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anna-proxx · 3 months

Note

pretty please can we have arthur morgan falling in love with hyperfem! reader? ur stuff is always so so yummy,, no pressure ofc! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

⭒✧⋆｡guns n' bows ✧⋆｡⭒

pairing: Arthur Morgan x hyperfem!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst (good ending)

summary: Arthur finds himself adoring a dainty woman who joined the gang a while ago. It suddenly becomes clear to him he has fallen in love.

word count: 3294

tags: high honor arthur, fem!reader, (mutual) pining, arthur being a sweetheart

a/n: thank u so much, dolly! i had a few ideas on how to approach this and decided to make it more story-based and focus on arthur's inner process as he realizes he's in love with the reader (as i would imagine it to go). if you'd like something a bit different, lmk! i've been wanting to write a hyperfem fic for a while now, so i had fun with it. also, i'm thinking about writing a pt. 2 where i'd focus more on the reader's pov and have arthur express his feelings more (be a cutie around her) and confess his love. <3

dividers by @saradika / @saradika-graphics

✮ masterlist

Arthur Morgan wasn't used to being gentle with people. His hands were rough and calloused and his muscle memory trained to draw his guns and shoot. They were meant to be a weapon, to protect and harm for the people he considered his family.

Perhaps he had it in him, but there was no reason to be soft and gentle – the world was just as rough as him and he was assigned the burden of fighting against it. The softest he could get was between the pages of his journal as he wrote about his thoughts and sketched owls and beavers and when he patted dogs and talked to his horse.

But most of those were away from prying eyes and frankly, the role of a dense criminal prized for his brawn comfortably fit around his overlooked qualities, as that was all he needed to be. To survive, to fulfill his role.

And yet you saw right through it. Of course you did, you had a good heart, open to whoever you saw goodness in. While some might write Arthur off as a rugged criminal only, you noticed his edges weren't as sharp as he tried making them seem to be.

His duties were violent, sometimes brutal, the earth soaking up blood of his enemies and his image reflecting in their eyes as the last thing before they closed them forever. To some, he was their biggest nightmare. He wasn't a good man, to believe so would be naive and foolish, but he wasn't all bad either, as some would think.

Your heart was big enough to accept his sins and leave the judgment to whatever was above, meanwhile you sought his presence as it brought you a strangely warm sense of security and comfort. Like moth to a flame, his different nature allured you. Hardened on the outside and soft-hearted on the inside.

Perhaps that was the reason you found yourself liking this big outlaw. Scooted towards him at the campfire, or sat nearby and watched him as he lied on his cot and scribbled something into his journal.

You might've been fragile and soft spoken, but you weren't stupid and your intuition on people was like a radar you could wholeheartedly trust. So you did.

Arthur didn't exactly know you sometimes looked for his presence, but he did notice you were comfortable around him.

It baffled him a little – you were so small compared to him, wearing lace and frills and cute little bows in your hair and yet you didn't seem to be intimidated by his appearance or demeanor at all. It sparked joy inside of him whenever you'd come to him blabbering about the rainbow you saw or gave him a soft smile as your eyes met.

You never treated him with judgment or revulsion, despite knowing very well your morals were against everything he was doing. Just how big of a sweetheart were you to do that? He never said it, but it meant a lot to him.

He felt as though you weren't even a part of all this. You were like a gem among roughened stones or a flower growing in gravel, reading in your tent and braiding your horse's mane while he washed blood off his hands.

And truth be told, because of that, he found you to be soothing and healing for his battered soul. It was so different, to be around someone like you.

You brought out a side of him he didn't know he had, one that was more tender than he was used to be. He didn't feel so angry or cynical, even after a job gone wrong. When he was with you, being gentle was easy.

At the beginning, when you first fell with the gang, it was doubt and hesitation he felt towards you. You were so... untouched by the world's cruelty, so innocent and open-hearted.

Arthur assumed you were naive and feeble, not only in the physical sense but mental as well. The world posed a huge threat to someone like you and he was worried you wouldn't survive in such circumstances. He was convinced you'd run after a few weeks but you did no such thing.

As the months passed, you stayed with the gang, patient and resilient while remaining soft and feminine. You helped where you could and offered a listening ear to anyone who needed it; even managed to get Arthur to open up to you when you two were alone. And you barely ever complained, even ate all Pearson's stews though you must've been used to eating fine food. And you lit up the space wherever you went. Your optimism was invincible. How the hell were you managing to do that?

