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verai-marcel · 3 years

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Of Dragons and Love (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Arthur didn't want to come to Strawberry, didn't want to help a certain sniveling rat escape his cell. So he decides to explore the town instead and runs into a mysterious woman whom he can't let go.

Author’s Notes: I’m gonna take a moment and lean hard on my heritage to pull some inspiration from an old Cantonese opera. And we're gonna leave Micah in his cell because nuts to that guy. So pretend this takes place in chapter two when Arthur was supposed to go rescue him, but decided to do a side quest instead. This was written for the RDR Mini Bang! @rdrbigbang

Tags: Arthur x F!Reader, spoilers, Chinese mythology-inspired, alternate timeline, mild exophilia, insta-love, magic, smut, HEA

Word Count: 6,378

Accompanying Artwork: @danger-r-98-5 has made some wonderful art for this fic!

AO3 Link is here.

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Arthur stepped into the small town of Strawberry and immediately wanted to turn around. He could pretend Micah was dead. He could just bide his time and wait for him to hang.

As he rode through the small town, he passed the small jail and kept going to the visitor's center. Seeing the map of the nearby area tacked onto the wall next to the entrance, he hitched his horse and walked over to take a better look.

"Welcome to Strawberry, good sir!"

Arthur flicked a tired glance at the boisterous man before continuing his casual perusal of the map, waiting to see if he would leave. When the man remained beside him, he sighed, exasperated.

"Hullo," he said without looking at the other man.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Uh, just passin' through." It sure as hell wasn't for pleasure, and his business was his own.

"Ah, I see. Well, please keep us in mind if you ever want to spend a day relaxing in our lovely town. This hotel is the coziest in West Elizabeth," the man boasted, gesturing behind him. "And the scenic Mount Shann and Owanjila Dam aren't too far from here."

"Alright."

"And Big Valley, just past the mountains, is a beautiful place to hunt and camp."

"Uh huh."

When Arthur continued to look at the map without any further inclination towards interacting with him, the man gave up on his sales pitch. "Well, I'll be inside if you have any questions."

"Ayup."

Finally alone, Arthur focused on the path that would take him to Owanjila. He'd been meaning to do a bit of fishing and commune with nature. Seemed like as good a place as any.

Anything to postpone the reason he came here.

***

You weren't sure how you lived so long, not knowing what you were. You had been living with your mother for two decades, not knowing who your father was. Your mother didn't talk about him, and the one time you asked, she had simply said one thing.

"He disappeared."

You didn't know what that meant exactly, and she did not explain.

Until one day, on your twentieth birthday, he appeared. A large, scary looking man came to your door. Your mother paled and tried not to react, but when he held out a necklace and told her how sorry he was for leaving her alone, she broke down and cried.

You found out that when she was young, your mother lived in a small house by a waterfall that fed a large lake. There was a growing town not too far from there, where she worked as a waitress.

One day, on the other side of the lake, a group of Chinese workers made camp as they worked on the railway that was coming through town. They were not welcomed in the town by most people, but your mother took pity on them and sold them food and other groceries, for a delivery fee.

Somehow, your father had caught her eye, and they developed a secret relationship. When her parents discovered the love letter your father had written to your mother, she was kicked out of the house, without anything of hers to take with her. When your mother had gone to the camp to look for your father, it had been abandoned, the workers having left hours earlier to the next site.

Broken hearted, your mother had thrown the necklace he had gifted her into the lake and left town, moving to Strawberry and giving birth to you. You had grown up here, made friends, had a few short dalliances with boys here while you grew up.

Strawberry was a small town, but there was a creek running through it, and when you had free time, which was not often these days, you loved to follow the creek to a waterfall and watch the water. You always felt an affinity with the water, felt like it always pulled at your very soul. You had learned how to swim with ease; your mother had said you were like a fish.

Your father explained why he had left, and why he had finally come back.

"I am a Dragon," he had said. "Great-great grand-nephew of the Dragon King of the North Sea."

He was an immortal creature, drawn to the belief of his people in a foreign land, looking for something to comfort them while they worked in dangerous conditions to make money to send home to their families. He protected them, guided them, and thus, had to follow where they went. When the camp left suddenly, he had no time to say goodbye and was nearly dragged away, the pull of his people’s belief taking him with them.

