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reddeadchesha · 3 months ago

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Peregrine

Summary: Arthur misses your birthday. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,124 Tags: angst, smut, high honor Arthur, oral, pnv, fingering Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: A request fulfilment for my dear Kenny @emerald-ranch. I kinda added in the birthday thing, I hope that was alright! It became clear to me as I was writing this that I 1000% have a thing for Arthur on his knees...XD anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Peregrine: having a tendency to wander

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window.

“I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety.

But in time, he’d arrive with blood, dirt, and sweat staining his shirt and the scar on his chin covered by his overgrown beard. Outstretched arms would warm you like the afternoon sun. You’d breathe him in, sighing contentedly despite scents of gunpowder and musk clinging to him.

This time was different.

The sun fell below the horizon for the fourth time since he’d departed. Glass bottles clinked as camp buzzed with the lively energy of celebration—a celebration for your birthday. You tried everything to enjoy yourself, forcing air through your vocal cords to mimic a laugh, stretching your lips and showing your teeth to fake a smile, all while trying not to panic.

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz. Was he still alive? Did he get arrested? Was he captured by Pinkertons and tortured while the rest of you partied the night away? Or worse, was he out there, perfectly content with being away knowing you were desperately waiting? To keep yourself sane, you rationalized. He was out finding food and making money. He had mouths to feed and people to take care of. Survival was more important than a birthday.

Whether they were too drunk to notice or respectfully giving you space, nobody protested when you slipped away to Arthur’s tent for the night. Tears spilled down your face and onto his pillow as the last hours of your birthday ticked by.

The stench of dread infiltrated your dreams and ruminated even in your waking hours. Nothing you did could free you from the pain of missing him. At high noon, heavy footsteps prompted you to look up from the growing line of yarn in your lap. You’d memorized the sound of Arthur’s walk like your favorite song, yet the man standing before you felt like an imposter. He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

And your heart plummeted like a stone in a lake; while you were crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, he saw to himself instead of you. Privy to your dismay, the cowboy’s features lowered into a frown.

“Darlin,” he started, quiet and hesitant. “I–I ain’t got an excuse.”

You huffed, losing your stitch count and refusing to meet his eyes. “The king has returned.”

Leaves and twigs cracked under his uncomfortable shuffle as he faltered, “thought we could go for a ride, to–”

And you didn’t let him finish. “M’busy, Arthur.”

Silence hung in the air while he thought of a response. “M’sorry.” He said, then continued when you didn’t acknowledge him. “I’m sorry, and that should’ve been the first thing outta my mouth.”

“Yeah, it should’ve,” you agreed grudgingly. The threads of intertwined yarn were jumbled and lopsided now, a tangled reflection of this whole week. You threw the needles and yarn down into the grass beside you and finally brought yourself to face him. He wanted to smile finally seeing you, but instead, something like a sigh of relief rolled out with his words.

“Time just…got away from me,” he admitted. “I’m a self-serving idiot bastard, and I’m just…sorry. Just lemme make it up to ya’.”

You thought for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder at Grimshaw, trying to find an out.

” But I got chores,” you told him.

“Don’tchu’ worry ’bout that.” He extended his free hand out to you, and dammit, yours was in it faster than you could deny yourself. The outlaw lifted you up from your seat with one arm and locked yours and his together as he drew you away from camp. And you had to give credit where credit was due because he pulled out all the stops: a ride in a stolen stagecoach, wine, dinner, and a room. He spoiled you in the only ways he knew how, but still, you couldn’t rid yourself of the uninvited guest, unadulterated hurt, that squatted in your bones.

“How was the party?” He’d asked.

“Fine.” You replied, pushing food around on your plate.

“Charles told me the girls managed to get you a cake.”

“They did.”

And the conversation trailed off like it had so often tonight. Every time you glanced at him, the hair, and especially the shirt, hate-filled magma churned within, and you couldn’t hold it any longer, your words spewing out like lava.

“S’a fancy shirt.”

His chin touched his chest as he fiddled with the top button. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off for the second time tonight.

“Glad you had time to stop and pamper yourself. Nice shave, fancy hair, new shirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your birthday.”

You didn’t mean to sound so crass, but now that the pot had boiled over, stopping the overflow felt damn near impossible.

“I thought–”

“Thought?” A curt laugh halted his attempt to explain himself. “It’s hard to imagine you doing any of that.”

And he hung his head, an old dog with his tail between his legs–shameful that he’d disappointed the one he loved the most.

“And you paid for a bath too. Tell me, was it twenty-five cents or fifty?”

