made more clear that they are victims.

Abigail was a sex worker at seventeen years old, and she had a baby at eighteen. Her son’s father abandoned her in a gang with an infant to take care of while she was still a teenager, and he has been absent in his son’s life and refusing to accept Jack is even his son for four years. All she wants is for her son to have a better life than she had as an orphan growing up in bars and brothels, she wants John to be responsible for Jack and everybody else does as well, even Dutch of all people tries to tell John he shouldn’t abandon his own son. Literally all she wants if for her family to be safe, and that is not the unreasonable ask that people seem to make it out to be. She is a young woman with a traumatic past who loves her family, and who, in the epilogue, just wants a life with her son and her husband where they won’t be in danger anymore. Abigail is one of the biggest reasons why John ends up changing into a better man, why he goes from the deadbeat he starts the game as to who we later see him become for the better. Do you think that’s how the narrative would portray a traitor? How it would show Abigail to you if she were anything other than a desperate young mother trying to care for the people she loves?

Molly is a young woman in an abusive relationship. She is alone in America with nowhere to go and presumably no means to support or defend herself if she ever did leave Dutch, which is a hard enough thing to do in a relationship like theirs even when you are not an isolated Irish woman in 1899. She is completely alone in the gang, she has no friends and no one will properly listen to her no matter how hard she tries. She is in love and she’s worried about Dutch, she never asks him for more than the bare minimum of, as she says, “respect and affection”. She is not asking to be the only focus of his attention, she is not asking him to focus entirely on her instead of the gang, she just wants to be looked at, to be called by her first name, to not be ignored by a man who supposedly loves her. Molly is driven into depression and paranoia by her isolation from any support in the gang and Dutch’s abuse, and she ends up so desperate for somebody to pay her any attention that she says something she knows will get her shot. She is revealed to be innocent in one of the most important cutscenes in the game, the final plot twist that Micah ratted on the gang, and after this, but there is doubt before. Karen doesn’t believe her, Mary-Beth doesn’t believe her, Arthur himself is what keeps Dutch from shooting her and he doesn’t believe her. In the money ending, Arthur will plead with Dutch, telling him it wasn’t Molly and to kill Micah instead. Do you think that’s how the narrative would portray a traitor? Is that how it would show you a victim of severe abuse who wanted nothing more than to be loved?

Each have their own flaws in addition to this, but that’s because they, like the men that are so highly praised within the fan base for their brilliant writing, are complex characters. They are three dimensional characters with personalities and wants and needs, who make decisions or react in ways we might not understand because they are their own people in their own impossibly difficult situations. Just think about the actual storytelling of the game, because nothing is done accidentally. There is a reason for every narrative choice made because it was all written down and performed with the intention of telling the story properly. There is a reason why no one questions that Molly was innocent after it is revealed and why her arc ends with that cutscene, and it is because she was innocent. There is a reason why John changing his ways for the sake of his family, both because of Jack and because of Abigail, and finally listening to his wife for once is shown as a good thing, and that’s because it is. Have whatever opinions you like about a character, but don’t pretend the game is telling you they are something that they’re not

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #molly o'shea #abigail marston #I’ve probably said this on here before but I’m talking about them again

[floydsglasses]

𝗜'𝗺 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗮𝗱 𝗗𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀

This is gonna be bad im just warning you im freaking tired and stressed, they are gonna be Sad and Happy and UNHINGED.

Bradley has a little Rooster figurine in the front of his jeep, he got as a gag joke and was gonna leave it at whatever house he got it at but now has emotional attachment to it.

Jake's go to song in Karaoke when he is sober is Queen, he will belt out We Will Rock you, but when he is drunk enough he will sing Dolly Parton's 9 to 5 with every bit of southern twang he can

When Bob is really angry he will drop his midwest accent and go full on southern, like deep south

Natasha lost a bet in high school and had to get a bad tattoo, said tattoo was something like a duck with a cowboy hat, or stupid quote, you decide

Mickey unironically sings the lyrics to Taylor Swift's Love Story, like he will sing the bridge at the top of his lungs going sixty on the highway.

Rueben is the kind of guy to say he won't rage quit a video game then will toss the controller after failing two time's.

Javy would be the kind of guy who would let a kid paint his nail's, pink purple yellow, he does not care he will flaunt it off it because it makes the kid happy.

Bradley would somehow get a cat or dog, like one of those distribution system's like on tiktok, he would say he would foster it but end up keeping it naming it something human like, Kevin or Betty

Natasha say's she dosent like country music, but wont admit she would get down to some Luke Bryan here and there because who wouldn't

Bob seems like if he was put into a situation where him and his friend's got lost, he would be the calm one but on the inside he is panicking, he will see an exit sign with a restaurant and be like. "Guy's its okay there's burgers."

Javy will pull over when he sees cows and take there picture's. No joke would even try and pet one.

Rueben and Mickey are the worst people when it comes to trivia because they are so good at it, when they get an answer right they increasingly get more competitive.

Jake cried playing RDR2 when Arthur died and he also despised Micah like the rest of us.

Rueben is great at bowling, so good that most of the time no one play's with him

Bob will doodle little drawings on sticky note or notebook's when he is bored and give them to any of the dagger's, He drew Natasha a sketch of bird, she kept it in her locker.

Bradley has a mixtape from his dad, Goose, titled "Song's You Need to Hear Once", it's all filled with songs from the Sixties to the Eighties, all classic's from Rock to Motown, after his mom died he didnt dare to touch it, after the uranium mission he starting listening again.

Natasha has bracelets from her little cousin's that she wear's for good luck, they are bright yellow and purple string's, she never take's them off ever

Jake collects stickers from each state, his dad used to bring him a sticker from each of his trips before he got too busy, so he is trying to finish them off himself.

Mickey has a tattoo to honor his family, a way to have a piece of them everywhere he goes. A small quote in Spanish on his side stating Por aquellos que amo me sacrificaré/For those I love I will sacrifice

Reuben like to sleep in a hammock sometime's under the stars, reminding him of his childhood and growing up in the south, when he would play outside with his siblings

Javy is a momma's boy, in a good way, this man will always call his mom or text her about the thing's going on his life, before a big mission or detachment he calls her, tell her he loves her.

Jake has stepped on a jellyfish on a beach, after saying "oh they dont sting'" just for him to get shocked

Bradley broke his arm doing stunts on his bike as a kid, he has permanent scars on his forearm, he did in fact do it twice till Carole told him to not do it again.

Natasha and Bob learned the Rasputin Dance from Just Dance

Mickey has argued with people that pineapple belongs on pizza, he will full on go tooth and nail to defend his claims.

Reuben has knocked the Radio off in the Rec room, and has blamed it on Hangman, it was a whole debacle

Javy has a fear of snake's, he found one once and he took of running leaving his friend's to deal with it.

OKAY THAT IS ALL SHE WROTE, I know some of these dont make sense but I dont care i needed a stress reliver before another stressful week. AND THATS ALL SHE WILL WRITE BECAUSE THIS FAILED AGAIN

#top gun maverick #top gun fanfic #top gun headcanons #top gun imagines #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #robert bob floyd #mickey fanboy garcia #rueben payback fitch #javy coyote machado #top gun au #top gun fic #top gun fandom #top gun x reader #dagger squad

[strrwbrrryjam]

the comparisons you can make between arthur and micah to me are very interesting, because, while arthur and micah can not be more different to one another, they both have very similar upbringings.

being an outlaw is all the two of them have ever known, arthur's mother died when he was a baby and he was raised by his outlaw father, a man that from the little we get about him, we can infer was a cruel bastard, not just to civilians, but to arthur also, as we get a piece of dialogue that tells us that arthur isn't sad about his father's death, he's only upset at the fact that it wasn't soon enough (during the famous "i'm afraid" monologue), which implies that the relationship between the two was at the very least, rocky or just downright abusive and that arthur is glad that his father is dead.

after his father has been hung, he's been left on his own for a while, pickpocketing simply to survive, travelling from town to town when he inevitably gets caught and is then picked up by dutch and (a reluctant) hosea.