But now he was free, his people having finished their jobs. They had dispersed, either leaving for China or moving to San Francisco, where other Dragon Gods held domain and took over the belief of his former followers. So he started looking for his long lost love, who still cared for him deep in her heart, and traced the thread of emotion leading back to her.

He promised to take care of you and your mother from now on, and he made good on his promise. For the past five years, he had worked alongside the two of you, making your small farm plot healthy and fertile.

It helped that he could make the sky rain whenever you needed it.

He had also trained you in your small powers. Because you had been untrained for so long, your powers were weak, but over time, and with practice, they grew steadily stronger. You could breathe underwater. You could swim faster than humanly possible. And while you couldn't transform into a dragon, your hair became teal and your skin could shift into a bluish-grey tint. It was a bit unsettling the first time you did it in the mirror.

But your most favorite power of all was the ability to shape nearby water to your will. At first, you could only move a small amount of water in a mug. But over time, you could move water in pitchers, basins, buckets, barrels, and even water troughs for animals.

At this point, if you entered a pond, you could easily create ripples and small waves just by focusing on your energy and sending it outwards from you.

Five years had passed since he had come back, and you had learned so much. Your life was so peaceful now that it came as no surprise when your parents announced that they wanted to move back to their hometown. Of course something had to change; that was the only constant in life, after all.

But you didn’t want to leave. You loved Strawberry. This was your home.

Your father had let out a breath, then smiled, much to your surprise.

“Owanjila does not have a spirit to guard it, since it’s a new body of water. Perhaps… you can become its guardian.”

“But I’m half-human,” you had said.

“So is Owanjila,” he said.

You nodded and smiled. Now you knew why he had been training you so hard all these years.

***

Arthur was pleasantly relaxed for the first time in a long time. He had spent all day fishing and gathering herbs after he set up a small campsite tucked away in the thicker part of the forest. It was quiet on this side of the lake, since all the travelers would go across the dam to take in the scenery. He was glad he picked a spot that was farthest from, for he didn’t have the energy to even say hello.

With a couple of large fish, he made his way back to his campsite, cooked up a fine meal with his freshly picked herbs, and spent some time writing and drawing before looking up at the stars before he fell asleep, the campfire quietly dying as his snores melded with the rest of the night.

***

It had been three months since your parents had left you here. They had sold the small farm and used the money to help you fix up a small abandoned fishing cabin out here on the far side of the lake, where you could hunt and gather on your own, trading furs and fish in town. Ever since you had become the guardian, the fish had spawned much more frequently and grew faster than normal, keeping you well fed. You figured it was a side-effect of the lake having a guardian spirit now.

You looked at your hands; yesterday, you had tripped on a step as you walked back from town, getting some small cuts on the palms of your hands as they had scraped against the gravel. Today, they had healed so quickly that there were no scars; you had never healed so quickly before. You wondered if your powers were growing and had walked into town earlier today to send a letter to your folks, letting them know what had happened.

It was late; the moon was high in the sky, and as bright as the electric lights in St Denis. You were roused from your sleep by the pull of the moon, and knew that it was time.

You took off your clothes and set them on your front porch. Walking to the water’s edge, you slipped into the water without a sound, the liquid embracing you as if you were an old friend.

“Hello, Owanjila,” you whispered as you walked deeper and deeper until you were completely submerged. Then you transformed, your skin turning bluish-grey, your hair shifting to a beautiful teal, and your gills appearing near your collarbone. You kicked your legs and swam gracefully through the water, spinning and twirling as you joyfully moved through the water as easily as you could walk on land.

Once you reached the middle of the lake, you bolted upwards, your legs kicking in unison with such speed and power that you broke the surface easily, your body shooting into the air. You let out a whoop of excitement, for it was only during full moons that you could fly this high out of the water; you had certainly tried other times. For a moment, the starry sky and the bright moon seemed impossibly close, and you held out your hands as if you could gather them all up and hold them tight forever.

Flipping backwards, you extended your hands in front of you and dove back into the water with barely a splash.

***

“Huh, whuzzah,” Arthur muttered as he was jolted awake by the sound of someone yelling. Immediately on alert, Arthur reached for his pistol and carefully made his way out of the tent, looking around. Seeing nothing but trees and rocks after circling his campsite twice, he was about to go back into his tent.

