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likesomeoneinlovee · 7 months ago

Text

An Artist’s Way

pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: You run into Arthur while on an errand in Saint Denis while he invites you to come with him to Charles Châtenay's gallery. Afterwards you two go out for a drink, then eventually to a local hotel where you find out Arthur had been drawing you in Charles' "style"

Warnings: smut with plot HEAVILY based off the game's mission - Reader briefly mentioned to be a virgin, fingering, unprotected PIV sex, riding, creampie, oral sex M!receiving + F!receiving. Younger woman reader, Arthur's a big boy, canon that he grabs the headboard sorry not sorry.

Author’s Note: Based on the stranger mission: '”an artist's way” in CH4!

More and more you’ve found yourself becoming the gang’s “errand boy”.

This was often Arthur’s job, though he’s been gone more often now, either on bounty’s or doing the dirty work in the gang. So Dutch had you do the clean work. You’d say you didn’t mind it, the running around at least, after all it was one of your only excuses to get away from camp. You’d jump when Pearson needed more herbs or vegetables from the store or if Dutch needed some cigars. You usually went to Saint Denis most of the time, it was the closest to camp after all -and something about running these errands in the city made you feel right at home. The gang was a downgrade from growing up in the city of course, still not completely used to it: the running, it was as if every time you were comfortable everyone had to pack up and move to a whole new location. Hell, sometimes it means crossing states.

You had just walked back to your horse after buying some goods from the general store across the street, packing your purchases into the saddle bags of your hitched horse -some canned fruits and vegetables, cigarettes as per request from most of the people in camp, and some ammo Dutch asked for, just to stock up I suppose. As you worked on buttoning the flap to the saddle bag back down, making sure none of your goods would be seen by people walking by, after all you spent your hard earned -ahem, stolen money- on those things, you could’ve sworn you heard a man ask for directions, a man with a voice as familiar to you as you own.

You looked over your shoulder to see the man, the sandy brown locks under the gambling hat told you enough, why was Arthur in the city? You didn’t think Dutch had any chores for him today, thus why he asked you to go to the store. He held a small card in his hand, looking from the back of it before his gaze fell back on the woman passing, the one he had asked for directions. Once he got them he’d nod to the woman, eyes falling back onto the card as she walked off.

You’d pat your horse on the neck before walking onto the sidewalk where Arthur stood, he didn’t notice you til’ you tapped on his shoulder. “Arthur?” You were sure he nearly jumped out of his skin. If your voice wasn’t so familiar he probably would’ve elbowed you out of pure defense.

“Christ–! you tryin’ to kill me sneakin’ up on me like that?” He’d pause for a moment as if his brain finally processed that it was you. “The hell are you doing here anyway?”

“Good news, you’ve been replaced.”

“Wha–” His brows would furrow together as his mind cranked to figure out your meaning, that was until you pulled your little shopping list out from the satchel swung over your shoulder. “Oh, that.”

Of course he couldn’t care less about being ‘replaced’ in that department. It was usually a pain in his ass –And honestly you were a pain in his ass too. It’s not that he didn’t like you, you were just ultimately too spunky for his nature. He’d gladly admit you were a good shot, a good killer. So with that you made a good member for this gang. Personality wise he couldn’t help but wince at your jokes while others would laugh, the tiniest amount of attitude that laced each of your sentences. He wasn’t one to like immaturity, especially from someone who was an adult. Though, you were barely even that.

“Have fun runnin’ around with that list of yours then. Seems you’re really movin’ on up.” He’d scorn.

He’d look down at the card in his hands, then back up to look around his surroundings.

“Do you know where this is?”

He handed you the card, the finished paper now warm from him holding it for so long now against your fingertips. It was an address to one of the buildings on this street, you were surprised he hadn’t realized by now.

“That woman didn’t tell you? It’s right on this street.”

“No.” He’d roll his eyes. “She looked at me like I lost my mind.”

You’d snicker at that, now walking down the sidewalk with him, both of your boots clicking against the stone sidewalk. Then you stopped in front of the brick building. ”Here, I think.” You’d give that card one last look, noticing the name on the back of the card, you’d squint to see if you were reading it right -Charles Châtenay? you could’ve sworn I heard that name–

My eyes flicked up to the poster on the side of the brick, looks like it was what I thought after all. I usually pick up the paper when I go this route. The route of aimlessly following Dutch’s list as I walk or ride around the city, gives me something to read when I get back to Shady Belle. Seems the artist had an open gallery today. you couldn’t help but snort, the thought of you, Arthur Morgan going to an art gallery full of practically- well, pornography, now that just might be the funniest damn thing you’ve heard all week. -Your immaturity was truly striking.

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Morgan.” You’d snark. Of course when Arthur wasn’t acting like the man he was -the same man with five-thousand dollars on his head alone, the same who’s murdered more than a person could fathom he was just your regular ol’ suck up.

“Don’t start with that now, I’m already annoyed I gotta go to this thing.” He tapped his boot onto the sidewalk, taking that card back from you and putting it back into his satchel. “Well, ‘less you wanna come in with me. You’d have a field day with this kinda thing. Châtenay seems like a man who’d entertain you anyway.”

You’d think it over for a moment, you could hear chatter already coming from the windows of the building that were open just a crack. Surely you’d find entertainment in it but you were also fond of the arts as well. Though paintings of women laid out nude wouldn’t strike something in you as it would in a man, you’d be surprised if you were the only woman in that building other than the ones on canvas. –At least this would bring some entertainment to your day.

“I’ll keep you company. Lead the way– or, shall I? Seeing you’re horrible with directions.”

“Up the stairs and to the right.” He’d recite the directions written on the back of that card. “I think I can remember that.”

You two walked into the building together, up the stairs and to the right and you were there. The first hall was filled with sculptures, beautiful paintings hung against the blue walls, the next room you two stepped in was Châtenay’s, you and Arthur’s gaze met with women’s breasts and men’s cocks painted with oils on the canvases. It surely was– something. Arthur tugged his collar to clear his throat.

The room had more of a variety of guests than you thought, actually more women than men which came as a shock up until you realized these women were actually the models conversing with the other models. They seemed quite proud of their work, respectably so. Arthur had spotted the french artist across the room chatting one of the models up, he wouldn’t want you to get mixed up in his own charades so Arthur would squeeze your shoulder for your attention just for a moment.

“Why don’t you stay here, pretend to be a model or sumthin’, princess. Wouldn’t want you to get your ear talked off by Charles.”

Your eyes fell on the french artist as he stood distracted across the room, you could barely hear nor understand the words that he was blabbering out through his thick french accent. Something told you maybe it was a good idea for Morgan to handle what he’s gotten himself into with this man before you were stuck talking to someone you could hardly understand, stuck replying with ‘mhm’s’ and ‘uh-huh’s’ as if you knew what he was saying. Although you’d feel a bit awkward standing there and staring at the intimate paintings of both men and women while standing in the same room as the people being portrayed in oil, it’d probably be best for you at least, you were only here to keep Arthur company and today you felt you’d be less of a nuisance to him by obeying his wishes.

“Sure thing.”

You watched as Arthur walked away from you all the way to the other side of the gallery leaving you alone with the model’s dressed in their elegant, expensive attire that you could only dream of owning. And unfortunately due to the paintings you now know what’s under the rich clothing.

– That evening only got more interesting from there on. It was quite ridiculous, you and Arthur couldn’t have been there for more than fifteen minutes before all hell started to break loose. The husbands and wives of the models had practically raided the building before shouting at their spouses, you couldn’t really tell what was happening between Châtenay being attacked by the men and the women, being hit with a variety of chairs, purses, and of course, fists. Before things could get out of hand with you in the mix Arthur came over to you. He had a wide smile on his face, could’ve sworn this was the first time you’ve seen him laugh so hard he had developed tears in the corners of his eyes.

“You should probably get outta here before you get in the mix of fists, sweetheart–” His voice quickly cut off by a crash as he escorted you out of the gallery. “Wait outside.” He’d pat your shoulder, leaving you standing at the top of the stairs as he left to go help the artist.

“Sure– thing.” It was like that turned into your only response.

You didn’t really have time to leave with a jest, or something more than two words, not to be a pussy but you really didn’t feel like being hit by a stray flying chair, so you just walked down the stairs and back outside. You’d laugh to yourself as you walked down the street and away from that brick building, of course the highlight of the day only lasted a short moment, it was quick and rushed, but really you didn’t need to stare at those paintings any longer than you already have. -You felt as if Charles or the gallery wouldn’t be mentioned or thought of again, at least in this moment. But you’d be wrong about that. -The sun was setting now, it looked beautiful against all the buildings that made up the city, you found a bench to sit on, figured you’d read that paper you got earlier while you waited for Arthur. Your eyes would skim the words but nothing would really register.

A little while had gone by and after the sun finally set, the stars scattered against the dark sky as you stayed patiently waiting on that wooden –and quite uncomfortable bench, constantly finding yourself adjusting and shifting to get more comfortable, ‘course it didn’t work . You heard footsteps, looking up from the newspaper you felt you read about a hundred times by now out of pure boredom you were relieved to see that it was Arthur.

“Jesus, I thought you’d never come back. Why’d you take so long?”

“Had to escort the dumbass home so he didn’t get killed. Seems he had a whore waiting for him an’ everythin’.”

You’d let out a short breath at that, not quite a laugh, you felt your body getting a bit tired but you quickly shook off the feeling, rubbing your eyes with the back of your palm before standing from the bench, leaving the paper behind you, you had a bit of a ride back to Shady Belle, wouldn’t want to fall asleep on the back of your horse. You also had to get all that food and goods you bought back to the camp –though you weren’t quite sure how urgent we needed the provision.

You and Arthur started walking down the sidewalk, side-by-side, the night air now nipping at your skin through the thin fabric of your blouse. It had been too long without a good tease from you to purposely annoy him, clearing your throat to prepare to speak.

“How do you know that artist anyway?”

He’d look down at you as he walked, that was a fair question to ask.

“I met him in the saloon –not the big one down the street here, the smaller one. Don’t know if you’ve ever been there.”

You’d shrug. “I’ve passed by it.”

Arthur would nod. “Met him in there and somehow he convinced me to go to that little show. Gave one of his–” He'd stop his words looking down at you before shaking his head.

“Nevermind”

Charles gave him one of his many artworks, a nude woman, an illustration that he embarrassingly kept safely in his satchel since. And now he’d especially not want to tell you, you were already amused that he even went to the damn show which he himself had more fun that he should’ve. Though, to mention, he didn’t start having fun til’ Châtenay was getting his ass handed to him.

You on the other hand were now dying to know what he gave Arthur, –can’t just start a sentence without finishing it. You had a feeling begging him for the answer wouldn’t work of course, you’d try anyway.

“Oh come onnnnnn.” You sneered. “M’sick of you doing that, you’ve been on this earth long enough to realize you can’t just start a sentence without finishing.”

‘N’ I’ve known you long enough to know I shouldn’t be givin’ you any more reasons to laugh at me.”

“I don’t– laugh,” You’d scoff. “Five months isn’t long either, you barely know me.”

Morgan let out a sigh, tying to think of a good excuse to kinda brush away what he said. Something to finish the sentence he started. “He gave me some money, paid me to go to that exhibit. Don’t want you goin’ around thinkin’ I’m a pervert who went for a good time.”

You’d look up to him after he said that. If that’s all it was –money. “I wasn’t thinkin’ that.”

Well, maybe it crossed your mind once or twice. But then again why would he stop himself from saying that? Right now you couldn’t bother to make sense of it, you just shrugged it off. –Now the walk was silent for the most part, there wasn’t really anything to say. Once you got to your horse you’d pat the saddle bag, feeling that your goods hadn’t been stolen, letting out a sigh before turning back to Arthur.

“We should both get back to camp before someone gets worried.”

Really, you didn’t know who would get worried, you’ve stayed the night at a hotel in the city more times than you could count just so you could sleep in a comfortable bed ‘stead of your worn, hard cot.

“No one will be worried. Come on I’m the one who made you stay out here longer than you intended, I’ll buy you a whiskey or sumthin’.”

You’d look at him, almost surprised to hear the offer. It was rare for him to be sweet, if that was the right word for offering you a drink. It sounded good, the thought alone of the cool alcohol burning down your throat already waking you up a bit more than you were.

“That’d– that’d be nice.”

Not too long after those words were shared you and Morgan had made it into the saloon, the faint playing of the piano heard from across the street now loud along with the chatter between people sitting and eating at their tables to the men around their table playing poker. Since it was a bit later in the day –the night now fully taking its course, it was like a signal for men and women alike to flood the saloon. You and Arthur had found a booth to be separated from the crowd at least a little bit. You both set your satchels down on the corners of your seats, Arthur’s finger tapping against the finished wood that made up the table before he took out a cigarette from his satchel along with his lighter, flicking the flame before holding it against his cigarette to light it, Adjusting to stuff the lighter conveniently into the pocket of his pants, inhaling the tobacco into his lungs before blowing the smoke away from the booth.

“I’ll get up, get us some drinks.”

“Mhm.” You’d hum as you watched him shift out of the booth, walking away to go to the bar. You’d notice something in his empty space, a piece of paper had fallen out of his satchel. You didn’t think anything of it of course, didn’t bother reaching over to put it back in for him. Curiosity killed the cat.

A few minutes later Arthur came back with a couple bottles, sitting back down into the leather seats of the booth with a sigh, the bottles clinking against the table as he placed them down.

“Thanks.” You'd nod, popping the cork out the bottle with your thumb.

“Just two beers, don’t wanna get too drunk, not here.”

Boy, was he wrong.

After those two beers Arthur had gotten up again to get another. Once beers were out he went to whiskey. One whiskey was out he grabbed any alcohol they had at that bar. Two turned into four. Four turned into six, –eight… Ten.. Fuck.

To be fair you didn’t have as many drinks as Arthur deciding to play responsible tonight, but it was still enough.

The once clean table turned into a mess of empty bottles, glasses, Arthur’s cigarettes and the ashes from made a mess of the ashtray pushed to the side of the table. Random splashes of golden liquid dripped on the table. Now piss drunk in a booth with an also piss drunk Morgan was… Actually a real fuckin’ good time. A peep could escape your lips and Arthur could double over the table with laughter, same with you.

One idiotic conversation after another you finally thought of it again even through your drunken haze –whatever that artist ‘gave him’ to persuade him into going to the gallery. Why was it clawing at you so much? You usually weren’t so interested in him or his life. Maybe it was because you knew he was blatantly lying to you.

“Now– you tell me the hell that– that artist gave you– remember?”

Finishing the sentence with a hiccup you’d look back at Arthur. Now since you both were a couple more shots away from passing out onto the sea of glasses that made up the table, both of your tongues were loose, of course.

He let out a laugh, shaking his head as he reached into his satchel. “Goddamn, guess you know how to loosen a man up–” He pulled out that piece of paper that was earlier peeking out from the top of the leather. “--Gave me this pretty little drawin’. Ain’t she a fuckin’ ‘beaut, eh?”