It dawned on him he must've terribly underestimated you and his doubtfulness turned into admiration and intrigue. You were one fascinating little thing.

Things have been going quite downhill, so he kept checking up on you and you always had a warm smile to offer. You were still sweet and charming, even with the law on your tail.

You were his polar opposite, gentle waves of the sea splashing against hard rocks hot from the sun. Soft clouds concealing the sky after a raging storm. A calm rain on a hot summer day.

Arthur had no intentions of falling in love ever again.

But his heart was a sneaky little traitor.

Dusk softly illuminated the lake's surface when he found you sitting on the pier, your feet splashing in the water. You put your shoes beside you and held the skirt of your dress at your knees to avoid getting it wet. It was your favorite, white and pink, the corset decorated with little bows at the front. Your locks curled loosely over your shoulders, a light pink bow tying some of it at the back of your head.

You looked so vulnerable and cute lost in your thoughts like this, your feet creating creases in the water as you idly watched them. You had no company with you, only a couple of ducks swimming nearby and butterflies fluttering their wings around your head.

Arthur wondered what your mind was occupied with and before he could properly think it through, his steps directed towards your small frame lit by warm light.

You were pondering on the events of the past few weeks when the heavy steps on the wooden planks caught your attention. Turning your head to look up at the person coming, your eyes lit up as you saw it was your favorite one.

"Arthur!" you called out, your big doe eyes digging a pit in Arthur's stomach.

"[Name]. How are you?" His gaze lingered on you as he stood before you, his hands placed on the gun belt around his hips. You found the concern sweet. Instead of it being a casual phrase, his eyes studied you for an actual answer.

"Good, I think. What about you?" Your voice was smooth like honey and inviting, giving the outlaw something to lean into.

"'M alright," his voice rumbled as he shifted on his feet, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Ya like this place?"

You shortly looked around, taking in the view of the trees and dim sky reflected back in the peaceful lake.

"I do, it's such a charming spot." You looked back into Arthur's face, catching a hint of a smile on his lips.

"'M glad to hear that."

You could almost hear his goodbye that would follow but before he had the chance, you spoke.

"Come on, join me." You patted the spot next to you and slightly turned your body towards Arthur when he sat beside you.

Arthur was a bit at loss of words, always quick with his witty responses but uncertain around you. Your flowery perfume overcame him, then the sight of your rosy cheeks and full lips. You looked like a doll, looking at him through your long lashes with the most innocent look in your eyes.

For a moment your company made him forget about everything. He felt like just a man instead of a sinner, leaning into the silent acceptance you provided him.

You swung your feet in the water. "What did you do today?" you asked kindly, no trace of judgment.

Arthur sighed, recalling the day's events. "Robbed a stagecoach, had to shoot 'em guards. Met a few of the O'Driscoll boys too."

He wasn't one to sugarcoat things, especially when there was no reason to. You knew what kind of person he was and despite you never expressing disgust, he knew you must've had certain sentiments of him and they were all true. He was no better than the crooks he fought. And yet, with you, he wished he was.

Your gaze found his hand resting over his knee, barely dried blood on his knuckles.

"Oh, Arthur!" You took his hand in his, examining the damage with focus as you held his palm with both your hands, yours small in comparison to his.

Arthur's breath faltered in his throat. A lukewarm feeling settled in his chest and slight panic ran through his mind as he was slow to realize just what was happening. The warm touch of your smooth fingers was unusually intensive and he wished for the moment to never stop, as if he ever cared for such things.

He felt silly for it. What was happening with him? Why did he feel such fondness at your delicate hands cradling his, the slight blush on your cheeks, the flyaway hairs around your head?

He furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar tightness in his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat picking up on pace.

He hasn't felt this way ever since...

"Your poor knuckles," you mumbled while gently running your finger over the bruises. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen them healed."

Your tone was nothing but caring, as if Arthur hadn't used the fist to break someone's jaw. You put his hand away, putting yours in your lap as you continued bathing your feet in the water and watching the thoughtful look on Arthur's face as he softly looked at you.

Arthur cleared his throat, chasing all the crazy thoughts away. "And how's yer day been?"

You tactfully ignored the change of topic and played around with your necklace as you spoke. "Well, it was alright. I've been doing chores almost whole day, then went to Rhodes for some supplies with Tilly and Javier. He also taught me a bit of one Spanish song!"

