#Arthur Morgan backstory | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dutchvanwinkle · 2 years

Note

Would you consider doing a fic request involving a three way with Dutch and Arthur? There isn’t enough out there with both in!

Would I consider it? Baby I fantasize about it on the regular. Enjoy ☺

I know it took me a while to finish but I hope the wait was worth it anon!

This is set in the early-ish days, Arthur being mid-twenties and Dutch being mid-thirties because I love the thought of cocky Arthur in his youth.

The Importance of Hierarchy - Arthur x Dutch x Reader

ao3 link if you prefer.

Summary: Arthur and Dutch notice you’ve become too self-assured and seem to have forgotten the hierarchy within the gang. They take it upon themselves to remind you.

Word count: 15,119

Content warnings: So much smut, 18+ (please check ao3 for specific tags)

Life in a gang had thoroughly surprised you. At first, when the offer arose of joining a small gaggle of outlaws you weren’t entirely sure about the whole thing. Most of them that had joined the gang did so because they had nowhere else to go and it gave them an opportunity for a second chance. But you were poached by them, a talented thief with a quick wit who they happened to run into when a few of them were targeting the same mark as you. It made sense to team up for the job at the time, they seemed decent enough and if you were being honest, you were slightly out of your depth sneaking into the mansion of a local businessman; not that you’d ever admit that to them.

The whole thing went off without a hitch, and you stole more than you’d have been able to on your own, so even when split between yourself and the three men your take was larger than you’d expected. You parted ways afterwards but hadn’t expected them to track you down some days later with the promise of a larger take and a spot in their gang.

While the job went well, you still had your reservations. Though this time, your new friends Arthur, John, and Javier had brought along the gang’s leader who appeared to harbour the group’s share of charm and smoothly twisted your arm into joining up with a promise that it can only be temporary should you decide it’s not for you.

Alas, temporary it was not.

This way of life suited you; it was nice having other people to talk and drink with, and it was nice having them there to fall back on if a job went sour. Six months went by and you were already a part of the furniture, well-accustomed to the ebbs and flows experienced by the Van der Linde gang. The vagabonds had already stepped up from the title of colleagues and you proudly thought of them as your family.

And as with every family, that just so happened to include the regular squabbling - harmless as it was.

Currently, you felt nothing other than frustration at Arthur and Dutch, one-upping each other with their marksman skills as they shot bottles and birds alike while you sat and waited for them to get a move on so you could start turning the ground over in the gang’s new surrounding area for some fresh leads. Leant by the small tree a ways off the main road, you’d watched for over forty-five minutes and they didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon.

While Arthur made an excuse about why he’d missed a shot you flicked open your pocket watch, grunting at the time that greeted you. It was getting late, you were getting hungry, and they were getting on your last nerve.

Pushing yourself off the tree’s trunk, you stood between them and held up your rolled-up map. The two men stopped their animated discussion almost comically, heads tilted at you like a pair of dumb dogs for an explanation.

“If you boys are quite done with your pissing contest, I believe we have some work to do,” you reminded them, unrolling the map and holding it open.

They shared a cursory glance at the map before each other and then you, the corners of their lips turning up in amusement.

“Sorry little lady,” Arthur drawled, casually digging his repeater into the ground to lean on. “Didn’t realise you had somewhere better to be.”

You huffed tiredly. “I just don’t want to spend my time standing around. The two of you can go off and shoot all the bottles you like once we’re through, and I can go elsewhere.”

“When did your time become so valuable? Had I known, I might’ve taken out a small loan or asked Strauss to balance the books for me,” Dutch mused, Arthur’s chuckle chiming in the background. “We ought to make amends to our budget to allow for our new expense. Would you like your payment weekly or monthly, miss?”

“Any time today would be grand,” you scoffed. “Stop being an ass, you said this wouldn’t take long.”

Dutch raised his eyebrows at your comment and choice of name for him, and cockily crossed his arms – something you suspected was usually enough to get someone to rethink their words. You knew talking back to the man in charge was a brave, or stupid, thing to do but on this occasion, you thought you were warranted to say something. Besides, he always did struggle to be mad at you considering the high-quality work you’d put in for the gang so far.

“My my, Arthur. Seems our girl is growing bored of us.”

You dropped your arm to your side, the map dangling uselessly and rubbed at your brow with a fatigued groan. “It’s not that. I’m happy to go to town on my own, I don’t see why I have to come with you both anyway. Then you can finish whatever... sport this is and go off on your own accord. Sound fair?”

They glanced at each other once more, not seeming even slightly bothered by your small outburst and instead seemed to find humour at each turn of the conversation. After mirroring each other’s smiles, Arthur cleared the laugh building in his throat.

“What’chu think, Dutch? Sound fair to you?”

Dutch hummed thoughtfully, feigning the action of decision-making and only doing so for the sake of creating suspense. Arthur waited patiently; a befittingly boyish smirk plastered across his face.

“Now, what is fair? One may define it as -”

“No,” you interrupted immediately, one of Dutch’s lectures the last on the list of things you wanted at that moment. “For the love of god, no.”

“No what?” he asked, eyes warm and mischievous.

“Please,” you sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m appealing to your humanity. Do not make me sit through a lecture. And do not make me sit through any more mindless shooting.”

“Alright,” Dutch acquiesced, raising his arms in surrender and Arthur tutted at the swift end to his entertainment. “Fair enough. As you wish, we can go ahead and do our scouting now instead.”

“Thank you,” you said pointedly, turning on your heels to lead them back to the horses who you suspected were just as bored as you were.

So, you got your way and the ordeal was finished, but at what cost? While you did scour the town for leads, from then on, the two men thought it funny to use every opportunity to tease you and you began to miss a few hours previous when you only had to listen to the repeated fires of their guns instead of their smarmy remarks. They really were a childish pair of bastards.

✾

The local town was fruitful, filled to the brim with leads that you’d been tracking in your journal. The gang was busy and spirits were high with all the planning that was going on. You’d taken a second trip into town with Karen a few days later to scout for a job the two of you had been scoping out and you’d robbed a stagecoach with John and somehow come out the other side unscathed. One job you’d been helping plan for was on hold, it was one of the biggest you’d been involved with and required a generous amount of dynamite to pull off. Though the one person who promised to get you said dynamite was yet to deliver.

After pondering the rest of the active leads and deciding this particular one was a priority to set in motion, you pushed up from your bedroll and beelined for Arthur, sitting outside Dutch’s tent sharpening his knife.

“Arthur,” you greeted him and the outlaw raised his head in response, eyes quickly darting to the small book in your hand as he calculated you hadn’t come over for a friendly chat.

“How can I help?” he asked pre-emptively with an underlying tone of sarcasm.

“I need the dynamite sooner rather than later,” you informed him, ignoring his mocking façade of helpfulness. “This one can’t wait much longer.”

Dutch was facing the other way, a cigar pressed to his lips. He smirked at the thought of you bossing around big stubborn Arthur.

“That right,” Arthur sat back with a sigh. “I don’t get no hello how are you or what can I do to help you do I? All you want is for me to do something, like I’m not always doing something -”

“Arthur,” you interjected sternly. “You said you’d get it in the first place so stop making a fuss. It’s not like I’m asking for much and we can’t do anything without it. It is your job to keep the ammunition topped up.”

“You could always try asking me nicely.”

Rolling your eyes, you exhaled the cool air and reminded yourself not to rise to his teasing. “Just do it,” you lamented, turning to leave before he could make another remark.

Dutch took it as an opportunity to lean on the back of Arthur’s chair, awaiting his pending complaint.

“When did she get so god damn demanding?” the younger man promptly delivered, and while Dutch thought of a reply he found himself distracted by the sway of your hips in that skirt as you made your way back to your tent.

Arthur’s hungry eyes lit up just the same despite his grievances, the pair of dogs now closer to a pair of wolves spotting their next target for prey. It really was a flattering skirt.

The two men noticed the silence hanging between them at the same time, frowning at each other before taking their gazes away from you.

“Stop being a pervert,” Arthur deflected, letting out an awkward cough.

“You stop being a pervert,” Dutch countered, busying himself with straightening out his already straight waistcoat.

“That thing even still work anymore?” Arthur gestured lazily to Dutch’s crotch.

“Course it still works Arthur, I’m not senile.” Dutch then took the opportunity to look back at you, pencil now pressed onto your bottom lip while you concentrated on that little journal of yours. A brief wave of guilt washed over him.

Of all the people in his gang, you were by far one of the hardest workers. It was refreshing to have someone come in that had no requirements for learning the ropes, and instead taught the rest a new trick or two and provided useful insights whenever anyone asked for it. He knew that deep down you were similar to him, worrying more than necessary about the gang and overcompensating by bulking out the available funds with your labour. Sure, sometimes you could be overbearing and he wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen you sit still for a full day, but he thought back to the time you joined, often the life of the party that had now traded the drunken late nights for early, hangover-free mornings so you could get to work straight away. Dutch was truly grateful to have such an asset, but he worried that the way he hammered in the importance of loyalty and hard work had been too much and unnecessary. You just cared. A lot. He suspected you never required that push in the first place that the others usually do.

The way Dutch saw it, he was left with two problems. You’d forgotten how to have a good time and also forgotten the level of responsibility you had; while he was glad you were invested in the gang’s forthcomings; he couldn’t have you ordering his senior gun around. That was his job, after all.

He did know of one way to kill two birds with one stone.

His face and posture relaxed in turn at the enlightenment, and Arthur felt the air shift around him. He looked at Dutch inquisitively, noticing the ever-obvious signs of the man’s mind formulating a plan. “What you thinkin’?”

“I’m thinkin’ we take little miss out on a special job, just the three of us.”

“A special job?”

“Sure. Maybe remind her how to have some fun,” Dutch said, a devilish look growing on his face. It soon hardened in place with a committed exhale. “And while we’re at it, we can remind her who’s in charge.”

Arthur frowned; not entirely sure what Dutch was going on about but as usual, he assumed he wouldn’t escape being dragged along for the ride.

✾

It was a mild day, overcast skies and a cool breeze passing through the street you walked along on the way to the hotel. Dutch had asked you to meet him and Arthur there for a job and said that he’d explain more when you arrived, your only instruction being to wear a nice enough outfit that’d still let you blend in. You chose your favourite skirt and blouse combination.

The hotel was average-sized, slightly larger than one would find in a small town but nothing compared to the big city ones. You’d been in once before, to the bar on the ground floor when you and the girls had a field day swiping valuables from the over-served patrons. A hotel with its own bar was a smart idea, from the hotel’s financial perspective, yet dangerous for its customers. Knowing there’s an available bed just up the stairs often makes people more likely to reach questionable levels of intoxication. That usually worked in your favour.

Room eight, fourth door on your left when you reach the upstairs landing. The clerk’s words repeated in your head as you walked up the stairs, the small key clutched in your hand. Sure enough, there was the door to room eight.

Upon opening it, you frowned: no sign of Dutch and Arthur. Were you late? Your pocket watch answered for you when you checked the face of it – 19:03. You were just on time.

With a shrug, you assumed the others would be with you any moment, but the more than inviting bed called to your tired bones. May as well have a rest while you waited. You kicked your boots off and flopped back onto the bed, revelling in the supportive mattress and letting the bottoms of your legs dangle off the side while you observed the patterned swirls on the ceiling.

The low hum of noise from downstairs and the slight whistle of wind through a gap in the window soothed you, and while you reminded yourself that you had to stay awake, you allowed your eyes to fall shut.

Your relaxation was short-lived, the slamming open of the door startling you awake with a gasp. Instead of pulling your gun from its holster, your hand remained hovering over it when you sat up and found Arthur and Dutch laughing at your reaction. You grumbled indignantly. “You’re not funny.”

Arthur snorted, shaking his head and closing the door behind him. “You agree with that, Dutch?”

“Nope,” the man responded plainly, taking a step closer and hooking his thumbs over his gun belt.

“Looks like you’re outnumbered, sorry darlin’.”

With a defeated eye-roll, you lowered back down onto your elbows. The two of them observed you for a moment before Arthur broke the silence with an ever so slight strain in his voice.

“You’re looking mighty comfortable there.”

You looked either side of yourself to the bed and back to him. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Too comfortable,” Arthur clarified, his voice low and almost sinister. “You’re making a habit o’ it.”

You wrinkled your nose at him in confusion. If anything, you’d been the complete opposite with how tirelessly you’d worked in recent weeks to make yourself worthy of your spot in the gang. Deflated, at the prospect all you’d done wasn’t nearly enough, you breathed out a short breath. “What’s that supposed to mean? You saying I’ve been slacking off?”

Arthur didn’t give anything away, instead raising his eyebrows at Dutch to clarify.

“Quite the opposite,” he commented in an indifferent monotone. It was Dutch’s turn to receive your confused expression, allowing Arthur a moment to compose himself while your attention was elsewhere.

To say Arthur was excited about Dutch’s plan was... an understatement.

He’d hardly believed the proposition when it left his mentor’s lips. At first, he thought it was a joke, some harsh gimmick you and him had cooked up to embarrass Arthur into admitting he wanted you in that way. Because admission was all it was, no persuasion was necessary given the number of times Arthur had tugged on himself with eyes screwed tight and gritted teeth as he fought back any audible sound that could let onto what he was up to in the confines of his tent. He’d wanted to experience you in that way from the moment he’d met you. In truth, he loved your asserted and self-assured manner and he did have a great deal of respect for you for not bowing to any of the boys; not even Dutch.

But when the man himself suggested it, putting the image of you in Arthur’s head doing exactly that – on your knees for him, shedding your clothes for him, opening your legs for him...

Well, it was all he’d damn well thought about since.

Dutch’s reasoning hadn’t helped. Teach her a lesson and remind her who’s in charge and but make her pleasure our top priority had all but circled Arthur’s mind like some sort of chant since he’d uttered them in a hushed voice by the light of the campfire one night when everyone else was asleep. Dutch always did have a talent for painting a pretty picture, and he’d made this scenario into a masterpiece.

Then, Dutch began to move and broke Arthur out of his impending stupor. He rounded the bed, prompting you to shuffle your legs onto it and back a little so you were no longer sideways. Knees bent, but still propped up on your elbows, you watched as he all but prowled to be stood at the foot of the bed and stopped, chuckling gently. It didn’t lessen your building unease with the situation.

But Dutch’s face was soft, kind almost, his expression reminding you of a proud one but that wasn’t quite the best description - you couldn’t put a pin on it but you remained hopeful that it was borne from a genuine place. He shook his head slightly. “We’re going to fix our little problem on this job today.”

Problem? “Problem? I – I wasn’t aware we had a problem... sir.”

The way Dutch’s eyes lit up at the end of your sentence didn’t go unnoticed by you. The corner of his lip tugged slightly and he nodded again. “That is much better.”

“Better?” you turned to face Arthur, seemingly frozen in his spot and thawed by your gaze, mobilising to join Dutch’s side at the end of the bed and mentally shaking off his rapidly expanding imagination to resume his persona of hardened outlaw.

Neither of them answered you, and as the gentle thrum of your pulse picked up beneath your skin you darted your gaze between them.

“She looks like a little deer,” Arthur observed and Dutch hummed in agreement. His hands drifted to his gun belt and a brief flash of fear struck you but was soon numbed by the click of his buckle which preceded the soft brush of leather as it slid out of the fasten. He held the gun belt away from his hips in one hand before letting it drop to the floor, and despite your knowledge of the sound it’d make the thunk of it hitting the wood made your shoulders tense.

“I do love those doe eyes,” he said and Arthur took it as his cue to remove his own gun belt, which he did with admittedly more haste. “Don’t you, Arthur?”

“I’ll be honest Dutch,” Arthur huffed a chuckle, “it’s not her eyes I’m thinkin’ about.”

A quiet warning side-eye from Dutch simmered Arthur down somewhat, who cleared his throat while the tension built in your face. “Why are you talking about me like I’m not sat right here? Can one of you please explain what this is all about? You’re making me feel very... unnerved.”

“The problem,” Dutch began diplomatically, posture relaxed yet solid, “is that you’ve been forgetting the chain of command recently.”

You weren’t enjoying this game. You’d come here for the job, waited while they were late and damn them if they weren’t going to let you prove yourself and instead act like you’re some lazy leech. Thoroughly sick of their recent affliction for ganging up on you, and in your opinion an unfair view on your contribution to the gang, you shuffled forward and pushed up to stand between the two of them. You’d never cast much thought to how tall they both were until this moment. “Whatever you say. Can we just get on with the job?”

Dutch smirked, pleased, and placed a hand on your shoulder. “If that’s what your heart desires, then by all means.”

The pressure from his palm increased and you looked at it and then back to him, brow scrunched in questioning.

“Sit,” he commanded softly, lips remaining parted around the word, and you did so hesitantly.

“Why are you both acting strange?” your voice came out quiet and you felt small at that moment; them being dangerous men was a fact you often forgot. Dutch seemed to notice. Arthur was too busy anticipating what was to come.

“Relax.”

It wasn’t much, but you took it. Perhaps you weren’t in trouble, but you did know that doing what was asked of you would lead to clarity eventually. So, you shuffled back and leaned down onto your forearms once more.

“Are you going to tell me what the plan is, then?”

The creases in the corners of both their eyes deepened, a wave of excitement washing over their faces. “Oh,” Dutch chuckled. “We’ve got a big plan for you.”

He leaned forward, running his index finger from your outer ankle and up the side of your calf, watching the motion with intent before flicking his eyes up to you.

Oh.

Were you dreaming? Unlike all the previous signs, you couldn’t ignore this one. The gentleness of touch almost had you thinking twice about the man’s... men’s motive with you, that perhaps it was all in your head. Perhaps.

You didn’t dare look at the contact the two of you shared and instead held Dutch's gaze, not entirely sure how you would deal with it if they were making a pass at you. Just as you’d formulated enough excuses for their behaviour and plucked up the courage to speak, Arthur chuckled to himself darkly.

“Two of ‘em, actually.”

Your attention snapped to the younger man, his eyes not meeting yours and instead scanning your body laid out in front of him. Nerves building, you gulped minimally. “What... Plan are you talking about?”

A devilish grin grew on Arthur’s face as though he’d been itching for you to ask that very question. The hand resting loosely on his belt journeyed to his crotch and grasped his growing bulge, your eyes widening as he shunted it for effect.

Dutch’s own eyes rolled at the display and he stood, dropping his arm at his side. “You can be rather crude sometimes, Arthur.”

“Watchu mean?” he scoffed with a boyish grin.

Gesturing to you, Dutch raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t no way to behave around a lady.”

You were about to agree when Arthur tsked through his teeth. “Won’t be much of a lady once we’re finished with her.”

“Hey,” you scrambled backwards and sat up, holding your hands in surrender. “I don’t know what is going on here, but if you think for one second I’m going to lay with you both you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Ah,” rumbled Dutch, an amused smile growing on his face. “The lady doth protest.”

“Is that really why you brought me here? So you could use me for some -”

“Now, now,” Dutch brought his hands up, clearly attempting to add some seriousness to his act. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

“That so?” you countered, crossing your arms in defiance. “Seems to me like I’ve got a perfect handle on this situation.”

“No, not at all. In fact -”

Arthur’s bored sigh interrupted Dutch’s sentence and he pointedly pulled his boots off one by one before putting a knee on the bed and not stopping until you had to lie back and he was hovering over you, an arm on either side of your head.

You widened your eyes in alarm, trying to think of something to say but for the first time in a while you were coming up empty. You weren’t scared of them, of what they were up to, and that was the worst thing about it. However silly it was, bracketed in by Arthur you felt entirely safe. In fact, a large part of you was... curious. If they were here to be intimate with you, which wasn’t something you could deny to be the case any longer, you weren’t sure you’d have it in you to say no. The prospect of taking them both was nothing short of exhilarating.

“Darlin’,” Arthur cooed softly, his index finger and thumb coming to rest on your chin and tilted your head up to meet his gaze which searched your face before landing on your eyes. He angled his head and offered you a warm smile. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya. Way I see it, you can let old Dutch drone on about what his plan is,” you didn’t miss Dutch’s huff in the background, but Arthur’s lips coming down so close to your neck that you could feel his warm breath began to tune out everything that wasn’t him, “or you can just let us show ya.”

He paused, not following through with his words just yet but you’d involuntarily bared your neck to him, clearing your throat when you realised what a precarious situation you’d gotten yourself into. “Arthur, I -”

Arthur groaned, cutting you off and running his thumb back and forth on the side of your chin. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to hear my name come out your mouth all breathy like that.” He dropped his forehead to rest on your shoulder, angling slightly so his nose fit in the contour of the crook of your neck.

“Arthur,” Dutch warned sternly, and he unwillingly let go of your chin and sat back on his haunches.

“You’re jus’ mad I’m the one that seduced her an’ not you,” Arthur tutted, eyes not leaving your flushed face with a ghost of a proud smile fading onto his.

“I’m not playing your games right now, Arthur,” Dutch countered, mainly irritated at the grain of truth held in Arthur’s accusation. “But... perhaps you’re right.”

Arthur registered Dutch’s words a beat later, cockily raising his eyebrows to turn and smile at the man with a glint in his eye. “I didn’t quite catch that – you're saying I’m right?” Arthur huffed an incredulous laugh, “and you’re wrong?”

Dutch tensed his jaw, rolling his shoulders back before clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I have no problem admitting my wrongdoings,” you suppressed a mocking snicker, “in fact, I think I may have the wrong idea about this whole plan in the first place. Perhaps our little miss here has learnt by example, since you appear to have forgotten the chain of command too, son.”

At Arthur’s scowl, Dutch lowered down slightly to level their gazes. “I am perfectly capable of carrying out this particular job myself,” he flicked his eyes to you briefly and licked his bottom lip before looking back at Arthur, “in fact, I’d be more than happy to have her to myself. Is that something you want?”

“No, Dutch,” Arthur grumbled and Dutch’s expression softened into an accomplished one while you looked between them, bewildered.