The picture he slid over to you from the other side of the table was a photograph of a nude woman of course, her bare breasts on a perfect display as she perched on a chair. You couldn’t help but laugh, was he really carrying this around all this time? Sure– that creep of a man could truly draw, but Arthur wasn’t one to keep aimless gifts close to him, definitely not directly in his satchel for safe keepings –though you couldn’t imagine what he was actually doing with this picture. If it’s what you thought that would be pretty damn pathetic.

“He surely can draw– that man–” You’d slur, sliding the illustration back to Arthur, wasn’t something you really needed to study. “--Now, you don’t–” You’d clear your throat “Surely you don’t–”

“Now princess, I’d need a lot more than a sketch for that.”

You’d laugh, his words melted right off his tongue from the alcohol. Right now you couldn’t even force yourself to think anything of the words he was saying, and anyway, the thought of a man –even Arthur jerking off to a measly sketch of a woman sounded more unappealing than something that’d get you going. Why would it anyway? Arthur was– well, he was Arthur. You’d often be cautious to even call him a friend of yours. Though right about now in the haze of booze that clouded your brain and same his, he’d most definitely call you his friend as an introduction at least.

The music, the chatter, the yelling and hollering in the saloon was echoing through your head. You were sure the pianist practically banging on the keys of the piano would split your ears open if you stayed in that place any longer –you’d ignore it for now, hell maybe even another drink would solve that problem.

“...I didn’t need to know that information.” You’d finally get past your lips with another giggle, slouching over the table with that damned empty bottle still in your grasp, being swung around to enunciate all your sentences.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, he couldn’t help the grin that pulled at his lips –blame the brandy for that. He leaned back into the leather seats of the booth, his arm lazily draped onto the table, tapping his finger against the glass bottle he held –completely empty.

“You asked.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip from the glass bottle, savoring the feeling of the cool liquid slipping down his throat, feeling unnecessarily in love with the burning. You’d pout, tap your finger against the bottle you held, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, a smirk quickly replaced how your bottom lip would stick out from your top.

“Didn't expect an answer– not like that–” You’d hic, “–not from you.”

“What are you– drawin’ these types of things too? Psh– maybe you needed the reference.” You’d mock him, that brought a scoff from his lips as if you just said something so fucking absurd, he shook his head, slamming his bottle back down onto the wooden table as you swirled your empty bottle around the table. His gaze was seemingly stuck on the table as if he was examining the grooves and knots in the wood, running his finger along the imperfections.

“No, I–” His voice was conveniently cut off by a bang coming from one of the tables, more loud hollering, yelling –looks like someone won a poker game at least, the table surrounded by wasted men, all a bit too excited to be here tonight. Arthur was clearly getting antsy and the alcohol was even clouding your vision.

Imagine a radio overlapping ten different songs over each other and now replace the songs with the not-so pleasant sounds of men who’d been guzzling booze all night screaming over losing their money by their own stupid and idiotic decisions, women cackling over the city’s pointless gossip– that damn piano! You were ready to smash your beer bottle over the pianist’s head–

You tried to take a swig from your empty bottle before tossing it onto the table with the others. With a groan Arthur buried his face into his worked palms, he seemed just as sick of it as well.

“Goddamn–” He’d groan. His hands pressing harder into his face as if he was desperately trying to wipe away the noise. “Fuck. Fuck…”

You two just couldn’t stand it anymore.

So, why stand it?

You and Morgan made it out of the bar successfully without beating someone with one of the bottles from the mess you had carelessly left on the table –you two getting out of there in time for the bartender to say anything. Swinging your satchels over your shoulders you two left the godforsaken noisebox that saloon had turned on, now all the ‘’hootin’ ‘N’ hollerin’,, was a faint sound heard from the distance as you walked down the sidewalk.

You rubbed your temple with the pad of your thumb, feeling a little better now without all the over fucking excitement.

“Gah– fuck.” Arthur would lean up against the brick building beside him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand before looking forward, noticing the lit sign for the hotel in the distance. It was quite obvious you two wouldn’t want to be riding your horse back to camp right now. Morgan checked his pocket watch, the arms of the clock pointing to 11:35. ‘Kay, not too late.

“You don’t wanna ride all the way to camp right now, do ya?” His voice deeper than normal from all the drinking, the slurring.

“Not particularly,”

With a pause your head turned to the sign of the hotel, it’d be better just to go right straight there, once again you might’ve gone it anyway tonight just for that comfortable bed that comes with the deal –Hell, two dollars could get you a bed with two rooms if you’re lucky enough.

A hum escaped your throat as you nodded. “I–”

“Dont– don’t worry I’ll be payin’”

As if you didn’t have two dollars to spare you perked up a bit at that. Guess it was all you needed to hear.

No more excuses, you’d be spending the night with this drunken fool.

You two both were wobbly on your feet, of course with the amount of shots and bottles practically swallowed whole you could go figure that. You walked into the front doors as you tried to adjust your clothes, Arthur pushed his hat up so it wouldn’t be slouched over his eyes.

“Ah, may I help you two?” The clerk at the front desk had one of those fake overexaggerated smiles on his face.

“Just lookin’ for a room to stay the night. Nothin’ special.” He’d clear his throat, trying to shake off the drunken slur that was making his voice. “Two beds.”

Of course he had to clarify that– er, it only made sense anyway. It’d be really awkward if you and Arthur had to share a–

“Sorry, we don’t have rooms with two beds here.”

Shit.

Well it was logical at least, why would they? Let’s think. Who actually gets hotel rooms – commonly it’s men who’ve bought themselves a whore for the night or someone looking for a place to rest on their ventures. Not often you have two drunken outlaws stumbling in asking for two beds.

“Fine. M’That’s just– fine.”

Arthur would pass some money over the desk to the man behind, in exchange he received a key to the room.

“Upstairs, first room to your left, enjoy the stay folks.”

Jesus, you could’ve sworn that smile was melting off that clerk’s face as he spoke. You’d rub your temple again as you and Arthur just said a quick ‘’thank you,, in unison.

Both of your boots would stomp heavily up the stairs. – upstairs first room to your left. Once there you turned to it, Arthur put the key in, turned it, opened the door. The rusted hinges creaked as it opened, though despite that sound the door opened to reveal a very nice looking hotel room. The bed was made, a thick quilt and were those– satin pillows?

Surely this was paradise.

Arthur’s eyes looked around the room, other than the bed, a dresser in front, couple nightstands and an oil lamp to give the room a nice warm light –there was an arm chair pushed to the side of the room.

“I’ll take the chair.”

He groaned as he shimmied his coat off of his shoulders, lazily throwing it onto the arm of the chair. Now with this action he also removed his satchel, it hit the nightstand by the bed, narrowly missing the lamp and hitting the edge before his palms met with his forehead again.

“M’gonna try to find a bathroom in this place–”

You’d let a scowl cross your mouth as he said that, watching as he stumbled out the door, closing it behind him.

Well, at least you could get some peace and quiet– is what you would say if there wasn’t the sound of the bed creaking clearly from rocking back and forth and a quick pace wasn’t coming from behind the drywall of your own room. Whatever, somehow that could be easily ignored by you.

You did notice something more interesting than that though –something you couldn’t seemed to ignore: Arthur’s satchel had fallen from where he had thrown it, landing onto the floor as all his things fell all of it –a mess of papers and money, a couple packs of cigarettes too. You’d click your tongue as you went to pick it up, noticing his journal had fallen out too.

You crouched down to start putting his things back into the leather bag, the money, the cigarettes, though your hands lingered on the worn leather back of his journal for a bit longer than they should’ve.

No, you shouldn’t.

But what if you just– one peak wouldn’t hurt.

Arthur would probably take a while anyway figuring he went to presumably empty his body of all the alcohol he had drank in just one evening.

Though as you looked more at the mess on the ground below your knees you’d notice the papers more, one was right side up but underneath the journal, so you’d lift it. Doing so revealed the full drawing done in pencil–

A sketch of a nude woman much like one Châtenay had drawn. But this one– it seemed different. There was more detail, more fluidity to the art, it looked all the more real. Down to the freckles drawn down the valley of her breasts.

You flipped over another stray paper, this one of the same. A naked woman, her breasts on full display, detailed. You’d flip another

And then another.

You’d open his journal.

Flipping through the pages where he’s drawn various things, trees, animals, beautiful scenery of places he’s traveled with the locations written in the corners, some pages filled with chicken scratch of his thoughts– you’d pay no mind to those. You started to notice the pages that were ripped out from his journal yet kept in, more drawings.

Were you going crazy or did these drawings turn from your average woman with long wavy locks and bright eyes to– you…?

You felt a coil in your gut as you looked down at the images, not the bad kind of coil that you’d get while you’re being chased by an armed man or the kinda coil you’d get as a kid when your parents caught you stealing from the cookie jar– no, you could tell it wasn’t that kind from the additional heat that pooled in your tummy.

Your breathing would pick up, your eyebrows knitted closely as you looked down at these drawings. Your eyes. Your lips. Your nose. Quite obviously your hair too–

Fuck. You were beginning to hear footsteps stumbling down the hallway. You’d quickly shove the contents of his satchel back in, you surely didn't have time to worry about where everything went– if it’d just fall out again, if he’d notice it had been ran and rummaged through. Once it was all in there you quickly latched the button and placed it back on the nightstand, quickly standing from your knees as soon as he opened the door.

“Hi–”

How could a two letter greeting sound guilty as ever?

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as a grunt escaped the back of his throat, though now looking at him maybe you didn’t wish you were as drunk as him right now –even if it probably meant you’d be forgetting about those drawings by now, maybe you’d just brush it off.

He closed the door behind him as he coughed into his fist, gently guiding you out of the way so he could get to the satchel on the nightstand–

Fuck.

As he undid the button he reached in to grab a packet of cigarettes when he noticed one of them was missing.

“You take one of these?”

He’d say, popping the last one of the packet actually still in his satchel between his lips before lighting it.

“What– no! No– I don’t smoke…”

He’d look at you with his half-lidded gaze he’s had since the saloon, furrowing his brows at your reaction, frazzled for no good reason.

“Christ, girl. You don’t take your liquor well.”

That was funny, you’d think it was the other way around.

“I think it’s quite the opposite, Arthur.”

You’d see his gaze shift to the floor as he looked around, where could’ve that pack gone? He was sure he had a second one– no, he knew he had a second one since he just went out and bought it earlier in the day and– Ah, there it was. Halfway to being pushed completely under the bed Arthur bent to pick it back up. He was too delirious to think of why it even got there.

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you looked at him, his body– those fingers that you now knew were once holding a pencil to paper, sketching you, what he imagined to be underneath those pretty blouses you wore, those skirts that stopped at your ankles.

This was killing you. Even though you hadn’t said a word to him you still felt like you were lying to him, deceiving him. You never had a problem with that before anyway, why start now?

You knew what else you always were –that damn loud, snarky girl he always hated to be around. The one who’d let any words leave her mouth without a thought and now you’re here, standing in silence, you’d think your mouth was sewn shut.

Under the shadow of the bed Arthur saw something else– a paper.

Shit.

He tapped his boot on top of it and dragged it out, the sound of the paper sliding across the wooden floor heightened your senses again. Course it was one of those drawings, those drawings. It was his turn for his heart to rapidly thump against his ribs.

“Fuck.” You’d hear him groan as he bent down to pick up that paper now, looking it over, it wasn’t one of the drawings of you, one of the quick sketches of a woman he hadn’t named.

“You didn’t–”

…

“I did.”

The room fell silently quickly after that, how could it not? There was no point of you mustering up a flustered, messy defense in a long drawn out blabber that’d escape your lips so you’d just admit it. It wasn’t nothing you did wrong anyway. Arthur sighed, rubbing his hand over his face once more as he shoved the drawing back into his satchel, easily frustrated now he’d just crump it up into a ball before getting it into the leather bag. He braced his hands on the edge of the night stand, taking in a deep long breath before letting out an even deeper and even longer breath out.

You should say something– say something so he could look you in the eye.

“I– didn’t ask for those.”

“I know.” He’d breathe.

“I didn’t even realize you considered us friendly– I had no clue you–”

“I know.”

Your fingers would twitch at your sides, swallowing hard.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”

At first in his head those words sounded– like they could be angry, it might’ve been his brain telling him that. Then he heard that tone– that almost breathless tone in your voice. He finally got the courage back to look you in the eyes, his fingers peeling away from the edge of that nightstand, if his nails dug into the finished wood any harder he would’ve left indents.

“You should be angry with me.”

“I’m not. I mean– I couldn’t be farther from that.”

You’d stop a moment, his breathing was heavy and so was yours. Arthur would push and twist his cigarette into the ashtray to put it out, blowing out the rest of the smoke through his nostrils with a suppressed, small cough.

“What are you then, princess?’

The name he had been calling you all day now sounding completely different in this heavy tone. You knew exactly what you were. Voicing that would be a little difficult. You felt if you did end up blurting something out it’d either kill the moment or kill him. His voice still had a slur to it from the alcohol, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Your own throat ran dry as you flicked your eyes to his plump, pink lips.

A man like Morgan knew what that look you gave meant, he’s had his own fair share of whores over the years, working girls were his usual go-to after Mary at least, before too. I mean, Christ, the man had himself a son once he knew what your eyes alone were saying.

“Why don’t you find out…” You’d finally blurt.

His boots clicked against the ground as he walked close to you, his hand reaching out to cup the nape of your neck.

The way his face slowly, so carefully slowly moved towards yours you’d think he was going in for a slow, gentle capture of your lips– not quite.

His face twitched– leaving you with a brief flash of micro emotion before he would collide his lips against your own, his fingers curling and tangling in your locks of hair.

His tongue delved into your mouth before your own body got the chance to respond, your arms quickly wrapping around his neck as you moaned into the kiss. His hands slid down your shoulders, arms, the curve of your waist, hips, all the way down to your thighs, hands moving to the back of them to hoist you up against his body, his palms laid flat against your ass.

Your legs locked around his hips, finding difficulty to find a place to settle your hands as his tongue fucked your mouth, his shoulders? His arms? You’d eventually give them a home on his vest-covered chest, your fingernails digging into the black leather.

He could feel the denim of his pants stretch around his growing cock, he hoisted you higher, your clothed breasts practically at his lips now, those lips quickly parted from your lips to move down your neck, sucking at your pulse point.

You would never consider yourself noisy, not ever. Your life so far had never called for sex, sure men had given you their eyes, licking their lips seemingly to grab your attention but they never did, failing miserably instead of getting what they wanted from you. Playing with yourself was a lost cause but you’d count it as experience, the frustrated pumps of your own fingers into your pussy weren’t enough to draw pleasure, relieve the ache in your stomach, it only made it tighter.

Arthur had sucked a hickey into your skin, he made sure it’d be hidden by your hair since it was so far up on your neck. His roughened hands still would squeeze your ass cheeks, fingers working you like dough before giving it a quick, hard spank. Almost just muscle memory for him.

With a grunt he’d lower you two down onto the bed, his mouth quickly returned to yours with the same –nearly violent pace. The bulk of his muscles pressing into your more so petite form. His hand roamed your body – your legs, thighs, stomach, moving up to cup then squeeze your soft breast, the pad of his thumb teasing your budded nipple through the thin fabric of your blouse rewarding him with a moan from your sweet lips.

