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𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 : 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:

" Soon enough, the suspected bounty hunter pulls his horse to a stop, a Tennesse Walker with a pretty brown and white coat. His rider slides off as he comes to a stop, and your eyes stay trained on the man as he enters your campground, his eyes taking note of your horse and belongings all left behind beneath the canvas of your tent.

You move quickly and quietly then, keeping your footsteps quiet as you round behind him. He was crouched down, rummaging through your belongings. Anger flared inside of you - trying to turn you into the law was one thing, but going through a lady’s things while she’s not home? That was just disrespectful.

As you near, he held something in his hand that made your heart clench, making it almost painful to breathe as you raise the pistol in your hand, cocking it behind his head.

“Drop it.” "

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7K ish

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of domestic violence in this story! Lot's of it! As well as the death of a child, and general violence from RDR2 <3

Don't ever force yourself to read what you aren't comfortable with.

A cigarette hangs loosely from your lips as you raise a match to light it, inhaling deeply as the tobacco smoke fills your mouth and lungs. The match still burns, a bright, orange ember against the midnight blanket above you. Its stars shine down on you, almost mocking you in a way as they twinkle and rejoice with one another.

You wish you were a star. So far up in the sky that nothing from this plane of existence could touch you. Instead, you would be the one looking down on the world. Judging the poor souls who sell themselves to the devil to get by. Humans were nasty creatures. Lying, stealing, robbing, killing. All of it. Horrible business that you dream of getting away from, as if the opportunity would ever be so kind as to present itself to you.

Another drag of your cigarette, another minute of the stars judging you.

The moon sits high up on her pedestal, illuminating the world beneath her. She outlines the ridges and valleys of your face, obscured partly by the hat you wear. It had been your fathers; aged and worn but still as loved as the day he had given it to you. Two feathers were tucked between its ribbon, blowing in the wind that passes through your camp.

To think that this was your life now - you went from having everything, from being the woman others envied with your husband and son, a fine house and a fine source of income. Then it was gone, leaving you living out of a tent, cooking poor cuts of meat over a campfire. The only living thing that didn’t want to kill you nearby was the Andalusian who was absentmindedly grazing on a patch of grass, unaware of the danger he was in.

His dark bay coat is illuminated by the orange bath of light the fire gives off, its flames flickering high into the night sky as you stare wistfully into them, wishing you could wake up tomorrow and be anywhere but here.

All your life you’d sworn you’d never kill anyone, whether they deserved it or not, but in the past month or so that promise had been quickly thrown out the window and left to the wolves. Your body count was growing steadily each day, by no choice of your own.

Bounty hunters, traveling from all over trying to bring you in, dead or alive, as the posters read.

You’d learnt fairly quickly how to shoot a gun, and how to shoot one well, at that. Your husband would’ve had your head if you’d ever thought of using his rifle, and a part of you wanted to laugh at how he’d react if he saw you with it now, like an additional limb to your body. The other part of you saw no reason to laugh at anything anymore though, and so you didn’t.

Your face is solemn as you sit, losing yourself in the hypnotizing flames.

Your breath hitches as a flock of birds erupt from a tree, a little further down the trail of the mountain, and slowly you rise to your feet, grabbing the rifle without even thinking about it. Someone’s coming. The sound of heavy hoofbeats grew closer and closer, reaffirming the suspicion. Without thinking about it you throw the gun over your shoulder and run to the cover of some boulders behind your camp, crouching down low in the shadows as you wait for the bounty hunter to arrive.

Your hand swiftly moves to your holster, pulling out a cattleman, also having belonged to your husband not too long ago.

Soon enough, the suspected bounty hunter pulls his horse to a stop, a Tennesse Walker with a pretty brown and white coat. His rider slides off as he comes to a stop, and your eyes stay trained on the man as he enters your campground, his eyes taking note of your horse and belongings all left behind beneath the canvas of your tent.

As you near, he held something in his hand that made your heart clench, making it almost painful to breathe as you raise the pistol in your hand, cocking it behind his head.

“Drop it.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Valentine was a dump, as Arthur had come to work out. Instinctively, his nose scrunches up at the smell of livestock and manure, although he was sure the smell was getting to the wagonful of girls behind him more than it was getting to him.

“Could pick yourself up some bounties in there Arthur.” Uncle nudges him, pointing toward the local jailhouse. Posters were lining the walls but he shakes his head and looks away.

“Got better things to do then go on wild goose hunts.” Arthur responds, his shoulders and jaw tight from holding onto all of the tension of the past couple of weeks.

As the wagon pulls to a stop, the girls filter out, all smiling and laughing and discussing what trouble they could get into in the town. It made Arthur chuckle, their eagerness to go and charm some poor fool into handing over his wallet.

The ground beneath his boots is soft and muddy, but he walks through it without complaint, trailing behind uncle as he complains about one thing or another. The general store sits in front of them, a small building about as run down as the rest of Valentine.

The wooden boards of the structure are weathered and rotting, and Arthur tips his hat at the two men who sit in front of it, lazily smoking their cigarettes.

“You need anything Arthur?” Uncle asks as the two men stepped inside, offering tight smiles to the man behind the counter.

“A drink, if I’m supposed to be putting up with you all day.” Arthur grumbles, walking over the rotting floorboards towards a shelf, with fine whiskeys and bourbons on display.

He reaches for a cheaper bottle of whiskey, taking it to the counter and digging through his pocket for a money clip.

He’s low on cash - the gang's money, along with most of his own, had been left stashed in Blackwater, and there’s no hope of retrieving it any time soon.

While he was a halfwit, Uncle hadn’t had a bad idea when he’d pointed out the bounties to Arthur.

“Hey Uncle,” Arthur calls across the store to him after tucking the whiskey away safely in his satchel. “Keep the girls outta trouble, I’m gonna go have a look at the bounty posters.”

“Thought you said they were ‘wild goose hunts’.” Uncle laughs, mocking his earlier words in his best impression of Arthur.

“Shut up old man.”

He exits the store and unhitches his horse - a Tennesse Walker he’d stolen from some O’driscoll. He wasn’t Boadicea, but he was doing the job for now.