with micah, however, we get no mention of his mother, whether this is because she died when micah was born, or she isn't important to micah's story, who knows. but what we do know is that he too, like arthur, was an outlaw with his father, except the two seem to have had a very different dynamic to arthur and lyle. the two had a "partner in crime" dynamic rather than an "abusive outlaw father raises son he doesn't love to be an outlaw" (likely out of, i don't know, love for his mother and it being one of her last wishes for him to take care of her son - it could also have been just "no son of mine is going to be a sissy" since i believe neither dutch nor hosea taught arthur how to draw and he just has a natural talent for it) dynamic. micah and his father worked hand in hand with one another, which ultimately led to the homicide of roscoe and jean brings.

we don't exactly get an exact timeline of micah's upbringing (we don't get one for arthur either) but i can assume that the reason micah's father isn't around anymore is that after the homicide, he ended up being caught and hung - which led to micah and amos (micah's brother) being outlaws together out of loyalty for their deceased father until amos ended up repenting, marrying a woman, having three daughters and promising to murder micah if he ever steps foot into california.

micah continues being an outlaw, creating his own (1st attempt) gang with cleet, joe and likely a man named norman, attempting a bank robbery and ultimately failing. maybe he ventures off on his own, falling out with the three men, blaming each other for the failed back robbery, who knows.

it's kind of, insane, thinking about it. the two have been outlaws since they were young but even then the two of them were very different outlaws - arthur had likely kept to petty thievery, while micah had graduated to homicide with his father as a young man, arthur and lyle had a relationship where lyle often mistreated arthur, while micah bell III and micah bell II were almost equals in a way, despite being father and son. it's interesting to see how their upbringing shaped them as men, where micah thrives on cruelty and arthur, while good at it, seems to prefer less violent methods but will resort to violence when he deems it necessary.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur morgan #arthur morgan #rdr2 micah bell #micah bell #strawberry speaks

[red-dead-do-over246]

Hi there i really love Your writings about Micah 💓 ! If you don't mind can you write about shy!female reader Who always spends her time alone and micah just being Curious about her and always stalking her and falling for her slowley

Sure! Thank you! I hope you enjoy~💖

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heaven’s Loneliest Angel

You never seemed to speak to anyone and were always by yourself. Micah was keen to find out why, with consequences he wasn’t expecting.

There was something odd about you. Everyone could be around the campfire singing and having a good time, but you would be out near the horses. The ladies could all be gossiping or working, inviting you to join in and talk about other female things that Micah didn't care to know about, but you would decline.

And he gets it. I mean, Micah hates being around a lot of people as well, but he thought all the women liked to hang around each other. It piqued his interest.

He hasn't tried to approach you because he knows that would only end in excuses and avoidance. So, instead, he just decided to watch and follow you. Micah was very good at things like that, much to people's dismay. But he figured you should be honored.

Not everyone catches his attention like this.

"Y/N? You want to come get dinner?" Abigail, ever the motherly, went over to you to see if you wanted to come and join the other ladies. Looking over, you saw that there was a lot of people around the campfire. You shook your head.

"I'm alright for now. Thank you." You said politely yet quietly. Abigail hesitated slightly, but left you be anyway. Yes, there was a lot of people around the fire, but not everyone was there.

Micah was still stalking you.

He began to notice that you weren't just some loner who was discouraged at being around people. You were still very polite and kind to others. Micah has noticed you doing things for members of the gang without them even knowing it, like patching some clothes for some of the men or covering up for Karen or Marybeth's work. He was baffled by this.

"Micah." The blonde hated how he jumped at the sound of his name, ready to curse off whoever dared scared him. Right now, Micah was semi-behind a tree, observing you as sat on a stool, mending something.

He turned to see Arthur.

"What do you want?" Micah asked gruffly, turning to look back at you.

"I came over here to tell you that you need to stop being creepier than usual." Arthur said and Micah scoffed. He knew someone would notice his behavior and question it at some point. Micah just didn't want it to be Arthur.

"I ain't doing nothing wrong." Micah defended himself, "I just want to know more about her is all."

"All you need to know is that Y/N is an angel who doesn't need to be messed with by the likes of you." Arthur scolded Micah, who was ready to flip him off.

"Some angel...Heaven must be pretty crowded for her to come here and be all on her lonesome." Micah said and Arthur was just done with this conversation. So long as he leaves you be and doesn't touch you, Arthur really didn't care.

"She's just shy. If you are curious about her, just try talkin' to her and being less creepy." This was the last thing Arthur said as he moved to go back to the fire. Micah just rolled his eyes as he watched Arthur leave, and as he shifted his gaze to look at his current target, he was surprised to see that you moved.

To stand right in front of him.

"Y/N...don't scare me like that." Micah said, pretending he wasn't watching you or nothing as he took a couple steps back, placing a hand over his heart.

"Sorry...here." You said shyly, slightly flustered as you handed him something. Micah hesitantly took it, taking not that it was the object that you were so busy with while he was watching you a while ago.

As Micah inspected it, he realized that it was a shirt he nearly discarded because of a tear. It looked nearly brand new. But none of the women here ever care to anything for him, so why would you?

Looking up, he wanted to ask, but you were gone. Leaving Micah with a weird fuzzy feeling in his chest.

As days went by, Micah began to realize that this feeling appeared whenever he saw you or watched you or what have you. He hated it and loved it at the same time. And the more he felt like this, the more he wanted to approach you and try to talk to you.

"She's just shy." Arthur's words would ring in his head like an annoying mosquito. Micah didn't know what to do with shy people besides avoid them. But in this scenario, he really tried to stay away because he didn't want to make you uncomfortable. It was an odd feeling for Micah Bell.

Why did he care so much? Why did he want to see you, but avoid you at the same time?

It all became clear to him one evening when he came back from the saloon. He was slightly buzzed but not enough to make his head spin. Micah left Baylock with the other horses and went into camp, but practically stopped in his tracks when he heard your soft voice. Peeking slightly from behind the shadow of a tree, Micah noticed you brushing Taima, Charle's horse. You were singing softly to her, brushing and petting as you did so.

Micah couldn't stop the smile on his face as that warm nervous feeling returned to his chest. He wanted to run over there and take you into his arms, but his instincts told him not to. When he took notice of this, all the color drained from his face as the realization dawned upon him.

"Aw hell..." Micah cursed to himself. He has done something that he told himself he would never ever allow himself to do.

He was falling in love with you.

And only time will tell if Micah is ever able to face that truth.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr2 #micah bell #micah x reader #rdr2 micah bell #micah bell x reader #micah bell imagine

[imnameimswrld]

002 ━━ 𝐀 𝐍𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ,,

warnings: language.

Turning down the Panic At The Disco that had been blasting in the car for the past half hour, everyone gathers their things before getting ready to step out into the fresh Miami air.

A few cameramen catch my eye through the windshield, and I know the second my door opens, the pictures for today's Formula One news are gonna get shot. Better make sure I look dapper. Haley's copper hair blows over her shoulder from outside where she awaits with two bodyguards at her sides, their size making her seem a whole lot smaller than what she really is.

"We all suited up gang ?" I look around in the car, handing the keys to my aunt who sits beside me so she could drop them in her bag once we're all out.

Everyone nods, Mattie's being a little more vigorous than the rest, his little hands having a death grip on the collar of his Ferrari t-shirt. Celina and Renée where the same, and of course I'm sporting my wicked blue jeans and SF polo shirt, a pair of RayBan sunglasses pushed up into my hair. Although I would've loved to wear my trusty Airfoces, Mattie refused to wear his slip on Van's unless I was wearing mine too – and I'm sorry, but no member of my party will be rocking up to the paddocks in flip-flops.

The doors all open as we step out, and a little smirk pulls at my lips when I notice Haley deliver a firm stare at one of the cameras that drift a little too close to the money maker. Chuckling softly, I pat her shoulder in greeting, before I round all my people up and we start the walk towards the entrance. The sun is absolutely unforgiving and my eyes can barely stay open until I've pulled my shades down, and I'm silently thanking my aunt for forcing Mattie and I to lather ourselves in SPF-50.

"Where's Micah ?" my manager keeps her voice low from her stride beside me, and at the sound of the name an immediate scoff gets released from the other side of me.

I briefly turn to share a look with Renée, and I can just tell she's fighting back a crazy hard eye roll.

I sigh softly before looking back forward, instantly noticing the throng of reporters hovering around the scan-in station.

"Not now Hals."

I don't need my name headlining the news tomorrow, and I sure as hell don't want to be making Bonnie's job harder than it already is. All I do is breath, and with that one exhale does a line of false rumors and accusations follow. The life of a Formule 1 driver is, unfortunately, not just about the car we drive.