“You forget, Dutch, that I haven’t agreed to sleep with either of you,” you scoffed, with the intent that if you could convince them you didn’t want it, you could convince yourself too.

As though reading your mind, Dutch tilted his head down to look at you. For once, he allowed the silence to speak for him.

“Besides,” you broke under the tense air far too soon, “I don’t even know why you’re trying to seduce me in the first place.”

“Well,” Dutch began, removing his hand from Arthur��s shoulder, “I was trying to explain earlier.” He pondered his next sentence, a sly smile growing on his face. He removed his hat, placing it nearly on a table by the window and pushed his pomaded hair back. “But,” his already low voice lowered further, “I reckon we should compromise; do a little show and tell.”

You looked to a listening Arthur and back to Dutch, who slowly walked round to the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it beside you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His warm, calloused fingertips almost made you forget yourself and it was an effort not to lean into his hand.

“I don’t think you realise how much I value you, darlin’,” Dutch returned his hand to himself and you blinked owlishly at his change of tone. “Your hard work hasn’t gone unnoticed; I know we need the money but life is not all about work. Sometimes... it’s about play, too,” he smirked, his voice evenly laced with sincerity and seduction. “So, me and Arthur here,” Dutch’s hand crept onto your thigh, firmly holding the flesh, “have decided to give you a hand or two with some well-deserved relaxin’, while thanking you for said efforts.”

With Arthur watching Dutch’s hand with intent, you felt like a grand prize on display with the lust-filled expressions on the faces of these two men. The thought of them desiring you, discussing you, sharing you...

“But,” Dutch’s tone sharpened and he squeezed your thigh, bringing his face closer to yours, “what we do not appreciate is you forgetting your role.” At your narrowed brow, Dutch elaborated. “You are well aware of the hierarchy, miss.”

“It’s just that -”

“I know,” Dutch interrupted softly. “You want to help. Be that as it may, that does not put you above me, nor does it put you above Arthur.”

It was a fair comment. Maybe you had been a little bossy recently, but they at least seemed to understand the intent behind your actions. What wasn’t clear was the relation that had to the current circumstance. “Why does that matter with this, though?”

The two men shared a knowing glance and looked back to you. “Oh darlin',” chuckled Arthur.

“What?”

“While we’re here for you, you are also here for us. We’d like to get what we’re owed from you.”

At the sight of these two men looming over you, predatory looks tainting their eyes, something inside you weakened and you shifted minimally on the bed. It was enough of a tell for them and they smirked in unison, the bastards; they knew exactly what feeling had just shot through you.

“What do you think, Arthur?” Dutch teased.

“I think she wants it.”

They looked at you expectantly and Dutch raised a quizzical brow. He leaned in, skirting around to your jaw and pressing his lips against it. “You know how persuasive I can be,” he murmured before placing another peck.

The light tingling sensation pricking the surface of your skin began to seep deeper, your pulse thrumming with arousal and you could no longer pick out an excuse not to go through with it. The building hunger in Arthur’s eyes and Dutch’s moustache tickling your face eviscerated your final straw.

You turned your head to capture Dutch’s lips with yours, feeling him smirk at your eagerness and tenderly kiss you back twice until a cold brush of air took their place. Opening your eyes, you were met with him pulling away and you frowned, leaning in once more and he placed his index finger over your mouth.

“Tell me who’s in charge,” he purred, but didn’t give you room to answer as the tip of his finger pressed down and you opened your mouth to allow him in, sucking gently and feeling set alight by how he bit down on his bottom lip. A faint taste of gunmetal and tobacco transferred onto your tongue and he lewdly pushed his finger in and out, stopping once he’d created a rhythm and pulling his now shining finger from your mouth. He used it to tip your chin up, marvelling at your undone and half-lidded gaze.

“Tell me,” he commanded softly.

“You are, Dutch.”

“And then?”

“Then,” you glanced to a smug-looking Arthur, who was using every inch of his willpower not to pounce on you, and rolled your eyes. “Arthur.”

“I don’t think I like her attitude, Dutch.”

“Me neither.”

“Fine, sorry. Then Arth -”

Dutch let go of your chin and held up his hand, silencing you. “Too late now. I was going to start off by asking dear old Arthur here to pleasure you with his mouth as a reward for your hard work, but looks like we’ll have to get the brat out of you first.” At your questioning frown, Dutch brushed a hand over your hair lovingly and down your face until his thumb landed on the pad of your bottom lip, pulling it apart from your top one. “Use this pretty mouth of yours on him, instead.”

You could practically hear Arthur’s buzz of excitement at Dutch’s words, the younger man unable to sit still on the bed.

“And what are you going to do?” you asked Dutch, noticing the growing hardness in his pants in your peripheral vision.

Dutch smirked, pleased that you were concerning yourself with his part in all this, and pulled out the cigar that was weighing down his pocket and held it up for you to see. “I’m going to enjoy this, while I enjoy,” he looked between you and Arthur, “this.”

With that, Dutch stood and turned, making his way to the comfortable chair in the corner of the room and you turned your head to look at a grinning Arthur.

“You aren’t ever going to let me live this down, are you,” you scoffed and his grin widened.

“If I have my way, darlin’, this won’t be a one-time thing,” he adjusted his crotch absent-mindedly, unable to stop his wandering eyes and leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, “least not between us.”

“Less of that, Arthur,” Dutch warned gently, hands clasped on his lap and cigar not yet lit.

Arthur playfully rolled his eyes and your cheeks grew warm, further still with the subsequent kiss that was placed on your other one. “I’m gonna kiss you now, darlin’,” he whispered and nudged his nose against yours and you tilted your head up to reach him, your eyes fluttering closed as his warm lips pressed onto yours, his stubble scratching against your skin. It was surprising that he managed to be gentle considering his excitement for the situation, but even Arthur’s mind recognised this as your first kiss and wanted to savour some of the moment.

He brought his hand to hold your face and yours found his waist in turn, the two of you edging your bodies closer and deepening the kiss. You sighed happily into it and felt his mouth open, allowing your tongue to cross the boundary with ease. The pad of Arthur’s thumb grazed your cheekbone as you continued to explore each other's mouths.

“If I wanted to watch a romance I’d have gone to a picture house,” Dutch scoffed, you and Arthur pulling apart to give him a glance, his posture remained as it was previously, before smirking at each other. You glanced down, running a fingertip over the button on his pants and being thankful for the kissing as an excuse for the excess saliva that entered your mouth at the thought. “Suck his cock, sweet one.”

When you pushed the button out through the hole, Arthur’s chest tensed in an attempt to calm his shortening breaths and you glanced up at him through your lashes.

“Stand up for me, cowboy,” you cooed, deciding against teasing him for the blush that spread on his cheeks and nose. He did so, but quickly rolled his shoulders back and cleared his throat as he reminded himself why this was all happening in the first place.

“Was gonna do that anyway,” he mumbled, “not doin’ it ‘cause you asked me to.”

Dutch’s mocking chuckle was quiet and Arthur shot him a glare as you suppressed your own laughter, moving to kneel on the bed while pulling his work pants halfway down. You eyed the bulge of Arthur’s hard cock and the small dab of precum showing through his union suit, gently running your hand over him and feeling your confidence growing at his even shorter breaths.

After caressing him for a moment, reminding your imagination not to get too ahead of itself at the thought of him inside you, you began undoing buttons to free him from its confines. Once his cock sprang free you glanced up at him, offering a coy smile at the almost-painful display of restraint on his face. You licked your palm, finding a good use for that excess saliva, and grasped him. You intently watched the pleasure grow on his face and offered a few slow pumps of his shaft until he managed to open his eyes and look down at you, a hand finding its way into your hair to move the strands away from your face.

You leaned forward, kissing the side of him and the sound of want from his throat warned you off teasing him further, bringing your tongue out to run along a particularly prominent vein until reaching the head, pausing there to get a taste of his precum. The strike of a match made you pull off, looking over to Dutch who took a drag of his cigar and held his hand up in a carry-on gesture.

You obeyed, returning your attention to Arthur’s cock and closing your mouth around the end, to which his fingertips tensed on your scalp – urging you to take him further in. Well, since he was the one ‘in charge’ you could hardly say no. With your hand on his thigh for stability, you took him halfway in and felt sparks in your core at Arthur’s moan in relief, his head tilting upwards while he thanked whatever powers existed that brought him to this moment.

“Oh, that’s it sweetheart,” he sighed breathily, risking a glance down at you with your mouth full of him and biting his tongue at how quickly the sight edged him to the brink.

The unravelling of Arthur Morgan spurred you on while you tasted his most intimate part, bringing your head back and forth in time with the small but restrained thrusts of his hips. His hand stilled in your hair as his shoulders dropped at what you assumed was one of the few times he really had the opportunity to let go; despite his boyish insistence on being hard-faced and stoic, his deeply caring nature urged him to overwork himself at every opportunity. His physical relaxation was as close as you expected to get to the truth about his constant underlying fatigue and worry, and you took it upon yourself to let him enjoy you as he deserved.

Relaxing the back of your throat, you hollowed out your cheeks and prepared to take him all the way in, moving your head forward as your wet lips ventured further down his shaft until your nose nestled into his light brown hairs. A snippet of a higher moan than what you’d heard previous escaped Arthur’s clamped-shut lips, and you brushed your palms up and down the back of his thighs to keep him relaxed and soothe him. Breathing heavy, both of his hands held the side of your head and he looked at you with apprehension. You managed a small nod, allowing him to do as he pleased.

Anchored to you, he slid out and back in, out and in, out and in, each time nudging the back of your throat and you pushed through the urge to pull off; the noises of want coming from him far outweighing your desire for comfort. He increased his pace, losing himself in the sensation of your warm mouth wrapped around him and then suddenly pulled out, squeezing the base of his cock and you pouted up at him.

“Shit,” he muttered, attempting to calm his rapid breaths. “I don’t want to finish yet.”

Dutch chuckled and stood, setting his still-lit cigar on the bedside table before walking leisurely over and kneeling behind you on the bed. “This is why you go for a proper man, darlin’,” he murmured in your ear and ran his fingertips up your flank. “Not a youngster who wets his pants every five minutes.”

“You’re just a jealous old man who’s bitterly passed his prime, Dutch,” Arthur shot back, blinking up at the ceiling and thinking of anything that would keep his orgasm at bay.

Fingertips pressing into your hips, Dutch kissed the side of your neck and sighed with arousal, hot breath landing on your skin. He pulled you into him so your back met his front and you felt his arousal too, thick and hard as it pressed into you and keened at the thought, fluttering your eyes closed and baring your neck to give him better access.

“Let us take care of you,” he purred, clearing his throat and huffing a small laugh through his nose. “Sweetheart.”

You smirked, but decided to come to Arthur’s defence when the man tutted and glared at Dutch. “I think it’s nice.” Arthur tensed his jaw, unable to stop the heat burning in his body as he watched you grow weak in Dutch’s arms with the man’s hands gently stroking your sides and stomach.

Dutch hummed indifferently, breathing in the scent of your skin as it too grew hot. “I don’t think you want nice.”

“W-What makes you think that?” you breathed, bringing your hands over his as they settled on your lower abdomen.

You felt his smirk against your skin as you relaxed back into his warmth, fully seduced and content. “You’re with two wanted outlaws who have a single desire of fucking you,” Dutch lamented, “and you appear to be right at home.”

A small chuckle sounded in your throat, transmuting into a quiet whine when Dutch’s talented hands slid further down to your thighs, bunching up the fabric of your skirt.

“That’s it,” he whispered softly against the shell of your ear. Then his hands were gone and he shifted behind you and the faint burning of tobacco sounded as he took a deep drag, chest puffing out and nudging your back. Dutch brushed his hand over your shoulder and to your chin, taking it in a firm grip and tilting your head back to look at him. He leaned in and kissed you, releasing the smoke into your mouth as he did. You coughed slightly in surprise but his grip remained firm, holding your face to his. Eventually, you breathed the second-hand smoke in from his mouth and relaxed some, and once Dutch was satisfied with your pliancy, he pulled away from you, pushing the underside of your chin to keep your mouth shut. He smiled proudly and took another long drag, this time blowing the smoke up into the air.

You watched as it rose and faded while your throat burned, Dutch humming a laugh at your hazy expression and stubbing the cigar out to free his hands up so he could touch you. “Oh, my girl,” he began, palms snaking around your waist to nestle your form into his chest and placing a chaste kiss on your cheekbone while the smoke escaped your nose, “we are going to have some fun with you.”

Arthur stood in front of you, frankly feeling left out now that he’d calmed himself down, and placed his hands on his hips. “I think it’s time for us to explore this body of yours, miss,” he smirked down at you cheekily, cocking his head to the side and you blushed with a nod of agreement.

“Sit back for us,” said Dutch as he shifted away to allow you to move. Turning your body, you lay back on the bed with your head resting on the soft pillow and blinked up at him, more than happy to play your part.

“Like this?”

“Just like that.” Dutch glanced to Arthur who knelt on your other side and they seemed to communicate through gaze alone, a honed practice through years of riding together, and Arthur’s attention turned to your patient body while Dutch moved off the bed to walk around and sit at the end, loosening his collar as he went.

Arthur propped himself up on his forearm and leaned over you, blocking your view of Dutch but you could feel him start to get to work undressing you by loosening your skirt. Arthur’s breath came down hot on your skin as he touched his nose to yours. He kissed you once, then began littering your jaw and neck with more pecks and sucks as Dutch pulled at the fabric of your skirt and you lifted your hips to allow the garment to slide off. Arthur flicked his tongue out over your collarbone and you sighed happily, twirling the end of his overgrown hair around your index finger. He began to unbutton your shirt with one hand, impressing you with his multitasking ability and when it opened you shifted your torso up so he could reveal your arms and discard the shirt to the floor.

Broad hands ran up your thighs, kisses pressed to the inside of your knee, making a path upwards as Arthur’s made a path downwards to the top of your breasts. He admired the soft flesh poking out and undid the stay at your waist, discarding it so he could view the natural form that resided beneath. His palm ran up and stopped just beneath your breast, the cocky outlaw’s own clothes feeling far too tight and restrictive given the current situation. He persevered, looking at you with eyes glinting as the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. The eye contact remained as he lowered his head and you watched him kiss the middle of your chest through the fabric. His hand arrived at its destination, and you moaned gently as he squeezed the flesh like he’d been waiting to do so all day.

Dutch took his opportunity as your knees relaxed and your legs opened for him, exposing the damp patch between your legs where your garment stuck to your skin. The traced outline of your pussy sent a pulse through his cock and he brought a hand to his bulge in an attempt to extend his patience. You would be worth the wait.

His restraint only went so far, and it seemed to be a shared experience between the men as Arthur’s tongue teased your hardening nipple, wetting the fabric with his saliva, and Dutch brushed a knuckle over the patch, eliciting a full-body shiver from you.

Arthur hummed his amusement around the nipple he’d sucked into his mouth as Dutch made himself comfortable with his face at the perfect height to observe your most precious part. “Shit, Arthur,” he swallowed, mirth laced into his tone, “our girl really is enjoying this.”

Embarrassment washed over you briefly and your legs threatened to close, but Dutch’s palms held them firmly open. “No no, you keep this on display for me.” One hand journeyed up your leg until his thumb could run over the damp cotton and subsequently apply pressure to you, and the other came to hold your hip while his forearms kept your legs clamped to the bed. Arthur released you to get a look for himself, biting down on his lip at the thought of you all wet through your pants. “Goddamn,” he marvelled then turned back to you, “you do surprise me.” At your scowl, he offered you a genuine smile and shifted up to plant a kiss on your lips. “You’re such a sweet girl,” he murmured against them, “just be sweet to us. You don’t need no barriers up here.”

As his honeyed words had their desired effect of softening you some, Dutch’s tongue pressed expertly against your slit and wettened the fabric further as it slid down, his lips subsequently closing around the region of your clit and getting his first taste of you. You moaned into Arthur’s mouth as he kissed you again and your palms flew to the sides of his neck to use him as support lest you fly right off the bed.

Dutch sucked gently, the fabric becoming almost see-through as Arthur chuckled at your responsiveness, resuming his appraisal of your breasts. He took one in each hand, kneading them and kissing around both nipples until he could no longer wait to see you in all your glory, Dutch sharing the thought.

Both men paused, at an impasse thanks to your full-bodied undergarment. They looked at each other and then to you and you chuckled smugly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you caught your breath. “Don’t look at me, I’m not the one in charge here.”

Arthur tutted fondly and Dutch gave you a daring look. He leaned to the side, picking something up off the floor though you couldn’t see what. “Arthur,” he commanded, throwing a hunting knife to him that he thankfully caught, “get this thing off her.”

“I don’t think so.” You brought your hands to your chest as Arthur twirled the knife around his fingers.

“We’ll get you another,” Dutch promised, nodding to Arthur to continue. Arthur smiled at you, up for the challenge, taking each wrist in his hands and pinning them above your head. “You gonna be a good girl and keep these here?”

You bit down on your lip and nodded, feeling delightfully powerless under Arthur’s strong grip as his eyes blew wide with lust and excitement. He waited there a beat, daring you to try and disobey and looking pleased when he removed his hands and yours remained in position. He took the knife and placed the tip at your belly button, sliding the blade up until the fabric was ruined and your breasts revealed. He licked his lips hungrily, unable to tear his eyes away as he passed the knife down to Dutch before nodding at your arms to come back down so he could relieve you completely. As you complied, the knife clattered to the floor and you looked down in time to see Dutch with a hand on either side of the incision, pointedly ripping open the rest and you jolted slightly at the sound and the cold air meeting your wetness.

Without needing to be asked, you lifted your hips for Dutch to pull the rest of your garment off and discard that to the floor, leaving you completely bare.

The atmosphere shifted. The men’s eyes drank in your body, minds running wild with their plans for marking and claiming it as their own. They were silenced as though in the presence of a divine deity, palpable long-awaited tension seeping all around you and filled with desire thanks to these two men that emanated it.

All at the sight of you.

Something about it felt right, despite how wrong it was. It was absurd, really, but you decided to milk the situation for all it was worth. You took a breath to expand your chest for Arthur and widened your legs for Dutch, smiling wickedly at the pair of them. “I’m starting to question who’s really in charge here.”

Dutch’s nose twitched with irritation as he narrowed his eyes at you and then honed in on the space between your legs. “Shut the brat up, Arthur.”

A lot happened all at once after Arthur muttered “with pleasure.” Teeth bit down on your nipple, a hand pressing onto your flank to keep you still and another over your mouth, and a tongue swiped up your slit, tearing a moan so lewd it took you a moment for you to register that you were the one that made it. The sound alone, even while muffled through Arthur’s palm, was enough to ignite the primal desire of the two men enjoying your body, Dutch licking up everything your cunt had to offer and Arthur adding more small bruises and bite marks to the collection growing on your chest.

You writhed under the sensation, channelling it into your hips and bucking into Dutch’s mouth as the wet pad of his tongue entered you, lapping up your juices and soaking his moustache. Arthur’s grip on your breasts increased, verging on painful but he soothed you by licking up your cleavage and not stopping until he reached your ear, sucking on your lobe and growling as you gasped, arching up to him and grasping at his sides.

He took your wrists in his hands and pinned you once more, taking a moment to admire you in this state and once his gaze landed on your lips, he didn’t hesitate in pressing his against them and initiating a sloppy kiss, both of your accumulated saliva mingling as your tongues circled each other. Meanwhile, Dutch’s tongue continued to tend to your... other lips.

It continued to fuck your cunt, and you briefly wondered how much his jaw must be hurting but your attention soon turned back to Arthur who nipped at your bottom lip, noticing your thoughts drifting away from him.

Lost in his wet kisses for some time, you broke away and jolted when something wet pressed against your other hole, one that as far as you were concerned should not be included in this.

“Dutch!” you yelped, glaring down at the man who flicked his eyes up to meet you, looking hazy and drunk, lost on what resided between your legs. A sly smile grew on his face, and his tongue repeated its earlier motion, circling the ring of muscle between your cheeks while confidently retaining eye contact.

“What,” you yelped again, trying to wriggle backwards out of pure embarrassment and you ignored Arthur’s chuckle, “the hell are you doing?”

He sighed, taking his mouth off you entirely and the air felt cooler thanks to all of his spit mixed in with your slick, which wasn’t much thanks to Dutch greedily drinking it up, that encompassed the entirety of your nether regions. “Darlin’,” he began, almost sounding as though he was trying to comfort you as he held the sides of your thighs in his hands. “How else do you plan on having two men fuck you?” at your bewildered expression, he continued and Arthur waited patiently, allowing himself to continue fondling your breast and you tried to not focus on the sensation as he rolled your nipple between his fingers. “You’ve got two holes, and we’ve got two cocks,” Dutch said plainly.

“But –” you cleared your throat, “won’t that hurt?”

Dutch smiled, kissing the inside of your thigh and Arthur’s hand came to your jaw, guiding your gaze over to him. His expression was amused but slightly softened which soothed your concern somewhat. “Not if Dutch relaxes you, which is what he’s trying to do right now.”

You looked back to Dutch who raised his brows in agreement, and you pouted with no further excuses coming to mind. The idea intrigued you, but it was still new and strange. Though, something about the two of them fucking into you sent your mind into a tizzy...

“What I’d give to read those thoughts right now,” Dutch hummed, moving the tip of his index finger onto your clit to lazily rub over it, gently keeping you stimulated. Once again, you relaxed under his touch. “Trust in me, darlin’. I know what I’m doing.”

Still, your mind whirled with intrigue and uncertainty. “What about -”

“Arthur,” Dutch commanded with the man’s name alone, who proceeded to silence your array of questions with the crash of his lips into yours. Neither man seemed to want to give you time to ask them, more intent on showing as it was previously decided, both of their tongues working in tandem and when Dutch’s made its way south again you lost all trails of thought.