The thought of Arthur’s former horse bought a low, sinking feeling to his gut. There were few things he got to call his own and care about in his dying way of life, but that horse had been one of them. Everything he did, and all the women he saw come and go- Mary, Eliza, she was there with him through it all.

Pulling up in front of the Sheriff's office, he hitches the unnamed horse. At this rate, it’s name was gonna end up being ‘Horse’ if he didn’t think of something better soon.

As he approaches the door, yelling can be heard from inside.

“C’mon! Just head up there and try again, would ya?” A man’s voice asks, almost begging.

“You outta your mind sheriff? Four of us went up there to drag her in and I’m the only one who came back! I don’t care how much your payin’, find someone else to bring the crazy bitch in.”

The second man burst through the door, almost running into Arthur before shooting one last dirty look at the sheriff and walking away.

The sheriff had his hand pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing and muttering something incoherent under his breath, but when he notices Arthur approaching he perks up, a bright, fake smile overtaking his features.

“You a bounty hunter boy?” The sheriff asks, standing up to greet him.

“I can be.” Arthur shrugs. “For the right price.”

“Two hundred dollars sound like a good enough price for you?”

A low whistle left Arthur’s mouth. “Two hundred? You gotta damn serial killer you want me to bring in or somethin’?”

“She may as well be. Nasty woman, that one is. Her poster’s over there on the wall. Y/n Cole.” He points in the direction of a cork board, and sure enough a poster is pinned to it.

“Wanted dead or alive?” Arthur asks, pulling it down to get a better look. A photo of a well put together woman was printed on it, beneath the large sum of money. She was wearing a fine dress, decorated with lace and frills, her neck adorned with an expensive looking pendant, and some silver earrings dangled from her ears. Her hair was curled and pinned back into an impressive up-do, and she looked more like the wife of a mayor than she did a serial murderer. “She don’t look very dangerous.”

“That’s what all the other’s said.” The sheriff sighs dejectedly. “Don’t put anythin’ past her though, she’s been guttin’ the boys like pigs up there. Crazy bitch.” The last part was muttered under his breath, and Arthur was unsure of whether or not he was meant to hear it.

“What’d she do in the first place?”

The sheriff lets out a humorless laugh. “Killed her husband and her son. Shot them both in cold blood. When the in-laws confronted her, she shot them too. She’s been hiding up in the Grizzlies for boutta month or so now, and any man who goes up there lookin’ for her doesn’t come back.”

“Sounds like quite the risk you got me takin’ than sheriff.”

“Pretty little wad of cash will be waitin’ back here for you if you do it though. Shoot her, stab her, tie her up and drag her back here kickin’ and screamin’, I don’t care how you do it, just bring us that Mrs. Cole and we’ll pay for your troubles.” The sheriff shrugs with a sly smile.

Arthur mulls it over for a minute, studying your portrait. You were a pretty woman, he realized, put together and wealthy too, by the looks of it, how hard could it be? The reward was highly encouraging too, two hundred dollars would make quite the difference for the camp, and it would make Dutch pretty happy too.

“Alright.” Arthur mumbled, tucking the poster into his satchel. “You said she was in the Grizzlies?”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Told you to drop that, Mister.” You reiterate your words, pressing the cold barrel of your pistol against the back of the man's head. He drops the photograph, and his hands come up in surrender as you use your free hand to reach into his holster and pull out his own gun, tossing it away into the snow.

Despite the darkness, you train your eyes and ears into the surrounding forest, listening out for any other presence. No one else had ridden up with the man, but none of the other bounty hunters had come alone so far.

“Where are your friends?” You ask, still scanning the area in search of other men. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest - he seemed far too relaxed for a man with a gun to his head. Something had to be wrong.

“Came alone.” He mutters, before letting out a grunt as the heel of your boot came into contact with the middle of his back, harshly. He’s a strong man, but the kick takes him by surprise and he tumbles forward, landing face first in the snow, your gun never leaving the back of his head.

“Bullshit.” You hiss, landing another harsh kick to his side. “If you came alone then you’re an idiot.”

“I am an idiot, lady!” He protests, hand coming to clutch the side that had just met the end of your boot. “Now stop kickin’ me!”

You still, listening out for any sign of company, but you’re only met with the sound of insects and the crackling of your campfire. Your horse, Shergar, lets out a short whinny, pawing at the ground and clearly annoyed by the strangers presence - a mutual feeling.

“You’re really alone?” You ask, unable to stop the tone of confusion from seeping into your voice.

“Yes goddammit. Clearly a mistake on my part.” He sounds more inconvenienced by the situation than anything, like he was being pickpocketed rather than held at gunpoint.

“Clearly.” You agree with him, your voice quiet. “I gotta admit, I don’t really know what to do now.” You say to him, almost laughing. “Most the time, about five other men come runnin’ outta the bushes, guns ready and knives out. You really were stupid to come alone, y’know?”

“I realize that now.” He rolls his eyes, trying to find a way out of his situation. “Look, you can kill me if you want, but the only thing that’s gonna do is send more men up here on a witch hunt for you, and they won’t mind bringing your limp body back to Valentine.”

“None of the others have managed to so far.” You shrug. “Don’t see why I shouldn’t leave you here with a bullet and keep runnin’.”

“Cause your luck is gonna run out soon, lady.” He points out. “That or you can let me bring you in while you're still breathin’.”

“Bring me in alive today so I can swing tomorrow?” You ask with a humorless chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

“You really are a piece of work, huh?” The man asks, his blue eyes shining with something unreadable.

Before you can respond to him, he flips you over, diving for you and knocking you into the snow. The ice burns your face as you writhe and struggle beneath him until he has you where he wants you. He has you on your stomach, his knee pressing into your back to hold you still as his hands fight against your own to wrestle the gun out of your grip.

“Hey!” You yell out as he manages to wrangle it away from you, placing it into his holster to replace his own gun that you had thrown into the snow. Your hands blindly dart out behind you, trying to reach for him but he keeps his strong hold on you, and one of his large hands comes up to catch your wrists together and pin them on the snow in front of you. “Get off of me!”

