#read dead redemption fanfiction

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Hi!! Your writing is always so wonderful and i was wondering if you’d be up to write something if you still take requests!

I have this whole long and detailed storyline in my head with an oc. I’ll write a short summary about her and if you’d like I would be head over heels if you come up with some sort of scenario!

Basically she’s very masculine presenting, often mistaken for a young man/boy because of it. Hot headed and pretty reckless at times. She’s around Abigail’s age but joined the gang a year or so before. She’s not the brightest in general but every now and then has some surprisingly smart things to say. In general personality wise a mix of Mushy and Rowdy from Rawhide, if you’ve watched the show. I think she’d get along with Sean the most because of her personality. But she’s secretly got the hots for Arthur, she’s pretty decent at hiding it however. Loyal like a dog to him specially, however the feelings she harbours for him will forever be onesided.

IDK IF THIS IS TOO LONG TO READ OR TO DUMB TO COME UP WITH A SCENARIO. BUT LIKE??? Do whatever you want with all this, if it’s even interesting at all. THANKS EITHER WAY🤞🏽😝

My Love Is Not Mine, All Mine

(Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Angst)

Reader is masc presenting in this, you read the req. Also angst. No comfort lol. Creative freedom is a blessing.

What do you do with a loving feeling if a loving feeling makes you feel all alone. Your heart squeezes. Your stomach tries to cave in on itself. Your body becomes shamefully frail; muscles taut and sore, a perpetual ache plaguing your body. You’d take on the brunt of the day, and feel it collapse on you at night. Your weary knees would carry you through it all, and you could squash a week into a day. You become addicted to the loneliness and desperation, because you do not know what else to do with yourself. It is the most familiar feeling you know, and you have convinced yourself it is your destiny.

But when you wake up Arthur in the morning, and when you wait for him at night, and when you wait for his beck and call so often that you do not have your own freedom, it is comparable to having a dog. You would do anything for him, and he for you, but the passion is interrupted. You were his literal and metaphorical partner in crime, and when one of you would ride, so came along the other to accompany them.

Spending so much time with Arthur reminded you of what it was like to be fulfilled. You were hungry for love, and you longed for Arthur to feed you so full until you could not take it anymore. You wanted to know what it was like. He would fill your bowl, but not lift the spoon to your lips.

You awoke from your dream softly, turning over and away from the light casting down on your face. You wished you could keep dreaming, but when you saw Arthur’s figure standing a few feet away where the stew cooked, you were given a million reasons to stay awake. You hoisted your aching body up onto your elbows, your joints groaning and creaking as a reminder that the previous night had not been kind to you. You’d change out of your chemise into dusty jeans and a cotton button up, shoving your feet into a pair of pointed black boots. They had been your continual choice of foot wear for the past few years. A good pair of boots could be your companion forever. Oh, how you longed for a companion. Soon, the soles would crack and the leather would crease in a thousand more places, but you’d keep wearing them out anyways. You were loyal.

You paced over towards the fire, leaning down to pour yourself a cup of coffee. You’d utter a tired “Morning” to Arthur, flickering your eyes towards him before staring back down at the liquid in your mug. He’d return the gesture as he served himself a stew; it reminded you of how hungry you were. But you could not bring yourself to eat, the butterflies in your stomach would not allow you.

Before long, you’d find yourself naturally gravitating towards Sean (though you were ready to abandon him the moment Arthur called for you).

“How’s my favorite lad—I mean lass doing this fine morning?” Sean’s energy would leave others jaded, but you would come at him with the same level of enthusiasm. He always had a way with his words that kept your spirits high.

“I’m doing just fine! Thank you.” You groaned as you sat, stretching your back and hearing a satisfying crack.

“Sheesh, someone didn’t have a good night’s rest did they?” He would comment mockingly, chuckling to himself when you flipped him off.

“Yeah actually, had another one of those weird, recurring dreams.” You waved your hand dismissively, opting to not want to talk about the topic. But Sean was persistent, and he’d take any bit of entertainment he could get, even from you.

“Well, there’s definitely a cure to your predicament.” He looked at you slyly, bringing his coffee to his lips. You rolled your eyes. You hated the thought of it. Some part inside of you cringed at the thought. Of tearing yourself open in all your glory and allowing Arthur to look inside you, allowing him a chance to try and understand your most tender and sentimental facets. Lord knew he would not allow you the chance, his walls were so thick you were convinced not even he could tear them down.

You looked at your boots in defeat.

“Not happening.” You sighed in frustration.

“Come on! What’s the point of living if ya don’t take risks every now and then?”

Sean did not understand that you did not fear risk, rather, you feared loss of companionship. And you clung to it more dearly than your own life.

“It’s too early to be talking about this!” You spat, an unpredictable aggressiveness in your tone.

“Y’know, for one of the most reckless and straightforward people I know, you sure are shy when it comes to this crush business.” Sean teased you in return, egging on your aggressiveness.

You shushed Sean, condemning him for being so loud. You didn’t want anyone else around camp to know about your feelings for Arthur. Not that you had ever willingly told Sean about them; he more or less figured it out on his own and teased you about it. You allowed Sean to, because you got some sort of satisfaction out of someone acknowledging your feelings. Sean allowed you to blush and giggle about your crush with the likeness of a schoolgirl, and he did not shut you down once. You did not want to hear about how high Arthur’s walls were, or how unavailable he was, or how he preferred ladies as opposed to you. He did not give you any of that, rather, he provided you with encouragement, told you to go for what you wanted. Most importantly, he didn’t turn your business into gossip.

You appreciated the gestures, but you could not find it in you to go for it. You were a great gunslinger, you did amazing in heists, you had an affinity for sniffing out leads, you ran into things headfirst; action first and think later you told yourself. But when it came to this, you second guessed everything you did. You never made your feelings obvious, you hid them well. But in terms of your loyalty to Arthur, that said everything for you.

Eventually, Arthur approached you, asked you to ride with him. Naturally, you followed suit, bidding Sean goodbye as he playfully raised his brows at you.

“Where we headed?”

“Into town, I got a letter from someone asking for help.” His explanation was brief, but you knew perhaps what this meant. Your stomach tied up into knots and squeezed, and you suddenly felt your body become heavy with each of your movements.

“I see, but why do you want me to go along…?” There was a tinge of hope in your voice; what you were hoping, you did not know.

“Just in case something happens and I might need you.”

You nodded.

“And, we always ride together anyways.” He added.

You did not expect that, but you felt your chest swell with pride, and you turned your head to hide the inescapable smile. You nodded in acknowledgement, the words echoing in your head.

Your ride towards Saint Denis was quiet. Which was unusual. You would usually talk up a storm, and Arthur would happily entertain it. But this ride was different. The only sounds accompanying your ride was the drumming of hooves on red earth, as well as the metallic gallop of a far off train. You noticed Arthur was rigid, stiff, yet fidgety. You almost felt bad for being in a good mood from his words, but the heaviness between you spread when you remembered where you were heading.

Eventually drumming turned into clopping, as dirt roads turned into stone paved streets. The unwelcoming miasma of Saint Denis had you wheezing, fanning the air ahead of you. It felt as though even in open air, you could not suck in a deep breath. As the two of you approached your destination, Arthur seemed restless. You noticed the way he would tighten and then untighten his fists, and as the two of you dismounted your horses, he kept fiddling with his collar and hair.

“Need help there?” You offered, giggling at his particularness.

“Yes, I would appreciate that very much.” He laughed dryly, his attempts at calming his nerves with humor were in vain. You stepped forward and adjusted his collar, and even if brief, you felt his heart hammering at his chest. You bit the inside of your cheek to sustain another smile (you wondered if you had to do something with it?). You took his hat off his head, fixing his hair for him. A few passer bys looked on at the vaguely intimate scene with prying eyes, perhaps they found it strange how a “man” was so close to and helping another man. Yet perhaps, you were more man than woman. You dressed like a man, carried yourself like one, did things that only men could do, you drank like one, talked like one—.

“How do I look?” He asked, before curling his lips in a nearby window, checking his reflection. You giggled.

“Lovely.” You commented. You scratched at the skin on your arm, letting your nails dig in a little deeper.

“Thank you.” He looked back at you, a wavering confidence in him. Wordlessly, he motioned for you to follow him, and you did, walking by his side. Arthur studied the buildings, trying to find the location to which he was summoned to.

“Arthur! Up here!” A voice called out.

The two of you looked up, and upon seeing Mary Linton, your suspicions were confirmed. You had to will away the pressure that built up in your face, your throat becoming unbearably dry.

Arthur smiled and nodded at her.

“You came! And you brought your…” Mary looked at you, studying your face as if she would find an answer there. “Friend!” She finished.

You nodded at Mary, hands behind your back.

“Pleasure to meet you Miss, I’m (Name.)” The pitch in your voice gave her the answer she sought.

The prospect of Arthur having never told Mary about you stung. Perhaps something you’d bring up later.

“Hold on a minute, I’ll be down!” She called out, before disappearing into the hotel. Moments later, she appeared before the both of you. She and Arthur seemed to devolve into hushed conversation, to which you had no choice but to awkwardly stand there. Arthur had shared more intimate details of his life with you before, but to be witnessing one had you rigid. You did not know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to sob out in fear when Arthur politely asked you for a moment of privacy with Mary.

Perhaps you should’ve said no to coming along as soon as Arthur told you what this was about. You pondered this as you walked down the wet stone sidewalk, looking up at the sky rather than at the floor. You stopped eventually, and stared.

You thought back to the time you had gotten into a bar fight with a man in Rhodes, and Arthur practically had to peel you off the poor bastard as you beat his face blue. You remembered the lecture he gave you for acting so reckless and impulsively. You told him the man deserved it for shoulder checking you, which only made Arthur chastise you more.

The truth was, he’d made a sly remark about Arthur.

You were pulled out of your train of thought when you heard hasty footsteps behind you. Normally you would’ve prepared for the worst, but you knew those footsteps well. They were Arthur’s, of course.

You turned around in excitement, ready to greet him, ask him how things went. But your face dropped, your eyes nearly popping out your skull when you saw his forlorn expression. Was he— blinking away tears?

“Uhm… You okay?” You asked hesitantly. You reached out a shaky hand to his shoulder, stuttering in your movements out of uncertainty, before you set it down fully. He allowed the touch. Arthur cleared his throat, bringing his fingers together to pinch his bridge, but not before wiping the seams of his eyes with his finger and thumb.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m fine.”

The way he called you sweetheart was bittersweet; it stung so good. You could almost taste it; you licked your lips.

“What happened?” You asked, moving forward to try and look him in the eyes. You placed both your hands on his shoulders now. You swore you saw more tears well up in his eyes when you asked, which he blinked away.

“Mary asked me for help, again.”

“Oh.” That was all you could say.

“I turned her down.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine though, it’s just…I didn't think I should, after all that’s happened.”

You nodded in understanding. He looked deeply hurt by his decision, and it was one you were not sure you could help comfort him over without hurting yourself. The two of you stood there silently for a moment.

"I'm a bad man, aren't I, (Name)." His voice wavered. He looked up at you with sadness in his eyes, and it felt like barbed wires were being tightened over your throat and heart when he said that. It stung to see Arthur speak so lowly of himself.

"No Arthur, of course not… you're one of the best men I know…"

He chuckled sadly. "Thank you, but I'm a no good fool, who doesn't know what he wants."

You took notice of the people who walked around your heartfelt moment, like a river parting for a rock. You knew of Arthur's issues with self esteem, and you knew that no matter what you said, he would not take it to heart.

Another moment of silence— until Arthur walked past you towards where your horses were waiting. In a moment of impulsivity, you gripped his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

He looked at you in surprise, first at where you grabbed him, then at you.

"I… I..."

You began, but the words did not seem to come out. Your grip on his arm was tight, tightening slightly when you became keenly aware of the rising tension. But he did not look at you with impatience, never. Rather, concern. As the seconds passed, you tried to find the right words to say, but it did not happen.

"I'm sorry…" You felt the familiar feeling of your throat tightening up and running dry. He managed a half hearted smile before patting your hand. You felt his palm smooth over your knuckles, before you both let go.

"It's okay, let's go get a drink somewhere. I think we both need it."

'I think we both need it' You would ponder his choice of words. You felt your body become heavy, and any movement felt like you were dragging your limbs across the stone floor. Wearily and wordlessly, you followed.

You did not know what to do with all the love you had for him. You did not know where to put it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

My Love Mine All Mine - Mitski

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption community #van der linde gang x reader #writing #red dead fanfiction #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader angst #angst #red dead redemption angst #read dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #mary gillis linton

[johnpriceslamb]

I feel like having a hyper fem!reader would be really useful when it comes to cons and scams. Charm = Money

The image of going to any town and just absolutely leaving peoples pockets dry just by being a pretty doll they think they can play with when in truth you’re the one playing them. Arthur Morgan in the corner making sure nothing goes south yet getting a bit jealous of the men getting robbed.

caution !! mini babble , hyper-fem reader as usual -.- arthur being a bit jealous is a bit of an understatement ;3 , > 100 wordiez

⊹₊ ⋆ you were pretty .

too pretty, in fact— it makes Arthur’s blood boil .

How could Dutch ever think that this was a good idea to scheme money ? Sure, it was working — and sure, this was the most money they’ve gotten in a day, but … the way you looked at those bastards was similar to the way you look at him is making a vein pop in his head.

Long, dewy lashes tipped with puppy-like eyes — hot damn you were too pretty, it’s making his irritation very evident. He narrows his eyes at the way you presented yourself to those pigs, a soft click to the tongue which quietly drowns out immediately because of the constant chattering amongst the bar. He has to force himself to look away, otherwise he’ll end up dragging a man by the ear for even looking your way. Damnit he’s looking your way again and-

Ah. There she was. pixie-like hands ever so sneakily coming from behind and dragging that delicious looking wallet out of the man’s pockets and into hers. Though you looked innocent with all those laces ‘n bows, you were a bit too sneaky for his liking sometimes. Reason being is the amount of shirts borrowed (stolen) off of him and into your hand.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad of an idea but still.

“— I really must be going.. ‘m afraid the bow in my hair is about to fall ! Give me a minute to adjust this silly thing now, will you ?” Feigning panic of a girl wanting to keep their appearance pristine and delicate, your attempts are futile as the man whom you’ve pickpocketed unconsciously grabs your hand from behind at a painful grip, “But sugar, your hair looks fine—”

You shoot Arthur the look.

You dont dare mention to the man in front of you the way Arthur is striding towards him at a quick pace with his hand curled into a tight fist.

#fem! reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x fem! you #afab! reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #i’m tempted to make this a fic lollll !!!!! #i shud totally make a hyper fem darling tag #read dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan fanfiction #blurb #arthur morgan x fem! reader

[bimrsadler]

hello, i was wondering if you were down and vibing to do some tired and sleepy arthur sneaking into f!readers bed late late at night after being away from camp for a long time? ty!

Goodnight and Goodmorning

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

Word count: 1,000

Warnings/tags: fluff, high honor Arthur, mutual pining, first kiss

Notes: I absolutely vibe with it! Since you didn’t specify I went ahead and just made it good ol’ fluff, if you had more in mind like smut (or if anyone wants a smutty part 2) feel free to let me know!

ETA: part 2 is here

Sleep didn’t come easy for you when Arthur was gone, not for lack of trying. Tossing and turning, the emptiness beside you and the constant worry of if he was safe kept rest at bay. You wondered if he was somewhere in the The Heartlands under the stars, worrying the same about you.

There was a mutual desire that hadn’t been spoken aloud. Arthur was surprisingly shy for a man of action, you found, and you didn’t want to push him because of this. It happened naturally in moments of solitude away from the others, around the fire when neither of you could sleep, on the outskirts of camp when you found excuses to run into each other. It became more with your head on his shoulder as you drifted off against a tree, his hands on yours as he taught you to shoot even though you already knew how.

Eventually you found your way to his bed on a cold night. Diverging to head to your own tents your gazes lingered and walking slowed; finally hinting to Arthur that there was no harm in wanting company. It was endearing to watch as he stammered a nervous, “I ’spose,” placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

For a man who kept company at arms length most of the time, he held you close that night. Reassurance was needed before he felt comfortable of course, wanting to hear that you were okay with it multiple times over.