Oh did he? A pang of jealousy struck him. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Arthur, everything okay?" you asked, your brow furrowed at the sight of his troubled expression.

"Sure, 'm... just tired, that's all."

You nodded, looking at the sky coloring itself in blueish grays. "Yeah, I might go to sleep earlier today as well, I reckon."

Pulling your feet out of the water, you started putting on your shoes while Arthur stood up, offering you a hand by the time you were done. You smiled up at him and accepted his hand, being effortlessly pulled up to your feet.

"Thank you, Arthur."

Your voice wouldn't leave his head, even after you walked towards your tent, disappearing from his sight. He walked to his own one in a trance, left with many unanswered questions in his head.

This wasn't like him, even less to be so confused by his feelings. And yet, as he lay in his cot that night, he kept going back to the moment at the lake, imagining what it would've felt like to brush his fingers through your soft hair or cup your cheek.

Another heavy sigh.

Only yesterday you were still just you. A kind girl they had rescued when she had nowhere else to go, a young woman who–

No, who was he kidding. The warning signs had been there long before; the warmth in his chest whenever he saw you, that little jump his heart did when you said his name, the joy he felt when you asked him for small favors.

It gnawed at him, the sense of knowing he tried pushing away.

He fell in love with you. Somewhere along the way, without taking notice. As complicated and messy it would make things, in a way, admitting to himself the feelings he had for you felt relieving.

How was he so stupid not to realize sooner?

He loved the way you got excited over making flower crowns and how you'd weave some for the girls. He loved when he saw you consoling and comforting Karen into putting the bottle away, or even being kind to that bastard Kieran. He loved when he found you playing with Jack, letting him put flowers in your hair. He loved your feminine gaze, the one that would capture all his attention, or how your kindness towards him made him feel. As if there was still hope for him, as if he wasn't damned after all.

But there was a tight knot in his stomach. He might've set himself up for another heartbreak. How could you want someone like him?

Arthur fell asleep riddled with contradicting thoughts that night.

The new reality of being in love with you gave him a sort of solace. But it wasn't until morning that he decided he could only do one thing – keep his distance. For both his and your sake.

You were beautiful and dainty like a rose, but he was the thorns.

Arthur did as he promised to himself – despite the stolen glances and wishful thoughts split in half, he would avoid you, though it wasn't as apparent as he's been so busy lately. Not like he would complain about that, if anything, it took his mind off you, even if not for long.

Above all he wanted to return to camp after a difficult job and be close to you, talk to you, feel your calming presence.

What he didn't expect with his plan was how much it would wear him down.

But the last thing he wanted was to hurt you, which he assumed would eventually happen, or lose his head for someone who wouldn't reciprocate the same feelings back.

He returned to camp late today. In the middle of the night when everyone was already asleep. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in his cot, his shoulders slouched as he got down from the saddle and patted his horse a good night, unsaddling him to give him some rest too. The night was quiet and tranquil, like peace after a storm, given how Arthur's day went.

It has been weeks since Arthur had realized he had feelings for you by this point and looking towards the tents, he couldn't help but wonder whether you were alright. He hasn't been around much lately, so he could only guess you continued to be true to who you've been since the beginning. With ribbons in your hair and a dreamy look in your face.

He sighed at the image. What a lovestruck fool he was.

He missed your sleepy eyes and the little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you were confused.

As if something listened to his wishes, a small figure emerged from the shadows and he realized it was you.

Wearing your undergarments, bloomers with frills and lace, you made your way straight towards him. Your hair was in two braids tied by pink ribbons, though a bit messy from sleep, and the loose strands of hair tucked behind your ear.

He froze in place, watching you get closer while his heart went a little crazy. A part of him was happy to see you approaching him, whatever the reason for that was. It made him feel fuzzy inside and that scared him more than any gunfight.

"Arthur!" you called out for him with a slightly shaky voice, not stopping your steps until you stood right before him.

Arthur fought the urge to reach out for you as he saw you small and vulnerable, looking up at him with need, his heart struck with fear when he noticed the little tears in your eyes.

"[Name], what's wrong?" There was urgency in his voice, a worried look in his eyes and panic coursing through his veins.

You held a sob as you spoke, hugging yourself with your arms, a few of the loose strands falling into your face.