“I didn’t like laying in the snow either lady, suck it up!” He retorts as he digs through his satchel for something with his free hand, and you feel your heart drop as he begins looping rope over your wrists, tying your hands together before getting to work on your feet.

Before he can start, your legs come upwards, and your feet come into contact with the man’s head, knocking his hat into the snow and eliciting a yelp from his mouth.

“You really are a crazy bitch.” He yells at you as you roll over onto your back, grinning up at him with a dangerous glint in your eye.

“And you’re a damn idiot like the rest of ‘em!” You shout back, spit flying from your mouth as you let out, perhaps the most ill-time laugh in history.

You aren’t quite sure why you’re laughing, maybe from anger or sadness, or from the dread of the gallows that were waiting for you, but you laugh, your head tilts back to face the night sky where the moon sits and watches you from her pedestal.

Your laugh soon turns into a choked sob though as you bite your lip and shake your head. “Do you feel big and tough, huh? Sending an innocent woman to her death?”

“You ain’t innocent.” The man shakes his head, spitting a bit of blood from his mouth. It taints the snow with its crimson color, ruining the innocence of the white sheet. “You killed your son Mrs. Cole. Did you feel big and tough while you shot your own baby? Huh?”

The world around you stops for a minute as anger clouds your mind, and you grind your teeth together so hard you’re surprised they don’t break.

“I have killed many people, but my son was not one of them.” You spit at the man through your clenched jaw. “You don’t know what the hell you’re on about, bounty hunter.”

“All I know, is that they’re gonna give me two hundred dollars for bringin’ you in. Innocent or not.”

“I’ll double it!” You say, not even thinking about the repercussions of your words as the reality of your situation dawns on you. This man holds your life in his palm - he chooses whether you live or die right now, and for the first time since you’ve been hiding out here, you’re powerless and at the mercy of a bounty hunter. “I’ll double what they pay you to let me go.”

He stops fussing with the rope at your legs at that, narrowing his eyes as he looks at you. Without his hat on, you can clearly see his face now. He looks to be mid-thirties, although he’s aged from the sun and the stress of his life, you’re assuming. His eyes are hooded, the bright blue color peeking out from beneath his strong brow bone. A couple days worth of a beard has grown along his jaw, enough to hide his lower face but not enough to hide the sharp jawline, or the scar on his chin.

“What did you say?” He asks quietly.

“I said, I’ll pay you double.” You reaffirm, your eyes pleading as you meet his own. The ice blue color gives away no indication as to what’s going through his mind, and in that moment you gather he’d be a great poker player.

“You’re gonna pay me, four hundred dollars, if I let you go?” He asks incredulously.

Now that he says it out loud, you realize how impossible your promise is, but nonetheless it looks like your only chance of surviving him.

“Yes.” You nod with a thick swallow. “Four hundred dollars.”

He lets out a low whistle, thinking about it. “That’s a lot of money.”

“I am innocent. And I’ll pay you to prove it.”

“And how can I be so sure, Mrs. Cole, that you’ll actually pay me. That you won’t run off the second I cut these ropes.”

“I’ll stay with you. Pay you back as I make the money.” You say, all but begging the man who appears to be considering your offer. “Most bounty hunters are travelers. I’m guessing you’ve got a camp set up somewhere too that you’re livin’ out of.”

“I might.” He shrugs. “But then what? I take you and your promises back to my camp, and then you run off in the middle of the night? You can’t be trusted. You’re a murderer.”

You weigh out your options, wondering what you could do to convince him. You had nothing of value on you, nothing of monetary value at least. The only thing you could offer him as collateral was something you would rather die than part with, but at this point, you dying was seeming more and more likely.

“Untie me.” You say softly, holding your hands out towards the man. “Untie me and I’ll give you some collateral.”

He considers it for a moment, eyeing you carefully, like he was trying to pick up on a lie or trick, but eventually he pulls a knife out of his belt and cuts the rope from your hands. “Don’t make me chase after you.” He warns as you stand on shaky legs and make your way to your bedroll where the man had been digging around earlier.

You drop to your knees, quickly finding what you were after, laying right where he had dropped it. A photograph of your son, when he was only two years old, held up high in your arms as you planted a kiss on the side of his cheek. A wide smile was covering his features, and in the photo your eyes are crinkling with a happiness they haven’t known in a long time.

“Here.” You begrudgingly hand him the photo. “It’s the only photo I have of me and my son. It’s the most important thing in the world to me. I get that back when you get your money. And if I run, I’m leavin’ that behind as well.” Your words are soft, almost defeated as he gently takes the photo from you.

His brows are furrowed as he inspects it, running his thumb along where you stand in it. After a moment, he must deem it worthy because he tucks it away safely into a pocket on the inside of his jacket.

“Grab your things Mrs. Cole.” He says softly, making his way over to his discarded hat and placing it atop his head. “You’re comin’ back to camp.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“You never told me your name.” You point out as the two of you amble side by side, Shergar traveling through the mountain ranges with ease after having spent so long up here with you. The bounty hunter's horse, on the other hand, was skittish, hyper-aware of his surroundings and the cliff edges that surrounded him. A couple times his foot had slipped and a sharp whinny had escaped him, his head throwing back high in the air with the whites of his eyes showing, clearly unnerved this far up in the mountains.

It wasn’t just a fear of falling though, occasionally a wolf howl or a roar from a bear could be heard, causing Shergar to prick his ears nervously towards the sound and add a slight spring to his step, eager to escape the predators.

“Arthur.” The man grumbled, blowing his breath into his hands and rubbing them together to warm them up. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur Morgan.” You tested his name on your tongue, the name slipping out easily.

“And I know your name, Mrs. Cole.”

You shook your head. “That’s my married name. I have no business using it anymore.”

“So what do you want me to call you then?”

You told him your name, your real name, from before you made the terrible mistake of marrying Evan, and he repeated it with a small nod, as you had done with his own earlier.

The sun was up now, beating down on you harshly but still not enough to melt the ice that ran cold through your veins. You had grown used to the freezing temperatures after spending so much time up here, but you could tell Arthur wasn’t enjoying himself at all.