“Promise I won’t do anything untoward.” He must have said that and other iterations of it at least five times before you placed his arm around your waist yourself and confided how much you trusted him.

And it was true. Though Arthur was intimidating, angry and tough as nails; he always made you feel safe. You’d been around “gentlemen” who were perfect on paper but predators behind closed doors.

You’d been in the company of many lecherous and pushy men — some even in the gang, but Arthur? He would put them in their place and apologize to you with their blood on his knuckles.

You always missed his presence in camp but it was a far worse struggle now that you shared a connection.

Drifting in and out the time of night was indiscernible each time you briefly woke, the sound of chatter and guitar steadily replaced by crickets and the dying fire.

As the night wore on the familiar feeling of Arthur’s rugged hands on your bare shoulder roused a fluttering jolt in your stomach. It took his shifting weight behind you and warm chest against your back to convince you you weren’t dreaming.

Peering back the faint moonlight breaking through the canvas revealed Arthur gazing down at you with a grin. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Was worried you weren’t coming back, big guy,” you murmured only half-joking, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’ll always come back darlin’, just hopefully a little sooner nex’time.” He pulled flush to him, “now try’n get some more sleep.”

“Gonna hold you to that,” you stretched underneath his bulky arms with a yawn.

The unexpected feeling of Arthur’s lips pressed gently to your temple made a warmth blossom in your chest, spreading to the rest of your pining body.

Slowly rolling over to be face to face you saw an anxious expression highlighted by bruises and cuts along Arthur’s cheekbones. “I missed ya sweetheart,” he admitted softly while rubbing his thumb delicately along your shoulder.

You inquired worryingly with a gesture towards his face, “what happened?”

“Eh, weren’t nothin’.” He shrugged, brushing it off as usual.

“Sure looks like something.” Propping yourself up on your elbows you reciprocated the comfort and allowed your lips to meet Arthur’s skin for the first time. Lightly wetting them you pressed gentle kisses to each bruise, his breath hitching before he let it out in one long, relieved sigh.

He looked at you with a reverence that was almost overwhelming, how a man as rough and wild as him could radiate such softness for you.

“Guess I needed that, thank you.”

“Maybe you need a proper one Mr. Morgan?”

“Huh?” Arthur’s eyes darted, not quite catching on as you smirked with anticipation. “A proper wh—oh!”

Blushing at the realization that you meant a proper kiss, he swallowed hard. “Well uh, if that’s somethin’ you wanna give me…I’d be a damned fool to say no.”

Brushing a lock of hair off his brow, you leaned in and parted you lips for his. Arthur met you the rest of the way and locked them tenderly, staying still together to savor the moment.

He moved back slightly to peer down at you for any sign of hesitation — finding none of course. Cupping the side of your head with his sizable hand he pulled you close for long, languid kisses, accentuated by his tongue gingerly meeting yours.

The moment was soft and sweet and everything you never thought you’d have with Arthur Morgan. The light whimpers with smiles in between, the ever so subtle urging of your hips wanting more but unsure of how far to take it. It could have easily been a dream you’d had in days past.

As Arthur slowed he pressed his forehead to yours with eyes closed, peaceful and unworried. “This is the only place I wanna be right now…”

Gently adjusting you to lay on your back, Arthur tucked the blankets around you before resting his head on your chest and draping his arm across your midsection.

“Let’s sleep darlin’, we’ll take our time in the mornin’ too…”

It was a gift to know Arthur was this comfortable with you. He wanted to talk to people, to let his guard down and be vulnerable. You were sure he wouldn’t admit it and hadn’t noticed that you had noticed, but it was clear as day in his quieter moments.

Whatever happened on whatever mission Dutch had sent him on, he was battered and tired. If Arthur made you feel safe then you could be his safe haven too.

Running your nails along the expanse of his back and broad shoulders, you watched his head rise and fall with your breaths as he drifted off. The warmth of his skin on yours meant you were sure to follow suit, relieved to have him back and looking forward to what the morning might bring.

#also I apologize for the lack of title #but I was too scared to edit it and find out the keep reading links were still breaking posts lol #arthur morgan #rdr2 #fluff #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction

[roamingtigress]

Desire

Hosea and Dutch, who have been inseparable for over thirty years, are now old men. Though their love has remained the same, their bodies have changed over the years, changes that have left them feeling a bit self-conscious and vulnerable.

One Valentine's Day though changes their perspective, and they both learn to embrace the beauty of aging. (It's safe for work just a bit lengthy! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Even if you just want to call me a nerd.)

It's Valentine's Day, a day we forego going on trade runs and bounty hunts, to make it a day just for ourselves and, well, what one often does on Valentine's Day.

Our Valentine's Days are also never without the theme of trying to outdo each other. If Dutch gets me orchids and chocolates that are just the right size to hand-feed to me, I'll set up a bathtub littered with rose petals with classic music being played in the background. You can call us sappy if you'd like; we've been called worse.

"This will be the year I will outdo you, Hosea!"

I roll my eyes inwardly, scoffing. Truth be told, there is, of course, no real winner in this competition; we both benefit when we try to out-spoil each other. Eventually, we both end up being naked at some point in the day, sometimes throughout the whole day. If you can guess it was Dutch who started it all, you'd be right. He wanted to make our Valentine's Day more romantic than anyone else's and wanted to see how far we'd take it. It's one of the plans he has put together that hasn't turned into a disaster, for the most part. There was that one disastrous breakfast in bed which he burned, but he meant well.

I roll aside and sit up in bed, playfully tapping him on his nose. "Game on, Dutch, game on."

Dutch just giggles, the winter sun reflecting beautifully on his features. They also expose the scars he's gained over the years from misadventures, some of which he exaggerates; the one on his chin was from when he dared to shave himself in the dark. Mistake. I've seen his hair in better shape; the messiness of it adds to his decidedly playful demeanor this morning. He pokes my nose back.

"It'll be hard to beat last year."

Yes, last year. We stowed away on a classy passenger ship, that lovely Grand Korrigan. I had intentions to buy tickets but they were sold out, so we did what we did, with the added thrill of the idea of being caught being a stowaway. We managed to stay off the radar, up until . . .

"We emptied everyone's wallets in poker, and we ran out on the deck . . ."

As Dutch chuckles, there is as much laughter in his eyes as there is in his voice. "We had that mob of stuffed shirts chase us back inside, down the hall towards our room --"

"And I was so turned on by the way you handled the table, that you had to relieve me. I couldn't make it to the room and well, it was getting awkward trying to run with an erection." I let my finger drag along the side of his cheek as I lay back down beside him.

"Stroking me off in the hallway, while we kissed . . ."

Dutch's eyes take on a mischievous glint. "And we got caught."

"We did!"

The fellows we played with weren't so disgusted at us for doing what we were doing (I suspected a few were queer; one just gets a vibe from another) but rather that we parted with their money and they finally caught the miscreants who robbed them. There was that one comment about 'I knew you two were's queer before you two even sat at the table together.' I threw them an empty wallet that I had often carried around with me to throw off someone's game (fancy wording for scamming) and dragged Dutch down the hallway and into our room.

I lean over, kiss him softly on his lips, and slowly pull away just to make soft eye contact. Perhaps it wasn't a traditionally, conventionally romantic moment; there was the thrill of being caught and sure enough, it happened. For us, it was thrillingly romantic; our hearts pounded when we heard those footsteps rushing towards us and before we could pull away (not that we wanted to), they caught it.

"Oh, it was so much fun."

Dutch's hand softly cups the side of my face, as he looks into my eyes. "Unbelievably so."

Dutch later got a fancy bath prepared for us, complete with champagne and rose petals. Securing that arrangement was interesting. I stole a man's identity when we were playing poker, and the fellow who was smooth-talked into arranging the bath assumed the fancy lady who accompanied the stolen man's identity was going to join Dutch; ironically some raven-haired dutchess from Europe. It would come as no surprise if I told you we made love in that tub; not merely sex, but making love. When Dutch puts his weird little mind to it, he is something. We both deserved a little reward for that collaboration.

"Got any plans, Dutch?" I had to ask.

Dutch looks like he's in thought as if he hadn't planned for weeks. I know better and he knows that I know better. "I might have a few . . ." He muses. "But they're for me to know and for you to find out!"

"You little shit!"

My husband, finding amusement at my expense once more, I have a way of bringing it out in him. He pulls me up on top of him as if I were a blanket, in such a position that I would be facing him; I can't complain. His body is so warm that it felt like I was pulled up over a hot water bottle.

"I thought I'd surprise you, 'sea."

I couldn't help but notice that when he pulled me up on top of him, his pyjamas (surprisingly with mangos and books and cigars printed on them) had shifted in such a way that revealed a nipple; it stared up at me. What a tease.

"With a nipple reveal, Dutch? What a slut."

I lean in and kiss it, I just had to. He squeaks.

"T-they might make an appearance."

I smile a mischievous smile. "Well, I would hope so. It's Valentine's Day! So what if Hosea Fucks Friday was the other day. If we don't take our clothes off at some point of the day, then it's just another day."

I close my eyes as I feel a big hand slip underneath my pyjama shirt, finding its way to my back. He rubs in a smooth massage, his fingers gracefully working their magic. "Patience, Mr. Matthews. I have a plan!"

Of course he does.

If that plan involves him massaging me all day, I'll take it. I arch my back, encouraging him. Sure enough, he gets the hint and works in a firmer caress and I let out a long sigh; the combination of the warm body against mine, his touch, his heart and my heart beating against each other.

"You're off to a good start . . . " I murmur, my eyes closing.

Dutch of course, almost; in that childish sort of way he does over every little thing he does that goes without a hitch. "Had to start somewhere." There's a spark to his eyes. "You know how it goes with us, once one touches another . . ."

"Of course . . . " I murmur, framing his jaw in my hands. "Both of us are just so . . . Easy."

I study his face for a long time, taking in the contours of his cheekbones and how the light played on them. There are scars scattered across his cheek and chin; the one you might see most noticeably is from a shaving challenge if you will. He thought he could shave just as well in the dark as in the daytime, I dared him to do it, and well, he did, and removed a little piece of chin. He tells everyone it was from a grazed bullet. I then feel his face studying mine. He had a sort of dreamy look to his face, almost . . . Almost like when we first met. We 'looked into each other's eyes and saw something', and it would seem he's seeing something. He's eyeing me like a beautiful painting, a statue, a prize-winning stallion.

We've been together for over thirty years. Things have changed over those decades. We both have wrinkles and curves in places that didn't have them before. Certain things are sagging a bit. We both have a bit of a paunch, one of us more than the other and by 'other' I'm not referring to myself.

"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."

"Nonsense!" Dutch scoffed, giving my nose a gentle tweak. "And as part of my plan, I'll show you!"

Now I've heard him say 'I have a plan many a time and for the most part, nothing of note comes of it (minus those plans that go awry and end up in absolute chaos) . . . But, I was curious, given what day it is.

Dutch carefully rolls me off of him and heads to our bookcase which is a glorified small library. I watch curiously as he meanders over to the bookcase. His once rolling strut now takes on a bit of a shuffle, the limp that he's had since his forties has gotten more obvious. The life that we led had caught up to us both. I shake my head as I note his pyjama pants have hiked down a bit, I see the crack of his ass; that ass isn't as supple as you can say these days but still something to grab. I have to reassure him that he looks as handsome as ever, as he doesn't think so. Words aren't always enough; I have to show him, touch him in those special spots he feels vulnerable about, and make him feel beautiful. Likewise, Dutch still thinks I'm as handsome as ever. I'm a weathered old man of seventy-five, but . .. He has his way of bringing me around. He's a man who can master words, and know how to say the right things even if if I'm not feeling the words he's describing. Some say that's mere manipulation, but speaking of someone who has such an intimately deep connection, I can tell you it's the intimacy of the soulmate.

I watch curiously as he picks up a long green-covered book, of medium thickness and then a stick of graphite from a box on the bookshelf and slides on his thick black-framed glasses; I raise an eyebrow. It then occurs to me . . .

Did this man creep into my head, and rob me of my plan? Now I taught him a few things but I don't think I've taught him *that* well. I want to tell him that I have the same idea where I'd be drawing, but . . . No. I'll surprise him.

"Oh, I'm sure there are prettier things that you can draw. Like what's outside the window, that Heartlands landscape—"

Dutch lets out a deep belly laugh as he sits down, clapping my knee as he perches on the edge of the bed, facing me. "Am I married to the landscape?"

I retort; he opened the door for it. "Sometimes I think life would be easier If I was married to the Heartland Overflow! With all the frogs and the muskrats . . . "

"Destined to live with pests then, huh?"

That idiot just laughs again knowing it was my turn to walk into it, hugging that book to him as I give him a halfhearted kick. He then studies me for a long moment, his eyes twinkling as he just looks over at me. I can't deny he's being adorable; I can't get seriously annoyed. Yes, he's still frustratingly charming and uses it at every opportunity to get his way. Very frustrating.

"How do you want me posed?" I ask, remembering the last time we've drawn each other . . . Oh, it's been years.

We were both young and took up (illegal) residence in a shoreside house on Iron Lake. It belonged to an artist who was at the time, away in Paris and as something to do to pass the time when it was raining, we took time drawing one another. We were fitter then, with fewer wrinkles in some places, fresher faced. The drawings are still framed over our bed. That house went from being owned by an artist to a fisherman and now it's abandoned when he packed up his fishing gear and took up residence that was owned by some fellow named Hamish. Maybe one day, we'll get our boys to fix it up for a little family retreat.

I watch Dutch's face take on a pondering expression, his eyes softly scanning my form, mentally taking note of every detail. I find myself doing the same with him; there's love in those eyes, a certain twinkle to go with it that tells me this is a fun little activity borne out of love. I could tell him that there are more attractive, younger models out there he could use. I'm sure some art school out Saint Denis could provide them, but he'd argue that there'd be no one else that he'd want to draw.

"Natural, with that faraway look I often catch you in. Y'know, the look I catch you when you're reading and tryin' to ignore me."

I laugh but sit up in bed, keeping one knee up and bracing myself with my left arm, while the other casually drapes down.

"A little overdressed there, Mr. Matthews?" Dutch warmly teases; that twinkle in his eyes, that playful but loving tone in his voice... I suppose he loves me. "I... I want to show how handsome you are still."

I sigh. There's no fighting with him over this; he'll think I'm gorgeous if I'm wearing a paper bag. With some feigned reluctance, I shed off my pyjamas, putting on a little show for him because I do like that stupid smile and making him a little thirsty somehow, before placing them on the bedside dresser.

As Dutch makes himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, I reposition and take on that look he so desires. He's got that mustache twisted up into a smile as he starts. He's posing rather artistically himself; he's got his ass sinking into the corner of the mattress, one ankle and foot tucked up behind his knee which belongs to a leg he lets lazily dangle off the mattress. His head is tilted in that way when he's about to cause a stir with me, complete with that damn spark in his eye. He's got that damn pyjama top unbuttoned to his navel and has a nipple staring out at me. I'm not sure if this 'wardrobe malfunction' (as you kids call it) is intentional or accidental, but knowing him so intimately I'm going with the latter. It drives me nuts when he dresses like that, I can't keep my eyes off him, I can't keep my hands off of him, and he knows it; what an old tart.

As Dutch makes himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, I reposition and adopt the look he desires. He's got that mustache twisted up into a smile as he starts posing rather artistically; his ass sinking into the corner of the mattress, one ankle and foot tucked up behind his knee, lazily dangling off the mattress. His head is tilted in that way when he's about to cause a stir with me, complete with that damn spark in his eye. He's got that damn pyjama top unbuttoned to his navel, and a nipple is staring out at me. I'm not sure if this 'wardrobe malfunction' (as you kids call it) is intentional or accidental, but knowing him so intimately, I'm going with the latter. It drives me nuts when he dresses like that; I can't keep my eyes off him, I can't keep my hands off of him, and he knows it; what an old tart.

I decide to poke him in his belly with a toe, making him squeak; he's still stupidly ticklish. "Dutch, you're distracting me."

Dutch's silly smile turns into a grin. He felt my eyes on him; I was egging him on. "Pretend I'm being an annoying shit when you're reading, and you're trying to engross yourself in your fictional fantasy."