Another yell echoed through the trees. It didn’t sound like anyone in danger, more like… elation?

His curiosity piqued, he quietly made his way towards the lake, following the sounds of the water sloshing around as if someone was swimming. Coming to the shoreline, he saw the full moon, reflected in the water, with ripples circling from the center of the reflection.

Unable to stop himself, Arthur found a nearby rock and climbed it to better see the center of the lake. Squatting down, he peered out at the water.

Something shot out of the water at breakneck speed, surprising him enough that he fell onto his ass.

For a split second, he saw everything clearly.

He saw her nude form, water glistening off her skin, the moon bathing her in a silvery light. He saw the look of ecstasy on her face as she looked up at the moon.

He saw her eyes as they met his.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat.

Then she was gone, diving back into the water like an arrow, hardly disturbing the surface.

Sitting up, he crawled to the edge of the rock and peered at the spot, waiting for her to return. Part of him wondered if he had imagined it, and part of him hoped she was real. He had felt like he had seen something so evanescently ephemeral that his heart fluttered like a child seeing fireworks. He wanted to experience that sparkling feeling again and again.

When his knees ached and his joints complained, he finally gave up, climbed off the rock, and returned to his tent. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it didn’t come quickly as his heart continued to race. When he finally managed to nod off, his dreams were filled with a mysterious woman with an expression so filled with euphoria that he could almost taste her joy.

***

You were mortified. A man was camping around your lake and you hadn’t noticed? Granted, you were in town most of the day trying to sell some rabbit pelts, and then you had written your letter at the post office since you had run out of ink and bought some at the general store and didn’t want to walk all the way back to your cabin.

But still, you hadn’t noticed. You supposed it was because he had no ill intent. It wasn’t that you could sense people, that wasn’t how your power worked; it was more you could feel out harmful intentions. People who came and went on the dam were usually harmless tourists and you took no notice of them. But occasionally that greedy mayor would come up here and consider building some cheap cabins out on the lake as tourist traps, and you would cause the lake to be extra choppy that day, splashing water on him if you were nearby. It was usually enough to change his mind.

You stayed at the bottom of the lake, waiting long enough before you slowly swam up again, moving towards the edge of the lake before you poked your head up from the water.

He was gone.

You sighed in relief and swam back to your cabin, looking around once more before getting out and back onto your porch. Grabbing your clothes, you got inside and dried off, thinking of the man’s shocked expression.

But what came to your mind most of all was that in the moonlight, you had managed to make eye contact. In that moment, your heart had pounded like you had seen something beautiful.

Despite your embarrassment at being caught naked and in your half-dragon form, you wanted to see him in the daylight. You wanted to find out who he was, and why your heart had finally moved after all these years.

***

Arthur came out of his tent, bleary eyed as he yawned. He hadn’t gotten a whole lot of sleep, but he was, for better or for worse, used to it. The sound of a crackling of a fire and the sight of a figure sitting with their back turned was also something he was used to.

Until he realized that the fire had gone out last night and he had come to this place alone. Reaching for his pistol, he stopped when he heard her speak.

“I mean you no harm.”

Arthur, suspicious, for people who had said that to him before often would turn around and shoot him, put a hand on his pistol, but left it in its holster. Coming out of his tent and rising to his full height, he walked around to face the woman at his campfire.

When she looked up at him, he felt like he was hit with an arrow.

Those same eyes from last night met his, and he felt like the whole world slowed and became silent. All he saw was her, and he didn’t care about anything else.

***

His eyes were beautiful, like gemstones sparkling in the morning light. His hair was tousled from sleep, but it made you think of him in bed next to you. You swallowed. Why were you thinking of waking up next to him? You barely knew him!

But you couldn’t ignore the heat in your veins as your eyes traveled down his body. His very tall, muscular body. Oh gods, you felt your heartbeat quicken as you suddenly had a mental image of him climbing over you, his naked body above yours, his big hands holding your hips as he thrust—

“Can I help you, miss?” the man finally asked, his voice rough from sleep. His voice was like whiskey, flowing smoothly over your body and making you burn with need. He swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat. Oh, to lick that sun-kissed skin…

You shook your head, both in answer to him and to clear the lustful images from your head. “I’m alright, I just wanted to share your campfire.”