His blue coat was wrapped around himself tightly, the collar brought up to protect his neck from the biting winds.

“You couldn’t have picked a warmer spot to hide out?”

“Not many people wanna come up here unless they have to. Figured it was safer for me than some place down there.”

“Suppose.” He hummed. “You would’ve been up there during that god awful storm then?”

You snorted. “Yep. Though that was the end of it for me. I could barely see three feet ahead of me let alone find or cook food. That and the fact that I probably got hypothermia.”

“Yeah it was like that for us too.” Arthur said solemnly. “We were camped out by Colton for a week or so, me and the rest of my…” he trailed off. “Family.”

“Not a nice place.” You offered. “Hell were you doin’ up there with your family anyways?”

“We’ve both got our secrets.” Arthur shrugged, and you gathered that you wouldn’t get anything more out of him.

“I suppose.” You agreed.

“I mean, I’ve got my secrets.” Arthur corrected himself. “Your crimes are plastered all over the state.”

“I didn’t kill my son.” You said harshly.

“What about your husband? And his family, huh? Suppose you didn’t kill them either.”

“Like you said, Mr Morgan. We’ve both got our secrets.”

The ride continued in silence, a tense air settling over the pair of you as the snow gradually melted away. The mountains grew smaller and smaller behind you, and the air grew warmer. Birds sang and deer hopped about, taking off as you and Arthur trotted beside one another along a makeshift dirt road.

You crossed a shallow point of a river, the water coming up and splashing against your legs and tickling the underside of Shergar’s belly. It washed away the mud that had been caked against his hide from weeks in the mountains, where the only creeks and rivers were frozen or too cold and dangerous to enter.

“Nearly here.” Arthur’s low drawl broke you from your thoughts as he steered off of the road onto a worn trail through the grass. It led through forest for a few yards until you spotted a clearing up ahead, where wagons and tents were set up like a miniature village.

You could hear voices, men and women, even a child, all talking and laughing with one another.

He pulls to a stop before you completely leave the safety and privacy of the woods, a somewhat concerned gaze on his face. His eyes are narrowed and you can see he’s thinking hard about something with his parted lips, his tongue coming out to dart them with moisture momentarily.

“Y’know how we mentioned those secrets that you and me both got?” He asks, turning to look at you and you narrow your eyes.

“Yeah. Why?” Worry seeped into your tone at his own. For a man so sure of himself, he almost seemed hesitant to bring you into the camp.

“This- This family of mine ain’t the best, ok?” He started, stumbling over his words a little. “You owe me four hundred dollars, but that means you also owe Dutch Van Der Linde.”

Your eyes widened. You’d heard that name more and more frequently in your travels lately, and not for anything good.If you could remember correctly, him and his gang were wanted dead or alive for some ferry robbery gone wrong down in Blackwater. Come to think, you’d also heard Arthur’s name thrown around a lot.

“You- You’re in the damn Van Der Linde gang?” You asked, your tone growing in pitch as your arm comes out to slap his bicep.

“Hey, what-”

“You murder and rob your way across the whole country, you’re wanted dead or alive and yet you come here and you judge me for my crimes? Crimes I didn’t even commit!”

At your voice, heads turn in your direction, curious gazes from the women, and bloodthirsty, threatening looks from the men. From behind the trees they still can’t quite see you properly, something Arthur is thankful for as he slaps a hand across your mouth, your hot breath escaping your nose and fanning across his fingers as he shoots you a warning glance.

“Keep your damn mouth shut.” He warns with a low voice, his eyes shooting back to the camp where everyone seems to have gone back to their business.

When he’s sure you’ll stay quiet, he removes his hand from your soft skin, his mouth opening and shutting while he tries to find the right words.

“Look, I’m not gonna take you to Valentine, and neither will Dutch when he hears about our agreement.” Arthur says pointedly. “But there are other men in this camp, who will jump at the chance to hand you over for two hundred dollars, so you keep your mouth shut, ok?”

“Ok.” You nod, feeling a growing pit in your stomach. Suddenly, you were unsure of whether or not coming here was truly the best idea. Maybe you had been safer in the Grizzlies. Maybe you should have taken your chance to run, leaving your treasured memory behind in Arthurs pocket.

As if he could read your thoughts he sighed, hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m gonna keep you safe here, ok?” He promises, and you can see in his eyes that he truly means it, although you know that to him, it’s nothing more than keeping the promise of four hundred dollars safe. “But not even I am gonna be able to stop some of these men when they learn the truth ‘bout you.”

“What are we gonna tell ‘em then?” You asked, throwing a worried glance at the camp. “They’re gonna wanna know who I am and what I’m doin’ here with you, won’t they?”

“Yeah they will.” A frown overtook his features as he continued to think. “Alright, we’ll tell ‘em your name is Miss Flinders, from Strawberry. Your daddy just got eaten by a bear or somethin’.”

“A bear?” You ask incredulously, one eyebrow raised. “If my daddy managed to get eaten by a bear, he might just be more of an idiot than you.”

“You got somethin’ better?” Arthur asks, a little offended that you hadn’t liked his suggestion.

“Yeah, I do.” You roll your eyes. “Miss Flinders from Strawberry was running away with her fiance, planning to elope. He took her money and left her stranded. You found her in the hotel there, with nothing left but her horse. Her family won’t take her back, and she’s got nowhere else to go.”

“I personally like the bear, but whatever works for you, Miss Flinders.” Arthur says in a mocking tone.

“We ain’t doin’ the bear.” You deadpan.

“Fine.” The outlaw relents. “But I found Miss Flinders like a drunken harlot begging for money on the streets. I was like her knight in shining armor, offering her a bed and some warm food.”

“Yeah you’re a real gentleman, Mr Morgan.” You draw out his name sarcastically.

“Don’t push me girl.” He warns. His voice had a way of sounding more dangerous than the growl of a wolf, you had come to notice in the short time you’d spent with him, and for all of your confidence you couldn’t deny the effect it had on you, leaving you swallowing thickly from his threat.

When he’s satisfied with your reaction, he gathers up his reins and spurs the Tenesse Walker forward, leaving you to trail behind.