I can tell this isn't a topic to be dropped, just by the stern look I'm getting in Haley's eyes, but for now she steps back from it, allowing a comfortable air to settle around us instead of the suffocating one that always seems to hang whenever Micah is mentioned.

Trust I'll be dumping the walking negativity soon.

"Ant !"

My gaze cuts to the voice ahead, gaze immediately settling into a set of soft,  pleading brown eyes. The reporters continue to shamelessly shove their mics in Oscar's face, and I suppress a chuckle as I excuse myself from my group for a moment.

"Hey Ozzie, hello." I hook an arm around the fellow Australian driver, placing a hand on his shoulder to deliver a reassuring squeeze. I can almost feel his relief seep out at my presence.

"Antonio ! Can you-"

I shake my head with a polite smile, not even daring to let them finish whatever question of the day it is. "I'm really sorry guys, but we actually have a meeting in about 10 minutes,"

I start pulling Oscar backwards away and towards the safety of my group, waving a hand to the reporters. "Thank you for coming, I hope you enjoy today's race !"

Once we're in the clear, the shorter blonde let's out a sigh of relief, and I pat his shoulder with a light laugh. "Thanks mate."

I toss him a playful wink. He greets my group and ends up waking along with us through scan-in. We talk more about what today could bring for us as driver's, but mostly complaining at how godawful hot it's going go be in the car today. Along the way Carlos and Lando end up joining, and we all agree to make a stop at the cafeteria for a snack.

"Oh mate," Lando swallows a sip of his Coke, twisting in his seat across from me with a curious glance in his eyes. "Where's Micah ? Feel like I haven't seen him in what, couple weeks ?"

The delightful cold of the air conditioning goes from a relieving blanket over me to an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.

Carlos hums from beside me. "Yeah, he was at Silverstone, but that was like, three weeks ago ? Tutto okay ?"

My fingers twitch around the dripping cold of ice coffee in my hands. Maybe I should just get it out so it would quit bothering me for the rest of the day. Besides, it would be nice to make the glower Haley is piercing into the side of head right now disappear.

Sighing softly, I look up to my aunt. I don't say anything, allowing just my eyes to speak for me. Fortunately, she understands immediately, and the little boy beside her doesn't. Which is why he's very quick to comply when she offers to buy him an ice-cream and go take a walk to say hi to the other drivers. He's just like me in the sense that he loves the attention he'll receive from everyone; the whole grid adores Mattie.

He's practically Danny Ric's son.

Bumping my fist to his and sending my aunt a grateful nod, I wait for the glass door to swing shut behind them, before leaning back in my chair, my hands settling on my jean-clad thighs.

"Don't expect a long explanation, because I'm really not looking for a therapy session right now," I sternly inform, stressing it with my tone, especially to my manager. That earns me a narrowed glare.

"I haven't heard from Micah since Silverstone."

Two reactions occur in that moment; my two fellow drivers gape with wide eyes at me, and the two remaining women around the table sit stoically, a brewing anger behind their gazes.

"But you've called, texted ?"

I scoff as I meet the Brit's enlarged eyes. "Of course I have Lando, and a fuck ton of times at that."

"So what, your novio just disappears for two weeks without a single word ? Esto es una mierda."

I hum once in response to Carlos, pursing my lips as I trace the little droplets with my fingers on my glass.

"It's not like it's the first time."

Two heads turn in the direction of the low voice, but Renée is sure to keep her bearing gaze on me. Renée and I rarely have serious fights, we just mesh that well. However rare though, things always start to heat up whenever my fuck-up of a relationship gets brought up. I know it's because she only cares for my well-being, which is why I can't ever find it in me to be annoyed with her reaction and attitude towards him. It's not like he deserves any better anyway.

"Mate, I would never butt into your relationship, I have no place whatsoever," Lando's eyes are full of sincere, and maybe just a twinge of fire. "But you're my friend, and a bloody great one at that. I just want you to he happy mate, that's all."

Who's heart wouldn't melt at the way those greens are looking at me right now ?

"Thanks Lan, I really appreciate that."

Contrasting the sweet moment, a shocking slap lands on the back of my shoulder, and I jolt at the sudden action. My eyes dart towards the Spaniard, who has a crooked smile on his face.

"I'm not one for the sappy stuff but, you know I'm here for you 'mano."

I huff out a laugh, nodding. "Si, gracias 'mano."

" Frederic wants his drivers in the paddock by 10, we should go."

They honey-toned voice speaks for the first time since, and my gaze cuts towards the brunette beside me. She already has her eyes ready to meet mine, and they are speaking a thousand words that her lips don't. She has been egging me on to drop Micah for a very long time, and I know it's about time I listen, but it's just about finding the right moment. For starters, he needs to fucking answer my calls.

"Right." I nod, following her lead as she stands, and it's only once we all do, do I notice a quiet gaze settled on me.

My fellow aussie. He hasn't said a single word since the topic of Micah came up, and it has me strangely confused. There's something very uneasy swirling around his eyes, and it's telling me just one thing.

There's something he knows about my boyfriend, that I don't.

#f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic #jacob elordi #lando norris #carlos sainz #own character #original character #ferrari #scuderia ferrari

[messy-gemini1]

His lost Angel, returned to his heaven.

Even with an eye missin, Micah could picture you form as if you were standing Infront of him..

Your glowing (h/c) locks, bright smile and bright eyes that lit up his day any time he saw you.

But he was an arrogant bastard, too greedy for his own good. He was Icarus and he had flown too close to the sun.

He could remember the look of disappointment and sadness when Arthur arrived to call him a rat. You begged for him to be lying, begged Arthur that you man wouldn't tell you out.

No matter how much Micah wanted to tell you it was a lie, he couldn't because despite how much he loved you; he was still a greedy bastard..

he tried to console you, but the Pinkertons had arrived, guns blazing as you hide behind the table with him. The look on your face broke his heart; your eyes were cold, distand...

"please darlin, i did it for us!" he begged, firing shots. No! you did it for yourself!" you screamed at him. Micah flinched, he knew it too, he knew he did it for himself.

"(y/n)! c'mon!" John yelled, waving you to the cave. You bit your lip and looked, before meeting Micah's eyes.

"go darlin...get outta here" he said, he grabbed your hand and placed a small coin purse in it before shoving your quickly to john, who was quick to pull you along.

He remembered how he felt when he beat Arthur, how he knew you'd be so disappointed in him. How Morgans words stung him "you'll never be...good for that girl" he wheezed, and Micah knew it too.

He knew he was never good for you, and yet. You had stayed with him, even when he was in Guarma, you waited for him.

Micah sighed and threw his cigarette into the ground, snuffing it out. He never thought he'd be back in this place again.

He boots clicked across the cobblestone as he led his horse to the hitching post before walking into the store. He looked around the store before walking up to the register and hitting the bell.

"Just a second!" came a voice, and Micah could swear his heart stopped.

There you were, dressed in a black button-down vest and a red skirt. You both froze when seeing each other, Micah quick to take off his hat. "Hello, darlin..." He spoke. You gulped, carefully stepping up to the Counter.

"Hello...Micah" the way you said is name made his knees weak, as if he was that nervous man who was sacred to ask you to dance all those years ago.

You had aged beautifully to him, your hair pinned in a messy bun, eyes still shining as bright as the day he lost you.

"What can I help you with" you spoke, looking away gently. Micah cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Just need a few things" he said, pulling a list from his breast pocket and handing it to her. their fingers touched for just a second and it sent electricity through Micah.

You gingerly took the note and looked over it. "yeah, I can get this for you" You spoke. Micah smiled "thank you."

"Listen I-" he started but you stopped him "no, don't you start with apologizes" you said, pointing a finger at him. Micah was surprised by the sight of tears filling your eyes.

"Your right. But I'm still sorry. Not for what i did to the gang...But for what I did to you" he said, taking a step around the counter, moving to stand in front of you.

You crossed your arms, hugging yourself and biting back tears. Micahs heart clenched, how could he have done this to his angel, to the one girl he promised everything to.

He opened his mouth to speak, pausing when catching the light on your ring finger.

"is that.." he started, taking your hand in his own. Looking at the ring on your finger.

It was the ring he hid in the coin purse he gave to you, he was going to surprise you with it that day but fate had other plans.

