#red dead redemption 2 fanfiction

[javier-pena]

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Warnings: smoking | drinking | canon-typical violence | allusions to rape | reader is a virgin | loss of virginity | descriptions of injury and medical procedures (Arthur gets stitches) | reader has hair that can be pulled | hand job | oral (m receiving) | masturbation (f and m) | mutual masturbation | dirty talk | voyeurism | exhibitionism | praise kink | fingering | (unprotected) p in v sex

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

arthur morgan taglist: @cjillian97 | @hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmsstuff | @imaginativefanatic | @joelmillers-whore | @misspearly1 | @spacecowboyhotch | @tortor-mcgee | @wickedscribbles

perma taglist: @alexturner | @amneris21 | @din-jarhead | @harriedandharassed | @martellthemandalor | @nyfeeer | @nobodys-baby-now | @od-ends | @pedrorascal | @radiowallet-writes

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬   𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒, 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒

rating: Explicit pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader summary: it’s been half a year since you’ve last seen Arthur, and as you finish the last empty page of the journal he gifted you, a lone rider shows up down in the valley on a familiar, silver-dappled mare. warnings: high honor Arthur, reader is an artist herself, and very lonely, touch-starved, porn with feelings (and minimal plot), i’m not gonna lie 5k of this is just pure smut, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, love confessions, Arthur being a sweetheart, a little angst and emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending word count: 8457  

a/n: i finally finished that wip i started cooking up during uni crunch time, but i’m proud to announce that i finished my master’s in graphic design and i’m finally fucking free of uni. it was a very depressive part of my life, i got completely burnt out in mind and soul too, so writing and drawing was more like a burden than something i enjoy. but now, now i’m so full of new passions, especially towards writing that i couldn’t wait to finish up this piece. i also want to thank everyone who came by to read my stuff even though i haven’t posted anything since like last october or something, love you all! (also special thanks to @wintersongstress​ bc you kept me going whenever you said a few kind words) <3

MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

In the spring Big Valley blooms.  

Fireweed and balsamroot and irises, blue and purple and the prettiest shades of yellow and pink, dotting the landscape like careful brushstrokes of a painter’s handiwork. The earth is alive here, black and red from the fallen fir and pine needles, with mushrooms and bugs hiding under the rotting, fallen logs. 

It’s a beautiful morning—pink from the rising mist and the early sunlight.

You sit on the porch of your small cabin, its wood creaking as a gentle breeze sweeps over the surrounding forest. Songbirds confess their love above, chirping a sweet melody that sings to your heart just the same. You finish your coffee and place the worn tin cup on the windowsill behind you, leaning back in your chair to pick up your journal. 

It’s almost full now; barely a few empty yellowed paper is left. You turn another page, sketch the shape of an eagle with the last chunk of your pencil, so small you can barely hold it right. It’s been many months since Arthur gifted it to you.

It’s been months you’ve seen him the last time too. 

Your heart aches a little when the orioles begin another love-song in your small garden. A sweet smell reaches you, a late-blooming wild cherry tree, its honey lulling in bees and birds and flies and the first butterflies of the year. You draw them too, detail their wings and hair and the tiny spikes covering their legs. With shaky, unladylike handwriting you write their names there too. 

WESTERN TIGER SWALLOWTAIL

MONARCH

WILD DOVE

As you write the last word, your hand lingers over the drawing, then on the freshly pressed forget-me-not on the other page, it’s blue seeped into the paper around it like a watered up, inky halo.

Little dove. Arthur's name for you.

Christ, you miss him. 

Worry clawed under your ribs for so long you no longer feel the ache. You know what kinda life he lives, what he does in the name of survival, the largest devil. You still like him. You still feel anxious every time you go into the town post office and realize that there’s no letter nor telegram from him. He’s been… kind to you. Real kind, even though no one else was. 

You draw in a slow breath and flip the pages back right to the first one. It’s crumpled a little from all the time you’ve returned to it before. A simple sketch faces you, the lines and shading so different from your own, patches of light and shadows adding together a face that stares at you every time you look in a mirror. All the imperfections, all the ugliness and beauty your likeness wears, all the messy hair and sparkling eyes he’s grown to know. 

Little dove, says a handwritten line under the portrait. Draw me all the other beauties of this land.

You did. Christ, you did it all and he’s still away.

You sigh, fold the journal and wipe your hand in your skirt. It’s still muddy from all the work you’ve done in the garden after you've awoken, so you don’t mind a bit of graphite there too. 

The journal returns to its palace on the windowsill, beside the coffee cup and a pack of cigarettes. 

Big Valley turns into shades of gold as the sun rises above the treeline, illuminating the wet dirt roads that twist below like giant snakes. You take a deep breath and rise to meet the day. There's a prickling warmth on the line of your spine, a trail of goosebumps that make your breaths come out shaky. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's fate. 

You stop, halfway turned to the door already, and a rider appears on the winding paths in the distance. 

You stand and you watch, frozen in place as the familiar silver-dappled mare canters closer and closer, its rider swaying in her saddle, one hand grasping the reins and the other dangling lazily beside his body. Black hat, a worn leather coat, sky blue shirt and shining spurs. You don’t have to see his eyes to recognize the sun on horseback. 

After a few moments he halts the mare before your cabin, her breath puffing against his hand as he pets her forehead after swinging himself down from the saddle. “Good girl.” 

You grow weak in the knees, lip trembling as you suck in a hasty breath. Do all wishes come to fruition if one draws it enough times? Do paper, words and shaky lines have this much power?

He walks up the first two steps of your porch, taking off his hat to reveal golden brown locks, long and messy now, wet with sweat and yesterday's rain still dripping from the trees.

There’s a moment of silence when your eyes meet. 

A moment of truth when he says your name. 

You open your mouth, then close it. There’s so much you want to say, so much you feel, yet the only sentence that leaves your lips is, “You've come just in time for breakfast.”

*

The silence is awkward at first when you pour him the remaining lukewarm coffee, and even more when you prepare breakfast and lay out everything on your small dining table. Your bed is unmade, there’s mud stuck on the doormat, your laundry stacked in a high pile in the corner and all the dried herbs from last autumn hang low from the ceiling of the single room cabin. 

Your home is as much a mess as you are, but it’s well lived-in, like a body. A shell housing a soul. 

Arthur doesn’t mind. Never did.

“Is this the wrong time?” he asks when you cut fresh onion leaves on a plate, still dewy from the morning mist that rolled over the valley. The knife stops in your hand. You can hear him breathing, calm, even exhales, yet it feels like he’s not even real. 

“No,” you press out, uncertain in your own thoughts, and you keep cutting the leaves until they’re nothing more than a fleck of green pulp on the white porcelain. You don't even realize when he stops you. You just feel the unusual warmth, radiating from around the back of your palm, through your whole arm, until something wild and ancient flickers alive in your ribcage. 

“Are ya alright?” The calloused hand retreats and the knife falls from between your fingers. 

“I—” you swallow, throat suddenly dry and choked with tears at the same time, “half a year is a long time.”

He closes his eyes and hangs his head. ‘Course it is. You thought he was dead. You thought he got taken to prison and they hanged him like a dog. 

The food remains untouched as he swipes a hand over his jaw and takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. You watch him, still cautious, taking a mental note of every little change. A small scar freshly healed on his cheek. His beard longer, a bit messy. His eyes oh so tired, like he hasn't slept in days. 

“You want me to go? I get it if ya have a husband now an’ I don’t want to cause tr—”

“No!” you almost shout, panicked, and his gaze searches your face. Why do you behave so goddamn strange? You wanted him here for months! You wanted him, wanted— “Jesus, there’s no husband, okay?”

The corner of his lips curl upwards a little at that. Crow's feet crinkle in the corners of his eyes. Those tiny laughing-lines around his nose move.

“I guess I just… I’ve been alone for a long time,” you sigh and force down a bite of cheese-topped bread. Your stomach protests loudly, it wants to escape the hunger or the nerves, you can’t decide yet. 

Arthur takes that as a sign to take a bite from his food too, and you know he's hungry. As you watch you realize how tired he is. How worn—like a saddle neglected in care and used until the leather cracked, then split. He eats up the whole slice of bread before you manage to take your second bite. 

The awkward quiet persists, gets stronger even, but there's so much to say and so little courage you can muster. 

He’s the one who finally runs a bloody knife through the silence.

“Did ya draw for me?”

There’s a distant longing in his voice that’s almost crystal clear. You nod, the nerves tangled in your belly easing. He remembers, he knows. He wants to see.

You bring in the small book from the porch while he finishes his food, and he’s already lighting a cigarette when you arrive and lay the leather-bound pages in front of him. He smiles at how worn it looks, how much fingerprint-stained page edges are littered throughout the journal. It’s well-loved, and well lived-in too. 

You silently watch as he flips through a few pages, tracing a finger over bucks and birds and butterflies, over the scratchy sketch lines you immortalized nature with. The Grizzlies covered in snow. Clovers and mushrooms. Your home with opened windows and flowers hanging in pots from the roof of the porch. 

“I’m sorry I missed all this,” he says softly, looking up at you like you’re the sun and the moon and the whole world. So fond, so tender it makes you ache for something that never can be yours. “I’m sure this place is pretty in the winter.”

You nod. You don’t tell him about almost freezing to death when the storms rolled in from the mountains in the spring. You don’t tell him about the roaming gangs either, about the bastards camped at the Hanging Dog ranch or the man who got eaten by a bear in his own home. This is a dream world. A valley that can be as easily a good dream as it can be a nightmare. You want it to be a good dream for him. An escape. You know what life he lives. What he runs from. 

“It’s even prettier now,” you finally answer, watching him reading your messy handwriting beside the drawings. Forget-me-not. White clover. Blue iris. “Spring came very late, everything is still blooming.” You bite into your lip and after a few seconds you ask, “wanna see?”

Arthur looks up at you and something flickers in his eyes. Maybe hope. He nods, puts out his cigarette, dusts off his hat and puts it back on his messy hair. 

“Only if you let me draw ya again.”

*

Everything around you buzzes and dances and it’s full of life, the valley, the word ‘spring’ written by the hand of Mother Earth in flowing rivers of wildflowers and overgrown grass. Orioles chirp not far away, singing another lulling love-song, matching the rhythm a creek makes above, crystal clear meltwater digging its course from stone and black earth towards south. 

Arthur stands a bit farther away from you, with his journal and a piece of charcoal in hand, putting the scenery to paper in blacks and greys and negative spaces. Or you think he’s drawing the Grizzlies and forests and farms littered down in the valley like mushrooms popping from the ground after a lukewarm summer rain. 

But instead, he draws you.

The crown of flowers sitting atop your head—the girls at camp taught him how to make one, he said, smiling. The arch of your lips. The shadow of your lashes. The tangles in your hair, the dirt on your skirt, the sun glinting in your eyes. 

When he’s done he walks back to you, flops down into the grass beside you to show you his work. The scenery really is just the background. Hasty, faint lines of mountain-spines and plants that curl towards the sun. But you, you’re detailed like an oil painting, from the wrinkles in your dress to the imperfections of your face. 

“You wanted to draw the land, ain't ya?” you ask him, knowing, smiling at him as he slips his charcoal into the cord on his hat. He gives you a lopsided smirk, then wipes his hands on the rough fabric of his jeans.

“I just found something so much more pretty,” he looks into your eyes when he says that and it burns like how maybe the sun’s surface would burn. You know there’s a blush rising through your neck, up to your cheeks, and you hope he thinks it’s from the warmth of the day. But he would be a fool to believe that. 

“Are ya tryin’ to flirt with me?” you feel like a child. A giddy girl getting her first carved wood pony to play with. You never believed him when he told you you were beautiful. You couldn’t. Yet here, now, in the all-revealing sunlight he seems like his words are genuine. Much more pretty.

He leans back on his hands, the sun caressing his face when he finally takes off his hat. His laughing-lines crinkle. 

"Do ya remember last year, when you gave me a kiss?"

If you haven't been burning up, you certainly are now. Something wild and primal stirs in your belly, something that’s very close to want and need. Of course you remember. Of course you can’t forget the way you leaned in and gave him a little peck on the lips, a bare press just because his plump lips looked so goddamn kissable and because you were so goddamn drunk. It doesn’t mean you didn’t want to do it sober. You just didn’t have the courage. But with amber whiskey in your stomach and his hand on your knee you couldn't be stopped. It was the day he left. The last day you’ve seen him alive until now.

You nod and look away. You don’t want to think about a dark future when Arthur wants to talk about kissing you. Jesus Christ.

“I wanted to draw your lips ever since then. Sometimes I did when I dreamt about you. Always smiling, always with flowers in your hair. But I never got it right.”

“I never thought you was a romantic, Mr. Morgan,” you’re truly blushing now, breaking the eye-contact, and picking at your nails instead because hearing this is a lot. The man you were waiting for months, the man you thought you loved and was dead, now sits here beside you, making poetry bubble in your chest. An oriole sings there too, trapped by ribs and muscle, red like the rising sun. 

“I— I’m never good with words,” he shrugs, picking on a blade of grass between his fingers. “Ya know I never was.”

You smile at him, still flushed. 

“But I thought about the time we spent together in the past and I… I realized I was happy with ya.”

What is this if not a confession?  

You reach for him. Slowly, like one would comfort a spooked horse, sliding your palm over his scarred knuckles until the grass he was twirling falls to the ground. He watches your hands on each other, yours so small and mostly soft compared to his large, battle-worn fingers. 

"I was happy with ya too," you whisper, so damn afraid yet you know he said it first, it must mean something—

He looks at you, looks right through you, gazes into the deepest depths of your soul where you already carved a space for him months ago. He looks at you and he knows this is not some sick joke, that your mutual attraction was not some mirage you chased for so long. 

He leans in and the world falls dead quiet. His breathing, shaky and unsure and deep, the only sound you can concentrate on as he nudges your nose with his own. Right where you left off half a year ago. Right where you imagined this in every dream. 

You nuzzle him, brush your lips against the corner of his mouth, his beard prickling and coarse, but his parting lips are soft, gently cupping your own between them, slow and careful and so goddamn sweet. He moves, hands reaching for you as you try to deepen this embrace, reciprocating the kiss, turning your body towards his. His fingers land in your hair, getting caught on the tangles like trouts on a net, and he cups your cheek with his other hand, so warm, it's like the sun is cradled in his palm. 

Maybe you're his sun. Maybe he's yours.

The kiss turns needy after a while, tongues dart out and teeth nip gently on plump, rosy lips. He keeps you close, closer, until your noses are squished together and his hair falls into your eyes and you can feel your lashes tickling his skin. He kisses you like no one ever did. He kisses you like it means something. 

Need awakens inside you with the force of a hundred galloping horses as his hands find your waist, the line of your spine, the collar of your dress, the outwards curve of one breast. They doesn't move further. It doesn't mean you don't want them to. 

Arthur pants against your mouth as you move away, the taste of tobacco and wild cherries still intense on your tongue. 

"Will ya draw me one more time?" you ask quietly, against the side of his face, your words tangling into the wild mess of his beard. 

"How?" you look him in the eye and he already knows, yet you make a show of it as you pull on your dress and slowly bare yourself to him. There's not a soul for miles, no one to disturb this bubble of peace and strawberry champagne haze you made for yourselves so you're not ashamed. And when you discover that wild flame burning in his eyes— 

Your body becomes alive with a meadow consumed by fire, overgrowing and rotting and oozing honey from every pretty flower. You shed your chemise. The shoes. Bloomers come last, already stained with grass and bright yellow pollen. 

You sit nude in front of him, a feast for his hungry eyes, yet he doesn't stare at you for long. He wants to commit this to paper. He wants to see this every day from now on—the curve of your breasts, the wide of your hips, the hair nestled between your legs, the smile you can't keep off of your lips. 

"For the road," you chuckle with a wink, watching how he scribbles away in his journal. "For lonely nights." 

"I could put this up in a gallery and take ya to Paris," he answers with a piece of charcoal in his mouth, smudging the powder on the paper. "Wanna see the world little dove?"

You know it's just gentle banter, but your heart aches the same. You both know it would be impossible. Him leaving this country, his family—a woman is not enough for that. 

"I think I have everythin' I wanna see right in front of me," you smirk, then move, not caring about the drawing anymore, and he doesn't care either, gripping your bare thighs as you rise to settle in his lap.

It's spring and you're a flower, and you bloom too, unfolding your body like petals, legs and arms slowly sliding away to reveal soft flesh. There's no shame when Arthur looks up at you like you're the goddamn sun and the stars and the wind caressing his face. Maybe you are when you reach down and slide a thumb over his brow, the downwards arch of his eyelid when he closes his eyes. Two gorgeous pools of blue-green look up at you when your finger slides lower, over his lips, to dig in and make them part, wet tongue darting out around a small kiss. 

You watch him. His eyes, his mouth. 

His long, golden lashes lower, a dark kind of fire ignited in his gaze, doin’ the only sin he does not regret committing— wanting you.  

He grabs onto your side, the flesh on your hip and stomach, leaves heat in his wake there, large palm-shaped sunspots that ooze light into your bloodstream. Christ, you want him to touch you more. To make you burn, to make you into a flame that needs his tending.

"You're so damn pretty, little dove" he murmurs in that low voice, watching how a single flower of forget-me-not falls from your hair and lands on the top of your breast, trapped in a bead of sweat like a fly in amber honey. 