“Uncle Arthur!” A young boy's voice is the first thing you hear when you emerge from the clearing, hiding in the shadow of the man in question.

“Jack!” It’s quickly followed by a stern woman’s voice, and you catch a glimpse of her grabbing a hold of the boy's forearm, dragging him off in the direction of a campfire, a pot of something cooking over it.

“C’mon.” Arthur says to you, dismounting from his horse and waiting for you to do the same.

You can feel curious gazes meeting you as you walk through the camp, Arthur’s hand finding its way to the small of your back to guide you.

“Keep your head down.” He instructs, his tone low as you near a group of men.

“Brought a whore back Arthur?” One of them lets out a drunken yell and a laugh, and you can hear the others laughing and whooping.

“Shut your mouth Micah.” Arthurs all but growls back at him as you continue to walk through the camp.

Some women offer you odd glances, looks that hold curiosity and even jealousy to some degree as you’re guided to a wagon with a canvas awning. Beneath the awning is a cot and a few other assorted pieces of furniture, holding belongings you can only assume belong to Arthur.

“Just stay here and sit tight for a minute.” Arthur tells you when you reach his wagon, giving you a small push toward the cot that was set up there.

“Where are you goin’?” You ask, making no move to sit down. It felt wrong to intrude on his space like that, whether he’d given his permission or not.

“Gotta find Dutch.” He explains. “Tell him about this agreement of ours.”

“Wouldn’t it be best if I came with you then?” You frown a little, not liking the idea of the two dangerous men talking about you and your bounty while you weren’t there. On some level, you know you can trust Arthur to a degree - after all, he’d had the opportunity to hand you over for the money, and he hadn’t taken it, but you were still doubtful, especially if Dutch Van Der Linde was going to have some hand in your fate.

You’d heard of the notorious outlaw, even before you were on the run. Robbing, murdering, leaving a trail of death and destruction everywhere he and his gang went. And yet, when Arthur, his right hand man came to get you, you weren’t met with a cold, heartless man who wanted to trade you for money at the first chance you got. Instead, he was open to your suggestion, and accepted it, albeit begrudgingly.

Of course you still owed him money, and lots of it, but he knew that would take time, and he would need patience, but in the meantime you would still be provided with warmth, food and protection from other hunters, something you were beyond grateful for.

“No, just stay here a moment. It would be best if I spoke to him alone.” Arthur sighs, a hand running down his face, as though he were deep in thought. And you suppose he is, how is he supposed to explain to his boss that they had two hundred dollars sitting in their camp, just waiting to be collected on, but they weren’t going to touch it in hopes of it giving them four hundred? With no plan or promise as to how you were gonna get that money?

It makes you wonder on some level why he hadn’t just handed you in when he had the chance to. It would’ve been easier, surely, than going through the trouble of bringing you here and convincing Dutch to let you stay. Of course the promise of double your bounty had some role in it, but now that you knew of the gang, you were confused. They could’ve gotten that money easily if they kept up old habits, which you were sure they did.

Arthur leaves you then, leaving you to awkwardly take a seat on a cot you could only guess belonged to him.

You hate to be nosy, but you aren’t left with much else to do as the rest of the camp carries on its life around you, occasionally throwing you a curious look. Instead of staring back, you let yourself gaze around Arthur’s makeshift room. You take note of the photos he has sitting on a nightstand beside the bed, one of them being a portrait of a beautiful woman with dark hair, perfectly styled behind her. He also has an assortment of weapons lying around, from guns to knives to ammunition. It makes you wonder what sort of business the gang has been getting up to since disappearing from Blackwater, but you figure it’s nothing good.

There’s a large tent set up in the middle of the camp, and you can see the familiar figure of Arthur talking to another man, an imposing looking man who you can only guess to be Dutch Van Der Linde. He’s smoking a cigar, and his face is set into a deep frown as Arthur speaks to him. You watch them with curiosity. Arthur has taken his hat off now, revealing his sandy brown hair that could probably do with a trim, and you watch as he runs a large hand through it, touselling the once smoothed strands.

With your eyes stuck on Arthur, you don’t notice as Dutch turns his head to set his gaze upon you, not until Arthur follows where he’s looking and then you’re quick to divert your eyes from the two men to the sight of some birds beyond them, nesting far up in the trees. Your heart pounds against your chest, trying desperately to leap out as Arthur places the old hat back on his head and makes his way across the camp to you.

Was he going to tell you that you were welcome to stay? Was he going to tell you to pack your things and leave? Was he going to tie your hands together and haul you all the way to Valentine to hand you over for the money? Possibilities run through your mind like a horse running from a wolf as Arthur approaches, and you can see Dutch in your peripheral vision watching the two of you like a hawk.

“You can stay.” Arthur nods his head at you. “Dutch is ok with it, but he wants to speak with you when he has a chance. Make sure he can trust you and all that.”

“I-” your throat runs dry at his words. You weren’t sure if it was from relief of having a place to stay, or fear of having to speak to Dutch Van Der Linde. “Thank you.” You settle on saying, your lips pursed together as your eyes meet Dutch’s from across the camp.

“It ain’t a problem.” Arthur says as he begins moving around his space and picking up several items you couldn’t quite make out. “You can handle yourself and a gun well, Dutch thinks you’ll be good to have around, once we know we can trust you. Until then though-” Arthur cuts himself off as he throws a handful of things towards you, “-you’re my responsibility.”

You furrow your brows and begin to sort through the things he threw at you, finding a bar of soap, some rags, and an old blanket you could use as a towel.

“Is this your way of telling me I stink?” You ask with a small chuckle as you stand up, cocking your head to the side to gaze at the man expectantly.

“You don’t stink, you just look like you could…” He trails off, thinking of a nice way to phrase his next words. “Freshen up.” He settles on. “And maybe run a comb through your hair as well.” He mutters, one of his hands absentmindedly reaching up to brush against your knots.

“Hey!” You say, a little offended, and you lightly slap his hand away. Despite your show though, you don’t protest when he adds a hair brush to the pile of items he’d handed to you.

“You got clean clothes on your horse?” He asks, ignoring the look you tossed his direction.