Your eyes widened before you moved your hand. "shut up..." Micah grinned, hands moving to sit atop your waist. "so you have missed me.." You scoffed and rolled your eyes, lookinh away from the outlaw.

"momma! look!' a blonde-haired child ran into the shop, holding a flower out to you.

Micah was surprised, looking from the boy to you.

"Micah baby, why don't you go to the back and sit awhile momma talks okay?" you moved past Micah and ushered your child into the back room.

"Micah huh?" Micah spoke, leaning against the counter with a cocky grin on his lips.

You crossed your arms, looking away. "you...You once told me that in your family, the first-born son is named after his father."

You hated the fact Micah still had this effect on you, even after all these years. he still turned you into putty, as if he was that man all those years ago.

Micah's boots clicked across the floorboards before they stopped Infront of you.

"Can... can I stay with you for a while? ya know, meet my son and all?" he asked, trying to not sound desperate.

Your eyes widen before you shifted your gaze away once more. 'I-I don't know Micah. i don't want my son involved in the outlaw life..." you spoke.

Micah cupping your cheek gently, turning your gaze to face his own. baby blue eyes stared at you with that same old adorable look when he wanted something...and you were weak against them.

"I promise, I won't cause any trouble. and if I do, I'll let you kick my ass" he grinned.

You bit your bottom lip before sighing "fine"

Micah can still think back on that day, 2 years ago and now here he was, tangled limbs with your own as you slept soundly beside him in the bed.

He smiled down at your form, sun shining through the curtains and illuminating your form perfectly. You looked like and angel.

His angel.

His angel who had returned to his personal heaven.

He would not let you down this time, not after giving him the life he graved deep down his heart and below his ego..

Your stirred from your slumber, eyes blinking open slowly before looking up into his eyes, er rather his good eye.

Micah grinned softly, placing a chaste kiss on your brow before he ran a hand up and down your bare back.

You smiled tiredly at him, cupping his rough cheek and rubbing a thumb over his scar. No words were spoken between the two of you and yet, so many things were said at a glance.

Micah didn't need to hear those three words from you, he could see them in your eyes as you stared at him with so much adoration and affection it almost made him tear up.

Now. He'd never lose his angel. Never allow her to escape his heaven to fall to earth without him.

#rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #micah bell #micah bell x reader #angst #fluff #parent micah #not gonna lie micah kinda look hot with the scar

[allzelemonz]

Dirty Rat: Micah Bell X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader referred to as ‘boy’, ‘man’, and ‘mister’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut, Language Warnings: Micah Bell is his own warning, unestablished relationship, handjob, sex in water, sex in a lake, washing/bath, mild dirty talk Summary: Some of the men in camp don’t listen when Miss Grimshaw tells them to bathe. She asks you for some help in making sure they are somewhat clean.

Helping Pearson is a roulette. Whoever gets stuck with it is the unlucky one that has to listen to him tell his Navy stories and gripe about how the vegetables need to be cut evenly. Today that is you and you are closer to cutting his fingers off than ever before. It seems that no matter how you do it, it’s wrong to the old sailor. He takes pride in his work, nothing wrong with that, but it’s getting on your nerves when coupled with the heat of the day and the looming threat of Pinkertons. So when you’re done, you walk away fast.

“Mister, could I have a moment of your time.” Miss Grimshaw stops you before you get very far.

You take a breath, not wanting to lose your temper in front of the woman that keeps everyone’s shit together. “Yes, Miss Grimshaw. You need something?”

“Sorry to disturb you.” She folds her hand in front of her. “I was hoping you could speak to a few of the men for me.”

Your face twists into confusion. “Why?”

“They tend to listen to a man better than a woman it seems.” She sighs. “They are gettin’ too filthy to stand. They need baths and you seem to manage to wash yourself well enough.”

“You want me to handle that?” You ask.

“Just a few ‘a the boys that I missed.” She waves her hand dismissively. “The more stubborn ones.”

“Who are the stubborn ones?” You ask, rubbing your eyes.

“Mister Macguire, Mister Marston, and Mister Bell.”

You can’t help but laugh a little. “Sean? I might be able to get Sean, but John and Micah?”

“I can only mother ‘em so much, I think they need another young man to tell ‘em.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know, Miss Grimshaw.”

“You cannot tell me you wouldn’t appreciate them lookin’ a little more clean.”

A heat comes over you. “Now, Miss, I-”

She raises her hand to silence you. “I expect those boys to be clean by tomorrow, or I will be speakin’ with Dutch about that train job he’s been plannin’. I think he will find that he needs one less gun than he thinks.”

You bite the inside of your mouth, thinking. You like train jobs. Everyone likes train jobs. “Fine.” You say. “I will speak with them, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Clean.” She warns. “By tomorrow.”

She walks off towards the campfire, leaving you to wonder how to go about this. You decide to start with Sean, he’ll be the easiest to convince when you remind him that people are much more likely to be attracted to him when he’s clean. It works, the beers help. He wastes no time and jumps straight into the lake, clothes and all. No soap, but better than nothing. John is next. After some deliberation you opt to trick him, leading him to the lake with a story about a baby-eating monster that only a gullible John would believe before pushing him in and throwing him a bar of Strauss’ homemade soap. He tries to leave, but you manage to push him back into the water until he stays put and sheds some of his clothes to clean himself. You leave him be, asking Abigail to keep an eye on him. She gladly does.

Lastly is Micah. He is a generally greasy man, but you can see what Miss Grimshaw means when you catch him by the scout fire. His hair is so dirty that it looks brown rather than the usual blond and you can barely make out the ever-present dark circles under his eyes compared with the dirt on his face. He doesn’t seem to care as he sits and sharpens his knife like he always does.

“Hello, Mister Bell.” You say, sitting across the fire.

He mumbles your name in greeting, focus still on his knife.

“I will be truthful with you.” You sigh. “Miss Grimshaw is making me convince a few of the men to bathe.”

He looks up at you, peering from under his hat. He’s stopped sharpening the knife and sits very still. You feel the silent threat he puts in the air and it sends a shiver up your spine.

“She’s gonna make Dutch take me off the train job if you don’t.” You take a somewhat shaky breath. “I’m usually the one covering you, you wanna get shot?”

Micah shakes his head, chuckling darkly. “Oh, I’ll do it, cowpoke. If ya come with me.”

Confusion comes over your face. “What?”

Micah puts his knife and sharpener away, leaning forward in his seat. “Ya heard me.”

The smirk on his face is wicked and his face is lit up by the fire in an accentuating glow. Your muscles are tense and your stare fixes itself on the fire. You really want to go on this train job and if Miss Grimshaw gets far enough into Dutch’s ear, you’ll never have a chance. Micah is an asshole, a sleazy one at that, especially now. But damn if he’s not attractive, damn if seeing him spin his guns around doesn’t make something pool in the pit of your stomach.

“Fine.” You nod, coughing to hide the slight waver in your voice. “Fine.”

Micah stands, the glow from the fire leaving his face as he walks towards the lake. “Come on then, cowpoke.”

You feel the hitch in your breath and the tightness in your stomach as the details hit you. Micah, lake, bath, general lack of at least a few articles of clothing. You stand, legs a little shaky, and follow Micah down to the lake. It’s a spot most people use for bathing because it’s out mostly out of sight from camp but not so far away that you might be caught off guard by outsiders and there’s not so many fish.

Micah stops at the shoreline, his hands resting on his gun belt and his eyes raking over you. “You first.”

You meet his eyes for a second, unable to hold it with the embarrassment. You look out to the water and shake your head. “It’s you that needs it.”

“You ain’t got the power here, cowpoke.” Micah says, rocking on his feet. “I ain’t doin’ anything without a little show for my troubles.”

Shivers fill your body when you watch his eyes roam over it. It’s not a bad shiver, but not quite a good one. Micah is unnerving, handsome, but unnerving. You take strained breaths, working up some nerve. “I’m not putting on a show.”

Micah walks towards you, stopping just a few inches away. “What if I help ya?”

He reaches out and knocks your hat off of your head. It falls behind you on the ground with a soft thump. Micah returns his hand to his belt and stands relaxed, waiting for an answer. Your eyes jump around as you think, then you nod and it takes Micah less than a second to step in and bring his hands up to unbutton your shirt. You stand still, heart beating so much you’re surprised he can’t feel it. When his fingers brush against your bare skin you can’t help but to look up at his face. He’s focused, watching every inch of skin he reveals in taking off your clothes.