I scoff, somehow managing to retain my expression and pose. I scoldingly point and shake my finger at him, and that grin just widens, with a chuckle. "When aren't you being an annoying shit? And when I do engross myself in my fictional fantasies, you decide it's time to get needy and crawl into my lap for your hair to be played with and your belly to be rubbed." Admittedly, I inadvertently encourage that because I can't resist; once he brings out the puppy eyes act, I can't resist.

"Point taken!" Dutch's voice is boisterous at my rebuttal; he rolls with my punches and brings out another zinger at me as he points the graphite stick at me.

"Now who's distracting who? With you thinkin' about touching me and all."

I roll my eyes and shake my head at that sass, which he accentuates with a squirm of his ass. "Dutch . . ." I could go on with this back-and-forth banter all day; I enjoy it more than I let on. A big part of me wants to keep poking the bear, to see what he comes up with next, and to surprise him with what I'm capable of. But . . . I am curious to see this masterpiece he's working on, and I'd like to see it before I head off to the afterlife.

Dutch starts at his work slowly, his hand moving at a slow, fluid pace for the most part, intermittently peppered with rapid flicks of his wrist.

"This isn't one of those caricature pieces, is it?" I ask curiously, maybe with some caution; we have such a piece above our dresser; some silly Frenchman did it for us when we made a trip to, ugh, Saint Denis when I visited family and Dutch insisted on tagging along. It's a cute style, a cute piece, but I'd rather some of my features not be exaggerated if he's drawing me in the nude.

"Real-life study, Old Girl!" Dutch beamed, creases forming in the corners of his eyes; he's frustratingly adorable when he's enthusiastic about something to the point where the crow's feet arrive to roost.

I feel like disappearing into the bedsheets as I sense a wave of vulnerability washing over me. It's not often I feel vulnerable. He means well; the love is evident in his eyes, though; I can't bring myself to say no to this thing.

"You . . . You don't have to draw every detail."

Dutch frowns, tipping his head in that way when he's puzzled by something, not dissimilar to a dog puzzled by some strange sound that it doesn't know what it is. Occasionally, he'll do that in an argument, as if not understanding why I'm upset with him.

"I find every detail of you to be beautiful, 'sea."

"Every bit?" I ask, tilting my head as well.

As a spouse with over twenty years of experience, it's natural to find at least one part of your partner's body to be, well, not beautiful. For Dutch, it's that damn ugly right toe of his, crooked and bigger than the other, and yet it's the one that he likes to poke me with.

Dutch gently insisted, his face taking on a sort of dreamy expression. "Every bit. And I love to kiss every bit of your body --"

I gently but firmly interrupt; if I don't, there goes his plan, and it'd be another on the pile of failed plans. How do I know this? Because that silly man has a hard time keeping his hands off of me (and I admit the feeling is mutual for as much of a pain in the ass he is and how much it just encourages him), or his lips off my body, and this drawing will never get done! Maybe if he doesn't interrupt me again, he can get what he wants. It is lovely having him kiss over my body, and they can be the softest, sweetest little kisses. He's a bit slower at them these days, as if memorizing every inch of my body.

"Dutch, you're distracting me."

Dutch snickers, outright snickers, and returns to work once I roll my eyes and regain my composure, repositioning myself.

"Cheekbones . . . " Dutch whispers, half to himself; it was one of those cases where he thinks his thoughts are still inside his head but he lets them spill out. "Still beautiful, defined cheekbones . . . "

I have a tiny smile threatening to grow. My cheekbones are one feature of me that I'm still rather fond of. My face has sunken with age, as Dutch's has; his cheekbones are more prominent than when I first met him. I often catch him running a thumb over mine as he looks into my eyes. Sometimes before a kiss, sometimes as he's telling me how much he loves me or something equally sappy. He likes to kiss them in the morning, trying to butter me up after he stirs me awake because, with certainty, I can say that he's the thing that stirs me awake, and I'm not a morning person.

"Eyes that look into my soul . . . "

Now he's getting a bit sappy. I've heard him describe my eyes as having a lot of soul and, at times, a certain weariness to them (I can't imagine why). I manage that faraway look, though my focus isn't entirely so far away, but at the man drawing me and beyond.

"I'm so attractive you can't keep your eyes on me." Dutch teases, snickering again when I scoff. He is indeed a lovely specimen to look at but at this moment, he's more silly than sexy, but I'll let an old manchild dream that he's still a Roman sculpture of a man.

"I'm looking behind you." I'm trying to focus on the painting of our dearly departed Labrador, Matilda -- who was buried between Silver Charm and The Count -- emphasis on trying, as he's 'caught' me.

My dear husband is onto me, scoffing away. "Sure, sure . . . "

Dutch studies me for a long time, just smiling, looking at me the way a schoolboy looks at his crush, and I let out an exasperated sigh when he itches at his chest. It looked a little planned, to tease me, to show a little skin, which isn't as taut as it used to be; I might have caught a bit of a jiggle on that tit. But he's still gorgeous to me, jiggly bits and all. "Hey, when you got an itch, you scratch it!" Dutch tsk tsks as he catches me glancing at him for half a second.

"Slut!" I retort.

The idiot just grins like the Cheshire Cat; he knows that I know that was an attempt to flirt. Love. He's in love. I've had fleeting moments where I think life without him would be easier but they're fleeting when I think how much life would be. . . Well, duller, without him. He does provide unexpected moments of amusement like this, he's a warm body to snuggle up to at night and a damn good kisser. In my prime, I could have found someone better in bed (he's a bottom through and through and a bratty sub at that), but, well, I suppose I'm in love, too. I take on that faraway look, just 'thinking.'

"You know, I've always loved your nose. Perfectly kissable!" Dutch will be narrating this whole thing, just wait; he doesn't have to give progress reports but he feels it's his duty.

"You think every part of my body is kissable."

I'm convinced that the smile on Dutch's face will freeze on his face permanently. "Oh, I do . . . " He plans on kissing every inch of my body when we're done with this thing, I just know it. And I plan on doing the same for him.

All banter aside, as I put on my 'faraway stare', I feel exposed, but at the same time . . . Desired. Now and then we put each other in such a position where we will feel vulnerable; some may say it's 'toxic' but it's one of our ways of showing the trust we have in each other, a sort of gentle surrender in our dynamics; normally I'm the head of the household here but once in a while I'll let him take the reins and see what he does with them before taking hold of them, where I'll remind him. I would never shed my clothes in the name of art for anyone other than this man. In his younger years, Dutch would have jumped at the chance to be drawn in the nude, but with the contours he's gained over the years and knowing how self-conscious he can be of them, it's likely he too would only do this for me.

I can't help but be drawn by the elegance of his hand movements, even the movements he's making for what I'm assuming is shading; those are more deliberate. "Right after your hands, my favourite part of you is your chest. It's a safe for your heart and there's no force on earth or beyond that can bust it open."

The damn fool thinks I'm invincible. I know it's a lie he tells himself that he believes and tells me and tells others, as I know losing me is one of his greatest fears. It's a lie he uses to comfort himself and I won't take it away from him. Deep down, with my decade age gap, I fear I may go first, and one of my fears is leaving him behind. Dutch is much more fragile than he lets on. He won't do well without me. Not one bit.

But enough of the depressing talk.

Going from the circular motions of his hand, I can tell he's drawing my nipples, a part of my body that I don't think much of. That is until my mustached companion here decides to play with them and then I'm convinced they're hooked up with electricity with all its nerves. We both alike used to be firmer on that region on the map, like everything else but, we'll live with what we have.

"Do you know why men have nipples for, 'sea?"

Ahah! I knew it.

I think for a moment, though. I could think of some smartass response, but then I decided to show I know as much as he does. "They're leftover from when us fellows are developing in the womb if my memory serves me." I vaguely remember those details; it's been a bit since I've looked up the medical books. The last time I read one was when Dutch got a boil on the inside of one of his ass cheeks a few years ago and I wanted to get it properly drained; pardon me, that was too much information. I'm sure nobody wanted to know about an old man's bottom.

Dutch decides to be the smartass.

"Well, that's the boring answer."

"I was going for the scientific explanation."

"You can call it what you want," Dutch insisted with a smirk. "Medical professionals say they serve no purpose as we develop, but I disagree. These medical 'professionals' as they call themselves, must have less of a sex life than us old wrinklies."

I scoff. No doubt some of those experts are 'old wrinklies themselves, not much younger than us, but . . . "You can call yourself an old wrinkly. I prefer to use the term 'senior citizen.'"

Dutch can't help himself. "With citizenship, comes governance!"

Yes, he's still a rebel. He has trouble now and then getting up on his horse, an Irish Cob gelding named Blagdon, but he still thinks he's a revolutionary. I'll let him dream on.

Dutch is putting details into the collarbone; I can just tell from the expression alone; a soft, reflective expression as his eyes fall on my chest. Though the connection was there right at the beginning -- we looked into each other's eyes and saw something -- Dutch was, possibly to your surprise, socially charming at the start of our dating -- he could charm the socks off of you -- but awkward when it came to the art of seduction; maybe he was shy. I was his first experience with another man and I thought at the time he was a bit intimidated; my age gap didn't help, I thought. I was gentle, I was patient, and we took that part slowly. He loved to linger on my chest; he still does. He peppers a series of kisses along my collarbone before working his way downwards. It feels wonderful, and I can even remember the first time he did it; I ran my hands through his hair, giving the softest of kisses, and the lightest of nibbles as if he was eating corn on the cob.

"Such an underrated part of the body . . . " I think out loud, amazed at myself for remembering those little memories. "And yet you give it so much love . . ."

There's a warm twinkle in Dutch's eyes. "First place I kissed south of your lips. Every part of the body needs a bit of attention; everything is connected."

He works on my arms and shoulders next; those admittedly are still decently toned, as are his. We often don't think about how often we use them in our day-to-day lives. Even at my age of seventy-five and him at sixty-five, we still dance with our arms around each other, we enwrap each other around with them at nighttime. We often get nightmares; I suppose with the lifestyle we led before retiring, it comes naturally, so those embraces at night can get tight. Often, we wake up with crescent marks on our skin from our nails, and our ribs feeling bruised, and we don't even realize that we've been clinging to each other so hard. We use them to embrace each other during our lovemaking; we don't leave dents in the wall much anymore, but us 'old wrinklies' as Dutch refers to us as, do have sex. It's a little slower now, but still so good, even better as we've become so at one with each other's bodies.

Pardon me.

Attached to arms, of course, are hands, which his focus floats on next. I've mentioned before in another story that they're Dutch's favourite part of me, tied with my heart. Well, as an update, Dutch still loves the way I touch him. I love how they glide over the contours of his body, how they'll move about like a spider when I scritch and tickle, which he acts like he hates but I know he loves it, and eventually surrenders to. I love the way our fingers interlace; despite the difference in size and shape of our fingers. I love how they fit in with each other.

"I should do a study on your hands, Old Girl," Dutch purred, taking his time; I know he won't skimp on their details; every line on my knuckles will be drawn. "I still remember the first time you touched me, just a quick touch on the top of my hand when you brought that pan of bacon and eggs over to me, but I felt 'something' even there. And did I ever do things where you could 'accidentally' touch me."

I laugh, having a memory of him 'accidentally' brushing his hand against mine as we walked through some town. I don't know where it was, but I damn well knew he was flirting with me and I had to take him back behind somewhere to give him my first kiss. I wish I could remember where it was; I'd be happy to recreate it with him.

After a moment, he puts the graphite stick down for a moment and swallows hard. There's something he was trying to forget; I know the look he gets when he does that.

"Dutch . . . ?" I asked softly, concerned; I want to hold him and will.

"I'm just scared . . . " A word he doesn't use often; now it was his turn to feel vulnerable. "Of losing our memories."

I want to reach out and hold him, and I will. Sometimes I find myself forgetting about mundane things, locking the door and such, and it scares me. Dutch will forget things and will put on a stoic act; except today. Today was the first day where I caught him afraid of losing his most precious memories. The fear of getting dementia for people of our age is very real; we've built a life together, raised a family, lived out some dreams and let others slip through our fingers. To help us preserve those memories, we've created journals, and photographs taken of us, and now . . . Drawing each other again, this time as old men.

"I'll help you with that, my love," I speak softly. "It's why I agreed to do this."

I get a smile out of him again, and I'm glad of it. I don't like letting him stray into dark thoughts for long; it can be hard to bring him out of it. "I thought it was because you knew I was going to bring out the puppy eyes." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he still uses them to try and get his way and yes, it's still very effective; damn manipulative old fart.

"That was part of it," I scoff. "I've never been good at resisting those."

Dutch gave me that look as he continued to draw, presumably my torso next. I know he won't spare any details. "There were maybe a handful of times when they didn't work. You put up one of those big personal space bubbles. I didn't care to cross those. You'd chase me off, and I knew how good you were with the gun." He laughed, still that husky laugh from all those years ago.

I smirk. I admit I got a bit of a power trip out of that. The others . . . Oh, they couldn't help but stop and watch. Maybe I earned more respect from them, and I might have carried a little swagger with them as well. Everyone needs a little ego boost.

"But . . . You'd always charmed and wormed your way back into my heart," I laugh, fondly remembering; putting up those invisible barriers was for the best when I felt my blood boiling after he said or did something particularly stupid, but it was so hard on both of us. "You did your damned 'I'll lie in your lap while you read so you pay complete attention to me' thing, to buying expensive things for me from chocolate to wine and silly imported cologne and gold watches and other expensive trinkets." Truthfully, one could think he was trying to buy off my anger, and maybe it was an attempt to do that, but . . . I found it amusing to see how far he'd go with it.

"You still have that gold watch from when that happened the first time," Dutch said, a certain twinkle in his eye; it still works after all these years. "Bought it with the money I got from that bank job."

There were so many opportunities that he had where he could just steal something for me but just didn't. "You never did like stealing my gifts directly."

"I find it more rewarding," Dutch murmured, a wide smile appearing across his face; from the motions of his hand, he's working on some shading. "Besides, we got the money, might as well put it to some use."

I find that charming. And one of his best assets is that he's charming, and he can be an absolute menace with it. It's why, of course, I've gone softer on him than I should have over the years. I could have rejected those little gifts when I dropped my invisible barrier, could have shoved him off my lap when he crawled into it, but . . . Sigh. He's impossible.

Then, Dutch charms me yet again.

He turns the sketchbook around to show me the progress of his work.

I'm speechless.

"You like it, Hosea?"

I swallow hard. I feel vulnerable once again, but . . . Something else.

Desired.

Laid out in front of me in that drawing is a portrait of an aged man. He has skin that has sagged in places, wrinkles, and contours that weren't there before. He has a slight paunch, very slight, that was once flat. Details of the legs haven't been completed, but there's already the start of some muscle definition there. And yet he carries himself with an air of dignity and wisdom. The shoulders and arms that he's bracing himself on are still nicely toned; maybe not as toned as they were in his youth, but no judgment. He's looking off to some faraway destination, that if I didn't know better, was miles away versus the other handsome elder man a few feet away.

"Yes . . . Yes, I do."

I seem transfixed for a long moment; we just give each other soft eye contact, saying so much with that alone. How we love each other, how we trust each other. He slowly moves back to drawing but peeks out at me from the top of the book as he does.

"What would you say about getting this framed?"

I break my expression to smile. "I'll steal the damn frame for you."

I get another hearty laugh out of him. He works on my legs next, and then my. . . assets. He's a study in concentration, not letting one bit of detail escape him. He knows his way around my body better than I do. Even at our age, we still explore each other as if it is the first time again; truthfully, with that familiarity he has of my body, he probably could have done this drawing blindfolded.

When he's completed, Dutch slips up next to me with the sketchbook clutched to his chest. He has a smile that wouldn't have just lit up our house with electricity, but also the next residence a few miles away that belongs to Lenny. He wraps an arm around my shoulder as he shows me the completed drawing, and I feel a hint of that strength that he still has as he gives me even a gentle squeeze.

I swallow hard, snuggling into his embrace. He senses that I'm getting emotional and kisses me on the top of my head, then my shoulder, and that spot between my head and shoulder. I feel myself nearly speechless, and the words that tumble out of my mouth don't seem enough to convey how I feel. Every detail was etched in; he even drew in scars I've collected over the years. I still feel an edge of vulnerability, but . . .

"It's wonderful, Dutch, thank you . . . " I turn in his hold and hug him tight, lightly rubbing his back as I do; although it still feels strong, the skin shifts there more easily these days and ripples underneath my fingers.