The back of his head hits the ground, like it's a pillow woven from freshly sprouted grass and wild flowers and wet earth, and he moves you in his lap, lower, where you can feel him, hard and oh so ready but still waiting for your move. 

The spark is ignited. Your sun burns inside your ribcage for this man, a heart shaped from light, and you reach between the two of you to get him rid of his pants. Arthur doesn't move, but he lets you pull up his shirt, over a strong stomach and golden brown hair, over old scars that faded into silvery lines, to a ribcage housing a kind heart. 

"Will ya have me, Arthur?" you lean close to him, your bellies touching, your hand still restless at the buckle of his gun-belt, and he sighs into your hair, hips twitching at your eager request as he leans in to lay a gentle kiss on your temple, then the arch of your eyebrow. 

"'Course, sweetheart," he reaches up, cradles your nape as he curls his other arm around your waist, turning you until the soft earth cradles you like another lover.

Your bare legs fall open as he settles, with his hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing the spot where the broken grass stained it green. You should be shy. Ashamed. Vulnerable. You should clench your thighs tight, feel the need to be modest, yet your body betrays you even further when Arthur places his other hand on your side, making space for himself in the cradle of your hips. 

His shirt is gone. 

You watch him for a few eternal seconds, the way his eyelashes cast starlike shadows over his ruddy cheeks as he gets an eyeful of your flushed cunt. 

"Gonna have to work ya a little," he says, voice low and husky, thumbs drawing circles into your flesh, as if he's soothing a spooked creature. 

There's not enough time to get your fill of his body; the hair-dusted muscles of his chest and arms, the stubble-peppered neck that leads into a strong jawline, the strand of honey brown hair that carefully curls around his ear. You subconsciously nod instead, rapidly, sliding your hand over his own, tugging on his worn knuckles until he's blanketing you with his body. 

Arthur smiles into your hair for a second when his free hand trails up your side, up through the valley of your breasts and the bend of your neck until he can cradle your head, his fingers caressing, thumb parting your lips so when he arrives with his own you're already panting a shivering exhale into his mouth. Yes, kiss me. Conquer my lips. Conquer this monster that is my body. 

He kisses you, softly at first, cupping your upper lip between his, then the bottom one, and then, just then he lets a hot breath mingle with your own before his tongue finds its way around yours. He kisses you with all the need a starving man can feel, suckling on your lips until they are flushed, swollen, his worn thumb sliding over them once more, between gentling pecks of affection and softly opening eyes. He's mesmerized by the sight of you like this, oh so close, oh so pretty in the sunlight. 

You get bold under his stare, curling your fingers into the hair on his nape, into the coarse tangles of his beard before you give him the same treatment he gave you, mapping the plush, hot rise of his bottom lip with your thumb. He kisses the tip of it, then leans in to lay gentle presses on your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. You want to chase him, coax him into another kiss, but he murmurs something against your skin instead, hefting your leg higher at his side, and your belly aches with the burning sun that grows inside it, pressed flush to his. 

"Lemme show ya somethin'," he almost whispers, and he descends downwards, draws a curling vine of blooming ivy in the shape of kisses, at the hollow of your throat, at the top of one breast, then the other. He takes your nipples between the same lips you've kissed mere moments ago, still wet, and he almost makes a show of it when a surprised moan slips out from your chest. 

Arthur commits the shape of you into his memory, counting each rib, each valley and hill your body has, the soft of your stomach when he arrives there, a star-circle of hot lip-presses, and then lower, at the edges of a gentle trail of wiry hair that leads between your wide-open legs, and then just shy of your cunt, a place so sensitive the kiss wrecks your whole body with a shiver. 

He looks up at you for a second, lifting your legs over two strong shoulders, soothing you again with circling caresses on your thigh, even though his eyes are ravenous, chest heaving as he sucks in panting breaths . The want inside you blooms alive. If you could be a forest, you would burn gladly under his hands. 

The idea is no stranger to you, you've read your fair share of off-shelved romance novels, but experiencing such an act transcends every sweet worded description you've ever seen when Arthur makes his intention clear with a look full of promises. 

Not letting you suffer longer, he leans in and softly nuzzles his way between the folds of your cunt; kisses you there. 

Your body grows weak, open, and you helplessly grab into the earth beside you, clawing up dirt and fresh grass, sinking your fingers deep, like you could plant your roots here. A noise escapes you, surprised and breathless, and Arthur mutters encouragement against your mound, " beautiful… ", then strokes his tongue over a spot where nerves meet in a most sensitive bundle. 

He sucks and licks there, kissing your flesh like he had been kissing your mouth, with his eyes almost closed, cheeks flushed and beard scraping your skin. It tickles, it scratches, it makes a flock of burning butterflies flick alive inside your belly, it makes want trickle from your cunt when he arrives there. You feel like you're already unraveling, the foreign pleasure spreading through your body like fungi webbing a forest floor, and at every spot his skin touches you, you bloom.  

Like a meadow. Like a sun.

He hums encouragement, holds your thighs firmer, pushes his tongue against you harder. You try to squirm, hands scrambling, his mouth curling into a smile at your folds, and you moan, freely, maybe the first time in your whole life, just for him. 

He pleasures you so effortlessly, so gladly, and in all the tenderness he offers you feel like you could drown. His mouth is relentless. His kisses even more are. You can't help but wretch open your eyes to look down and find him buried there, in the cradle of your hips, face flushed red and eyes sparkling so pretty when they meet your own. You don't have control over your body anymore. 

You blindly reach for his hair, your head thumping back against the earth, spine arching, shoulders rolling into the dirt. "That's it," he murmurs between suckling kisses, and you grind your cunt up, up into his mouth because Christ, you're almost there. 

Your eyes flicker open, like candle flames, neck curved back, and you can see the Grizzlies like this, snow-capped, glinting like crystals, between blades of green and sky blue iris flowers. Your whole world turns upside-down. 

It's too good—his lips, his tongue, his hot breath fanning against your weeping opening, yet you can't get there, not really, not before Arthur lifts away and the world tries to right itself but turns out all wrong. He is panting, hair messy from all the torture your fingers did on his strands, glinting golden in the sun. 

Your thighs slip away, off his shoulders as he returns to you, hastily wiping his face in the back of his hand, lips already seeking your own, soothing you. He tastes tangy, more salt than sweet, like you, and the forest of emotions threatens to split your ribcage open when he presses his mouth to your temple. 

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, whisper the question into his opened lips between two tender kisses, and he answers with a breathless "nothin'."

"Have to open ya up," his fingers squeeze you, harder on your side, and he brings his free hand up to his lips, licking his fingers. That same sinful hand returns to your belly, then lower, cupping your whole cunt in his palm before you feel it, the thick finger teasing at your opening, spreading the wetness, and then gently, slowly slipping inside without any resistance. 

Arthur nudges your nose with his own when your eyes flutter closed, lashes tickling his cheek, and he kisses you again, moving his finger inside you, a slow, purposeful stroke. 

"Look at me, little dove," he whisper-commands, curling that finger in, making you gasp into his mouth. "Look at me. Yeah, that's it." He almost smiles when your eyes meet his own, and your belly aches as he pulls out his finger and adds a second. They glide in so easy, you can feel his palm growing sticky against your cunt. You want to be embarrassed, but he just stifles a groan against your neck when your pussy squelches, your pleasure steadily rising with the clever thrusting of his fingers.

Shit, if his fingers feel like this inside you, you can't even imagine how his cock will. 

He builds you up steadily, like a castle, like a temple, like a stairway right to the sun, and he doesn't give you a warning when he crams in another finger, three now, stretching you truly and good, shushing you with his lips, kissing you breathless until your legs yield and shake. 

"That's it," he murmurs, kisses you thoroughly, panting against your lips as your cunt squeezes tight around his fingers. "That's good."

His name escapes your throat, a plea, and you're barely hanging on by a thread now. Arthur is tender in his movements, but not too gentle, making space for himself inside you, making your poor heart flicker and trash under your ribcage like a trapped bird. He kisses you again, with opened lips, tongue clashing with yours, your teeth catching on the side of his face, a right mess, and his fingers slow, then gingerly slide out to lay drenched in your slick on the burning skin of your thigh. 

You whine at the loss. Truly, desperately. Such an unladylike sound, yet it rings sweet against Arthur's neck. 

You feel so empty.

"Shh," he quiets you, then gently grabs your hand, caressing a thumb over your knuckles, and guides it down, over the still buttoned waist of his pants, where his achingly hard cock strains against the fabric. You gasp a surprised "oh" between his lips, but follow his hand eagerly, helping him with the buttons. "Touch me, darlin'."

You do. Jesus, you do.

You worm your hand between the fabric and his feverish skin, mapping out the shape of him with curious touches. Even though you're inexperienced, Arthur's body teaches you what feels good for him without a guiding word. You grasp him, gently at first, and then firmer, and stroke your hand over his cock until your palm curls around the flushed head of him, finding a bead of wetness there. His stomach jumps, muscles tensing against you, his breath hitching sweetly beside your ear when he kisses you there too.

Did he feel a similar curious excitement like you do now, when he stuffed you full of his fingers? 

"You're a natural, sweetheart," he smiles at you, cheeks blooming a pretty red, and you feel his hand returning between your legs, thick fingers pushing inside you again. "Ya think you can take me?"

You can't answer, not at first, too distracted by the stretch, by the burning want that blooms in your belly, by the idea of taking Arthur. You kiss him instead, stroke him faster until he has to break away from you to collect himself. 

"Fuck me," you whisper to him, sweet as wild strawberries, your lips brushing the side of his face and he smiles, truly, teeth and crow's feet and wrinkles and all, and Christ, you want him so much it almost hurts. 

"Now, you really want me to fuck ya?" 

You don't know if he wants to tease, or he's truly concerned about your decision, but you give him a very pointed look, releasing his cock and reaching for his hand that is still pleasuring you, slowly pulling it away until you're empty once more. 

"Arthur," you kiss him again, almost pleading and he can't deny you longer. He worries at your bottom lip for a second, then presses his mouth to your chin. 

"Spread 'em pretty thighs for me then," he murmurs as he comes closer, bracketing the backs of your thighs with his own, and then hefting your legs around his hips. You open yourself willingly, freely, feeling the heat of him oh so close, and you help him a little, push on his jeans until his cock is free, thick and heavy and hard against the inside of your thigh.

It's the first time you see it. It's the first time your cunt clenches on nothing and it makes you desperate. 

"If I hurt ya, say so and I'll stop, alright?" he says as he gives you one last kiss before leaning back and taking a hold of his cock. Christ, you want to watch. To know how he will fit inside you, but the strong bulk of his body blocks your view, sea-colored eyes going half-lidded as he watches your every reaction, sliding against your folds once, twice, and for the third time his fat cock catches on your slick opening. 

You gasp and pull him into a kiss with renewed hunger, and it's perfect to muffle your sounds as he slowly, carefully pushes into you. 

He has maybe an inch or two inside, but you're already feeling like you could burst, like you could rip apart at the seams and bloom into a bed of wildflowers oozing honey over black earth. 

It's— 

It's everything. 

You can feel his heartbeat race against your breast, and you can feel it inside you, lighting you up, making the unfamiliar stretch good, making it divine. You pant into his mouth, let him nuzzle your cheek as he murmurs praise, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw and caress your lips. 

"That's it, good girl," he whispers, as breathless as you, and you feel him move, deeper, making way for himself when there's barely any. It hurts and it doesn't. Aches like a good day of riding in the sun. Warm. Stretched. A funny sway in your head when it's over. A pleasure-pain so perfect you never want him to stop. "Ya fit me like you was made for me."

"Christ," you hiss, hands curling into his neck and shoulder, digging into the meat of them, almost drawing blood as Arthur's hips meet yours, his hot length fully settling inside you. "Arthur, Jesus I—,"

"Shhh," he quiets you softly, one hand cupping the back of your palm on his shoulder, massaging it until your fingers yield, no longer digging into his flesh, and he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. A distraction. A gesture so sweet your body warms even more. 

"S-sorry," you manage to say, out of breath and tingling all over. He's so deep inside you you can feel it. All the space he fills, all the ways pressure makes you twitchy and sensitive and ready to burst. He kisses your fingertips next, the inside of your wrist, all the while his other hand smooths over your trembling thigh. 

"Watchu sayin' sorry for?" his question is a mere whisper against you, a soothing rumble at the side of your face. He waits for you to settle, to let you calm like a rapid summer storm, keeps himself still until the way he holds you open becomes from an unfamiliar intrusion into a shivering spark of something. Can pleasure feel like this too? Can the joy of joining coat your bodies like crushed candy that melts in the sun? 

You can't focus on his question, not until he caresses your brow with a finger, and even then you don't know the answer. You just close your eyes and tremble, too lost in the closeness of him, too distracted by the spark of pleasure bubbling hotly inside your belly. 

"Tell me when I should move," he brushes your hair back, wipes the sweat that started beading at your temple. "Or tell me to stop."

"N-no. Don't stop, please Arthur. Jus'... just be slow," you murmur against him, your words slurred into his beard, lips brushing a scar there. 

He nods then, reassures you with a small kiss that says "I've got you, don't worry," and it's enough for you. Enough to brace for the inevitable outwards pull. 

You have to dig your fingers into his arm, have to cling to him for dear life, because even though his movement is careful, you still want to rip apart from the seams, just from his cock gently grinding into your cunt. 

You groan, dear Christ, and you clench on him, the pleasure-pain so intense it rushes you towards the edge with the speed of lightning striking a lonely tree out in the prairie. 

"Yes, sweetheart, open up for me," he praises you, licking the same fingers he stuffed inside you earlier and returning them between your legs, feeling where he holds you open, and then drawing a gentle circle on your clit, another sharp sparkle of pleasure, and you whine. "Can you come like this?"

You can't answer with words, your throat locks up and tears well in the corners of your eyes as you nod eagerly, racing towards an edge that ends in pure free fall. So he keeps his slow torture sweet, a purposeful grind of his hips and knowing touches with his fingers and you pant, into his neck and then into the soft grass, your head lolling to the side, and even though you're outside, up in the mountains, there's barely enough air to fill your lungs. The only thing you breathe is Arthur. He trickles into your every vein, every muscle and fat and bone, blankets you in honey and dew and the warmth of the sun. 

"Look at ya, little darlin'," he says, fond, as he reaches for your face to give your flaming cheek a gentle caress. Your back arches as he pushes in again, his movement turning into longer, truer thrusts. "Look how good you take me."

"Shit, Arthur I—"

"Gonna take care of ya," he murmurs and leans back, settling on his haunches with his cock still rooted deep and your thighs wide open around his hips. 

He looks down at your body, at all the imperfections you hate, at all the unique curves of your form, at all the unevenly smooth skin and marks and scars. Then, at your face that is softened by a deep frown of pleasure. 

Your eyes meet. 

You can see the want flickering in his eyes like blue flames in a marsh, alive and hot, and maybe your own burns the same, because he can't control a hard thrust then. You almost yelp, but your joining is slick now, you can feel wetness collect on your cunt every time he pulls out, so the pain is nonexistent. 

"That—" you pant, sucking in a hasty breath, "that felt so good."

"Christ, darlin," he exhales on a smile, and digs the meat of his fingers into the bend of your knee and the puffy flesh of your cunt and you almost scream, the good kind of scream, as he thrusts in again, hard and deep. "You're so goddamn beautiful."

It's your turn to tense up, to clench on him, hot and full and barely hanging on by a thread. He makes you run down the hill of pleasure until you trip, until you're falling, until the pressure becomes too much and not enough all at once. Like graphite grinded into dust and swept by the wind, that's how you float too, towards his calloused hands and sun-worn cheeks and you're a parchment laid out flat, your body the same, bare and vulnerable until his fingerprints stain you, in forms of lilac bruises on your hips, in never ending paths of grey sunlight. 

He lets go of your leg, puts a palm on the soft of your belly, just above your cunt, and he feels himself there, moving, filling you so full, so good, so whole, until there's no more air to breathe and no more hill to tumble down on, only the vacuum of a night sky littered with stars, the inside of his irises, watching you as you come. Sudden, violent. 

Your body shakes as it sweeps you away, a fire eating you alive like candlelight makes a moth catch aflame, and Arthur leans down to kiss you through it, still fucking you, still not stopping when the too much hits, but oh, he's a great distraction, the way his soft lips apologize, the way his tongue reassures you sweetly that you're doing good. He hums into the kiss, nips on your upper lip as your hands rise and dig into his neck, keeping him close, trapped in your body like a butterfly in sticky honey. 

"Ya okay?" he asks softly, whispering the question onto the corner of your mouth, his hands curling around your shoulders, the back of your head. An embrace. Butterflies growing in the same cocoon. 

"Feels so good," you whimper, clinging to him, feeling his cock hit deep again, resuming a lost rhythm like one replays a song on a guitar. The same chords flowing for a dance practiced by lovers. "Ar-Arthur."

He keeps on going and you keep taking him, the grass crushing under you bodies and you’re sure your whole backside is gonna be green, just like his knees and palms are. It’s blurry from that, your mind so fogged by pleasure that the world swims, a sea of light and wildflowers and clouds, pools of piercing blue-green eyes and crooked teeth that snarl into a smile. 

“Do ya have one more for me?” his forehead knocks against yours, his rhythm slowing. 

You don’t understand the question, not at first, but his fingers return between your legs, rough on the sensitive flesh of your clit, circling oh so carefully, and you know, Jesus, you know you want to give him everything you can. 