Just the feeling of his clothing rubbing against his body was driving him mad, ‘’uncomfortable,, couldn’t even express it anymore, it was hell. His hands reluctantly pulled away from you, at a quick pace his thick fingers undid the buttons of his heavy vest, when that was gone, quickly discarded to the floor he finally felt like he was gaining - at least some - of his breath back, now it was a matter of his shirt, quickly undoing the buttons of that next. Fuck, he needed you.

He needed you right fucking now.

He shimmied the shirt off of his shoulders, down the muscles of his arms before it dropped to the floor behind him –he was on top of you again. His hips bucked into yours quick and hard. Grinding. Rubbing.

Your hair would splay behind you on the bed, always thought in moments like this your eyes should be closed, that seemed like common knowledge, your half-lidded eyes still refused to fully close, especially now that his shirt was off. You’ve of course seen Morgan with his shirt off before, tending to his wounds, his cuts, bathing in the lake out by camp– close up like this it was different. His biceps pulsing as his hands braced on either side of your head, fingers curling into the blanket. Puffs of hard breaths would escape him, it was almost like a pattern before he’d grab you by the sides of your thighs tight.

Arthur would let himself fall back against the pillows that piled against the bed frame, dragging your body right onto his lap –now it was obvious how hard he was, that mass between his legs pulsating against your ass, your back pressed against his chest as he snaked an arm around you, quickly so fucking fast. He’d begin unbuttoning your blouse, tugging it right off of you, you were surprised he didn’t tear the fabric off of your pretty little body. His hands moved up, groping and squeezing your tits from behind, one of his hands moved down your body, down your sternum, stomach, and past the hem of your skirt, dripping your hand under it before his thick fingers found your panties.

Fucking hell you were soaked.

“Jesus christ… Fuckin’ hell you’re soaked…”

He’d grunt, he hadn’t spoken in a while, so focused on his movements, breathing. This was something he couldn’t ignore. He placed a kiss on your nape before his fingers would slide past your wet underwear, his hips involuntarily thrusting into your ass, squeezing your tit harder as he pushed two of his big fingers into your hot cunt. Your head lolled back against his shoulder as you practically squealed.

“Arthur–!”

Your mouth was wide open, sharp, sinful moans escaping from you as his fingers curled inside you, fuck. If you couldn’t even handle his fingers how would you handle his cock. You can only imagine how fucking big it was. Big hands, muscles, body, it’d be one of god’s greatest jokes if it didn’t live up to the rest of his body.

Your cunt would clench around his fingers- it had been this whole time. His fingernail scraped across the tip of your erect nipple again, you’d squirm in his arms, your own fingers digging into his massive biceps, the tip of your finger tracing the vein that ran down it, his muscle would twitch.

With a wet squelch from your tight pussy Arthur would withdraw his fingers from your walls, you weren’t finished. Wasn’t his concern. The coil in your gut felt like it’d burst any second, your cunt left throbbing, empty without the fill of his fingers.

He was gonna give you something better than his fingers.

“Lift up…”

His mouth was pressed against your ear feeling the hot breath fan onto your lobe. His hands gripped onto your hips, pulling that pretty dark skirt right down the length of your legs, you could hear the clinking of his belt behind you, making your ears perk.

“Up.”

Another command escaped his lips, you’d nod as you shakily got off of him, kneeled onto the bed. Arthur blew out the oil lamp on the bedside table, the room now lit by the paleness of the moonlight that shone through the windows, the curtains spread. It wasn’t like people would see anyway, though it’d be a good show.

Once he had unbuckled his belt he threw it to the ground– Arthur didn’t wear briefs, why would he? They caused him more discomfort, an extra layer of tightness to his balls and shaft. One tug of his work-pants and his hard, thick cock sprung from the confines of the black denim, the light from the window reflecting on the bead of precum that beaded off his cockhole. His size was impressive, sending a signal through your body– you couldn’t control yourself anymore. You ripped your underwear right off of that poor bundle of nerves that it protected, tossing the wet lace down onto the floor.

You practically crawled to him, his hands reached for your hips before pulling you on top of him, walking on your knees over him, his cock shooting straight up as it twitched with your pussy like it was fucking magnetic. You’d sink your body down onto the thickness, moaning his name as you sheathed him into your pulsating cunt. His hand wrapped around the headboard, gripping it for dear life as he pumped his way into you–

“Fuck!” Your hands braced on either one of his hips before one trailed up to his chest.

“That’s it– that’s fuckin’ it, princess.”

His thrusts quickened, his back arching up with each fast pound of his pelvis. His cock slipping deeper into your gummy walls with each snap. His dick curved inside of you, the head of his shaft kissing your g-spot, he felt so painfully good, your teeth bit into your thumb to try to muffle the sounds escaping your mouth, your body shaking.

You didn’t want to let yourself be this –a mess on top of him. Riding him. You had to gain some control even with his cock slapping inside of your sore hole. His eyes opening up, releasing the headboard to trail back to your breasts, those scarred, calloused hands - once again - giving the tender mounds another generous groping. Your hands would run to rest on top of his own big ones, the size of him consuming every sense –not only his dick, his hands, his body. Looking down and seeing the muscles in his stomach tense and twitch, his head arching backwards into the comfortable pillows behind. He was close. Surely you were too.

His hand ran to the small of your back as he helped you a bit, pushing himself up against the headboard so his body was lazily sat up now, your hips rolling back and forth into his as you ground down, making a loud, throaty moan release from the back of his throat, his balls slapped against your ass, now you’ve got it. Bouncing up and down on his cock leaving him with no mercy.

“You’re gonna make me cum, princess– you’re’mmmm–”

His eyes locked onto the sight of your perfect tits bouncing up and down as you took his cock, he felt his sack tighten up, that unbearable sensation deep in his gut, he was gonna cum. He needed to cum. Though you were still chasing that high as his fingers dug into your waist, your skin there raw and pink from the tight hold. The base of his cock rubbed against your clit, the coarse hair crowning it scratched against the sensitive, swollen bud, the sensation making you lose every bit of yourself to him.

With one more curved thrust from him you’d climax, your body collapsing over top of his as you did. Making sure to cry right into his ear. Your trembling fingers clawing and digging into the broad, tense muscles of his shoulders. His eyes rolling back into his skull as his orgasm followed yours, strings of hot semen coating your inner walls as he fucked it into you, making your pussy milk out every hot, thick rope of cum, his head falling foreward between the valley of those pretty tits he’d been admiring all night.

“Oh fuck, princess.”

His voice wavered as he tried desperately to catch his breath back though it seemed it’d all been stolen from his lungs.

“Oh, Arthur…”

That desperate whine squeaked from your lips. A kiss was planted on your clavicle before he’d guide you so you were underneath him again, careful not to jar you too much after all he was well aware of how hard he had just fucked that tight little hole of yours. He’d pull his shaft out from those walls that were spasmed around him just a second ago, watching all that access, hot seed spill out from your pink petals.

Did you think that was it? Surely you had to return the favor.

Arthur had a cigarette lit and hanging from his lips that were wet with his own salvia, your head between his legs bobbing up and down on that thick cock that was still coated with your own juice. His fingers tangled up in your hair, fucking your mouth with the same force as he had with your cunt just moments ago. The cigarette in his hot mouth was the only thing suppressing his noises, taking it between his fingertips just to let out a loud long moan.

You’d gag when his swollen tip hit the back of your throat unexpectedly, your hands digging into his thighs as your eyes held close so fucking tight tears welled up in them, making your vision blurry as you looked up at Arthur, eyes closed, puffing on that cigarette. Your left hand went to wrap around your base as you pulled him nearly completely out of your mouth, your lips still wrapped around his cockhead, your tongue tracing his hole.

“Goooooood fuckin’ girl… Keep going–”

Your hand jerked him off now as your abused throat got to catch a break, though it’d still need to be put up to work, hm? You hopped onto his thigh as your hand now caressed his chest, trickling your fingers down his thick chest hair that covered the tan skin. Your thumb teased his red hot tip, before you kept rolling your hand up and down –he was close, you now leaned to tell when that vein that ran down his low stomach all the way down to the middle of his shaft began to twitch and pump you’d get to milk the man dry a second time. A mix of your drool and his precum dripping down his length.

Your fist tightened around him as your mouth locked with his as he held the smoking cigarette between his forefinger and his middle, his hand wrapping in your hand to the nape of your neck, hips bucking into your palm, he cums again. Hard. Right into your fist.

Arthur was panting like a damn dog, you had jerked him off just right to get his legs to tremble as they spread for you. He broke away from your mouth to catch his breath that you stole from him. You trailed a kiss to his neck, he had been marking you all night you thought it was only fair to give him some too, sucking a purple mark into his skin before trailing your mouth down.

“Good girl— good fuckin’ girl…” He was a mess.

His praise was always a godsend to you, ringing through your ears, you craved it. Your tongue ran down his collar, his shoulder, then down his arm, those pulsing muscles that were smooth to the touch, glistening with his sweat. The way his chest began heaving heavily as you traced the thick vein that ran down his bicep with your tongue.

Receiving was something that his body needed. But giving was something that he craved. Just hearing the sweet moans and cries from a woman’s mouth as it hung agape was something that could get him off more times at just the thought of than a blowy.

–Though now your legs were on his shoulders as he pumped his tongue into your walls, running it up and down your slit as he - messily - ate your pussy, he was starving for it after all. Your back was arching upwards but his hands were too occupied holding your ankles to the dips of his shoulders to touch you anywhere else, his nose pressed against your clit –even his nose could find work. Your pants were hot and labored, all you can let out those sharp, gorgeous whines of his name, the one you’ve grown so accustomed to.

“Arthur!”

Again.

“Fuck- fuck, Arthur–!”

His name learned to roll off your tongue like honey, it seemed to be becoming the thing that came natural to you in life. He loved it, his mouth sucking feverishly at your clit, he knew all those sweet-spots, you weren’t a religious girl, - if you were you wouldn’t be in your right mind to let Arthur do these truly sinful things to you - but you’d thank god to every whore, every woman that taught him these tricks.

Your thighs would squeeze his head til’ it was about ready to pop, though that’s just what Arthur wanted, mumbling praise into your sweet, slick folds as his fingers moved into the mix too, forcing your body to that high you’d been desperately chasing, the pad of his finger pressing against one of your soft spots.

You’d cum hard on his face, your glistening climax now coated his beard as he removed his face from your thighs, looking at your heaving, shaking body now beneath him. Resting your legs down he’d slowly lower himself back onto you, his lips kissing from your navel to your lips, his body - and yours, of course - finally feeling a bit heavy.

“You’re too good f’me, girl…”

At the moment there was not enough oxygen in your lungs to give him a vocal response, you’d just nod, your cheeks flushed a pale pink. His hand moved to brush some hair away from your face, strands stuck to your cheeks, forehead, it was a sight for him. He’d pick you up, pulling you to sit in his lap as he held you to a tight embrace, nipping and kissing at your neck. He was so needy for you.

The night had settled, only a bit. You found yourself tucked in Arthur’s arm with the warm quilt thrown on the hotel bed covering your bodies, both sore and spent.

Arthur had been flipping through the pages of his journal now, it only felt right to shamelessly show you the works he’s done of you now, of course those were only a couple.

“I stopped doin’ them for a while now… Most of them was from when I was drunk. Foolish.”

He’d explain, though it didn’t seem like it needed an explanation anymore, you didn’t care after all though you appreciated it. Your hand would reach out to touch the page, feeling the rough paper beneath your fingertips.

“I don’t mind…”

“Yeah well, maybe now you can model f’me, hm?… I’m always better working with a reference.”

You couldn’t help but giggle.

“It's a date then.”

You two had both fallen asleep shortly after, his sweet praises in your ear til your body was limp against his own, his fingers combing through your hair —a moment of intimacy and peace like this after he had fucked you so thorough. Not a thought of worry in your pretty little head.

'Cept maybe how the ride back was gonna feel on that soreness between your legs–

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xxhexwolfxx · 1 year ago

Note

Can I request dating headcanons for Sean, Javier, Hoesa, John, Arthur, and Charles with gn s/o?

𝓓𝓐𝓣𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓗𝓒𝓢

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you enjoy! :)

DISCLAIMER: None of these are really connected.

WARNINGS: Some of these have angst!