"You make me feel . . . Handsome."

Dutch gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Because you are, Old Girl."

"It's been a while since I've done some drawing, mostly landscapes and rabbits and things as you know, but I promise that I'll try to do you justice."

He nuzzles a kiss on my cheek. I still love the feeling of his bristly stubble on my cheek.

"Don't worry, Old Girl, I'll love it."

There is both unpredictability and predictability to Dutch, even now; he's frustrating in that regard. At the same time, he's a boy who's insecure and needy, craving every scrap of attention and affection that can come his way. He gets plenty of both, but Dutch is Dutch, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

I take the graphite stick and sketchbook from him as he hands them over, kissing him on the cheek reluctantly as I break away from the hug and shift over to sit at the corner of the bed. "Now, pyjamas off. If I had to, you have to too." I sneak a playful wink.

Dutch chuckles and strips off the pyjamas, deciding to make a little show of it just as I did for him because Dutch is Dutch. He's already front and centre of attention as he's about to restart his modelling career, who thought he'd get back into it at sixty-five? I scoff and roll my eyes; this man amuses me as much as he can frustrate me.

I think for a moment about what pose he should get himself into. He does look rather sexy when he's brooding and smoking a cigar, is still rather delicious when he takes on a pinup girl pose, a silly thing he sometimes does to help get me in the mood. I could have him pose on his hands and knees, but I fear that would be too distracting for me. Then I had another idea, one pose of his that I find so underratedly sexy and beautiful.

"Now something... Vulnerable," I warmly suggest, my eyes gently meeting Dutch's eager gaze as he waits for further instruction. "Maybe that pose you often take after we've had sex, after the aftercare, where you look so... Delectably submissive." As much as the sex is still good and as much as we enjoy, I relish that period afterwards; I often lie in the crook of his arm as we lazily trace patterns on each other's skin, sometimes blowing raspberries on each other if we're feeling silly, and if this isn't unfolding at night, it causes us to happily put off whatever else needs to be done in the day.

Dutch smiles shyly at me and slowly lies on his back. He tucks one hand behind his head, as if playing with his hair (something he does when caught in a lie or playing coy with me for one reason or another), while the other is tucked up on his chest, not unlike a dog who wants his belly rubbed. His legs sprawl out, openly exposing his genitals. His expression is soft, trusting, and loving, his body language submissive and vulnerable, echoing the trust in his expression. At once, he looks incredibly sexy and slutty, yet adorable; a wonderful contradiction before my eyes that I could just about gobble up. Cute aggression, as they call it, is very real.

"You look comfortable," I murmur, letting my eyes roam over him before I start; my voice is soft and soothing, as if calming a restless horse instead of the man who looks anything but restless. "And absolutely... Precious."

Dutch almost whispers; many of you know him as someone who can be, well, loud. "The only way I could be more comfortable would be if you'd be snuggled up against me."

"That'll come when I'm done, Dutch," I smile, deciding to start with his face; I know how hard it is to maintain expression, so I thought it'd be humane to start with that first. "You still have such a gorgeous face."

Truthfully, I feel his face looks wiser than he is, but I love framing it in my hands as I look into those eyes. That big nose is a feature that some (wrongly, in my eyes) view as 'ugly,' but I find it to be wonderful, so unique, and I kiss it at every opportunity. Likewise, I find something special about that cleft chin, which he loves getting scratched. I love tracing a finger along his jawline, along those cheekbones, and of course, kissing those lips. I admit, I enjoy scratching that stupid soul patch, and I can't resist tracing a finger along that mustache as those early morning rays peek through the curtains. I draw each of these features in order of my narration in this paragraph and pour my heart into putting as much detail into them as possible.

Just as he had done with me, I want Dutch to feel as handsome as I see him.

"We should do this more often," Dutch spoke with a slight catch in his voice in his suggestion. "I think... I think it'd be a good way to remind us of the beauty of growing old."

I was touched by that and swallowed hard. He's right; there should be no shame in growing old. Old age shouldn't be something to be ashamed of; it's an accomplishment. I waste no time in making my decision.

"Absolutely," I answer softly, thinking of how beautiful the flowers are in spring in our surrounding area; we reside at what was once called Hanging Dog Ranch. Dutch decided to call it Casa Van der Linde. Are you surprised?

"During nice weather, we could even do it outside. I think that'd be lovely out by the flowers, by the creek."

There was no argument from Dutch. It's one of his favorite spots to read, go for a ride. I've once worried he had gone missing, but I've found him napping against a boulder among the lupins with that damn Evelyn Miller in his lap.

One of his novels, you perverts.

Once I was done with his other facial features, after I etched in my last detail for his ears, I shift my focus to his hair. It's still beautiful, and even more so now that it's silvered, and long! It hangs down his shoulders like a lion; magnificent. And it shines so nicely in those warm sunsets and sunrises and in the candlelight. His hairline has been receding, but he still has those lovely ringlets which I love to twirl between my fingers, and Dutch gets just as much enjoyment out of it. He still pushes his head back against my fingers, his eyes closed in contentment; it's not unheard of that my scalp massages, my playing with his hair goes on for hours. At times, I use his hair as something to grip onto for more risqué purposes. I know what you're thinking, but no, that's not the reason behind his receding hairline.

When I reluctantly pulled my attention away from his hair as I drew one more curl in, I worked on his neck next. The skin there had lost some elasticity, as mine had done as well, but still strong enough to carry that big head of his; it's weighed down with mangoes and plans. Then, his shoulders are my next target. They still have some nice muscle tone to them, and attached, long, lean strong arms (whose skin is thinner these days) that still hold me close and strong at night, as if protecting me from the boogeyman at night.

"I always liked your arms, you know," I muse, taking my time and shading them. "Lean and long and strong, and how I just... fit so well in them."

Dutch looks lost in thought for a moment, though I knew he was listening. There's a warm look in his eyes as if he was reliving a memory. "I remember holding you for the first time. It was that cold night . . . Someplace in West Elizabeth, before there was more development out in Strawberry. The fire wasn't doing a good enough job at keeping you warm and I thought, you'd be warmer up against me."

I chuckle, remembering. We tried to get back there for our latest anniversary; alas, the location was turned into a hunter's lodge for the rich, some big gaudy thing. It made our hearts sink. "It was when we were getting to know each other a little more. Truthfully, I thought you were coming onto me, holding me that close, and so tight. Not that I minded if you were, of course. I kept warm."

There's a spark in Dutch's eyes as he remembered. When you're married to someone as I have been, you notice little things that they tell you with their eyes. "I opened up my coat and pulled you into it, couldn't get all the way closed but I think the combination of our body temperatures compensated."

I can almost feel that warmth again. He had a massive Grizzly Bearskin coat that was an import from Canada, before getting that Black Bear one you might have seen him in; he unfortunately lost it during a train robbery.

Once I finished the shading on his shoulders and his arms, I start sketching out those big hands. I love them. His long, lean fingers are a bit stiffer these days, particularly in the colder months, but still do what they need to do; Special Tonic helps our old man hands tremendously. I massage his hands when they get particularly ouchy, as he does with me; Dutch always gets a bit grumpy when I start, but eventually, he gives in and enjoys it. If you guessed it, yes, he's still a bit of a baby at times over things. He still touches me in the right way, in the right places; they work well for that.

Just to tease me, Dutch plays with that hair a titch, giving me the puppy eyes look for no reason other than he can. I shake my head, scoffing. "You are really trying to prolong this, aren't you, Dutch?" I tease.

"Just got some locks caught up in my fingers, is all," Dutch teases, knowing that I know better. "I want my hair to look presentable for the drawing."

I scoff again, turning the book around to show the progress. "I've already drawn it."

"Oh, he's handsome!" Dutch grinned, giving his hips a bit of a squirm. "If you're not careful, I might flirt with him."

Flirting at an illustration of himself! It's just so... him. I just had to laugh, even if I encouraged him.

"You are impossible, Dutch."

Dutch just chuckles, giving that waist a bit of a squirm because he can. I pause the drawing for a moment because he is simply being too distracting.

"And now you're flirting with me!"

"When don't I?"

That old imp got me then. He always flirts with me; I could be reading the paper while sipping my coffee when he decides to pull my attention away by kissing me on the neck. It comes off as a bit silly these days rather than sexy. I haven't been able to fully read a newspaper in the morning in over thirty years, I'm secretly amused, and I think he knows it.

I eventually do get back to the drawing, moving my attention onto his chest. As mentioned earlier, the skin is, well, less taut there these days. He's never been the most barrel-chested fellow but looks even less so these days; all the same, I still love laying my head on it, feeling, and loving the warmth from it. I still love blowing kisses right over that heart, as he does with me. I etch in the details as I see them presented before me, details that took him a long time to come around to accepting, with some convincing from me. He's been gaining positive associations, learning to like parts of his body better through my kissing them more. Over time, Dutch has been feeling more handsome these days, something I regret from time to time!

"You ain't drawing me with saggy tits, are you?" Dutch teased; he's growing more comfortable with his aging body, so much so that he'll crack a joke about it.

"You drew me with a potbelly," I playfully retort, though I won't live in denial; I do have a tiny bit of one these days that has been resistant towards me working it off, but alas, it remains. "It's only fair."

The graphite stick does its job as I gradually work my way down towards his lower torso, along that ribcage that carries a bit more flesh on it these days. Like the rest of his torso, he's still very ticklish there; I just have to dig in a little deeper when I poke him there, still often in public when I need to keep him in line. Most recently, Dutch got a good jab when he flirted with the new bartender in Valentine; a rather handsome, big Irish fellow of around our age who took a liking to us. I got a little jealous!

It was during that flirty moment that I cut short that we get older it's not uncommon for us seniors to... Get a little daring, and explore different things with each other. Maybe next time we're in town, we'll ask that Irish gentleman if he has any plans for the afternoon outside of pouring beer and cleaning glasses.

But! There's a drawing that needs to be done.

I etch in some more details on that mid-torso; one being a bit of a roll of his waist; a lovely love handle. I love them. They're something extra for me to grab that wasn't there all those years ago, and it's a secret kissing spot. That spot on his right hip is as sensitive as it ever was, though like his ribs I have to dig in just a little more to get a reaction out of him. Just because those hips, that waist, are a little thicker these days, doesn't mean they're any less slutty. Oh, they are. I'd be lying if I said he didn't use them to get his way from time to time. Imagine being manipulated by a sixty-five-year-old man's waist, complete with love handles! It's not something I'll openly brag about.

Dutch's ass is largely absent in this drawing; it's buried itself comfortably into the bedspread but a teasing hint of it is seen.

The next stop on the drawing Dutch tour, his belly. It was once so flat you could drive a train on it, and well, now, that train would fall off the rails. To put it bluntly, Dutch has developed a paunch (which I love), that I could just bury my face in — and I do. It sits like a well-used cushion as he lays in the manner in which he is posing, the lower roll slightly curtaining his groin. The married life has been suiting him well; there are some consequences to hand-feeding each other expensive imported chocolate from Europe every evening, but we've earned it for living as long as we have with the lifestyle we've led. If I want to hear his laugh, I'll blow a kiss on that irresistible belly button that doesn't know it wants in or out.

It makes me sad to think that he had once been so self-conscious about the changes to his body. To me, with more flesh on him, more of him to love, he looks even more handsome as he's aged.

Dutch's genitals, which he openly has exposed in a show of voluntary vulnerability and submission, weren't spared of aging, but they still do their job. They're dipped down between his legs that lay sprawled before him, his pubic hair as grey as the hair on his head and chest. A lot of men of our age have trouble getting it up; we are not foolproof in this regard. As mentioned earlier, sex is still good, but when we can't get it up, we've found other ways to deliver pleasure to each other, and in many ways, sex is even more enjoyable as a result.

His legs are part of the final journey in this session. Dutch's are long and lean, and thanks to daily horseback riding, their musculature is still damn fine. Their appearance hides the stiffness that's in them these days; for us both, our walks take us a little more time. Now, before you take, would you be shocked to learn though that I suspect he milks it now and then through so that he gets leg massages?

Dutch's feet are my last target. Those too get massaged, sigh. I again leave no detail undrawn; yes, I even drew that gross big toe of his. He says it happened many years ago during a heist when he accidentally dropped a safe on his foot, but I know damn well it's because The Count stomped one night at camp. He had a few drinks and forgot his boots and well, bare feet around horse hooves aren't among the best combinations out there. Dutchi is a little dramatic; he likes to exaggerate from time to time.

I finish the drawing with some extra shading around those soft curves of his body and etch in a few details here and there that I have accidentally left out. I finish the drawing off with those rings of his, and I set the graphite stick on the bedside table. Just as he had done with me, I slip up into bed next to him, kiss him on the forehead, and open up the book to him with my arms around him as he cuddles up close into my lap.

Dutch gets emotional. We all know he's emotional, that's nothing to be alarmed at, but there are times when I think he's just going to crumble. I thought one of those moments was unfolding before my eyes as he rapidly blinks back tears. He's come so far in regaining self-esteem over the changes to his body; had I undone all of that?

Dutch shifts half of his torso into my lap to get a better look at my work, his eyes taking in the details. There's a noticeable waver to his voice as he speaks, but there's a smile on his face, and it can be heard in his voice.

"I don't think the finest artists out of Europe could draw a better likeness of me."

I was touched, honestly touched, but I laugh. Someone who hadn't drawn much lately aside from the odd rabbit and deer, and maybe the odd folks in town (clothed in case you get any ideas), better than those highly fluent artists who have their artwork displayed in major art galleries around the world? Dutch is still a charmer.

"Oh, you flatter me," I laugh, hugging as much of Dutch as I can. "But I think we both know you'd be thrown out of their studios. You talk and fidget too damn much for a model! You'd be a pain in the ass and go off on some philosophical rant about art and man."

Dutch belts out a laugh, turning over onto his back with a big, silly smile. We know each other a bit too well. "Oh, I thought I was being a bit on the quiet side."

I grab a lock of that hair, twirl a long silver strand between my fingers, and give it a playful tug. "Only because I didn't actively engage in conversation!"

"And you flirt! You'd be kicked out for that. Something about needing to maintain professional conduct between artist and model." As if to emphasize, I poke him on his chest and then his belly, because I had to make him squeak. He deserves it.

There's a playful twinkle in Dutch's eyes as he positions himself to be poked again; he secretly loves it. I can also almost see the wheels, rusted as they might be, turning in his head. He's planning something and plays it coy.

Oh, but I think we don't have to maintain any of that pompous professional conduct here. We're small gallery-type artists. Flirting just grows familiarity with the model and artist. We have the perfect formulation."

I sigh, shaking my head, but decide to play along and see how far he goes. I smirk a knowing smirk, knowing it'll just egg him on. "What if the artist and model have already grown very familiar with each other?"

"Then, flirting becomes flirting with creativity," Dutch speaks a bit lower, dragging a finger along my jawline, to my neck, to the base of my ear. My breath hitches sharply; he knows damn well how that touch affects me.

"It can change perspective, explore new art concepts."

The moment I saw that glint in his eyes, that smirk, I knew Dutch was going to make good on my promise to 'kiss every inch of my body.'

"It's important for artists to study their subject before they even pick up their medium of choice," Dutch perfects the voice of an artist giving a speech at one of those big art galleries as he sets the book on the bedside table.

"You want to take in what you see in front of you and decide, what style should I use? Should this be realism, or should it be abstract? What medium should I use? And what will the meaning be behind the result?"

Dutch gently, smoothly, lays me down and starts to kiss my neck. I close my eyes, taking in the warmth from his lips, his warm breath tickling the fine hairs on my neck. He slowly trails more kisses down towards my collarbone, spending some time there before making his way down further on my chest. My back involuntarily arches up off the mattress as I feel his tongue just lightly tease a nipple, urging more out of him.

In between those kisses though, and the further he shifts his way down my body, Dutch starts to offer a string of names and dates of some famous paintings throughout history. He's trying to impress me with his artisan knowledge. Sometimes, I think there's a library in that thick skull of his, but a library where the books have all fallen off the shelves following a tornado. It all becomes a mess of dates and names that I cannot possibly save for later reference.

I roll my eyes, trying to tune out Dutch's voice as I focus on the sensation of his lips and tongue exploring me as if it were the first time. I encourage him when he's quiet, my hands roaming through those long locks of hair, savoring how nice it feels after all these years and just how thick it still is. While my hair hasn't turned to shit, I might be envying his.