Micah glances up and catches your eyes, that wicked smirk coming back to his face. “I ain’t the only one wantin’ this, am I?” He leans in close enough to whisper. “I seen you stare, cowpoke. Ain’t nothing ta be ashamed of.”

He dips his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your neck that makes the shivers return in greater numbers. Your hands timidly go to his shirt, undoing the buttons as he presses more kisses along your neck. It’s not long before Micah fumbles with the fastening of his pants, the last thing separating you. You dig the soap out of your pocket as he does. When you turn to face him you let your eyes run over every inch that you’ve never seen. He seems to be doing the same with you as he comes close and takes the soap from your hand. You follow him to the lake, still feeling the intense beat of your heart as the water reaches above your waist.

“Do what ya came here ta do, cowpoke.” Micah whispers, pressing the soap back into your hand.

You hold the soap in your hand for a second, staring at it, still baffled by what exactly is happening. Micah traces his hand over your bicep, watching you closely. You slowly press the soap in your hand, getting enough of it to use. Then you start with his hair, trying not to look at his face because your knees might give out if you do. You use your hands to scoop water over his head and scrub the dirt out. He watches your every move, only closing his eyes momentarily to avoid the soap. You scrub until his hair looks blond again, then move to his face. You’re less nervous now, having the task to distract you from the other details. Micah’s face is what you’d expect of an experienced gunslinger. He has deep scars and years of wear and tear that fail to overshadow his handsome features. You pay close attention to his facial hair, making sure it’s just as free of dirt and returns to the same blond as the hair on his head.

Micah reaches up and grabs your wrist, making you freeze as you remember the details. He moves your hand down, making room for him to lean in and press his lips to yours. His freshly cleaned mustache brushes against your skin and he comes closer, pressing his body against yours. Your dick twitches when you feel his own brush against it. Micah’s hand reaches down between you, wrapping his hand around you.

“Ya better finish yer job before I’m done.” He whispers against your lips as his hand gives a gentle squeeze.

You have to lean on him to stay standing when he starts, running his thumb over the tip. Once he starts a slow pace you’re able to gather a single thought. You grip the soap bar as if your life depends on it and straighten up. You run the soap over his chest, trying to focus on getting the dirt off. Micah’s hand picks up the pace and he chuckles when you stumble a bit, leaning on him again for support. A sound escapes your mouth and you bury your face in his shoulder to stop from making any more.

“Look at ya, comin’ undone this easy.” He whispers. “How many times have you thought about this, huh?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face further into his neck as he adds a slight twist to his motions.

Micah chuckles darkly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I bat ya think about it every night, huh, cowpoke.”

“Micah.” You breathe against his skin. “Shit, Micah.”

He continues his motions as you release into the water, only stopping when your breathing evens out again. The soap in your hand is crushed, deep indents where your fingers are with very little left to the bar. Micah holds you steady for a moment before he takes it from you.

“Go get dressed.” He whispers, running a hand down your back. “I ain’t done.”

He lightly pushes you back and you stand on your own, watching him run the soap over himself for a moment before you follow his instructions and return to the shore. Your legs are shaky as you gather your things, your pants are particularly hard to pull on. You ignore the splashing sounds as Micah comes out of the water and reaches for his clothes. Your hands fumble with your gun belt when he comes up behind you. He turns you around and fastens it for you, already fully dressed.

“I been waitin’ fer this, cowpoke.” He says, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Ya ain’t disappointed so far.”

He reaches down and grabs your hat from the ground. His other hand grips at the fabric of your shirt and pulls you along, walking towards your tent. Your legs are willed by the promise of what’s to come despite the shakiness you still feel in every step. Not only did you complete Miss Grimshaw’s task, you got much more than you thought you would.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #micah bell #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #micah bell x reader #micah bell x male reader #x reader #x male reader

[queenxxxsupreme]

To Hesitate (dad!Arthur Morgan x reader)

A/N: okay so this is me trying to kick myself into gear lmao this dad!Arthur Morgan w/ daughter Daisy series has gone on for far too long and i need to get this part out so I can get myself in gear for the good part lmao, the previous parts can be found here on my rdr2 masterlist 

Warnings: angsty, nothing outside of canon

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Arthur struggles to figure out what he needs to do now that Micah has you. 

“The hell do you mean he has her, Abigail?”

“It all happened so fast, Arthur! It’s been so long since I been involved in somethin’ like that!” 

“What’s going on?” Hosea asked as he walked out onto the porch with John. 

“Micah has Y/N!”

Arthur took a step back, his head spinning as a million different scenarios came to mind. His heart began to thump in his chest and his stomach sunk. Every noise around him became muffled and distanced as he stared down the dirt road that led to and from Lupine Valley Ranch. 

“Daddy?” Daisy said his name, her voice shaky and fearful. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew something wasn’t right. 

When he didn’t answer her, she tried to move towards him, but Hosea put his hand on her shoulder. 

“Daddy!” 

Arthur snapped his head in her direction, the sound of her frantic voice bringing him out of whatever daze he was in. 

There were tears in his little girl’s eyes as she stood on the top step in front of Hosea. 

“Daisy.” He whispered. What would he tell her if her mother never came back? How would he tell her? Would he even be able to tell her? 

Arthur took a step towards her but found that his knees were shaky and untrustworthy. 

John was standing right there, having been checking on Abigail, and put his hand on Arthur’s arm when he saw that Arthur was almost about to collapse. 

“Whoa, Arthur. Take it easy.”

Arthur brought his gaze up to John, trying to fight back tears. 

“What do I– How do I-I tell her?”

“Let’s just get inside first. Uncle’s goin’ to get Charles and Sadie.”

***

Hosea ushered Daisy inside and right behind them were John, Abigail, and Arthur. 

“Abigail, will you take Daisy for a minute?” Hosea asked her. 

“Of course.” 

Hosea watched as Abigail went into the kitchen to sit with Daisy at the table. 

“You okay, son?” He moved towards Arthur. The man was white as a ghost as he stood near the front windows of the living room with his hands on his hips.

“How do I tell her, Hosea?” Arthur brought a hand up to rub his mouth. “How do I tell Daisy?”

“Y/N isn’t dead, Arthur.” Hosea reminded him. “We’ve got no reason to believe that, so there’s no reason for us to start acting like it.”

“It’s Micah we are talkin’ about! You know what that man is capable of!” 

“I know, I know.” Hosea nodded steadily. “That’s why we’ve got to keep our heads. As soon as Sadie and Charles get here, we’ll figure out what to do.”

“I ain’t waitin’.” Arthur shook his head. “Tell them to meet me in Strawberry.”

Without another word, he left the living room and went to the bedroom he shared with you. 

“If he leaves this ranch, John, go with him, please.” Hosea said. John nodded his head. 

***

Abigail found Arthur in his bedroom loading a shotgun. 

“Arthur?”

“Abigail.” He strapped the gun over his shoulder and then reached into the wardrobe where he kept the guns he rarely used. 

“Arthur, there’s something I have to tell you.”

He put a carton of bullets into a pocket on his jacket and reached for another carton. 

“Y/N told me she thinks she’s pregnant.”

He paused for a moment to take in her words. His hand rested on the shelf, bracing himself while he let everything settle into place. 

Abigail shifted where she stood, wringing her hands together. She didn’t say anything further, fearing that she’d say the wrong thing. 

Arthur nodded his head slowly as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I know.” 

“You know?” Abigail furrowed her brows.

“Just noticed a few things that have been different about her recently. Things that were different with her when she was pregnant with Daisy.” Arthur’s voice was quiet. He turned his head to look out of one of the bedroom windows. “She loves coffee. Always has…. But when she was pregnant with Daisy, Y/N…. She couldn’t stand the smell of it. Same for any time meat of any sort was bein’ cooked. Had to have the windows open and air out the house any time we cooked a meal for nine whole months. Couldn’t stand the smell of anything when she was pregnant.”

Arthur smiled just a little at the memories. You never had a weak stomach until you were carrying Daisy. 

The smile slowly faded from his face and was replaced with something more solemn and heartbreaking. 

“Abigail, what am I gonna do if I lose–,”

“That ain’t gonna happen, Arthur.” She stopped him. “Y/N is as strong as iron.”