CHARACTERS: Sean, Javier, Hoesa, John, Arthur, and Charles

~~~~~~~~~~

Sean

If he sees that you're upset, then he'll start to make jokes to make you laugh. He hates seeing you sad.

Once he starts to date you, he'll cut back on his drinking. He wants to remember every moment with you.

If you don't like to talk then don't worry! This man does enough talking for both of y'all. Although it does end up in a fight with whoever he's talking to sometimes.

When he has nightmares of the time of his capture, he'll immediately seek you out. He finds himself comforted by the fact you're there with him.

Javier

He'll help you learn the guitar, so he has the excuse to hold your hand to help adjust your fingers along the frets.

On nights when it's difficult to sleep, he'll softly sing to you with you in his arms.

In the mornings he'll let you put up his hair. He likes the simplicity yet lovingness of the act.

If he messes up when speaking English, he'll look to you for help. You always have to reassure him that everyone makes mistakes and that it's okay.

Hosea

He is an old-fashioned lover. He would want to take it slow so you both can learn more about each other.

When you guys are doing nothing, then he likes to read you, his book. Then he likes to talk about what happens in it.

When its nighttime and you guys are about to sleep, he likes to tell you stories of his youth to help you sleep.

On some days when it's bad, he finds himself thinking that you deserve better than an "old man" like him.

John

(Epilogue) When he's building a home for you guys, he likes to do the dirty work, so you don't worry about getting dirty.

On days when you guys don't have anything to do, he likes to take you and Jack out for family time.

Sometimes he feels super useless from the constant insults from Arthur. You'll need to reassure him that he is not useless and that he does a lot for the camp.

When he gets out of prison, he wouldn't let you go for hours. He's spent so long away from you that it makes him feel better just holding you.

Arthur

When he's busy working or resting without his hat on. He'll put it on you, so he won't lose it. It warms his heart to see you wearing it.

He knows how much you love his voice, so he'll make it slightly deeper to tease you.

If you don't know how to ride a horse, then he'll teach you. He'll even make it a little date for you both.

Sometimes he thinks so badly about himself that it takes a lot of convincing that he isn't ugly or unlovable.

Charles

He likes sitting with you while you guys do your own things. Like you are reading a book while he makes arrows.

Sometimes he just wants to sit in silence with you. Holding you or just sitting next to you while you guys bask in each others presence.

When he goes out to hunt, he likes to bring you back little trinkets or flowers that remind him of you.

Due to the others, sometimes he feels like an outsider to the group. The thoughts go away when you come over to him with a big smile on your face.

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allthemeniveloved · 7 months ago

Text

Masterlist

May the wind be at your back

Good fortune touch your hand

May the cards lay out-a-straight

All from your command

ao3

requests: open

nsfw = *

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

It Will Come Back - completed

John Marston fell in love with you the moment the Van Der Lin gang rescued you from an O'Driscoll hideout all those years ago. Now, after the bitter end to a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship with Arthur, John's feelings have become increasingly difficult to hide from not only you, but Arthur as well.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

Northern Attitude

On a frigid night in Colter, you find solace in someone else's cot, causing tension to boil over.

Arthur's Chapter | John's Chapter

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

One Shots

Little Rat - Arthur

Blood and Bonds - Dad!John

Cradle - Dad!Arthur

Too Sweet - Dad!Arthur

Do I look like him?* - John

Token - Charles

Almost - John

Devil* - John

Heat - John

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k1ranishf4 · 3 months ago

Text

☆ Shared Warmth

☆ Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

☆ After getting back from dealing with those O'Driscolls and having brought a new addition to the gang, Arthur decided to take a look around the cabins before calling it a night. Surprise briefly flickered across his face when he saw her on her own in the main cabin, huddled up in front of a lantern and clearly trying to warm up. He noticed that it wasn't working well for her.

☆ Content tags/warnings: pre-relationship, late night talks, set in Chapter One of RDR2, no beta we die like Arthur Morgan, oblivious/ignorant idiot(s), kinda fluffy kinda neutral, implied angsty themes but overall lighthearted and as in theme with the game as I could get it, open “ending”

Colter's low temperatures might as well have been as bad as the whole ordeal in Blackwater. Even with a thick coat, the cold didn't stop seeping through his clothes, and he felt like a fool for not just staying in the room that Miss Grimshaw had pointed out to him earlier.

He hadn't felt like calling it a night just yet after having returned from the brief encounter with a few O'Driscolls, which was why Arthur was now walking around "camp" so aimlessly. His eyes fell on the fireplace that had been set up, and a huff escaped him. Sitting in the snow wasn't an activity that he was too keen on doing, and the fire looked like it'd give up soon, too.

Another strong gust of freezing wind made him lower his head, his hat obscuring his face and his nose burying itself in the collar of his coat. Grumbling under his breath, Arthur decided to check out the main cabin in which all of them had briefly gathered when they had first arrived. The rest of the gang had already retreated to their designated sleeping arrangements, aside from one or two exceptions, which was why he had thought the cabin might have been empty by now.

He was surprised to see that he had been wrong when he saw you peeking up at him from your curled-up form on the floor. "What're you doing here?", he asked, his tone as dumbfounded as he looked for a moment. He noted the lantern on the floor in front of you.

You had been a part of the gang for a while now, not as long as some of them but not exactly a brand new addition, either. "Trying to warm up", you muttered, tightening your arms around yourself.

He approached you, his steps slow. "With a lantern. Right." He saw you roll your eyes at his tone and the corner of his mouth curved upwards, hints of a smile on his face. He glanced around, then spotted one of the few blankets that they had brought from Mrs. Adler's house.

Grabbing it, he came to your side again and made you scoot over slightly so he could sit down next to you. "There," he murmured as he draped the blanket around your shoulders. Arthur heard your mumbled words of gratitude and only nodded, looking at the lantern in front of the two of you.

"Why're you still awake?"

"Could ask ya the same thing," he replied gruffly, leaning back against the wall behind him. Then he shrugged. "Ain't tired yet, I suppose." He heard you hum, then looked at you. "What about you?"

"I ain't tired," you echoed his words, your eyes meeting his.

A small, almost amused huff left him. "That so? If I recall right, you always fall asleep first." His amusement only seemed to increase when you gave him a pointed look. The graveness of their situation seemed to shift into the background, almost like he could just stop thinking about it for a moment.

"People change," you replied, shrugging.

He looked at the lantern in front of the two of you again, humming as his expression became somber for a moment. "Maybe."

Silence fell over the two of you, the only noise coming from the creaking wood every time the wind slammed against the cabin. It wasn't an oppressive silence, though.

Arthur's mind wandered for a moment. They had suffered because of the failure in Blackwater, and he didn't doubt that it would only become harder from that point forward. They had lost quite a few people and some were still missing, without any knowledge of whether they were still alive or not. Not to mention that they had had to leave immediately, leaving tons of money and other valuables behind. It didn't look good for them, nor was it easy to be optimistic at all, despite what Dutch had said.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when you spoke up again. "Aren't you cold?"

He looked at you, waving you off. "I'm fine."

"Right," you muttered sarcastically. "C'mon."

Before he could question what you were up to, you were already close to his side and had wrapped half of the blanket around him while the other half was still around you. He felt slightly warmer than before, not that he'd admit that.

Another moment of silence passed, neither of you speaking. Despite small moments of humor and lightheartedness, the situation was still dire. Everyone was even more serious than they usually already were. They had good reason to be.

"Arthur, do you think we'll ever return?" Your voice was quiet, almost like you doubted any positive answer to your own question. He looked at you, but your head was held low, staring holes into the floor.

A sigh left his lips as he turned his head and looked down as well. "I don't know," he murmured truthfully. His mind hadn't even been on the possibility of going back, instead focusing on surviving and making sure the rest of the gang did, too.

"Dutch seems to be convinced," you replied quietly.

"Are you?" He looked at you, his head tilted slightly. He noticed that you weren't expecting him to ask that, your eyes holding surprise and confusion, your lips parting slightly.

He watched you sigh. "I don't know," you mumbled. "We're already far away. I don't doubt we'll go even farther. I just..." Another sigh, then you lowered your head. He didn't like how defeated you looked, for some reason.

When Arthur realized that you weren't going to continue, he decided to push a little. "Just what?"

A moment of hesitation. Then, "I just want to live without a bunch of lawmen after us," you muttered.

He let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. "Don't we all. But it ain't gonna be that easy."

"I know," you sighed.

He was caught off guard when he felt your head on his shoulder, turning his head to look at you. Your eyes were closed, and a bit of amusement washed over him. He didn't know how or why, but you made it very easy to forget everything else. He didn't know whether to consider it a liability or not.

"Not tired, huh?" The sarcasm was clear as day, but it wasn't as biting as he usually could be. When you grumbled at him to shut up, a genuine smile spread across his face. He let out a breath and leaned back, letting you rest against his shoulder.

It was warmer than it had been all night long, and he allowed himself to finally relax a little. Who knew if he would get the chance to do so again.

"Arthur?”

He wasn't expecting to hear you speak up again, assuming you'd prefer to try to sleep. He knew by now that you could be a chatterbox when you felt comfortable enough to talk as relentlessly as a waterfall; it shouldn't have surprised him to hear you again.

He hummed, indicating that he was listening.

"Do you think I could live a honest life if I wanted to? Or any of us, really."

He was beginning to wonder where all those questions were coming from. Not that he hadn't asked himself the same question before, but he knew that it would be impossible for them to become honest, law-abiding citizens. For him, at least.

"Sure," he replied after a moment. "You could. You and that Mrs. Adler, was her name. The rest of us, I ain't so sure."

He turned his head, seeing you looking at him. "Why?", you asked.

It seemed like a naive question, but he answered nevertheless. "The law don't like us. Not me, not Dutch or Hosea, not any one of us. They want to see us hangin'." A pause, then his voice lowered to something more serious. "They won't stop chasin' us until they get what they want."

As horrible of a thing as it was, it was the reality. He was a wanted man, almost all of them were. A group of wanted men and women. Arthur doubted that there was any chance of living an honest life for him. He'd been in this for far too long and he couldn't just up and leave. Not when Dutch and Hosea had been the ones who had taken him in and taught him everything he knew now.

He sighed and looked at you. "Shouldn't you be trying to sleep? Miss Grimshaw sure don't like slackers."

A small smile spread on his lips as he watched you roll your eyes. "She don't like nothing," you muttered. "Worse than my mother used to be when I was younger."

He said nothing. It was endearing to him, really. Not that he could explain why. "Just try sleeping, Miss.”

"Because it definitely works on command, Mr. Morgan," you muttered, and he could practically taste the sarcasm.

Still, he felt your head's weight on his shoulder, and the silence that followed minutes later showed that you were more tired than you had claimed to be.

He adjusted the blanket around you and mumbled a "Good night", then leaned back against the wall as his mind wandered again. He had left his journal in "his" room, which meant he had no other choice than to let his thoughts flow. He didn't want to wake you up, after all.

He couldn't explain why his heart was beating so fast, nor did he want to dwell on it. Must be from the whole moving lately, he told himself. Neither did he allow himself to think too hard about the way you were leaning against him as you gradually fell into a deep sleep. Surely you were just too exhausted.

Nothing too exciting about it.

☆ A/N: First time writing for Arthur, please let me know if there’s anything I could do better, be it writing style, his characterization or the text format! (I prefer the small print text format, but I’m also open to adjusting to your preferences)

☆ 1.6k words

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2demondogs · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! I love your works so far!! I was wondering if you could write a proposal/wedding with JavierxF!Reader?

Thank you!

I am not much of a marriage-enjoyer so my friend helped me come up with some ideas here. Javier being awkward is all my doing though xoxo. Also any time I write Javier/F!Reader this meme is on repeat in my head.

Words: 4.1k Tags: Javier in love is a pathetic wet rag of a man, not explicitly set during canon, proposal, yeah that's it

Far north of this shore on Flat Iron, strawberry harvests will begin tomorrow. Sometimes, you wonder what it might be like tending to a farm, having a schedule that stretches year-long. Knowing who or what to pray to for good fortune in your life would be a relief. How many of those fresh berry leaves do they tuck into their pockets for good luck? How many would you need?

Things might be more certain, even for as uncertain as the sunshine can be. People have ways of creating organization from chaos. Open an almanac or some holy book, and see.

You only know it's a full moon tonight because you eavesdropped in town, waiting for Javier to finish whatever business took him outside the store. Pissing, you figured. He didn't say anything after he stepped back in line beside you, just nudged your side and acted as though he hadn't. All he was missing was a casual look away and a whistle.

Corny bastard.

He'd been quieter all morning, after he realized he forgot his bait and would have to buy some at the last town you passed through. It wasn't out of the way, but he still acted as though something had stuck itself in his boot, stabbing with every step. You would've ridden several miles out of the way, as long as they were with him— then again, Javier's the type, too.

Whatever had crawled under his skin was gone as soon as you hit the shoreline of the lake. The stick shoved moderately far up his ass always falls out when you're around. You'd forget it was ever there, if it weren't for the opportunities you get in camp to watch him without his knowledge. Javier could certainly be short, and rather cruel, with the other men in camp.

It isn't like he tries to hide those things from you, either. When you allow yourself to be given so much credit, you think that whatever has his temper on a short leash abides for you. Javier is not so delicately-stepped as to be kind, but he mellows into something close when you're on your lonesome. Sickly romantic, but he claims that men love hard and that it's only natural he turn into this spineless thing around you. With that bullshit, you know he's merely making himself more comfortable with his own vulnerability.

Other times, you feel that the truth is more likely this: to him, being with you is as good as being alone. Both are rather flattering ideas at their hearts. At times, you wonder what you did for a man as ardent as Javier to get stuck to your hip, whether he fully likes how hard he falls to his knees or not.

Regardless, his eyes come as close to gentleness as they ever will when they fall on you. He looks drowsy, almost ill with softness, and it gives the afternoon sun fresh life as it starts to set. It's hot as it ever was, being Lemoyne, but June is always mildest and the breeze off the lake eases the stiffness of the air. You might've pleaded for another fishing spot if Javier proposed this trip in beginning of August, when it's near suffocating in these parts.

As it is, Flat Iron's a ways away from camp. You suspected there was some kind of fish Javier had a hankering for, made him choose this side of the lake. The side closer to home was as good as any, if you were asked.

You find out better as conversation fades and drifts and finally lands in the palm of nostalgia. Javier's decided, half-foolishly, to cook fish right on the rivershore. It's wide, open space this close to the water, only spotted with a free trees, far from where you've set up.

The fire you're gathering kindling to build has a good chance of getting your pseudo-camp approached, but it's nice to pretend that there are no targets on your backs for once. Yes, it's just Javier stalking off to the treeline to gather sticks for flame and skewer, and you.

You fantasize as you set a handful of brittle leaves in the makeshift firepit. Must be real fine to be heralded by your community, instead of stranded in the woods without one. People really like those strawberry farms, they like any farms; they give life. Some days the gang feels meaningful for its unification of misfits, and some nights, you think you are all still lost and unbound. There's nothing grown in the gang. It's a place to stagnate, in comfort and comradery on good days and in mild isolation on bad ones.

You temper the thought before it can choke the pleasant evening. Every place has its ups and downs. Should anyone come across your little camp, Javier's fine with a gun and good with a knife, and you can handle yourself. Pretending will be alright, for a short while, and if it's ruined— that's when the disappointment can come to stay.