***

“Oh?” Arthur asked, sitting down beside her to hide his body’s reaction to meeting her eyes. When he had met her gaze, he was hit hard with desire, the sudden image of her beneath him, legs spread, her expression of ecstasy for him and him alone.

For a brief moment, he wanted to take her, to guide her to the ground and thrust wildly inside of her like an animal.

But instead he reeled himself in; he wasn’t that kind of man. He didn’t even know why he had such a visceral reaction to her. All he knew was that she was sitting here with him now, and she was beautiful. When she turned away, he felt like he was suddenly lost, and wished for her to look at him once more with those mysterious eyes. He observed her as she poked the fire with a stick, wondering what she was thinking.

“So, uh, you live around here?” he asked, berating himself immediately for such an awkward question.

“I do, just down the shoreline,” she replied.

“Oh.”

She turned to meet his gaze, and he felt it once more. A pull, stronger than any he had ever known, as if she was hypnotizing him with just one look. Unable to stop himself, he leaned in closer, her lips beckoning him.

“What are you doing?” she asked curiously.

The spell broken, Arthur quickly leaned back and sputtered, “I, uh, I don’t know, to be honest.”

The woman smiled at him, and he felt his entire world light up with fireworks.

“What’s your name?”

“Arthur.”

“Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

She told him her name, and he repeated it just so he could say it out loud. He loved the way her name rolled off his tongue. He had shivered with desire from the way she had said her name.

“So you saw me last night,” she said after a few moments.

He smiled nervously as guilt wracked him. “Uh, yup. I’m sorry, I didn’ mean to peek.”

“It’s alright, I should’ve been more careful,” she said, a wry grin on her face. “Usually no one camps here.”

Silence stretched between them as Arthur wondered what he should say, if anything.

She brought up her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “And there’s not much to look at anyway,” she said self-deprecatingly.

“You were beautiful,” he blurted out suddenly. He couldn’t believe she’d think that. He wanted to burn the sight of her coming out of the water into his memories so he’d never forget.

She turned her head to look at him, and he felt the pull once more, but it was tinged with melancholy. It made his heart clench. He reached out and put an arm around her, pulling her into his chest, desperate to ease the pain. “Yer beautiful,” he repeated.

***

Surrounded by warmth, you sank into his chest and breathed in his scent. His natural musk, layered with balsam and leather, was soothing to you, made you feel safe and protected. No other man had affected you like this. Was this how your parents had fallen for each other? Was it an instant attraction?

You had been taught to follow your instincts, and something about this man made you want to keep him forever. To hold him tight and never let him go.

So you reached back out to him, wrapping your arms around his broad torso. Looking up at him, meeting his surprised expression, you leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were chapped but pliable as you pushed forward, pressing your body against his.

You were met with a startled grunt. He let you go and backed away, like a shy lady from an all too amorous man.

“Y-you barely know me,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Sorry,” you said, shrinking back on yourself. Maybe you misread him, maybe he was just saying you were beautiful to make you feel better. Maybe you were just lonely and wanted to connect with him, the first man who had made you feel something in years.

“Look,” he said, leaning forward again, “it’s not that I don’t want to, I just think, well, maybe we git to know each other a bit more first before, uh, well…” He trailed off, gesturing blandly.

You laughed. Of course. He was shy. Standing up, you reached out to him. “Will you stay a while? My cabin is small but it’ll protect you from the elements better than your tent. And it’ll be warmer at night too.”

Arthur stared at your hand for a moment before standing up on his own. “Alright. I’ll pack up first.”

***

Arthur wasn’t sure how he was convinced to stay in a cabin with a woman he hardly knew, but every time he met her eyes, everything else fell away and all he wanted was to be with her.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, maybe a few days, maybe weeks. But he had never been so content to just fish and hunt and spend time with his sweet lady. He learned about her parents, who had been small-time farmers near Strawberry before they moved to her mother’s hometown, leaving her to live on her own. When he had asked why, she had said it was because she loved it here and didn’t want to leave.

He understood why; after the first few days of just roaming the land, living off its bounty, he was quite content to just stay and forget his troubles. She would go into town and sell his furs and pelts, and when he wasn’t hunting, he would help upgrade her little cabin, fixing up small things here and there to make her more comfortable.