Your chair screeched against the floor, and you jerked back before he could answer, fleeing to anywhere but that table with him. The room key Arthur gave you in the stagecoach burned a hole in your pocket. You trotted up the stairs, searching for 2C and ignoring his calls from behind you. The least you deserved was a night behind closed doors, locked away from everything, even if it meant locking him out in the process.

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it.

“Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t ever gonna forgive m’self for lettin’ you down.”

And you listened patiently while he devolved into his long-winded explanation.

“Was hoping to make a quick house call. Get in n’ out in one night, quick and easy. And I did, but some goddamn bounty hunters found my trail on the way back. Spent a day hiding out, and knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. Figured I oughta bring something nice back with me, you deserved that much.”

Your eyes drifted to the buttons of the shirt again, and he tilted your chin to look back up at him.

“I saw the dress in a window, and let the man sell me the shirt too. Wanted to be at least a little presentable–somebody you’d wanna look at. Ain’t much I can do about my face, but...”

Chuckling under his breath, he snaked a hand into yours and flicked your stuck-out lip. “Then I saw a sign outside the barber. Buy some pomade and get a free comb for your lady,” he touched his hair and rubbed the grease between his fingers.

“Then I got the key, laid everything out nice, stopped for some flowers, and thought I was prince charmin’ off to sweep you away to the ball–well, the room, more like.” He scratched his neck nervously and shook his head. “I thought you’d think a stagecoach fancy enough to make you forget how much I screwed up. No magic pumpkins ’round here though,” he shrugged. “Just an idiot, head-over-heels, hoping you can find it in you to forgive him.”

And frankly, you’d forgiven him the second you stepped foot into the room. Trying to fight your smile was a losing battle.

“You’re right about the idiot part.”

The gunslinger let out a breathy, almost laugh, before taking your hands in his and ushering you to the bed. Relief ran through you. After four long nights, you could finally submerge yourself in those eyes, blue and gold-like specks of sunlight reflecting on the sea.

“Please, forgive me, darlin’, I’m beggin’.”

Rough pads of his fingers traced over your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. You crossed your legs and bounced your foot playfully.

“I don’t know, I seen dogs beg for scraps better than that, Arthur Morgan.”

And while your words were harsh, both of you were smiling now. He grunted, a sure sound of him swallowing his pride, then sunk to one knee, then another.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out thick and rich like honey, “M’sorry. Lemme fix it.”

His hands gripped both your knees, squeezing them lovingly, his touch so reassuringly familiar. He scooted in closer, guiding your legs apart and settling them on either side of his shoulders.

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

You ran one hand through his hair and brought him in by the collar with the other, pecking his lips once, then twice. On the third, you slowed down, lingering with your mouth against his, savoring the all too fleeting feeling of home. Soft giggles slipping between your lips interrupted the moment. Arthur stared up at you with nothing but devotion in his eyes, that laugh like the sweetest medicine, healing his diseased heart long riddled by self-loathing and loss. His right hand had started slow circles on your thigh, reminding you of his proposition.

“Thing I like? Don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morgan.”

But you were shimmying yourself back onto the bed, and he was grabbing at your bloomers at the same time. He lifted his brow knowingly, and hummed a “mhm,” while you lifted your hips, helping him take the garment off and toss it to the floor.

You bunched up your skirts around your waist and looked down at your lover as he lay on his stomach between your legs. His beard grazed your inner thigh, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sighed in relief, releasing four nights of pent-up anxiety as his lips found your center.

And minutes later, just after letting you come down from the first one, he got to work on another climax, fingers pistoning steadily while he whispered all the things he loved about you in your ear. He was on his side next to you now, his own arousal nudging your thigh. The gruffness in his voice sent another surge of pleasure through you.

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.”

His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued.

“Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?”

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you.

“Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

And with that last question, the dam broke, your orgasm busting out around his fingers. Your sounds were the most divine opera, rising in pitch with every “Yes, Arthur,” as you melted.

And he wasn’t done with you yet. Despite being miles away from camp, both of you made a home with each other. Home was the trail of raised skin that followed his touch and pairs of eyes meeting in love-filled exchanges. Home was the first few flutters of your pussy as he sheathed himself deep inside you. One night or even a week’s journey wouldn’t deter him, for he’d claw his way through the fiery depths of perdition to get back home to you.

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reddeadchesha · 3 months ago

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"A Little... Refinin'." / Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Fluff

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Summary: You shave Arthur's face for him. It's all cutesy and y'all're sweet one one another and GAH. Tags: Fluff, literally the purest fluff. Starts off with Arthur being very full of self-loathing. Word count: 2,958 Author's Note: Thank you to the sweet anon who requested this, I truly hope you love it. I got SO carried away with the idea that it just... Needed to be a fic instead of headcanons.... Love uuuu. Ao3 Link

A heavy sigh. Tired, worn skin, parts dry and sunburnt and peeling. Wrinkles nestle deeply into his skin at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Nasty scars deboss his features, as though he is a sculpture, uncared for and unfinished. Full of dips and marks both inside and out, never to meet the kiln, never to be improved. An impossibly repugnant sight.