"J-just a nightmare. I woke up so s-scared." You started to shiver as you recalled the frightening images. As soft as you were on the outside, you had a vivid imagination and your nightmares could get very eerie and gruesome, causing chills to travel up your spine every time the memory flashed before your eyes.

Arthur's instincts now clutched his heart tightly, a knot tying itself in his stomach. He hated seeing you like this, helpless, afraid and trembling. The sight of you awakened every bit of his protective nature and he didn't want anything more than to hold you and never let you go, even put his life on the line just to keep you safe.

He didn't think twice.

"Aw, c'mere," he proposed in a low warm voice, enveloping you in his embrace gently enough to give you the option of changing your mind.

But you snuggled into the hug instead, a small sob escaping you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, your arms barely connecting behind his back.

He was so warm and firm and you have never felt safer in your whole life. The anxiety was slowly mellowed out, filling your heart with affection instead.

Arthur breathed in your scent and it made him feel lightheaded, and to feel your soft warm body pressed against his felt like a dream.

You were so delicate in his arms and your exposed skin made it hard for him to keep his thoughts straight. He was a gentleman of course, but his heart raced nonetheless and he feared you could hear it beating against your ear.

"It's okay, t'was just a dream." His voice was soothing and warm, and it worked like a charm. He consoled you with strokes on your back, his big palms hot through the thin layer of your undergarments.

"What horrible thin' did ya dream 'bout?" Arthur asked, his embrace not loosening around you. He was quite happy like this, protecting you between his arms, as if you always belonged there.

You kept your face nuzzled to his chest, comfortably leaning into the hug.

You started talking about the dream and he listened. A monster, you said, something big and deranged sneaking its way around to its victims. You rambled about the details, your descriptions a mess as you spoke in loose tangles.

Arthur slightly smiled at your stuttering, it made you even more adorable than you already were, though he didn't know it was even possible.

He would kill anyone who'd dare to touch you.

"'M the only scary thing 'round here 'm afraid," Arthur muttered, his chest rumbling under your head.

"As if," you retorted with your voice muffled, certainty in your disagreement.

It caught Arthur off guard a little and nervousness arose in him as he asked the following question. "You ain't scared of me?"

He knew if there was even an ounce of fear in you, it would've killed him.

You looked up at him, your eyes big and glossy. "I feel safe with you, Arthur."

His heart dropped and he looked into your eyes completely baffled, not grasping how such a sweet creature like you could say such a thing to him.

You felt safe with him.

You did.

He felt vulnerable under your gaze; not even heavens could make him feel so exposed. He was afraid you could read his thoughts with that pretty mind of yours as you held the eye contact, that you could recognize how much he was now melting and crumbling inside.

So much for being a tough hardened criminal.

He felt like a teenager again. The sweating hands, tingles in his stomach, it was all back.

Arthur tightened his embrace, cuddling you closer.

As he held you under the starry sky, your tiny arms wrapped around him, he was sure of one thing.

He could do many things. But staying away from you was not one of them.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan oneshot #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 oneshot #arthur morgan fluff #☆ annie writes #☆ annie's reqs

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wobblesthecowgirl · 4 months

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Hii! I literally love your page so much! If you don’t mind, could you write an Arthur x Fem reader fluff?

So I was thinking, Arthur and the reader are close friends and she has feelings for him, like I mean she is HEAD OVER HEELS for him! But she thinks that he likes Mary-Beth or something and somehow he finds out about her feelings towards him and how she thinks he likes Mary-Beth and he confronts her and is like “I don’t like her I like you” and they kiss or something idk I JUST NEED HIM SO BAD RN😭

I Only Want You.

Arthur Morgan x Femreader

I apologise for the long delay! But thank you so much for your patience and request! I hope you enjoy it! And thank you so much for the love! <3

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“Why not write him a letter?”

Y/n was sitting on a log with Abigail under the sun, looking out to the beautiful scenery before them on the edge of the cliff. They were discussing Arthur, a common topic between the two, and Abigail was trying to convince her friend to finally confess.

“A letter?” She tilted her head.

Abigail nodded, “Yes! I mean, you love to write, and you’re too much of a baby to speak to him about your feelings. I think a letter is perfect. You can leave it for him without seeing his face.”

Y/n thought about it and agreed it wasn’t a bad idea at all. She could sneak into Arthur’s tent with a letter telling him everything she’s always wanted to say, and wait for a response. So, she smiled and hugged her friend tightly, before standing up quickly and making her way to her own tent to begin writing.