He had insisted on sleeping on his bedroll on the floor beside her bed, at least for now. He felt like he was working up the courage to bed her, even though she clearly had given him an open invitation to her bed.

Every night he thought about it.

And every night, he trudged to his bedroll and slept beside her bed like a faithful pet dog.

***

14 days had passed. The new moon would be out tonight, and you were itching to go for a swim.

But with Arthur here, you hesitated. He had seen you that first night, sure. But he hadn’t seen you clearly. He hadn’t seen your skin and hair color change, your gills at your collarbone, your preternaturally fast swimming.

As you stood at the end of your little fishing dock that was connected to the porch of your cabin, you sighed. Watching the setting sun streak its beautiful orange rays across the water, you internally debated if you should show him so you could freely act as the guardian once more. You had been feeling stifled as of late, only able to use your powers while he was out hunting, and only in secret in case he might come out of the forest at any given time.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?”

You smiled. He had started calling you his darling or his sweetheart after a week of gentle caresses as he walked by, or even a casual kiss on the cheek as you went into town on an errand. No matter how much he said it, you melted every time. It was endearing and charming to you, even though they were simple words. The way he said them, the love and care he put into those pet names, was everything you wanted to hear.

Turning to Arthur, you saw that he was dressed in his usual blue shirt and black ranch pants, looking concerned. Seeing the care he had for your well-being made you come to a decision. He deserved the truth of you.

“I need to show you something.”

***

Arthur swallowed as his sweet lady began to disrobe right there on the dock. He was shocked to a standstill, unable to move as he saw every inch of beautiful skin exposed to his view. His pants grew tight, his throat dry, and his internal instinct to protect surged through him.

“Darlin’, what’re you…”

He couldn’t utter another sound as he watched her usual skin shimmer and then shift to a blue-grey tint. Her hair became teal colored, and slits appeared above her collarbone.

“Gills,” she said as she pointed at them, shrugging shyly. “I’m a dragon spirit. Or half of one.”

Arthur could only nod in both shock and awe. He had suspected she was hiding something, but he would have never guessed it was something like this. He took in her form, human and yet not, familiar and yet bizarre. But still beautiful, wonderful, her.

“Do… do I disgust you?”

“No!” Arthur said, quickly taking two steps to stand in front of her. “Yer still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

Seeing her smile shyly and look away, his need to assure her only grew stronger. “That why you could swim so good?” he asked, reaching up to caress her neck, right above her gills.

She nodded again.

“What’d you mean by half?” he asked, curious.

“My father, he was a dragon, the great-great grand nephew of the Dragon King of the North Sea.”

Arthur nodded. “Oh. Okay then.” He didn’t understand what that meant, but it sounded a bit important.

She tittered. “I don’t really know how important that is either,” she said, answering the unspoken question. “But I can swim real fast, breathe underwater, and I can control water a little bit,” she said, her excitement growing with each word. She turned to the water and put out her hand.

Ripples started to appear, and they grew into small waves, rolling across the surface of the lake.

She turned back to him, a happy glow to her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re not disgusted by me.”

“I’d never be,” he replied, pulling her into his arms. His gaze traveled along her face, admiring her hair color, her bluish-grey skin, and the gills at her neck, before looking at her smile, full of self-confidence. She was radiant and it made her all the more alluring.

“You’re beautiful, no matter what.”

***

This time when you kissed Arthur, he kissed you back, unafraid, bold, confident. He quickly took over, his fingers gripping the back of your head as he pulled your body closer to his. You felt the rough fabric of his shirt sliding along your sensitive nipples and moaned softly.

He suddenly wrapped one arm around your waist and one around your ass before picking you up with ease.

“I need you darlin’,” he murmured before turning from the dock and walking determinedly towards your cabin. He maneuvered you inside and shut the door, not wanting any interruptions. Laying you down on the bed, he stepped away to light the lantern before returning to you, taking off his hat and flinging it aside.

You shifted back to your human colors, your gills disappearing.

“Yer magical,” Arthur whispered before resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes, a wry grin on his face. You kissed him back, smiling in return, acknowledging his silly word choice and accepting his sentiment for what it was: a compliment. He shared your gaze for a few moments before kissing you back as he unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it open while he climbed over you. You could feel his impatience as he pressed his bare chest against yours, his kisses heating up and becoming demanding.