He feels the disgusted expression morph his features into something even more grotesque before he sees it reflected back at him in the small mirror. It feels like an insult every time. His lips part dumbly, from behind which unevenly set teeth peek. His brow furrows, shadowing the one thing he may dare to like about himself; the blue of his eyes which are currently squinting. Staring too long at himself brings forth thoughts and memories as worrisome and uncomfortable as his face.

The shaving station is a necessary utility, but to him, a feigned performance of self-value. A place for him to hack at his hair and beard, quickly and methodically. To finish up with a shrug and a “good enough”, not a place for priggishness.

“You ugly bastard.”

Arthur’s voice barely escapes as much more than a low grumble, a subtle but continuous and harmful mantra that coats his insides like tar. He begins an attempt to crush the familiar feeling with some deep, grounding breaths. His palms take some of his hefty weight, the wood of the barrel beneath them pressing pinkish shapes into his skin. Much like most forms of pain, he doesn’t mind it.

The rustle of your skirts and the padding of your pottering feet marry together with the chirping birds and whispering spring air as you round his tent and give him a once over. You smile and nod in greeting. He returns the gesture, albeit a tad stiffly, struggling to climb out of his thoughts, though your voice helps coax him.

“You look like you need a shave, Arthur.” You walk past him and through to the back of his tent, an air of domestic authority about you as you snatch some of his washcloths and socks from the little hanger and stuff them into the basket at your hip. He does a double take, his head turning as his gaze follows you.

“What?”

On occasion, you’d make little comments like this; telling him you like the new shirt he bought in Valentine, or his recent decision to grow his hair out. It left him quietly bewildered each time, unsure whether the arrhythmic dance of his heart was due to fondness or awkwardness. Whatever it was, he has spent each moment in your presence suppressing it. You pass by again, placing the basket on the floor outside of his tent with a thump. “I said you look like you need a shave–” you say with a smile, “-You’re gettin’ all scruffy.” Your nose scrunches as you gesture to your own chin, scratching it as though you have stubble. His self-loathing lightens further, your playfulness stirring into the bitter tar like honey, sweetening him up as it always does.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gettin’?” He asks, making you laugh.

“Mister Morgan, you ain’t scruffy. Far from it. You jus’ need a little… Refinin’.” You say with a grin, waltzing closer to him. He feels the column of his spine lock up slightly at your closing proximity and he swallows down a nervous sound. “Refinin’, huh?” He echoes, his eyes flitting down to your flowing skirts as you stop in front of him. He forces his eyes closed before he can think of how nicely your shirt fits. “Yessir.” You say simply, picking up the razor from the barrel, turning it and watching it glint in the sunlight. Arthur’s features tighten slightly, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you lean forward and one by one remove each item off of the barrel, playing them on his cot. “What’re you doin’?” You return to the barrel and pat the top, “Sit, I’ll give ya a shave.”

Arthur blinks, and his head is shaking before he even finishes processing your words.

“Naw, you ain’t gotta do that–” You roll your eyes, swatting at his chest and his skin beneath the fabric tingles in waves again and again. “Oh, hush up and sit’ch your ass down.”

With a concessive sigh, Arthur plants himself atop the barrel, lips pressed into a firm line. When you take a step closer, standing between his thighs, his expression blanks. And when you gently take hold of his chin between your forefinger and thumb to examine his face, his mind follows suit, whiting out into nothing.

You hum, giving him a good look before speaking casually. “Wha’chu want, then?” Your words take a moment to register as Arthur’s muddled head scrambles to take in anything going on outside of the fabric of your skirts brushing his thighs and the tip of your thumb grazing his lower lip. His voice lags, his gaze drifting about as you move his head left to right, “A clean shave, I guess.” Your nose scrunches as you look him in the eye, “You sure? I could have some real fun ‘n’ give you a little moustache.” You whisper the last words, leaning in a little closer. Arthur has to nod and chuckle to counteract every single signal in his body threatening to fizzle out entirely. “Sure, sure. A ‘little moustache’ it is.”

You give a triumphant grin and straighten up with a soft sigh as you grab the necessary items from his cot. You hum gently as you lather his shaving brush with lye soap and Arthur quietly watches. The domesticity of the situation makes him shift atop the barrel, his lips pursing. After a moment, you step closer again. “Sit up some more.” You say softly and he obeys, straightening up with a big breath. You place the fingertips of one hand against his cheek and bring the shaving brush up with the other.