It's comfortable to settle on the ground beside him, even if the open sides of the fire feel exposing. You watch him shave the bark off a stick with his knife, sharpening it to skewer chunks of the fish. Pale scars on his fingers where he's sliced into the skin doing this before shimmer in the firelight.

Javier glances back at you, now and then. Ever-pompous, he never seems surprised to see you still looking.

The fire casts most of his hands in stark shadow, even as the sky clings to its last oranges, holds tight onto them in the clouds until pink seeps through the cotton. It is all much darker once you tear yourself away to look at the flames, how they lick over the dried litter and bloom in pops, and the rest of the world fades into shadow at your peripherals. Always did like how the fire dances, jumps, rolls to and fro.

Only when you are not looking does Javier break the comfortable silence, voice strangely blurred at the edges. "It's funny, you know," he says, huffs a short, dry laugh through his nose. "The San Luis' so close, but it ain't close at all." Like most times Javier ought to sound sad, he doesn't. In fact, it borders on wistful. "Very far away place."

"Are you nervous?" You ask, turning back to him. He's a wanted man, you know, but worse: there's always the memories. Even if you will not camp here, because it's too open and too southern, the memories follow.

Javier's looking into the distance, southwest. He glances at the fire, then you, and his eyes soften that ill-way, settling down. "A little," he says. He hands you one of the sharpened sticks, looking at the day's catch with a blanker face than before, mouth straightening. "Which one do you want?"

You know him well enough to have an inkling his answer isn't about how near the border is. Not with how he moves on so quickly, happy to cut your fish into cookable chunks for you instead of answering the expectant look on your face, the narrowed eyes.

He idly goes into an old story you've heard before, but you don't tell him. You like to listen to his voice, and it's more than likely Javier has a reason for telling it again. He will add something new to it, you think, or will say that last time, he misremembered the part where...

Often, he misremembers. This one took place almost ten years ago, after all— but with how he works around talking about people, rather than what happened to them, you sometimes think he doesn't remember in the first place.

He's crafty that way.

You temper that thought, too, and wait for it to come together as you roast the skewer over the campfire. It's getting dark, now, and the light begins to make a real difference across the ground. Bumpy, bald spots of dirt showing through sparse grass-hair. It clusters up into bushes nearer the tree line. The trees are sparse, too, so it's nothing but a continuation. Towards the water, the cattails mirror the trees, though you'd plucked some of them for the fire. Warm, deep green, nice and lively.

Javier doesn't add anything new, in the end. It's good to listen to him talk regardless, the warm scrape of his voice as it drones evenly and yet too long, turns raspy at the tails. The jagged scar along his throat must cut into something inside it; seems like his voice tires out sooner than most people's.

You think again of how his mind was in another place when you asked him about his nerves. What's nagging at him? Javier's story-telling is only this monotone when his expressiveness is turned all inward or when he's annoyed. If you annoyed him in the slightest, there wouldn't be that warm hand occasionally feeling out your back, making sure you were there.

It cinches over your shoulder, now, his touch firming up once he trails off. He's got to be coming at you somehow, eyes or ears or skin, or — so he's told you — it feels like starving. You would never be so egotistical as to make such a thing up without him putting the awful idea in your head. It comes back every time he touches you for no reason but being connected, which is awful, really, because it makes you feel important. Some of your own starvation stirs, an ache that's only soothed when you lean into his side and feel the thin, solid warmth of his body against you.

Javier turns, and so do you. Nearly meeting in the middle, noses an inch apart. "You cold?" He asks.

"No."

"Ah." He can never let anything rest easily, so he trades his skewer between his hands to stretch an arm around you, slow and purposeful. "I know what you really want."

Back to the food your attention goes. "Learn that from one of Mary-Beth's books?" You ask, rotating your skewer.

"No," Javier says. His hair brushes your temple, a cheeky lean-in. "She learned it from me."

Pointedly, you ignore him. It's not much time at all until his stare searing your cheek, those dark eyes, and you feel a warm flush spreading over your face. Javier begs for attention like a goddamn dog yearning for table scraps, at times. Never any time but when you're alone, because if anyone else saw him act this way — even in jest — he'd be camp laughing stock for a year. Probably longer, knowing how those men turn into boys so easily.

Very likely, it has something to do with the fact that no one would ever believe you if you told them he's this way, either. Most of camp would be hard-pressed to believe Javier's capable of genuinely liking another human being. Most of camp is men, though; the girls all say you're lucky. They mean it, too.

"Mi vida," Javier says. It's the most pathetic voice you've ever heard, and soft, low. Laughing or blushing would only give him the satisfaction he craves, so you bite your tongue and twist the skewer when it's ready. "Oh, c'mon." You glance at him, and it must be cold, because Javier's frown cracks into a smile briefly. "Don't be cruel. You haunt me."

"Good grief," you scoff, leaning away. The air seems colder without him there, is turning into something enjoyably mild for the evening. "You're terrible."

Javier cackles, shifts to press himself right back into your side. His hair brushes your cheek as if he wants to lay his head on your shoulder, but he doesn't, settles for leaning against you. His hand is on your lower back, then, moving across it side-to-side. Feels nice, sturdy.

"You do haunt me," he says again, no ounce of smile left in his voice. Never has he been a convincing conman. Too honest. "Every waking minute."

You know he's simply meandering his way into smooth-talking, and yet you swoon as easily as always. Curious at first, looking to his hand where he's over-cooking his own dinner and barely paying attention to it. The shadows draw deep in the hollow of his curled fingers, the dark hair on his forearm leading up to the rolled gray sleeve of his button-up.

"S'alright, though," Javier continues. If you weren't so enthralled by someone thinking such sweet things about you, you might've learned by now to tune him out when he goes on these tangents. As it is, your breath follows where his hands trails up your spine. The skin of your arm prickles under his watch. "I hate bein' without you."

Up your gaze crawls to his shoulder. Sky's dark, but the rising moon and low sun shake hands across the water of the lake, reflecting light into the air. The other shore seems very far away. Most things do, when Javier pours a little of his heart into your palm. His own must bleed profusely beneath the rich blue of his vest.

"It'll always be you." It bleeds a little extra today, then, if he's talking like this, doesn't sound like he's playing around anymore. Calloused fingers run over the side of your neck, your ear, and trace like its worth tracing.

You're looking him in the eye, trying to appear amused when Javier looks close to melting. Flustering him is always rewarding, and so you weather it, ignoring how well he looks with the warm glow on his warm skin and the dark definition along his features.

"Are you done, sweetheart?" You ask, voice too-warm and too-fond. It's clear you don't want him to be, sounds more like a goad for him to continue.

Javier's tongue slips between his teeth, half a smile on his face, and he turns away as if you've hurt his feelings. For a moment, you're afraid you have, even if he usually likes playing this way and his hand stays where it is on the crook of your neck. Then, he's nodding and trying again, apparently, to get out what he wants to say.

"Marry me."

Night-birds sing, or maybe your ears are only ringing. It comes out before you can stop it: "What?"

"Marry me," Javier repeats.

Eyes a little wide, a little wild; he looks half-scared to say it, almost like he's not meaning to but can't form any other words. It's not a question. His eyes are searching your face more openly, more anxiously then they usually do when he does this, drops a desire at your feet and sees how far you kick it.

Everything is unchanged, save for the burning in your chest and in your eyes and your stomach and your hands, which you pay no mind because you can only focus on him. Everything's in the same place it was a moment ago — should be, anyways, beyond the edges of Javier's sweet, half-terrified face is quite blurry — but you have the distinct feeling that something nonmaterial has shifted, has dragged most of your senses with it and left you askew.

Javier cracks when you don't respond, because he's not sure if he will get what he wants. "Will you?"

The smell of burning fish fills the air. He doesn't look away, but whatever sheepishness was beginning to seep into his expression takes over entirely as he reels his skewer back in and away from the flames.

You glance at the charred chunks of fish and laugh, a sharp bark of it, feel your hand clenched tight around the stick in it as you take your own food off the fire for risk of doing the same thing. His own is half-snuffed and timid as you've ever heard it, but Javier laughs, too, part of it stuck in his throat like bile.

"Of course," you answer. He shines, crooked teeth split in a handsome grin. "You damn fool."

"Hey," Javier drawls, drifts too far into the usual bickering you do and pulls himself out quickly. With a start, he drops his skewer to the ground. It's past eating, anyways. "I got you a ring. Shit, I should've—" He feels in the pocket of his jeans, sighs. His hand falls from your neck to your hip, squeezing. "I wanted to do it the right way, but I got ahead'a myself."

The right way. Like you give an ounce of a shit, but you know it matters to him and that he's sorry. You're still half-way through realizing your hand's been asked for, let alone far enough into acceptance to start wondering what a wedding will look like. On the road like you are, can you even have one? Certainly, you couldn't have one the right way.

"You can ask again," you suggest. He'd sounded so... disappointed with himself.

Javier pauses the search of his pockets to huff. "Just about died the first time, 'n' you want me to do it twice?" He laughs when you smack his chest.

"You're bein' dramatic," you accuse, though you're not entirely sure it's true.

"Shit, no, I'm not," he insists, turns his cheek to you and raises his jaw. The muscles stretches strong along his neck. "Feel my pulse. Racin' like a rabbit's."

"You just want me to touch you."

Javier grins. When you go to turn away, he reaches into the inside pocket of his vest, snickering. "Hey, wait." You do; he takes his hand from your hip, brushing the dirt off on the side of his jeans. It leaves a tan stain on them, same as it left a tan stain on your hip. He wasn't thinking straight. "I found it."

It was awkward and disjointed. Nowhere near as smooth as his words, which only ever get so silky because he practices them a thousand times inside his head, sanding off the rough edges, polishing. Yet, you're as withered when he takes your hand, hesitating a moment too long with the ring ahead of your finger. It looks the right size, though you don't know how he would've measured that, and— where did he get the ring? Money's impossible, and you're sure a jeweller would be locked up tight enough to take at least two men. You would've known about that job, too, if only because Mary-Beth or Tilly would've teased you about why he was robbing a jeweller without you.

You're answered when Javier slips it past your first knuckle and it catches on the second one. The band is gold, thin, glints mockingly.

Any confidence pools out of him and onto the ground below. "Don't tell me it's too small," he mutters, and you wince when he tries to push it past, disbelieving.

"It'll get stuck, honey," you say, curl your finger away so he'll quit. He's not earnestly trying to shove it on, he's just— in denial, probably, looks kicked. "It's okay. Did you... where'd you—?"

He sighs, twists the band between two of his fingers as he lets it drop to his lap. He keeps your hand in his, and you lace your fingers together, squeezing. That seems to cheer him up. "I stole it," he admits, not a touch of shame on him. From the blankness on his face, it seems like he expected you to have known that.

You bite back a laugh. It probably wouldn't make him feel any better, even if you're only laughing because he's predictable. "That's why it don't fit," you say.

"I know." He nods, smiling sheepishly once more. It's nothing like him to be so giddy, but he sounds it when he says: "I's just so excited."

It's sweeter than anything could've been. You suppose something material has changed with the question, because you've never seen Javier so vulnerable. It's choking the air around him, makes your gut twist up with some airy, fluttering feeling. You aren't sure where to begin with the tight affection in your chest, besides leaning in to kiss the sharp part of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw.

Taking another good look at him, it's not all that difficult to believe he nearly did die with the nerve it took to ask you the first time. There's a sheen on his forehead, and his cheeks are pale, eyes wide yet, though they crinkle the longer you look at him.

He can beg for your attention, yes, but you like that he does. You like the thing he is whenever you're around.

"I love you," you say. There's nothing else to do about any of it.

Javier drums your interlocked hands on your leg, once, twice, like he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. "I love you, too," he says. Eyes soft, ill-looking.

You suppose fragility is part of asking, this trial of what will you do with my heart underfoot? You bring your hand up to move his bangs from his face, and Javier leans into the touch.

"You're a sorry thing," you say. It's as fond as ever, and he looks content to hear it, closing his eyes when you lay your palm on his sharp cheek.

"Stuck with me, now," he says, even if it isn't true. He turns his face to kiss your wrist, opening his eyes. "I'll get you a chain for it. Would you wear it that way?"

He means he'll steal a necklace. You don't think it's any less flattering than a man spending hard-earned money, especially not considering that the gang's hard-earned money is also stolen. He could've gone to jail or been shot picking this ring off whomever, and he'll have the same risks getting the necklace. Frankly, you'd be impressed to watch him take a chain from a lady's neck without suspicion, but— that's probably because you're just as law-abiding as he is. All you would feel is pride, and some smug sense of satisfaction knowing your man is an excellent thief.

"It'd be easier," you reason, thumbing over his cheekbone, to his jaw where it rubs over ghosts of stubble. You let your hand slip down and rest on the ground again. "Not as much chance'a it getting lost while I'm workin'."

Javier nods. His thumb traces over your knuckles, the skin split and chapped from the chilly breezes off the Dakota at camp. "One day, you won't have to work," he says, sounds as wistful as he had before, talking of home.

"I think I'd rather die than just... relax," you admit, though he's trying to be sweet and the sentence sounds weird when you say it aloud, despite how right it tastes.

"I know you will," Javier says. "But you won't have to, is the difference."

"Who's gonna do it, then?" You ask. Servants and maids aren't anything like him, or you. What is more likely is that Javier hasn't got a clue what goes into keeping a household afloat, even one as small as two people.

"Me, o'course." Javier brings your knuckles to his mouth, brushes a kiss along them. Docile eyes find you through dark lashes. "You're my princess. Why wouldn't I?"

Well, that's sickening.

Fumbling for anything to reply with, you fall again on: "You're a sorry thing, Javier." It sounds even fonder, sounds more like another I love you than a scolding.

He kisses the back of your hand, then the back of your wrist, turns it over and presses his lips to the inside, mustache scratching the thin skin. They're dry as bone, his lips, and you don't think he's going to be calm for another week with the excess jitters rolling off him in waves. But he's trying it, has found his groove again and is pushing it to the limit of how much romantic nonsense you'll swallow without teasing him.

Javier lets your hands rest in your lap again, thumb still smoothing over yours, his eyes watching it. You watch him, then, studying the darkness of his hair and how the ring shines between his fingers, bounces light back and forth with the chain on his vest.

It's nice and quiet, for a long while. The trails off the river are empty, only distant birds mocking back-and-forth in the freshly cooling weather and the rustle of wind in leaves. Still, peaceful.

Your stomach growls, and you remember the bark that's eating into your palm, rough and cool. Shit. Brushing Javier's hand from yours, you reach over to yank on the chain dangling from his vest, grinning at how he jumps.

"Don't do that," he complains, but he's huffing a laugh alongside it.

"Do what?" You ask, flicking the chain. You move on hastily while he pats his stomach as if you've hit him, turning ton inspect the chunks of fish on your stick. They're not burnt, though they could be a little less well-done. "Wanna share this?"

#rdr2 fanfic #javier escuella x reader #rdr2 #sfw #fluff #red dead redemption 2 #javier escuella #oneshot #femalereader #ask #javier escuella x fem reader #rdr2 x reader #reader insert

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ak319 · 2 months ago

Text

Dark J.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim I No Such Thing as Leavin'

Syno: You take a chance at escaping the brutality that has now clouded your life. Warnings/MDNI: lassoing the reader, angst, slight fluff at end // I don't condone such behavior irl! +++ Want to clarify that this was an ask! (The reader runs away, and John feels bad after punishing them) So thanks, anon, for this! //Photo cred to Miranda on Pinterest. ✰3.3K //Even tryna keep my asks short i still end up writing more lol cuz i can't stop.

I concept m.list

The flower bracelets, cheap, but once fresh and beautiful, were now being ground mercilessly under his fist. Their delicate petals, the same ones that had once made him stop his horse, made him buy them from some goofy vendor like a fool, like a pathetic man, crumpled and bled color against his skin.

The camp’s noise faded into a single, sharp, unrelenting beep, like the blaring horn of a distant train, drowning out everything else.

It was the first time he had ever genuinely bought something with a fucking smile, just for you.

And you? The fuckin' nerve of you.