“Arthur,” you breathed as he moved down to kiss your neck, his lips tracing lines where your gills had been.

“Why’d I wait this long,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he ran his fingers from your hip up your belly. His touch was feather-light, almost ticklish as he skimmed the underside of your breast before tracing circles around your areola.

You writhed, whimpering softly. He looked at you, keeping his gaze locked with yours as he leaned down and took your nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, yes," you moaned as his tongue played with you, distracting you just long enough for his other hand to caress the inside of your thighs. You parted your legs eagerly.

You felt Arthur smile against your skin before he switched to your other breast, giving you the same pleasure as his hand slid between your legs, his fingers exploring your slit.

"This honey fer me, darlin'?" he asked in a low, husky voice.

"All for you," you whispered.

He let out a soft growl of satisfaction before dipping a finger inside of you. Your hips lifted up towards his touch. Moving away from your breast, he kissed his way up your neck, to your cheeks, then to your lips once more. He took his time tasting you, his tongue languidly caressing yours as his fingers delved inside of you, his thumb brushing against your bud, each stroke driving you higher and higher towards your peak that was approaching rapidly.

You moaned his name, muffled as it was by his mouth on yours. He growled in return, pumping his fingers faster, his thumb stroking you with determination.

"Ah, ah, Arthur!" you cried out as you climaxed. As you felt the pleasure zip through your veins, you buzzed with power for a moment before it faded.

You didn't have time to think about it, for Arthur climbed off the bed and took off the rest of his clothes. He was such a big man, with muscles from hard work, scars from a rough life, and a dangerous grace to him. He had power and knew how to use it.

And right now, he wanted to make you release over and over again.

He climbed over you, just like in your fantasies, and spread your legs, wrapping them around his waist. Taking his hard length in his hand, he slid the tip around your entrance, slicking himself up as he watched you tremble beneath him.

"You sure 'bout this, darlin'?" he murmured, a slight tremor in his voice, as if he was holding back. He didn't stop sliding the head of his cock along your slit, up and down in a slow rhythm.

"Yes, yes please Arthur, just take me!" you begged. He was driving you mad with his gentle strokes. You lifted your hips up, causing the tip of him to slip inside.

"So needy, sweet girl," he crooned before he pushed forward, driving himself deeper inside of you.

You writhed and winced as your body stretched around his girth. He was sweating, holding himself steady as he waited for you to regain your breath before inching forward some more. Patiently, Arthur watched your every reaction, taking great care to control his movements until his hips finally came flush with yours.

He murmured your name, his lips brushing against yours before he kissed you. His hands cradled your face as he grinded against you, the heat of his body warming you up like a thick quilt. Deepening the kiss, he angled your head so he could devour you. A low moan escaped him as his hips shifted, building a steady rhythm of short thrusts.

"More, Arthur," you said when he finally let you take a breath.

"I'll give you whatever you need," he replied before lifting himself up, letting the cool air touch your body. He pulled his cock out almost all the way and waited for an eternal moment while he stared into your eyes, the lust blowing out his pupils.

Then he slammed back inside of you.

Your pleasure-filled yell was stopped short by Arthur's swift uptick in pace. He was hammering his cock inside of your tight, wet channel, and he couldn't get enough. Not saying a word, he only moaned and panted as he drove into you relentlessly, taking just a split second to adjust his angle before continuing.

"So good," he moaned before he got up onto his haunches, taking your hips in his big hands, his fingers digging into your flesh as he fucked you like a man possessed. He growled, a feral sound of pleasure, before he reached down and stroked your clit.

"Need… to… see… you… let go…" he panted.

You tightened your legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts with your own enthusiastic motions, reaching for your breasts and playing with your nipples before him.

"Oh darlin', you look so pretty like that," he grit out, his face contorted in an effort to control his desires. He was so close. So very close.

"Give me everything!" you gasped, your body shaking, on the edge of a precipice so high that you almost felt fear.

Feeling your body grip him so tightly, Arthur let out a passionate shout before he spilled inside of you. His eyes were wild as he stared at you, his mouth open as he drew in breath after ragged breath. He moaned as he thrust one last time before crushing his hips to yours, keeping his shaft inside of you for as long as possible.