And then, Dutch brings up the subject of man and art and how it will change humanity.

Oh God. He's going philosophical.

I'll have to stop this or he'll be talking at all hours of the night.

I know that to interrupt his ramble, I'll have to put the kisses—wonderful as they are—on pause. I firmly guide him up so that we're facing each other and roll my eyes as he gives a look that resembles a love-struck teenager, wanting to kiss again after stopping to catch a breath after a lengthy makeout session. Only this is a sixty-five-year-old man who thinks he could kiss every inch of my body while rambling about the history of art and its philosophy without me falling asleep.

I smirk and, after wrapping my legs around him, I turn him over so that I'm on top of him; there's very little resistance from him. Before he can get another word in about 18th-century philosophy in paintings, I entangle my fingers through that gorgeous silver hair and ease him in for a long, lingering kiss on his lips, which he returns in earnest. It does a damn good job of shutting him up, and well, I rarely turn down an opportunity to kiss that man. His lips are still so soft, and that mustache creates a ticklish sort of feeling on my skin that might turn others off, but I rather enjoy it.

Despite our age, something primal sometimes stirs within us when our lips are locked and tongues slip into each other's mouths, and I love it. This was one of those times.

There's a subtle battle of dominance taking shape. Dutch rolls me back over as he pushes his tongue against mine, a low, animalistic growl erupting from his chest. Being that I'm still very much top dog in this relationship (something that certain someone needs to be reminded about), I simply can't allow that. I push him right back with all my might, which isn't much these days, but he doesn't fight back too strongly, knowing. As evident from how easily it was to turn him over, I would say some of that strength reserve of his isn't quite at full tilt either. He tries once more to gain control of the situation -- complete with a playful grab of my ass. Naughty boy! I give his hand a light smack as I turn him back over, and finally hold him down with my legs possessively wrapped around him.

When we break from the kiss, Dutch looks at me that way again, as if I were some magnificent sculpture in Italy instead of this old man lying on top of him. I smack him on his ass with a snort; there's a satisfying sound that sounds not unlike what you'd get from smacking the rear of a pig, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not one of those people, so you'll have to use your imagination. He loves it, evident from his boyish giggle.

"Happy Valentine's Day, you old rogue."

Dutch just looks at me with that lovestruck puppy expression. I can't resist, and I kiss him again.

#hosea fucks friday #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #red read redemption 2 fanfic #vandermatthews #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #hosea x dutch #dutch x hosea #van der linde gang #rdr2 dutch #rdr2 photography #red dead redemption 2 photography #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 community #red dead #red dead redemption two

[makriiii]

Caught Ⅱ (Arthur Morgan × f!reader)

Word count: 3k

Author's notes: This is going to be more of a slow burn than I initially set out for. Also, sorry for the slow update!

Warnings: 18+, angst, slightly nsfw, cursing, mentions of blood.

Pt3! Or pt1

Wattpad or Ao3

♡

Caught Ⅱ

The further you got, once again, the colder it was, both you and your horse now having slowed to a nervous walk. Far from anything that could resemble a road or life beyond yourself and your mount.

You were lost. If that were any descriptor. Lost, cold, and tired. You could only hope Van Der Linde's gang was just as lost as you too, but much further, desirably completely headed in a different direction.

Thankfully, the rabbit you saved from earlier kept you from needing to hunt again. Hunting now would certainly only draw attention where attention was not needed, a fire too. Options were limited, to say the least.

The sky above was as dark as could be, yet sparkled with so many lights. The contrast calmed you amidst the just now subsiding adrenaline.

You blew your condensated breath into the air, watching it fade away with the seconds that passed. Bringing yourself to think on how you'd find your way back seemed impossible. The thought of laying your head into a motel bed completely dominated your mind.

You'd have to try to stop somewhere, soon at least, to rest your horse if you didn't want to run the risk of the both of you collapsing. It'd been hours since you got away with a bit of cash and some measly train bonds.

All of it didn't seem so worth it now for a few stacks of paper. But, at least it'd calm Colm some knowing that the score he'd set up wasn't for naught.

A loud crack rang out.

Your mare jumps beneath you, spooking into a quick canter.

Your whole body seized up as you clutched your saddles horn, only a second did it take for you to glance down to where you felt an impact.

A sudden, deep, burning heat spread through your left arm like the blood that seeped from the open wound.

When you finally realized what had just happened, you whipped your head around, and there he was.

That man in the navy union coat. The barrel of his pistol staring you down as he did.

Adrenaline and shock pushed you into action as you unholstered your revolver, aiming it the best you could at him through the darkness.

Each time you barely clipped him, the bullets ricocheting off the nearby pines as he crouched down at your fire, trying to avoid looking like the trees.

You couldn't meet his eye. His hat nearly covered the whole of his face as he spurred his paint after yours.

He shot again, narrowly missing you, to your relief. Your gun clicked empty, quickly realizing you had already used your whole round.

You clutched your arm to your side, beginning to get weary as you rode. The blood from your arm didn't let up.

You grabbed for your second revolver, knowing you'd most likely have another bullet find you if you reloaded now.

You'd been in situations like these before, though only once did you actually get shot, once that didn't disable you as badly as this.

The terrible aching started to really bother you now, but you couldn't focus on your arm, riding and shooting all at once.

Pivoting in your saddle the best you could, you pointed and shot again, but now he was further. Taken a path left that granted him more cover by the evergreens thick trinks.

There was no use wasting your bullets now while he stalked you like prey, waiting for you to drop. The frustration and fear with this man kept you out of the daze you felt approaching.

You made quick glances around, making sure there were no more of his members also out here for your head as well.

He would be the only manageable option.

Every time you turned and aimed, it proved more and more difficult to aim. Like he kept getting further out. The pain in your arm started getting worse, making you clutch it closer to your chest.

-

Your mind came back to you once you hit the ground. You had fallen off and into the snow, which at least padded your fall.

Everything around you started becoming more fuzzy, the details in the land blurry. You had to do something about your arm and the man, but probably the man first.

You stared back up through the trees, squinting and trying to focus in the darkness that shrouded your surroundings. Wherever he was, he wasn't close enough for you to see.

Heaving in breath after breath, you propped yourself up against a nearby tree, weakly pointing your shaky gun as you waited for the blue blob to get closer.

When you figured he was close enough - too close - you hit the trigger.

There was nothing after that but ringing. It looked like you hit him, you thought so. So you dragged your knife out, cutting your shirt to wrap your arm and put much needed pressure on it.

You winced with every poke and prod, and with your torn shirt quickly soaking up the blood, it gave you barely enough time to turn for your chap, slicing a piece long enough to tie around your bicep.

You dropped your knife as soon as you finished and lifted your arm as best you could to apply your make-shift tourniquet above the bullet wound.

All you could do now was hope the bleeding would stop long enough to get your bearings and get out of here.

-

Your head bobbed up and down on hardwood, enough to wake you with a deep groan. Your whole body ached like mad once you slowly regained consciousness.

"She's awake." Stated a deep silvery voice, which made you shoot your eyes open.

"Really?" Replied a man farther away.

"Pretty sure."

Everything that was happening just now started to overwhelm you in your state of being barely cognizant. You stayed silent trying to recall just last night.

From what you could muster, it seemed like death had caught up to you after all, yet you were here.

You'd been shot. That much you could feel. Your bicep burned and tingled with the puncture wounds that had penetrated each side.

When you cocked your head up enough to look at your blood-stained jacket, an actual bandage peaked through the bullet holes.

You remembered falling off your horse, but much beyond that was still hard to recall.

Trying to sit upright, you found yourself tugging at binds, which set off a swift onset of panic as you started to jerk at them, your arm nearly screaming at you to stop.

"Easy." The first man mumbled. He moved closer for you, grasping for your shoulder that didn't have a terrible stabbing pain in it. You met his eye as he pulled you up with ease to a sit.

He stayed crouched in front of you, got a moment before returning to his seat. A soft and hardly discernible look of concern across his face. Tough but gentle, and he didn't seem to mean you much harm despite the situation you found yourself in.

Upon your upright position, you found your ammo and gun belts vanished, and the only semblance of your items, your hat, crumpled on the floor next to you.

You took a better look around when something - someone - caught your eye, nonetheless like a month to a flame.

That man. His union coat still covered him, his black hat sitting on top of his head. You could never forget that attire. The clothes he wore while he gunned you down in the forest.

You knew exactly what you did to the last man who got a lucky shot in on you, only this time you had to find a way around your limbs being bound together.

You stared daggers at him from behind, desperately wishing he'd at least glance back so you could finally see his face. The face of the first man who had gotten an upper hand on you, the thought filling you with contempt.

You cleared your throat before you spoke. "Look at me, you bastard." Your voice still sounded hoarse over the anger that lined your words, still trying to gain full functionality over your body.

Even though you didn't call him by name or any of his noticeable features, he seemed to know exactly who you were addressing.

He gave the driving reins to the older man that sat next to him, who had his head turned to inspect you momentarily.

"I'm lookin'." He announced, smug as could be.

He was intimidating, more so than what you initially expected. That wasn't enough wane your aggravated attitude, though you did tread with more caution.

He stood slightly bent over to hold his balance before jumping into the back where the other man sat with you.

You eyed him with such malice, yet the expression on his face only twisted into a small smirk.

"You gonna untie me or what?" It was worth the ask, unlikely he'd relent anyway.

"You gonna behave?"

"Sure, if you give me back all my shit. My horse as well, preferably, or one of yours."

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest at your ridiculous request. "I might've considered it had you left it at 'sure'." He drew out a cigarette and lit it just to puff the smoke at you.

Your eyebrows pulled together in annoyance. "Ask me again then."

He snickers at your second most ridiculous request, playing into it. "You gonna behave, girl?"

"Wouldn't dream of misbehaving." You granted, it didn't reach him, though. His expression of pure amusement gave it away.

"Never been much of a genie, so I can't grant any your wishes." He sat relaxed and aloof next to the first man you weren't sure of yet.

"You already shot me. Untying me is the least you could do. I reckon you could just poke my arm if I start actin' unruly." Reasoning with him was difficult, though you were confident you wouldn't try to fight off three full grown men. He wasn't.

"I'll think about it. If you talk nice."

"I talk nice when I'm not tied up."

"And I untie people who talk nice beforehand." He retorts, infuriating you further. "What's a girl like you doing Colm's dirty work anyway?"

"It's none the different than what you'd do for your boss."

"A train robbery alone? I think that's funny."

"Would it have been if you hadn't caught me last night?" The edges of your mouth curl up in a slight smirk at the thought of being so close to remaining victorious.

"What's even in it for you? You Colm's special girl or somethin'?" His accusation made the small smile that lined your lips vanish in place of shock.

He scanned you all the while, his eyes lighting up when his insult hit where he intended.

You knew why he'd say something so ludicrous, no doubt. Not many of the yellow bellied half-wits in this gang would attempt something like this, for good reason too. Colm didn't give a rats ass for his men, yet you liked to think you brought more value to the gang.

"No." You replied, scorned.

"Really?" He emphasized, hammering down on the nerve he already hit. "Seems more from your end than his."

You wanted to defend yourself, but you were limited in knowing what he'd take your word for. Clearly.

"Doubt he'll even come lookin' for you. Nor your buddy I caught a few days ago."

"We'll see." Your patience, what little you even had of it, kept you at bay, still clinging on to the prayer that he'd undo your ropes.

"Tell you what? You tell us where he's at and we'll go lookin' for him instead."

"I know exactly the same amount as you." That much was true. You hadn't seen him since he made his way up to Colter. But whether they saw it as the truth was beyond you.

He turned his head to the man whose company you preferred. "What do you think' Charles? She bullshitting us?"

"Couldn't tell you," He took a moment to think you over. "Haven't had enough time to tell."

Charles. You had the name of one of the three men that rode on this carriage with you.

"I ain't lyin', you'd have to bury yourself into the man's skin to always know his whereabouts."

"Yeah?" I'm sure there's more you can tell us than that." He stops, staring straight into you. "What's your name, anyways?"

"I can tell you about my ma and pop, but anything else? You'll have to untie me." A small laugh escapes your lips at your own joke, at the absurdity of this all.

He mumbled something under his breath, giving you a dark look. Getting up, he makes his way closer to you and to your horror, he was reaching out for your shoulder that belonged to your wounded side.

You winced at the pain when he clutched you, moving you so your back faced him to reach your binds.

He cut through the strings he tied you with, involuntarily getting jittery each time you felt his blade touch your wrists or palms.

Finally, the ropes that clasped you had released their tension, much to your relief letting out automatic sigh.

"That ain't gonna last for long, so enjoy it."

You blew him off, rolling your one shoulder as you rubbed your wrists. "You gonna do my legs too? Or are you gonna make the poor little lady do it herself?"

"Gonna make the 'poor little lady' do it herself." He agreed, returning back to his seat.

You grunted with each movement too harsh you made with your arm while you slowly undid the ropes, bitter at this man and his yapping.

Glancing up every so often, you met his eye each time. His never left you as you sat there.

He flicked his cigarette off the carriage, placing his full attention on to you. "Alright," He chimes, leaning in. "Where's he at?" Some of his initial aloofness replaced with more serious tone.

"Have you considered asking my associate?" You reply, taking off your jacket to examine your wound closer, daggers running down your arm with each minor touch.

"No. We invited him in by the fire to eat with us." He mocked you with each word that left his mouth. You could tell he was starting to lose his patience.

"I would've told you all about Colm if you had done that instead of shooting me." You quickly filled with regret, your sentence sounding more like an admission rather than a jab at him.

He raised his brows, contemplating for a moment. He took it as an admission as you feared, scolding yourself for it.

"It's not going to get easier for you. Just tell us where he's at and we'll let you go. Maybe."

"And what if I don't know where he's at? You gonna maybe let me go, or shoot me again?"

He groans, realizing he's not getting anywhere with you. You could tell he hadn't slept much - served him right for hunting you down in the forest.

-Arthur's pov-

Upon his initial meeting of you in the forest, he felt slick that he tracked you down through the snow and got a shot in. Yet, he had felt conflicted on whether or not he should kill you.

Sneaking around like you did and just about getting away with robbing them blind entirely alone, he had to admit, was impressive.

It led him to have some level of respect for you, despite being an O'Driscoll.

After Arthur shot at you again, he finally stopped long enough to give it some thought, if he should take you in. Watching and thinking you until you finally fell off, subduing yourself, effectively.

Only when he finally caught up to you at did he realize, you were a woman.

You pointed weakly at him, but your grip on the gun was so meek. You couldn't aim properly. Your bullet sent whizzing past a good few feet to his right.

He stared at you as you tried to stop the bleeding, seemingly not even noticing you hadn't hit him.

Only when you slumped over did he finally walk over to you, crouching down and looking at the wound he just caused.

Arthur took in a deep exasperated breath. Taking in another O'Driscoll didn't fill him with much glee. The rest of the gang would detest it too, he could already feel their ornery.

He called a few times to you, patting your cheek with his glove, but you were out cold.

He'd have to make it quick, looking at your wound, it was still bleeding, though your efforts did help.

Removing your jacket, he reluctantly unbuttoned your shirt to get to the wound properly, getting into his satchel and pulling out gauze.

Once he finished, he returned your clothes to their appropriate place, picking you up and tucking you on the back of his horse.

He took a quick glance to find your horse, mounting and kicking up to collect it when he saw it a few yards off, knowing thats where you kept your claims from the train.

-

Arthur could already tell in what ways you differed from Keiran, the one who was an O'Driscoll, yet so vehemently claimed he detested them.

You seemed to entirely skip begging for your life, screaming, or crying. You spoke to the one who shot you like there was a guarantee he wouldn't do it again.

It intrigued him. Were you just dumb? Being fearful never seemed to cross your mind. He questioned why someone like you was running with a gang like Colm's. Too much loyalty and ambition for a group like his.

But despite his curiosity, you were just as reluctant to speak as Keiran. Just as annoying but in a different way. His patience wore thin and he didn't want to kill you just yet, considering you might have a higher level in the gang.

If that were the case, Dutch would be mighty pleased with what information they could pry out of you with the right motivators.