"-Not gotten that far and I---Hey? John? You there? Let’s, uh--"

John jerked Javier’s hand off his shoulder without a word and stormed toward his horse, the one he had just barely tied up.

Dumbasses. Couldn’t even notice you slipping out right under their noses. Sons of-

You couldn’t have gone far... And even if you have , let’s see how long that lasts.

The trail wasn't hard to follow.

John's horse snorted under him, restless from the pace he set, but he barely noticed. His eyes were locked dead ahead, jaw tight, heart hammering with something colder than fury.

And there, just up the road , he caught sight of you. Running like a scared animal and a sick smile tugged at his mouth.

You heard the hoofbeats, glancing back , terror flashing across your face , and bolted harder than you ever had in your life. Playing chase with your friends daily had given you some edge but not compared to a fucking horse.

And so John didn't rush. Didn't need to.

He swung the rope off his saddle, his movements practiced, mechanical. Let the lasso fly , a sharp snap of motion, and it looped tight around your ankles, yanking your legs out from under you.

The ground slammed into you hard, a ragged cry tearing from your throat as you hit the dirt and rolled, blood streaking your scraped palms and knees.

You lay there gasping, stunned, the rope biting into your ankles.

John dismounted slow, boots heavy against the ground. His shadow swallowed you whole as he loomed over your fallen body, rope still in hand.

"You done?" he muttered, voice low, almost casual.

You whimpered something, a plea, maybe, but he wasn’t listening. Didn't even glance at the blood or the way you were trembling.

He just yanked the rope tighter, binding your wrists next, hoisting you first by your hair and then dragging you over to the ride by your waist, dumping you like baggage over the saddle.

"Learned your lesson? Hm? Had fun? You brought this on yourself."

You twisted weakly, a pained noise escaping you, but he only tightened the knots, cinching them down hard. You weren't going anywhere now.

Without another word, he mounted up in front, the horse lurching forward under the weight.

And John rode back to camp with you tied and broken.

❀˖°

That night, the fire burned low.

The camp had gone quiet hours ago, but John sat awake, hunched over, a cigarette burning down to nothing between his fingers.

He hadn't touched his dinner.

Across the camp, you sat curled up small and stiff near the wagon, rope marks raw around your wrists, ankles dirtied with mud and blood.

No blanket. No food. No nothing.

Hadn't meant to... not like that.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing slow and hard.

You brought this on yourself, he told himself again. You had to learn. Had to understand who you belonged to.

But the sight of you, small, shivering, miserable, burned behind his eyelids worse than any cigarette smoke.

❀˖°

Then morning came harsh and gray.

John watched from the edge of the tents, arms crossed, a sick feeling gnawing at his chest.

There you were, kneeling by the stream, scrubbing his clothes with raw, trembling hands.

Didn’t even look up. Didn’t ask for food. Didn’t say a goddamn word.

Mortified. Silent. Punished without him having to lift another finger.

John chewed on his cigarette, eyes narrowed, trying to ignore the pitiful sight. It’s for your own good, he told himself. She’ll learn. She has to.

But when he turned his gaze toward Annabelle, already packing up supplies, he couldn’t ignore the guilt pressing against his chest any longer.

"Annabelle," he muttered, barely looking at her. "Take this to her." He shoved a bundle of food into her hands, his tone clipped. "Give her something to eat."

Annabelle didn’t move right away. Instead, she stared at him, a quiet disbelief crossing her face. Her lips twisted in a sharp, almost pitying smile.

"You really can’t even do that much, can you?" Her voice was soft, but it cut through the tension like a knife. "Can’t even feed her, John?"

John’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering away from her gaze. He could feel the weight of her words in his chest. She’s right, ain’t she? But he wasn’t ready to admit that, not yet.

"You’re always so damn proud," Annabelle continued, her voice laced with something close to disappointment. "But you don’t know the first thing about giving care. You think you’re teaching her a lesson, but all you're doing is hurting her. That's all what you've been doin'. "

John gritted his teeth. "I’m not asking for your judgment, Annabelle," he growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

Annabelle didn’t bother responding. With a shake of her head, she turned and walked toward you, carrying the food without a second glance back at him.

John stayed where he was, hands trembling ever so slightly. He watched her approach you, kneel beside you, and offer the food with a soft, maternal sympathy. The way you didn’t even look up, didn’t even make a sound , made his chest tighten.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to fix things, but how the hell could he when everything he did seemed to make it worse?

Annabelle's insult hung in the air, suffocating him as much as the cold morning wind.

He couldn’t shake it off, couldn’t ignore the fact that maybe she was right.

❀˖°

John stared at the grass, his chest tight. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept. The frustration, the anger, the guilt, it had all mixed together into a seething mess. He didn’t know what to do about it.

But he knew one thing. You were still his, and if he had to go through hell to make you understand that, he would.

He went for a walk that afternoon, or that’s what he told the others. Truth was, he was out looking for flowers. Real ones.

He walked slow, hands stuffed in his pockets, boots dragging a little in the dirt. Muttered half-hearted prayers under his breath.

Please let me find some, and don’t let the others catch me doin’ this.

Not that he was ashamed. Strangely, that part didn’t burn as much as it used to. Hell, if someone, especially someone like Sean or Javier, had told him a year ago he’d be out in the middle of nowhere pickin’ damn flowers for a woman, for you, he'd’ve laughed ‘til his ribs hurt. Told them they were outta their minds. That he ain’t the type.

But here he was.

And this time, it wasn’t just a gift. Not some mindless gesture to soothe a mood or pass the time.

It was an apology. A pathetic, clumsy one. One with petals and bruised stems.

John slowly approached the tent and entered with a heavy exhale.

Keep your temper under control, Marston.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t even flinch when he sat down next to you.

A long silence passed before he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"These are for you," he muttered, his fingers clumsy as he reached out with the new flower bracelets , carefully woven, colorful, fresh, and soft, their beauty a sharp contrast to the mess he’d created.

The air between you two felt thick with tension, suffocating in its awkwardness. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, unsure of whether you would even take them , unsure if you would even look at him.

But he didn’t care. Not really.

John reached out, hesitating for only a moment before he gently placed the bracelets in your hands.

He watched you, waiting, his eyes lingering on the way you stared at the flowers, like they were some kind of foreign object. In the dim light, the flower bracelets looked even more fragile than he remembered , just like you.

And he hated himself for the way he’d treated you. Hated the way his actions had crushed everything. But he was yours, wasn’t he? You belonged to him.

You had to understand that he was doing all of this for you. He had to make you see that you couldn’t run. Not again.

He took your hands in his, his fingers rough as he forced the flower bracelets into your palms. "Put them on," he said, the words edging on demand, a finality to them.

You hesitated. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t giving you a choice.

He waited for a moment, watching you carefully, then with a deep breath, he reached for your wrist, threading the flowers onto your skin. The fresh petals felt soft beneath his fingers as he secured the delicate bracelets in place, tightening them just enough for them to stay , a reminder, something to mark his control, even if it was subtle.

Once the bracelets were in place, he looked at you, his gaze lingering. A small, twisted satisfaction rose in his chest as he saw the flowers, bright and alive against your stillness.

But then his eyes fell to your bandages. They were stained, filthy from the dirt you’d been washing clothes in. His eyes narrowed, a mix of annoyance and something darker flickering in his chest.

He didn’t say anything before moving behind you. You flinched when he touched your shoulder, but he ignored it, grabbing the old bandages with rough hands.

"These need to come off," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. There was no kindness in his touch, only the cold, distant practicality of someone who wanted to fix things his way.

You didn’t protest. You didn’t look at him. Just sat there, hunched and silent, as he undid the old bandages, his fingers rough, not giving you any space to pull away.

The air between you two was thick, as if the very act of tending to you , taking care of your wounds, was somehow suffocating in its intimacy. John worked methodically, his gaze flickering to your injuries, his movements sharp as he cleaned the cuts. He didn’t speak, didn’t apologize. Just worked, as if it was something he had to do, as if you were just another thing to fix.

Once the new bandages were in place, John stepped back slightly, his gaze still lingering on you , watching you, studying the way you held yourself.

"You’ll be alright," he muttered as soft as he could and urged you to lay down.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, John moved, sprawling out beside you on the rough blankets, his body close enough to make you feel his presence , hard, immovable, suffocating.

His eyes flickered to you, the quiet in the tent almost too much to bear. Your back was turned to him, your body stiff, but he knew you were still awake. He could hear the soft sound of your breathing, shallow and uneven.

"You think this is some game?" He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, his gaze cold and focused. "You think you can just run away from me like that? Like, I wouldn’t find you? And after all this time, you really pulled off this dumb move?"

He lets out a bitter laugh , dry, hollow. There’s no real humor in it, only that quiet fury of someone who’s been betrayed and won’t admit he had it coming.

“You should’ve known better,” he says, voice tightening.

His words linger, sharp and ugly in the dim light. He rubs a hand across his face, clearly tired, but not from remorse. "I-- I’m tryin’, damn it. I really am. I don’t know how to... do this nicely. But I’m here, providing you with everything that I can. Stay out huntin' all day to keep you fed, for fur to keep you warm, so that hag Susan don't taunt you all day cuz' of my laziness, I keep myself busy. So she doesn't put the burden on ya'. You think that doesn’t mean nothin’?"

Silence.

You don’t say anything for a beat too long, and he hates it. Hates your silence, hates your shaking shoulders, hates how far away you still feel even though you’re just inches from him.

Finally, you whisper, not looking at him, "Y-ou... hurt me."

It’s not said with drama. It’s just truth.

His nostrils flare. He hates how it makes something twist in his chest.

“I told you not to act like some runaway animal, princess,” he snaps, deflecting. “Doesn’t suit you.”

“You tied me like one,” you bite out, finally turning to face him, eyes glassy but furious. “Dragged me through mud. Left me with nothing but scraps of bandage and dirty water. You think that suits me? Not to mention how you ruined my life, brought me here like an animal! And..." You back away, not being able to form his actions into a coherent sentence.

His head snaps at you, and for a moment, maybe he doesn’t even recognize himself.

“You don’t get it,” he says tightly. “You just… keep pushin’ me.”

"You.... scare me, John."

That silences him more than anything.

He breathes out slowly, looking past you now, voice flat. “We shoulda' had a kid by now.”

You recoil. "That’s not something you just say to fix things."

"I ain’t tryin’ to fix it with words, sweetheart," he mutters. "I just… I don’t know what else to do with you. You’re always runnin’. Always lookin’ at me like I’m somethin’ awful. At least you would some something better to do other than sitting and dwelling over these fantasies of yours!

"Maybe stop being awful," you whisper.

His eyes darken instantly.

He jerks upright, looming over you now, and the tenderness from seconds ago vanishes like smoke.

"That right?" he spits. "That all it takes, huh? I just stop bein’ awful and suddenly you don’t look at me like I’m the devil? Like you didn’t just lie to my face and sneak off when I ain't here huh?"

You shrink back, but he’s already lost to it, the storm breaking open inside him.

"You think this is easy for me? You think I like draggin’ you back like that? In front of others? You think I wanted to hurt you?"

He laughs, sharp and broken, more angry at himself than you, but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

"I am awful," he growls. “I ain’t like those soft boys you dream of. I don’t know how to be that. But I keep tryin’. I keep buyin’ you those damn flowers, and beggin’ the same woman who raised me to feed you ‘cause I’m too pissed to do it myself!”

He grips your wrist then, tight enough to make your breath hitch. “You wanna say somethin’ real? Then say this, would you rather I leave you? Huh? Would you rather I let you go to your daddy? Or let some other man find you, maybe treat you ‘better’, hm?"

He leans in, his voice low and venomous now.

"'Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, he wouldn’t get the chance."

Silence falls like a knife between you.

His grip finally loosens, but his eyes never leave yours.

"Now say it again," he hisses. "Go on. Say I’m awful."

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just the shaky sound of your breath.

He stares at you, wild-eyed, chest heaving, waiting.

But when you don’t speak?

He erupts.

"SAY IT AGAIN!" he roars, the words crashing through the tent like thunder. "Say it to my face, damn you, woman!"

You flinch hard, shoulders jerking up, eyes wide, lips parting with a soundless breath. But you don’t say a word.

He sees it.

The way you’re trembling. The way you’re really scared of him now. As if he's death himself. Not just angry. Not annoyed. Not defiant.

Scared.

"...Goddamn it," he mutters hoarsely, turning away like he can’t stand to see what he’s done.

He's fucking done it again. Lost control. That's the only thing he seems to be good at.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK IT. I AM pathetic.

And still, you say nothing. Just sniffles and bearly audible whimpers.

You don’t move. Don't argue. Don’t scream. Just sit there, small, still, and broken in the quiet.

He stays facing away, his jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides.

"...Yeah," he mutters, quieter now. "That’s what I thought."

But the venom’s gone. Now it just sounds tired. Hollow.

"And as for the kid..." His voice sliced through the silence, bitter and low. "I’ve watched you bleed for weeks now. Never a scrap of life to show for it. Can’t grow a damn thing."

You flinched like the words struck skin. "Stop it. Please. Stop talking." Your voice broke as you turned your face into the pillow. He can't get more selfish and vile than this.

He hates what he's done almost as much as he hates that perhaps nothing can make you love him back. He let out a dry, mocking breath. "Oh yeah, of course. Reckon that's my fault too, huh?"

And maybe it was.

Maybe it wasn’t.

But the thought, the possibility, of his body failing at that...made something gnarl up behind his ribs.

His teeth ground together, jaw stiffening against a rage he couldn’t name. Not at you , not entirely. At the loss. At the silence.

He laid back with a sharp exhale and reached for you, fingers curling possessively around your waist. You didn’t resist, too tired to pull away. His body was warm against your back, firm, immovable.

He breathed in your scent , soap, tears, the faintest sweetness of crushed flowers.

His hand threaded into your hair. The motion was awkward at first, hesitant, but it grew slower, more deliberate. A mockery of comfort. Or maybe the only way he knew how to give it.

You hiccupped through a broken breath, still turned away.

Beneath the covers, tucked against your wrist, the new flower bracelets, jasmine, white and small, lay cool against your skin. He had fastened them there without a word, just after changing your bandages with startling care. You hadn’t dared take them off.

They smelled like innocence. Like a peace that didn’t exist here.

"You’re not gonna run again, right? You better not. Stop with this childish behaviour."

What the hell are you supposed to answer to that? Of course you want to...

His breath slowed behind you, quieter now, no longer sharp with anger. Just heavy. Weighted. His hand never left your hair, brushing through it like he was trying to memorize the strands, as if that could anchor him, anchor you , to the moment.

"You think I don’t see it?" he murmured after a while, his voice quieter now, tired. "How you flinch when I raise my voice. How you don’t eat right. How you look at me like I’m..." He trailed off, the words crumbling in his mouth.

His fingers drifted down, ghosting over the curve of your shoulder, then the bandaged part of your arm, careful now. Like he remembered, suddenly, how hurt you were. "I shouldn’t’ve let you go hungry today. That wasn’t right. M'sorry, really sorry."

The tent was full of his guilt, it was echoing back at him.

"The other day...when I took you town you looked real pretty...you always do...I mean--and then yesterday I saw some...bracelets at the stall , reminded me of you...in the white dress and....."

He paused, his hand caressing your wrists, where the newer ones , jasmine this time , still clung, slightly crushed from how tightly he’d held you earlier.

"Well, you weren't here. But these...I made em' myself...Sat out by the fire like some fool stringin’ flowers together. Just so you'd have somethin’ soft."

He let out a breath, lips pressing gentle kisses at the back of your neck as he drew closer, pulling you flush against him under the blankets. You could feel the warmth of his chest at your back, the steady, stubborn thrum of his heart.

"Ain’t askin’ you to forgive me tonight," he whispered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. "Just... don’t stop wearin’ ‘em, princess. Please."

His arms tightened slightly around you, a silent apology carved in touch.

You didn't answer, but you didn’t push him away either. And for now, that was enough for him.

In the quiet tent, the jasmine bracelets lay cool against your skin, petals barely clinging , delicate, fragrant things made by rough hands. A soft offering from a man who didn’t know how to be gentle… but was still trying.