Taking your time, you guide the lathered brush about, coating his bearded jaw with the cool soap. You concentrate on evenly coating Arthur’s face while he watches you. You place the brush down and pick up the straight razor, bringing it to his jaw and carefully starting to scrape away at his facial hair with rhythmic scratching sounds, holding the skin taut with your thumb.

“Thought you were going into town today?” He asks in a soft, low tone, watching your pupils grow larger as you lean close, into the shade of his tent. “Mhm,” you nod, your nose scrunching a tad in annoyance, “Grimshaw had other plans. Or should I say, demands.”

Arthur huffs a chuckle through his nose as he sneaks in fond glances at your face, thinking you’re too busy scraping at the ridges of his jaw. Then he notices the subtle flutter of your lashes, the slight raise of your brow, the way your concentration becomes forced. His fingers fidget against his pants in quiet panic. His voice comes out almost comically casual, “Well, I could take you in later on. If you’d like.” You pull away to rinse the razor with a slosh and look him in the eye, your expression sincere, “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disturb your day.”

“Naw, you ain’t disturbin’ nothin’. I’m goin’ in anyway.” You return to shaving, cleaning up the right side of his jaw.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Press your lips together,” you say quietly, and he follows your instruction. You use the pad of your thumb to pull the skin of his chin tight and carefully shave around the scarring there. Arthur can’t help but feel quite exposed in this moment, having someone acknowledge him so closely; no shadow, hat nor unfriendly grimace to protect him. You watch his eyes dart about and up. You hear his feet shuffle in the dirt either side of you. This reaction has you opting to not comment on his scars, though a slight pinch in your brow betrays your thoughts.

A lull forms between you again. You’re not quite sure what to say, and neither is Arthur. The two of you silently take one another in, having only been this close once when he untangled a branch from your hair. Sure, he’d done it out of courtesy as you’d had a bucket of water cradled in your arms, but despite his denial, it was also an urge of the heart. Thoughts of how satiny and warm your hair was in the spring sun weave through his nerves as you start to speak again.

“What’re you goin’ in to town for?” A low, long and dumb hum vibrates his palette as he catches up to the moment, “M’gonna check in with the sheriff, see if he’s got any more bounties.” You nod slowly in response, focused on his chin.

“I read about that man you caught for him last week. That death tonic slingin’ bastard. You did good catchin’ him.” As you speak, Arthur’s expression morphs with bemusement. He blinks, his lips pursing and he talks over you as you try to tell him to press his lips together again, “Wha’chu mean read?”

“It was in the New Hanover Gazette,” You pause to look him in the eye, realising what his next question will be, “you weren’t mentioned. Was just a piece on the idiot you captured.” He visibly relaxes with a nod. You nudge his chin with your knuckle, guiding him to press his lips together again, which he does. You clean up his chin, your fingers nimble and wet against his now smooth skin. “He was a bastard. A peculiar one, too.”

“Sure seemed it if his poster’s anythin’ to go by.” You move on to shaving the left side of his jaw. You pull away to cleanse the razor in water again before leaning back in. Gently, you place your free hand at the side of his neck, using your thumb to pull the skin taut, and you feel his throat undulate as he stifles a hitch in his breath. Months of lacking tender touch makes it feel as though you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin. Arthur feels a buzzing need to speak, to distract himself, so he speaks; his toes wiggling inside of his boots unbeknownst to you.

“What’s your business in town, then?” He glances up at you in time for your gaze to meet his, and you offer a warm smile to which he responds in kind. His toes curl in his boots. You tip his chin up to shave the middle section of his neck, hearing a silent sigh of thanks escape him for the relief in eye contact.

“I fancied myself a trip to the 50 cent show. I’ve heard it’s good.” You murmur with a tilt of your head as you focus. Arthur gives a silent “Oh?” and a raise of his brow,

“It’s interestin’, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen it?” You ask, moving to rinse the razor again, glancing at him as he rolls his shoulders a little.

“Mhm. I won’t spoil it for ya.”

“S’mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You quip and he chuckles, watching as your playful snooty expression changes into something akin to mischief. “Now,” you grin, eyes glinting, “It’s moustache time.” You state with a shimmy of your shoulders.

Shock and felicity meld together at his seat and flood up through to his chest, shucking any previous coherence from him as you swoop in close. The sides of your skirts brush at his inner thighs and he swears he can vaguely feel the shape of your hips. His hands move to grasp his outer thighs, steadying himself, resisting the urge to pull back. When you press your thumb to his top lip and pull a little to shave the top edge of his moustache, the touch draws a shaky huff from him. You’re quick to look him straight in the eyes, your body frozen,

“Am I hurtin’ you?” You ask quietly.