"Arthur," you pant, your lips buried in his hair as he plants a humming kiss into the crook of your neck.

"Hm?"

"Don't hold back. Please. Wanna feel you even when you're gone," your tighten your legs around his hips, answer his thrust with the rise of your own, meeting him halfway, like how the sun meets the horizon when pink dusk falls over the valley. 

"Don't ask me that I—" he chokes on his words at your interruption, a soft kiss, placed right on the plump of his bottom lip. 

"Please,” you encourage him, plead him. You want this so much it almost hurts. Not where he splits you open. Not where he hits deep as he picks up his pace. No, it’s the chest where you ache, the rapidly beating organ that pumps and beats and jumps and flickers, a mass of red, a cluster of muscle that somehow houses all the feelings you have for this man. A heart full of adoration. A heart full of love.

He kisses you so hard it makes you dizzy. Makes the doves caged in your ribs escape and tear you open, leaving only a wide wound in their wake, a door that leads straight down to the pocket-universe you handcrafted in the shape of a golden-haired, glacier-eyed man. 

You can feel him getting close, his hard thrusts falling out of rhythm, his fingers urgent on your abused clit. It sits there, the pleasure in your belly, bubbling, spilling over as he desperately chases your own orgasm, fucking you into the ground almost, planting you like a flower, to bloom just for him, just so you can weave your roots together. 

Arthur’s arms tremble as he groans into your neck, pulls back to leave a kiss on the side of your mouth, not focused enough for a proper one and you can’t help yourself. That choking feeling you felt rising from the start overspills, makes a landslide, an avalanche. You swallow and look up at him, mesmerized by his half-lidded eyes, glinting in the sun like twin-lakes, his hands holding you tight to him, his cheeks ruddy from all the loving you did to each other. 

You slip, and the world tilts. 

"Love you," you murmur, breathless, and there's a sudden shudder against you, Arthur's hands going bruising on your flesh, and he's coming, halfway on his way of pulling out. The warmth startles you, and then his grunt too, when he pushes back inside, because it doesn't really matter anymore, with his seed spilling out beside his cock, and some sick, possessive part of him enjoys how you whimper when he stuffs you full again, everything too wet and too hot. You tremble in his hold, terrified and riled up all at once, because feeling him like this makes you a little stupid and so sick with love it aches. 

You come again from it, softly this time. 

"I'm so goddamn sorry," he groans, trying to play the gentleman, trying to erase memories surfacing. This is not like it was then. He can still do right by you.

"'S okay," you murmur, almost feeling drunk, out of your mind with the way his cock twitches inside you, spurting one last time. "'S okay, Arthur." 

You pull him closer, with your fingers in his hair, in his beard. He sags against you, body weak from both his climax and emotions, and he presses his forehead to yours. It's a thing almost more intimate than a kiss. A thing full of the unspeakable truth, but you're not ready for it, and he isn't either. 

He watches you for a few seconds, his eyes flickering, a candle flame in a storm, but finally, finally he gives you a small smile. It's just in his eyes, a secret thing, a treasure so little and so precious it needs to be protected from the ugly cold reality. 

"I don't wanna awaken false hopes inside ya," he starts, gently, like calming a wild horse, "but I can't leave ya here thinkin' I don't love you the same." 

That's it. That's the time for a tear that sneakily bubbles from the corner of your eye and slides down to the calloused pad of his finger still caressing your face. 

"I ain't a good man," he continues, voice impossibly soft, "but I always wanted to do right by ya."

"Arthur," you tremble as you whisper, your hands on his nape, in his hair. Your mouth brushes his brow as you lean in. "Just come back to me. I don't care when. Jus' come back alive."

He nods, then buries his head into your neck, kissing your heated skin, writing a promise there with his lips. 

The sun moves and the surrounding mountains start to paint blue shadows over the blooming meadows so you move, first from the embrace, then from the flattened patch of grass and flowers you’ve tangled into each other on. You only put on your dress, no bloomers or shoes, his come still sticky on the inside of your thigh, and he leaves his shirt on the ground too, not ready to let go of this moment. 

He looks up at you, eyes sparkling, taking in the sight that is so pretty he wants to never leave. With flowers in your hair, a crown braided from daisies and forget-me-nots and marigolds, with dirt and grass on your skin, with a content smile in the corner of your mouth—you look radiant. 

Arthur sits with you in the grass, picking on wild-green blades and chewing on the end of one while he searches for the prettiest little flower blooming right next to your bare feet, nestled close to his. 

A perfect bud of white clover. Faith, love, good fortune.

He takes your hand in his, kisses your knuckles, and ties a ring around your finger from the stem, makes the flower sit pretty in the middle, like a chiseled, shiny rock of moonstone. 

What is this if not a vow? 

What is this if not a promise?

*

In the morning, after loving each other once more in the flickering moonlight, you wake up sore between the legs and dizzy from an intelligible emotion clawing deep inside your chest. The bed is empty next to you, the coffee that Arthur made still steaming on the table. You don't dress up, just pull the quilt over your body and run outside, onto your small porch to gaze down the valley bathing in golden light. A silver dapple mare gallops down there, on the spine of a mud-snake road. 

Arthur rides away. 

You stumble back to the chair on the porch, full with something bittersweet. Overripe cherries rotting on a tree. A black heart dripping honey. Your ribcage squeezing your lungs like a fist. You take a shaky breath and when he completely disappears from your view you lean back, almost sit down on a leather-covered book. It's a journal. Another one, smelling like fresh paper and horse hair and him.

You open it as you settle, the quilt drawn tight around your barely covered body.

There's a drawing on the first page, two wild doves huddled together, and a flower of white clover tied into a ring, pressed down into the page. 

Under it, scrawled hastily with Arthur's flowing handwriting:

I promise.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfiction #ao3 #fanfiction

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Gossip

Masterlist Word count: 550 Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: You know that John likes you. You know that Arthur likes you. They know about each other, but the others don't. Gossip spreads and, what feels like a ticking time bomb, turns out to be unconnected. 

---------

'I don't think he knows,' Abigail says as she sits, knitting with Mary-Beth and Tilly while watching you and Arthur talk. John has gone out hunting with Charles to learn how to use a bow as he is useless with it. Arthur had asked Charles to do so but Abigail suspects he had other motives for getting John away from camp.  'I think he does,' Tilly argues with a grin, 'why else would he ask Charles? Everyone knows John is too impatient to learn how to use a bow.' She's got a point, Abigail figures.  Things had been weird ever since you joined the gang. Sadie had found you in Valentine and recognized you as an old friend. In fact, the friend who set her up with her husband. She told the others you seemed lost and needed some place where people have your back. Most were sceptical but your turned out to be a hard worker and a great hunter, bringing in huge game for the camp whenever you went out. Dutch had almost considered letting you take a wagon along so you could bring enough to sell it.  That great aim of yours also pulled in different attention. Both John and Arthur became more than smitten with your friendly and kind demeanour. Mary-Beth had suggested that Arthur liked you for your kindness and willingness to listen while John liked you for your viciousness and rough edges. Both great attributes that make you who you are.  'Well, either way, they're both fools,' Mary-Beth claims, ending the argument.  'Do you think she knows,' Tilly questions.  'For sure she knows,' Mary-Beth answers as all of them watch you gently touch Arthur's shoulder as he makes a joke not worthy of the laughter that comes out of you.  'She's really toying with them, ain't she,' Abigail grumbles. Despite liking you quite a bit, she fears what it might do to the gang if Arthur and John are pinned against each other. It's a bad predicament to be in and since the year that John left the gang is still a sore spot for Arthur, Abigail fears things might explode with the littlest of meddling. When her and John put an end to it, she was slightly relieved, but this is just insanity. 

'Do you think they know,' Arthur questions you. You shake your head with a grin.  'No, they probably think I'm hopping between you two. They wouldn't be gossiping about us as much if they knew.'  'Fair point.' He puts a gentle hand on your waist to pull you closer and watches at the jaws drop across camp.  'Are you trying to rile them up, cowboy,' you tease as you take a step closer to him. He shrugs. You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his jaw. 'Come on, let's go join Charles and John.' Arthur looks over at the women once more as he leans towards you.  'If only they knew about Charles.' You shove him away with a laugh.  'Oh, stop it. I liked you better when you were still being shy about liking me.' 

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr 2 fanfic #rdr 2 fanfiction #john marston #john marston x reader #john marston x you #john marston x fem!reader #john marston x female reader #arthur morgan x fem!reader #charles smith x reader #charles smith x you #charles smith x fem!reader #charles smith x female reader #charles smith #charles smith rdr2

[simplyelviss]

It doesn't sound like he's talking to the horse 😭

#arthur morgan #need him so bad #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #rdr2 #rdr2 community #red dead redemption community #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader

[sapphic-pikachu]

Shooting Your Shot

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Words: 3.4K

Summary: Arthur makes good on his promise to teach you how to shoot. You struggle with this time alone with him due to your seemingly unrequited feelings for him.

Warnings: sfw, guns, shooting, bullets, me not knowing anything about guns so being intentionally vague about them, reader and Arthur are both fools, kissing, Arthur and reader are touched starved, physical affection

A/N: @sharinkashaf Fucking please let Arthur teach reader how to shoot. ❤️❤️❤️

thank you for the idea for this one! also thank you for all the love on my first one shot that I posted the other day, I will be working on a part 2 for it! please if you have any ideas or things you want to see me write for Arthur let me know! once again, warning that it has been years since I’ve last written anything so it’s not perfect

You smirked into your coffee mug as the high pitched whines of Sean’s complaints sounded around camp. You had been half sitting on one of the camps tables, watching as Tilly had defeated Sean in dominoes for what must have been the fifth time in a row. Despite Sean’s insistence that the younger girl must have been cheating, or was secretly a professional dominos player, his words were met with rolling of eyes and laughter as the games continued.

There was a good mood sunken over the camp that morning. It had seemed like you had all reached a string of good luck - for once, you didn’t have to be constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next bad thing to happen. The donation box was full, people were smiling amongst themselves and even the coffee didn’t taste as bad as it normally did.

You knew who this all was thanks to. For weeks, Arthur had been slaving himself, constantly out of camp and on missions, scouting out new resources and pulling through with every plan Dutch had given him. Your heart fluttered at the thought of him, but you willed yourself not to turn to look for him, even though you had noted his absence near the centre of camp all morning. Silently, you prayed that wherever he was, he was able to take advantage of the peacefulness in camp that he had helped bring about.

A hand settled on your shoulder, causing you to jump and loose grip of your coffee mug. With one hand still on your shoulder, Arthur swooped in and grabbed your mug before it could clatter to the ground. Speak of the devil, you thought - you didn’t dare say it out loud, not wanting the man to know how at home he was in your thoughts.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” he said, his body so close to yours’ that it felt like he was whispering directly into your ear.

His hand was still resting on your shoulder. Your coffee mug and what little coffee remained in it was forgotten as Arthur set it on the table you rested by.

“S’alright. Didn’t startle me too bad.” you replied, craning your head to look up at him from your close proximity. Arthur just stared back at you, seemingly in thought.

“You need something?” You asked, suddenly aware that any moment longer in this position might have you spontaneously combust into flames.

Arthur blinked, removing his hand from your shoulder and taking a step back. His lack of touch made the spot on your shoulder where his hand had sat feel cold.

“Was just wondering if you’d be free. Shooting practice. Like I’d promised you.”

You remembered this promise vividly. You had been certain that he hadn’t though. It had been weeks since that talk. You had been running with the gang for close to a year now. While you were good at pickpocketing and scamming out drunk men, you were deeply aware that your gun work needed immense practice. There had been more than a few close calls that frightened you by now, ones that would have frightened you less had you been more skilled in shooting. Your skills were passable - you could pull the trigger on the gun enough times to scare off more passive enemies but you were slow to draw and even slower to hit where you wanted to. After a few drinks round the camp fire, you had confessed this insecurity to Arthur. You weren’t sure why him. Maybe because he was there. Maybe because he was the best gunman in camp by far. Maybe because you were hopelessly in love with him.

You took a deep breath to try simmer down the swell of emotion in your chest. He had drunk that night too - you were certain that his promise to make you a better shooter was just the alcohol speaking.

“We’ll make a proper gunslinger of you yet, darlin’.” he had slurred, before chugging another sip of whiskey and passing you the bottle. When you drank from the bottle after him, you did it slowly: it wasn’t just the whiskey you’d wanted a taste of now.

“I’m free. I’ll just go get my horse ready-”

“Ain’t no need. We won’t go far, we can just go on mine if it’s alright with you.” he interrupted, breaking his stare from you to peer off at nothing beside him. His hand rubbed at where his shirt collar touched his neck as he waited for your response. You felt your heart skip a beat.

“S’alright with me. Where we going?” At your confirmation, he began to walk off with you beside him towards where his mare stood.

“I set up some targets in the clearing east of ‘ere earlier this morning. Empty enough we’ll not be heard, but still close enough to camp that we won’t be bothered by anyone,” He replied, setting up a layer of blanket just behind his saddle on his horse, “You alright sitting behind?”

You would sit anywhere as long as it let you be close to him. You didn’t tell him that - you just hummed a yes and watched as he pulled himself up onto his horse, sitting slightly farther forward than he usually would.

He held out his hand and you accepted it, trying to ignore how small you felt in his grasp. You have yourself a boost with one leg in the empty stirrups, and flung your other leg over the horse.

“Sitting alright?” He asked. Your hand was still in his, his finger closed over yours with his thumb gently dragging up and down your hand in a way that weirdly comforted you. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but it was increasingly difficult for you not to.

“Yeah, m’fine.” You responded. You felt like your whole body was on fire. Your chest was pressed up against his back, your knees pressing against his upper thighs to secure your place on the horse.

Arthur’s thumb stopped moving as if it suddenly occurred to him that he was still holding your hand. He released it, grabbing his horse’s rope and grunting a response back to you. With your hands now free, you placed them underneath his bent arms, gingerly clutching onto his waist. If your touch had bothered him, Arthur did not say.

Your journey to the clearing was uneventful and quiet. An uneasy anxiety settled over your stomach. You had wished that Arthur could have a day of peace, but here he was, having to teach you how to shoot because you were too bad of a shot to protect yourself. You felt bad that you had pressured him into this. You felt bad that he was always made to look after everyone in camp all of the time. You felt bad that despite this, all you could think about was the feeling of his stomach underneath your fingertips as your arms wrapped around his waist.

His horse came to a stop and you could see what Arthur had been doing all morning. Crates had been stacked up around a tree, the various heights of the crates displaying different sizes and shapes of tins and glass bottles. The bottles had been placed in the branches of the tree itself, with shards of glass strung up, hanging down from the tree by strands of a thin rope. The sun shone down on the tree, reflecting the colours of the glass onto the ground, a mirage of different colours.

“Wow. This looks great Arthur. Like a proper shootin’ range an’ all.” You said to him as he stood on the grass beside you, helping you down from his horse.

“S’nothin’. Just took a lil’ time this morning.” He looked away from you, pulling his hand away from yours once your feet were steady on the ground. He rubbed at his neck again.

“It ain’t nothing, Arthur. Must’ve took some time. Thank you for doing this. I’m sorry, I know you got better things to be doing.” It was getting hard to swallow with how full your heart felt.

Arthur turned his head back to you at your words. His brow furrowed as he began to speak.

“You don’t got nothing to be sorry about. There ain’t nothing better for me to do but to spend time with you.” Arthur froze slightly at the end of his sentence, as if he had said something he didn’t mean to say. A slight blush spread across his face and he looked away from you again.

You reached out bravely and touched his upper arm.

“Thank you, Arthur. Truly.”

Arthur nodded before turning and getting his pistol out of his saddle bag behind you. Upon a further glance, you realised it wasn’t his usual pistol at all. It was new you thought, a shiny Schofield Revolver with a pearl handle and gold metal. Something was engraved onto the frame, but in the reflection of the sun you couldn’t quite make out what it was.

Arthur passed you the gun and a hand full of bullets, indicating for you to get the gun ready. Thankfully, this was something you didn’t need taught - after finishing, you hand the gun back to Arthur where he inspects it and hums out a response.

He passes you back the gun and begins walking closer to the tree. As you follow him, you note that he’s created a guideline in the grass of where the stand, with another stack of creates beside it. He sits down on the crates and nods for you to stand in position on the grass.

“I just want to see what we’re working with first - aim for the glass bottles on the second row if you can,” He says, leaning back on the crate and taking out an apple from his bag. He starts to cut it into slices with his knife, eating it piece by piece.

You hold the gun in front of you with two hands. You’re trembling slightly. You hate the fact that he’s watching you. More than that, you hate the fact that he’s watching you and you don’t know what he’s thinking.

The sound and recoil of the gun makes you jump slightly. You miss any bottle completely, the bullet skimming into the vacant air beside the crates. You shoot again, less shocked by the recoil this time, but still an awful shot. Again, you shoot, this time hitting the corner of one of the crates. It’s still no where near where your aiming, but you’re hitting something so you can’t help but feel slightly proud. You shoot, again, again, again. You manage to hit a tin can four objects down from the bottle you aim for on the second row. Your ears are ringing in your head and your hands feel tight from their grip around the gun. From behind you, you hear Arthur come towards you from his place on the crate. He’s good at going unnoticed when he wants to despite his large size, but now, he makes his presence known to you, his chest skimming your back.