#rdr #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2arthur #red dead redemption two #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption arthur #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #enemies to lovers #read dead fanfic #charles smith #lemon fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction

[slicedmayonnaise]

omg! it's ch 3 if bienvenido a escuella's!

#you should read it #welcome to escuella's #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fandom #red dead redemption community #rdr #red dead redemption two #red dead #red dead 2 #javier escuella #john marston #jovier #fanfic #fanfiction

[goodmorgan]

Dead in the Water

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader

Summary: You face off Arthur Morgan in your most perilous game of poker yet.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: 18+. NSFW.

AO3 Link

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You don't know what time it is but you guess it is well into the early hours of the morning. You'd probably be in a deep sleep if it wasn't for the fact that you are such an avid poker player, you can never turn down a game. You and your sister used to stay up well past your bedtime trying to beat each other until one of you got angry and finally headed to bed. It was usually you, you've always been such a sore loser. You'd do anything to win. It seems that things haven't changed, except now your opponent is the most dangerous outlaw in the state.

"I raise." Arthur Morgan never shies away from a challenge. You try to keep eye contact as much as you can, just like your sister taught you, but it becomes harder as the game drags on.

The small lantern on the table illuminates his face tenderly, you can perfectly see the shape of the scars on his nose and chin. He's still wearing his hat but the brim is tilted so you can see his face and he can see yours. His lips look irresistible. Your sister never told you that opponents could be this alluring or that the stakes could be this high.

He takes a swig of whiskey from his glass from time to time, which makes his lips shimmer, but his gaze never strays from you. He likes to look deep into your eyes. A whiff of bluff and you're dead in the water.

"Call". You got nothing. The Jack of Hearts and the 3 of Clubs in your hand are no match for the 10 of Spades, 4 of Diamonds and 7 of Hearts laid on the table, but there's no way you are folding now, even with his indecipherable poker face menacing you.

He deals the turn on the table. You now have a pair of Jacks. You try to stay as still as possible so as to not give it away, hoping it's enough to get you through this round. You can't afford to lose any more. You tell him you check and try to sound as confident as possible.

"Where's the fun in that, darlin'?" He places a chip in the pot. He knows exactly what he's doing. You are down to your last chip so you either call and risk losing or you fold. This isn't the time to back down so you hope those jacks of yours bring you that pot. You're all in.

"For good luck." You hold up the chip to your lips and kiss it before throwing it in the pot, hoping to throw him off a little.

He breaks his poker face to give you a perverted smile. "That chip's mine, gorgeous. Just like you are." It sounds like a promise he's willing to keep.

It's time for the river and he rips it out like a band-aid, too slow and painful. It's the Queen of Diamonds in all her glory. There's no going back now.

"Alright, show me."

You flash your pair of Jacks in hesitation. "A couple of cowboys."

"That's a pretty pair", he says, slightly mocking you. Oh no.

He flips his cards to show you the 9 of Hearts and the King of Spades that complete his straight. Just like that you're dead in the water, drowned in the river.

You let out a grunt of despair and bang your closed fist on the table, you're anything but a gracious loser. He chuckles and, unfortunately for you, it's that low breathy laugh of his you like. It echoes in his whiskey glass as he drinks in celebration, eyes still on you.

"I told ya you were mine." You truly are. "Ain't I the lucky one." He holds the chip you kissed to his own lips.

You take a moment to compose yourself, knowing very well what comes next. He empties the whiskey glass.

"Well, I guess it's time I cash this out." He adjusts in his seat in anticipation and you realize there's nothing or nowhere to hide. "You gotta keep your end of the deal." He has a smirk adorning his face, he's fully enjoying this, the bastard. But despite your flaws, you've always stood by your agreements, even if it meant losing your undergarments.

A white undershirt is now the only thing you're wearing and you remove it as slowly as you can. You feel the cold hit your midriff before reaching your nipples and when you're done you throw the shirt down to the pile of clothes besides you.

"Now, ain't that just beautiful!" he drawls out at the sight of the winner's prize. Playing strip poker with Arthur always ends the same way for you.  

He holds out his hand to reach for yours and you oblige, the sting of losing still in your chest, but the heat of your lust now in your core. He pulls you to him desperately and the whiskey glass tumbles from the table. You nestle on his lap, naked as the day you were born, your hands reaching for his shoulders. His lips head straight for your neck and you can't help but moan in pleasure as the whiskey on his lips wets your skin. Maybe losing ain't so bad.

You remove his hat and drop it into his pile to the side. His underpants are the only item left on him. Damn. Two more hands and you could've beat him. You promise yourself you're gonna get him next time.

Perhaps you could've won if you had worn underwear. You never wear it now, he likes to have easy access at all times.

He places a hand on your chin so you can look down at him. "Now show me that gracious loser face of yours." You comply.

He looks deep into your eyes again. A whiff of bluff and you're dead in the water.

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A/N: Idk if this was predictable or not but it was fun to write! Feedback is welcomed!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #read dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 x reader #goodmorgan

[fandomstatewrites]

LARKSPUR - Chapter Three:  bloodhound habits

“Colm, then?” asked Hosea, arms crossed across his chest. Arthur shook his head and took another pull from the bottle. “Girl’s got her own demons chasin' her, by the looks of it,” “She ain’t an outlaw too, is she?” Another shake of his head, “Naw. This seems personal. Something about that ring of hers. Someone’s going through an awful lot of trouble to get it from her. They chased us out of Emerald Ranch,” Arthur explained, “She managed to divert him away from the camp while I rode on ahead with Karen, but by the time I doubled back...Well, let's just say she roughed him up good before puttin' the bastard down." “Tough girl,” Hosea mused. Arthur hummed in agreement. - When amateur outlaw and bounty hunter Ramona Kostka ends up on the wrong side of a robbery, she's swept into the world of the Van der Linde gang. A surprise reunion with an old friend deepens her involvement, forcing her to navigate alliances to clear the bounty on her head. As danger mounts, Ramona must outwit both friends and foes in a desperate bid to protect her freedom and her life.

Read on Ao3 - Chapter One

#rdr 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr 2 oc #rdr2 oc #Arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfic #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan #female original character #original female character #original character #fanfic #fanfiction #not beta read

[nevsclowntown]

in which; back when they was younger & dutch had his first episode, he was supposed to be taken to a mental hospital, yet hosea decided he would not give him away. ever.

#red dead redemption #rdr #rdr2 #vandermatthews #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #fanart #rdr fanart #hosea #dutch #hosea x dutch #nevart #/ I AM EMOTION #I've read this fanfiction in which it was #briefly touched that hosea and dutch were with a doctor when they just started out together #and that dutch barely escaped a mental asylum #i dont know #im just emotional #ones a fool #the other is crazy #i just needed to get this out of my system #to function again #i swear the fanfiction broke me apart in million of pieces

[mrsservopolus]

"You're the boss."

CEO/Boss Dutch Van Der Linde x female reader

Total words 3,721

Work has been really stressful recently god how badly you just want it to be over so you can go home and have a nice hot bath. You were typing on your computer faster than usual hoping that if you worked faster the day would end quicker, but it didn't it just wore your fingers out. Hours went by, and your coworkers started to leave the building one by one. You sat there finishing your last assignment before your office phone rang. You sighed before answering. "Hello?" "Hello miss." The lady on the other side of the phone had a sweet voice. You were confused for a second until you realized it was Mr. Van Der Linde's assistant. "Mr. Van der Linde said that he needed to see you in his office as soon as possible." "Okay, let him know I'll be up in just a minute." "Will do." She hung up the phone and you quickly finished typing on your computer before heading upstairs.You were created by his assistant. "Right this way, miss." You followed her down the hallway until you reached his door. She knocked on the door and waited until he told you to enter. He waved for her to leave and you entered his office. It was a very fancy office, his desk was dark wood and there were two leather chairs in front of it. They went perfectly together. "Good evening miss." His voice was deep and it sent shivers down your spine. The dimmed lights made the office more ominous. "Take a seat, I have something I need to discuss with you." You took a deep breath and sat down in one of the chairs in front of him. He closed his laptop and looked you up and down, you fixed your skirt and crossed your legs as you felt his eyes practically burn a hole through you. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Are you doing anything Friday night?" "What?" You were confused about what he just said. "Are you free Friday night? There's an office event and I planned on asking my best employee to go with me as my plus one." His words echoed through your head and you took a second before replying. "Uh no, I'm not. Why me though?" "Like I mentioned I wanted to take my best employee." "Oh okay. Where is the event happening and what is the event exactly?" "It's a dance, and it's at the office for a fundraiser for the local hospital. I just thought bringing one of my best employees would look really good on our part especially since there will be other companies there as well." "That's nice, yeah I'll be able to go. Is there anything that you want me to wear, like any specific color?" "Wear something nice, in red or black just so we'd match. Everyone and their plus ones are going to be matching." "Okay, I can do that." "I'll call you on Friday." "Sounds good to me. Do you need anything else?" "No, you're free for the night."

You started to get up out of the chair. "Goodnight Mr. Van der Linde." Once you were out of his office you let out a sigh of relief. You walked back to your office and grabbed your coat and bag before leaving the building. The cool autumn air caused your body to shiver. You got in your car and drove home. You were too tired to cook so you just ordered a pizza and laid on the couch for most of the night before taking a shower and going to sleep. The next day consisted of working and doing your normal routine. You were in the kitchen starting supper before your phone rang. It was an unknown number. You hated answering them but sometimes it was for work even though it was on your personal cell. "Hello?" You heard someone who you weren't quite expecting it was Mr. Van der Linde. "Hello dear." "Hello, sir. Is something going on?" "Not exactly, I was hoping you would want to come shopping with me for Friday night, I'll buy your dress since I'm going with you, it'll be my treat." "Are you sure? You don't really have to do this." "Yes, I'm sure. Tomorrow after work meet me in my office I'll let Alana know that you'll be coming to my office so you won't have to wait or get lectured by her." You laughed. "Sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow." "See you then." He hung up the phone, you stood there in your kitchen looking around trying to process what just happened.

Your boss just asked you to go dress shopping with him for the event he'd be taking you to. Why did this feel weird? You brushed it off as a kind gesture from your boss. You finished cooking and took your food to the living room so you could sit down and watch a movie while you ate. You scrolled through practically every streaming service you had until you finally found something to watch. You cleaned up the dishes and tidied up the kitchen and living room before heading to your bedroom. You lay in your bed staring at the ceiling lost in thought about this whole situation with Mr. Van der Linde. Why me? Is this a date? Why'd he offer to take me dress shopping? Thousands of thoughts ran through your brain. You did find him attractive but every woman in that office did. But it wasn't going to be a date, right? That would be unprofessional on both ends. You shook that thought out of your head and grabbed the book that was on your nightstand hoping that if you read some you'd fall asleep quicker and it worked.

The next day went well. You went to the office and your work day went smoother than usual. Everyone wasn't on edge. Some of the girls were talking about the dance that night and what they were wearing and whatnot. You were talking with some of your coworkers and you felt your phone vibrating in your pocket. You pulled it out and it was an unknown number. You excused yourself and answered the phone "Hello?" "I'm about to head out, are you ready to go?" It was Mr Van der Linde "I still have an hour left of my shift." "It'll be fine, I'll get Alana to check you out at the end of your shift and you can come with me now." "Are you sure that we won't get in trouble?" "We'll be fine." "Okay I'll take your word for it, I'll grab my stuff and come up now." "Sounds good." He hung the phone up and you grabbed your stuff before heading towards the elevator. "Hey wait up!" The woman's Irish accent was very strong and you knew who it was as soon as she spoke. "Hi Molly what's up?" She clicked the button to call the elevator down. "Are you going to the dance tonight?" "Yeah, I am." The elevator doors opened and you both stepped inside. "Who are you going with?" You paused before answering because you couldn't tell her who you were going with because for one he was your boss and two he was Molly's ex. "Oh I'm just going alone, what about you?" "I was going to see if Dutch would go with me. We've been talking again and maybe he'll go with me." "It's good that you guys are talking again." She nodded. The elevator stopped and you guys walked out Molly waved goodbye to you as walked down the hallway on your left, and you walked down the opposite hallway. You were walking up to Alana's desk before someone grabbed your hand from behind. It caused you to jump. "Jesus!" He laughed. "Alana agreed to the call-off thing so we're good to leave." "Okay well, we best get going now. Don't want anyone thinking anything is happening between us." You noticed that you were still holding onto his hand so you let it go. Dutch and you walked out the building, dodging eyes from your coworkers. Dutch drove down the road a bit before turning into the parking lot of one of the fanciest shops in your whole city. Once you walked in the store was like a closet that you'd see in a princess movie, the walls were full of dresses and suits of all different shapes and sizes. A nice lady walked towards the two of you. She offered to take you to try on some dresses while Dutch shopped for a suit. You looked at some of the dresses with the lady until you came across a beautiful black dress that had a slit going up to your thigh. You tried the dress on and you instantly fell in love with it. You told the lady that this was the dress you were going to buy and you handed the dress for her to bag. You were waiting at the little seating area for the lady to come back with your dress but then you saw Dutch.It seemed he was waiting for you. He had a box and he handed it to you, you opened it, and it. Inside was a pair of shoes. They were black high heels and the outsole of them was deep red, they were beautiful. They looked really expensive too but you felt wrong rejecting them especially since they were a gift. "Wow, thank you, these are beautiful." He chuckled. "No problem. Did you find a dress you liked?" "Yes I did, it's pretty simple but I like it." "I bet it'll look amazing. Can't wait to see it." The lady who was with you while you were picking out your dress walked into the room holding two bags, one with your dress and one with Dutch's suit or whatever he ended up buying. Dutch paid for the stuff and you two were on the way back to the office so you could get your car and drive home. "Thank you for everything today Mr Van der Linde." "Dutch is fine my dear. And you're welcome, thank you for agreeing to come with me tomorrow night." "Thank you for inviting me." You smiled at him before exiting the car. You got into your car and drove home feeling so many different ways.

"God. Why am I feeling butterflies right now? I shouldn't be he's my boss." You groaned as you walked into the kitchen. You didn't even bother eating, you were already exhausted so you got changed and went straight to bed. The next morning you woke up early got a shower and got ready for work. You went to the. Coffee shop before you went to the office and grabbed yourself a coffee and a box of donuts for the office. You walked into the office and placed the box on the big table in the staff room. The work day was over an hour and a half early because people had to prepare for the dance. Your work day flew by quicker than usual so once your day was over you went home and started getting ready. You did your best to look your best. You didn't want to embarrass Dutch or make him look bad. You curled your hair and put on your dress and the heels that Dutch gifted you. You were checking yourself in the mirror and god, you looked breathtaking. You checked the time and realized that it was time to leave. You walked out into the autumn evening. It was nice out but there was a little breeze. The drive was pretty quiet. You didn't even turn on the radio. It felt nice to be in a quiet space before having to go to a party.