His finger slipped into your cunt, slowly and gently fucking you and soon adding a second at your body’s willingness to partake. Your walls clenched around him, the cold metal of his ring nudging your skin every time he thrust his fingers in. He curled them upwards, gently testing how aroused you were and your toes curled in response at the pressure on that spot inside you, Dutch watching with infatuation as you took in his soaked fingers.

His thumb slid down, pressing onto your hole and you couldn’t help but squirm again. It moved off, and when it returned there was a cool substance there, almost like jelly. “It’ll help,” Dutch murmured when he noticed your expression and circled it around, toying with the pressure and on the next thrust in of his fingers he attempted to penetrate your ass with his thumb, but your thighs tensed at the intrusion.

“Arthur,” Dutch said, breaking the man out of his hazy obsession with your breasts. “I’m gonna need you down here to help her relax.”

Arthur glanced at you and you offered him a short nod, apprehensive at how it would feel but knowing you were still willing to try. He trailed kisses down your stomach, pulling your lips apart to get a look at you and groaning at the site. He drew the tip of his finger down the line of your slit, slowly collecting your juices and coming back up again. Your torso relaxed and you dropped your head back, Dutch’s fingers pulling out so Arthur’s could slide in. Dutch opted for using his tongue once more, drawing over your hole with his tongue flat, and Arthur took some inspiration, bringing his mouth down on your pussy to gently suck on your clit.

“Oh... my god,” you breathed, both of their tongues working to build up your pleasure and you grasped at the sheets and widened your legs as much as you could.

“You like that, darlin’?” asked Dutch, muffled thanks to his current position.

“Mhm,” was all you could respond with, and Arthur doubled down on his efforts, lapping at your cunt while Dutch slid a finger into your ass. It was a different kind of feeling, but you didn’t have the urge to wriggle away this time.

“That’s it,” Dutch cooed, “lean into that feelin’.”

And you did. You moved your hips in time with his motions, feeling yourself relax with Arthur diligently tending to you with his tongue. Your body throbbed, arousal coming through you in waves but you still needed more, one taste being more than enough to make you greedy. “More,” you whispered, and within moments Dutch slowly pushed a second finger in to join the first.

This time it felt like more of a stretch, thankfully not painful but enough that you actively had to focus your mind on the pleasure, breathing steadily and fighting against the urge to close your legs. They continued, each lick and thrust bringing you closer to the brink and you moaned, bringing your hands to grip Arthur’s head as he sucked on just the right spot.

“Arthur, I’m gonna -” you warned, and the man groaned like he was eating his favourite meal.

“I wanna taste you, come on,” he said, barely taking his mouth off you to speak and relishing in being held down to your pussy like this. Dutch took the opportunity to add a third finger, not wanting to hurt you when the time came for him to use his cock, and the fullness along with the attention on your clit made your legs shake and you pushed your hips up, a silent moan punctuated with a stuck breath as you tensed, your orgasm washing through your body as Arthur drank up all you had to give him.

The motion of Dutch’s thrusts slowed but his fingers remained sheathed, and Arthur’s vigorous licking and sucking turned to light kisses as you sunk into the bed. The two men looked up to observe you and you chuckled breathlessly at their flushed faces. “That was...”

“Delightful,” Arthur finished, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and moving up the bed to lie beside you, pressing his lips to yours to give you a taste of yourself. At the same time, Dutch’s fingers left you and he littered your inner thighs with small pecks.

“We ain’t half done yet,” Dutch informed you, and Arthur brushed a strand of hair from your forehead that was stuck there thanks to the sweat.

“You’ve got more in ya, ain’t you darlin’?” he asked lowly, watching your chest in raptures as it rose and fell with your slowing breaths. “I know you got more for us.”

You nodded and opened your eyes to the sight of Dutch making his way to his feet, unbuttoning his pants and revealing a peak at the base of his cock. He appeared to think twice, moving around the bed and tapping your shoulder for you to sit up. You frowned at him.

“I’ve been dying to get into that sweet pussy of yours. Plus, I think Arthur would be happy to taste you again,” he nodded to the man, who raised his eyebrows in agreement.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m naked.”

“You only just realisin’?” Arthur chuckled and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re both still fully dressed!”

Arthur shrugged at Dutch. “The lady has a point.”

“Fair is fair,” Dutch hummed, unbuttoning his shirt as Arthur pulled his over his head. You smiled, looking between them as various bits of flesh were revealed, and while Arthur kept his pants on, Dutch shunted his down and stepped out of them, revealing his frustrated-looking cock. He settled his hands on his hips while you looked him up and down, almost salivating at the sight of this usually well-put-together man as bare as the day is long. He hummed a laugh and cupped your chin, forcing your gaze up to his eyes. “You are a precious little thing.”

He then tapped your shoulder again and you sat up, allowing him to swing a leg over and pull you up into his chest, wiry black hairs tickling your back. His palms slid around your stomach and he planted a kiss on your shoulder. “A precious little thing that we are going to ruin.”

Arthur crossed his arms, kneeling on the bed between your legs and looking crassly at Dutch. “Thought we couldn’t talk like that because she’s a lady?”

You turned your head to raise your eyebrows at Dutch smugly, who mirrored your expression.

“Do you forget where my tongue has just been, miss?”

Pressing your lips together, you shrunk in on yourself but it only nestled you further into Dutch.

“That’s what I thought. Now if you wouldn’t mind -” his hands ran down to your inner thighs, spreading you open much to Arthur’s delight, “you’re going to let us use you like a good little girl.”

Hearing Dutch talk to you like this was... different. You were so used to giving him a piece of your mind that you itched to do the same right now, except his words liquified your core and much to your dismay, you enjoyed being spoken to like this. It was filthy, he knew it, Arthur knew it, even the damn wardrobe knew it, but you could all relax under the mutual understanding you shared. Filthy was something you were all up for experiencing.

So, you relaxed onto him, bringing a hand down to his cock and rubbing it against yourself, coating it with your own slick. You turned your head again to look over your shoulder at his tense and restrained expression, then pressed your lips to his jaw and took in the scent of arousal dripping off him in his sweat and smiled sweetly. “Your actions gonna match up to your words for once, Dutch?”

Dutch’s gaze snapped to you and Arthur breathed out in disbelief, but you didn’t back down and instead just batted your eyelashes. His lips curled up into a sly smile and he caressed the side of your face, nudging your nose with his and leaning down, your eyes fluttering closed.

He paused a centimetre from your lips, and instead of kissing you sweetly, he thrust his hips and penetrated you right to the hilt.

A surprised choke left you and your head dropped back at the sudden intrusion, your walls tightening around him and your nails digging into his thighs. You opened your eyes to look at him when he held there, finding his jaw hard though his eyes twinkled down at you like you were his new favourite toy. "If you wanna act like a brat, we’ll treat you like one.”

He slowly moved out and then repeated his motion, grunting as he did and Arthur remained kneeled, palming himself over his pants as he watched Dutch defile you. “You certainly are a brave one,” he nodded at Dutch, biting down on his tongue to restrain himself. “How she feel?”

Dutch hummed contently, thrusting into you for good measure and the sound you made was music to his ears. “Warm, tight... just perfect. Like she was made for me.”

Arthur smirked, his fingertips gliding up and down his clothed shaft and you glanced at him with half-lidded eyes, reaching a hand out. He slid his palm onto yours, but you pulled back and reached for his head. Arthur acquiesced to your desires, leaning forward to allow your fingers to grasp the back of his head and pull him down to where you ached.

“What did I say about making demands?” Dutch murmured into your hair, his thrusts now at a more manageable pace.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” you scoffed and Arthur paused, lying on his front and leaning on his elbows, glancing up from between your legs.

“Actually, I do.”

“What?”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I -” you faltered, Dutch stilling inside you and Arthur tilting his head expectantly. You swallowed, determined not to let them win this game. “I want your mouth on me, Arthur.”

His eyes shifted behind you to Dutch, who cleared his throat.

You sighed sharply, and with your arousal currently governing your thoughts, you decided to placate them so you could at least get what you wanted. “And I want you to fuck me, Dutch.”

Arthur’s head moved down an inch, and you attempted to buck into his mouth but Dutch stopped you with his hands on your thighs. “Remember your manners, girl,” he whispered.

“Please. Please... I need to come,” you sighed, resting your head back on Dutch’s chest.

“Fuck,” Arthur muttered, promptly diving into your pussy with a languid stroke of his tongue through your folds. You keened, enough to make Dutch suck a breath through his teeth at the slight shift in angle. He dropped his hands to squeeze your ass, holding you in place and began fucking up into you.

Dutch’s thick cock filling you felt divine, and coupled with Arthur’s talented tongue you hardly knew what to do with yourself, one hand in Arthur’s hair and one hand holding Dutch’s thigh as you attempted to brace yourself through all the sensations.

“I’d have fucked you much sooner if I knew how well you took cock,” Dutch grunted into your hair and you whined, lolling your head to the side to nestle your face into his neck.

“You f-feel so good,” you said through a punched-out breath and the man’s chest vibrated with an approving hum underneath you.

“You like Arthur’s tongue, too?” he asked and you nodded weakly, already feeling overstimulated but too lost in the pleasure to care. “We treat you good, don’t we girl?”

“Yes, Dutch, you -” your sentence broke into a moan, Dutch’s pace slowing as his hands snaked around your stomach. Arthur slowed his pace in turn, looking up at you from his place between your legs.

“Alright, I want a turn with her now,” he stated and you shot him a hazy look, for him to give another teasing lick over your clit.

“Hey,” you scoffed, “I’m not a toy.”

“Tonight, my dear, that’s exactly what you are.” Dutch crooned, kissing your head while he gently fucked you. His lips lowered to your ear. “You like it though; I know you do.” You grumbled in reluctant agreement and Dutch chuckled, his hand stroking your jaw to look up at him, where his thumb placed over your lips. “I think I’ll fuck your mouth, now.”

Blinking at him, you nodded and he kissed you gently, sitting up and making you sit up too. Arthur moved back on his knees, watching while he licked his lips. “Whatchu got in mind?”

“Our girl is going to get on her hands and knees,” Dutch said lowly, brushing his lips down your neck, his moustache tickling your skin. “She’s going to let you stretch her pussy,” he bit down gently on your shoulder, “and she’s going to wrap her pretty mouth around my cock. Aren’t you?”

You could only nod, Dutch’s voice going straight to your core and you wanted to please him, give him the same treatment you’d given Arthur.

“I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Yes, Dutch.”

“What are you going to let us do?”

“I - I’m going to let you use me.”

“Good.” He put his hands on your shoulders and turned you round to face him and you knelt between his legs, for him to move up into a tall-kneeled position. Palms grasped your ankles and began to pull, so you shifted forward and used your hands to remain steady while Arthur placed you in the ideal position for him to fuck you.

“You look good like this, girl,” Arthur praised, and you looked back at him with lust painted all over your face. He kept the eye contact, finally unbuttoning his pants and making a show of pulling them down and kicking them away, his erect cock stood proud and patient. His eyes glided to your dripping cunt presented to him, and he couldn’t resist giving himself a few pumps for your viewing pleasure in return. You moved your hips back to encourage him and he half-smiled, brushing his palms up your thighs to land on your hips.

Dutch brought a hand into your scalp, righting your position to level your face with his cock. “Open,” he commanded, and you did so willingly.

His cock circled your lips and you brought your tongue out, licking up his head and sampling yourself yet again. He tasted wonderful, musky like Arthur and your mouth watered at the thought. When you brought your head forward to close your mouth around him, his grip remained firm and you blinked up at him where he shook his head.

He didn’t need to explain with words, instead just brought his hips forwards, sliding into your wet mouth to test how deep he could go. He went halfway in, then moved back out, then in again. You hollowed your cheeks and he moaned lowly, head tipping up slightly but eyes not leaving the sight of you.

When Arthur pressed the tip of his cock to your pussy, your whine was muffled around Dutch and he grit his teeth at the vibration, while Arthur pushed into where Dutch had filled you moments previous.

Arthur’s sigh of ecstasy sounded almost pained, and his fingertips dug into your hips as your walls fluttered around the new cock penetrating you. Dutch took turns watching Arthur fuck into you and watching you suck on his cock, turning half-delirious at all the visual stimulation. He started to think you might be his favourite asset of the gang, what with all your... assets.

You brought a hand up to Dutch’s hip, stabilising yourself as his rough fucking of your face continued and you let your jaw go slack. Arthur angled his hips to go deeper and began pounding you, lewd slaps of his flesh filling the room. He lay a palm on your back as his other gripped your ass, moving you towards him slightly every time he thrust in.

“You were right, Dutch,” he mused absentmindedly, “she feels fuckin’ perfect. Darlin’,” he breathed and you hummed despite your full mouth, “I could fuck you all day. So good, so fuckin’ -” Arthur huffed, tensing his jaw and becoming more addicted to you with each snap of his hips.

Dutch let go of your head, the powerful thrusts from Arthur being more than enough movement as each one nudged his cock to the back of your throat. Spit spilt out the sides of your mouth, salty precum coating your tongue and the back of your throat. You slipped a hand in between Dutch’s legs to massage his heavy balls and Dutch hissed at the sensation, muttering “keep going” when you paused to check it was a good reaction.

The head of Arthur’s cock brushed against the sensitive spot embedded in your walls when he rolled his hips and high-pitched moans sounded on repeat from your throat. “That’s it,” Arthur half-whispered, “come on my cock, wanna feel you – you -”

Your back arched, the walls of your cunt repeatedly pulsating around Arthur’s thick length as you did just as he asked.

“We still gonna...” Arthur mumbled, thrusts now deep and slow, though you were already way past the point of over-stimulation as you drifted down from your high.

“Y-yeah,” Dutch slid his cock from your mouth, wiping the thick trail of spit that connected the two of you together from your lips. He gripped his hand around your neck and lifted your front up so your back pressed against Arthur’s muscular chest and abdomen, and you gasped at the alteration of position. Dutch pressed his torso into yours and stuck his tongue into your mouth, holding you in position while you grasped at his sides.

He kissed you deep and passionately while Arthur kissed and nibbled on your neck, eventually using all his might to still his thrusts. Dutch relented too, panting and pressing his forehead against yours. “You think you can take us both now, sweet girl?”

You nodded immediately, hoping to reach your peak for a third time and focused on Arthur’s calloused hands as they brushed up and down your flank. You wrapped your arms around Dutch’s neck, feeling as though you might fall if you didn’t use him for support.

“Make me proud, darlin’,” he cooed, giving you a final kiss and nodding at Arthur to switch positions. Dutch held you up as Arthur slid out, moving around to sit beside Dutch and hold you against him while Dutch moved to kneel behind you.

“You want it, pretty girl? Want both of us to fuck you at the same time?” Arthur asked as you moved to straddle him, his cock leaking and desperate for more as it lay flat on his stomach.

You brought a hand up to caress his stubble, and he looked almost sweet with his red cheeks and those shining blue eyes looking up at you like you were some sort of angel. To him, you were, glowing from the sheen of sweat covering your body as you sat above him, entirely lost on chasing your pleasure as you smiled down at him. “Don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much in my life,” you huffed dreamily.

“That’s our girl,” Dutch said, giving your ass a smack and kissing your shoulder, Arthur biting down on his lip as he continued to stare at your body. “Think you can wait a little longer, Arthur?”

“Sure,” he nodded reluctantly, understanding it may not be the best idea for Dutch to enter you while he was already sheathed. That didn’t mean he couldn’t touch you, though, and ushered you forward a little so your breast was in grabbing distance for him to occupy himself with.

Dutch pressed more of the cool substance onto your hole, coating his cock with it and then testing your readiness with a couple of his fingers. You sighed, leaning back onto them and he and Arthur smirked at each other.

“Easy, girl,” Arthur cooed, not unlike the way he spoke to his mare though you didn’t give that thought any attention, “you’ll get yours.”

Dutch’s palm came onto your back to urge you down so you were leant entirely over Arthur. He rubbed your ass that now sported a red splotch thanks to him, and pressed a kiss to your lower back. He nodded at Arthur without your knowledge, who proceeded to pull you closer by way of distraction. He trailed his fingertips up your sides, around your front and into your hair, pushing it away from your face and then leaning up to kiss you, gently pulling you down as he lowered his head to the bed.

Arthur nipped playfully at your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open and diving his tongue in to experience you once more. He hadn’t expected the kissing to be one of his favourite parts of this. Holding a hand to the back of your head, you didn’t have much choice but to keep it going but gasped when Dutch pressed the head of his cock to your ass.

“Easy,” Arthur repeated, his lips only a centimetre from yours and began kissing you again while Dutch paused.

“Be good for me, darlin’,” Dutch purred, pressing his cock forward again experimentally. “I know you can take it.”

You calmed your breathing, not realising it’d sped up and when Dutch breached you with the end of his thick cock you moaned loudly, screwing your eyes closed at the stretch.

“Want me to -”

“No,” you grouched, “god no. Keep going.”

Dutch chuckled, pushing in further while Arthur lavished your neck with wet pecks and licks, keeping your head held still and caressing your chest with his other hand. He pinched your nipple at the same time Dutch edged further in once again, the stretch coming a little easier now. You groaned through gritted teeth, shifting your hips back to take the rest of him, not stopping until your ass met his hips.

With a hand squeezing each ass cheek, Dutch’s chest vibrated with a growl. “God damn.”

“We knew you could do it,” Arthur said absentmindedly, still focused on using his lips to taste every inch of your skin.

It was an unusual sensation to say the least, you knew you’d be sore in the morning but there was something tantalising about being filled this way, and Dutch’s reaction made it all the more worthwhile. He shifted himself out a little and offered you a short thrust, digging his fingertips into your skin at the moan that left you. With his and Arthur’s hands holding you down, you attempted to shift your hips, urging him in to let him know that it was okay. He did another small thrust and you huffed hoarsely. “More.”

Dutch paused, letting out a tense breath. “What have I told you about telling me what to do?”

You whined pitifully, desperate to come again and knowing that despite appearances Dutch didn’t want to risk hurting you. But you knew it was okay, and you knew you wanted more. “I don’t care,” you breathed. “More. Please.”

With a pleased hum, Dutch trailed his palm up your spine and back down to your lower back to hold you down. “Fuck her, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t need to be told twice, already starved of you and ceased his affections on your neck, grasping his cock and lining up with your entrance. Before he could thrust up, the pressure from Dutch’s hand increased and he pushed you until Arthur was completely inside you, your knees widening to accommodate the distance and gasping at the feel of his cock sliding in.

You couldn’t describe it. It was like all the air had been pushed from your lungs, feeling almost too full with both of their hard cocks nestled comfortably in you. It felt so dirty to be used like this by a pair of outlaws, but that only made the whole thing more enjoyable.

Arthur’s palms came to either side of your rib cage, unsure who was supporting who and took a deep breath while watching the ecstasy grow on your face. He ground his hips into you and your walls clenched, Dutch nestling his hips against your ass. Neither man seemed to want to be the first to thrust, so you rose forward slightly and sank back, whimpering as the two cocks filled you once more.

“N-No,” Arthur stuttered, gently brushing his hands over your skin, "you keep yourself still". He began to slowly thrust into you, Dutch obliging your needs all the same and it was like the repeated flicking of a switch as both your holes demanded your focus. But you couldn’t, the sensations began to merge as they picked up a rhythm, one sliding in as the other slid out.

You moaned a blissful moan, hands splaying on Arthur’s chest while he stared up, infatuated with the bounce of your tits.

“You like that?” Dutch grit out, fingertips sinking further into your skin, “like being used like a common whore?”

“Mhm,” you agreed through a breath, revelling in the repeated stretch.

Dutch pushed his hips forwards hard, jolting you forward and Arthur let out a strangled groan. Both men increased their pace, Dutch grunting with each thrust and Arthur panting.

They ravished you as though it was the first and last time, fucking you more senseless than you already were until your thoughts were nothing other than a merry band of delightful sensations. Dutch’s big hand squeezing your ass cheek, Arthur’s attempt at grabbing every part of you, and of course the ruthless pounding into your body as you whined into the sweaty air.

“You’re doin’ so good, darlin’,” Arthur ran his hand lovingly up your flank and to your ass, gently squeezing the flesh there. “So fuckin’ good.”

Babbles of their names fell from your lips, becoming the only two words you could remember as they took you deep and hard, growing comfortable with taking the risk. At this point, you didn’t care too much if it did hurt; the pleasure far outweighing the pain.

Dutch fisted a hand into your hair, dragging your torso up and you squeaked a little as he pulled your head back to meet his eyes.

“Don’t lose yourself yet, darlin’,” he warned and you tried to nod but his hold on you was too solid. Instead, you blinked at him and he understood your response well enough.

“Dutch,” you whispered, eyes falling shut as both of them fucked you at the change in angle, the brush of the heads of their cocks over your walls the only thing you could focus on.

“You’re our girl now,” he affirmed and you dropped your fucked-out gaze to Arthur’s. “All ours to fuck.”

“Yes,” you whined, debating alleviating yourself of all other responsibilities to be at the service of these two outlaws. “All yours.”

“Jesus,” Arthur hissed, gripping your thighs as he bucked up and dropped his head back onto the bed.

Dutch curled his hand around your throat, cold rings nudging your windpipe and restricting your airflow. Feeling deliciously floaty you hummed, fluttering your eyes shut while Dutch pulled you into his sweaty chest and held you there in the perfect position, their cocks angling in such a way that made you content to stay like this forever. Or at least until you blacked out from the choking, you weren’t choosy.

Arthur tested your stimulation with a brush of his fingers, revelling in how you seemed to pull away and push closer at the same time, not really sure what you wanted at this point. He circled you expertly and you relaxed some more, pleasure pulsing from three different places with Dutch gathering your wrists behind your back and holding you there. Your shoulders drew back, the only movement you could manage thanks to the stubborn grip he had on your neck, tremors journeying up your toes and fingers.