“Right foot backwards, steady yourself.” He’s leaning his head down to speak directly to your ear. Your heart beats a little bit quicker but you follow his request, moving your right leg slightly backwards till it connects with his. You position your foot right in front of his. His left leg adjusts to settle right behind your left one. Your breathing gets a bit quicker also.

“Need you completely straight. Always facing towards where your aiming to match up your sights.” His voice rings in your head. Need you, need you, need you. His hands land on either side of your waist, swivelling you slightly to face you completely towards the tree, your legs staying in the same position supported by the feeling of his behind you. You think his hands stay on your waist a few seconds longer than they should do.

He guides his hands up to your shoulders. He moves them slightly too, more gentle than anyone who’s ever met him would ever expect him to be capable of. Except you. From the day you’d met Arthur, you knew exactly what he would be capable of, despite his insistence that he was a bad man. But you knew: a bad man would not be spending his day holding you so close and so gently like this for no benefit of his own.

He grabs each of your hands with his own from underneath your arms. He’s holding them up, supporting you, slightly stretching forward now to position the gun in front of you. His front is fully pressed up against you. You can feel it now - his own heartbeat is just as quick as yours.

His head is resting against yours, his neck craning down to adjust to your smaller size in comparison to his.

Together, as one, you lift the gun to aim at the bottle on the second row. His finger wraps around yours to guide you into pulling the trigger. He speaks again, so close to you he’s almost apart of you, his voice meant for nothing else except for speaking to you.

“Breathe in as you aim. Keeps you still,” You do as he tells you, feeling his own chest expand behind you and you breath together, “Shoot on the exhale. You got this sweetheart.”

You exhale at the same time as him, the heaviness of your breaths cancelled out by the loud bang as the shot rings out. You hear a splinter and crack as your bullet collides with its target. Not dead centre, but you’ve hit it, and that’s good enough. If you were so preoccupied on steadying your heartbeat at the feeling of Arthur pressing against you, you might have cried out in triumph.

“Good girl.” Arthur whispers to you. You aren’t sure if it’s the sound of the bullets ringing in your ears or his voice anymore. You know that because you can feel his heartbeat in his chest behind you, he can feel yours too. You know that the smirk you feel spread across his face as he presses against the side of your head is because he can feel how his praise made your heart skip another beat.

You keep shooting like that; Arthur guiding you with his own body and you hitting every target every time. After a while Arthur pulls his arms back from yours. You almost deflate at his absence but he doesn’t remove himself from your back. Instead he places his hands on your waist and tells you to keep going.

When you shoot again, Arthur’s lack of guidance is noticeable - but not extremely. You’re better than you were, the bullet landing a centimetre off from the tin can you now aim for. You shoot again creating a whole just off the centre of the can. You shoot again, the bullet disappearing seamlessly into the previous hole. Arthur squeezes at your hips as you grin.

It continues on like that: you shoot, more often than not hitting the target spot on or hitting it on your second try, and Arthur, a constant behind you squeezing his hands in congratulations on your waist, inching them closer and closer until eventually he has almost enveloped you completely in a backwards hug. He murmurs appreciation every so often, and your heart has stopping beating a little quicker every time this happens. In fact, his mere presence has made your constant heartbeat so fast already that there is little change.

The gun clicks, the chamber empty. You’re scared to breathe, worried that any sudden move will scare Arthur out of your arms, like a prey spotting it’s hunter. But it’s Arthur who breaks the stillness, removing his hands from your waist to bring your arms down to your chest, the gun still clutched between your hands. His arms come to clutch around your waist again, circling you completely as his hands meet by your stomach. You feel him swallow heavily. In this moment, there is nothing else in the world but him behind you and his hands round your waist.

You hold the gun in one hand and with the other you gently place it over his hands on your stomach: you’re scared that as you spin in place on your feet to face him that he’ll move away, so you hold his hands in place.

You can’t meet his eyes, looking at his chest and downwards as you place the gun from your hand into his holster around his waist. It’s your turn to swallow heavily now.

As you raise your gaze to look at his face, you find him already staring at you. You are still, desperately away of his hands, now settled low on the small of your back.

“That was great work there.” He says, not breaking eye contact with you as his voice barely breaks past a whisper.

“I had a great teacher.” You whisper back. He smiles at that, and you smile back as though you’ve just shared a secret meant just for the two of you. As the blue of his eyes brighten in the sun, you think that maybe you have.

His head tilts downwards, just barely enough to notice it. But you notice. You’ve always noticed every detail about Arthur, just as he’s always noticed you.

“Please.” You ask him, voice quiet and pleading as you break his stare to glance towards his lips.

He answers.

You’re practically on your toes, supported by his tightened grip around your back. His mouth connects to yours, gently and unsure at first. You hand comes up to rest against the side of his face, the other holding on to the collar of his shirt, brushing against his neck. At this, his kiss deepens, pulling you tighter against him. You use your grip on his collar to do the same, pulling yourself as close as you can into his chest.

After the moment passes, you both pull apart. He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing heavily, eventually chuckling out a laugh on the exhale.

“Been wanting to do that for a while.” You can hear the smile in his voice with your eyes still closed. His hands on your back, his forehead against yours. You feel like every atom in your body is on fire. For a while, he had said. For a while, you thought back, that I have been missing out on every moment like this.

“Should’ve done it sooner, then. Thought it was just me feeling like this.” You said, a deep sigh erupting from your chest. He can hear the smile in your voice too.

One hand leaves it place at your waist to hold your face. Не pulls further away to look down at you. He’s still smiling.

“And I thought it was just me.”

There’s a little bit of an ache in your chest. A bit of sadness on how long you both had wasted hiding away from each other. But neither of you are hiding now. You press your palm against his chest and feel his heart beat under his shirt. It’s fast, just like yours.

A moment passes before you both realise there is more than each other left in the word. The sky has darkened considerably, the sun settling in the early evening. Neither of you had eaten and you were both starting to feel a hunger for something other than each other.

“We should probably head back to camp.” You say, still unmoving from your proximity to him. Neither of you want to leave this moment.

“Probably. And you can show off everything you’ve learnt today.” He says. He still cradles your face in his hands, his thumb moving softly back and forth on the apple of your cheek.

“Everything I’ve learnt?” You smirk up at his, loosing your previous fixation of your hand on his chest. He chuckles, and he feel the movement of his chest course right through you.

“Maybe not everything.” He replies, his eyes soft as he looks into your eyes.

You can feel the moment come to a close. Not wanting to waste any last second you could spend alone with Arthur like this, after having missed out on so many others in the past, you cling to every bit of it. Before either of you can detach from the other, you grab him by his shirt collar again and pull him down for another kiss.

Additional Content:

You both depart from Arthur’s horse a little before necessary as you make the journey back to camp. The horse clambers along behind you both. You’re both pensive and quiet, but when your hand grazes against his from it’s place by your side, Arthur grasps it and keeps it intertwined with his. You walked further before Arthur’s stops to a sudden holt, his grip on your hand forcing you to stop with him.

“Almost forgot.” He murmured, looking bashful as his cheeks blushed red. He reached down with his other hand, not loosing his hold on your hand, grabbing hold of the pistol you had practiced with and holding it out to you.

You aren’t sure what he means so you respond by raising your eyebrows at him and waiting for him to expand.

“S’a gift. For you. Got it custom in town for ya.” He’s still blushing but he manages to glance into your eyes. He’s searching for something, and you realise he’s worried about how you’ll respond.

You can see the engraving on the gun more clearly now as it rests in his hand. Flowers, your favourite, blooming up through an imprint on the outside of the metal. Your name intertwines with the flowers, the letters flowing into the blossoming leaves.

You reach out towards his outstretched hand, but instead of grabbing the pistol you clasp your hand together with his and pull yourself towards him. You press a small kiss to his lips and as you pull away you smile at him.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you say looking up at him, hoping he found what he was searching for before, “for everything.

#rdr x reader #rdr2 imagine #rdr #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 imagine #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan #Arthur Morgan fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction

[davidlcki]

payment

pairing:low honor! arthur x reader

warnings: cursing, arthur is mean, being forced to drink, age gap, game typical violence. i think that’s it

summary: your parents take a loan from strauss, and when they can’t afford it, they send you off as payment instead. it’s a 3 day journey back to the van der linde camp. will you turn the notorious gunslinger soft?

an: please let me know how you guys feel about this one! i’ve been dealing with severe writers block so this took me MONTHS to write. it might not be my best, but i’m just happy to get something out. enjoy, i love you all! ❤️

words: 5,562 (my longest yet i think)

part 2

shouting from downstairs violently ripped you from your deep sleep, and quickly, you hopped out of bed. your hands shook as you slowly opened your door and made your way to the top of the steps.

“the money. NOW.”

you flinched at the harshness of the man’s words. instantly you knew it was the debt collectors, and that your family had nowhere near the amount needed to pay it off. you listened to your mother and father plead with the man for another week, but he wasn’t having it. at the sound of a gun cocking, your legs began to move on their own. you were bolting down the stairs.

“STOP! please, please don’t hurt them!” you hold your hands out desperately, standing between the man and your parents, who were dead silent. the man paused, the anger in his features seemed to be replaced with amusement. this was the moment that you recognized who this man was. you had seen him in many bounty posters around strawberry, he was arthur morgan.

“well now, why didn’t ya tell me about this fine young lady?” arthur’s gaze drifted from you to your parents, who were looking at each other with a look you couldn’t read. nervously, you looked between your parents and arthur. why weren’t they saying anything?

“she’ll do as payment just fine” arthur shrugs, holstering his gun and giving an easy smile, as if this was no big deal, just another day. you turned to your parents quickly, shaking your head and backing away from arthur.

“please don’t…” you looked between your mother and father desperately. finally, your father speaks.

“take her. if it works as payment, take her.” time seemed to slow as you stared at your father who wouldn’t look you in the eyes. your mother was looking down, you could tell she was holding back tears, but she stayed silent.

“what? wait, wait just-” you glanced at the door quickly, thinking of ways to escape. arthur, was quick to place his hand on his holstered gun.

“i wouldn’t, if i were you.” arthur’s voice was suddenly much lower, and his easy smile was gone in an instant. you knew there was no other way. you turned to your parents, lips in a flat line as you stared at them. you were thinking of what you could possibly say to them, when arthur’s rough hand had a grip on your upper arm.

“your own daughter…for some fucking cash…” your voice was shaky as you were being pulled towards the door. barely having time to slip your boots on, you give your parents one last look before you were out of sight.

for a while, it was silent. you were too in shock to cry or do much of anything, but think.

“we’ll camp here for the night” arthur’s voice startled you out of your thoughts, most of them being how to escape this situation. for now, he had at least some form of trust in you, considering your hands were untied.

arthur morgan was more of a myth than a person, to you. you heard the stories of the hundreds he’s killed and you knew this was probably a bad idea, but you needed to try an escape. once he hopped off his horse, you grabbed onto the reigns and kicked your heels into its sides, but it didn’t budge. the damned horse stayed dead still. the air seemed to thicken as you continued to attempt to get the horse to take off with a series of ‘hyah’s’ and ‘go’s’, but his horse was loyal, seeming to listen to him and only him. when you looked over, you swore you saw flames in arthur’s eyes.

plan b.

from the horse, you deliver a kick into arthur’s chest with all the power you could muster. just as his horse, he dosent budge. arthur lunges forwards, pulling you off the horse roughly and ignoring the protests coming from you as he threw you over his shoulder. you pounded relentlessly on his back, but he didn’t so much as flinch. instead, he tightened his grip on you, nearly squandering your ability to breathe. once finding a clearing about 30 feet into the woods, he throws you onto the grass and pulls out his lasso. you take a few seconds to catch your breath, but you don’t have time to move or get any words out. effortlessly, arthur ties the rope around your wrists and ankles before you could flip over, rendering you immobile.

“bastard! you let me go!” you finally manage to turn yourself onto your back and struggle against the rope that dug into your skin. arthur, clearly unamused at your shouting, sinks down to your level on the ground. his hips were nearly straddling yours as he kneeled and grabbed your face with a rough hand.

“watch it girl.” his voice was drawn out and easy, giving you the impression that he’s done this many times before. he releases his grip on your jaw, and brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “don’t forget i know where you live. dont try nothin’, less you’re fixin’ to watch your parents die”.

“i don’t…. i don’t care about them anymore. they sold me. pawned me like trash.” your voice was shaky as you spoke up at him, and for a while the both of you sat and stared at each other, heavy breath fanning over your faces. arthur almost had a look of understanding for a moment. it was true. you were angry at them for so carelessly giving you away for their own benefit. in fact, you didn’t know who you were angrier at. arthur, or your own parents. finally, arthur hums and stands. you didn’t dare move from your spot on the ground, instead, you silently watched arthur set up camp. you really were afraid that he’d kill you if you so much as moved. you could see in his eyes that he was only going to let that trick you tried slide once.

you shivered and let out a ragged exhale, still catching your breath as the wind was knocked out of you not long ago. you were desperate for fire, for any kind of warmth. you were only in boots and a thin nightgown, that did much of nothing as the cold from the ground seeped into you.

“cold?” arthur stands next to your shivering frame on the ground. you say nothing, instead giving him an unamused glare. you refused to let him see you cry, so you threw on your best angry facade. you stiffened as he leaned down and lifted you, not letting out a breath of air until you were put down again. now, you were resting against a tree in front of the fire. you let out an inner sigh of relief at the warmth. arthur sits across from the fire, taking a bite of jerky from his satchel.

“so, that’s your parents farm huh? pretty nice, all considering.” arthur pauses, but you say nothing. “live there your whole life?” you didn’t even really hear his question as you asked your own.

“where are you takin’ me?” you watch arthur’s face carefully as he takes a drag from his cigarette.

“you’re joining the gang” arthur flicks the end of his cigarette, the ashes slowly float to the ground. “we need more hands. more people to help fight.”

“i’m no good at fighting” your voice was quiet, you were starting to realize you weren’t getting out of this.

“you will be. now,” arthur stands up and pulls more rope from his horses satchel “rest up, got a long day of riding tomorrow” you scoff as he begins to wrap the rope around you and the tree you were against.

“is this necessary?” arthur says nothing, instead pulling the rope tighter. after, he goes back to his spot, pulling his hat over his face and letting out a rather large sigh. for a long time, you didn’t sleep. instead, you relentlessly tugged and pulled at the rope restraining you. you knew it was pointless, but you couldn’t help trying. your face twisted in pain as your arms scratched against the rough tree bark. arthur must have been very confident in the knots he tied, because you very quickly heard soft snores drifting from across the fire. after what seemed like hours, and a few shed tears, you fell into a restless sleep.

•••

when you awoke the next morning, arthur was up, packing supplies into his horses satchel and humming to himself softly. you stayed silent, observing the man who was so mean to you do a task so mundane. when you looked down, you noticed arthur’s brown coat was thrown over your frame. it smelled like tobacco and gunpowder. when arthur noticed you were up, he quickly took his jacket back and went over to untie the rope holding you to the tree.

“morning sunshine” he throws you a smile as he pulls the rope from around the tree off, along with the rope on your ankles.

“i trust you won’t run”

“no” your voice was hoarse and you shivered violently as the wind attacked your bare skin that was previously covered. arthur stopped, thinking for a second as he took in your frame with a slow look from your head to your ankles and back up again. he pulls you to your feet, letting you catch your footing on wobbly legs as he rummaged around for his canteen. he flicks the cap off and grabs your jaw so roughly and suddenly that you let out an involuntary gasp of shock. he turns your face towards him and inspects you for a second before continuing. you could only wonder what he was thinking, his lip twitching ever so slightly into the ghost of a smile as he continued.

“drink” he puts the canteen to your mouth and watches as you desperately gulped down the water. after about 5 seconds, he pulled it away, taking a swig of the liquid himself before stowing it back on his horse.

“long ride ahead,” arthur lifts you onto his horse before hopping in front of you in the saddle, “gonna take a few days i reckon, so get comfortable”.

arthur wasn’t lying. you rode all day, so long that you couldn’t remember what direction you came from or how to get back home. although that outcome was unlikely now. desperate to escape the cold, you pressed yourself against arthur’s back. you felt him stiffen at the contact, but were too cold to care. you couldn’t count the hours it’d been, and for a while you were pretty sure you fell asleep. throughout the day, you only made a few stops. one for bathroom breaks, and one for his horse to rest. the rest of the day was a blur, not much was said, and the only noise you heard was the trotting of hoofs on the ground and the rustle of trees in the wind. when the sun began to set, arthur finally pulled to a stop.

“seems like a good spot” arthur observes the clearing, giving you a stern look before hopping off of his horse, remembering the stunt you pulled last time.

“gonna tie me to a tree again?” your voice was dripping in sarcasm as you allowed him to pull you off the horse.

“you gonna make me?” arthur’s tone matched yours as he pulled out his bedroll and some other supplies. you waited for the extra rope to come, but it never did. arthur instead unties your hands, then reties them in front of you. you audibly sigh at the discomfort that began to dissipate, and you rolled your shoulders a few times in satisfaction.

“y’ dont wanna run off in these parts,” arthur warns as the fire lights up the clearing. “the people will get to ya before the animals do.” you said nothing in response. for a few hours, you stayed dead silent. ignoring arthur’s snarky comments and nothing more than blinking when he’d toss the end of a cigarette or a twig off the ground at you. arthur began to heat a small can of stew, smiling teasingly as he watches you eye it. he pulls gin out of his pocket, downing a hefty swig.