You walked out into the autumn evening. It was nice out but there was a little breeze. The drive was pretty quiet. You didn't even turn on the radio. It felt nice to be in a quiet space before having to go to a party. As you pulled into the parking lot the building was dark other than the first level floor. You took a deep breath before entering the building. The building was lively, music was playing, people were drinking and it seemed like it was going to be a good night. You looked around for anyone to talk to. Dutch was nowhere to be spotted so you walked over to the table grabbed a cup of punch and continued to walk around. You felt someone touch your shoulder and you turned around quickly and noticed that it was Abigail and John. "Hi, guys!" You spoke a little louder because the music was loud. "How's your night going so far?" "It's going well." "Who are you here with?" John asked. You looked around and then back at him before responding. "Oh… I'm alone tonight. I didn't come with anyone." "Well, we'll let you mingle, have a good night if we don't see you anymore." Abigail said before she and John walked into the crowd. You walked around looking for Dutch. You looked around for about 10 or 15 minutes before giving up and leaning on one of the walls in the hallway by the main elevator. You stood there sipping on the punch and listening to the different sounds. A couple of minutes go by and you hear the elevator ding as it reaches the floor. You noticed a woman walk out and it wasn't until she walked by. You noticed that curly red hair from a mile away. It was Molly. You walked to the elevator almost as if your body was on autopilot mode. You pressed the button to go up the floor that Dutch's office was on. Once you stepped out of the elevator you noticed a light at the end of the hallway. It was coming from Dutch's office. Your heels were clicking on the floor as you walked, it was almost intimidating. You looked into Dutch's office and noticed he was sitting at his desk so you knocked on his door. His eyes met yours and he smiled. "Wow, you look amazing." He said as he looked you up and down. "Thank you. You don't look that bad yourself." You laughed as you walked into his office. "Why are you up here? You're missing the whole party." "Had some important stuff going on and then Molly came up and started going on and on." "Oh okay then." You took a seat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Why are you up here anyways?" "I was just looking for you." "Want a drink?" He reached into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "Do you just keep a bottle in here at all times?" You laughed a little bit. "I got a very annoying ex that works in the same building as me so yes." He chuckled a bit and started pouring a glass of whiskey. "You want one?" "Sure why not"

He handed you a glass and got up out of his seat and walked over to the big window. You took a sip and admired him hoping he wouldn't look back and catch you staring. He looked so handsome in the moonlight. "Come here. Stand with me and look at this view." Dutch spoke. You got up and stood next to him. The view was absolutely beautiful. The city looked so different from that angle. "This view is amazing." "It looks so much better in the night, the day it just looks normal." You and Dutch stood there sipping on your drinks and admiring the view. The fact that Dutch was so close to you made you feel special. You admired Dutch for years even when he was with Molly but you never expected it to last that long you were wrong. Ever since you first did research about your workplace you'd see photos of Dutch all over the work website and the first time you met him in person you practically had to hold your jaw so it wouldn't hang open. Being in this setting now and being this close to him made your stomach flutter. Sometimes you'd even imagine him while you lay in bed at night. Before you knew it Dutch grabbed your side and pulled you closer to him. You turned your head quickly and made eye contact with him. "You alright?" He asks. "Yeah, I just wasn't expecting it." You awkwardly laughed. "Want me to let go?" "No, this is nice." You smiled. You both stand there enjoying each other's presents you love the feeling of being this close to him it's so much better than you imagined. Dutch started to move his thumb which was resting on your hip and just that slight movement made your heart skip a beat. Being this close with your boss was wrong but it felt so right. You and Dutch had a few more glasses and after a little while passed you both were really tipsy. You both were sitting in the chairs that faced Dutch’s desk. When you drink you get really touchy so you couldn't keep your hands off him, when you are sober you barely touch anyone but as soon as you get that sweet liquor in your system you completely change and you also can't keep quiet. “You wanna know something?” you say leaning on the arm of the chair you were sitting in. “What?” Dutch tilts his head and looks at you. “I've thought about you so many times. In so many different ways.” “Have you now?” Dutch takes a sip of his drink waiting for your response. “Mhm, but you are my boss so I tried to stop thinking about you but it didn't work. If I'm being honest I've always had a thing for you, You are extremely attractive, respectf-” Your words get cut short due to Dutch grabbing your face and making you face him. “No need to say anymore. Want me to take care of you? Tend to your needs?” You can't seem to find words but your mouth still hangs open. He stands up and picks you up from your chair but your hips and brings you to a standing position. You stand in front of Dutch and look up at him he is smirking at you which causes your face to heat up you are already flushed but you most definitely are bright red right now. “What do you say? Want me to tend to your needs?” “Please.” That all he needed, he picked you up and started kissing down your neck he placed you gently on the desk still kissing down your neck, you let out a few moans when he hit your sensitive spots, and that caused him to start sucking leaving little red and purple marks all down your neck. He slowly started to pull down the straps of your dress his cold rings caressing your skin causes your body to jerk. He pulled your dress down to your waist. “God, you're so beautiful.”

Dutch takes a step back admiring the beauty that was right in front of him. It doesn't take you long to reach your arms out and pull Dutch towards you. Your lips and his were intertwined his hands explored your body undoing your bra and tossing it to the side. He pushed you on the desk causing everything on the desk to move he didn't seem to care. His hands dropped down to unzip his pants. The kiss finally broke and you pushed his hands away so you could undo this zipper. You hooked his pants and boxers and pulled them down to his knees letting his cock free. Dutch hikes your dress up to your hips and spreads your legs apart. He pushed your panties to the side and ran a finger in between your wet folds, it sent chills down your spine. He pulls his finger away and sucked it clean. “You taste as sweet as you look.” Those words sent heat to your core. He ran the head of his cock through your folds before lining it up with your entrance. “You sure you want this?” You nodded your head quickly before he sunk into you. It was a stretch You've never taken someone who was the same size as Dutch he was much longer and thicker than everyone you've been with in the past. Dutch reached all of the spots you never even knew existed. “You alright darling? Want me to move?” “Mhm.” You said biting back a moan. He started to move in and out, you arched your back and Dutch grabbed on your hips, taking control. Dutch was hitting all of the spots you felt your climax growing quickly and you could feel he was getting close too. "I'm getting close darlin where do you want it?" You were quick to answer. "I'm on the pill.” He nodded and continued to thrust into you. Your climax rolls over you and you grasp Dutch and pull him close digging your head into his shoulder. Dutch lets out a deep groan and you can feel him finish inside of you, you feel full. As he pulls out of you pull your head out of his shoulder and look at him good thing you wore waterproof makeup because if you didn't you would be regretting it by now. He reaches around your body, grabs the box of tissues and starts to wipe up the mess between your thighs. Dutch made sure you looked presentable before you left the office. He fixed your hair and even slid your heels back on your feet. Your knees were so weak you couldn't stand. Dutch guides you by your back down the hallway making your way to the elevator. You were praying that no one was in the elevator. When the elevator stopped you stepped inside and clicked the button to go down to the first floor. “You wanna do this again sometime?” “Up to you, you're the boss.” He just smiled, the elevator dinged signaling that it reached the floor. Dutch helped guide you outside the elevator and you looked around the room and you felt jealous green eyes burning into your skin from across the room, you shook it off and continued to spend the night with Dutch mingling with your other coworkers and their partners.

I hope you enjoyed. I've had major writers block untill today and almost all of it the was wrote months ago so if the tone sounds different that's why.

Goodbye for now ❤️

banner credits @cafekitsune

#dutch van der linde #rdr2 #read dead redemption 2 #dutch rdr2 #fanfiction #ceo #boss #dutch van der linde x female reader #some smut

[simplegenius042]

To all my mutuals...

I'm developing a off-Tumblr list of fellow mutuals who want to be tagged for my stuff and those who wish not to be. (Me on the other hand? Please DO tag me in your stuff, I love being tagged and reading all your works even when I don't say much, which is something I'm trying to get out of the habit of).

Just so I know who actually wants to be tagged for my stuff, would you so kindly like this post? Or comment (even reblog if you want) if you want to state your answer more clearer? (A yes or a no is all I need).

My "stuff" in question includes the following:

WIPs, Publishing of my fics, Music Mondays/Playlists relating to characters/stories, Tag Games, Quizzes, maybe art and other related things (once I expand my comfort zone to become more familiar with that stuff).

While I mostly group together some of my WIPs together (which often include fandoms you may or may not be in) on the blog I'm posting from now (and then reblog them to one of my main story blogs depending on if they include the specific fandom I write for them in), there are times I will be posting from my other three main story blogs which include my @the-untitledverse-blog (fandoms greatly vary and often mix in with original writing), @the-silver-chronicles (mainly Far Cry 5 with some other fandoms mixed in and few original writing), and @life-despair-and-monsters-blog (a couple fandoms mixed in with original story, a smaller scale The UnTitledverse) as well as of course this blog which includes fandoms in all three blogs, but is mostly meant for original story and that one Fallout series I'm cooking up. In fact, my pinned post on this very blog will give you a run down on the fandoms each of these blogs focus on so if you want you can make a more clear decision there.

Anyway, remember to like if yes, or if you want to be more thorough and clear on your answer, comment or reblog either just a yes or a no.

Chow!

#hope all of that made sense and if not maybe read below it MIGHT help #the untitledverse #far cry the silver chronicles #life despair & monsters #wings and horns #a radioactive calamity of love bombs & gore #original works #fanfiction #will be putting down a few of the general fandoms my blogs work on right here in the tags #fnaf #twdg #red dead redemption 2 #the last of us #resident evil #but these fandoms (+ plus many more) all connect into a larger original universe in the story of “the untitledverse” #far cry 5 #obviously for “far cry the silver chronicles” though that doesn't mean i don't have an eye out for the other far cry games #a few non-far cry ones include #call of duty modern warfare #we happy few #welcome to the game #plus others but these are just the mains i've got a clear idea to include in the chronicles #“life despair & monsters” is like a smaller scale “the untitledverse” but with a different focus on fandoms like #love death + robots #doki doki literature club #cyberpunk 2077 #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #the legend of vox machina #house of the dragons #don't ask how these and others connect its just the multiverse and worse

[twola]

Devil's Backbone : Limpany I

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem OC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Limpany I: Business, The Fine Institution

The story begins, as many do in nineteenth century America, with business magnates and robber barons.

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Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done? I've fallen in love with a man on the run Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you, please Don't take that sinner from me Oh, don't take that sinner from me.

- The Civil Wars, “Devil’s Backbone”

--

“I do believe that this is the beginning of a beneficial partnership, Archibald.”

Crystal glassware clinks, as two men proceed to sip the amber liquid contained within. One of the men clears his throat, pulling slightly on his silken tie at his neck. “I agree. The output of the mines is too large at this point without having reliable transportation down the Lannahechee.”

“Good. My office will confirm the details, to include the stake in the mine.”

Archibald Jameson nods, knowing that he did not have much choice in the matter. The goblet of cut glass between his fingers glints back at him as if mocking him. Glancing back up to the man opposite him, Archibald smoothes his mustache as a waiter refilled his glass. 

“Leviticus, as I mentioned before in my letter, any sort of rumor of mismanagement or financial distress is simply that, rumor. Jameson Mining and Coal is operating at record capacity.” Jameson states, waving the waiter off from the table.

“Why, Archibald,” the greying man across the table leans back in his chair, a mischievous grin across his face, “I completely understand. Please don’t misconstrue my intentions. I simply am investing in a business I see as an opportunity for growth."

Jameson hid the grimace he wanted to give, knowing that the cash infusion that he was getting from the man across the table from him would stabilize the mining operation in the wake of strikes over the past year. He needed this, as much as he wanted to stay far away from the encroaching industrialist.

“Mister Cornwall."

A thin, middle-aged, bespectacled man in a grey suit approaches the table, carrying a small briefcase. He turns to Jameson, “Ah, Mister Jameson, it is a pleasure. Cameron Spence, Vice President of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar.” 

Jameson nods, extending his hand in greeting. “Pleasure, Mister Spence.” Spence nods back, taking a seat at the circular table. 

Leviticus Cornwall clears his throat, causing a suit-clad butler behind him to jump slightly, and rush to a cabinet to obtain another goblet. The young man places it on the table, filling it with the same amber liquor as the glasses on the table.

Jameson glances out the window, to scenery rushing past. Past the green trees, he could see the glint of the sun on Flat Iron Lake. The butler, a young man barely old enough to grow facial hair, pipes up. “G-Gentlemen, we will be arriving in Saint Denis within the hour, as we have just passed Rhodes.”

Cornwall waves the boy off, who seemed relieved to be dismissed. He nods, placing the decanter he had been pouring from in the center of the table. The boy moves toward the back of the rail car, opening the mahogany door and closing it again behind him.

“Jameson, have you met the mayor of Saint Denis? Lemieux?” Cornwall asks, grabbing his goblet, and taking a large draw. 

“Of course. My brother Heston spends a lot of time in Saint Denis, can’t expect him to spend all of his time on that godforsaken island.” Jameson replies, taking a sip from his glass. The expensive whiskey is smooth down his throat, with none of the burn of cheap swill.  Spence places the briefcase he was carrying on his lap, opening it and taking papers from it, putting them down in front of Cornwall. 

Cornwall gave a cursory glance, reaching over the paperwork to a box of cigars on the table. He opened the black lacquer box, grabbing one and offering it to Jameson with a raise of his eyebrows. Jameson accepts it, as Cornwall struck a match to light his own. 

He leans back in the chair as he pulls from the cigar, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. It plumed in the air of the railcar, dancing around the pretentious crystal chandelier sensually.

“He’s a feckless fool, but with enough persuasion ,” Cornwall gives a knowing look, “…he can be of use.”

“So, Mister Jameson, now that you’ve seen the Heartland Oil Fields, do you have any commentary?” Spence asks, raising his eyebrows as he moved papers in and out of his briefcase.

“I will not pretend to have knowledge of the running of an oil refinery. Had it been a coal mine, then I could give some commentary.”  Jameson states, diplomatically, as he lit his own cigar.

Cornwall smirks, chuckling to himself.

Cameron Spence brushes his forehead with a silk handkerchief, catching beading sweat. “Certainly we’ve arrived in Lemoyne…” He places another piece of paper in front of Cornwall, to which Cornwall seemed a little more interested than the previous stack.

“Ah, is this from Mister Varley? I’m glad we were able to convince him that his best option was to accept a purchase offer from us.” Cornwall places the cigar on the ashtray, picking up the letterhead and glancing it over. “Was the price good?”

“Couldn’t be beat, Mister Cornwall,” Spence replies, cooly.

The train car lurched, and all three men look toward the window. Green forests had given way to the brown waters of the Kamassa Delta, the engine slowing down as it passed over the bridges over the bayous. Smokestacks of Saint Denis approached rapidly as Jameson pulled on his silk tie that was quickly collecting humidity against his neck.

Cornwall grimaces, tapping the ash from the tip of his cigar into the dish on the table. “Can you believe that the city put up a statue of that pompous ass McKnight?” He points out the window with the cigar, as the slowing train car passes next to a brick warehouse emblazoned with MCKNIGHT & CO in blue and white paint. 

Jameson glances out the window, taking note of the warehouse. Gone unspoken were the plethora of other warehouses with Cornwall’s name on them - but Jameson knows not to mention that. He knows the rumors of Leviticus’ temper, and having spent the last few days in his presence, he isn’t itching to find out the veracity of those tales.

Spence takes a drink of whiskey from his tumbler. It seems he knows not to prod the raging bull.

Cornwall continues, “I guess Saint Denis was so desperate after the war she whored herself out to the first man with money to come in. Not as if he was the only financier to come in after this city was flattened."

Jameson and Spence catch each other’s eyes quickly in the silence. The message was clear. Both men knew Cornwall came sweeping into the destroyed Southern city as well, to take advantage of cheap land, labor, and lax reconstruction laws after the war. McKnight was just the one flashy enough to get a statue out of it, but it was Cornwall with his name on every train, every trolley, half of the warehouse district.

The train lurches to a stop, its whistle pierces the tepid afternoon air. As the noise of the engine dies down, the hustle and bustle of the city outside replaces the metallic clanking and steam boiling. Horses and bells, the cries of seagulls on the docks, the comings and goings of thousands of people. A saxophone trills in the distance.

Cornwall stands, downing his whiskey, and extends his arm toward the door of the car. “After you, gentlemen.”

Jameson grabs his top hat from the butler who reappeared in the car. Spence gathers his paperwork, shutting it in his briefcase as he clicks it shut before following Jameson out.

The mine owner grimaces as he steps down from the car, the humidity and heat of Saint Denis hitting him like a furnace. He would never get used to it down here, especially after spending so much time north in Annesburg, and east in New York and Chicago.

Spence and Cornwall follow suit, Cornwall stepping ahead with conviction toward the station building. 

VICTORY STREET TROLLEY STATION

CORNWALL CITY RAILWAY

Spence opens the door to the station, holding it for Cornwall and Jameson. Jameson grabs it from him, bowing his head to a woman who had followed the trio in. Inside the ornately decorated station, people sat on the numerous benches, waiting on trains, trolleys, and stagecoaches. Cornwall blazes past them all, cutting across the waiting room to open the door to the street.

A carriage is waiting out front. The driver, who was leaning against the coach, nods to Cornwall and climbs the carriage, pulling on the reins of the horses. 

Leviticus Cornwall stops, turning back to the two men accompanying him.

“It certainly has been a pleasure, Mister Jameson. I will be sure to take you up on that offer to head up to Annesburg soon.” Cornwall thrust his hand out, Jameson grasps it.

“Absolutely, Leviticus. I look forward to working with you.” Jameson took his top hat and placed it on his head. “Mister Spence, it was nice to meet you.” He says, turning to Spence, "Gentlemen.” 