Dutch briefly relieved your neck and brought his hand to rest on your lower abdomen. “Feel that?” he breathed in your ear with a crack in his voice while he pushed down slightly. “Surprised we’ve not split you in two.”

With a dark chuckle, Arthur latched his fingernails onto your thighs while he bit down on his tongue, savouring every inch of you with the hopes of reliving the experience time and time again in the comfort of his tent.

“You’re taking us so well,” he praised, punctuating his sentence with a groan. “Wanna... fill you right to the brim with me.”

You nodded weakly, unable to move again when Dutch resumed his grip on your neck, but it was enough of an agreement for them and they doubled down their efforts, drilling into you like their lives depended on it.

“Don’t stop,” you sobbed, eyes screwed tight and watering.

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to, darlin’.” Arthur huffed, face hardening with a deep thrust as a bead of sweat meandered down his temple.

Both cocks drove into you at the same time, flipping between almost-empty and too-full until you no longer felt like you had any control over your body. The squeeze somehow felt tighter and you pulsed, both of them groaning at your responsiveness while you whimpered pathetically.

“Please, please,” you begged, wondering if perhaps you couldn’t come one more time for them but neither man planned on stopping until you did, proving you entirely wrong when Arthur pinched your clit and his cock pressed directly onto the soft spot in your walls while Dutch’s cock made your ass it’s new favourite place.

“So good for us,” he murmured on your hair. “Such a spirited thing, thinking you have... any,” he groaned as he searched through his aroused mind for words, “any control over us. We practically own you now, darlin’. Ain’t n-no way you’re getting away with being a brat again.”

“’S almost cute,” Arthur chuckled through his laboured breaths.

“Does,” you struggled to swallow against Dutch’s palm, “does it mean you’ll do it... again? I-If I defy you?”

“Defy me or not,” Dutch purred, “there’s no way I could go a day without fuckin’ you like this.”

He sucked your neck as they both stretched and pushed into you, arousal thrumming through your veins at being nothing short of a vessel for them. The knowledge of what your body did to them was wonderful. Filthy, but wonderful.

“S-Shouldn’t have let two men have you like this, s-sweetheart,” Arthur muttered, “you’ll never get rid of us.”

Dutch hummed his agreement and you felt like you would explode, passion and want filling you to the brim along with their cocks and you whined, high-pitched and desperate as your legs began to shake, the urge to relieve yourself coming on strong. “Give it to me, please. Please, please, please...”

That was as much as Arthur could handle, you begging and shaking and restrained awoke something within him and he pushed in as far as he could. His warmth filling your insides as his cock throbbed was the final straw and you gushed all over him, more than you’d ever seen come from yourself as it squirted from you and onto his hand.

“Fuck,” Arthur gawked at the sight of your mess, prompting Dutch to let go of your neck and you took in a deep breath when his hand joined Arthur’s to coat his fingers in your release.

“Holy shit,” he groaned and buried himself to the hilt, satisfied to finally make his claim on your body, thick ropes of his cum filling your ass.

You dropped forward, unable to co-ordinate yourself and Arthur caught you, gently pulling you into his chest and you honed in on the rise and fall of it, his breaths skimming over the top of your head. Dutch leaned a hand on your back, an attempt at soothing you but ending up using you to keep himself upright.

“She okay?” he forced out the words to Arthur, squeezing his eyes shut as he emptied the last of his load into you.

Arthur craned his neck and you blinked up to him with a small nod. “Feel like I’m floating.”

The three of you remained still, bodies vibrating with energy in unison and heartbeats slowing along with your breathing. Time didn’t feel real, the walls of reality blurry and unimportant while your body came down from being so thoroughly used. You were aware when Dutch pulled out, his cum trickling from you while Arthur kissed the crown of your head, keeping you held against his strong chest.

You shifted slightly, realising Arthur was manoeuvring you to nestle into his side as he unsheathed himself when Dutch’s hand pried open your leg and you blinked down as he wiped a cloth over you, not before admiring the cum dripping out of your debauched holes. He cleaned you up the best he could and you sighed contently into Arthur as he ran his fingers through your hair soothingly.

Dutch dropped onto your other side, out of breath and the three of you blinked up at the ceiling for some time while you returned to your bodies.

The thrumming in your veins dropped to a low hum that you suspected would stay there for a while, and with you still angled towards Arthur, Dutch lazily draped an arm over your midsection and curled protectively around you.

No words were needed, three bodies in perfect harmony and understanding while you comfortably drifted into a well-deserved rest. Dutch and Arthur glanced at each other when your body grew heavy, a silent agreement that they would protect you with their lives at all costs. And that they were absolutely, without a doubt, doing that again sometime.

#would you believe only 10% of this is backstory #i got carried away but who wouldnt #arthur morgan x reader #dutch van der linde x reader #arthur morgan x dutch van der linde x reader #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #rdr2 fanfic #request #writing #my stuff

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trappers-cloak · 11 months

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Do I make my OC a gunslinger like Sadie?? A medical girly who helps around camp like Karen/Tilly/Mary Beth??? Do I make her super overpowered and perfect??? Do I make her soft and feminine but also a complete badass or focus on one???

#I’m screaming into the void #all I know is that she can hunt #she has good aim with thrown weapons #her backstory is that she had rich religious parents who wanted her to be ladylike so she ran away to escape that #she and Mr Cripps are a package deal #she is good at playing the fiddle #she can sew and embroider really well #rdr2 #rdr2 dutch #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 oc

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author-morgan · 1 year

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I adore Lily from Deliverance! 🥹 Are there any headcanons or tidbits about her you wouldn’t mind sharing?

ohhh thank you ❤️let's see. here's a bit of background for miss lily.

Lilian Cornwall was born on October 11, 1871 — making her 28 at the time of the game events in 1899.

She received her degree from Wellesley College in 1891 at the age of 20 (one of the youngest, if not the youngest, graduates from the college at the time) and then went on to complete a master's degree two years later at the same institution, with a focus on business and economics. Leviticus was adamant about her receiving a proper education, as he always planned for her to take over the business one day.

Lilian met Lyndon Monroe, who at the time was a recent graduate from West Point, at a party hosted in Washington D.C. in 1893. Infatuated with one another, they exchange letters before striking up a courtship in the following months, much to her father's displeasure.

If she's nervous, Lily often wrings her hands together and starts picking at her nails.

In the true rich Victorian girl™️ fashion, Lily can play the piano and was classically trained as a girl. She's a bit out of practice, though, having always preferred to spend her free time sketching rather than playing.

Lilian doesn't have many friends. She knows a lot of people but considers very few to be true friends given their penchant for often using her name and fortune to better themselves in the end. Due to this, she's a very reserved person in the public eye and tends to prefer remaining away from the spotlight unless the occasion calls for it.

One of her most prized possession is the photograph of her mother, Ada, and her father, Leviticus. Seeing that Ada died due to complications in childbirth, this is the only picture she has of her mother and it’s very dear to her. She keeps it in a silver frame on her writing desk.

Her favorite color is white-creme, which is why her bedroom and drawing room are bright and airy compared to the rest of the Cornwall Saint Denis house decor.

Despite being known for her business prowess in the business community, Lilian is even better known for her philanthropy. After fully becoming her father's apprentice, she established the Cornwall Foundation, which started out as a way to help employees, but now seeks to help impoverished peoples and communities by providing necessities, services, and opportunities too.

#sierra replies #story: deliverance #oc: lilian cornwall #arthur morgan #rdr2 #thank you for this ask nonny! it's always fun to share backstories that might not be obvious in the story (just yet)#anonymous #writing asks

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threadbaresweater · 3 months

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one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan x reader

Arthur doesn't think you're interested in him any more than you're interested in fishing, which ain't much. You hope he shares even an inkling of the feelings you have for him. It's no surprise to anyone else in camp that there's something between the two of you, and they make sure you get a chance to show each other how you really feel.

The details: 3.9k words. Female reader with a backstory that isn't really elaborated upon in this fic but might be at a later date if I have the spoons; several gang members act as side-characters/wingmen (and women); alcohol and cigarette use; sex (pretty vanilla, but a little rough and intense). NSFW. This is also my first fic for a new fandom, so please be gentle with me. It's been a while.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grab at each other like it's the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you want more than what the other of you is able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

#arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader

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nthspecialll · 2 months

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I think we sometimes as a fandom tend to hyper-focus on certian characters' backgrounds simply because we like the character when in reality other characters who might not be as interesting has way better backstories, because no, Javier, Arthur and John are not the only ones with sad backstories

Like why does no one talk about what happened to Leopold's sister? Why does no one talk about young Lenny tracking down and killing folk? Why does no one talk about Javier actually in a way working for the government for a while and the reason why he killed that powerful military man? Why does no one talk about why Dutch is called Dutch and not by his actual first name? Why does no one talk about Bill's worst childhood fear coming true? Why does no one talk about both Swanson and Micah saving Dutch's life or that Tilly is also a murderer?

Anyways here is a full explanation of all the Van Der Linde gang members backstories.

Sean MacQuire

Sean Macquire and his father lived in Ireland possibly with more family but had to flee because the English (who were at the time in charge of ireland) were chasing them. They fled for their lives and they were in Boston for a month before his dad was shot in his sleep, showing the remaining Sean that there was truly no honor or shame in the world.

He was then sent to a reform school, which we all know was abusive and a living hell, so he ran, living as a low-life thief, he was a teenager, when he in a bar somewhere in North Elizabeth saw Dutch and Hosea and liked Dutch's watch. He followed the two into an alleyway and threatened them at gunpoint, however they laughed at him and told him to shoot, so he did, except the two others had noticed him first and took the bullets from his gun. Sean started crying, thinking they were going to kill him but instead of doing that they gave him a home, a place to belong.

Lenny Summers

Lenny's grandparents as well as parents were slaves and his mother was born on a cotton field and taken away from his grandmother, who hadn't even known she was pregnant, immediately. His grandmother was then told to simply get back to work.

After the civil war, the old overseer kept making advandages towards Lenny's grandmother, to a point that in the end she needed to kill him and just barely escaped being lynched. Lenny's mother never saw the grandmother again.

Lenny's mother later met Mr Summers who was an educated man and taught Lenny to both read and write, however wehn Lenny was 15, his dad was beaten to death by several drunk men. Lenny stole a gun, tracked and hunted down the men, shooting them and showing no remorse even years later.

Kieran Duffy

Kieran Duffy's father was an Irishman who came to America with a dream of farming. It was there that he met Kieran's mother and not long after having Kieran, they both passed due to Cholera and not shortly after that the stables that he worked at to support himself threw him out. He decided to join the army to support himself but it didn't last long before he quit due to it "not working out well."

After returning from the army, he fell into work with a bunch of unnamed outlaws, though they all passed away, leaving him alone once again.

At some point he ran into the O'Driscolls who gave him a choice, to ride with them or to get killed, esencially forcing him to join them and work as a stable hand for them, though he was at the bottom of the latter simply working with the horses before being kidnapped by Arthur Morgan and joining the Van Der Linde gang.

Leopold Strauss

Leopold Strauss was born into severe poverty in Austria and his family struggled heavily with food. By the time that Strauss was only twelve, his older brother was beating up nightwatch men for whatever cash and food scraps they had on them. By that time Strauss's father had already sold his younger sister Anna, by the age of nine, into bonded labour to be able to provide for the rest of the family.

When Stauss was seventeen he was sent with his uncle to the US due to health problems, however the hellish sight of Brooklyn gave Strauss's uncle a heart attack on the spot, leaving Strauss alone in a forgein country. To survive he began doing illegal money scams and after doing so for years Dutch picked him up.

Tilly Jackson

Tilly Jackson was the daughter of a slave and became an outlaw by the mere age of twelve, running with a gang called the Foreman brothers who kidnapped her but after murdering the leaders cousin after he made advandages on her, she had to flee. She returned to her mothers workplace but found that she had already passed.

Later Tilly ran into Dutch Van Der Linde and as he was already taking care of John Marston and Arthur Morgan, he took her in, becoming just as much as a father figure to her as to the boys.

Micah Bell

Micah Bell was born directly into a life of crime as his father Micah Bell jr was a petty but ruthless and violent outlaw. Already when Micah was 17 him and his father were on run from the law as they had slid Jean and Roscoe Briggs throats and later hung them as well. His father was also his primary partner in crime, however he also seemed to have teamed up with his brother Amos a few times as well, however Amos regretted his past life and started a proper one with wife and children and threatened to kill Micah if he came close.

Micah had several partners in crime later in life, including Joe and Cleet who appears later in the game, as well as a fellow named Norman.

Micah runs into Dutch Van Der Linde in 1898 in a bar as Dutch is trying to sell some stolen goods, however the deal doesn’t work out and Micah steps in to help Dutch and save his life, earning a place in the gang.

Bill Williamson

Bill Williamson, also known as Marion Williamson, was born into an abusive family with a father who lost his mind to alchohol, even going to the point of mixing moonshine with whiskey. Watching this Bill always feared falling in love with liquor and suffering the same fate.

Bill always showed signs of being more of a troubled kid and being sent to a reform school did not stop him from building s solid criminal record as a kid.

Bill would later apply to the military and serve in the 15th infantry, fighting against the native americans before being dishonorably discharged for deviancy and attempted murder in 1892. For a year after he lived rough, truly falling in love with liqour and stealing from people om the side of the roads, one time being robbed himself by a "woman" (likely a cross dresser or genderqueer person).

In 1893 Bill tried to rob Dutch and got angry as the man simply laughed at him, however he calmed down as he was allowed a spot in the Van Der Linde gang.

Daniel "Dutch" Van Der Linde

Dutch's mother was an english woman named Greta and his father a dutch man who lived somewhere near Philadelphia who fought in the civil war and died, which is why Dutch hated southeners.

Dutch's nickname rumors to come from his father's desperate attempt at keeping touch with his ancerstory.

When he was 15, he left home due to troubles with his mother whom he never got along with and simply saw him as a disobedient and troubled kid. He wished for freedom above all so to gain this he started a life of crime and in mid 1870 met Hosea Matthews.

Hosea Matthews

Hosea was born in around 1844 and lived the majority of his earlier life in the mountians, growing to love fishing and hunting. His father was mostly absent, living a life of "sin and debauchery that would make an emperor blush." Hosea saw his dad only about three times in his life but loved him none the less.

He tried to make his way with comedy as a stage actor, however he turned to petty thieft, stealing from his audience and later others in town. He was caught by the sheif stealing a chicken and sentenced to be hanged. Luckiy for Hosea the town folk saw it as a punishment too cruel and a riot broke out which ended with someone shooting the noose around Hosea's neck, allowing him to flee.

Mid 1870 Hosea found Dutch sitting by a campfire and decided to rob him, however found that Dutch had already robbed him. Hosea feared for a moment for his life but it ended with the two of them laughing it off and teaming up.

Molly O'Shea

Molly O'Shea was born into a wealthy Irish family, set up to live a proper and educated life, however she quickly got bored and showed little interest in the life set up for her, so she ran off to America in search of adventure and excitment. At some point she ran into Dutch Van Der Linde and found an interest in him and his life style, only to later genuiently fall in love with him.

Arthur Morgan

Arthur Morgan was born to Beatrice and Lyle Morgan in northen US. His mother died in his early life and he never really got along with his father whom there are rumors was abusive. Lyle lived a life of petty crime and was arrested and executed. Arthur saw his father die and although not having the best relationship, Arthur kept his father's hat and picture.

In 1877 Arthur was 14 and a wild delinquent. He ran into Dutch and Hosea, being picked up and taken under their wing, taught not only the ways of crime but also skills like reading, writing, hunting and so on.

Uncle

Uncle was born in Ohio (insert Penelope Braithwaithe shutter) with the only family present being his parents who died when he was nine and an "uncle" named Jeb whom Uncle hints at being a pedofile.

After his parents death he was on his own and was forced to a new city where he had to care for himself, and from that time to the game start in 1899, we know he has been married at least twice.

Uncle tells many stories of his past such as going to Africa and being worthshipped like a god by the locals, however the truth of these stories are highly doubted due to his tendency to lie. He does tell stories of being a "one shot kid" in his younger days, the truth of these also being doubted, however it may have been his tricket into the Van Der Linde gang.

Susan Grimsaw

Along with Hosea, Dutch and Arthur Susan was one of the founding memebers of the Van Der Linde gang, having run into Dutch during a poker game where both he and she found interest in one another, causing the curious couple and their unruly son to stay in the area a bit longer, paying poker long into the night while Susan sat on Dutch's lap.

Having gotten into a romantic relationship with Dutch, Susan was allowed to join the small group and even stayed when Dutch moved on to Annabelle, now serving as a form of housemother, making sure that people did their work, took properly care of themselves and made camp feel like home.

You can also hear Susan talking to Mary-Beth one time in camp, admitting that she had a fiance once however he went to heaven.

John Marston

John Marston was born in 1873 to an illiterate scottish father born on the boat to New York and a prositute mother who died during his birth. At first John lived with his father who constantly spoke of Scotland and his love for the country, however he was blinded in a bar fight south of Chicargo and later died when John was eight. The true cause of his father's death is unknown however John was told it was a barfight.

John spent a few years in an orphanage before running off and living on his own, at the mere age of eleven commiting his first murder by shooting a man, though he claims it was not his fault.

At the age of twelve John had been caught stealing from homesteaders who planned to have him hanged, however Dutch stepped in and took him under his wing.

Orville Swanson

Swanson used to wrok as a Clergyman but after indulging in the "earthly pleasures", being seduced by alchohol and sex, he lost his family, job and in the end faith, though he desperately tried to regain it.

At some point or another he fell in love with a woman named Margaret, though she was already married, so he simply added bigamy to the list of sins he had already commited. When the two of them were in San Fransisco, the law finally caught up wth them and while she fled onto a ship headed for Shanghai he was stuck and never saw her again.

Under unknown circomstances Swanson came to save Dutch's life and due to Dutch's debt to Swanson he was allowed to join the gang.

Mary-Beth Gaskill

Being a woman of good nature, Mary-Beth did not struggle getting close to her victims after having found herself needing to find a living in the streets. Due to her looks and personality she could with ease fool the richer men into thinking they were saving a poor maiden in need while her fingers slipped into their pockets.

It was through this that Mary-Beth got in trouble with not just the law but her victims as well. One night she had gotten a few foul men on her tail that she ran into the Van Der Linde gang who saved her and asked her to join them.

Charles Smith

Charles Smith was born to a Native Mother and a free African American father, all three of them living fairly happily with his mothets tripe together with a few other free men before the US army chased them away.

They continued to live together but a few years later Charles' mother was captured by the army, leading Charles' father to fall into alcoholism and a deep depression.

At the mere age of 13 Charles left his father and began to live on his own, becoming a supreme survivalist from an early age.

Some point during the late 1898 ran into the Van Der Linde gang in the Grizzlies and joined them.

Simon Pearson

Simon Pearson's family were whale hunters and although Pearson wished to follow in their footsteps it did not go that way due to the whale industry having lessened by the time that he got out of school. Having been forced to look for new employment options, Pearson joins the Navy where he even managed to get stranded for fifty days on a ship filled with plauge, watching his friends and coworkers slowly drop one by one.

After having returned from the Navy Pearson begins to struggle financially and takes a loan, however unable to pay it off loansharks comes after him and it is during one of these attempts at getting to Pearson that the Van Der Linde gang saves him and brings him to camp as a cook.

Abigail Marston

Abigail Marston, originally born Abigail Roberts, was orphaned at a young age and started roaming around bars, scraping whatever few coins she could take from folk before starting a work of prostitution, making an earning by selling her body and at some point running into Uncle at a bar who introduced her to the gang.

Now living with the gang, Abigail still worked as a prositute up until falling pregnant with Jack Marston by John Marston.

Josiah Trelawny

Josiah Trelawny was born in England though he has no memories of his life there, he later imigated to America where he starts working as a conman and trickster. It was during this line of work that he met yhe Van Der Linde gang and joined them bur with a special advandage as he, unlike the others, was allowed to appear and disappear as he pleased, always knowing when Dutch planned to cut him off and return with a big hit.

Josiah has a family living in Saint Denis concisting of a wife and two sons named Tarquin and Cornelius. Just as with the gang, he would disappear on them for months.

Karen Jones

Karen Jones lived as a scam artist in her early years and absolutely loved the outlaw lifestyle and hoped for a bit more which partly drove her to accept the Van Der Linde gang's invitation, hoping to achieve more.

Javier Escuella

Javier Escuella was born in Mexico to a drunkard father who worked for Allende' (a main antagonist in rdr1, a military man) uncle. When he was young he saw his own uncle as well as four other separate men get casterated and fed to pigs for simply suggesting fair wages for their work.

Javier moved on to become a violent and known bounty hunter and revolutionary, fighting against what he saw as a corupt system.

Javier ended up killing a powerful former military man for a woman that he loved, fearing for his loved ones life he fled to America where he knew no english and had no work or food, leaving him starving.

It was in America that he ran into Dutch as they both were trying to steal the same chickens. Dutch took Javier in, fed him, gave him a family and a life, leading Javuer to idiolize Dutch also for his revolutionary ideals.

At some unknown point someone attempted to kill Javier, leading to him having a prominent scar on his throat.

Sadie Alder

Sadie Alder grew up in a harsh envioment and from a very early age learned how to hunt and ride to care for herself, things that Jack Adler fell in love with. The two of them married september 1896, moving to a ranch in Ambarino where they had three happy years of marriage before the O'Driscolls arrived at their cabin.

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when-pigsfly · 5 months

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WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

read on ao3 here | masterlist

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed.

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns.

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk.

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum.

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet.

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after.

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes.

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you.

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come.

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin.

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his.

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl.

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal.

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards.

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek.

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire.

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously.

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?”

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes.

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows.

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt.

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.”

The wind slams the front door shut.

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before.

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now.

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm.

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck.

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns.

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead.

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately.

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens.

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot.

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned.

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.”

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest.

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.”

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes.

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled.

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs.