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This was harder than she thought. She assumed being able to sit and think carefully about what she wanted to say would be easy, but it just filled her head with more doubts. Before she could start her fourth draft, she heard a ton of horses outside and quickly hid the crumpled up pieces of paper. Most of the men were robbing a wagon and had just come back; from the cheers and laughs, she could only assume it went well. She got up from her chair and peeked her head out of her tent and almost screamed in surprise. Arthur stood right outside her tent.

“Oh! Mr Morgan, you scared me!” She laughed it off, a hand to her chest as he chuckled with her.

“I apologise, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I just wanted to tell you how the robbin’ went.”

“I assume it went well, given the smile on your face.” Y/n smiled as she looked around to the other men already cracking bottles of beer. The pair went quiet and the woman wanted to burst into a confession then and there. The sun was setting and it casted a orange glow to his face. His hat caused a small shadow over his eyes and his smile was small and earnest. The little wrinkles around his eyes and mouth only made him more attractive, and his moustache had been recently trimmed.

“Well, I best get back inside now. I’m a very busy lady.” She excused herself. He smiled a little wider and watched her close the tent, almost disappointed with their short exchange.

After their conversation, Y/n got back to her desk and this time, the words began to spill out onto the page with ease:

Dear Arthur,

Firstly, I must apologise. I am too much of a coward to face you, so I’ve resorted to writing this letter.

The truth is, I have fallen head over heels for you. You may not agree with me, but you are a good and genuine man. You’ve helped me in more ways than you could ever imagine. The day you rescued me from my burning horse from the O’Driscolls, I thought my life was over. But, to my surprise, it was the start of an even better life. I truly can’t thank you enough.

I don’t expect you to reciprocate these feelings, and that is ok. I wouldn’t want to ruin this friendship we have formed.

Yours, Y/n.

She kept re-reading it over and over again while a million what ifs ran through her head. What if he’s put off by the letter? What if he has someone already? What if he laughs at her?

She shook her head. She had written it now, all she had to do was plant it in his tent and hide, wallow away in bed while her anxiety ate her up. She folded it and wrote his name on it before peeking her head out the tent again and tip-toeing to his tent. When she saw he wasn’t inside, she snuck in and placed the letter on his bedside table.

Y/n felt satisfied with herself, until she saw a letter on his desk with the name ‘Mary Linton’. Her stomach dropped. Who was this Mary? Was she a lover? A relative? Feeling sick, she rushed out the tent, leaving her letter behind.

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“You alright there, Y/n?” Tilly asked her while she zoned out. It was now night-time, and her mind was eating her up all evening. The women were sat around the fire doing what they do best: gossiping. Of course, Grimshaw or Molly hadn’t joined them, but that was always the case.

“Hmm? Sorry, yeah I’m good.” She brushed it off, taking a big swing of whiskey. The rest of her friends spared glances at one another. Karen piped up while also taking a swig of her own whiskey, “Yeah, I ain't buying that. You’ve been sulking all evening.”

Y/n sighed and began biting her nails out of habit, wondering if asking them about Arthur was a smart idea. But she couldn’t keep letting the question eat away at her.

“Do any of you know who Mary Linton is?”

Mary-Beth looked surprised at the question, “Mary? You don’t know?”

Her stomach dropped again.

“No I don’t.”

Tilly shook her head, already feeling bad for her friend. Everyone but Arthur knew that Y/n had feelings for the older man, it was a miracle the man himself hadn’t figured it out. Tilly sighed, “She used to be his woman. About ten years ago now, but her daddy didn’t like him so it didn't work out. I keep telling him to let it go.”

There it was. Her what ifs became reality. She couldn’t hide her disappointment and took another swig of the whiskey. And another. Then another one.

“Slow down girl! You’ll end badly!” Tilly tried to grab the bottle out her hand but she moved it out of her reach. By now, Y/n vision was hazy and her head felt light. The smell of whiskey was strong on her breath but she felt a little more relaxed at least.

“It’s obvious Arthur likes you back.” Mary-Beth tried to help her feel better, but all she did in response was roll her eyes.

“Oh please. Don’t get my hopes up.” She pouted as she finished the whiskey off. All the women were getting up and getting ready for bed but she decided to sit by the fire a little longer. Karen patted her back, “Please just take it easy. Get some rest soon.” And with that, she was left alone. She just stared into the fire, her mind restless, when she heard a twig snap. She snapped her head back and saw the root of her problems. He looked confused at her state.