“if you want some, you gotta speak, girl.” arthur eats a large scoop of stew, groaning dramatically in satisfaction in an attempt to tease you.

“fuck you. that enough?” arthur snorts a laugh at your response, deciding to give you a bite. you quickly chew and swallow it, savoring the taste.

“what’s your name anyway?” arthur pauses, scooping out some more stew and holding it up. “you answer me if you wanna eat.”

“Y/N. Y/N L/N” arthur feeds you the stew and downs more gin. halfway through the bottle now.

“Y/N” the way your name rolled off his tongue sent a chill down your spine. “you gotta pretty name, Y/N. how old are ya?”

you eye the man for a while, before looking back down to the tempting spoon of stew. “i’m 22. now can you feed me the god damn food?” you were getting testy now, watching arthur eat and down almost an entire bottle of gin while you’ve had nothing for over a day will do that to you.

“you got a mouth on ya!” arthur let’s out a laugh, feeding you another bite and finishing the rest of the stew himself. he stands up, stretching his legs and yawning, before walking over to you casually. nervously, you watch as arthur squats down to be eye level with you.

“sleep” a small smile crosses his face, confusing you. then, he places a hand on your shoulder and shoves you to the side so you’re in a laying position in the grass. a yelp escapes your lips as you hit the ground. “night”

you watch in disbelief as arthur goes to his spot on the bed roll, very quickly falling asleep with his hat on his face as usual. now was your turn. you thought about running, but had a feeling that arthur wasn’t lying about the people around these parts. slowly, you drifted to sleep in the damp grass.

•••

you woke up to the sound of footsteps crunching in the dead leaves. instantly you were alert. when you looked over, arthur was still passed out. you guessed the gin running through his veins was doing its work. you stayed silent, sitting up slowly and looking into the dark of the forrest around you. the fire was almost out at this point. you tugged anxiously at the ropes binding your hands. there were the footsteps again, from behind you this time. you knew those weren’t from an animal. before you could react, a man came running out of the woods. he was on you in seconds, knife in hand. you let out a scream of terror as you were slammed onto your back. you squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the knife to be plunged into your chest, but it never came. instead, there was a gunshot that seemed to shake the forest. when you opened your eyes, there was a bullet hole between the eyes of the man as he crumpled on top of you. the weight of him smothered the cry that you tried to let out. arthur was over in seconds, shoving the body off of you and pulling you to a sitting position. there was genuine worry that you saw for a mere second in his face.

“y’ alright?” he was still blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked you over for stab wounds. he was half awake, trying to make sense of what was going on. as you opened your mouth to speak, another man emerged from the dark of the woods. he shoved arthur over, effectively knocking the gun from his hands. you were in a trance, looking between arthur, the man, and the pistol laying right in front of you. arthur’s voice startled you out of it. his voice was strained as he called your name out, he was using all his strength to hold the knife mere inches away from his chest. with your tied hands, you picked up the pistol. it was heavier than you expected.

“do… it…” his eyes pleaded with you, meanwhile, the tip of the knife was beginning to sink into his chest. without anymore hesitation, you aimed at the attackers head and pulled the trigger. your ears rung more than the first gunshot that was fired earlier, and you noticed the almost painful vibrations that flowed through your hands. arthur let’s out a sigh of relief, pushing the body off of him and sitting up, before quickly freezing again. he stared at you blankly as you continued to point the pistol at him.

“Y/N…” he holds his hands up and shakes his head. “y’ don’t wanna do this”

you looked at him for a long while, tears were dripping down your cheeks and your hands were shaking violently. you were debating killing him right here and now. but how would you make it in there woods? how would you find your way back? then, you remembered why you were here in the first place, and how your parents threw you out without a thought. finally, slowly, you lowered the gun, arthur took this oppertunity to snatch it from your hands, before audibly exhaling. he watched carefully as you broke down in tears, hugging onto yourself the best you could with tied hands and trying to wipe blood off of your nightgown.

“hey… i uh…” arthur didnt know what to say as he placed a hand upon your shoulder in attempted reassurance. to his surprise, you threw yourself into his embrace. slowly, he wrapped his arms around your frame and listened to you cry. he noticed the red marks on your wrists under the rope, and was shocked at the pang of guilt he felt. without thinking, he takes out his hunting knife and cuts the rope off of you. you use this time to wrap your arms around his waist. arthur slowly runs a hand up and down your back as you continued to sob.

“i’m scared, arthur.” was all you could get out. you had never killed a man before, and the reality was setting in. all arthur could do was mutter an awkward series of ‘it’s alright’ and ‘i’m here’s’ until you calmed down enough to let go. arthur was almost sad at the loss of your presence, and he wished he could rip this part of him out. this part that yearned for love and affection and what he was just finding out, you. half of him screamed as he draped his coat around your shoulders, while the other half cheered.

you avoided eye contact with the gunslinger as you attempted to get your tears under control, pulling his coat around yourself gingerly.

“thank you… for not letting me be killed” you kept your eyes on the fire, too afraid to look at arthur or the bodies or the blood on your skin.

“and thank you, for not shootin’ me along with this feller” you let out a scoff, lips twitching up into a small smile you mustered up. arthur took the time to move the bodies away from camp and your sight, eventually returning and sitting down again. there was a new feeling in the air between you and the gunslinger. a bond forged in blood and death. arthur never tied your hands again, and he kept watch the rest of the night. though neither of you got another wink of sleep, you stayed close to each other, shoulders touching as you sat side by side. you asked arthur plenty of questions about his gang. you were genuinely curious what it was like. you could tell he was fond of them by the way his features softened at just the thought. you realized, they were family, and it didn’t sound so bad. after hours of trying to will the sun to come up faster, it finally rose, and you were more than glad to keep moving.

you couldn’t tell how long it’d been now. you slept for a while the way you have been, your face pressed against arthur’s back in a somewhat comfortable position, but when you opened your eyes again you were in a town. upon reading the sign, you realized it was valentine. you could hear the chatter in the distance, and your eyes lit up with surprise. it had been days since you’d seen another person besides arthur. arthur must have felt you sit up straighter, because he quickly stopped his horse and looked back at you.

“i trust you’re not gonna try no shit?” he asks, exhaling cigarette smoke from his lungs. you hold back the urge to cough as the smoke wafts over your face. he observes you for a second more before straightening your messy hair. you knew it was so you looked more presentable to the town, but it was oddly gentle, intimate.

“no, but people are going to ask questions, arthur.” you spit his name out, and reference down to your now dirty and tattered nightgown. you were upset at the shift between you both after what you went through the night before, and it was hard for you to contain your anger as you spoke. the lack of food and clean clothes was starting to get to you. arthur stares at you for a while, before sighing heavily. though he still gave you attitude, you were surprised with the patience he was beginning to keep with you.

“okay… here” after a second of thinking, he pulled his coat off and placed it around your shoulders once again. casually, the two of you trotted into town, slowing to a stop at the hotel. you ignored the stares the townsfolk gave you as you walked inside. being in a tattered gown and a jacket two big was definitely turning heads.

“one bath for the lady please” arthur tosses the owner a coin and nudges you towards the bath house. once in front of the door, he grabs your wrist and turns you towards him.

“you clean up, i’ll be right back. dont get no ideas of runnin’ off now, because i will find you.” his voice was low as he looked down at you, though you were starting to notice the facade he was putting up. the way he gently held your wrist told you all you needed to know, and unbeknownst to him, you weren’t really planning on leaving. the last place you wanted to go, was back home.

“wouldnt dream of it” your voice was dripping with sarcasm as you pulled your wrist from his grip and pushed your way into the bath house.

once you finished cleaning up, you pulled the towel around yourself and waited awkwardly, leaning from foot to foot as you waited for arthur to come back. the last thing you wanted was to put your old clothes on, so you stood by the fire and slowly dried off. finally, arthur pushed his way into the bath house holding a bag. he froze for a second as he took in your frame, only covered by the small towel. once you started walking towards him, he looked anywhere but at you as he handed you the bag. you say nothing, pulling the clothes out and dropping your towel as you began to pull them on. it was a simple brown dress with yellow detailing on the sleeves, collar, and bottom. you could tell arthur had picked it out, considering how it matched to his own clothes. there was also a new night gown in the bag, and you smiled to yourself.

“could you?” you turn away from the man who was doing most anything but look at you. when he shifted his gaze to you again, your back was turned to him, revealing an unlaced corset.

“yeah… yeah sure” arthur’s hands gingerly fiddled with the string, trying his best to will away the reddening of his cheeks as he observed your exposed back. it had been forever since he had been with another woman, and he cursed the feelings arising in him for you. you turned towards him afterwards, unable to help the smile of relief from being in clean clothes.

“you… you look nice” arthur looks down at your dress, then quickly he turns and pulls you out of the bathhouse with him before you can utter a ‘thank you’.

“you hungry?” arthur wasn’t really asking as the two of you headed towards the saloon, though you almost cried tears of joy at the thought of food. with a glance to the clock on the wall, you realized it was already 6PM. the scent of food that floated through the saloon nearly made you drool. eagerly, you sat at the bar and waited for your steak and potatoes that arthur ordered to arrive.

“2 whiskeys please” arthur tosses a few coins at the bartender who nods in compliance.

“oh i… i don’t drink” arthur looks at you straight faced, sliding the shot glass to you.

“drink” his eyes stayed trained on you all the way until the shots were taken, the burning liquid slides down your throat roughly. arthur let out a hardy laugh as you coughed, instantly digging into your food as it arrived to get rid of the taste.

“another” arthur tosses more coins, not batting an eye when you protest.

“i’m not drinking anymore, arthur!” you glare in his direction angrily. arthur pauses for a while, before leaning in close and bringing the shot to your lips.

“drink the damn whiskey girl.” his voice was low and gravelly as he parted your lips with his thumb, before tilting the shot glass forward. nervously, you swallowed it. this moment reminded you that you were still technically being kidnapped by him, and that he wasn’t messing around. arthur smiles a little, taking his own shot.

“good girl.” you silently turn back to your food, eating slowly and trying to keep track of the amount of shots he was taking. eventually it became too many to count. luckily, he didn’t make you take anymore, too preoccupied with himself.

“arthur that’s enough, let’s go” it had been an hour now, and arthur was shitfaced. the wooziness you had began to feel went away quickly as you scarfed down your food. “you’re drunk”

“am not” arthur smiled lazily, attempting to order another drink, but you snatch the coins from his hand and tell the bartender we’re done. arthur gets up angrily, towering over your frame that was still sat on the stool. he opens his mouth to speak, but instead bumps shoulders with another man who was walking past.

“you bastard! watch it” arthur shoves the man back, sending him tumbling into another man behind him. shit.

in a flash, it was an all out fight between, well, you couldn’t count how many men. you stumbled back, trying to look for arthur in the crowd of men. finally, you spotted him falling to the ground and out of sight again. you debated for a while. do you wanna keep saving this fool? you bounced from foot to foot anxiously, cursing under your breath before bracing yourself and shoving your way through the fighting men. you dodged punches left and right, some of them had to have hit you, but your adrenaline blocked out the pain. finally, you spotted arthur on the ground unconscious.

“son of a bitch!” your voice was drowned out by the shouting, but you finally managed to hook your arms under arthur’s and drag him from the fighting, all the way outside, to the hotel across the street.

“one room please” you spoke to the clerk between heavy breaths, fishing into arthur’s pockets and pulling out the last coins he had for the room. you realized how bad this looked, so you tried to explain yourself. “i- i know him, i swear.” the clerk just nods wearily, recognizing the two of you from earlier and handing you the key. with help of the clerk, you got arthur into the bed.

the next hour or so you spent wiping arthur’s face down with any cloth and water you could find. he looked bad, face bruised and bloody, clothes ripped, you couldn’t help but think he looked beautiful even in this state. finally, you turned to the mirror to tend to your own wounds, which happened to only be a few bruises on your arms and ribs. you sigh in frustration at the new rip on the side of your dress. you almost didn’t notice as arthur began to wake.

“oh… what… happened?” arthur’s voice was slurred as he sat up slowly, wincing in pain and blinking hard.

“you almost fucking died, that’s what!” your voice was nearly bubbling over with anger as you stormed from the mirror over to him. “and so did i, pulling you out from all those men. you’re lucky i haven’t ran off or killed ya! you’re a fool, arthur. a damned fool.” you were tired of holding back your anger, you were pushed to your limit with him. arthur was looking at the bruises on your arms and your waist through your ripped dress, then up at you with the most puppy dog eyed look you’d seen on him.

“m’ sorry.” arthur’s voice was quiet as he spoke and you watched as a drop of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “really, you can go. after the hell i dragged you through…” arthur scoffs a laugh and looks to the side. when you don’t speak, or leave, he looks back at you with confusion.

“i’m not gonna leave.” you paused for a while, trying to decide if this was the right decision. “i wanna join the gang.” arthur’s eyes widen at your words, but he nods slowly in response.

“i knew you’d come around” he smiles what you assumed was a genuine one. he then begins to stand, nearly toppling over on you before you grab onto him, steadying him.

“jesus, take it easy!” you push him back down into a sitting position on the bed and lean closer to his face. “i hope you have some doctors in your gang. you’re going to need stitches” you wipe at the blood on corner of his mouth with your thumb and sigh as you observe his wounds once more. when you went to pull away, arthur grabbed your wrist gently. your breath caught in your throat as you looked into his eyes nervously. you didn’t know what he was thinking. his face was unreadable. was he angry? you couldn’t tell. you opened your mouth to speak. you were going to utter your best form of apology for your assumed anger on his part, but arthur silenced you by leaning forwards and pressing his lips against yours. you let out a smothered gasp against his lips, taking a stumbling step back and tilting your head up as arthur stands again. a quiet moan of pain escapes his lips as he leans some of his weight against you. after a few moments of silence, that felt to you like minutes, you pull away, turning your head from him in uncertainty. you didn’t know what you wanted. if this was right. he was dangerous, you knew that, but something about him drew you in dangerously.

“i… i just” you tried to find the words, anything to say to him, but your feelings were like a big tangled ball of string and you couldn’t figure it out.

“i’m sorry.” arthur cuts you off, letting out a cough of pain as he backs off, limping his way to the other side of the room.

“let’s rest. we can talk about things tomorrow.” you watched in disbelief as he laid himself down on the floor by the entrance of the room, pulling his hat over his eyes and breathing deep. you could taste his blood on your lips. you took this time to change into your new night gown and toss your dress to the side. you assumed it would be trash, being unable to sew or afford a tailor.

upon crawling into bed, you fell asleep almost instantly. you missed the feeling of a bed after sleeping on the ground for days. you slept through the entire night, ignoring the throb of your bruises and the commotion of the streets of valentine. when you awoke in the morning, the first thing you noticed was that arthur was gone. the second thing you noticed, was your dress, folded neatly at the end of your bed. slowly, you crawled over and unfolded it, noticing the rip had been carefully sewn shut. with it, there was a piece of paper.

“i’m sorry for what i put you through. you deserve a choice. if you want to run with us, i won’t stop you. if you want to go back to your family, you have my word you won’t see me again.

-A”

upon flipping the note, there was the location of the gangs camp. you knew what you were going to do.

part 2

#fanfiction #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan one shot #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead fandom #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fandom #arthur morgan rdr2 #red dead redemption one shot #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #one shot #x reader #i spent hours on this #van der linde gang #low honor arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan x reader

[sweetflanfiction]

Second Chances

Universe: Read Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur x reader

Disclaimers and Warnings: *spoilers* My BF just finished the game and we couldn't bear Arthur moving on, so...I had to shift the plot a bit ahahaha... Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about 1899 is from google, so inacuracies will be plenty. The reader is on the older side, and identifies as a female.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

• ··········· • ············ •

You found him lying, unconscious, near the entrance of a shallow cave after chasing a runaway horse. Mac, your shepherd dog, kept barking and you thought it was the stalion that scared him, surprised to find a full grown man lying half dead on the rocks.

You got off your own horse and approached the man, rifle in hand and eyes darting back and forth, waiting for an ambush. He wasn't moving, his face wore a peaceful expression with his eyes closed. Faded bruises matted his face. The only thing telling you he was alive was his chest slowly moving.

Shushing Mac you poked the man with your boot, waiting for any movement or for him to open his eyes.

"Hey buddy?" You ask, shaking his leg with your foot. Nothing. "You need help or...?"

Taking a deep breath you shook your head and went back to your black horse, Dusk. You were about to mount up, your foot already on the stirrup, when you heard a groan and a cough.

"I...." You turned at the sound. His eyes were still closed. "...dead?"

Mac ran to the man and whined near him as you grabbed the water canteen from the saddle bag. You took three big steps to kneel next to him.

"Not yet, friend..." You poured a bit of water on his dried lips and he opened his mouth to drink some of it.

"Sick..." He coughed and you nodded. 

"You want the doc?" You asked, moving his hair out of his forehead.

"He always had a plan..." He coughed again and turned limp.

Touching his neck, you could feel the faint rhythm of a heartbeat. You were torn between leaving here and taking him with you. He seemed sick and told you as much, but you couldn't leave a living being alone in this place, not with the night falling. You rubbed your forehead under your hat and groaned. 

It wasn't easy making a makeshift stretcher, but you managed to do a decent job with the scarce resources around you. Looking at the man, he coughed softly and you grabbed your bandanna, wrapped it around your mouth and nose and walked closer to him. You started by grabbing his shoulders and dragging him to the improvised bed. He sure was heavy, taking a few minutes to get him on the stretcher and secure him. By the end you were sweating, breathing heavily, while the big man lay unconscious.