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company.

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten.

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him.

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her.

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her.

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried.

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be.

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed.

Peaceful.

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo.

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up.

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness.

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much.

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.”

“Ma’am,” you correct.

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence.

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!”

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently.

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #I literally put off two essays to write this #plz be kind this wasn’t supposed to be this long #witching hour

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lesbian-for-arthur-morgan · 11 months

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Watching Horror Movies Together

Super Short Headcanons || Modern Au

Genre: Fluff Featuring: Arthur, John, Dutch, Javier, Charles, Sean, and Sadie Warnings: None - super casual writing

AN: I know no one requested this but I was on a horror binge last night and couldn't stop thinking about how these guys would act during a scary movie marathon so I wrote a quick thing in my notes app to post teehee~ ---> Requests are open! Check out guidelines if you have questions

<><><><>

Arthur Morgan:

Is not scared at all - literally impossible to scare.

Thinks horror movies are predictable and kind of boring.

However, God forbid a dog dies in the movie because he will get up and turn it off and say that the writers went too far.

Grumbles and groans on movie nights where you choose a horror movie, but will always wrap an arm around you and insist of sharing a blanket because he just likes spending time with you and being able to hold you close.

Will tease you for your bad taste in movies but secretly loves watching them with you and finds himself getting sucked into them every now and then.

John Marston:

Is on the edge of his seat the whole time.

Claims he's watching them because he thinks they're funny, but actually really enjoys trying to figure out who the killer is and who's going to die when and where.

Jumps at every jump scare but acts like he didn't.

He needs to watch a Disney movie afterwards so he doesn't have nightmares. Will say it's for your sake and not his, though.

Man acts all big and bad, but once the music starts to get intense and there's a long hallway on the screen he is looking everywhere but at the TV so he isn't jumpscared again.

Dutch Van Der Linde:

Probably taking notes during psychological horror movies on how to be manipulative.

Says the killer is misunderstood or that their tragic backstory makes the killing justified.

He will eat all the popcorn and then get upset when it's all gone. Cue the puppy eyes while he's begging you to go make more.

Spends a good forty-five minutes talking about how you and him would survive the movie because y'all are so much smarter than the main characters and would make it out of there.

Genuinely believes he's invincible and could survive any scenario.

Javier Escuella:

HATES horror movies because they genuinely scare him.

Well, he can handle slashers but he hates paranormal movies since he believes in ghosts 100% no questions asked.

Loves making a snack buffet for the movie - popcorn, candy, cookies, sodas, fries, and the works.

Encourages you to cuddle into him and hold him whenever you get too scared since he's so big and brave.

Will end up being the one hiding his face in your shoulder and holding you like a teddy bear because he got freaked out.

Charles Smith:

Loves to analyze horror movies in -like- an artistic way.

His favorite types are historical horrors because so much thought goes into them.

He will watch silly horror with you, though, like Scream and Tucker and Dale vs. Evil, but will spend the whole movie making fun of you. Lightheartedly, of course, he's saying that those aren't real scary movies and that you're kind of a wuss.

The entire movie his arm is wrapped around you and pressing you deep into his side so that you can cuddle and be warm. It's a little too comfortable though and you end up falling asleep there more often than not.

Loves it when you do that, it makes him feel all soft and warm on the inside.

Sean MacGuire:

Makes jokes the entire time.

Literally has something to say every 2 minutes that has the both of you laughing instead of being scared.

Honestly, it's the only way he can get through the whole movie.

If you start getting sucked into the movie and he's too nervous to fully focus on the screen, he will start throwing popcorn at you to get your attention.

Halfway through the movie he will make you pause it so that he can have a mental break from all the scary stuff and gore. Totally turns into a make-out session and the movie is long forgotten.

Sadie Adler:

Absolutely nothing fazes her, she LOVES scary movies.

She knows all the behind-the-scenes info about every movie you watch too because she deep dives into interviews and essays after watching them the first time.

Her eyes are glued to the screen but will have you lay your head in her lap so she can run her fingers through your hair to soothe you when you get scared.

Makes fun of you when you react at a jump scare. When you look up at her with a frown, she'll press kisses all over your face until you can't help but smile.

She loves that she can make you feel comforted and safe when you're scared, secretly loves it even more when you try to go to bed after the movie and you're clinging to her like a koala because you're still a little spooked by the film.

<><><><>

I know summer isn't even close to over yet, but I am so excited for Halloween this year, so here's a little Halloween in July (think like that Gravity Falls episode)

Hope you enjoyed <3

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roseghoul26 · 2 months

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Chapter 4: Your Touch Brought Forth An Incandescent Glow

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, Tags Updated Per Chapter Author's Note: this chapter is super dialogue heavy and sets up a backstory for the reader so if this isn’t your cup of tea sorry. i need this chapter to set up the story later on lmao. also the title did use to be different if you noticed that lmao Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay Chapter List

“Have you ever shot a gun?”

You stared at Arthur, shocked. That certainly wasn’t the question you’d expect him to greet you with today. You stood in the entrance of your home, a soaked Arthur Morgan standing on the other side. “Well, hello to you too, Arthur,” you laughed. “Why?”

“‘Cause-”

A crack of thunder tore through the conversation, shaking the frame of your house. “Get inside, please. Before you die right out here on my porch.” You stood back a few feet, giving Arthur plenty of room to come in.

Water pooled on the floor as he stepped inside, the mat doing little to soak it up. “Sorry,” you heard him mumble, and you shook your head.

“Don’t worry about it.” Arthur leaned his head forward, and all the water from the rim of his hat hit the ground with a splash. “I’m goin’ to grab some towels,” you stated, backing up to the stairs. “Get yourself warm by the fire. And those boots better be off!”

Arthur said something in response, but you couldn’t hear him, already up the stairs. Grabbing an armful of towels, you quickly returned downstairs, surprised to find him still lingering in the entranceway. “Arthur? What’re you doin’?”

“I ain’t gonna stay a while-”

Another clap of thunder cut him off, like Mother Nature didn’t want to hear what he had to say. “Like hell you ain’t gonna stay a while. Have you been outside?” Arthur gestured to his currently soaked attire with a teasing grin. “Alright, stupid question, but my point still stands! It's horrible out there! At least try and wait it out a bit. Please.”

He had looked so adamant when he said he wasn’t going to be staying for a while, his face hard and determined, but it quickly softened when you asked him to wait it out, even more so when you said please. “Alright, darlin’.”

He began to undress, taking his jacket off first, hanging it up on the nearby coat rack. His hat and satchel were next, joining the coat on the rack, and he finally took his shoes off, which were covered in mud. More and more water hit the floor, the poor mat absolutely soaked through with it.

You had set a majority of the towels on the back of the couch, but you still held one in your hands. Walking over beside Arthur, you dropped it beside him, soaking up what the mat couldn’t. “Go stand by the fire,” you instructed, feeling slightly victorious when he did.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him pick up one of the towels, wiping down his face and hair. He didn’t sit on one of the couches, instead choosing to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace. You were about to ask why, until you noticed the way his clothing clung to his body like a second skin, absolutely soaked, leaving little to the imagination. It was a kind gesture, to not wreck your furniture with rain water, but less than proper thoughts flashed through your mind as you observed him.

Of course he had to wear a white shirt today. You could see the muscles of his broad shoulders move as he continued to dry his hair, and you could see the way the muscles tapered down his back, powerful and entrancing to watch. You were just grateful, or disappointed, you couldn’t tell, that you weren’t able to see the way his jeans clung to his lower body.

No longer looking at him in your periphery, you tried to ignore the way your cheeks warmed as you watched him. “What’re you doing here?” You asked, hating how raspy your voice sounded.

Arthur looked over at you, confused. “It’s been a few days, hasn’t it?”

And it had been since his last visit. Your first dinner was almost a week ago, Arthur stopping by every couple of days like he promised afterwards. You’d chat, eat dinner, pay him, and then he’d be on his way. “I mean, yes,” you made your way over to him, grabbing a towel as you did so, “but I wasn’t expecting you to come today. I’d hate for you to get sick comin’ over here, and this late in the evening. Besides,” you glanced outside, “I highly doubt anyone’s gonna willingly come outside to cause problems.”

“Well, besides me.”

You laughed. “Are you here to cause problems, Arthur?”

“Well, that depends on how you answer my question. Have you ever shot a gun?”

Shaking your head, you responded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Then you’re gonna learn today.” Arthur stood up, discarding the towel on the floor.

“Wha- right now?”

“No better time than the present, right?”

“I think the present is an absolutely terrible time! I ain’t steppin’ foot out there.” As if to prove your point, thunder boomed, and Arthur sighed. “Why are you adamant about me learning to shoot all of a sudden?”

“Because I ain’t always gonna be around, and I couldn’t bear… I’d hate for somethin’ to happen to you. I wanna give you a way to defend yourself.”

“Oh… I see. Well,” you sat down by where Arthur had just been, “I ain’t opposed to the idea. I’m just not doin’ it right now. Let’s see if the storm’ll let up.” You patted the ground beside you. Looking up at him, you were met with the glorious sight that was Arthur in wet, tight jeans. You knew he was a large man, but it was always hard to tell when he wore loose jeans all the time. His thighs were huge, about the size of your head, and you wanted nothing more than to sit on them, to feel them beneath you.

When he sat back down, you could finally breathe. “I would offer you some dry clothes, but I don’t think I’ve got any that’ll fit you.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Arthur chuckled, “but you’re probably right. Besides, I ain’t so stranger to wet clothes. They’ll dry soon enough.”

You handed him the towel you’d been holding, and he took it with a small nod. Another roll of thunder shuddered the house, and you instinctively felt yourself moving toward Arthur, your shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t make any move to create distance between you two. His wet shirt was kind of uncomfortable against your skin, but you couldn’t care less.

You watched Arthur’s eyes travel over the photographs again, this time settling on one of you and your family. You could tell he was brimming with questions, but he kept his mouth shut. You stood up, but you weren’t away from him for long, grabbing the picture he was looking at and sitting back beside him, your shoulder remaking contact.

“Meet the Van Burens,” you said, handing him the framed photo, and essentially consenting to any questions he might ask.

“Are those your parents?” He asked, pointing to the two older looking folks.

You nodded. “Raymond and Irene. Married for thirty some years.

“And the rest are…?”

“My siblings. I’m the eldest, 17 when this photo was taken. My brother, Joseph, was born a year after me,” you pointed to him in the photo. “Next was Margaret,” you pointed again.

You went through the rest of the rest of the photo in similar fashion, reading their name and identifying them in chronological order. The twins, Ruth and Ethel, were next, followed by Edward, Henry, John, Helen, and finally Bessie. Arthur had a slight reaction to the last name, body tensing slightly, but you didn’t ask him about it.

“And finally, Bessie. She wasn’t even a year old in this photo.” You sniffed, and you reached a hand up to your face. Hot tears were streaming down it, and a concerned Arthur was watching you. “Shit, sorry. I…. I miss them,” you explained through the tears. “I haven’t seen them since I got married.”

“Two years?” Arthur asked, shocked. You were shocked that he remembered, having only brought it up once back in Rhodes. You nodded. “You said they were up North, right?”

You nodded again. “Around Van Horn.”

“That ain’t too far, though.”

“You think if I could’ve gone to see them, I would’ve?” You laughed bitterly. “No, I ain’t allowed to.”

“He… he doesn’t let you?”

“No. Won’t even tell me why, either. And the worse part is, I have no way of even seeing them when he’s gone. If you didn’t notice, the only way to get anywhere for me is on foot, or gettin’ picked up by a stranger.” You wiped away another tear, but another just took his place. “And besides, I have no clue if they’re still livin’ in the same house, after all the financial troubles they went through.”

“Financial troubles?”

You forgot the general public didn’t know what you did. If anyone else would’ve asked, you would’ve shut them down, but it was so easy to tell the truth to Arthur. “Yeah, my parents went bankrupt a few years back, nearly lost everything. The house, the business, everything. So, for financial security, they set up my marriage with Hans. He gets a wife, and every month they get a substantial amount of money from him.”

Arthur didn’t respond for a good amount of time, your words processing in his head. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and there was an almost dangerous glint in his usually soft eyes. “Your parents allowed this?”

“My father was the one who married us.” You whispered. You realized that you’d never told another person your situation, and you looked at him with panic on your face. “No one knows that, though.”

“I won’t say nothin’.” Arthur promised, and you relaxed. Tentatively, you felt him reach his arm around you, settling on your waist comfortingly, pulling you into a side hug.You let him pull you into him, your head resting on his shoulder. The cold wetness of the fabric felt nice against your warm cheeks, and it hid the tears quite well.

He comforted you for a bit, hand soothingly rubbing your side. It took every ounce of self-restraint to not just climb into his lap and throw your arms around him. The idea of it was very appealing, though.

“If you got any more questions, I don’t mind answerin’ them.” You sighed. “I haven’t been able to talk about it before, so this is… therapeutic, in a way.”

“Do your folks know?”

“Know what?”

Arthur chuckled humorlessly. “That you’re absolutely miserable for ‘em?”

“I… Well, no. I wouldn’t want them to know, anyway.”

Arthur paused for a few seconds. “You’re probably one of the most selfless people I’ve met.”

You scoffed. “If this is what it feels like to be selfless, then I don’t wanna be anymore.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you if you were selfish.”

You shook your head. “Maybe not. But every time I think I’m gonna try and do something I want, I feel so guilty. Insurmountable guilt, something I can’t just move past.”

“And… and what do you want?” It was barely noticeable, but his voice went lower.

You. “I want… I wanted to take over my family’s tobacco farm. I wanted to travel. I wanted to fall in love.” You laugh. “I ain’t so sure what I want now. Well…” you trailed off. Were you really about to confess to Arthur? “There is one thing I do want, but there’s no way I can have it.” The ring on your hand felt like fifty pounds.

He didn’t respond, just continued to rub his hand across your back and side. You took a deep breath, and even under the rain you were able to detect that distinct scent of him; gunpowder and tobacco. Your body couldn't decide if it calmed you or made your heart race faster.

“Do you have a family, Arthur?”

“In a way, yes.”

“In a way?” You repeated, confused.

“We ain’t blood, but we sure as hell act like a family,” Arthur explained. “There a group of us, twenty-somethin’ strong. Big group of outsiders, free from the clutches of society. Men, women, even a kid. We take care of each other. You met two of ‘em already, Dutch and Bill. Dutch’s the leader of our little group. He’s… he’s somethin’ of a father to me, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“That… that sounds nice,” you admitted.

“It has its ups and downs.”

“Do you have any photos of them?” You asked. Arthur stilled, and you regretted your question. “You don’t have to show me nonthin’ you don’t want to.”

Wordlessly, Arthur stood, first placing your family’s photo back where it was, then walking over to where his jacket was hung up, pulling something out the satchel he kept. As he sat back down next to you, you noticed he was holding a leather journal, which you honestly weren’t expecting.

“I ain’t got any photos… but I’ve got drawings.”

“Drawings?” You rested your head back on his shoulder. “Well, now I’m intrigued.”

“They ain’t anything good,” he prefaced, and he began to thumb through the pages. “Here.” Arthur tilted the journal to you, and your breath caught. On the left page was an absolutely stunning portrait of who you recognized to be Dutch, along with a paragraph of fast cursive, the same handwriting you saw on the thank you note. On the other page was a full body sketch of an older gentleman cleaning a gun, along with some sketches of a bear and a plant, which were labeled to be English Mace.

“Oh my God, Arthur,” you hovered your fingers above the drawings, following the strokes of the pencil, “these are beautiful.”

Because you were so focused on the journal in front of you, you missed the way that Arthur blushed at your praise. “You’ve already met Dutch, and the other man’s Hosea. Him and Dutch practically raised me.” His voice turned soft, like he was reminiscing.

Clearing his throat, he flipped through a couple more pages, halting when a picture of a younger man appeared. He had longer hair, about neck length, and two angry lines cut up from his jaw, covering his nose. Another angry line cut across his mouth, cutting through the shortly cut facial here. “John Marston. Grew up with him.” You noted the way his voice was short, like he was upset with the man.

“What happened to him?” You asked, pointing to the scars.

“Wolves nearly tore him apart. Me and Javier had to go rescue him. I don’t think I’ve gotta drawin’ of him.”

“That’s alright. Just show me who you’ve got.”

Arthur flipped the page. A woman was there, sitting on a rock. Even in the drawing, you could feel the rage in her eyes. Her expression, even though it was neutral, had such a deep feeling of grief and anger beneath the surface that it almost made you uncomfortable. “Sadie Adler. Found her up in the mountains. A gang known as the O’Driscolls killed her husband, kept her alive. Her house ended up burnin’ down, so we took her with us.”

That rage in her eyes made sense then. It was surprisingly familiar, too, as it was the same anger you saw in the mirror. “Was she who you were talking about earlier?”

It took Arthur a moment to remember what you were talking about, laughter shaking his shoulders when he did. “Sure, darlin’.”

Strange answer, you thought. “Is she… is she doin’ better?” Will I be able to move on from the events in my life?

“She is. Mad as a hornet’s nest, but she’s tough. Even goes out on jobs with us. One of the best thieves in camp.”

You felt a pang in your heart, and you realized you were envious of her. You wanted the freedom she had. “I wanna meet her,” you found yourself muttering.

Arthur chuckled. “She said the same of you.”

You both paused. Were you that important to him that he was telling his “family” about you? “You… they know of me?”

“Well, they kept wonderin’ where I was sneakin’ off to every couple of days,” Arthur explained, clearly not meaning to reveal that. “I didn’t tell ‘em too much, if you were worried ‘bout that.”

“I don’t mind. Just tell ‘em they ain’t allowed to rob me.”

“Oh, they know,” Arthur reassured, and you watched him thumb back to near the beginning of the journal. “I made it clear that you ain’t to be messed with.”

“You make it sound like I’m some tough outlaw,” you teased. “I ain’t even shot a gun yet!”

“Yet.” Arthur reiterated, setting the journal back on his lap. A man occupied the top left corner, and the rest of the two pages were covered in a sketch of a town labeled Blackwater.

“And you say these ain’t good…” you said, voice disbelieving. “Who’s that?” The man in the drawing had even longer hair than John, extending far beyond what was portrayed in the small drawing. A scar similar to a bolt of lightning streaked up his jaw, and another one cut through his brow.

Even though your tears had stopped, you still found yourself resting your head on the man’s shoulder. You couldn’t help the pleased sigh you let out when you felt his arm return around you, keeping you close. “That’s Charles Smith. Best hunter and tracker in camp. Nice guy, too. He joined us recently, surprised he hadn’t run off after…”

“After?”

Arthur sighed. You could tell he was debating telling you or not, but little did you know that he couldn’t say no to your questions. “After Blackwater.” Your eyes flicked to the sketch of the town. It looked peaceful enough, so why did Arthur say the name with such… disgust? Fear? Regret? You weren’t quite sure.

“That’s out West, right?” You’d heard of Blackwater before, and you knew that Hans would probably be traveling through it on the way to Tumbleweed. You also knew that it was no stranger to crime, large ones at that.

Arthur nodded. “It was supposed to be a simple job: rob the ferry and then get the hell outta town. ‘Course, things didn’t end up that way. Innocents were killed. We lost two of our own as well. One of ‘em was captured, too, but we got him back.”

“What happened?”

You felt him shrug. “I ain’t gotta clue. I wasn’t on the boat when things turned bad. We had to drop everythin’ and run. Law chased us out of the state. We thought we’d lose them in the mountains, but they found us once we left. Chased us out of New Hanover, and now here. Won’t be surprised if they pick up our trail soon.”

“Will you have to leave if they do?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered earnestly. “I hope not.”

“Me neither.”

It didn’t feel right to speak, so neither of you did. Arthur simply pulled you closer, and his head practically rested atop yours. You swore his lips brushed the top of your head in a kiss. Rainfall filled in for your voices, the occasion clap of thunder growing softer and softer as the storm progressed. You were so at ease, probably the most relaxed you’d felt over the last two years laying against him like this. He was so warm, his soaked shirt slowly becoming dry, and the fire wasn’t helping you keep your eyes open. Tiredness washed over you, which wasn’t too unexpected because it was already nighttime. You yawmend, and you felt Arthur chuckle. “Go ‘head and rest your eyes, darlin’. I’ll be here.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep until you woke up in your bed the next morning. Sitting up, startled, you saw that you were still in your clothes, simply being placed under the covers. Glancing around, you saw a small piece of paper, presumably ripped from the journal Arthur had shown you yesterday. Grabbing it, you cleared sleep from your eyes, and it took a few moments for the words to become understandable.

Next time you’ll learn to use the gun. Have a good couple of days, darling.

There was something written below it, but it was heavily scratched out, and you weren’t able to make any of it out.

Smiling, you leaned back down on the bed, clutching the note to your chest. A small laugh left you, pure happiness radiating from you. It was insane that this man could get you like this just from a small note.

That giddiness was instantly replaced with dread when you imagined how Hans would react if you were to see the note. You’re not sure what would freak him out more; you using a gun or the fact that Arthur called you darling.

Getting out of bed, you grabbed the lockbox hidden beneath, opening at setting on the bed. There were still some bills left, but there was plenty of room to set the note in. It was then you remembered that you hadn’t paid Arthur at all. Next time he came over, you’d give it to him. Remembering the other note you had from him, you quickly grabbed it, setting it in the lockbox as well. With one final glance, you closed it, tucking back into its original spot.

You got ready that day with a grin on your face.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The next couple of days were filled with menial tasks and garden visits. You wished you had a book, cards, something to pass the time that wasn’t laborious tasks. The lower floor had never looked so clean, though, so there was that.

It had been two days since Arthur had carried you up to your bed, and he would be coming over any day now. Even if there wasn’t anything romantic between you two, you loved having him over, getting close with the outlaw. Your loneliness had never been so far away.