“Y/n? What are you still doing at this hour?”

“Nothing.” She frowned, facing away from him, kicking a stone away despite being sat on the log. Arthur sat down next to her, his knee inches away from hers.

“You smell of whiskey, doll. You been drinking too much to handle?” His voice was laced with concern, which only infuriated her more. Why care for her when he already had a woman he cared for?

“Why do you care?” She sounded harsher than she meant to. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was her patience running thin. Maybe it was her disappointment. Either way, her response still shocked him.

“Why wouldn't I?” He asked, and her heart kept sinking lower and lower. They fell silent, and Y/n heard him reach into his pockets and took out the letter. Her eyes widened as she tried to snatch it out his hands but he raised his arm higher.

“Just leave it Arthur!” She shouted, still trying to grab it as he kept his arm in the air, a firm hand on her shoulder to push her lightly.

“Why are you behaving like this? I just want to talk about it.” He tried to calm her down as she stopped prying at him.

“I know about Mary.” She stated which caused his eyes to widen slightly. He glanced at the letter before folding it and putting it back in his pocket.

“The women gossiping again?” He chuckled a little dry, so she only hummed in response. Their gossips were never wrong though, she thought to herself.

“That's history, love. She was only writing to me to help her brother, but I don't like her like I used to.” Arthur grabbed her chin much to her alarm, and gently turned her to face him, before brushing a strand of hair in her face out the way.

That damn smile.

“I love you too. I ain't need a silly little letter, you could've told me and I would've swept you up in a heartbeat.”

It's like time stopped. The alcohol must've gotten to her head. She must've blacked out. Died even, and seen the pearly gates.

But when he leaned forward, and softly kissed her, she felt more awake than ever. He pulled away before she could even react, and his face was bright red.

“Was that a bad kiss? It looks like it was.” He coughed awkwardly.

“No…no not at all. I'm just in shock. I didn't think you actually liked me.”

He laughed light before leaning closer again, a hand on the back of her head, “I don't like you, sweetheart. I love you.”

This time she kissed back, harder. Months of pent up tension between the two was finally being released. It was surprising the two didn't go mad.

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They spent the rest of the night sitting next to the fire, holding hands, and Y/n rested her head on his chest as he held her close. His tumb traced her knuckles as she listened to his heartbeat. She felt protected, safe, warm, and comfortable. She could happily stay like that forever.

Unknown to the pair, the women of the camp were watching from a distance, with giant grins on their faces.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 community #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan

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tragedycoded · 2 months

Text

is it friday already?

Jumping on an open tag from @the-golden-comet [x] for Friday Kiss Tag and got got by @lychhiker-writes [x] for Writing Share Tag.

I have for you today a bit from Book 2 of DMLS. Specifically, we are in the page between a) Sullivan and Royston banging after a time loop reset and b) The German House being attacked.

(It's Friday Kiss, not Friday Fuck, Jamie.)

What's the opposite of a fade to black? Here's 360 words of that, under a cut because bodily fluids and what Royston does with those bodily fluids.

Might've been Cole's name he tried to shout, but they were briefly beyond language. All they knew was flesh, and blood, and the pressure and weight of each other. Royston wrenched a hand from Sullivan's to catch his seed as it spilled, as he buried his own deep inside of him. One after the other. Teeth tight in Sullivan's shoulder, shouting through a muffled throat, blood smearing under his mouth. Didn't know how to tell him so, but Sullivan loved that sound. He could have died, right then. Wished they wouldn't have had to, to reach this moment. They collapsed, panting, laughing, and Royston took what Sullivan had deposited in his hand, sighed with pleasure. Sullivan knew he was tipping his palm between his teeth, drinking him down, and he shuddered. Nothing touched him the way that small act of intimacy touched him. When Royston did that, Sullivan felt sinless. He was humming as Royston lowered chest to spine. Hips to back, knees clamped around knee. Body heavy and, finally, still, but for the happy panting, and the firm kisses pressed up his neck, along his jaw. He tasted like earth. He tasted like home. This would have been the perfect way to fall asleep, after they'd cleaned up. And then he heard the wagon wheels. The horse hooves. Two draft horses, at least two men leading. Sullivan listened for voices. They shushed each other as the horses stopped moving and they hopped down out of the wagon. So he listened for feet. Six pairs of boots, he counted before Royston spoke. "There they are," Royston sighed. Seven. Eight. "Those sons of bitches." Sullivan gripped Royston's left hand in his right. "Throw your knife this time," Sullivan whispered. Then, smiling, so Royston would hear the joke, "Don't make me regret not using the time to set up first." Royston slid higher, and captured Sullivan's mouth with his fragrant lips, his earthen tongue. Sullivan moaned into the offer, the good luck charm they'd made of each other, just before Royston broke away, grinning. Foreheads together in the dark. "Whatever you need, angel." "I need you to not die, Arthur." A deep breath in. Royston weighed the cost of making that promise before he went ahead and did it. "I won't. Not tonight." That was the end of it. Sullivan believed him. He had the choice not to. Sullivan always had the choice not to. He smiled and said, "Alright. Not tonight."