“What’s wrong with the clothes I got on?” You ask him, furrowing your brows.

“They’re still wet with snow.” Arthur says, like it should be obvious. “But if you wanna sleep damp, that’s your choice.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, you do still feel the dampness of the snow on your clothes, sticking to your skin uncomfortably. It was normal in the Grizzlies - there hadn’t really been any escaping it, but now you were dry, and much warmer than you had been in the mountains, and the thought of dry clothes that would stay dry made your stomach flip with excitement.

“Yeah, I got clothes on Shergar.” You answer him as the two of you make your way to where the horses are hitched.

“Kinda name is that?” Arthur asked, furrowing his brows as the two of you unhitched and mounted your horses.

“I dunno.” You shrugged. “It was his name when I got him, and I liked it.”

“Fair enough.” The man agrees with you, tugging on the reins of the Walker beneath him before gently spurring him forwards.

“Where are we headed anyways?” You ask Arthur, following him on the Andalusian, your hand reaching down to scratch at his neck with your nails.

“More private area of the river.” Arthur explains as the two of you trot out of the forest and onto the worn down dirt path. “You can clean yourself up a bit, and I’ll make sure no one else comes by.”

“So when Dutch said I was your responsibility, he just meant you were becoming my own personal little bodyguard?” You joke, your lips curling up into a smile as you turn your head to meet Arthurs gaze. You can tell he doesn’t want to smile but he does, shaking his head as the two of you trot.

“You’re worth four hundred dollars darlin’.” He explains to you, that low drawl sounding both threatening and alluring at the same time. “Of course you’re gonna have someone followin’ after you.”

The truth behind his statement stung a little. At the end of the day, these people could feed you, give you a place to stay, and keep you safe, but they weren’t doing it for you . They were doing it for your worth. After so long of being by yourself though, their motives didn’t matter to you. As long as you were safe and warm.

“You know I ain’t gonna run off.” You say to him after a minute of tense silence.

“How can we know you won’t?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“You think I’m gonna leave a bed, warmth, and a steady supply of food? Or that picture you’ve got of mine?” Your heart aches a little as you think back to the photo you had given Arthur of yourself and your son.

Subconsciously Arthur reaches his hand up towards his pocket, brushing his fingers over it as though he was making sure the picture was still there. You note that when you’d given it to him, he’d placed it in his coat pocket, and now as he rode beside you in nothing but his work pants and black button-up, he still had it on him.

The thought of him moving it onto his person made you worry a little less - at least you knew it would be kept safe, but still the fact that he held your most prized possession worried you.

“We’re here.” Arthur’s voice cuts you off, and he pulls his Walker to a stop as you near a concealed run off of the river. “Go clean yourself up.”

He turns the horse so that his back is to the river, and wordlessly you make your way towards it, shutting your eyes a little as the setting sun reflects off of the water.

For about the first time in a month or so - you feel safe . You have food and water waiting back at camp for you, and one of the most dangerous men in the country is currently keeping watch as you bathe, which in itself is a luxury you hadn’t been able to have in some time.

Perhaps this is a turning point for you, a chance to turn around the pitiful life you’re leading so far and make it into something worth so much more than just surviving to see the sun rise tomorrow. Perhaps you will be given your chance to prove your innocence, and tell the story of a woman who wanted nothing more than to avenge her son and was sentenced to death over it.