"I'm sorry mister, but I can't leave you here to die." You finally said apologetic and patted his shoulder, before mounting up and clicking your tongue making Dusk walk towards the ranch.

• ··········· • ············ •

His dreams were filled with forest creatures and voices, some familiar and some brand new. In his mind, he was already dead to the world and did not really care about much of anything. He found peace in the end. His deer friend was walking around him, closer than ever, so close he could almost touch the creature. A small bark scared the magical creature and the cowboy cursed. 

• ··········· • ············ •

"Mac!" You hissed at the black and white dog who tilted his snout at his name being called. "Come on!"

The small animal happily walked out of the guest room, following you downstairs where you could hear two voices talking amicably. You turned the corner and walked into the parlor, smiling at the two men sitting there. 

"Ah! Miss Graham. I was just telling your father that your guest seemed to have been the victim of a crime." Doc Brant smiled back at you. He was a tall and slender fellow, his thin face adorned with a curled mustache and small round glasses pinched on his nose. He was a friendly fellow, with a strange sense of humor, but no malice behind it. 

"Really?" You scrunched up your face as you sat on the arm of your father's armchair, Mac finding his spot next to you, lying at your feet.

"Seems to have been the victim of an attempted drowning." He chuckled when he saw your eyes grow wide. "I'm just joking. His lungs seem to have a bit of trouble working. I can hear slight fuzzyness in his breathing and he seems to be fighting a fever..."

"Fuzziness in the lungs....TB?" Your father said between puffs of his cigarette.

His voice echoed fear. He was always scared of it, since your mom had passed from it. He was the opposite of the doctor. Big, brawny, tough farmer, manly man. His face held his years well and his cheeks were always rosy from the sun. He sat comfortably in his arm chair, one hand stroking the large greyhound beside the chair.

The doc tilted his head, his eyebrows raising a bit on his forehead as if thinking about something. His expression changed after a while and he shook his head in a convincing manner.

"Nah. If anything he seems to be coming out of a big round of the flu." He finished the glass of water he had in his hand and placed it on the table. "He might have been food for the coyotes if you hadn't picked him up."

"Well, if there's one thing Miss Graham over here is proficient at, it is picking strays." He joked, patting your leg.

"I don't remember you complaining before. 'Sides, every stray and get seems to help us up to this point." You smiled and fetch the glass. "Is there anything we can give the man to make him comfortable?" 

"I'll get Mrs. Brant to make you some medicine today and you can pick it up tomorrow evening. Until then...just help him fight the fever with some cold water to his forehead and wrist. If it spikes too much, throw him into a tub filled with cold water. Also, he seemed dehydrated because of the fever and his previous address, so get him some water and some food that is watery."

You and your father nodded at the instructions. Your father pushed himself out of the armchair to walk the doc outside, while you headed to the kitchen, hearing Mac following behind you.

Mac was one of the many strays you brought back home. Your father always joked that you were a magnet for creatures in need. Cats, dogs, deer, horses, birds and now people seem to appear on your path when they need help. The dog at your feet limped towards you one day when you went to the general store in town. He was whining, his tail between his legs and could not, for the life of you, leave the pup there. The other dog, Luca, a big lanky hound that never left your father's side, wandered into the ranch one night, his ear half bitten off and his left eye blind.

"You reckon he's gonna survive?" You heard your father come inside the kitchen and sit at the table. 

"Hope so..." You said honestly and turned to him, leaning your back against the simple kitchen counter. "You think his people left him to die on the rocks?"

"You said he was peaceful, so maybe he wanted to die there." You made a face at his words.

"I don't get why people quit fighting to live. According to the doc he had a flu. I had the flu, it ain't nothing to write home about..."

"You're lucky. Your momma was watching you up there." He pointed to the sky. "People die from the flu, you know that. Especially if they don't get treated. And he didn't seem to have any money on him. Maybe his people had left him there for their own sake." 

"I know..." You sighed and grabbed a pot. "Chicken soup for dinner?"

You heard your father chuckle and stand.

"I'll get the eggs. Come on boys." He whistled to the dogs and both pets ran outside.

• ··········· • ············ •

The deer kept circling him, but every time he got close it ran away. He saw it lying down in a patchy grass meadow and walked determinedly towards it. The deer meant peace, a quiet death he didn't deserve, but craved. He deserved to die in a ball of fire for all the crap he had pulled, for all the shit he had endured.

Maybe that's why it ran. Because it knew he didn't deserve peace and quiet.

"I have a plan Arthur." He turned to the familiar voice, half in anger, half in fear.

• ··········· • ············ •

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfiction #ao3 #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

[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

[javier-pena]

Embers coming January 6, 2024!

For my first fic this year I've decided to finally post my Arthur Morgan fic that I've been working on since November probably. If you're looking to start the year with a fic based on this post, then look no further ...

If you don’t want to miss it, you can sign up for my taglist HERE. And if you’re interested in a sneak peek, you can find it under the cut 🤭

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

[shittybundaskenyer]

cherries and strawberry wine <3

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur #arthur morgan x oc #oc: stephanie miller #lemonade #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #a little something something #i did this like two weeks ago i just forgot about it #steph is having some thoughts while getting reacquainted with arthur hehe #steph and arthur my beloveds

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Like Real People Do - Part 1

Masterlist Word count: 1.9 k Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan doesn't quite feel like a person sometimes. Most days he's just an outlaw, a killer, a thief, a bad excuse for a good time. He's been doing this so long; he isn't even sure if he ever wanted to do anything else in life. That is until a barmaid asks him to walk her home and suddenly he gets a slice of normalcy.

Author's note: I can't for the life of me figure out why it won't let me post my whole stories on here. If anyone knows why, please let me know what I need to do.

'What can I get ya, mister?' Arthur grumbles in response before looking up at the barmaid. She looks too clean, too kind, to be here. She smiles and he hears angels singing. Cheeks rosy red, eyes like gemstones, she's pure. But she has the scars to prove she's been her a while. He notices the callouses on her hands, the scars on her arms, and the big scar running vertically through the left side of her lips to her jaw.  'Don't matter. Anything to take the edge off,' he tells her, his words raspy like crumpled up paper. She smiles a little brighter and puts a glass in front of him that she fills with bourbon.  'That should help,' she states and slides the glass over to him. He nods a thanks to her and tries to peel his eyes away to look over the bar. It's quite empty this time of day, then again, morning ain't really the time to be drinking. When he can't find anything to keep him entertained in the saloon, he looks back over to the barmaid, who is cleaning glasses in front of him with a rag that is cleaner than he has ever seen one in this particular saloon. She glances over at him. 'What brings you this early in the morn’?'  'Rough night.'  'I can imagine,' she says with a chuckle.  'Hey sweet cheeks! Can we get another bottle?' Arthur's head snaps towards the two men in the corner who so rudely interrupted their little talk, if you can even call it that. They look beyond drunk, beyond caring. But, the barmaid does as asked and brings them a bottle. 'Yeah, that's what I'm talking about,' the grimey man says when she puts the bottle down. He stands up and pulls the barmaid into his chest, groping what he can for the split second he has her before Arthur pulls him off. Like it's nothing, he pushes the man back into his chair.  'Listen here friend, I do not care about you. I do not care that you are here, I have no quarrel with you. But disrespect the lady and you have got a fight on your hands. Friend. Behave, or I'll make sure that that is your last drink.'  'Are you threatenin’ me mister?'  'No, simply making a promise.' Arthur puts his hand on the small of the barmaid's back to lead her back to the bar. She walks back behind it with a bit of shock still lingering on his face and he returns to his drink.  'Thank you mister.'  'No problem.' 

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr 2 fanfic #rdr 2 fanfiction

[simplyelviss]

This is how I dress up arthur lol but his red tie always seems to disappear 😭

But God I need this man so bad it's scary

#arthur morgan #feral for this man #save a horse ride a cowboy #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut

[sapphic-pikachu]

arthur helping the reader with really bad period pains ( im literally on my period rn it hurts so bad 😭) TYSM 💖💖

Period Pains

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Words: 1k

Summary: Arthur does what he can to try and ease your cramps.

Warnings: sfw, period pains, reader is born with a uterus, time accurate drug use kinda? mention of blood, Arthur is fiercely protective

A/N: thank you anon for the request!!! Kinda having writers block writing part twos for stuff so really appreciate any ideas of things to write for Arthur! also I literally started my period while writing this so this is very self fulfilling I want Arthur to give me a hug

You lay curled up in Arthur’s bed, knees tucked to your chest and head cradled downwards. The pain in your stomach was unbearable and you struggled to steady your breathing. You were on the worst day of your period, waiting for the pain to subside and the cramps to wear off as you neared the end of the monthly cycle.

You pulled the blanket closer to you, too hot to wrap it round you but wanting the lingering smell of Arthur on his sheets to be closer to you. Arthur had left camp what seemed like hours ago. He had pulled down the cover of his tent to give you some privacy in your time of vulnerability. Mrs Grimshaw, understanding of what you were going through, had been giving you lighter chores for the past few days and was unbothered when you hadn’t rose from Arthur’s bed to help out at all that day.

You let out a small whimper of pain that you smothered into the pillow as another hot flash of pain shot through you. A dull ache had settled around the muscles of your body and you felt exhausted, but the undying discomfort of your cramps had put a stop to your sleeping.

You hear the rustling of fabric and shuffling at the entrance to Arthur’s tent. You spared a quick glance to see Arthur’s tall figure, before pulling your body into itself and burying your head into the pillow.

“No better?” Arthur asked and you responded with a small whine and a nod into the fabric of the bed.

Arthur came closer to you, crouching beside the bed where your back faced him. He placed his hand on the small of your back and gave it a gentle rub.

“Got some things to try help. Hate seeing you like this.”

You uncurled from the ball you were in and turned towards Arthur. Arthur looked worried, and guilty, and you desperately just wanted to pull him close and reassure him that not everything can be or needed to be fixed. You didn’t dare do this, as you worried that any sudden movement threatened to spill blood into Arthur’s bed. You glanced beside him where he had a brown paper bag packed full with items, that you assumed he had bought from the local shopkeeper. You looked at him, smiled and raised your eyebrow, waiting for him to expand on what he had got.

He reached into the bag and pulled out a bar of chocolate. A quick look into the bag informed you that he had bought several. You snatched the bar out of his hands and unravelled it, before taking a bite and savouring the way it melted in your mouth.

“Y’mentioned once you thought chocolate helped the pain. And I know how hungry you get.” He muttered in his gruff tone. He was right - once a month you became particularly ravenous and today alone you have scoffed up three large helpings of Pearson’s stew. You smiled at Arthur who was looking into his bag again, rooting around for what he had next bought you. You took another bite of your chocolate.

He pulled out a small fabric pouch that he unwrapped to reveal small slabs of willow bark. He handed you a piece that you reluctantly put in your mouth and started to chew. You grimaced at the taste, but you couldn’t deny that the bark had been useful for relieving your pain in the past.

“Keep chewing,” Arthur said, standing up and grabbing his bag and heading for the tent’s exit, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You did as he asked and kept chewing. The taste was extremely bitter in your mouth but you were still in a marvel at the trouble Arthur had went to to try and help you even though you hadn’t asked for his help. Your cramps had lessened slightly, but you weren’t sure if it was due to the bark or Arthur’s presence.

Arthur came back into the tent carrying a pile of fabric on one arm and balancing a cup in the other. He placed the cup on the table next to his bed before crouching down next to you again.

He rolled up the bottom of your shirt to reveal your waist. He glanced at you for permission before unbuttoning the your trousers and pulling them down slightly so the soft skin of your stomach was showing. Then gently, he placed a heated towel where your cramps had been. Then, he placed a bag shaped item of fabric that he had filled with hot rocks and pieces of lavender over the towel, adding an extra layer of warmth to your body.

“That okay?” He asked, hands still adjusting the pain relief he had added to your body. You reach a hand out to stop him, holding his hand in yours.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He looked into your eyes, forever frustrated that he couldn’t stop your pain every month. In a way, he preferred a gun fight; At least then he could fight away everything that threatened to harm you. He saw your face was less tightened with pain and you looked at him with gratefulness in your eyes. He smiled slightly. Maybe he didn’t need a gunfight to help you.

He nudged you to sit forward in the bed slightly, and as gently as he could slid himself in behind you so you sat between his legs and could lean back into his chest. He wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you back against him, and used the other hand to grab the cup he had left on the table.

He brought the cup to your face and instructed you to drink it as you wrapped both your hands around it. You sipped the liquid, acknowledging that Arthur had made you up a herbal tea: Laudanum, whiskey, lavender, cinnamon and saffron shot out at you as a mixture of bitter flavours. Even with the additional sweet taste of honey that you could detect, the tea still had a strong potent flavour residing in it. Still, you sipped on it gently, savouring the hot liquid travelling to your stomach. You rested comfortably on Arthur, who grabbed your empty cup when you had finished and placed it back on the table.

He placed one hand on your waist and the other on your lower stomach where the heat pads where and massaged you gently. You lay your head back against his chest and he placed a kiss against your temple.

Your pain was forgotten about as you slowly fell asleep in Arthur’s arms. Arthur didn’t dare move at the thought of disturbing your long awaited moment of peace. He closed his eyes too, and let himself fall asleep to the feel of your breathing on his chest.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr #rdr x reader #rdr imagine #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 imagine #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction

[davidlcki]

scared together

this is part 2 to “payment”! read part 1 here.

pairing: medium honor arthur! x female reader

warnings: cursing, game typical violence, age gap, lots of blood in this for some reason, female pronouns used. let me know if i missed anything!

summary: after showing up at the van der linde gang, you needed to earn their trust. in the process, you notice arthur distancing himself from you. will you figure out why, or have to head back to your family, who pawned you off in the first place?

words: 7,331

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

“come on dutch. with the pinkertons AND oddriscolls, we need anyone we can get. we need to put trust in some folks.” you kept quiet as you stood outside the tent, listening carefully. dutch let’s out a rather large sigh and you can hear him pacing around the tent.

“you sweet on her or somethin’? she don’t know how to shoot. she’s a farm girl! hell, she could even be working with them for christ sakes!”

“oh jesus, she’s not, dutch! i told you, there’s no way she’s a spy. it’s too random. she was originally payment from that family, remember? she’s just lucky i don’t like strauss enough to care.” you frown at his words. was that really the only reason he let you go? “i’ll teach her to shoot. don’t you worry.” arthur pushes his way out of the tent, and before you could move his chest collides directly into you.

“what the…” arthur’s initially angry tone quickly diminishes as he realizes that it’s you. “you spyin on me girl?” a teasing smile appears on his features as he looks at you with amusement. you were speechless, opening and closing your mouth like a bass out of water as you struggled to find some sort of explanation because, well, you were spying. arthur didn’t seem to notice your hesitation as he continued to talk.

“this is perfect timing actually, why don’t we go practice shooting some bottles? always good to know how to use a gun.” arthur wasn’t really asking you as he placed his hand on the small of your back and directed you to walk with him.

“i only shot a gun once, you know…” you trail off, trying to shake away the memory of the man you killed to save arthur.

“well, it wasn’t half bad, the way you killed that feller. got him right in the skull. best to aim for their heads, most sure way to kill ‘em.” you shudder to yourself at the thought of killing more people the way you killed that man. you and arthur stop about 15 feet away from a large rock.

“we’ll do it here.” you watch as he places a few bottles and pieces of fruit on the rock, then he comes back and hands you his pistol. he watches as you take a few shots, which whiz into the woods somewhere with a high pitched zing, not even close to the bottles. arthur watches with seeming enjoyment as you huff and try to fix your stance.

“this funny or somethin?” you glare at him teasingly.

“a little bit” arthur laughs, pushing off the tree he was leaned against and finally stepping in to help.

“here, first you need to relax your shoulders,” arthur places his hands on your shoulders and pushes them down to a relaxed position. “now, your feet should be like this.” he lightly kicks the inside of your feet until theyre further apart. meanwhile, you could hardly think about anything but the warmth of him being so close to you. “now your arms… should be like this” arthur leans forward, completely pressing his chest against your back as he wraps his arms around yours to position them correctly. you take a deep breath, willing yourself to focus on shooting and not the way you could feel muscles flex against you. he leaned forward so his mouth was by your ear and his voice was low as he spoke. you noted how he smelled like cigars and whiskey, and you hated how it started to become a comfort for you.

“now when you’re shooting, you wanna breathe in, exhale, and pull the trigger. only ever shoot on empty lungs. got it? now, line up the sights,” arthur nudges your arms up, then places a hand on your chest. you were sure he could feel how fast your heart was beating at the contact. “now inhale… exhale… and shoot.” you can feel arthur nod against you as you inhale and exhale, and when you squeeze the trigger the bottle in front of you explodes into thousands of pieces. arthur laughs again as you jump at the sound.