“But Micah’s worse than anything we’ve ever seen before. He’s not afraid to–,” Arthur stopped himself. 

Abigail’s stomach churned at the possibilities. With Micah Bell, the horrors you could face were endless. 

The sound of horses outside caught Abigail’s attention. She went over to the window and peaked outside.  

“It’s Charles and Sadie.”

***

“What the hell happened?” Sadie asked as Arthur walked out onto the front porch. 

“Micah’s got Y/N.” Arthur’s hand came up to hold on to the strap of the rifle across his chest. 

“What? How?”

“She and Abigail went down to Strawberry. They ran into him there.”

“Is Abigail okay?” Charles looked beyond Arthur to John. 

“She’s shook up is all, and worried out of her mind about Y/N.” John answered. 

“Well what are we waitin’ for?” Sadie threw her hands into the air. “Let’s go to Strawberry and see what we can find out!”

John and Charles moved to mount their horses, but Arthur hesitated. 

“I-I have to go see Daisy real quick.” He shook his head softly. A part of him knew there was no time to waste, but another part of him couldn’t stand the thought of leaving his daughter without saying something. What if you were already gone and he didn’t make it back? He couldn’t leave without saying at least a little goodbye to Daisy.

“Go.” Charles gave him a nod. 

***

Arthur slipped into the house through the front door, setting the rifle down by the door. He moved quickly down the hallway towards Daisy’s room. 

Abigail had all three kids in the room. Jack was reading while Abigail, Grace, and Daisy talked.

Abigail was the first to notice his presence in the doorway. 

“Arthur.”

“Abigail. Just need to talk to Daisy a minute.”

“Daddy!” Daisy jumped up from where she was sitting on the floor and ran to him. 

With his hand on the back of her head, he guided her towards the middle of the hallway so that they would have a bit of privacy. 

Arthur’s heart began to race and all the air in his lungs seemed to be pushed out. He ran a hand over his face before kneeling down to be at Daisy’s height. 

“I…. Sweetpea, I need you to be on your best behavior for papa and Aunt Abigail while I’m gone, okay?”

“Where are you going?”

He paused, tilting his head down a little. 

“I’ve got to go get momma.”

“Where is she? Is she lost?”

“Just a little.” Arthur smiled, putting his hand on her cheek. “But I want you to know that we both love you to pieces, your momma and me do. You know that, don’t ya?”

“Yeah!” She giggled. “Go find her, daddy! We’re supposed to make cookies with Aunt Lucy today.”

Arthur leaned forward to kiss her head. He fought the urge to squeeze her as tight as possible. If this was his last time seeing his little girl, he wanted to hold her as tight as he could. But he didn’t want to cause her any alarm. Daisy was just like you. She was a worrier by nature. 

“Go on back to Aunt Abigail, sweetpea.”

He watched her run down the hallway. 

A few moments later, Carson came to sit next to him, nudging Arthur’s arm with his nose. 

“Hey, boy.” He petted the dog’s head. “You take care of her, alright?”

“You talk as if you know you won’t make it back.” Hosea spoke from the end of the hall.

Arthur stood to his feet, hastily wiping his face clear of tears with swipe of his hand.

“This isn’t a suicide mission–,”

“I’m not lettin’ John or Charles come with me, Hosea.” Arthur firmly shook his head. “They got families of their own. I can’t have Lucy lose her husband and her baby lose its father, or-or Grace and Jackie lose their father.”

“You know they won’t let you go alone! Y/N is their family!”

“She wouldn’t want them to! If anything happened to them and-and she knew about it–,”

“All this talking is wasting time that she may not have! Now go and find her, and bring her back home! And quit being so goddamn stubborn about it! We’re a family, and we’ll take care of this as a family!” 

Arthur grumbled under his breath as he left through the front door, grabbing the rifle he sat down on the way out. 

***

Charles, Sadie, and John watched as Arthur approached them. 

“What’s the plan?” John asked. 

“John, Charles, I need you both to stay here.”

“What?” John furrowed his brows. 

“Someone needs to stay here and watch over the women and children.”

“You’re putting us on babysittin’ duty?” 

“What’s going on, Arthur?” Charles knew there was more to Arthur’s reasoning. There had to be.

“I don’t got time to explain it, Charles. You gotta be here for Lucy and John’s gotta be here for the kids and for Abigail. Me and Sadie can handle this.”

“Arthur, we don’t know what exactly we are walking into–,”

“You boys can argue all day long, but I’m goin’ after Y/N. Heeyah!” Sadie took off in a gallop down the dirt driveway. 

“You two stay here! That’s final!” Arthur shouted before following behind her. 

“He’s crazy.” John shook his head.

“I’m not letting them go after Micah Bell alone.” Charles said. “Who knows how many men he’s got on his side.”

“Then let’s go!”

taglist: @thefirelordm @redpool @hc-geralt-23 @persephonehemingway @astra-onikisu @Purple-Tsuki @brenobikenobi @haleypearce @zeida @ackerman-19s @open--till--midnight @muraar @multifandomtrashpanda @chrysanthykios @6kaja9 @jessadjarin @bitquirkydoe 

If your name is italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan #arthur fluff #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan rdr2 fluff #queenxxxsupreme

[bombshelllblonde]

hiiihihii!! im backkkk to tell u abt my rdr playthough bc im bored asf haha

¡love this game omg!! the graphics, the story, the details UGH!!!!

hunting is actually so fun for no reason- i bought so many fancy ass guns too 😭

also my play type whenever i play ANY story game thats open world is to do every possible thing every except the actual story so i get a bunch of stuff and then its so muvh easier

in short i have 6000+ dollars 😋

bonus of exploring everything is i got thw white arabian and i love her sm ‼️‼️ i named her pearl and she is my baby

dress up is my seconf favorite hobby

my fav outfit rn is the red vest w the floral pattern on the front (i forget what its called) n the black french dress shirt underneath + the bison necklace talisman

(also arthur w medium-long length hair n short facial hair>>>)

this game is so detail oriented, its kind of insane- im doing a high honor run atm, and i came across the blind beggar for the third (?) time and the blind guy said and i quote

"that is which killing you will finally help you, friend- to hear and see."

is this foreshadowing this feels like foreshadowing

also ik arthurs dies (bc of tiktok edits and fics, they artists in this fandom is amazing!!!) and im not prepared at all 😭 im going to procrastinate so bad 

ALSO CHARLES DESERVES SO SO MUCH I LOVE HIM

yk the hole lil speech he has at the campfire yk "most human beings seem to know why they were born but, for me- its seems i was just mean ton hurt and suffer myself" that one

im bawling istg if he doesnt get a good ending im going to be writing a formal complaint to rockstar games

anyways

tw opinions (ik bro its crazy to have opinions in 2024 whattt no wayy)

ive gotten to the point in playing where im in ch 3, and the only way i can progress the actual story is to help micah rob a stagecoach or whatever

micah is a bastard and i dont like him

him as a character is rlly well written and awesome but,,,,,hes,,,slimy,,and i hate him,,,,so he can wait for a little longer ☺️

my favorite characters rn in no particular order is

arthur (obviously) , charles , sean , javier , tilly , marybeth , and kieran

my pookies ‼️‼️

moving on im so sorry this is so so long 😭 idk anyone who likes rdr irl lmao

anyway hope u have a nice day and no wolves attack you and spoke ur horse who bucks you off a cliff

(in rdr btw)

((true story also))

yo, having 6k in chapter 3 is amazing. good for you!

my first playthrough i got the white arabian and i named her Lemoyne Tree as a tribute to the state of Lemoyne and my favorite post malone song Lemon Tree. But she always got super dirty so i then went to the lake next to Strawberry and tamed the red chestnut arabian. I LOVE LOVE LOVE that one, she's gorgeous and arthur always gets that one when i play it. my beautiful baby girl Diablo <3

also yes. heckin FUCK MICAH BELL. even from the beginning he's been a slime ball. hate that man <3

i won't go too far, but just keep yourself high honor towards the end of the game. you need that to be your first ending. :')

Charles deserves the absolute world. just listening to him speak and hanging out with him at camp, and the missions you continue on to do with him throughout the game are so much fun. charles is someone i wish i could have in my real life because he seems like he would be the best person to speak to and hang out with. he is so lovely and down to earth. even arthur says it a couple times throughout the game. charles gets a good ending i promise.

my top blorbos are Arthur, Dutch, Charles, Hosea, and Josiah Trelawny my absolute beloved <33333 just wait until you go on the mission with Charles to find trelawny. one of my favorite missions ever ever ever ever!!

a lot of people dislike dutch, but i love him so much. he is my actual father. i love him.

i also hate john. let me know how you feel about that little greasy weasel of a man. :)))

i'm so so so glad you're having fun and i am very invested, so please continue to keep me updated on what ur doing because i need to live vicariously through you. if i could erase my entire mind and replay the game over and over again for the first time, i totally would

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr 2 #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #red dead redemption memes

[immajustvibehere]

Chance Encounter

Chapter 18

Chapter 1 // Chapter 17

warning: classic Micah, also I'm testing the grounds if anyone would still read this - I might not yet be fully convinced if I'll ever finish it and...yeah you can tell by my writing sry :,)

summary: Arthur leaves early to meet up with Mary in Saint Denis. You have to deal with your bad mood and Micah getting his hands on Arthur's journal.