This is your second chance at life, with Arthur Morgan watching over your back to make sure it isn’t taken from you too soon.

~~~

Any feedback or comments are MORE than welcome, and would help me a great deal with motivation to not completely abandon this, however if you're more of a sit back and enjoy the show kinda reader, I completely understand! I am too on some level.

Anyways, I plan on following the order of the missions, obviously starting with Chapter Two at Horseshoe Overlook, and then just moving chronologically and maybe twisting a mission here or there. I also have a few plans on things to add in because why would I ever make life easy for my characters???

Lots of love <3

#rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan series #arthur morgan x you

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use-your-delusion · 1 year

Text

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐲 | 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡

𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.2K

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You don't cry, you never cry. You've always been the rock for the people around you, and now one night on your cold kitchen floor it's all coming crashing down around you. You thought you could have your breakdown in peace, but as he walks through the front door you realize you've never felt more relieved and embarrassed at the same time before.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Angsty! Mentions of reader being hit by boyfriends in the past, mentions of blood.

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The smallest slivers of moonlight shone in through the cracks of your kitchen blinds, bathing the tiled floor.

The tiles were cool against your bare skin, hot and sweaty from your crying. You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there, back pressed against the fridge and your head tilted back at an impossible angle, whilst you bit your lip and choked in your sobs.

Your shoulders were shaking and heaving as your hands tightened around your shoulders, hugging yourself in a desperate attempt to send the hot, heavy tears away. You tore your eyes away from the white blanket of the ceiling and read time on the digital clock in your hallway.

The blinking red numbers stared back you, reading 2:34 AM.

That meant you'd been here at least an hour. You remembered stumbling in through your door at 1 o'clock this morning, still giggling from your night out. You'd stubbed your toe, and very dramatically hopped around your cramped hallway, sending things flying.

A vase had been knocked to the ground and shattered into fragments of which you'd somehow managed to cut your foot on, and as you'd been trying to find some paper towel in the kitchen to clean it up, your wave of emotion had hit you and you'd sunk to your floor, unable to stop the tears by the time you realized they'd arrived.

You weren't quite sure why you were crying. Maybe it was because at 24 years old, all you had to show for yourself was this shitty shoe box apartment and your termination letter sitting right in the middle of your coffee table.

You hadn't cried when you were fired last week, if anything you were relieved that you were no longer being groped by strange men in one of the dodgiest clubs in LA. You weren't exactly completely unemployed either, you'd been casually making some money the past couple of weeks dancing in the early hours of the morning for unmarried men who still lived in their mothers basements.

You were still being groped by strange men as a stripper, but it certainly paid far better to compensate for it than serving drinks ever did.

That couldn't be the only reason you were crying though. You were stronger than this, and you hadn't cried in years. Surely this wasn't what it took to send you over the edge?

Hopelessly, you reached out to a piece of paper towel, not caring it was the one you had cleaned your foot with in your drunken state, and blew your nose on a white patch of it.

Your shoulders had stopped shaking and your sniffles had quietened down now, letting you think more clearly without being clouded by emotion.

Your watery eyes drifted to your kitchen counter where a photo of a man sat, a little girl balanced on his knee with a huge smile on his face. Maybe that's why you were crying.

What would your father think to see his baby girl like this? He had told you before he passed that he'd be proud of you no matter where you ended up, but how could he be proud of this? A mess of a young woman, barely able to afford her crappy apartment by stripping? Girls your age were married, and yet all you had were past boyfriends who'd all thought it ok to lay their hands on you?

That's something no father could be proud of.

Your head met your knees as a loud wail left your mouth, taking you by surprise. It felt like an iron fist had taken your heart in both hands and crushed what was left of it, as your father's death hit you harder than it ever had since you'd moved to the city.

You felt the loneliness when you'd moved here, with no friends or family around in a new city, and now, even though you had friends who felt just like family, you'd never felt lonelier than you did in this moment.

Your door swung open, taking you by surprise as you lifted your head from your knees, peaking at the intruder.

It was a tall man with a familiar mop of hair, drunkenly stumbling through your hallway, taking note to hope over the smashed glass on the floor.

"Y/n!"

You heard his voice call out, you could hear the grin on his face as well as he walked through your living room and stuck his head in the bathroom and your bedroom trying to locate you.

You wanted to call out, tell him you were in the kitchen and you needed help, because by god you needed help, but something held you back. Embarrassment perhaps? Some fear to be vulnerable in front of your friends? Maybe it was your selfish need for them to see you as perfect and stronger than you really were?

You didn't quite know, but you still bit your tongue and listened as Slash made his way through the apartment, still calling out your name with growing concern in his voice.

"You can come out now!" He called with a small child-like giggle. His concern dropped as he must've decided you were playing some game. His footsteps grew closer and closer as they rounded your kitchen counter and he saw you, curled up in the corner against your fridge.

"There you are!" He proudly grinned, not noticing the blood that was smeared on your kitchen tiles, the tear tracks stained onto your puffy face, or the way your body instinctively tried to curl further away from him into your corner. "I was-"

He cut himself off, the smile dropping from his face as he seemed to notice something was wrong. It was dark in your kitchen, but it didn't take a genius to work out you weren't ok. Even Slash could do it in the dark.

"Hey..." His voice trailed off as he moved forward to crouch beside you, and you let out a shuddering breath, keeping your eyes from meeting his. Instead you focused on those blaring numbers on the digital clock.

2:39 AM

"What's the matter." He was drunk, but his voice sobered up and softened as he laid a gentle hand to rest on your shoulder. Your body begrudgingly leaned into it. The human contact was grounding, pulling you out of the mess you were climbing through inside your mind. "Have you been crying?"

You sniffled and looked up at him, his big brown eyes holding a sincerity you'd never seen before. "No." You retorted sarcastically, but your choked up voice gave it away.

"Your makeup says otherwise." He pointed out, twisting his body to sit beside you. One of his arms came around your shoulder and pulled you close to him, enveloped into the side of his body. You wanted to pull away, be left to your mess by yourself, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beside you was too soothing. You gave in to it, resting your head against his shoulder.

His curls tickled your face, and clung to it from the sweat and tears that had gathered, but it didn't bother you. It was a welcome sensation.

"You're bleeding." He remarked after a few moments of silence, and you nodded against his body.

"I'm sorry." You whispered into the darkness. Your hands were gripping at your shoulders like a lifeline.

"Don't be." He shook his head. "You have to clean it, not me."

"I wasn't talking about the floor, asshole." A tiny chuckle escaped you. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

Now that your sadness had passed, you felt more mortified than anything by his presence. You and Slash weren't friends, per se. More like an occasional fuck-buddy when you had both drank too much. You couldn't remember the name of the girl who you had met him through, but you worked with her and she skipped town a few months ago. She'd started seeing Duff, dragging you and your other colleagues along with her to his shows and parties with them, and that's where you'd met Slash.

You didn't want a relationship, and neither did he, so your arrangement worked out well for the both of you - until now.

Having a close friend see you like this was bad enough, let alone him.

"Why would you be sorry, baby?"

His soft voice brought more tears to your eyes and you shook your head.

"Don't call me that." You pulled away from him, keeping your eyes away from his so you wouldn't have to see his confusion or hurt, if there was any there. You knew what your relationship with him was, and you knew who he was. You weren't a person, you were a pussy. "Look, Slash, we both know you came here to fuck me tonight but clearly that isn't going to be happening, so you don't have to stick around."