taglist: @littlebirdgot @captainyeiyei @hyunnjiin @loverssickness @honeybunny75

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adalwolfgang · 7 months ago

Note

only if ya feel like it, but maybe some yandere Arthur Morgan hcs?

Arthur Morgan | Yandere Headcanons

“You and me, sugar, we’re like two sides of the same coin. Try to run, and I’ll always find you.”

Warnings: The basic yandere warnings

A/N: Apologies this is so short. I’m trying to get back into writing.

𝘐𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘖𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳...𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦...𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?

𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵, 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭. *𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩* 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳’𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘯, 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘦𝘵𝘤.

𝘏𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘩 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘣 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳.

#x reader #reader insert #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #yandere x reader #Yandere Arthur Morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan x you #yandere headcanons

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blxkstar · 4 months ago

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𝐕𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃: 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄

The gang of criminals, rebels, and radical minds who decided to reject civilization in favor of living under their own rules. I made this playlist with music that I believe fits the Van Der Linde gang. Please check it out!

"They can pummel us as hard as they like, but we will always get back up and fight. That's who we are. Outlaws for life, fellers"

"Nothin' means more to me than this gang, the bond that we share. It's the most real thing to me. I would kill for it, I would happily die for it."

"You kill, I kill. You rob, I rob. Only difference I can see is I choose whom I kill, and rob, while you destroy everything in your path."

"This place... ain't no such thing as civilized."

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isolatedrose · 2 months ago

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A Message In The Water (Part II)

(this is a repost because tumblr flagged it as mature for some reason T-T)

Part I

Part II

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Mermaid Reader

Summary: Arthur picks up your precious jeweled comb, leading to a chance encounter between the two of you. He thought you were the stuff of legends. Reader is a mermaid.

Word Count: 2.2k AO3 Link

Notes: Not proofread yet, I’ll do it later. I also took a lot of liberties with the dialogue and progression of scenes in the game. I really appreciate the love this fic is getting, so thank you!

The metal tub the auctioneers shoved you in was too cramped for you, as your tail was hanging off of the edge. At the news of the auction holding a mermaid, the showroom was filled to the brim with investors, businessmen, and collectors eager to witness the sight of the creature of legends. A velvet curtain kept you hidden from preemptive prying eyes.

The past events that led up to this moment were a blur. One moment you were dragged on a boat by fishermen and the next you were shipped to the nearest auction house to be sold to the highest winning bidder.

You were exhausted, your limbs and tail depleted of energy from trying to resist your captors. The open air was also taking a toll on your lungs as you’ve never been out of water for this long before. The sellers simply filled the tub with a pitiful amount of water.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! I’m sure you have heard about our most exciting addition to our collection.” The auctioneer's booming voice echoed across the showroom.

“What we are about to show you, I can most definitely guarantee, is real despite what you might have heard.”

Two men at the outskirts of the stage began to tug on the pulley, slowly opening the curtains to begin the grand reveal that was you.

“It is my greatest pleasure to present to you, a mermaid!” The auctioneer gestured grandly with his arm towards you, the spotlight exposing you to the public.

Exclamations of all kinds exploded throughout the audience. Shouts were bouncing across the room, and people were already shooting up their auction signs.

“Now, now, settle down everyone. I will begin the bid at $500. Any takers?”

“600!”

“850!”

“1000!

“We have a $1000! Anyone for $1100?”

Your eyes were blank and dull as you stared off into the crowd, all of the audience’s heading eyes blurring together. You heard prices being sounded off at every second.

“$5000.”

The enormity of the price made viewers go quiet, but for you it made your heart palpitate in your chest. The realization of you actually being sold hit you like a freight train.

“$5000! Anyone for $5100?”

Voices were at a murmur at this point. No one could dare exceed that price unless they sought to fall to destitution.

“$5000 going once, twice, three times.” The auctioneer shoots off, yet no one chimes in.

“Sold! To Mr. Desmond Blythe!”

—————

Arthur adjusts his coat and blue cravat just before he enters the waterboat’s poker room. A grim frown was set in his face at just having his guns taken away from him. He wasn’t too keen on robbing empty handed like this, but as always, he had to put up with Trelawny’s plan and antics. He’d have to hold onto his words that “these people were virtually idiots.”

Arthur and Trelawny swing the ornate doors open, and the con man next to him switches tones immediately to one of fanfare and frivolity.

“Now have a good time, but don’t lose too much money or your wife is going to kill me!” Trelawny clamps a hand over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Whatever you say.” Arthur drawls.

The chords from the piano music thrums loudly throughout the poker room. Arthur saunters casually across the floor, observing the poker tables where he knew men with heavy pockets sat. Arthur saw the empty seat left just for him, for Arthur Callahan specifically. He caught sight of Strauss, but knew not to let his gaze linger too long.

However, just before he took a seat, he froze in his tracks. His eyes were locked onto one thing. Right next to the piano was a grand, glass tank filled to the brim with water. Inside the container, was you.

After you were sold to the highest bidder, the man acquired the largest glass tank he could acquire and shoved you in for his own and his business rivals’ entertainment.

At every tap or bang of the glass, you’d jerk away in fear, but to the spectators, they were thrilled at any movements you made, as your glittering tail moving through the water was spectacular enough. Desmond Blythe’ ego could not be inflated any further. He boasted to every onlooker about how he gained a magnificent piece that was once thought mythical to his collection. You attempted to ignore the humans gawking at you, but it proved little use as the tank’s size was nothing compared to the space you had at home.

You kept your gaze averted from the continuing passerbyers, but one figure stood in front of your tank. You expected the same tapping and banging you experienced previously, but this person was stock still. Out of curiosity, you finally lifted your head.

You gasp as bubbles escape your lips. It was Arthur! You drew close to the glass and placed both hands against it, lowering yourself to be eye level with him. You looked at him desperately, so happy to see a familiar face.

Arthur eyes gazed at you, weak and tender. But his mouth was set in a grimace. You sensed something was wrong.

Your buyer, Desmond Blythe, strolled up next to Arthur. “Amazing specimen, is it not? Mr…?”

“Callahan. Arthur Callahan.” He turned his head and shook Desmond’s hand.

“She— might I ask where you found… it?” Arthur is careful with his words.

“Oh it wasn’t me, but a group of fishermen. I paid a mighty fine price for it at an auction.” Desmond crosses his arms, his chest puffed out in pride. “I can still hardly believe my eyes, a mermaid.”

“Me neither…”

Desmond pats his shoulder. “Well Mr. Callahan, I’ll bet that empty seat is yours, correct? You can still take a look at it after the game.” The businessman leaves Arthur and proceeds to walk to the poker table.

You looked between him and Desmond, confused as to what Arthur’s affiliation was with these people. A seed of doubt is planted in your mind, but it is swiftly brushed aside when Arthur takes a step closer to the tank. He overlaps his hand with yours, the glass the only barrier between you two. He gives you an almost imperceptible nod before he turns to take a seat at the poker table.

The game between all the men proceeded until it was just Arthur and Desmond left. You couldn’t fully make out the words from where you were, until you heard a distinct cursing from your buyer. He throws his hand of cards on the table.

“Shit… shit!”

Arthur opens his arms to gather the chips to his side. “You got something else to play with?”

“… I got a watch.” Desmond offers slowly.

Mischief glints in Arthur’s eyes. “Look at you.”

Desmond scowls, pissed at his sarcasm. “An expensive one. A Reutlinger, worth more than you.”

Arthur leans back in his chair, propping his elbow on the arm to rest his chin. “Not enough.”

“What?” Desmond quirks an eyebrow.

“The pot’s pretty big now Mr. Blythe, and the stakes are high. No, I want something else you can bet on the line.”

“And what is that?” He pressed Arthur, falling into his trap.

Arthur is quiet for a moment until he speaks again. “The mermaid.”

Desmond practically sputters while Strauss right behind him stiffens in his seat, knowing full well that this wasn’t the plan. He glances sternly at Arthur, but he ignores the old man. Even Trelawny wouldn’t be too happy with these turn of events.

“Excuse me?” His mustache can’t hide the obvious red growing in his face.

“You heard me. I want you to bet with the mermaid.” The playfulness from earlier is gone from Arthur’s voice. “Here,” he pushes all of his earned chips to the center of the poker table. “I’ll go all-in right now.”

“Absolutely not! I paid a fortune for it!”

“Whatever you paid for her, I’ll match it and double it. In cash.”

“Double?” Desmond's eyes are wide, but now he’s enticed by such a tempting offer.

“Gentleman, are we continuing then?” The dealer cuts in.

Desmond looks to the dealer, then nods. “Fine… but you’ll regret it.”

Another round begins as two cards to each player is dealed. Finally, as the dealer lays down five cards, Arthur wins with an ace-high diamond flush.

“Goddamn you!” Desmond bellows as he bangs on the table.

Trelawny meanders over to Arthur’s side. “Now, what luck we have here!” He laughs heartily. “Now now, there’s no need for the hysterics!” Trelawny is theatrical as he places both hands on his waist, turning to look at you in the take. “Now how are we going to transport it? Hmm…”

“There’s something I don’t like about the pair of you…” Desmond accuses with an undercurrent of anger in his voice.

“No need to be a sore loser.” Arthur gestures to your tank. “Now how about you send some of your boys so we can drag that big tub of water out of here.”

Without warning, Desmond brandishes a gun hiding in his coat, and points the barrel at Arthur. You cry out in the water, banging on the glass.

“You’re not taking it! I bought that thing with my own money, fair and square. Unlike you!”

Arthur raises his hands in the air, but he stays calm.

“Going against your word now, Mr Blythe?”

“You cheated, I know it!”

A beat passes before you notice a man in uniform turns and shoots his fellow guard with his repeater and tosses it to Arthur. Absolute mayhem ensues as screams break out. Gunshots began to ring throughout the room, their bullets finding any target without discrimination, including you.

A bullet finds its way to the edge of your tank, creating a crack in the glass that eventually weaves its way through the surface, finally collapsing under pressure. Water floods out, and you with it, as you tumble out of your cage.

You crash onto the ground, your tail now feeling heavier with it out of water. Arthur looks to you from behind an overturned table for cover, and he shouts your name.

Before you knew it, another bullet clips your tail, causing you to yelp in pain. At the sound of it, Arthur rushes to your side despite the hail of gunfire. One of your iridescent scales is chipped off of your tail as it clatters to the ground.

“Are you alright—” but both you and Arthur are left shell shocked at your tail now dividing into two, as if it was held together by glassy webbing. Your scales began to dissolve into your skin until you were left with two human legs, with a bleeding red wound the size of your scale left behind on your new calf.

Your eyes darted to Arthur’s helplessly, frightened and clueless as to what was happening to you. He was also witnessing your transformation in open-mouthed awe. Your mouth opened in a silent cry as you pointed to your scale left on the ground, begging him to grab it. You weren’t exactly sure, but you knew you would need it if you were ever to change back.

Arthur gathers his wits and runs to nab the scale. He returns to you, but he’s unsure of what to do next.

“Can… can you stand?”

You try to lift yourself up, but the unfamiliar sensation of gravity weighs on you. You shake your head desperately.

“I’ll carry you.” He moves to hook his arm underneath your knees and your back. “Wrap your arms around my neck.”

You nodded fervently, placing all of your trust in him.

“Fellas!” He calls out to Trelawny, Javier, and Strauss in the chaos. “We’re gettin’ out of here!”

Javier, the man in the uniform that shot first you realized, waved Arthur over to the door that exits out onto the edge of the boat. “Over here!”

Arthur holds you tightly to him as he and his men rush outside.

“Arthur, the hell are we taking that thing for?” Javier is incredulous. “And why all of a sudden it has legs?”

“I too, would like to know the reason why we’re taking the creature with us.” Trelawny chimes in.

You tuck your head firmly into the crook of Arthur’s neck, breathing in his scent to steady your heart essentially jackhammering in your chest. He tightens his hold on you in reassurance.

“Just shut the hell up, and let’s get on out of here, got it?”

No one argues with that. Everyone gathers at the edge of the riverboat’s opening, preparing to jump off.

“W-what about the alligators?” Strauss stutters.

“Just jump!” Javier and Trelawny dive into the waters. Strauss pushes up his glasses and has no choice but to follow soon after.

You and Arthur are the last ones, but he tilts his head down to you, entreating you to look him in the eyes.

“I reckon you can’t swim with those new legs of yours. So you’ll have to hold on tight to me, just like you are now. I’ll carry us both to shore, you hear?”

You looked up at him, worry clear in your expression, but you nod nonetheless.

“Good girl.” Arthur kisses your forehead before he jumps in the water with you.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #reader #x reader #arthur morgan x reader #reader self insert #mermaid reader

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gogogodzilla · 8 months ago

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✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟙𝟠: 𝐵𝑜𝑑𝑦𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑 ✧

【𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑂𝑛 𝐴𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙 】

╰› 〖 𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 〗: If there's one thing for certain about Arthur Morgan, he's going to take more than what he's paid for

╰› 〖 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 〗: nsfw 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, infidelity (reader cheats on their husband w/ arthur), medium/low honor arthur

✧ 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚.𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ✧ 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 ✧ 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑝𝑎𝑑 ✧

The noise of the party drifted up the stairs and filtered into your bedchamber. Not that you were paying it much mind, but it proved to be effective in covering up the sounds of furniture scraping across the wooden floors.

You’d been lucky enough that your husband was drunk enough to not notice your disappearance, but you knew the clock was working against you. Each rut of Arthur’s hips against yours brought you closer and closer to ecstasy. The air was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against slick skin and Arthur’s soft grunts.

You wondered how your plan could have gone so wrong yet so right. The party was meant to be a distraction— something to cover up the sounds of you leaving this damned marriage far behind you. Your packed bag still stood neatly by the bedroom window, and it consumed your gaze from your bent-over position on your bed.

It was the same bed you’d shared with your husband for years now. He was a rich man, and the perfect match in your parents’ eyes. You were content, for a while. However, contentedness could only take you so far, and you quickly grew bitter, exhausted of tumbling into the same routine day after agonizing day.

You’d nearly jumped for joy the day Arthur Morgan came into your life. It was a warm summer night, and the bones of your corset dug into your ribs as you watched over the main hall as people filed in for your husband’s monthly card game. It was mostly a chance for him to flaunt his wealth and take even more money from those who could afford to lose it.

Your husband sauntered over to you and pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek as a greeting. Your eyes drifted to the man lingering behind him. His hat hung low and his eyes piercing blue eyes scanned the hall. He was rugged, with an air of quiet intensity that made you want to avoid his gaze. He looked as solid as the old oak tree in your backyard, and your eyes trailed over his broad shoulders. His hulking appearance contrasted sharply with the lavish furnishings of your great hall— the deep red leather of his vest blending in with the black cotton of his shirt, and the dark leather of his boots caked in a fine layer of dust.

“My love, I’d like you to meet Arthur Morgan. He’s going to be watching over you tonight while I entertain our guests,” your husband said, his voice casual.

He was mentioning the last time you’d attempted to escape. You’d been too eager and didn’t wait until your husband was too inebriated to wonder where his darling partner had run off to. You wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Arthur took his hat off, revealing tousled dark blonde hair that fell messily around his brow. Your heart nearly skipped a beat as those blue eyes of his caught yours— sharp and clear with an edge of caution.