2000 words, 10 minutes reading time

You never rejoined the party after Arthur had left the room. Instead, you put on some clothes and lied down again. You were exhausted and had a lot to mull over. You desperately tried to stop your mind from replaying the last half an hour over and over, picking new details you could have done different. Eventually, with thunder rolling over the swamps, you fell asleep.

When Arthur entered the room again at some point in the night, you only blinked a couple of times, drifting off to your dream again before you entirely lost your grip on it. You vaguely remembered him crawling into the bed next to you, but when you woke up the next morning, there was only an empty space where he should have been. You thought nothing of it, he usually woke up earlier than you. Only when you joined the others for morning coffee and Arthur was nowhere to be seen, you started to wonder…

"Mary-Beth, have you seen Arthur?", you approached her with your coffee mug. She was seated at a table alone and had smiled at you, which you had taken as invitation to join her. However, after you had asked the question, worry appeared on her face. She seemed unhappy you had chosen her to ask this question.

"He rode off to Saint Denis", she explained and when your face showed that you weren't quite satisfied with the answer, she sighed and added: "I guess he wants to meet Mary Linton there. A letter from her arrived two days ago." Your face dropped. Mary Linton certainly is a name you dreaded to hear ever since you and Arthur had become closer. He had never brought her up…and yet, here she was. But you were ready to give Arthur the benefit of the doubt. "Is she in trouble?", you asked, awkwardly clearing your throat.

"I don't know, y/n. I'm sorry", Mary-Beth said, a compassionate smile on her lips, "I've told Arthur that he should forget her and that she's no good for him." You nodded and took a sip of your coffee. "Yeah, no...that's okay I guess", you stammered for the solemn reason to say something and end this topic, "What does Miss Grimshaw have in store for us today?" An awkward chuckle was supposed to cover up how you truly felt, but you were aware that you couldn't fool Mary-Beth. She knew you liked Arthur, and she also knew that Arthur had a soft spot for you. Mary Linton...was unexpected, but you were determined to cram that in the back of your mind. Arthur must have a solid reason to go and see her.

The day passed quickly with chores that kept you distracted. In a desperate attempt to get your mind off everything Mary related, you agreed to help Pearson collect some crayfish. The constant threat of being mauled to death by an alligator sure directed your thoughts away from Arthur and Mary. Later, you helped to prepare lunch and after having eaten you were looking for a moment of silence and solitude, when you saw Micah strolling towards you.

Now, you had made it your upmost priority to avoid being close to Micah whenever possible. So when you saw him approaching you, you stood up, ready to make a beeline for the mansion and Arthur's room, but he called your name. "Y/n! I bet you wanna see this!", and when you looked at him, he pulled something from his inside pocket which you immediately recognized as Arthur's journal. Micah grinned disgustingly when he saw the confusion on your face, but he had hooked you like a god damn fish. He nodded in a direction leading away from the tents, and you followed him. He didn't stop until you reached the little empty barn. You were hesitant of following him behind it, because you wouldn't be detectable from camp anymore, but he lured you with: "Trust me, you don't want anyone else hearing this."

There was a chair behind the barn, empty and forsaken, probably placed there for the person on guard duty. "Sit down", Micah offered, charmingly pointing at the chair. "I'd rather stand", you stated. Micah seemed to savour how dark and bitter your face had become, it conjured a big smile on his face. "You're in for a show", he taunted, grabbed you by the shoulder and pushed you into the chair. "How did you get Arthur's journal, Micah? It's none of your business", you questioned, eyes suspiciously fixed on him.

"Your cowpoke was stupid enough to let it lie around before he left today morning. And...", Micah chuckled, "I've got some good stuff for you." You didn't want to hear it. You wanted to snatch the book out of Micah's hand and run away with it, but when Micah opened the book and a lavender twig fell out, dramatically slow dropping to the floor, you were petrified. This was the twig you had stuck to Arthur's hat...which had been exactly there when you saw him return yesterday with Jack. Why had he taken it off?

Your mouth was already agape, you didn't think you could handle any similar stuff...but yet again, Micah was quicker, silencing every rebellious idea of getting up and leaving without another word.

"Turns out you're a whore. Couldn't save yerself for your precious man and still no good in bed", Micah clicked his tongue, "I thought you'd be a good lay. Real disappointin’.” You starred at Micah while he flicked through the pages, nodding now and again, seemingly reading out little passages. "No wonder he ran off to his old love. Sloppy, weak, no talent with a rifle. That's where your hole in yer leg comes from, apparently", Micah snickered, "Oh, this is a good one; he calls you a fool. Your handwriting's shit too, he wrote it took him a couple of minutes to decipher one sentence you wrote."

"But you'll like this bit best. Wasn't even so long ago he wrote that: 'Saw Mary again. I feel like the luckiest man alive. That woman confuses me and plays me for a fiddle like no one else alive.' Lovesick fool even drew a little heart between his and her initial. Now that's some...", Micah made a disgusted face that looked like he was amused at the same time, "childish behaviour from your big man."

Honestly, you'd heard enough. You jumped up to grab Arthur's journal but before you had even reached out, Micah slapped you so vigorously, your vision went black, and you found yourself dropping back into the chair. You desperately tried to collect your wits; it seemed like you had completly misjudged the situation. What you had thought was Micah having fun, teasing and taunting you had turned into something much more serious so quickly you found it difficult to adapt accordingly. Your ear was ringing and you felt a familiar metallic taste in your mouth when Micah came closer and suddenly grabbed you by the collar. "You listen, you little bitch. You should stop meddling with the higher-ups in this gang or you'll regret it. You're fucking a man who gives a shit about you, so stay down", Micah literally spit those words in your face. Then he let go of you, dropped Arthur's journal to the ground and walked off, like nothing had ever happened.

You needed a couple of minutes. First you waited until the pain in your cheek had eased just enough for you to actually move your jaw and spit out the blood that had accumulated in your mouth. Anxiously, you let your tongue glide over your teeth, finding them complete and unharmed to your great relief. The blood came from your inner cheek flesh being abused, the wound burned, but nothing you couldn't handle. After the nauseause had stopped you picked up Arthur's journal, tighly grabbing it.

You had no intent of reading it. Maybe Micah had said the truth about what was written in there, maybe he had invented some of it; it didn't really matter. But he had read something, because he knew sickingly much about stuff he shouldn't know about. You got up after a while and walked back, took a random book that was lying around and sat yourself down in the round thingy, pretending to read. Arthur's journal rested in your lap. You didn't read one single word from your book though; you just used it as an excuse "to do something" and not be approached by anyone.

The sun hung low in the sky and dusk would set in any second now, when you heard the hooves of a horse arriving in camp. In the corner of your eye, you confirmed it was Arthur. He trod to the stew bowl and loaded his plate with a decent portion before he was approached by Mary-Beth. Moments later he strolled towards you. You couldn't hold back a big sigh and looked up when he was on the patio with you.

"Y/N", he greeted, somewhat monotonous.

"Hey Arthur", you replied, immediately feeling this heavy burden on you. You didn't want to talk to him. You didn't want an explanation; you were sure it would only hurt you more.

"Everything...ehrm...alri-", you cut him off by standing up and holding out his journal: "Here. You forgot this."