Archibald Jameson smooths his mustache down as he paces down Victory Street, heading toward the waiting trolley car that people are boarding. He boards, ignoring the hustle of people boarding behind him as he slides into a seat. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a worn piece of paper with an address on it, before refolding it and tucking it back in his jacket.

“Milyonne Avenue, Milyonne Avenue!” The conductor calls over his shoulder. Archibald brushes dust off the sleeve of his coat, straightening in his seat. The trolley lurches to a stop, and he moves to stand up, pacing toward the front of the car. He steps off, glancing at the street corner. Mansions line the street’s north side, with perfectly manicured lawns and black wrought iron gates. 

The well-dressed businessman crosses the divided street after the trolley jerks forward, its bell tolling in the afternoon sun, which gives no respite to overheated men in woolen coats. Dust in the air is choking, for even with the oppressive humidity, it has not rained in Lemoyne in god-knows how long.  He reaches the sidewalk, following it for a block before coming to a tailor’s shop. He strode past the shop’s door to a second one, an ornate mahogany polished to perfection. 

He knocks on the door, waiting several moments until the door swings open. A woman clad in black dress answers, nodding with recognition when she encounters the guest. “Mister Jameson… you’re expected upstairs. Please, come with me.”

Jameson follows her inside the door, following her up the staircase to the second floor. The staircase opens to a large parlor room, hazy with smoke.

“Archibald - what an honor for you to stop by and see your younger brother while in town. God only knows Annesburg keeps you busy.”

“Heston.”

Heston Jameson reclines in a leather chair, smoking out of a pipe. His black uniform top hung open, the silver buttons glinting down his chest. He reaches to the coffee table in front of him, picking up a cigar and offering it up to Archibald. 

The older brother takes the cigar, moving around the table to the matching leather chair, taking a seat while pulling a matchbook from his pocket. 

“Henrietta - pour a glass for my brother, will you?”

“Yes, Mister Jameson.” The woman who had answered the door nodded, curtseying slightly, before exiting the room.

“So, brother, what brings you to Saint Denis? ” Heston reclines back again, taking another draw from his pipe.

“Meeting with Cornwall, the new stakeholder in the mine” Archibald strikes a match, lighting his cigar with a retort. 

“Ah,” Heston replies, “Charming, isn’t he? I do know he has been involved with Colonel Fussar in Guarma, trying to put down those pesky rebellions,” He takes a puff, quirking his eyebrow, “Practicing for Annesburg?”

Archibald gives his brother a withering glare as he draws on his cigar. “I have been sending several of the troublemakers from the mine your way.  Are your reforms working?”

Heston smirks. “Law and order always prevails, brother. It may take more forceful tactics at times, but it will always prevail over savagery and brutality.”

“Well, for propriety’s sake, I can’t jail all of the striking miners and send them to you. That’s a little too on the nose.”

“Misters Jameson…” The woman, Henrietta, comes back to the parlor with a silver tray, two glass tumblers of whiskey upon it. She hands the first glass to Heston, moving around the table to Archibald with the second. Archibald nods his thanks.

“I thought you weren’t going to be living here, Heston.”

“I’m not - I only obtained this apartment for when I stay. I can’t spend all of my time on Sisika, the one place worse than Annesburg.” He replies, taking a sip from the glass.

“Or when a poker tournament is announced?”

Heston chuckles. “I will admit I have my vices.”

Archibald sips at the whiskey, rubbing at his temple. “Cornwall is quite the beast to deal with. No wonder he owns everything in the west.”

“Did he take the mine?” Heston asks, quirking his eyebrow, “Because if he did, you can come work at the Penitentiary.  I’m sure I could find you a position.”

Archibald glares. “No, dear brother, he did not take the mine. I still am the majority shareholder.”

“Bah, shareholders. I run Sisika exactly how I want to run it. There are no shareholders I have to answer to.”  Heston enunciates the noun with an air of disgust.

“Alas, I can’t run the mine like your kingdom.”

“Shame, you’d probably get a lot more done.”

Archibald downs the rest of his glass, and wonders to himself why he is agreeing with his younger brother.

—

Cornwall’s carriage pulls into the yard, past the open gate, waved in by armed men. After it clears the wrought iron, the gate is pulled shut again. The driver pulls on the reins, and the two horses whinny and come to a stop. The carriage door bursts open, and an impatient Cornwall disembarks before it has even come to a complete stop. Spence follows him out.

Cornwall paces toward the door to the warehouse’s office. Bursting through the door, he paces forward to the wall, which is adorned with a large map of the states of New Hanover, Ambarino, and West Elizabeth. Large swathes of the map are shaded in the Heartlands. 

Leviticus Cornwall takes a drag from his cigar, leaning back and blowing the smoke straight up into the air.  “Business, what an institution.” He remarks, wistfully.

“Speaking of which…’ Spence notes, fingering through several pieces of paper, “There is still the business of Limpany. Shaw has outright refused all offers. He has been most difficult to deal with.”

The older man frowned, his mood souring immediately. His eyes dart to the side of the map, where the Dakota River cleaves West Elizabeth from New Hanover. At a meander of the river, an area buffeted by cliffs is circled in red ink.

Spence continues, “I have been more than generous with monetary offers - but the man has been stonewalling everything.”

Cornwall turns to the desk in the office and smashes his cigar into the ashtray slowly, his aggravation rising.

“Take care of it. I don’t care for your excuses, Cameron.”

Spence bristles slightly. “Leviticus, this is not going to be as easy as a single oil derrick in the hills. Varley was alone, you’re talking about a town.”

“Sir, business doesn’t give a damn about some four-building town nor suffer the fools who impede,” Cornwall states icily.

The younger man pursed his lips, looking down at the paperwork on the table. He started to gather it together. 

Cornwall glares at him.

“Spence, I trust you will take care of this to my satisfaction.”

“Yes, Mister Cornwall.”

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead oc #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female oc #red dead smut #long reads #red dead redemption fanfiction #twolafic #devil’s backbone #arthur morgan x reader

[slumberingcorpse]

Finished Witcher 3 and now getting into Red Dead Redemption 2. Now it’s time for a slow burn Geralt/Jaskier western au multi chapter fan fiction.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fandom #the witcher 3 wild hunt #witcher au #jaskier x geralt #witcher jaskier #western au #the witcher 3 #the witcher netflix #would you read it #red dead redemption 2

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Perhaps the best compliment I could ever receive from anyone ever is them telling me my writing is good. Seriously guys, as someone who is incredibly passionate about reading, writing, and literature in general, it means SOOOO much to me when you guys sprinkle compliments in about my writing style 🥹 it feels good to know there are people out there who enjoy the product of hours and hours of practice and reading. I am so grateful for every one of y'all! Thank you !

#THANK YOU #writing #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption community #van der linde gang x reader #red dead fanfiction #reading #writing fanfiction

[roamingtigress]

My very work in progress Vandermatthews Headcanon

Excerpts with asterisk taken from The Misadventures of Hosea and The Mustached Idiot; the rest have yet not been added to my fic

They have a nightly bedtime reading; they'll discuss what's going on in each chapter and will read paragraphs to each other; sometimes this on well into late night*

Neither of them can tolerate cold well, particularly Hosea, and a fire on every night; Dutch will spoon him to further keep him warm (I've made mentions of them not tolerating the cold as well as they did when they were younger but didn't touch too much onto them)

Dutch is very ticklish! Particularly his ribs/belly/waist, and Hosea will tickle him in public (or 'threaten' to) when he flirts in public or is being moody or being a general PiTA. He does his stoic face but eventually, he'll crumble. Unfortunately for him, Hosea isn't so much (I realize I'm sharing trade secrets here, no regrets, do what you want with them, mwah <3) * Since their bed was made only for one person, they are 'forced' to lay on top of each other (and can also be found lying by the bonfire), usually, Hosea lays on Dutch but doesn't always go that way*

Wolves wait to pounce the moment Dutch steps out of camp because of their attraction to his hair pomade, and the 30 pieces of beef, 10 fish, 20 squirrels stuffed in his pockets because he doesn't have a satchel.*

Reverend Swanson got them married

Hosea loves his back being rubbed, sides massaged, waist being held in those hold-you-close hugs and shoulders rubbed (this whole area will get him to melt like butter) and has a spot between his ear and jawline that when touched, gets him to his happy spot, but he's a happy chappy wherever Dutch touches him * (but I need to touch upon this more, pardon the pun!)

Dutch loves chest rubs, belly rubs, and there's a spot on his right hip that makes him squirm; he also loves to have his jaw/chin scratched and especially that cleft of his chin that he used to feel self-conscious about; scritching him here will elicit big manly little purry sounds from him * (though I have yet to get into the chin/jaw scritches in my story; it's in my head waiting to get out); he also likes to have his mustache/soul patch touched

They love a bit of roleplay; they'll create scenarios where they'll be acting out their first (a senario they've had involved Hosea being a bartender and Dutch is seeking a job as a musician there)

They take turns in deciding on a quiet place to read. Heartlands Overflow was their latest spot. They'll also do a spot of readin' at the camp, too).

Hosea can't stomach warm beer, Dutch will drink it cold or warm *

Dutch is the RDO equivalent of Jane Goodall; he'll happily socialize with other people's characters, and will also observe their goings-on (in a quiet spot if a quiet spot exists L) among them and reports on what he sees back at camp to get a better understanding of this strange world *

Dutch's favourite feature on Hosea is his eyes, hands and fingers and he tries to make eye contact with him as much as possible; he loves to hold and kiss his hands, and of course, be touched with them as much as possible; he also cannot leave his chest alone (so that's another favourite) and has a thing about hearing his heartbeat at night on those nights he lays on top of him, so maybe it's his heart that is his #1 <3 (but imo the whole man is his favourite part) * (but needs to be stated more!)

Among Hosea's favourite features on Dutch? His nose; he loves grabbing it, and kissing it, as well as his silly waist and the slight belly he's gotten from being looked after so well by him, and of cannot resist those locks that he can't resist touching in each chapter * (always needs to be stated more)

Dutch's favourite role is the Bounty Role because of the PEW PEW that's often involved but tied with Moonshine; he loves dancing like a fool and playing with the band, and the excitement of running 'shine like a proper degenerate; also loves the excitement of what the Trader Role can bring on hose trading run and now gets along with Cripps (they were ornery and antagonistic at the start until they learned they'll have mutual benefits from working with each other * (sort of touched on but needs to be touched on more);

Hosea's favourite role is the Collector role; it's generally the least problematic role between them both (and prob the most old-man-friendly activity) and they have an extensive selection of things they picked up (Hosea has issues with giving up the items they've collected); they also turn Collecting into a date and often will dress up more for this role than the others * (I need to write a chapter though of that dating!)

Hosea's favourite horse is his Turkoman stallion, Silver Dollar, but he has a bit of a fondness for Morgans, Standardbreds (particularly buckskin) and Belgian Drafts and will steal one if given the opportunity

Dutch's favourite is either Legend the dun Mustang mare, or Sienna the black Kladruber mare, or (sorry The Count but you're so little :D) or Winner Bells the black Standardbred mare who is a bit overprotective and known to kick friendly folk (and not so friendly folk)

Whenever Hosea is really angry at Dutch (which doesn't happen too often and when he does he doesn't stay mad at him for long); Dutch gives him a wide berth (might be canon?), he's which is so difficult because he's clingy and needy but will not cross that invisible barrier (I want to write a chapter on this but trying to think of something that would create this scenario; there will be of course a cavity-inducing reunion)

Dutch loves kissing Hosea in public; doesn't matter if it's in Smith's Saloon or wherever he'll just give that old man a big ol smooch on the lips (Hosea secretly loves it though he'll at times act embarrassed but doesn't exactly push away from it) *

Dutch is big into using the star/sun/moon as directional compasses; but doesn't always follow a waypoint; it seems to be in his coding but in my head he's just pigheaded about them and views them as a mere suggestion, which has gotten him, Hosea and his boys into trouble *

Hosea is sometimes exasperated by his husband's neediness and clinginess and needs to reassure him when he does need to get some breathing space; he respects this and will go off on little misadventures with their sons or on his own, often winding up in some sort of trouble, often Valentine with his study subjects and buddies (I often don't bring Hosea around big groups of people esp in Valentine because of the potential of an incident but I have a feeling he's fine with that), but always comes back and gives that idiot a big ol cuddle when he comes back

Hosea CANNOT resist his husband's little gestures of appeasement; a hand squeeze, a kiss of his hand, tugging at his curls, and . . . Puppy eyes, which he weaponizes *

Hosea loves it when Dutch grabs his ass but always 'shoos' him and acts annoyed

Dutch can't get enough ass grab and will pout if he doesn't get another squeeze

Nose boops are a daily occurrence, including nose-to-boops which sometimes occasionally result in a bloody nose but are a bit safer than forehead boops which have more than occasion left Hosea seeing stars

They really do do it on Fridays, for the most part (I keep them too busy to have too much intimate time, my bad)

'Sea doesn't go on every bounty hunt (he takes this time to Collector inventory, general inventory, get some personal space (difficult to obtain at times) and other odds and ends) but does go on every Collector, Trading and Moonshine run

The boys don't visit Harriet often because someone not name Hosea keeps getting sprayed by her

Both will gift each other with random, sometimes useless things; like I don't think Hosea really needs a donkey but Dutch will get him one anyway for a laugh and Hose would so say he doesn't need three asses (;D) (meaningful gifts are given aplenty too)

Dutch doesn't like to be violent against other people's kids (NPCs that comment on his appearance though . . . ) even when they bully him because he doesn't want to disrupt his relation with these strange characters; he's honestly too friendly with them and he'll tip his hat to the ladies and blow kisses to the guys (fuelling jealousy in Hosea)

One of those useless things? 'Sea has ordered an expensive mirror from France (that isn't too practical out on the range but there you go) because he gets a kick out of watching his hubby check himself out and then acting like he wasn't checking himself out in the mirror)

Hosea has a dry sense of humour *

Dutch will laugh at his own jokes

They both will feed each other bits of food on a fork

Dutch is the one who usually spoons Hosea but 'Sea will also spoon him to shake things up

Nicknames? Hosea nicknames Dutch his Beautiful Idiot, the Mustached idiot (and just idiot), Babygirl, Duchess; Dutch calls Hosea 'Sea in addition to Old Girl * (he also calls him Silver Fox but have yet to include that in my fic; I'm thinking of more nicknames for him too!)

Dutch despises rain but Hosea will take this time to wait it out with him and often plays with hair and writes in his journal during these moments

Both are rather useless at the cowboy thing; one gets dragged through the mud, and the other will go on a slaughter spree for being bumped. Cripps will now and then put them up at a local hotel to give them some more privacy (and to spare him hearing things)

They are of course both deeply affectionate towards each other; kisses, hugs, cuddles, and touches aplenty are given to each other (they touch each other a lot in my story but I want to go deeper into what touch and where affects them both; for examples touches to the vulnerable regions symbolize trust)

#rdr2 #read dead redemption 2 #rdr2 headcanons #red dead fanfiction #vandermatthews #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #hosea x dutch #dutch x hosea #red dead online #rdo #read dead redemption II

[dell-delta]

Spent the last hours creating a cover to my Arthur/Albert fic:)

Got the habit of creating covers to my stories from my days on Wattpad, damn I miss the good old days there – but that's not the point.

Since I just reached 1K reads on part 2 of this fic, thought I'd make myself a little promo:)

No Shame in Hurting is a two-part fic toying with the idea of what would happen if Albert impacted the main plot of the game. I promise a lot of fluff and fun, angst, and occasional smut (when it fits the story, beware, I don't write self-sufficent porn). Arthur has to confront many of his inner demons in order to keep the kind-hearted photographer he's slowly growing to love around, and Albert has to overcome the lurking dangers of Arthur's world to hopefully get a chance at a happily ever after with the handsome outlaw he's head over heels about. Insecure Arthur / Confident Albert.

I'm having a blast writing this, so in case you decided to hop on and enjoy the ride with me, you're more than welcome <3

Part 1: No Shame In Hurting - Chapter 1 - Delta_Meow - Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

Part 2: No Shame in Hurting II: The Many Miles We Walked - Chapter 1 - Delta_Meow - Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

Thanks and have a wonderful day!

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #albert mason #arthur morgan/albert mason #fanfiction #art #rdr2 art #rdr2 fanfiction #read on ao3