“Ma’am,” Arthur said with a slight bow of his head, his voice low and gravelly. His politeness was clumsy, almost as if he wasn’t used to formalities.

You curtsied in response, dipping low just like you were taught.

Your husband smiled, “Arthur, here, is the best money can buy.” He then turned to face Arthur and took your hand in his. “My wife here likes to wander, Mr. Morgan. I trust you’ll keep a close eye on her,” your husband said as his hand squeezed yours.

Arthur’s eyes scanned over your form, and you suddenly felt vulnerable under his scrutinizing gaze. He crossed his arms, and you couldn’t help but notice how his muscles strained under his shirt.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur answered, his gaze remaining glued to yours, “they won’t get far.”

Arthur had kept his promise. You’d nearly jumped out of your skin as he grabbed your bicep and turned you around to face him. Your suitcase was clutched tightly in your hand and the window was cracked open enough for you to slip through. You’d removed the frilly dress you’d donned earlier and opted for something more inconspicuous.

He tsked his tongue as he loomed over you, a smirk working its way onto his features. You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“What do we have here?” he questioned. You shrunk slightly in front of him, trembling. “This big house and everything you could ever want not enough for you?”

“I didn’t want this,” you spat, attempting to wrench yourself out of his grasp.

He chuckled, tightening his grip on your arm, “And what is it you do want, hm?”

“Something more,” you murmured as your heart raced in your chest.

He was quiet for a moment as he looked down at you. He tugged your suitcase out of your hand and set it next to the window.

“Is he bad to you?” Arthur questioned, his voice husky and low.

You shook your head, your cheeks flaring. It seemed imprudent to leave this privileged life you lived, but your heart yearned for more.

“Is he,” Arthur paused, his eyes flickering to your bed before meeting yours. “Is he good to you?”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “I’m not… satisfied.”

A slow, roguish grin formed on Athur’s lips. “I can fix that.”

The next few moments were a clash of teeth and lips as Arthur pulled you closer, wrapping his strong arms tightly around you. His lips moved fervently against yours, and you’d never felt need like that course through you. Your entire being hummed with desperation as he touched you, his calloused hands grabbing and kneading whatever he could reach of your soft skin.

You moaned against his lips as he pulled the skirts of your dress up and ran a hand over your thigh before moving upward to caress your clothed heat. You leaned your head back as he teased you through your undergarments.

“Think you can be quiet while I show you what a real man feels like?” he questioned low against the shell of your ear.

You nodded your head quickly, too focused on what his hands were doing under your dress to forge a proper reply.

“Good girl,” he grunted, and it sent a jolt straight to your core.

You let out a squeal as Arthur bent down and picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder. His grip was firm on the back of your thighs as he made his way toward your bed.

He threw you onto your bed and flipped you over, maneuvering your body like it was nothing. He grabbed your hands and pinned them behind your back. “Keep ‘em there, darlin’,” he ordered as he let them go. You obediently stayed put as your heart pounded in your chest.

His hands roamed over the plush of your ass as he hovered over you. “Pretty little thing with a man who can’t please her,” he hummed as his hands trailed up your sides.

He pulled your hips up so your ass was in the air and he kneaded the flesh there. He slid a hand up your calf and then under your dress once more. He lifted your skirts up and over your hips. He dragged his thumb over your clothed core before tangling his fingers in your undergarments and ripping a hole in them, leaving you bare before him.

He slid a finger through your folds, and you arched your back, preening into his touch. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, stifling a moan as he dipped his finger down to tease your entrance.

The clinking of his gun belt being undone was music to your ears, and you pressed your core against him, whining as the rough denim jeans rubbed against your core. You rested your cheek against the mattress as he freed his weeping cock from his jeans. He stroked it once and then twice before gliding it through your folds, eliciting a breathy moan from you. He gripped the plumpness of your ass as he ground against you, hitting your clit with every drag of his hips.

He leaned down so his chest was flush against your back. “Such a dirty girl,” he purred, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear, “begging me to fuck you while your husband’s downstairs none the wiser.”

You whimpered at his words, which went straight to your core, as he teased you. He didn’t give you enough time to answer before he was agonizingly pushing inside you. You groaned at the way he stretched you, and you relished the way he alighted feelings you never knew were possible.

He nudged your knees further apart, opening yourself up to him further as he began rocking his hips against you. He placed a firm hand on your lower back, keeping you still as his pace increased.

Each rut of Arthur’s hips against yours brought you closer and closer to ecstasy. The air was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against slick skin and Arthur’s soft grunts.

You let out a high-pitched mewl as he reached a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, and he leaned forward to cover your mouth with one of his hands.

He reached his free hand around you to rub harsh circles against your clit. His pace was brutal, but you savored every second of it. You let out a breathy moan against his hand, and shoved your hips back against his, matching his pace.

With one final stroke of his cock, you were coming undone over his cock. Your pussy gripped him in a vice grip as you rode out your high, and Arthur’s hips stuttered against your own. He came with a strangled groan as his release painted your walls. His cock twitched inside you as he came down from his high, and his hips slowed.

Within a few moments, he was pulling out of you. You whined at the loss, and he watched as his cum oozed out of you, dripping over your folds. Arthur groaned at the sight.

You rolled onto your back and looked up at him. He ran a gentle hand over your thigh.

“Still thinking about leaving?” he questioned.

You shrugged, “I don’t know, are you gonna catch me again?”

“I’ll give you a five-minute head start this time.”

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan #reader insert #no y/n #kinktober #kinktober 2024

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the-karma-cafe · 4 months ago

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My Kingdom for a Dance | Arthur Morgan

a/n: excerpt from a way longer work in progress i was working on many months ago, and haven't had the time to work on more. better to get something out now than nothing out ever, right ? - also will probmaybe post this on ao3 under same user

Arthur hummed, either not believing me or just not caring, and his eyes skipped down my form to the bottle clutched in my hand. His eyes widened a fraction, and he laughed, “You’re not messin’ around, little lady!”

I took another sip, trying to act nonchalant (never before had I fought a cringe so hard). “This is nothin’.” I shrugged.

Something sparkled in his eyes at that. “Oh yeah?” he laughed, and cocked his head over towards the other table. “You wanna put yer money where yer mouth is, sweetheart?” His hands rested heavy on his belt as he looked down at me.

I balked (and attempted to ignore the small flutter my heart made) at that. My eyes dragged over to the other table where Micah was pouring shots with Bill and John. I hadn’t meant for it to sound like a challenge.

Well. I couldn’t very well back down now, could I? Not when he was looking at me like that, calling me that.

I swallowed back my nerves and strolled over to the table like it didn’t matter. He snickered behind me, following.

“Thirsty, sugar pie?” Micah sneered up at me as I plopped down next to John.

“Parched,” I retorted, grabbing one of the shots from his spot across the table. Arthur settled down next to him, across from John, Bill, and I, and grabbed one of his own.

“One… two…” Bill began to count, but Micah threw his back before the other man finished. Irritated at not being followed, Bill scoffed and awkwardly cut himself off, throwing his back as well. John, Arthur, and I followed suit.

Or, well, John and Arthur did. Half the moonshine made it down my throat before I gagged and spit the rest back in the cup. Micah barked a laugh at me. “Bet you’d do better with somethin’ else in yer mouth, huh, girlie?” John laughed along with him.

My cheeks burned, if not for the drink, then especially for that. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I bit back, stuffing down my embarrassment.

“Well,” he curled up his lip, “if the lady is offering…” He leaned back to gesture towards his lap.

I opened my mouth before I knew what I wanted to say, but thankfully was cut off. “You’re a real charmer, ain’tcha?” Arthur drawled. I glanced over at him, seeing that his cheerful expression from earlier had soured.

Micah shrugged and pushed up and away from the table. “Just the merry dance of the sexes,” he raised his hands in mock-defense. Bill pushed up to follow after him. Micah waved at me, his eyes narrowed and his grin wide. I looked back to Arthur.

“Creep.” Arthur muttered, his eyes not leaving the table.

My heart warmed a little. Arthur often defended the other women of camp from Micah’s comments, but I’d never had that kindness extended to me before now. It was sweet, his protectiveness. His gaze shifted across the table to my drink. He cracked a smile, “You gonna finish that?”

I snorted, pulling the cup towards me. “This is probably half-spit, you don’t want it.” I brought it back up to my nose, trying not to cringe at the smell. I held it away from me again. “How the hell d’you guys do this?”

John chuckled beside me. “Just don’t think about it, I guess.”

I nodded and took his advice, trying to throw the alcohol over my tongue to choke it back. I wasn’t sure what the percentage was on moonshine, but I was sure it didn’t matter at this point, my head now well-fuzzed. Arthur’s eyes were trained on me, a small smile on his lips. “You really are all talk.”

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile of my own. “Whatever.”

Arthur and John took a couple more shots, getting sloppier by the minute. John was friendly next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder and talking too loudly in my ear. It was nice, though, hanging out with the two of them. Strange, but nice.

ARTHUR POV

He watched John say something else to her, but he wasn’t sure what, nor did he really care. His gaze was shadowed under his hat, staring across the table at them. John laughed, pulling (Y/N) closer as he rocked to the side. She smiled back at him, her cheeks ruddy. Arthur forced a laugh of his own, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered.

She looked nice.

He didn’t want to think about it, but with her right in front of him like this, it made things hard. He had tried all day not to think about that morning: waking up to the rest of the camp asleep, going to get coffee, getting distracted by the way the pale sun shone down on her hair, the sweet way she had her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

He had found himself sketching it later, while waiting for Trelawney with Javier and Charles. He remembered closing his journal a little too quickly when he realized Trelawney had walked up and stood behind him to announce himself.

And she had washed his jacket. It was the slightest bit damp, but he kept it on anyway, even after he rode off. She pulled it out from under that blanket, bunched up by her side, and handed it to him. He wondered briefly how it would look on her一if she’d look as sweet in his jacket as she had with her blanket; if she’d grow to prefer it more.

He threw back another drink, seeking to quiet his thoughts. It didn’t matter, anyway.

John scowled at something (Y/N) said, and got up, stumbling off somewhere else. She turned those eyes of hers on Arthur. He fought the urge to look away, holding her gaze. “What’s his problem?” he asked.

“Told him to go see the missus,” she smiled, taking a sip of her beer. He forced himself to look away from the unfair way her lips looked pressed against it.

“Ah,” he hummed in understanding, raising his cup in acknowledgement. “Smart idea, gettin’ him to do it while he’s drunk.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Dutch’s gramophone clicked to life, playing some fun, but calm, instrumental. Arthur glanced over, watching Dutch turn away from the machine and hold his hands out to Miss O’Shea, who happily stepped into his embrace. They swayed together to the music, her high laughter floating over the noise.

“That’s sweet,” (Y/N) whispered from across the table, just loud enough for him to hear. He looked back to her, watching her watch them, a soft expression on her face.

The sun was almost completely hidden behind the mountains now, the last valiant orange fading from the sky. Light from the nearby oil lamps and campfire took its place, most of her face shadowed despite their efforts. It played on the apple of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, the reflection in her eyes. His fingers itched for his journal again.

“D’you wanna dance?”

She blinked in surprise, and looked over at him. That was strange, though, because he hadn’t said anything. He wondered who asked her, although he hoped she would say no to them, and stay with him instead. Her cheeks appeared to flush the slightest bit一or maybe he was just seeing things一and she shyly smiled.

“Sure, Arthur, I’d love to.”

Oh. He asked.

He felt a heat of his own creep up the back of his neck and ears, and hoped it didn’t show. He stood up abruptly from the table, and swayed a bit on his feet. She mirrored his movement, getting up and steadying herself.

He held out his hand, forcing the other behind his back awkwardly. “M’lady,” he joked.

She giggled and placed her hand in his. It was a bit roughened compared to the night before, but still soft. It likely wouldn’t stay this way for long, running with them.

He tugged gently (or he tried to, at least), pulling her closer. She made a small noise of surprise and stumbled over to him, placing her other hand between them before they collided. It rested heavy on his chest, more an indicator of her drunken state than anything else. Warmth spread from her to him, and he wondered if he was giving any back.

Arthur brought up his hand to rest clumsily at her hip, unsure where exactly to place it. Why had he asked her to do this, again? He was clearly just going to embarrass himself.

Wherever he had settled it, though, she seemed content with, and she smoothed her hand up from his chest to rest on his shoulder. The line of contact seared like fire over him, and he made some noise in his throat. He hoped she hadn’t heard.

With their other hands clasped together, they swayed gracelessly, but he didn’t mind, and she didn’t seem to neither, a broad smile stretching her face. Her rings felt cool pressed against the heat of his palm. She kept laughing every now and then, stepping on his toes or knocking their knees together. He couldn’t find it in him to care.

He attempted a twirl at some point, but halfway through she fell backwards, losing her balance. He reached out and caught her, selfishly letting her head and back fall against his chest. “Y’alrigh’?” he slurred.

She tilted her head back, her face upside down, looking up at him with a sly grin. The campfire light caught her chest and jaw. “Better now in these big arms o’ yours, cowboy.” She winked, a stupid grin on her face.

He almost dropped her out of surprise. He stiffened, forcing out an awkward laugh that he hoped sounded casual.

This was ridiculous, he wasn’t some blushing schoolgirl. She was just teasing. He willed his taut muscles to relax.

“‘S that right?” he brought his arms around her to cage her in, linking his hands together by the front of her hips一two can play at this game, Miss (L/N). He leaned his head down by her face. “How ‘bout now?” he cooed.

The grin dropped from her face, her eyes wide as she looked up at him, an embarrassed flush painting her cheeks. Damn, he hadn’t meant to come off like Micah.

His grip loosened, nervous now. (Y/N) wasn’t nearly as close with him as the other girls were, and he inwardly cursed himself for getting familiar with her like this. If only Mary-Beth or someone else had been nearby when he’d asked to dance一he could’ve pretended like he’d been asking them. Shit, he would’ve danced with John if he had to.

“I’m probably about perfect, now,” she recovered, her laugh ringing up towards him like a bell. She moved her head back to face forward, snuggling back against his chest.

He exhaled, a stupid grin overtaking his face. He began to rock them side-to-side, listening to the campfire song that had sprung up between Bill and Karen, the latter perched on a certain Irishman’s lap. Arthur hummed along under his breath, resting his chin on her head. Her hair was soft, still, just like the first time. This was nice. She was nice.

He wasn’t sure when his eyes had drifted closed, but (Y/N) made no attempt to leave his bear hug, and he found himself thankful for it. He felt his throat still rumbling with song, but wasn’t sure if he was humming anymore or actually singing.

“You don’t mind if I take over from here, do you, Arthur?” an amused voice whispered beside him. He cracked his eyes open, dragging his chin across her head to look at Hosea. The man was staring at him with a sort of fond pity, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t a child. (Y/N) moved out from his embrace and he stepped back, keeping his hands up to steady her if he needed to.

She swayed, but Hosea caught her arm, throwing it over his shoulder and stepping in front of her. “Oh, hello, Hosea,” she greeted politely, but glanced around in confusion. Hosea jutted his chin over to where Arthur stood behind her, and she craned her neck to look at him.

He felt awkward and big and out-of-place, now, all by himself. He flexed his hands by his side and gave her a tight smile.

“Thank you for dancing with me, Arthur,” she said sweetly, her gaze fixed on him. The red bloom of drink had held steadfastly to her cheeks, her eyes glinting in the light of the oil lamps.

He felt himself nod and grunt some sort of response before he turned on his heel and trudged off towards his tent. That was enough drinking for him.

~Journal updated.

On one side, a detailed sketch of a plant, the words “Indian Tobacco” scrawled next to it. On the other side, a sketch of (Y/N) in the morning, her blanket tightly wrapped around her shoulders. There are the beginnings of a focus on her hair, with a random sharp line dragged to the side, as if the artist was startled.

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