You watched Arthur's face attentively. It briefly lit up in recognition when he saw his journal and took it. Some surprise and confusion were mixed into this expression, he probably hadn't even noticed that he didn't have it with him today. But suddenly, he furrowed his eyebrows and a darker expression spread across his features. His voice was low when he looked at you: "Did you read it?"

"No. Would never", you were a bit disgruntled by the misstrust, "didn't need to anyways. Micah was so kind as to read me some parts." Though the meaning of your sentence was sarcastic, Arthur could tell by your straight face that this was no funny business either for you or for him. Now, you saw what real disgust on his face looked like when he hissed: "Micah?"

"Yes", you quickly confirmed. You panicked when you saw Arthur looking towards camp, scanning it for the outlaw in question. Micah's threat was stamped on your memory. You wanted nothing more than forget the business, you were sure that if this became a big deal, Micah would put a bullet between your ears before the sun had fully set. Pleadingly you grabbed Arthur's jacket, only noticing by touching it that it wasn't a jacket he usually wore. It was finer...not really rough outlawy. "Don't confront him about it. Please." "Why not!?", Arthur was furious, but for now he could keep it under control. "Because I beg you not to", you almost winced. Arthur grabbed you and shoved you into a different position. You didn't quite understand why but when he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers you were painfully reminded.

"Wha's this?", Arthur's eyes were fixed on your cheek. The pain from the slap had dissipated, and aside from the unpleasant flesh wound that you had touched with your tongue a couple of times - and every time bitterly regretted it - you hadn't thought it had left a mark. But apparently it had, because not only burned Arthur's touch on your cheek, you only now realised that he had shoved you into a different position to have the remaining sunlight to illuminate your face.

"Nothing. Doesn't matter", you answered.

"Tell me, y/n", Arthur growled as if he expected Micah to be the answer. His name was a barrier between the two of you.

"I fell", you lied and shrugged. It was a bad lie. You knew it and Arthur knew it, but he let go of your arm anyways and looked at you.

"I can't deal with this right now", Arthur admitted. It sounded harsh and brutal the way he said in, in reality he had worked his way through a very emotionally confusing day and would have liked some solitude for reflection. When he turned around to leave you huffed a: "Hope Mary gave you a better time than I did." Arthur hesitated briefly. You saw it in the way he took the next step - just a slight interruption as if he considered stopping and arguing - but he never did stop.  

------x

Thanks @little-honeypie for supplying like...every idea <3

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption community #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr #rdr fanfiction

[hellsbells88]

A Fool’s Grief

Micah encounters Lenny by the river, grappling with sorrow and the bottle, and in the heavy night air, he offers his own brand of solace — cold, hard truth.

It was a loud, sticky night in Lemoyne. The heat and the cicadas made for difficult sleep. By the river sat Lenny—his figure a silhouette gripping a whiskey bottle, something he wasn’t known to do.

In the shadows behind stood Micah, cigarette in hand as he narrowed an eye at young Lenny. The ember of his cigarette glowed in the darkness, casting a faint light on his rugged face. Micah rarely slept and patrolled often, he wasn’t used to finding anyone awake with him, especially in such a state.

Micah’s boots crushed the underbrush as he approached from behind, ashing his cigarette in the air. The sound of his boots on the dry leaves broke the stillness of the night. “What's eatin’ ya?” He asked, his gruff voice cracking through the atmosphere, a trail of smoke curling up from his mouth.

Lenny looked up, his eyes flickering with surprise, fading with a scoff. “What do you care?” he retorted, his voice laced with a mix of bitterness and sorrow. "Don't pretend you care, Micah.”

Micah grinned, taking another slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke mingling with the humid air. “Didn't say I cared,” he replied. “Just came to my usual spot, and here you are… ruinin’ my view.”

There was a pause. Lenny's shoulders slumped with the weight of grief.

“It’s… Jenny,” he spoke quietly. “I… never told her—” He stopped, wiped his nose. “There’s.. many things. I loved her, Micah.”

Micah was quiet, his eyes sharp on Lenny. Jenny's name hit something in him, but he didn't show much. Then he spoke, voice hard and unfeeling.

“Well, listen. Can’t expect no wise words from me,” he said bluntly. “Everyone dies. But you? You’re alive, so best act like it, while you can.” He sniffed. “You're young. You'll get over it.”

His words were stark and harsh; Jenny meant nothing to Micah. She was just one fleeting encounter among many. His empathy was absent, stark against Lenny’s obvious mourning.

Lenny gazed at Micah, his eyes showing anger and grief. “Sure. You would say that,” he muttered, fingers tightening on the bottle. “You never cared for no one but yourself.”

Micah’s grin returned, but there was no humor in it. “You’re a damn fool to care like that, and I ain’t trying to be hard with ya—look at yourself.” He gestured to Lenny with his cigarette between his fingers, the ash falling to the ground. “Learn from it.. or die from it.”

Lenny's gaze followed Micah, his voice tight and bitter. “And what do you know about love or caring for anyone?”

Micah's smirk became broader, showing a past Lenny could never imagine. Young Micah was a magnet for women, their eyes curious and wanting. They followed him in towns. He engaged in short-lived love affairs, window hopping to escape in the late hours, often having to physically peel these women off of him—viewing their affection more as an irritation.

“Wasn’t much for courting, true enough—never appealed to me,” he voiced, nonchalant, the cigarette bobbing between his lips.

Micah’s eyes wandered, taking on a distant, almost longing look. He absentmindedly twisted the cigarette between his fingers, occasionally brushing his lips as if recalling a memory. His tone softened. “Let me tell you about this young girl,” he began, voice briefly faltering, pausing to clear it. His hands lifted in a gesture of confession, “She was too young for me to be playin' with, I can admit that now—“

He cleared his throat again, as if to underscore his admission. “I was about your age, 'workin' with my daddy on a ranch.” His smirk suggested darker, possibly illicit undertakings. "She was the rancher’s daughter.”

Micah emitted a low groan, his mind visibly awash with vivid memories. He took a moment, lost in the recollection of the young girl watching him work. Resuming his story, he said, “Oh, her intentions were clear enough. She was always there, waitin’ at her window, as naked as you please, knowing exactly when I’d walk by.”

A deep sigh escaped him, his eyes shimmering with a mix of fondness and regret. He cleared his throat, seemingly trying to anchor himself back to the present. “We had many a hidden, heated night there, sneaking around that damn property.” He flicked ash off his cigarette as he spoke, a subtle reminder of his habit.

He quickly shook off the momentary lapse into sentimentality, making his voice louder, gruffer. “But—all in the past,” he added briskly, regaining his usual composure. “Fleeting moments, nothin’ more.” As he spoke, he took a final drag of his cigarette, the smoke briefly obscuring his hardened expression before he casually tossed the remainder into the lake, watching the embers hiss and die out in the water.

Lenny watched Micah, a complex mix of emotions playing across his face. Despite his disdain for the man, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for him. “What happened to her?”

Micah hesitated, an unusual occurrence for him. He sniffed dismissively, as if to maintain a casual front while he gathered his thoughts. “She kept comin’ around, more than she should’ve. I’m a man, ain’t I? I couldn’t resist.” There was a pause, a rare moment of introspection. “We were s’posed to clear out by spring, but I hung around. Oh.. I wanted her.”

Micah's next sniff was more pronounced, his expression hardening against sentimentality. His voice gained a defensive sharpness. “It made me weak. All that ‘caring’, wanting... it’s for fools. My daddy, he was hard as nails—he made me deal with it.”

Lenny's eyes narrowed, intuiting that there was more beneath the surface. “So, you just... cut ties? Just like that?” he pressed, sensing a darker truth.

Micah's jaw clenched, a shadow briefly passing over his features. “No. Weren’t as easy as that," he growled lowly, his breathing becoming rougher, the night air amplifying each sound. “The rest is none of your damn business!” His words came out almost like a hiss. “She’s gone. I took care of it, end of story.”

A cold shiver hit Lenny, realizing the full extent. Micah hadn’t merely broken off a relationship; he had taken a life, at his father’s bidding.

Micah’s face went emotionless, all feeling masked by a show of grit. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, a small testament to the humid night. “Like I said.. You’ll get over it.” His tone was final, echoing in the stillness, as he turned away, leaving Lenny with the heavy silence and his own turbulent thoughts.

#red dead redemption 2 #micah bell #lenny summers #oneshot