The closeness. Your breath, laced with coffee. The musk of whatever homemade soap you use. The spring morning glowing behind you, setting the edges of your hair alight. Your pupils, enlarged from facing into the shade. His mind is already flooding with ways he would draw this moment, your ethereal beauty. And his body is simmering with thoughts of how you feel, whether the rest of you is as soft as your hair. He clears his throat, a tight, choked sound,

“No.”

You scan his face for a moment before continuing your ministrations. The longer you stay so close, the harder neglecting the quickening of your heart becomes. You find yourself taking slower, deeper breaths as you work, purposefully savouring the coalescing scents of Arthur’s shaving soap and skin. You keep the pad of your thumb against his lips, guiding his skin to move beneath it as you shape his moustache.

He notices the way your gaze flits about his face each time you pause to check the shape of the forming moustache - how you linger a little when his eyes meet yours. Each scrape of the razor, each shift of Arthur’s thighs, each sweet touch of your fingers to his skin is like a flint to steel, striking, igniting a fulsome blaze between the two of you. Yet only a moment later, your thumb leaves his lips, lagging in its descent, brushing, leaving a flaming yen behind which he swallows down. It sinks through him and swells warmly within his groin.

“You’re all done.” You say with a smile, washing the razor and wiping it down. You move away to place it on his cot with the rest of the things you’d moved earlier. Arthur takes a deep breath, loosening up his neck and brain with a shake of his head,

“Thank you, Miss.”

He rises from the barrel, not able to check himself in the mirror quite yet to review your work - too busy quelling his full body fluster. He flattens his thumb against a small bit of shaving foam collected on his shirt, scooping it from the fabric and flicking it onto the floor.

“S’my pleasure, Mister Morgan.” You reply, your expression as earnest as your tone as you turn to face him.

Arthur lets out a strained sound when your hand moves to cup his face and the pad of your thumb rubs over the edge of his mouth. He can feel a glob of cool shaving soap mush under your thumb as you rub it away. He hopes that there is more somewhere, perhaps on his jaw, behind his ear, but you pull away again, wiping your hand on your apron. “You do look mighty handsome, especially all gussied up like that.” You murmur, grinning, and Arthur swears he’s heard you wrong.

Another lull begins to creep up between you before he shoos it away with a gentle catch of something trying to leave his throat. Whatever it is breaks down into a shocked, stuttering chuckle, his eyes closing, his head shaking.

“Don’t go startin’ that with me, Miss.” He mumbles, giving you a fond and sheepish expression, one hand swatting at you lazily. “I’ll start whatever I like, thank you very much.” You snark, walking back to the basket you’d left at the entrance of his tent, bending over and hiking it up onto your hip. Arthur’s eyes snag on your rear, his hand coming up to push his hair back and then rub down his face, his palm grazing over his newly styled moustache as he sighs, “I’m sure you will.” You turn to him and simper, swaying a little from side to side,

“Would you come to the 50 cent show with me before you meet with the sheriff?” You tilt your head.

Arthur’s breath escapes him yet again, his focus darting away, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror resting sideways on his cot. You’ve done a very good job, as good as you can do on a stretched and exhausted canvas such as him. “Sure-” He nods, looking back to you, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, “Sure. I’ll join you, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d love it, Arthur.” You say, your smile only growing, a sweet sigh leaving you, “I’ll just finish this up-” You gesture with the basket, “And then I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the horses?”

“Okay then.” He nods again, a tad nervously now.

“See you soon, Arthur.” You say softly and ramble off to finish your chores across camp. Arthur reorganises his shaving supplies atop the barrel in an awkward and flustered manner. He curses quietly as he knocks and catches the small bottle of aftershave from the barrel before popping the stopper from the neck and pouring some onto his palm. He pats it about his face, and after glancing at you from across the way, pours a little extra into his palm and applies it.

He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror again, seeing how neatly you’ve shaved his face. His gaze drifts about the parts of his face you’d touched so carefully; his jaw, his chin, his scars, his lips. For the first time in a while, self-loathing and shame aren’t the first things to rip through his head and pool heavily in his lungs. Instead, his thoughts stall long before that looming gate and distractedly wander towards you. How sweet you are towards him. How you called him handsome. How you asked him to the 50 cent show. How he really wants to go with you. How he might just buy you dinner.

Thank you for reading, dear hearts. I love sharing our love of rdr2 together <333 Tags for friends: @kayyqua

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