There was a light knock on the door, and you heard your name being called from the other side of the door. You set aside the stitching you were doing, your hands shaking slightly and a smile growing on your face.

“Hello, Arthur.” You greeted the man as you opened the door.

Arthur was resting his hands on his belt, a warm smile on his face that had you melting. “Hello, darlin’. You ready?”

You stared at him blankly, completely forgetting what he had planned for you for a moment. “As I’ll ever be,” you sighed, getting your shoes on. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Are you doubtin’ me?” Arthur joked, extending a hand to you once your shoes were on. “I promise you won’t get hurt.”

You snorted, taking his hand. “I ain’t afraid of getting myself hurt. I’m more afraid of what I might do to you.”

Arthur led you out of the house, continuing to hold your hand even after helping you down the stairs. He only laughed at your words, shaking his head as he did. He led you away from the house, away from his horse tied to the same tree as before, into the woods near where your garden was. A large tree stump was there, and about ten bottles that Arthur put out littered the top. Your hands were now no longer shaking from excitement over seeing Arthur. Instead, anxiety over firing a weapon caused them to shake, and you hoped he couldn’t feel it.

He let go of your hand, and he unholstered his weapon, holding it towards you by the barrel. “First rule,” he said when your hand rested on the grip. “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Nothin’s worse than a misfire.”

You nodded, fully grabbing it in your hand. He let go of it, and you weren’t expecting how heavy the revolver actually was. It wasn’t unbuildable, no, but it definitely had a weight to it that would hurt your wrists after a while. “Second rule. Only aim it at folks that need hurtin’.”

“Do you follow these rules, Arthur?”

He hesitated. “No. But you should. You don’t wanna end up like me.”

He moved around you, so that his chest was barely brushing your back. You felt his fingers brush the underside of your arm, signaling for you to raise your arm. It shook slightly as you raised the weapon, but no longer because of nerves.

“Bring your other hand up like this,” he moved so that you could see what he was doing, and you copied the action, wrapping both hands around the gun. “Got more stability like that,” he explained, moving back behind you. “Make sure to keep your arms all the way out. And spread your legs a bit.”

Doing as he asked, you heard him hum approvingly, low and right next to your ear. You had to suppress a shiver. “You see those two iron bits stickin’ up at the end of the barrel? You're gonna want your target in between ‘em. When you’re ready, you’re gonna pull the hammer back,” he tapped it with his finger. “Then squeeze the trigger. Just… brace yourself.”

Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the way his hands rested on your shoulders, you pulled the hammer back with your thumb. The stretch was uncomfortable, and it took a few tries before your finger eventually caught it.

Click.

“Very good,” Arthur praised almost nonchalantly. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’.”

Bang!

The birds, which had been peacefully minding their own business, scattered out the trees, cries of warning leaving them. Your ears rang, mainly because of the gunshot, but also because of the continued words of praise spilling from Arthur’s lips. You were nowhere close to hitting the bottle, hitting the stump below them, but you were still proud of yourself for hitting something that wasn’t alive.

Exhaling shakily, you lowered the weapon. The recoil was worse than you expected, and you could already feel that your wrists were going to be hurting later. “Both of us are still alive, right?”

Arthur laughed behind you, and you could feel the way his chest shook. “Very much so. You did good.”

“Thank you,” you replied breathlessly. “Does it always take that long?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“This,” you gestured to the revolver. “Feels like it took an hour before I shot.” Turning to him, you followed the same way Arthur handed the gun to you, you grabbed the barrel, presenting the grip to him. “Show me.”

Cautiously, he took it from you. “What?”

“I wanna see you shoot.” When he didn’t move, you deflated a bit. “Please?”

Arthur sighed, but you saw a small smile tug at his lips. “Fine. Here, move back.”

Moving so you were behind the man, you waited with bated breath. Only Arthur’s eyes moved, flicking across each target with speed, like he was pinpointing exactly where they were. The revolver hung loosely in his hand, an air of casualness about it, like the gun was just an extension of his arm.

Four shots rang out, faster than you expected, and you watched four of the bottles shatter. The whole action couldn't have been longer than two seconds, and if you had blinked, you would’ve missed it. He aimed the gun still with one hand, the smoke of the barrel intertwining with his arm.

“Oh my God,�� you whispered. “That was…” Hot. “Incredible.” He didn’t respond, but you watched as he twirled the gun around his finger before holstering it. “Alright, now you’re just showin’ off.” You laughed, returning to Arthur’s side.

“Hey, you asked,” Arthur defended.

You rolled your eyes. “Alght, before I go inflatin’ your ego more, can I try again?”

He handed you the gun, and you found that you weren’t as nervous as the first time. “There’s one round left. I’ll show you how to reload it once we’re done.”

Nodding, you returned to the position he showed you, and even though you didn’t need his support, you felt his hands brace your shoulders. The warmth of his hands were distracting, and you quite literally had to shake yourself out of it.

Bang!

You were starting to get used to the noise it made, your ears not ringing as badly as they were before. This shot still didn’t hit a bottle, but it hit the stump right next to one. You’d take that.

“Look at you.” His face was right next to your ear, low timbre shaking you to your very core. God, his voice should not be doing these things to you. “You’ll be hittin’ those in no time.”

“You think?” You didn’t dare turn your head towards him, knowing it would then be inches away from his own. You don’t think you could stop yourself from kissing him then, guilt be damned.

Arthur nodded, and you could cut the tension between the two of you with a knife. He breathed deep, like he was trying to calm himself. “C’mon, lemme show you how to reload the thing.” Stepping away from you, what should’ve been a warm breeze felt freezing against your skin, no longer feeling the warmth of his body. Turning, you saw Arthur begin to head back the way you came. You were able to sneak your hand in his before he moved too far away, walking along beside him.

A bit shocked, Arthur glanced at you, looking down at your intertwined hands, but he made no move to separate them. Instead, he smiled gently, and he brought your knuckles up to his lips, kissing them gently. With the gun in your other hand, the two of you walked back, not saying a word. It’s not like you would’ve been able to hear him anyways because of how loudly your heart was beating in your ears.

Arthur’s horse’s ears perked up when he noticed your arrival, but otherwise seemed undisturbed, the recent loud noise seemingly not bothering him. It made you wonder how used to gunshots the creature was.

Arthur led you to the horse, and he sniffed curiously at you. You couldn’t help the slight flinch, not used to being around horses. “He won’t hurt ya,” Arthur reassured, pulling his hand away to grab something from the saddlebags. “He acts like he’s tough, but he’s a real softie.”

“Sounds like his owner,” you teased, and you heard Arthur scoff. You reached out a hand for him to smell, and you watched him meet you halfway. His nose was wet, and you felt him nibble at your fingers, making you laugh. Moving your hand away from his nose you trailed it down his neck, petting gently. “You not all that mean, ain’t you? You just need some love,” you cooed at the horse. “You’re a good boy, ain’t you?” You pet his neck a few more times. “What’s his name, Arthur?”

You didn’t get a response, so you turned your attention toward the man, stilling your petting. “Arthur?” He was facing towards you, something in his hands, but he had stilled, completely silent.

He cleared his throat, and you swore you saw the beginnings of a blush form on his cheeks. “Sorry,” he rubbed at his neck. “His name’s Bear.”

You didn’t think much of his behavior, moving your attention back to Bear. “Bear?” The horse responded immediately, acknowledgment flashing in his eyes. “Ain’t you a good boy, Bear. Oh, yes you are.” You spoke like you would to a dog.

Eventually, you moved away from Bear, and you saw him follow you with his head. “Sorry,” you apologized to Arthur, having forgotten what he’d brought you over to do.

Arthur shook his head, smiling and laughing. Yeah, he had definitely been blushing, his ears still tinted pink. “Are you done spoilin’ my horse?”

“For now.” You stepped closer to Arthur, handing him the gun. “What does he like to eat?”

“Bear?” Arthur shrugged. “Most things really. Grass, hay, apples, carrots. He loves peppermints, though. Goes crazy for ‘em. Why?”

“No particular reason.” You tried to be nonchalant, like you weren’t totally planning on buying some the next time you were in town.

“You tryin’ to steal my horse from me?” Arthur asked, setting what you saw to now be ammunition in his hands on the saddle, taking a step towards you, making you tilt your head back farther to look at him.

You stuck your chin out defiantly. “Maybe.”

“I don’t much appreciate that, darlin’.” You knew he was teasing you, but his voice had dropped dangerously low, and in any other context would’ve sounded threatening. He was so close now, holstering the gun back on his belt, and you felt your confidence falter as he stared you down.

“What’re gonna do about it, then?” It came out as a whisper, but at least it wasn’t shaky. You maintained eye contact, even when he moved closer, his chest bumping into yours. One of his hands slowly held the side of your face, like he had done when he wiped the dirt from your cheek. His other hand locked on your waist, tugging you impossibly close, and you sucked in a breath.

Those beautiful blue eyes danced over your face, settling on your lips, an unspoken question spoken. You nodded, the movement barely noticeable, but you didn’t trust your voice. His thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, and he tiled your head back a bit more. Arthur leaned forward, and you felt his hat brush against your head, knocking it back slightly, but it didn’t deter him.

His lips almost brushed against yours, and you could feel the air leave him as he almost closed the gap, until a loud calling of his name had him snapping his head up. His hat nearly tumbled off his head, and he caught it using the hand once caressing your face. The voice was familiar, but you couldn’t see who it came from, the form of Bear blocking the speaker.

Once the initial shock wore off, you could practically feel the annoyance and anger from Arthur. “What?” He growled out, and you were thankful that his head was turned so that he wouldn’t see the way your cheeks flushed.

“Where are you, son?”

You recognized the voice now: Dutch. Why he was here, you had no idea. Exasperated, Arthur looked at you, an apology on his tongue. You silenced him with a kiss on his cheek, his beard tickling your lips when you made contact. His hand tightened where it still held on at your hips, and felt him sigh, both pleased and irritated. Leaning your head back, you answered for him. “He’s by the house.”

Arthur let go of you now, taking a step back and creating an appropriate amount of room between the two of you. “Good evening, Mrs. Kerrigan,” you heard Dutch respond, and you and Arthur stepped from around the horse and walked to the front porch.

Dutch came riding into your homestead on a beautiful white horse, and another man followed behind him, hat over his face, so you couldn’t get a glimpse of his features. “Good evening, Dutch. Is there something you need?”

“We need to talk to you,” Dutch responded, and you blinked back, confused. You glanced at Arthur, and he just sighed. You could tell he was still frustrated, though, because he practically glared at the other men as they got off their horses.

“Me? You sure you don’t mean Arthur?”

“Both of you,” the stranger responded, taking off his hat and keeping it with his horse. He was an older gentleman, probably in his mid-fifties. As he turned to you, you recognized him instantly from one of the drawings: Hosea.

“This here’s Hosea,” Dutch made his way over to you and Arthur, Hosea following closely behind. “You see, me and him have a proposition for you, Mrs. Kerrigan. And Arthur, I suppose.”

“Okay.” You drew out the word. “What is it?”

“It involves your husband,” Hosea chimed in. “We’d like your help.”

“And I’m glad to provide it, if you tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“Mrs. Kerrigan, are you aware that your husband is runnin’ a moonshine business?”

Author's Note: i swear they’ll kiss eventually don’t kill me

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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grape-eating-vampire · 3 months

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I'm (very slowly) advancing through Red Dead Redemption 2, and by God do I have feelings about it

what the hell is the deal with Dutch? I don't know any backstory and haven't played the first game, so he just seems like a semi-charismatic hypocrite who everyone trusts with their life? why?

I'd kill for Javier and Charles, most precious bastards in America

when Kieran takes you to the O'Driscoll hideout and talks about how Dutch's gang and Colm's gang aren't all that different... had to think on that

couldn't keep myself from making a Malevolent reference, and since there's already a guy called John, my horse's name is now Yellow

fuck you Micah Bell and fuck everything you stand for (he's silly)

also love how fake Arthur's bad-guy reputation is, that man saw a woman searching for dinosaur bones on the side of the road and enthusiastically agreed to keep an eye out for them, despite not even knowing that dinosaurs were real before

additionally:

Arthur: *threatens to kill a man if he ever spoke out about seeing him*

that exact man: Thank You Arthur Morgan You Are Such A Good Man

Arthur: >:(

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #dutch van der linde #javier escuella #charles smith #kieran duffy #colm o'driscoll #malevolent #vague #arthur morgan #micah bell #bela rambles

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dutiful-wildcraft · 11 days

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141 Headcannons: Video Games

Here, have something silly!!

Soap: Never takes anything serious, always names his character something goofy. Protag has their own backstory? Not anymore. Soap is making one up. Crash bandicoot is now a career criminal hell bent on stealing crystals. Cranks all the sliders to the max in character creation. Gets insanely butthurt about losing pvp. It has come to fisticuffs over mario kart. He's the type to make Arthur Morgan bald and choose all the wrong dialogue options. He's a big puss when it comes to horror games.

Gaz: Likes to do speedruns for fun. If the game has multiple endings he will play through each one. Feels just a little bad for being mean in game. Studies guides to figure out all the dialogue options and what they result in. Loved 999. Enjoys fromsoft games and makes multiple builds for shits n giggles. Completionist, will play long after he doesn't like the game just to get the achievements. Falls into wiki lore rabbit holes for the obscure shit. Likes side scrollers. Makes the most diabolical levels in mario maker. Has been playing candy crush consistently since he was a teenager.

Ghost: Didn't play much until Gaz fixed him up with a solid computer for his office. Then mostly played bc Gaz and Soap needed a third guy for stuff. Plays completely silent when online with them. He's mindlessly gathering resources in their minecraft server. No build. Only mine. This was the gateway to his love of survival games. Alternates between The Long Dark and Rust. Half-life enjoyer (Imagine him playing The Hidden). is not phased by horror games at all. Stomps absolute ass in online multiplayer, hates campers (chronically camps). has stardew valley on his phone.

Price: Not a gamer, unless the rest of the team is playing. Then he'll jump in. Really likes racing games. Once played resident evil with Soap and got so enraptured that he lost hours of time, got freaked out and quit playing. Gets more upset than Soap when playing online shooters. (It's the controllers fault, he can aim better than that!) Really likes sitting in the room and watching the other play, he's a back seat gamer and just enjoys watching the story. Barks out directions or help throughout, “That way Soap, behind you!” “You missed ammo!” Plays words with friends with all the boys, will send reminders.

#I could ramble about this all day #i tried to make Price less old man but i really cant see him messing with them #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #captain john price #call of duty #task force 141 #task force 141 headcanons #soap call of duty #gaz call of duty #ghost call of duty #price cod

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1asbrightasthestars3 · 3 months

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Okay just.. hearmeowt.

I have this insane idea for a Merlin fanfiction and I need y'all to tell me if you'd read it!

So basically it's a Modern merthur au + modern royalty. Imagine this.

~~~~

Gwaine and Merlin are detectives of the FBI. One day they get a tip from their friends in the royal palace, Sir Elyan and Sir Leon, that the huge drug lord, that has been on the streets for weeks which Merlin and Gwaine have been busting their asses to find the identity of, is Uther Pendragon. Camalot's own king.

Now that they have a suspect they only need to find a way to prove it. They decided to go undercover. It won't be too hard for them to make up a backstory since Gwaine is technically nobility, but they do need some kind of entrance.

That's why they have Guinevere Blacksmith. Gwen worked with them in the force a couple of years beforehand, but she had to quit because someone was threatening her father so she had to go off the grid for a while, Gwen settled in Camalot with her younger brother Elyan, her dad and her best and oldest friend Leon. She became a servant and has been trying to keep a low profile ever since until she could make sure her family was safe.

Gwen introduced them to Sir Lancelot, Gwen's fiance who spent some time with the druids growing up and knows about;

1. Gwen's time in the FBI, 2. Merlin's magic. she said Merlin could go undercover as Lancelot's partner and get into the banquet Uther is throwing as his plus one.

The only problem? He has to be a woman for that.

They can't take anyone else, they decided, since Merlin and Gwaine know this case better than anyone else, and they don't want to risk Gwen in any way.

So Merlin turns himself into Mary - Sir Lancelot's 'girlfriend', the daughter of Sir Lot and Lady Morgan of Caerleon and Gwaine's 'sister'.

But what happens when Lancalot gets injured three nights before the banquet? They can't send Merlin alone without an explanation! It's too dangerous. And Gwaine is refusing to be around some 'stuck up noblemen'.

So Gwen offers her other best friend instead, since she can't offer Leon who has to stay behind and take care of Lancelot, another knight of camalot. Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. Of course.

~~~~~~

So.. let me know what you think! Btw it's my original idea and I hadn't seen anything like this before so PLEASE do not steal! If this sort of thing has been made before I am so sorry and please inform me!

Love y'all~ L

#merthur #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #merlin x arthur #merlin emrys #sir lancelot #gwaine #merlin #merlin fanfiction #merlin fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #sir leon #sir elyan #gwen x lancelot #original idea

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gawrkin · 8 days

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La Tavola Ritonda is a cavalcade of different canons:

The Lady of the Lake, Sister of Morgan and, by extention, Arthur's

Lancelot stealing from Perceval's backstory

The Split-Shield from Lancelot-Grail, given by the Lady of the Lake symbolizing Lancelot and Guinevere's sexual union, being retconned into another plot by Morgan

King Pelles being King of Organia (Orkney). Also, Amite/Elaine/Pervida's Mom* organizing the... "conception"

*(It's kind of funny, but I've always felt that Brisen and the "Queen of the Wastelands" being separate characters was pointless) *(King Pelles x Queen Brisen, woot)

Uther Pendragon is Morgan's dad**

**(per the original Prose Tristan, apparently)

The events of Pulzella Gaia/The Merry Maiden being canon here. Yes, this technically means... a whole bunch of things

and finally, Lancelot has a daughter***

***(I would sincerely like this to be Gwen's but I'm not holding my breath)

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shittybundaskenyer · 2 years

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✹ ▬ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓, 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘, 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓

rating: Explicit

pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

summary: You have a huge bounty on your head and Arthur wants to bring you in.

warnings: medium honor Arthur, reader is an outlaw with a huge bounty, torture (not too graphic), so much fighting, choking, sassy reader and grumpy Arthur, enemies to lovers, catching some feelings, touch-starved, smut, sexual tension, rough sex, multiple orgasms, hate sex turned lovemaking, hate to love or somethin’, this is pretty filthy y’all, some sweet fluff for the end

word count: 10363

a/n: so this fic has a fun little backstory. i started writing this back in february, forgot that i started it and because i can’t name my documents for shit i accidentally deleted the thing (i thought it was some old uni stuff). so after sitting on it for more than a half year i finally rewrote and finished it. also a fun fact, forget me nots are called mouse’s ear :D dear @delilah-grimes i’m so sorry you had to wait for this long, but i hope you’ll still like it <33

MASTERLIST | ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

Your leg bleeds crimson, tickling down along the curve of your calf and pooling in your boot. You can't run anymore. There's no strength and there's no road.

The hunters surround you, two men with shotguns tilted at your form, their horses huffing, fur damp with the rain. It's cold up here, like winter had been trapped forever in the mountains of Ambarino, and you shiver as the wind picks up.

You were disturbed by the hunters when you were making some half-assed dinner—a fire-heated can of beans and some real stale and old salted meat. You barely had the first bite when the first gunshot rang through the air, hitting a tree nearby, then the second tearing through the waxed linen of your tent.

So you ran, until you got shot, until the terrain turned into solid rocks and cliffs too high to jump.

A waterfall buzzes behind you, hidden by the mist, and a rainbow shines above, weaved from moonlight and spring meltwater. Your name is a powerful thing, and when it gets mumbled the roaring of the river goes silent. The syllables chime familiar, the voice that speaks it doesn't.

"You know you have a thousand on your head, right?" one of the hunters smirks and dismounts, with the gun in one hand and the horn of the saddle in the other.

"Wonder what you did," the other looks you up and down, searching for something, some clue that could reveal the reason for such a high price for a runaway woman. "Killed yer five husbands maybe?"

The one on the ground laughs, comes closer with rope in his hands.

"It's none of your goddamn business," you hiss, a cornered animal, wounded and bruised, chased through the forest with twigs in your hair and scratches on your face.

"Six husbands," the one on the horse counters and when you look at him there's no more ground under your feet. A moment of free fall, and then cold, cold stone and water hits you. The ropes burn, and the hunter holds it tight, firm, and with your injured leg you can't get free.

They tie you up. Pay no mind to the wound that still bleeds crimson through your jeans, staining everything it touches—the mud, the water, the melting patches of snow. They choke you. Push your head into the water, just for the fun of it, and only let you come back for air when your vision starts to blacken.

This ain't how you wanted to go. Weak and beaten, lonely, hunted down and killed before the noose could wrap around your neck.

You're under the water again. The tears on your face mingle with the ice cold water and your body trashes, convulsing, until there's no pressure keeping you down.

You come up, coughing, crying, and the bonds are a bit looser around you. The echo of a shot still rings up between the snowy peaks of the mountains. You notice the other sounds only when the buzzing in your ear subsides.

The hunters are gone. Shot dead and laying flat around you like cruelly placed snow-angels, one with half of his brains missing and the other with blood still oozing from his neck. The horses ran away, unharmed, galloping towards the unrelenting treeline of the forest.

But another rider is here. Dressed in a thick coat and a dark hat that shields his eyes from your gaze and the moon. He holds a rifle, and the dappled mare under him nervously shifts her weight back and forth.

You can’t escape soon enough. Your fingers are frozen, clumsy and your brain is still slow from the constant loss of air. He reaches you before the rope completely falls away and you can’t scramble to your feet, not before he has you trapped again with the barrel of his gun pointed straight at your head.

“Now, darlin’, why was these two torturin’ ya?” he asks and a shudder runs through you from the deep drawl that rumbles from his chest. His eyes are shadowed, glinting stars in under the brim of his hat, but his mouth curls at the corner, a barely-there smirk that gets lost in the thick of his beard.