“good, good girl.” arthur stays for a second more before reluctantly stepping back, releasing you and letting you continue your practice and get a feel for the gun.

you quickly got sucked into it, determined to shoot everything on the rock. you were always willing to learn a new skill, and if this was what it took to join the van der linde gang, you’d do it until your aim was perfect. after a while of frustration, learning to control your breathing, and lots and lots of bullets, you obliterated all of the targets. the grass below the rock was littered with glass and chunks of mushy apple. you turned to arthur with a grin, ready to joke about how you were prepared to be the best gunslinger in town, only to find he was fast asleep.

you stood for a while, observing his sleeping body. you weren’t mad, in all honesty you were shocked he slept through all the shooting. he was leaned against a tree with his head down, chin resting on his chest. his hair has clearly not been brushed in a few days, but it somehow still looked perfect, falling a few inches above his shoulders. you leaned down slightly, looking at him from under his hat to see if he was really sleeping. he was. you were in awe of how long his eyelashes were and just how overall perfect he was without trying. in this state, he looked peaceful. you decided to leave him and go talk to dutch. you ignored the untrusting glares other camp members gave you as you weaved your way throughout the tents. you thought about how badly you wanted to be a part of something like this. you wanted to be laughing and drinking around the fire with the others. but first you needed to earn their trust. especially dutch, you wanted him to like you. he was the leader, after all. you found him at his tent, nose in a book and music playing softly in the background.

“hi, dutch” you stand before the man who acknowledges you with a grunt, reluctant to put his book down. “i just wanted to let you know, uhm, shootin is going well, i’m really getting it down. i just want to know if there’s a way that i can earn a little more of your trust.” now, dutch was looking up at you, brows furrowed as if he was searching for a lie to catch you in, for any reason to kick you out of his camp. you expected him to yell, but in the end he seemed to approve of your words as he started to pull a piece of paper from his pocket.

“yeah, why don’t you go head into rhodes? we need a few things for camp.” dutch hands you a small list and some money. “if you wanna earn our trust, this is a good start. there’s a spare horse over that way.” you nod at dutch with respect, and you couldn’t hide the smile that crossed your features as you thanked him and practically skipped off towards the horse. you felt like dutch was giving you a chance.

the trip to rhodes was easy. you got in and out with no issues and managed to get everything on the list. you liked the small town, even with all of the rich snobs that littered the population. it was calm.

the ride back was quiet, at first. you hummed to yourself, patting your horse and taking in the beautiful scenery of lemoyne when you heard quiet commotion behind you. you peer over your shoulder, noticing 3 men who were eyeing you like hawks. nerves began to rise in your throat as you kicked at your horses sides, speeding up to a trot. the men must have noticed this as they began to call out your name.

“hey miss! you there!” one of the men came up besides you, a misleading smile was on his face. you said nothing as you slowed to a stop and looked at him. the other two came over as well, you were surrounded.

“you look familiar… yeah, yeah! i seen you around not long ago with… what was his name? arthur, arthur morgan. that’s you right?” your heart sank as the man eyed you suspiciously, waiting for an answer.

“no, no. i don’t know of an arthur morgan.” you shake your head quickly, heat rising up into your face.

“no… that’s gotta be you. you just join the van der lindes?” another man questioned as they look at each other, and another one chimes in. “why don’t we take her to colm? see if he recognizes her.” you instantly recognized the name, as you heard dutch speaking about colm just the other day. you knew you weren’t supposed to be causing commotion around rhodes, but you needed to escape. your hand found arthur’s pistol that you kept on your hip and you made sure the odriscolls saw.

“i advise you let me keep on going.” you looked between the men carefully, trying your best not to show your nerves as you straighten your back. one of the men scoffs a laugh at your warning and began pulling rope out, and that was your last straw. the last thing you wanted was to be tired up again.

instantly you drew the pistol, shooting at the man with the rope. to your surprise, you shot him square in the forehead. time seemed to move so quick that you didn’t even get to see the odriscoll hit the ground. another gunshot went off, and your horse bucked you, sending you flying into the dirt. there was a warm, dull pain spreading through your abdomen, and when you looked down you noticed a gunshot wound that went straight through your side. everything started to spin as you tried to look for your gun, but the men were quick to jump off their horses and make their way to you. a string of vicious curses escapes your lips as you helplessly kicked yourself away, but it was no use. not a second later, you were knocked unconscious with a boot to the face.

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this was truly not the way you thought joining the van der linde gang would go. you were tied to a tree at an odriscoll camp, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the fact that you seem to somehow get yourself into situations that involve being tied to trees. you couldn’t really remember the first day you were here, most of it was spent in between consciousness and trying to remember where you were. today, however, you remembered. you sucked in a shaky breath as colm walked back over to you. your head felt heavy and it felt like you were filled with wet cement.

“you’re going to tell me where the van der lindes are at. NOW.” you flinched as colm screamed, giving you a glare that could pierce holes through your flesh. you avoid eye contact and decide to stay silent. you don’t think you really had the energy to speak anyways. colm dosent like this, and delivers a smack square across your cheek. you let out a yelp and continue to squeeze your eyes shut. the smack shoots adrenaline throughout your tired body, giving you the energy to keep conscious for a little while longer. tears begin to drop, rolling down your stinging cheek. you didn’t think you were tough. not like any of the other van der linde members. you we’re afraid you’d buckle under the odriscolls torture. the only thing that kept your mouth shut, was the desperation of wanting to earn the gangs trust. you wanted to be a part of them, and you didn’t want to see any of them hurt or killed by these monsters. colm spits at your feet and scoffs with anger.

“when i come back, you better have some information for me, otherwise you’re dyin’ by my knife, girl. unless you bleed out first.” your mouth stayed shut as you watched him laugh and walk away through vision blurred by tears. you were afraid that no one was coming for you now. you knew people had to be wondering where you were, but did they care enough to come rescue you? does arthur care enough? hell. it had to have been almost 2 days now. your legs were going numb from standing for so long and the side of your dress was stained dark red with dried blood. you were having severe doubts. after all, arthur was not so kind to you just a week ago. why would he all of a sudden save you now? for the next hour, you hazily watched the sun set through the trees as you prayed for someone to save you. your wound needed to be tended to, and soon. you wouldn’t make it through another night. when the sun was barely lighting the sky anymore, colm came back over to you with a knife in hand, spurs jingling. roughly he holds the knife against your neck and you try your best to tilt your head away from him.

“last chance. tell us where they are, or you’re dead.” your mind seemed to run a million miles per second. if you told them where the van der lindes are and you somehow still escaped without being killed, they would never trust you again. you would have nowhere to go. and if you didn’t rat, you’d die, but the gang would be safe. it was crazy, giving up your life for a gang you just met not long ago, but you’d made up your mind. anyhow, you almost wanted him to kill you. to end your suffering. you close your eyes and prepare for the knifes blade to slice you open, ending you right then and there, but it never came. slowly you opened your eyes, realizing colm was staring at you, almost looking through you, the knife was held steady at your throat, drawing a little bit of blood. you quickly realized he was listening for something. slowly, he peered out into the trees behind you, and before he could speak, an arrow flew from the woods, straight through his shoulder. you watched, dumbfounded as he stumbled back, dodging a second arrow as he slid out of sight and back into camp. you craned your head to the side as much as possible as you attempted to see who it was, but you couldn’t.

suddenly colms men came rushing from the camp, firing wildly into the woods at the attacker. bullets we’re flying mere inches from you, and you flinched when one would graze the tree. you realized any of them could kill you in an instant, though they were preoccupied with the threat in the woods. suddenly, bullets began whizzing out of the forrest the same direction the arrows came from, and you heard familiar voices. colms men began dropping like flies, and the rest that were alive began to turn and flee the camp. upon hearing arthur’s voice, you dropped your head in relief, letting out shaky sobs.

“hey… Y/N? jesus…” arthur’s voice was panicked and soft as he ran up to you. he grabbed your cheeks with his gloved hands and tilted your head up to look at him. though you were crying, you managed to give him a smile. blood trickled from the corner of your mouth as you spoke.

“you found me.” you remembered the man who shot the arrows name, charles, and you must have thanked him a million times as he cut the ropes that held you to the tree. the second the ropes slid to the ground, however, you realized you couldn’t really stand anymore. your legs buckled, and arthur was quick to catch you. you let out a hiss of pain as he lifted you bridal style into his arms. the bruises and cuts on your body screamed at every movement and it was causing the world to spin. you grabbed onto his shirt and breathed deeply through the pain.

“i didn’t tell them anything”

“i gotcha honey. just breathe. don’t worry about that right now, you did good okay?” arthur whispered to you as he lifted you onto his horse as gently as he could, then hopping on behind you in the saddle.

“m’ bleeding a lot” your voice was slurred as you looked down at your blood soaked clothes, the movement reopened your wounds that were trying their best to heal. you were struggling to sit up straight, using all of your might to not fall forwards in the saddle. arthur notices this. without second thought he snakes his free hand around your waist, pressing firmly into the gash in your side to stop the bleeding while also stopping you from falling completely forwards. a loud moan of pain escapes from your lungs as your blood seeps out between arthur’s fingers and onto his saddle. your hand landed on top of his, an instinctual reaction as you resisted the urge to pry his hand away from you.

“lean against me darling.” his words snapped you back into reality for a moment. his voice was smooth and calm, keeping you from freaking out. you listened to arthur’s instructions, leaning your body weight fully against his chest and laying your head back against his shoulder so it wouldn’t fall forwards. every bounce of the horse, every shift of arthur’s hand, every breath he took, put you in agony. it was nearly unbearable at this point as you galloped towards camp, and you soon began to violently fade in and out of consciousness. you tried to say something, but the words just wouldn’t form on your tongue. the second the camp came into sight, you were out cold.

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when you opened your eyes again, you were back at camp in a cot. carefully you observed your body, noticing you were in a clean night gown and wrapped in a few bandages.

“oh, take it easy now.” an older woman with a large hairdo you couldn’t quite remember the name of rushed over with a wet cloth in hand. she gingerly pressed it against your forehead and sternly instructed you to relax.

“arthur… where is he?” your voice was hoarse as you coughed the words out, and you greatly accepted the canteen of water that she handed to you.

“don’t worry about that now sweetheart, just relax.”

“grimshaw! she awake?” you noted her name as dutch came into the tent. he gave you a pat on the shoulder, not noticing how you winced in pain at the contact as he continued.

“you could have given us away, but you didn’t. for that, i thank you.”

“yeah, of course, dutch.”

“you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like. i don’t trust you fully yet… i cant, in a time like this, but you have my respect.” even through your pain, you were satisfied, and a smile sat on your face for the rest of the gloomy day. the only other person you saw that day was mrs. grimshaw occasionally, but otherwise you were alone. left to do nothing but watch the tent flap gently with the breeze and listen to the distant chatter of camp members around the fire.

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the days swept by in a pain induced haze, and before you knew it, it was the evening of day two. grimshaw carefully helped you up to a sitting position, insisting you needed to move around a little. it was excruciating, but you did it. slowly you walked through the tent flaps, an arm slung around grimshaws shoulders as you did so. you kept your eyes trained on the ground as everyone stared at you like you were a freak at the carnival. with the sun beginning to set, mostly everyone was back at camp, fixing themselves a bowl of pearsons stew and settling around the fire. grimshaw helped you sit down against a log by the fire, instructing you to stay still as she ran to get you stew. you scoffed to yourself, as if you could get up and do anything anyways.

slowly, you lifted your eyes to inspect who was sitting around the fire. you remembered a few of their names, bill, javier, who strummed on his guitar gently, and of course, arthur. he was sitting to the right of you on a log, uncomfortably avoiding eye contact and taking a swig of whiskey. you leaned towards him slightly as you tried to get his attention.

“hey, arthur.” you say his name, and he looks at you nonchalantly. there was a terrible rasp to your voice and you imagined there was a twist of pain on your face, but you gave him a small smile. arthur huffs a hello towards you and stands up quickly. you watch him, confused.

“wait,” you tried to rise to your feet, but he was gone. a sudden flash of pain ripped through your side as you sat back down. it was hot, and spread outward the more you tried to move. you looked between the other men around the fire.

“what’s wrong with arthur?”

the men just looked at you, shrugged, and went back to whatever they were doing before. the strumming on javier’s guitar continued. at this time, grimshaw came back with a bowl of soup for you. you scarfed it down quickly, ignoring the stares you got as you did so. you were upset and confused on why arthur would all of a sudden not even look at you. you took it he was drunk, but still.

you asked grimshaw to help you back to your tent, deciding you wanted to hide away from everything for the night.

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you hadn’t heard or seen arthur since that evening. it was late the next day now, which consisted of mostly sleeping, eating a bowl of soup, and thinking about arthur. you felt you were going crazy. you tried your best to get out of bed again, but your body wouldn’t allow it. you could practically hear your limbs screaming to stay down, so you tried to do so though you were restless to know what was going on with him and why he was suddenly acting so weird around you.

there was an inner battle going on inside you as you laid on your back uncomfortably. your body ached and screamed, though not as bad as a few days before. you needed to see arthur, and you were upset by the fact that he still hadn’t came to see you or ask if you were okay even once. you wiped the sweat from your forehead as you stared up at the ceiling of the tent.

you couldn’t tell how he felt about you. it was constant mixed signals from one day to the next. you decided you needed to get up and out of this tent, now.

you knew it had to be late by the fact that reverend stopped his drunken singing and the music from dutches tent had shut off a while ago. you took your time getting to a sitting position, and you observed the stitches in your wounds to make sure nothing had torn. then, you rose to your feet, inhaling sharply as you did so. it hurt, a hot, searing pain, but your determination to see arthur pushed you further.

upon exiting your tent, you realized that it was REALLY late. the fire had died down, only a dim orange light was emitting from the burnt wood, and everyone’s tents were closed. you eyed arthur’s closed tent across the way before limping your way over. once there, you slowly pushed the flap open, revealing arthur fast asleep on his cot. his breaths were slow and even, and he looked content, no anger present on his features. now, you were debating turning back. you didn’t want to wake him, but you also felt like you couldn’t hold back your thoughts anymore. after carefully weighing your options, the thought of going back to your tent without answers convinced you to step inside.

instantly, you were infatuated with the little items around his tent. you picked up a photo, noticing it’s date and name, beatrice morgan, 1870. you smiled at the fact that despite being such a hard and tough man, he kept a photo of his mother on his nightstand.

next, you noticed his journal, on the chest by his bed. you contemplated for a while, not wanting to be nosy but also wondering what the hell he was constantly writing in it. maybe you could find some answers without you having to be confrontational. slowly, you picked it up. you flipped through the pages, mostly finding little sketches and observations, until you get to one of the last pages. you nearly let out a gasp, catching yourself at the last second before alerting arthur of your presence. there was a beautiful sketch of you taking up one page. on the other, was a passage about you.

“i know i should be visiting her right now. she almost died keeping our camp a secret for christ sakes, but i can’t. after what happened in valentine, i’m not sure she feels the same as i do. i’m a fool, afraid to fall in further than i already have.”

you were so focused on re reading this passage in arthur’s journal, you almost forgot you were standing in his tent. that was, until his rough grip was on your wrist and there was a knife at your throat. instantly you dropped the journal, locking eyes with him in a panic. you muttered an ‘im sorry’ that came out barely audible in your shock. arthur quickly realized it was you as he blinked sleep from his eyes. he lowered the knife, although not letting go of your wrist as he swiftly rose to his feet, his frame towering over yours.

“what you think you’re doing in here, huh? you readin my journal?” his voice was rough and deep with sleep and irritation as he walked you backwards until your legs hit his dresser. you kept your head tilted up at him as you spoke, never breaking eye contact.

“i wanted to come talk to you since you’ve been pretending i don’t exist.” you kept your voice even, clenching your fist in pain as he kept his crushing force on your wrist. a hidden anger seemed to begin to bubble within you.

“this dont seem like talking to me. the way i see it, you’re trying to rob me, rob all of us, and make it outta here a rich woman.” you could smell the alcohol on his breath from earlier as his voice continued to raise.

“search me! i ain’t take shit. i’m sorry i looked through your journal, it was wrong. but really, i did want to talk to you.” your voice comes out in a growl more closer to an animals than human. you hold in your pain as arthur grunts and pats you down rather roughly, hands gliding over your cuts and bruises without a care. when he’s done, he stands up to make eye contact with you again.

“i don’t know if i can trust you, girl.”

“if i wanted, i could’a killed you in your sleep. but i didn’t. i don’t have a single thing on me but the clothes on my back.” arthur runs a hand over his face, stepping back from you and looking down at his journal on the ground. it was still open to the page you were looking at.

“that’s nothin. i wrote that drunk.” your heart crumpled a little as he spoke. what did he mean?

“what? what are you saying?”

“i’m saying, what i wrote there don’t mean nothin! it’s bullshit. if that’s what you came to talk about then you’re- you’re wasting your time. now get out of my tent. now!” you physically flinched as his voice rose with each word. you knew he was obviously very angry with you, and possibly still a little drunk, but it still hurt. it hurt that he wouldn’t give you the time of day, and is now telling you the feelings he had were bullshit.

“so… you drag me all the way here… to tell me what you felt is bullshit.” it came out as more of a statement than a question. your voice was shaking with anger and betrayal, and you could see arthur’s face fall slightly as he realizes what he’s done. fresh tears fall from your eyes as you look at him. his features continue to soften as you hold eye contact with him for a moment. neither of you spoke, a silent exchange was held between you both.

“you won’t see me again.” with that, you turn and exit the tent, ignoring arthur as he called your name. you kept his pistol, and took the spare horse, riding quickly and fiercely from the sleeping camp.