As he spent himself inside of you, you felt your core suddenly overflow with ecstasy, your body shuddering as you came around his thick cock. At the same time, your power unleashed, making your body glow a bluish hue.

"Darlin'!?" Arthur panicked, sounding winded, his brow creased with worry.

The power that had unlocked within you gave your vision a strange overlay of colors. And within the warm orange glow of Arthur was a black cloud in his chest. You reached out through the haze of your afterglow and pulled at it.

He gasped and coughed.

You pulled again. Now that you had touched it, you knew it was bad. It needed to get out of his system before it did permanent damage.

Arthur grasped his chest. "What…" he trailed off as he coughed a few more times before you managed to heave out the black cloud from his lungs. You quickly quashed it in your hands.

Looking up at him, you put your hands on his cheeks and kissed him, pouring the last of the glowing power inside of him. On some instinctual level, you knew you had healed him of something. Whether it was an old lingering illness or a new one that was just about to form, it was now gone from his system.

When you finally pulled away, Arthur looked bewildered. For a few seconds, or a few minutes, you weren’t sure how slow or fast time was flowing, the two of you could only stare at each other, lost in that foggy place between dreams and reality.

"What'd you pull outta me?" Arthur finally asked, still a little breathless.

"Something bad. An illness, I think,” you replied. You took a deep breath before squeezing his hand. “Whatever it was, it will no longer hurt you."

Arthur smiled and pressed his forehead against yours. "Thank you, sweetheart."

***

Arthur left a day later, telling you that he'd be back once he had taken care of some people.

You didn't see him for a long time.

Four months passed before you saw him again. He looked ragged, skinnier, as if he had been through hell and back. But when he saw you, he rushed over and fell into your arms, holding you tight as if you were the only real thing in his world.

***

He told you everything. He confessed that he had been the one to help that criminal escape and shot up the town. That he had been chased all over three states with his gang. That he had stolen money from several trains. That he had been on a ship that had sunk and was stranded on an island for days before finding a way back.

He told you about John. He told you about how he had helped him escape the Pinkertons, had ran with him all the way down the mountain before telling him where to meet his family. Then Arthur had set off, the long way around through the wilds of Ambarino so he could lose the men who were chasing him, just so he could get safely back to you.

You saw now that his eyes were unclouded, having seen his world for what it was. You saw pain and regret in his eyes, but you also saw understanding and a clarity that was not there before. He appeared to have finally found wisdom at a heavy price.

After he had told you everything, you cooked him a meal of steamed fish and herbs. He ate quietly, as if his confession had stolen all of his words from him.

He finished his meal and sat in silence for a few minutes before looking towards you. "I ain't a good man—"

You shushed him. "You are more good than not, Arthur," you said. "We all make mistakes. You were just trying to do your best. That's all any of us can do."

Reaching for his hand across the table, you grasped it and pulled it to your chest, placing it over your heart. "Will you stay?"

Arthur smiled hesitantly. "You… still want me?"

You stood up and leaned across the table to kiss him. "I'll always want you, Arthur. I love you."

He kissed you back. When he looked at you, his gaze full of gratitude. "I love you too, my sweet darlin'. Thank you fer believin' in me."

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

End Notes: I had to end it on a sappy note, of course. Hope you enjoyed that little romp with some folklore!

#rdrbigbang2021 #arthur x F!reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #rdr2 #fanfic #writing #nsft #lemon fanfic

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years

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A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

-----

Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee.

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell.

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”.

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something.

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room.

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room.

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed.

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother.

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod.

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him.

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day.

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily.

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you.

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own. You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed.

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side.

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories - tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea.

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack.

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists.

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days.

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew.

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier.

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour.

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive.

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack.

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist.

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards.

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close.

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.”

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you.

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling.

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could.

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness.

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you.

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace.

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable.

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven.

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work.

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway.

Good.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket.

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life.

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss.

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core.

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss.

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth.

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes. Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move.

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity.

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core.

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance.

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were.

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever.

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open.

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you.

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.”

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time.

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them?

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped.

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared.

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.”

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that?

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets.

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties.

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home.

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition.

Arthur’s room.

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.”

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen.

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!”

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

#rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader #rdrbigbang2021 #rdrbigbang

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