“It ain’t your business,” you almost spit, and the man looks you up and down—your disheveled clothing, your bleeding leg, the ice cold water dripping from your hair, the gun holstered on your hip.

He dismounts, keeps you still while he searches through the bounty-hunters’ pockets. When you think you can maybe sneak away, there’s a low chuckle coming from the direction of him, as he unfolds a dirtied piece of paper.

“Look what we have here,” he turns to you, his eyes fixated on your face. “A thousand dollars.”

No, not again.

The man has you sitting in front of him in the saddle, hands tied and the blood from your leg staining his nice saddle. He takes you through the winding paths that weave into the mountains’ sides like yarn, muddy brown roads leading to the white-blanketed peaks. You don’t climb too high, just enough to reach an overlook that has a view of all the valleys below. A small camp is pitched here, a fire burnt down to hot embers in front of a small tent.

He dismounts at the edge of the camp and hitches his horse, helps you down from the saddle, gripping you by the hips and lifting your weight off like you would not weigh a pound. He’s strong, and built like it too, a brick-walled shithouse, with the prettiest sea-glacier eyes.

“We’ll go in the mornin’,” he says and pulls you with him, helping you limp across the camp so you can sit down in front of the tent. “Until then I’m gonna patch ya up.”

You first think he’s gonna wrap some rag around your thigh and leave it at that, but he surprises you when he goes for the waist of your jeans and buttons it open.

“I ain’t that kinda woman,” you hiss, like a cat that’s been stepped on and he shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t touch ya if you asked me to anyway. But I think the bullet’s still in there, ain’t it?”

You stare at him, but then you nod.

The process is the most uncomfortable thing. Sitting in your bloomers in front of a stranger, a bounty hunter, frozen to the bone and with a bullet in your leg. You want to tear something to shreds. To go loose like a wild animal. Butcher and pnch. But you make yourself appear calm. Cold. That’s the only weapon you have left.

He digs the bullet out. You scream, tear your nails into his arm. You bleed, and he does too, and then you look up at him with tears in your eyes and teeth aching with how hard you're clenching them.

"Sorry," he mumbles and you don't know why he's saying this. He doesn't like you. No, he downright hates you. Another scum outlaw, a killer, just a devil disguised as a woman. Causing you pain should make him feel happy. Superior.

You don't answer.

He offers you a stick to bite on when he notices your mouth bleeding, and when he finally manages to get the bullet out he looks like a runaway from a murder scene, red to his elbows, nails caked with it and knees stained too. His blood mingling with you own.

There’s whiskey in his saddlebag, and he pours a good amount of it onto the wound, makes you muffle a scream into your own shoulder. You cant sit upright anymore, but the tent-pole supports the most of your weight.

He mends the injury with precise movements, the needle still burning even though the fire he cauterized it with is no longer heating it up. Five stitches, five agonizing minutes until you can take a breath without wanting to cry out, tears stinging your eyes and a few of them drawing streaks into the dirt on your face.

You’re not ashamed. Not even when he wraps the injury up with a clean cloth and helps the pant-leg back over your thigh.

The cold settles in when the roaring pain simmers down to an ever-present sharp ache, but you don’t ask for a blanket, nor a hat for your drenched hair. If you catch some illness at least you’re not gonna end in some lawless prison, or with a noose around your neck.

You don’t sleep.

You watch him wash up, clean your blood of like it’s venom, spat by a poisonous snake. It almost is, especially when your gazes meet and you can feel the anger bubbling up the line of your spine, some remnants of unfiltered rage glinting in your eyes in forms of bitter tears.

This is the first time you can really look at him, the turquoise of his gaze, the plump lips that were split open by the cold. A nose broken one too many times, scars hidden in dark a honey beard on his chin. Dangerous men like him can be handsome, fallen angels, escapees from hell, just like you. Something makes you tingle with the feeling he’s one of those halo-wearing devils.

He drapes a dusty horse blanket around you when he checks the ropes on your wrists, and sits across you behind the fire, keeping watch until sunlight pushes through the early morning mist between the pine trees all around the camp, smoking cigarettes and writing in some journal. His thumb leaves a bloody handprint on a cream-white page.

Found a lady with a bounty on her head. Fierce creature.

She was shot by bounty-hunters and barely made a sound. I can’t make out what to do with her. Or at least, not yet.

You spend the next day in the saddle, sitting in front of the hunter with the grace of a beaten dog, leg aching somethin’ fierce and body drenched in cold sweat. You don’t have a fever but you think you’ll have one soon, from the injury or the cold, it doesn’t really matter.

The man behind you sits like a stone, annoyingly collected and at ease, never seeing a threat in you. A prized stolen trophy.

You didn’t put up a fight. Yet.

When de sun dips lower and the shadow go long you make a rather ungraceful move. You push against him in the saddle, trying to get comfortable, your rear sore. But he’s only a man. And you’re one well-taught woman.

Soon, after you leave the cradle of crowned pine trees, his grip tightens on the reins. Arms tensing around you, free of the thick coat now, letting you see beside feeling the growing hardness at the base of your spine. Christ, you didn't think this could work.

His breath comes steady, but deeper than before, and he digs his heels into the horse's sides, urging her into a slow canter, just so you can get to your destination faster.

But the motions can't be helped. You press against him every time the horse reaches the ground, and you depart when it flies through the air for a mere third of a second. A waltz, a tango. A poisonous snake dancing to alluring tunes of a flute.

"Ya ain't as clever as you think," he growls and you can almost see the snarl on his face in your mind’s eye.

"And ya ain't as tough as you look," you counter, burning up, gripping the horn of the saddle between your bound hands like your life depends on it.

The silence stretches long, an uncomfortable blanket that drapes over the two of you. But it's warm all the same, sparks that are born from close proximity, blue flames of a fire roaring too hot.

You don't say a word. Not until the light disappears and you have to camp again.

Cotorra Springs, where the earth bubbles under, like the heat of hell would be too close to the surface. Pools of turquoise, gold and rust. Colors of the bounty hunter keeping you.

He builds the tent, the campfire, and you watch him work, his broad frame taking up space, the wide expanse of his back perfect for target practice, and you think about choking him with the rope around your wrists, this bear of a man who still has a windpipe that can be so easily crushed, like a songbird's leg. Not now. Not yet.

You ask his name. He thinks about it before he answers. Arthur Morgan. You don't know if it's a real name or not, but it sounds like it was taken from an old tale. Kings and knights and magic. No men who hunt in the name of the law.

When the tent is done the fire already roars, warms your body thoroughly, for the first time in days, and your stomach growls as his canned beans start to bubble on the small grill he made from stones in the fire.

"Ya hungry?" he looks up at you and you try not to appear too eager.

He gives you food. Not enough to have a full belly, just enough to let you survive the upcoming days. You never thought that beans and dried meat could taste this heavenly.

He looks tired. Eyes a bit bloodshot and circled dark under. He hasn't slept in two days at least, and it's starting to get to him, even though he tries to stay awake chainsmoking a pack of cigarettes.

"You should sleep, Mr. Morgan," you say and he looks at you like he has seen a ghost. Maybe his name makes him wide-eyed like that. Or maybe the fact that you read him easier than any yellowbacked erotic novella.

Finally, he decides on retiring to the tent, and he’s insistent on dragging you inside too, so he can keep an eye on you even though he can barely keep them open. He checks the ties around your arms, fastens it to the tent pole, but not too tight, giving you a little room to move.

Owls scream somewhere in the distance and the wind picks up, flopping the tent’s canvas around. You’re a moth trapped in the glass bulb of an oil lamp, wings burnt off, a cage of the same blue flames of his eyes. He watches you and you watch him, two predators looking at each other like they’re prey.

"Ya can't scurry away, little Mouse," he says quietly while he sits down his worn bedroll, leaning against the saddle he took off from his horse while you ate.

"The last time I looked you was no cat," you scoff, not wanting to play his stupid game.

"No, I ain't," Arthur shakes his head and pulls the revolver from the holster on his hip, checking the cylinder and giving it a good spin. And then he points the gun right beside your head. A shot rings, the bullet flies so close to your head it lifts the hair above your ear. A tree catches it, and the metal leaves a splintered hole inside it. "But you won't try to escape, or I'll know."

You swallow and keep quiet for a time.

He succumbs to sleep with the gun in his hand. Every little noise, every twig breaking under nightbirds and screams of foxes make him jolt awake, but you don’t move. You wait until even the forest quiets down, until there’s a soft snore to his exhales.

Your plan is simple, but the execution is what matters.

You move softly, biting back sounds of pain as you shift up onto your knees. You’re just beside his head, the perfect place.

You don’t hesitate.

You pounce like a wild cat, straddling his torso, knocking the gun out of his hand before he fully registers what’s happening.

And then you choke him with the rope on your wrists.

It’s a tougher fight than you first anticipated. He wiggles and trashes, not afraid of your killing intent, nor your hands—hands that ache and burn from the rope, hands that touched blood, hands that pulled a trigger many times. He frees one hand from under your legs, trying to push you off, but you know how to balance on a bucking horse, and this is no different.

But his eyes, Christ alive, his eyes. Turquoise pools of venom swirling, not a sliver of fear in them, even though he can’t gulp down desperate breaths anymore. You’re not afraid to look him in the eye. You want him to see. To know.

One thousand dollars are not posted on a head for petty thievery.

He chokes on the words he tries to say, but finally manages to grasp one of your wrists, and he grinds the bones together inside it, making you yell in pain, but your freedom worths more, so you press on and he roars and tears his other hand free, jostling you on his torso, making you slide back to his belly, and then his palm is on your thigh and you can’t pull back fast enough to prevent the inevitable.

His thumb digs into the bullet wounds, and you scream, fresh blood ticking through the bandage that was wrapped around it and your hands go limp. He coughs, kicks you off of him, into the cold dirt beside his bedroll, and you wait for the shot to come, to feel the metal pierce your skull, but there’s none.

Arthur just lays panting, gripping his tortured neck with a hand.

A sob escapes you. So desperate and hopeless you think it’s over. You clutch a hand to your leg, trying to slow the blood flowing from the freshly torn open wound.

“What did I told ya?” he roars when he finally sits up, voice gone rasped and menacing. “I should kill ya for that.”

The cold truth in his words sneak down somewhere under your ribcage.

“Maybe it would be better than enduring you.”

Arthur mends your injury back together and he handles it rather gentle. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes tell everything. You can recognize hate when you see it.

He ties your hands behind your back now.

An early songbird wakes up somewhere deep in the thick of crooked pines, singing some spring love-song, but you don’t hear it, not when the blood roars in your veins as you keep his gaze trapped with yours, the cat and the mouse, the roles ever changing.

She tried to kill me with her bare hands and a piece of rope.

What if she’ll murder us all if I bring her back to camp?

Two days before you reach the livestock town of Valentine.

Or, that’s what he says when you ride down narrow paths carved into steep cliffs and rocky mountain sides. The Dakota roars under, it’s water as clear and blue-green as the man’s gaze sitting behind you. When the evening falls it turns a pretty lilac, the surface ripples with jumps of restless fishes.

You camp beside the river, and after days spent stinking from dried blood and sweat he finally allows you to wash up. Nothing too fancy, just a dip in the ice cold water and a wet rag you have to use with your hands tied.

He turns away though, trying to act like a goddam gentleman, and you may as well try to go and run for it.

But you take one bad step, and there’s a bullet sinking into the mud between your bare feet, the echo of the shot still ringing through the valley of the river.

He gives you a look, and then glances down your beaten down body, but you don’t bother with hiding yourself from him. You’re not cowering under a man’s gaze.

You dress up and he gives you a can of peaches for dinner.

The next day it rains. Or more like pours. The icy water comes down so hard he decides on staying at your campsite until it stops, but the clouds don’t disappear well after the sun sets.

He sketches into that journal of his the whole day, and sometimes you catch glimpses of the drawings when he turns a page. Flowy, clear handwriting and paper stained with gun oil and graphite-smudges. Wild flowers, horses, people you don’t recognize lay immortalized in those sketches of his. He doesn’t know you’ve seen them.

You don’t care about this side of him. Not until another page is turned.

Ugly rage. The shape of your lips sketched onto pages folded together in his journal. A red bruise that purpled at the edge, like a flower, blooming under your eye. Teeth red, yet he draws. He draws you, the force of nature you are, the uncontrollable devil. He draws you when you can’t see, and he looks at the shape of you outlined with graphite and yellowed paper, his smudged fingerprints scattered around like stars.

Your stomach clenches up. There’s no mistaking what you’re seeing.

“Ya enjoy drawin’ beaten women?” you ask, full with poisonous anger. He scoffs as an answer and shuts the journal.

“You enjoy provokin’ me, Mouse?”

You don’t answer. You’re starting to think that hanging from a noose would be better than this.

I call her M O U S E .

Valentine bathes in the warm midday sun, full of life and merriment. It’s spring, so there are auctions going on, sheep and cattle and goats all gathered into neat little pens.

However you don’t turn towards the main street. Don’t stop in the town either. Arthur rides on with you in front of him in the saddle, like he would have forgotten about you, his not-so-precious one thousand dollar cargo.

You canter beside the train tracks for a while, and the terrain turns into a young forest with only a few old trees, the underbrush thick and full with life. Squirrels and wild turkey scurry away as he slows his mare to a trot.

There are voices behind the treeline, your eventual destination, and when you finally get free of the woods a large camp welcomes you. Multiple tents and wagons are scattered around with fires and the smell of good food cooking away, and horses graze at the edge where the grass spurted strong and wild green from the earth.

“This ain’t the sheriff’s office,” you mumble as he dismounts at a hitching post, tying his mare to it.

“No.”

He helps you off of the horse and pulls out his knife to snap away the rope around your wrist. This whole thing feels surreal, like a bad joke. A cat playing with a mouse before eating it whole.

“But ya said…”

Arthur drops the ropes next to the hitching post and grabs you by the arm, pulling you towards the largest tent that sits in the corner of the camp. The people about freeze, stop their tasks and stare at you like you’re some creature paraded on an exhibition, a reanimated corpse.

“I ain’t gonna turn you in. We can use you better than the law,” Arthur says to you, and then greets a man who has rum-reddened cheeks and a thick mustache.

“What do ya mean?”

“Did ya think I was a real bounty hunter?” he chuckles, looking you in the eye, finally, and there’s no lie glinting in his gaze.

“Yeah?” you shrug, and his hold eases on your arm.

“Well, I have five thousand on my head so don’t worry little Mouse, I ain’t showin’ up with ya at some deputy’s door. You’re safe here. If ya try to behave. Can ya? Can ya behave?”

Something warm and sticky bubbles alive inside you. A monster born from blood and mud, a child of false hopes and second chances. You don’t trust him, nor these people. You can't have this luck. Can’t, after all the torture endured up in the mountains.

You don’t understand why he didn’t tell you in the first place. Why he released you now. Why he wants you to join this patchwork blanket camp weaved from lost souls.

“We’ll see,” you mutter, tired, so tired of the bullshit that happened during these last few days. You remember you wished for a noose. For a shot in the head. You don’t know why you’re between normal people again. You don’t know why he didn’t want the money.

“If you try anythin’ funny, just know I ain’t sparin’ you then,” he releases your arm and pats the bend of your elbow before a woman comes and takes you away. Her name is Susan, an older lady with a huge nest of hair pulled into a chignon on the top of her head.

“What did I tell ya about bringin’ home lost souls, Mr. Morgan?” she calls back to Arthur who just smirks and leaves you both.

You should be grateful for him to spare you.

But you don’t feel anything. Only bubbling, bitter rage.

She’s one wild creature. Slipping into every crack like a Mouse.

I brought her home. Maybe she can find the meaning of her life here. Maybe I can get my heart lighter by letting her live.

Or maybe Dutch will tear me a new one by making another problem—another mouth to feed.

She looks capable. I can’t forget how she tried to strangle me to death. It’s a scene present in many of my dreams, but I can’t decide if it’s a good dream or a nightmare.

You overhear him talking to a man, Dutch, the leader of the gang you got to know in the last few days. They argue, about you. Feeding you, giving you a place to stay, accusing you of being a spy. You don’t blame the man. You can’t understand Arthur’s decision either.

“You know this ain’t the best time Arthur,” hisses Dutch, but a third man interrupts. It’s Hosea, coughing and gulping down freshly brewed coffee.

“She reminds me of you, you know,” Hosea says to Arthur, who just grunts, annoyed. “Some wildling who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I was a kid,” Arthur says and places his hands on his gun-belt. “Besides, what if we give a gun to her and she murders us all?”

“I don’t think you’ve noticed before, but these people here ain’t the best of what mankind can offer.”

Arthur sighs and nods, defeated.

“Tomorrow you take her on a job, and then we’ll decide if she can stay,” Hosea ends the conversation and you can see Arthur stomping away from them, angry or just in a hurry, you can’t tell.

"Ya may be a woman, but you're no lady," Arthur says to you as you crouch pressed together behind a wagon, seeking cover after a simple store robbery gone wrong. You don’t know if he means how you handle a gun or how you curse under your breath when another bullet hits the wagon.

"You ain't a gentleman either," you hiss, and duck your head out to watch where the shots are coming from. Only two men remain, hidden behind a stack of barrels and the side of the doctor’s little store.

"You don't see how lucky you are, do ya?" he grumbles and shoots one of the men with striking accuracy. Brains and blood spatters onto the muddy ground behind him.

"What do you mean?"

"Those men who had ya… They wouldn't have stopped at drawin' a little blood,” he explains and leaves the other feller for you to take out. It’s a few tries, but eventually the gunfire quiets into the whistling of the still cold spring wind. “So at least try to behave, Mouse."

You don’t want to listen to him. You’re not used to being in a gang, in working with others. You were always a lone wolf, a shadow.

But you think you can maybe live like this for a little. Just until he forgets about the bounty. Just until you can run away without feeling guilty.

She seems a tougher piece of work than I first thought. Makin’ me run after her like a goddamn hound when the hunt is done, everything littered with blood and bodies.

The others like her. Hosea says she’s like me when I was younger.

To me that means just a whole lotta trouble.

Days tickle by like water dripping from a leaf after rain, slow, sluggish. You try to fit in. You try to not kill Arthur Morgan. You fight, you do jobs together and you get a rifle. A horse. Clothes and a bedroll and warm food to fill your belly. The people here are nice, freaks from all around the colorful spectrum of outlaws—killers, thieves, conmen, working girls… Maybe there’s home for you here.

Maybe you don’t have to sleep with your hand on your gun and the memory of hunters chasing you burned into your nightmares.

Your leg heals nicely, the skin mending itself back into a red patch of scar tissue, like the earth mends cracks after a long heatwave with tiny creeks of mud.

You sleep by the edge of camp and sometimes you hear Arthur riding out in the middle of the night, or talking to his horse when the singing quieted at the campfire and the men passed out drunk around the poker table. He has a soft voice then, gentle hands as he brushes the mare’s dappled fur.

And sometimes, sometimes he’s a lone wolf stalking prey, unnatural, catlike, too cunning for his own good. That's how you see him, the black sheep of the pack, the big bad man with eyes too deep and too sad. He writes, he draws, and he does it when he thinks you're asleep, but you hear the telltale scratching of graphite on paper when the night is either too old or the morning is too young. The hours of gentle nothingness—quiet blanket of darkness draped around his shoulders and your half-asleep body. Dying embers of a small campfire, the moon and the stars burnt out.

He falls asleep with the journal opened in his lap, body overcome with days of fatigue. He probably hasn't slept well since he met you.

Good. You didn’t forgive him for the ropes and the ride back here.

There’s a day when you’ve had enough of his bullshit. His constant bickering, his complaining when you go on a job and you want to do something your way. This is the day when you won’t keep listenin’ to him anymore.

The night is young and clear and you don’t need a coat anymore to gallop freely through the forests and the open prairie of the Heartlands. You lean onto your horse’s neck, urge him on until the scent of crushed grass, earthy mud and horse hair is the only thing you can smell, no whiskey and cigarettes and goddamn paper with graphite.

You flee, but out in the open a single shot rings.

A shot that makes your horse rear, that makes you turn towards the sound. Arthur sits there on his mare, on a small cliff above you, rifle in his hand, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes, his lips pulled into a snarl.

He pulls the lever of the gun and you watch how a false-gold empty shell flies out of its chamber, flickering in the silver moonlight.

"I don't wanna shoot ya, darlin'."

She wanted to leave and Hosea sent me after her.

He said I look at her different. I don’t know what the hell he means by that.

This was the last goddamn time. There’s no chance on you agreeing to another shitty robbery with Arthur. You’re too alike. Too stubborn, too harsh. You have too much blood on your hands, and he has too, dripping down, flowers spurting out from the puddles left on the road in its wake.

You book a room at the Saints Hotel, because there's no chance you're going back to camp with that bastard.

There’s a momentary peace, and you wind down, huffing out frustrated breaths after barely making it out alive from some shooting with the O’Driscolls. You pull your clothes down, stained with strangers’ blood and you leave them in the corner near the basin, flopping down onto the rickety bed only in your chemise.

You almost fall asleep like this, exhausted beyond all hell, but a noise alerts you more than any gunshot would.

The locked door rattles, and before you can reach it it swings wide open, revealing Arthur standing on the doorstep, hat gone and hair messed up, shirt torn and as bloody and dirty as you were, with his eyes burning somethin’ fierce.

“Whatchu think you’re doin’ here?!” he roars at you and comes in without invitation, kicking the door shut behind him and walking towards you like and angered grizzly bear hungry for blood.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit,” you snarl, standing up and stomping closer, hitting a palm to his chest, but before you can repeat the motion he catches your wrist in his hold and keeps it clutched tight, making the blood flow slow and the skin to go pale. “Lemme go you asshole!”

“No, I ain’t lettin’ ya go,” he grumbles, voice gone deep. “I ain’t until you answer why ya left me searchin’ for you for hours, thinkin’ you was dead in a ditch somewhere.”