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you don’t know how long you were riding from camp, but it was a while. long enough that you assumed you were somewhere in new hanover. you slowed your horse to a stop in the middle of a large plain, deciding to give her a rest as you hopped off of her gingerly.

the way the grass, as soft as feathers, tickled your skin as you sat down was comforting. the sun had just began to rise, leaving a faint orange hue in the sky and over everything you could see. this is exactly what you needed. peace, silence, no arthur. your heart was threatening to shatter the more and more you thought about what happened a mere hour ago. how dare he? he uprooted your life, dropped you in valentine, and when you came back after him he decides he dosent want you anymore. you knew he was drunk, and angry, and it was wrong of you to snoop through his personal items, but did he mean it? you were conflicted and you needed to get out of your head.

as you laid back fully into the grass, you began to count the faint stars that were beginning to disappear in the sky. they looked like punctured holes in a piece of paper. you didn’t know if you were coming back to camp. we’re you really never going to face arthur again? never to look into his icy blue eyes or feel the comfort the came with his scent? for a while, you let your thoughts drift aimlessly. most of them revolve around arthur and if you were really never going to see him again. the angry half of you said to hell with him. he deserves it, after all that he’s done to you, but the other half of you wanted you to go back, back to his unforgiving presence.

you let the wind roll over you, it was the prefect temperature outside without the harsh sun. you could probably stay like this forever. relishing in the warm comfort of new hanover, and for a while, you closed your eyes and pretended you were back home. home with your mother and father, who would never trade you off to a gunslinger in trade of a paid off debt. when the only care you had was when you’d read your next book. tears unwillingly fell from your eyes, rolling past your temple and dripping into the shell your ear and into the flowy grass. you were so in your head that you didn’t notice the sound of hoof beats approaching until it was too late. your eyes flew open with the speed of light, and you were quick to place a hand on your- well- arthur’s gun. that’s when you realized who it was.

“arthur” you greet him as casually as possible, pretending you didn’t hear the waver in your voice, a threat of more tears to come.

“Y/N,” arthur steps off his horse and stands awkwardly, fiddling with his gun belt. you could practically hear the cogs in his brain as he thought of what to say. you rolled your eyes at the fact that he didn’t think of anything on the ride here.

“look, i’m sorry”

“oh, you are now?” your response was quick and shocked you as it came out of your mouth. arthur frowns, looking off at something in the distance as he continues.

“i’m- i was scared.” he turns his head to make eye contact with you again, and you could tell he was genuine. the way his brows furrowed up into a look of distraught was something you never thought you’d see on his face.

“why? why now are you scared? you took me from my home, treated me like a toy, like i wasn’t human, and i’m still here, for you! and now, now you’re scared? i shoulda known this was a mistake, i’m a damned fool chasing after someone like you.” you stood up swiftly, whistling for your horse and brushing grass off your clothes as you avoided eye contact with him.

“please- don’t. don’t go.” you turned back towards arthur, lips pressed into a flat line as you thought. you could have sworn as you looked at him that there was the glint of a tear in his eye. it was hard for you to hold your anger with the gunslinger.

“i don’t wanna go, arthur. hell, i have no where else TO go thanks to you, but i’d rather be alone than sitting here trying to figure out what’s going on in that damn mind of yours.” during your rant, you had stepped closer to him. you pointed a finger roughly into his chest at the end of your words, and arthur took this as an opportunity to grab your hand gently. the contact effectively stopped you from speaking.

“i don’t want you to have to do that. im, i’m trying to figure out what’s going on in my mind myself for christ sakes,” arthur let’s out a dry laugh. “but what i do know, what im figuring out, is that i need you. when you were taken by those odriscolls it scared the living hell outta me and it, it made me wanna run the opposite direction. i haven’t felt like that in a long time, Y/N. my first instinct was to distance myself from ya. ”

“just because you’re scared dosent mean you have to push me away, arthur. how do you think i feel? i’m scared too! there’s nothing wrong with being scared together.” your fingers interlaced with his, and at this point, there was no going back. you were in too deep. even though you were mad at him mere hours ago, his touch, his words, made it disappear.

“can we try this again?” arthur was looking down at you desperately. you couldn’t say no. something in your gut was screaming at you, screaming that this was the right choice. or was your mind overcome by him? maybe this would be the worst decision of your life. you couldn’t tell. without another word, you leant forwards and pressed your lips against his. you could feel his shoulders relax as you wrapped your arms around his neck. there was a deep hunger that you could sense in him as he practically devoured you in his embrace. his hands were everywhere, his grip tight as he held you like there was no tomorrow.

in between kisses he began to mumble something you at first couldn’t understand. then you realized it was a string of apologies.

“m’ sorry. m’ so sorry. let me try again, please” his voice was nearly smothered by the attack of your lips, but you heard it.

“it’s okay, arthur. s’okay” you attempted your own response which came out about the same as arthur’s.

pain flourished throughout your side, reminding you of its presence as arthur accidentally grabbed it. you let out a quiet gasp of pain, causing arthur to quickly pull away, looking down at you with concern.

“did i hurt you?” his voice was breathy and deep, lips swollen as he spoke near inches from your lips.

“no… no” you spoke in between breaths, your own lips swollen and tingly as well. you moved in for another kiss, this time catching arthur’s bottom lip between yours in the process and biting just enough to draw some blood. arthur winces, pulling away, eyes large. his pupils were blown wide, the icy blue of his irises barely visible.

“what was that for?” he gives you a lopsided, confused smile, to which you return. his blood left a metallic taste on your tongue.

“everything” you shrug, not having much of a better explanation. arthur couldn’t disagree. he wanted to say that he deserved it, but the howl of a wolf in the distance pulled the two of you back to reality.

“shall we?” arthur tilts his head towards the general direction of camp, not eager to be out with the wolves, still prowling the early morning for prey.

“what? scared of wolves? id have thought you were john” you smile innocently as arthur rolls his eyes.

“shut up” he smiles, leaning down to give you one last kiss. before fully pulling away he takes your chin between his fingers and wipes a smudge of blood away from your lip.

“really, i truly am sorry,”

“dont. i know you are arthur. i’m giving you another chance. i don’t need to hear your sorry.” you give him a soft smile, showing you weren’t trying to be hostile when you say this. you both knew arthur had things to make up for and work on, and you were willing to give him another chance.

when you arrived back at camp, you were greeted with smiles and hellos. the feeling you felt inside your chest was indescribable. you felt like they were accepting you and that they were genuinely worried when you left earlier.

you spent the larger half of the day meeting everyone, trying to get to know them. even micah, who you learned only seemed interested in getting in your pants, so you decided to steer clear. you talked with mary-beth about books, planned to learn to hunt with charles, and you practiced your shooting on the outskirts of camp with sadie. you looked up to her immensely and you had to restrain yourself from straight up begging her to let you go on scores with her. she told you with some practice you’d get there. you knew you could put your knowledge from a lifetime on a ranch to use in the gang.

night began to settle again over the camp, and a peaceful silence had fallen over everyone. you’d spent the last half of your day fishing on the bank of flat iron lake a little ways off from camp. pearson had asked you to try your hand at fishing since you have some experience fishing from your father. you think of all the times you went fishing with him at owanjila lake which was right by your ranch. you looked up at the sky, wondering what your parents were doing right now. did they regret what they did? or were they happier without you? you shake away the thoughts with a heavy sigh, deciding to take a break from fishing to sit against a rock by the water. the sound of the water lapping against the sand calmed you in a way nothing else did. you were so in your head that you didn’t hear when arthur walked over to you.

“Y/N”

you nearly jumped out of your skin as you looked up at him. “jesus! you have a habit of sneaking up on me don’t you?” you shake your head as arthur laughs at your scare.

“you need to be more aware of your surroundings is all” he sits next to you on the sand, sighing with content as he leans against the same rock, shoulder brushing yours.

“any luck with the fish?”

“not the best, not the worst. i got enough for a few meals” you hold up the sack full of fish to arthur.

“must be your calling then! you can be the camp fish catcher.” you roll your eyes and bite back a smile as arthur laughs at his own joke. once his laughing stops, a silence settled over the two of you. for a while, the two of you sat quietly, watching as the stars appeared once again in the vast sky.

“hey, what i said in my tent last night, i hope you realize it was a lie. i was half asleep, and drunk, and confused, and i’m gonna regret those words every day of my life. what i wrote about you in my journal is true. it’s all true.”

for a while, you couldn’t do anything but stare at him. you were processing his words, processing everything. even though you knew it was true, hearing him say it was relieving. arthur started to look nervous as he stared into your gaze.

god, you could stare at him forever. the way his hair fell perfectly around his face, no matter how much dirt or sweat or blood is caked into it. the way his brows furrowed ever so slightly when he was deep in thought or writing in his journal. the slight twitch of his lips when he was trying to hold back a laugh. the almost jagged shape of his nose from being broken so many times. you loved every inch of him, every imperfection (though it was utter perfection to you) and every scar that riddled his body. you realized now, you needed him just as much as he needed you.

“i… i understand if you-“

you cut arthur’s sentence short as you leaned forwards a little too aggressively to smash your lips against his. it was all teeth, and the force at which you came at him sent him tumbling backwards. he instinctively grabbed onto you, pulling you with him so you landed on top of his chest. you let out an ‘oof’ as your chest collided with his, and you couldn’t stop the outburst of laughter that escaped from you.

“that’s funny, huh?” arthur began letting out chuckles of his own as a few tears escape your eyes, half because it was funny and half because the pain began gnawing at your side.

“shit… you alright?” arthur places a gentle hand on your wound, his features instantly morph into worry.

“yeah. i think.” you speak between breaths as your laughter died down. you were propped up by your forearms resting on each side of arthur’s head and you looked down at him in awe.

“i’m no good at this” your heart was beating quicker than ever as arthur looks up at you with a large grin on his face. he was taking in your features, just as you were not long ago.

“neither am i” arthur responds, running his hands thoughtfully up your back and to your jaw, where he pulled you in gently this time for a kiss. it was sweet, and you could feel the love behind it as his lips moved in sync with yours. the more time you spend with arthur, the more you realize how well you fit together. it felt like you were unlocking parts of him every moment you spent together. he was changing, you were beginning to see that. you figured he didn’t really have anyone to keep his head on straight, no one to talk to, no one to hold, and neither did you. even through the fighting, and kidnapping, and murdering, you were puzzle pieces.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

i got too excited and furiously revised this so i could get it out. i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! <3

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[sweetflanfiction]

Second Chances - Part 5

Universe: Read Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur x reader

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about 1899 is from google, so inacuracies will be plenty. The reader is on the older side, and identifies as a female

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

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Arthur looked around, surrounded by trees. He could kick the Arabian into full throttle and disappear. To where though? To revenge Micah and Dutch? To find Charles or John, wherever they were? To get caught by the law and get back to where he started? He looked back at the woman, still leaning on top of that brute of a horse.

'Kill'em with kindness' one of the girls from the camp told him once. Is this what good people do?

• ··········· • ············ •

You looked at the trees in front of you as you spoke your peace. It was the truth. Maybe you were naive, and the truth was you were being selfish, at the time. And now he knew it, you had laid it out. One thing your father taught you was to be honest and let others know what you thought. People are like books and if you don't let people know what's written in them, they won't see it.

The man hadn't hurt you two, and was completely mobile for 4 days. And he had been a 'guest' at your house for a little over a month. In addition, you had washed him, fed him and treated him during that time, so you were rather comfortable around him. Despite the fact that she understood he wasn't feeling that way about her.

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, while both reeled from the words you had spoken. You could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He was deep in thought. Under the hat his brows furrowed and the wrinkles around his eyes became deeper. And then he returned to his blank-faced manner.

He cleared his throat and restarted the track search without another word. He kept looking at the ground and you kept looking up, searching for the tanned horse among the foliage. Surrounded by nature you only heard the hoofs of your horse, their whines, the sounds of birds and the wind in the leaves. Relaxing, if it wasn't for the purpose of your visit.

"Why do you keep him?" Arthur asked suddenly, not looking at you. "From what your father says, this ain't a first time thing."

"He's injured." You answered and Arthur looked back. "We think it's a sprain, the vet thinks it's a sprain… hell, for all we know the mighty God up in heaven thinks it's a sprain. The thing is, he is too stubborn to understand that we need to keep him still and quiet while it heals. Then he can go frolic wherever he wants."

He mumbled something under his breath but you didn’t understand what it was. You had no time to decipher it before he put his hand up, mentioning for you to stop. You did so and instructed Mac to stay. Your faithful companion halted as soon as he heard you.

“Up ahead.” You heard Arthur whisper and looked at the place he pointed.

It was a small clearing with some grass. The horse was grazing there, limping, his hind leg probably in pain. You shook your head and snorted in annoyance.

Arthur dismounted and you followed him, crouching in the area, a tall bush hiding you both, shoulder to shoulder.

“You see that…” You referred to the horse's hind leg and saw Arthur nod. “That’s where it’s sprained. He keeps putting weight on it and it keeps getting worse…or at least stayin’ the same…stubborn mule.”

“We could just leave him be.” Arthur proposed and you looked at him, noticing he was looking at you from under the brim of his hat, weighing your reaction.

You narrowed your eyes at him and tilted your head, positive the dislike of his tone was apparent in your expression.

“No."

"Why not?" He probed. His face was blank, but his words exuded disdain

"Because I’m as stubborn as that horse, I’m gonna get him better and after that he can decide to do whatever the hell he wants." The parallels between Arthur's situation and the horses didn't escape you. "And then I’ll tell him the same as I told you five minutes ago. Now, you can help or leave. Either way, that horse is returning to the ranch.”

You heard an audible sigh behind you but the rustle of leaves told you he was about to help. 

“How are we doing this?” he inquired and you turned back to him, hands on your hips.

“I usually ride after him in circles until I can get him near the ranch and then let Mac do his thing. It usually works, but it entails exactly the opposite of what we need him to be doing.” He was nodding silently and, once again, you noticed him going into that deep thought expression. 

You tilted your head curious about what he was coming up with, quietly letting him run through his scenarios. He looked up at you once satisfied. You grinned at him.

“I’m all ears Mr. Callahan.” You told him without him saying a word, and you noticed a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Can you ride bareback?” You nodded and grabbed the lasso from his saddle. "OK, here's how we go about it.”

• ··········· • ············ •

It took you about 40 minutes to get Arthur’s plan to work, but in the end, you got the horse. Arthur's plan was a crazy scheme that consisted of a well-timed bark from Mac, and an opportune lasso throw by Arthur. It ended with you getting on top of the runaway horse while your companion kept him calm.

He led the horses back, with you still mounted on the runaway horse, Mac following happily beside Dusk, his job done. Around the front of the house you saw your father and two other figures. 

When the horse was safely inside the enclosure, you jumped down from the injured horse and grabbed the rope around its neck. Arthur led the other two horses by the reins beside you. Mac knew his job was done and ran over to Luca, sitting next to your father’s legs.

Your father looked back at you both and waved, waiting until you got near. The two other figures were Doc Brant and his wife Eleanor Brant. 

“How far did he reach this time?” Your father asked as you both approached the group, hands crossed over his chest and eyes looking at the stable.

“The same as always I reckon.” You shrugged. "He never travels far, not with that leg."

"Would you like me to check it?" Doc Brant smiled, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"You got a promotion from people doctor to animal doctor and told me nothing 'bout it, huh?" Mrs. Brant joked, smirking at her husband.

Mrs. Eleanor Brant stood smiling next to her husband, her blonde hair already filled with grays, twisted in a braid, her skin always having a rosy tint above the tan. You liked her. She was homely and motherly but a jokester. When your own mom passed, she was one of the people that cared for you the most. If you had to write down the formula for who you take after, she'd be one of the first names on the list. 

What you truly loved about the woman were her ideas, the way her mind worked. Unlike many of the people on the surrounding farms and ranches, she and Mr. Brant couldn't conceive children. So they turned to assisting others. And while her husband was an actually certified physician, she knew as much as him and more. She liked to study herbs and other types of medicine that helped you in a pinch. Sometimes normal medicine was expensive or inaccessible, but she seemed to always have some herbs that would help anyone. 

"The basics are still the same." He replied in a mock angry tone.

"It's fine Doc. The last two times the actual veterinarian was here he said the same thing. The fellow just needs to rest." Your father noted and everyone nodded.

Nobody liked the animal doctor, but he was the only one around. Unlike Doc Brant he wasn't in it to help. He was in it for the money and the business. The three of you were silent, cursing the vet and his way when Arthur cleared his throat and your heads jerked in his direction. 

"Ah, my boy!" Doc beamed, patting the younger man on the arm. "I see you are recovering well! How are you feeling? Is the dust giving you trouble? You get tired quickly?"

"Morning sir, ma'am." He tipped his hat and you had to force yourself to not smirk at his cowboy-ish charm. "I've been feeling better, thank you. Still trying to figure out how this happened."

"This?" Doc questioned, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

"I was told by a doctor in St. Dennis that it was TB. For all I knew I was dying." Arthur said, honesty dripping in his words.

"Well, sometimes those big city doctors forget that there are more diseases out there that ain't deadly." Doc patted Arthur's arm and smiled. "Just be glad we got you when we did. If the sickness hadn't killed you, something else would have."

You were about to joke about his earning a peaceful death, but he cut you off.

"I'm still trying to come to terms with it, but I reckon hell wasn't ready for me yet."

"Oh Mr. Callahan, maybe it's heaven that thought you needed a second chance." Eleanor smiled softly at him.

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@photo1030 :: @sylum :: @marislittlereadingcorner

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