"Y/N." He spoke your name softly, sounding more hurt than you'd imagine him to be by your words. His hand tightened it's grip on your shoulders, preventing you from getting up and walking away like you oh so wanted to do. "I like having you around."

His words stopped you from trying to pull away from his grip.

"Not just because of what you can do for me and give to me, but because I like you. As a person, not just someone I can fuck."

His words took you by surprise. Naturally, in the time you'd been together you'd developed some sort of friendship, but in your mind you had always thought it would be sexual for him.

"So I'm going to sit with you on your floor, clean your foot, and your gonna tell me what's running through your head, ok?" He asked, once again pulling you out of your mind.

You nodded before your dry mouth found the words. "O-Ok."

He moved from his position beside you, leaving you aware of the lack of warmth he had been giving you. He discarded your dirty pieces of paper towel and reached for a washcloth, standing up to wet it before he crouched back down in front of you and gently grabbed hold of your bleeding foot, placing it in his lap.

He almost cradled it more lovingly than his guitar, as he ran the cloth over both the dried blood and the somewhat deep cut the glass had left in your foot. It only took a few moments for him to completely clean it up, far better than you'd managed.

Somehow, the drunk man running a wet rag over your bloody foot was the most intimate you'd ever felt with him in all your time together. A small fact that scared the shit out of you.

Of course you'd thought about a relationship with Slash, but it would never work out. He was Slash, and as his band gained more popularity, more and more women through themselves at them. He already had his pick of the litter, and to be completely honest you wondered what he was still doing coming to your door at ungodly hours of the morning. You also couldn't be the only woman he was sleeping with, not by a long shot. You were just one of the many.

And that was just him - you had your own baggage and list of reasons why a relationship would never work. Every man in your past had raised a hand against you, leaving you with a bad taste in your mouth. Not to mention that you were technically unemployed, only being paid cash under the table for your dancing, and living in a home fit for a mouse. You'd been thinking of giving up and moving back home.

"You got any band aids?" Slash asked, his brown eyes peering at you from beneath his mop of curls.

You nodded, mouth dry. "Medicine cabinet."

He squeezed your ankle before standing up, a silent promise that he'd be back soon. It only left your mind reeling more.

You had to end whatever it was that you had going on with him if you didn't want to end up hurt, but the way he came back and tenderly placed a band aid on your foot, eyebrows furrowed like he was performing brain surgery pulled on your heartstrings in a way that you just despised.

"Your not bleeding anywhere else?" He asked gently and you shook your head. The only other physical pain you were in was your massive headache. Your brain was throbbing against your skull from all the crying and it had left you exhausted.

"Just take me to bed please." Your little whisper may as well have broken his heart as he leaned forward to help pull your wobbly frame up.

He couldn't carry you - he was too intoxicated for that, but he could let you lean against his body for support as the two of you made your way into your bedroom, a route he was far too familiar with.

You made a beeline for your bed, not caring you were still in your jeans and tight tank top, you just kicked off your heels and let your body hit the mattress.

Your head found it's way too your pillow, and through your already half closed eyes you watched Slash, the notorious guitar player who went through women like underwear, kick off his boots and climb into the bed beside you, prompting you to roll over. It surprised you - you definitely thought he'd left by now, by you didn't fight it when he lazily wrapped his arms around you.

It was a summer night, so the heat between the two of you was uncomfortable, but his presence was helping you more than you'd like to admit, so you brought your forehead towards his chest, letting it rest against him, moving in sync with his deep breaths.

"You never told me what was wrong." He whispered softly, a hand coming up behind your head to smooth down your messy hair. His chest vibrated as he spoke, comforting you. He was there.

"Everything." You answered him truthfully. He squeezed you a little tighter in response. "I got fired last week. I never told you."

You could feel him still.

"Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Why would I?" You asked him, honestly. "You aren't my boyfriend. I never thought you'd care this much."

"I care more than you think." He almost sounded hurt by your words.

"I know that now." You leaned into him a little more, if it was even possible. You felt him throw a leg over your own. Normally him doing that would send nervous butterflies through your stomach, but not this time. This time it reassured you and comforted you. There was no reason for you to be nervous with him anymore.

"So what're you gonna do?" He asked quietly, into the darkness of your room and you sighed.

"I've been stripping for some cash under the table. It's enough to get me by until I find something better."

You felt his hands tighten even more around you. Not in the kind, gentle caring way like earlier though - no, this was possessive. It was jealous and almost angry. Not toward you, of course, but toward the fact that you had to entertain men, men who weren't him, to afford to live now.

"I don't mind it, really. The girls are all really sweet there, I was just thinking about how disappointed my dad would be in me."

There it was. Slash knew about your father, a story you hated telling. You hated giving people the sob-story, you always felt like it was a cry for attention, like no one really cared and you were speaking to deaf ears, but tonight it didn't feel that way.

"I doubt he would be. You're surviving. It's more than some people can say. And speaking for myself, I'm so, so proud of you."

You almost snorted. "What for?"

"For moving halfway across the country to a city where you knew nobody. That takes guts." He started, and you could tell he wasn't finished. "You've worked your ass off to make your ends meet, and even though your apartment isn't much, it's more than what most people here can show off."

"Thank you." You said sincerely, your hand snaking around his torso and resting on the small of his back. You traced small circles with your fingertips, and felt goosebumps erupt across his back. Strangely, this was the most intimate thing you'd ever done with him.

"That's not all."

"Mmm." You hummed. "What else?"

"I'm proud of you for letting me be here tonight."

His words held more vulnerability in them than you'd ever heard from him, and it made you open your eyes and peer up at him, to find him already looking down at you.

"You're strong and independent, and you don't want a relationship from what you've been through, and I respect that but fuck I- I just want you to know that I wish we could do this more. I want to come into your bed and hold you and talk to you instead of having a quick fuck and leaving. So I'm proud of you for letting me do this."

"I wish we could do this more too." You whispered silently after a moment, tearing your gaze from his, unable to handle the way he looked at you. "But you're gonna hurt me one day if we do. You won't want to, but you will."

He shook his head no. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Swear on my damn guitar."

You chuckled, unsure of what to say.

"I'm not asking you to date me Y/N." He said gently, this time taking your chin in his hand and raising it so you could look him in the eye. "I'm just asking you to be more than a quick fuck. I don't wanna fuck around with other women, and I don't wanna be out of your door before 5 in the morning. I want people to see you and know who you are to me."

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his words. Not the suffocating squeeze you got when you thought of your father, but the kind of squeeze you got from someone new making their way into your heart, setting up a little space for themselves that you wouldn't be able to get rid of no matter how hard you tried.

"I can do that for you." You nodded, swallowing softly.

He seemed almost surprised by your words at first, before leaning down and taking your lips in a soft kiss, softer than he would normally kiss you. You could tell he wanted to deepen it, to climb on top of you and make love rather than fuck you, but you were tired. You were so, so tired, so you pulled away, giving him the hint.

He allowed you to rest your head against his chest again, one arm wrapped tightly around you to keep you close in the night.

It was a strange feeling knowing that he'd still be here beside you when you woke up, but it was a welcome feeling that left you warm inside and safe as you felt yourself fall asleep.

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𝐀/𝐍: Welp I really hope you liked it. It got longer than I thought it would be, and I don't love how I ended it but I do really like this! More fics will be coming soon, next up for Duff, and my requests are 100% open for you!

Currently I've been using prompts to help me write these, but if there's anything in particular you wanna see let me know <3

#slash #slash x reader #slash imagine #slash fanfic #slash fic #slash angst #slash x you #slash smut #slash fluff

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