You swallow and wrench your hand out of his grasp, slapping him on the jaw in the process and making him stagger backwards a step.

That’s where you fuck up.

He pushes you back by the hips until your knees buckle at the edge of the bed, and he pounces on you, but only for a second before with great strength you make him turn to his back, straddling him with the dexterity of a wild cat grabbing its prey.

There’s a moment of stillness, of locking gazes and exchanging hidden emotions.

And then there’s the explosive coupling of match falling into poured out kerosene.

Your hands dig into his throat, thumb pressing down on the hollow of it, a place fit the shape of your finger, a trench, a digsite, an empty grave. You make his breath hitch, you make his voice come out rasped as he growls, not giving in, but not trying to stop you either. But his clever fingers—they roam. Over your sternum, the soft of your stomach, the place where two legs meet. They grasp and pull and push and you let him because he lets you take the air away. There's a gasp when he touches you through the chemise. It comes from you.

A shudder, a crumbling wall only held upstanding by treacherous vines of want weaved between the bricks. Another press, two fingers now, hard and precise, a movement made to make you crumble.

Arthur tries to swallow, coughs, his face red and eyes heavy-lidded. You have him and he has you, by the throat, by the hidden spot of pleasure. His fingers draw a circle, dig into the fleshy folds of your cunt, his other hand grabbing higher, the love-handles on your waist, the fat at your hip. Bruises will form there, rosy and red and all the shades of a late autumn sunset.

"Wanna—," his breath hitches, your thumb squeezing down. "Wanna make me faint, Mouse?"

Your lips pull into a snarl, and then into the wonderful shape of surprise, a syllable of want. He notices, of course he does, and you shiver when he bares you, bunches up the thin fabric over your thighs so he can see—the hair nestled there, and his fingers between, wetness glistening on them.

"Shut up," you hiss, but ease on your hold a little, just enough to spare him from blacking out, letting him suck in a harsh breath.

That's your first mistake.

Arthur grabs you by the hip and pushes his other palm up, cupping your whole mound, digging the heel of his hand into the flesh above your clit. He's rough like this—rough, but not hurting you, strong fingers mapping out the shape of you until you feel his hand come away sticky before he pushes two fingers right into your cunt. Deep, hard, the stretch of them just uncomfortable enough to make a vulnerable noise form in your throat. Your hand falters on him, too distracted to keep your hold, and Arthur almost smiles.

It glints in his eyes, a sun of smug satisfaction, and he pushes his fingers in until you part around his worn knuckles, until you're already so full of him. You slide your hands over his neck, press on his pulse point, the soft skin where the muscles meet his jaw, the spot where sweat starts to pearl.

"Will ya behave?" he asks, voice low and menacing, something that makes the breath falter in your lungs, a careful wind whisping the meadow of wildflowers spurting out in your chest. He makes you bloom with anger, with jealousy, with want. No, not just want. A need, so strong it twists and swirls in your gut, a flurry of insects above a rotting corpse, the remains of your mangled soul.

Arthur curls his fingers inside you and this is how your descent begins.

"I ain't yours to control," you almost spit, but your hand is treacherous, weakening, wavering on the warm skin of him, the rhythm of his heart pulsing right under your palm. You squeeze, again, and he gives a choked sound and thrusts his fingers for the first time.

It catches you off-guard—the rough pull and the hard push. His thumb sneaking unnoticed over the hard bud of your clit, pressing on until sparks of pleasure flare up like ribbons of smoke from a campfire. You bite back a sigh, and then a moan, when he does it again and again, a steady, strong in and out, his thick fingers almost as big as a cock already.

"Gonna tame ya, Mouse," he hisses and you let him speak, ease off your hands, slide them away completely until you're bent halfway above him, forehead close to his own, fingers digging into the blanket beside his head, knuckles still bruised purple and off-yellow. "Gonna make you listen."

"What if I don't let yo—," you gasp and grab into his hair, make him grunt.

“Ya ain’t in charge here,” he sounds just like when he kills. A low snarl, a threat, a man made to destroy and to conquer. But you know he has more hidden behind those glacier-turquoise eyes. He burns just like you do and his body spits flames every time you do somethin' stupid. Your belly clenches, and his fingers squelch when he pushes them deep again.

"Christ, darlin'," and thus, the first endearment comes. It's masked as a swear, a prayer to a devil, but the syllables are soft and his lips open on them like flowers that only bloom in the moonlight. You grow tight around the fingers inside you. "Will ya? Will ya listen, Mouse?"

You don't notice the change in the air at first. But Arthur is clever. Quick. Ruthless and gentle, when he grabs you by a hip and turns with you in his hold, making you settle on your belly, one hand still flush between your legs, the other burning its imprint into the flesh where your waist meets a thigh.

One moment of weakness, and you're conquered.

"You goddamn bas—," your voice dissolves into a high-pitched moan, something so obscene it makes the skin above your sternum flush rose red. Arthur's chest is flush against you, hot like the sun over a prairie, like wildfire born from light filtered through a shard of broken glass.

"Hm?" he whispers, now beside your ear and you shiver. You don’t have a chance to answer, not when he quickens the pace, fingering you mercilessly until your stomach grows tight and your throat dry, until you flutter and clench and shiver, until you come with an obscene snarl of his name.

You don’t know what to feel—the anger or the bliss or some grotesque child of the two, birthed from Arthur’s skillful touches and your burning heart.

He doesn’t let you think on it for long. Not when he has something more in his mind, roaming your naked back as he pushes the chemise higher, until it’s bunched up under your arms. You wiggle out of it before Arthur’s hand returns to the juncture of your thighs.

"Will ya let me, Mouse?" he asks, in that low voice, and you don’t have to think too hard on what he means.

"Do it."

Christ, you don’t know why, you don’t understand, but maybe that burning rage is not entirely hatred inside you. Maybe it’s frustration. Maybe it’s want, pure and hot as the sun.

Maybe it’s you wanting him.

"You sure?" he guides your legs more open, swiping his thumb where your gunshot wound was, where he pushed that same finger into the skin. You wanted to kill him then. You don’t think you could now.

"Christ, Arthur, do I have to beg?"

"No, darlin'," you can hear the smile in his voice. "Not yet."

There's a second of quiet stillness before you feel him move, one hand still grasping your wrists and the other going for the seam of his pants, pulling them down enough so he can tug his hard cock free. Christ, you want to turn. To see. But Arthur has you firm and you don't really fight when he releases your hands and lays a palm flat on the line of your spine.

Anticipation bubbles inside you like venom, a toxic aphrodisiac dancing alive in your flesh and blood, adrenaline still coursing after fighting, want thick between your legs, almost tickling down.

You think about his fingers. The clever stretch of them, and the rough texture, skin-mirrors of the life he lives. They lay splayed open, just a bit to the side, where your heart pulses and flickers like a cage of wild animals trapped under bone and meat and fat.

"Look at ya," he murmurs as the head of his cock kisses the triangle of skin where a thigh meets your rear. Arthur's free hand is there, gathering your wetness and spreading it around. He plays with you like he has all the time in the world, but you remind him of his place—you growl and try to sit up, only to have him press himself so close in a mere second your breath falters. "Nah, Mouse. You won't run away… This ain't a real fight anymore."

Oh, but it is.

You turn in his hold anyway, twisting your arm and kicking him in the knee, making him buckle over the mattress, but he's quick, too quick, and he grabs you by the ankle and spreads your legs like petals of night lilies.

You huff as you settle on your back with him between your thighs, his shirt torn and hair disheveled, one stray honey brown lock sticking to his eyebrow. You don't dare look down. Not when he catches your gaze with his and burns gunshot-holes through your soul with his summer-lakewater eyes. His palm is still curled around your ankle, gentle now, thumb drawing a circle, chest heavin' pretty, the hair damp with sweat over his sternum.

"If ya don't want—," he swallows and looks down between your legs, where you're spread open. "Jus' say so."

No.

No, you ain't—

It's not like that. Not when he's the only man who…

You pull your ankle from his hold and sit up, grabbing him by the wrinkled shirt-collars, pulling him close until your back touches the blanket again, until you can feel his every breath pushing against your naked breasts. He purses his lips tight, looks down at you like he would want to kiss you but never learnt how to do such an act. You lean your forehead against his.

"If I want to stop, I'll say it," you whisper, hands going up into his hair, tangling at the roots until you can pull on them. Arthur's groan ripples against you like ringed waves on a lake.

You nuzzle him, press your nose into his cheek, where his beard turns into naked sun-weary skin. His cock twitches against the soft inside of your thigh.

"Then," he huffs a breath and finds purchase beside your head with one hand. "Then 's good."

You don't feel his other hand leave, only notice it when he gets a hold of his cock and brings it over the seam of your cunt, stroking it up and down between your folds until the tip catches on your opening and he can't hold himself back anymore.

Your walls spread in a slow, burning struggle, stretching, making way for him until you can't even feel your breaths anymore, only the pulsing heat of his cock and the pain of dying embers flickering in your muscles.

It hurts—hurts like tired feet after running for miles, hurts like hot food burning a tongue, hurts like an alcohol-numbed stab.

When his hips finally meet yours you clench around him, squeezing your eyes shut, fingers sinking into his neck and the top of his spine. Bones roll under your nails as he hangs his head, hides it in the crook of your neck, breath puffing against your shoulder, and you can't bite back your noises anymore. Arthur grinds, just a little, just to torture you, because he knows, and you groan, softly, muffled into his dirty hair.

Then the first thrust comes. He drags your flesh with his own, like an arrow being pulled out, and then he's pushing back in, hard, hard enough to make you hiccup, one leg trembling against his side, cramping up.

It doesn't stop him. Nor your whimpers and babbled words.

He takes you, slow and hard, pleasure and pain waltzing on a thin, rusty razor-blade that got left out in the afternoon sun.

But when he picks up speed, that blade tumbles into the dirt. You grab onto him, shuddering in all of your body, brain not quick enough to process anything, heart jumping around wildly under the oppression of wing-shaped bone cages.

"Ar— Arthur," you gasp out, belly going taut, voice deepening. "Slow… Slow down," you finally manage to say, and he stills as soon as the words roll off your tongue. His eyes search you, wild with want and adrenaline and pleasure and something else, mirrors of your own, toxic flames dancing around pools of black.

He has his forehead against yours, smoothing away the hair from your face, thumb drawing a circle on your jaw. You stare at him, wide-eyed, body alight, struck by lightning, trapped in a dreamscape under tens of blazing suns.

"Hurts too much?" he whispers against your skin, and then pulls back to wait for your answer, cock still rooted deep, your insides blooming red lilies, thorned roses of newfound pleasure.

You finally manage to shake your head.

"Shoulda' prepared you better," he murmurs, slides one hand between your bodies, down, down , until the rough pad of his thumb is pressing firm over your clit. "Make ya come on my tongue," he draws a slow circle and you can't hold back a groan. "Stretch ya out on my fingers some more," his hand slides even lower, where you're joined, where he parts your folds with his fat cock. "But I'm so goddamn impatient when it comes to you. I'm outta my head the moment I see ya darlin'."

Fuck. Not the endearment, not like this—not when you can't decide if you want to strangle him or to kiss him. You want blood spilling, you want the ear-ringing after gunshots, you want fire and violence and… You want his hands, doin' just this, you want his body flush against yours, you want—

"Christ, Arthur," you hiss and heat pools in your belly. He painted it there—molten sunlight and liquid fire. You reach down too, seeking out his hand with your own and when your fingers skim over the base of his erection he shivers and bucks his hips, so eager, you really want to kiss him.

You move your body, your hips, curl your spine until you can't take him deeper, and there's a flicker of weakness glinting in his eyes.

But there's no time for you to conquer.

He sits back on his haunches and pulls you back with him, thighs splaying limply around his waist, the feeling long gone from them, replaced by the buzzing of honeybees on purple acacia.

The change in the angle makes your vision blur and your body grows tight, muscles taut as he hits something inside you, his thumb still quick on your clit.

Your lips open but no sound comes out of your choking throat.

You've never been brought this close to bliss with this little, and Arthur has no plan on stopping. His moves are hard, but not rough enough to really hurt you, your wetness pooling around him, shining on the hair on his navel, and soon there's a noise of your body's enjoyment, little squelches when he hits the deepest part of you.

"Look at ya," he murmurs, his free hand digging into the bend of your knee to open you up wider. You can see the base of his cock like this—no wonder you struggled at taking him first. "See? You can behave, Mouse."

Your end is too near to make a clever remark, but you try anyway.

"Are—," you swallow thickly, "Are ya this clever only when your pecker gets wet?"

"Nah," he smiles a little, more with his eyes than his mouth. "'S just you makin' me stupid," you can hear his voice softening, and you don't know if he's mocking you or this is a confession.

Your breath falters.

He pushes in hard again, holds you close with his strong hands that dig into your flesh, tiny grunts leaving him as he takes and takes and takes and somewhere in the brutality of your coupling a spark of love flickers. No pain comes with the pleasure, only the one that is welcome—you draw crimson from his thigh when you reach for him, crescents of blood moons, and he answers with hands that grind bruising skin and bone together on your hip.

Both of you groan, whine, sigh. He drapes himself over you again, bites the side of your neck, the place where your pulse beats wildly, artery so close to the surface, vulnerable. The urge to fight bubbles awake inside you again.

Your legs are pressed up to your belly, your cunt fluttering as Arthur's movements slow into a grind, deep and steady, keeping your pleasure at bay, playing with you like the goddamn gambler he is.

But you had enough of the games.

"C'mon," you hiss, but you don't wait for an answer. You grab onto his shoulders and push on him until you tumble sideways, almost off the bed, and Arthur growls like a wolf cornered.

"What did I tell ya about behavin'?" he hisses but you still move, try to push him into the mattress, a hand coming to his neck but Arthur has none of it.

You sometimes forget how goddamn strong he is, how clever. You can't outplay him in a game he knows all too well.

He slips free of your cunt, the heat of your peak dissolving, cock thick and wet in the low light, your want glistening on him, and he makes a weak sound when you try to push him back inside you, grinding on his thigh, laying sideways with your legs tangled with his.

He won't let you have your way. Not until you finally listen.

"Arthur," you start, but he's quicker. You don't have time to protest. To escape the crushing force of his body crashing into yours. Arthur grabs you by the shoulder and hip and pushes you until you lay face-down over the blankets, his torso keeping you down, his thigh between your own, opening you up again. "You goddamn bastard," you hiss and there's a chuckle beside your ear.

"Told ya not to play dumb games, Mouse. You leave me no choice," he says, voice gone dark, like tar, sticking behind your ear like a soft kiss.

And now, his hand returns.

Two fingers, pushed roughly into your cunt, the slide easy with the way his cock loosened you up, a soft wet noise ringing in your ear. His hands know no mercy—a killer's hands, hands that wield a gun like an artist wields a paintbrush. Fingers trained quick and precise on a trigger, a thumb that learnt the motion of reloading cartridges into an empty cylinder too early.

He moves his hand quick, hard, stuffing in a third finger and crooking them, hitting some hidden sweet spot that makes your belly clench up and wetness to tickle along his palm. He pulls back his body, kneels over your legs to keep you in place, and his other hand wanders, over the valley of your spine, the dip of your waist, the love-handles on your hips, the curve of your rear.

It goes lower still, under where he parts you, the heel of his palm settling on your clit and digging into the oversensitive skin. You clench on his fingers, moans muffled into the blanket under you, and the will to fight dissipates from you when he starts murmuring gentle praise.

"That's it, little Mouse. Gonna have you come on my fingers, and then my cock," he whispers, quickening the pace of his movements. "Gonna make you walk funny."

"Shit," you gasp, turning your head to the side until you can catch a glimpse of him, blurred by tears or pleasure or somethin' else. "You wanna— you wanna fuck me 'til I faint?"

"Maybe I do," a sinister smile plays in the corner of his mouth, and you can't hold yourself together anymore. You clench on his fingers, cunt fluttering, muscles wound tight as you come a second time, with a soft whimper and little jolts shaking your left leg, and Arthur shuffles closer, tears his fingers free, but you're empty for only a mere second.

He stuffs his cock back into your tightened heat, walls gripping him in waves of gentle squeezes. You don't notice that you're crying out, not until he shushes you with a hand on your cheek and his body pressing you into the bed.

Maybe this is the breaking point. The threshold of your ribcage torn open, your spine spilled out like liquid or guts. There's no fight left in your body, not when he plays you like an instrument, pushing buttons and pulling strings, manipulating you to give in, to yield.

"Takin' me so well, sweetheart," he whispers onto the back curve of your neck, thrusting slowly but forcefully, keeping you trapped, a snare weaved from blooming roses with stems full of thorns.

"I can't take it much more," you whimper, real tears blurring your vision, so you squeeze your eyes shut instead, lost to the hard give and take of not-completely-lovers, but not enemies either, something that can almost be called lovemaking.

"Shh," he quiets you, presses his lips to your nape. Not a kiss, but almost. "Ya gonna give me one more, honey."

"I can't," you whisper and a loud groan is wretched from your throat when he sneaks his hand between the mattress and your cunt, finding your swollen clit and feeling where he splits you open again and again with his cock.

"Jus' don't fight. I gotchu."

You don’t have the energy to do so anyway.

Arthur braces himself on the hand beside your head and you take the opportunity to grasp his wrist, and his fingers a bit later when he offers you his opened palm. You cling to him and the blanket under you, make him grunt as you move back into his thrusts.

Your belly births gold-winged night bugs that buzz away inside your body, making your toes numb and your arms weak, and you finally plead, softly only for Arthur and no one else.

"I gotchu, sweetheart," he whispers again and you whine, like a starved dog. Pleasure burns through you, a heart-shaped gunshot wound left in its wake, the syllables of his name burnt into the skin. "That's it, good girl."

If this would be some other time you would've punched him in the nose, but you're too far gone to nurse your pride back to its former shape. You take it, all of it, his touches, his cock, his sweet words, the uncharacteristic softness, and you lock the feelings deep away into one empty corner of your heart. You don't know what will happen after this, but you're damn sure that you'll come out of this whole ordeal a changed person.

Clay shaped into how he likes.

Tin melted and poured to form little trinkets.

His fingers dig into your cunt, pressing hard and insistent, his heart thundering against your back, bam, bam, bam, gunshots fired from the hip, one, two, three, four, five, six, a choked breath, your name on his tongue.

You groan and whine and cry out, cheeks streaked wet, thighs aching, folds kissing the base of his cock, and he thrusts once, twice, falters on the third and you go limp, body convulsing, the room blurring and your lips go slack as the tension from your belly releases, a hundred white doves, curving their necks out, spreading wings, and there's a noise, a mouse squealing in the cat's hold, a tiny whisper-scream.

"Keep goin', darlin'," you hear him whisper somehow, ears ringing and going useless for a second, and you arch your back and keep taking him until you crawl from the pleasure, oversensitive and tired, more like in your soul than your body, and Arthur pushes into you once more, so deep, too deep, and you sob and he tears himself free and finishes on the shuddering curve of your lower spine.

You feel his spend drip over the small of your back, but you can't move—you can only gape like a fish, barely breathing, but you catch a glimpse of him behind you, straightened on his knees, his cock in his hand, chest painted red and sweaty and his face completely ruined.

He says something, maybe your name, and it sounds so pretty coming from him, in that low voice, with those turquoise eyes that glisten like a summer lake formed from meltwater.

He climbs off the bed and you think that's it. That you're used up once more, heart barely open a crack but it was enough for him to steal something precious. Don't go.

But Arthur doesn't leave.

How silly of you to even think…

He walks to the basin in the corner and wets a rag he keeps in his satchel. You can see the blush of arousal burning on his sternum, his torn shirt damp in patches with sweat. His eyes meet yours in the mirror's reflection, an emotion you can't quite understand present in them.

"Say somethin'," he whispers when he comes back, after tucking himself back into his pants and hastily washing his hands.

You try to turn and answer, but he lays a hand on one of your shoulder-blades, keeping you still. You almost stifle another whine. No more. I can't take more.

But he only cleans the mess between your legs, still open and stained with creamy want, and then he wipes away his spend from your back, making you shiver with the cold touch of the rag. He smooths over its way with a palm after, so goddamn gentle you think this can't be the same man you wanted to strangle.

"Mouse?"

"I— Jus' gimme a second," you finally manage to say, voice hoarse and weak, but it's enough for him to discard the rag and settle beside you.

You turn to your side, face close to his chest, and you can now see the damage you made; red fingerprints and nail marks glisten around his neck, but it doesn't bother him. Not after what he did to you.

"Are ya alright?" he whispers, pushing the hair away from your forehead and leaning close. You nod, slowly, head still dizzy with the aftermath of your climax.

"Ya fucked the fight outta me," you whisper and Arthur gives you a genuine chuckle. "And the feeling from my legs too."

He reaches down and pulls your leg over his own with his hand on your knee, and then slowly massages your thigh, callouses rough on the skin, but the touch still nice.

"Yeah, that's what I was aimin' for."

You stare at him and he stares at you and somewhere that crack you kept open on your heart blooms at the seams with forget me nots and red tulips. The romance of it comes slowly. Like honey dripping; soft, thick, sweet. You don't kiss, not yet, but his forehead touches yours and you just look at each other like long lost lovers.

"I'm sorry for treatin' ya how I did," he whispers and you close your eyes tightly for a second, not caring at all, not after all this.

"I tried to kill you three times," you reach for his brow and wipe away the sweat there.

"Yeah, you did."

Arthur curls his arm around you and pulls you closer, close, until your body is flush along his.

"Can I…" he trails off for a moment, thinking on the words for a few seconds longer. "Can I kiss ya?"

You don't answer.

Not with words.

You just lean in and let your lips touch, for the first time, slow and soft and feeling like something sacred. And then you open up and he slowly descends on your mouth, tongue darting in, and you kiss and kiss and kiss, and finally Arthur murmurs somethin', one sweetened word, Mouse.

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