Show me what you got. If no one's kissing, that's ok, give me a different excerpt. I know everyone here isn't a freak <3

@lychhiker-writes @cowboybrunch @finickyfelix @saturnine-saturneight @autism-purgatory

@aintgonnatakethis @the-golden-comet @asablehart @sableglass @gioiaalbanoart

@words-after-midnight @lavender-bloom @jev-urisk @wyked-ao3

#friday kiss tag #if you read the february chapter you know what royston does with “bodily fluids”#doom metal love story

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merunair · 1 year

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I got reminded BBCs Merlin exists and that spiraled into remembering a bunch of other really, really shitty adaptations of Arthurian canon and now I'm mad so I'm going to list some true facts about it that should hopefully demonstrate why adding "gritty realism" to it pisses me off so much

-Morgan le Fay serves as a Rita Repulsa-esque figure who throws problems at Arthur. She is also a wholly separate person to Morgause, the mother of Mordred. Morgan le Fay is a badass sorceress who's only motivation for being a Saturday Morning Cartoon Villain(tm) is that Guinevere snubbed her in some way.

-It's full of Welsh folklore, especially regarding faeries, and initially started as a recounting of a bit of Welsh military history before people started adding their OCs to it. It then broke containment and spread across europe, especially during the renaissance.

-Loads of the knights have superpowers. Straight up superpowers. Gawain gets stronger (and in some sources, bigger) the higher the sun is in the sky. Kay has some sort of fire shit going on... It's great. People would add their own guys to the round table and give them Cool Powers because they could. Though mostly it was just super-strength. This fell out of favor as it was Christianized because people are COWARDS.

-Lancelot is a French guy's OC, and despite the whole thing being full of those, Lancelot is the most OC of them all (affectionate). The second most OC of the bunch is a dude known for his edgy coat that he always wore that belonged to his dead dad (I am not joking)

-Half of the dudes are described as 'the fairest' or 'the most handsome'. Some have the caveat of 'second only to Arthur'. I legit read a description of how handsome a random knight was that filled a full page once. This is hilarious.

-There's a knight called Bedivere (he whose name has no set spelling) and he's my favorite. He has a prosthetic hand, is head butler, and is the only bitch to survive the big last battle in retellings that I respect. He's also one half of a comedy duo with Kay, also in retellings that I respect. I am admittedly biased because I played him in a middle school production of a really bad adaptation of a knockoff spamalot

-People just fucking murder each other on accident all of the time to show off how STRONK they are. After jousting got added they started having the horses die when lance met shield which DOESN'T MAKE SENSE but is there to, once again, show how STRONK the knights are.

-More on the note of casting, but there are dark skinned people in the canon. Specifically Moors (which is old europe for muslim north-african people with dark skin, a term not really used anymore because it wasn't actually one ethnic group but several). MORE SPECIFICALLY there is one explicitly biracial knight who's the son of one of the other knights and a (and I quote) "Moorish Princess". His name is Morien because people have never been subtle and was one of the knights for whom the tales waxed poetic about how stronk and handsome he was.

-Saved the best for last but this all gave way to the an early historical examples of larping and possibly kinning. King Edward the Third loved a knight named 'Sir Lionel' so much to the point where he'd hold big round table tourneys where everyone would larp as different characters from Arthurian legend (himself always being Lionel) and even named his son after him. The kicker? Lionel doesn't actually have that much in the way of story. He has like one story to himself and is functionally a sidekick in every other appearance I can find. King Eddy 3 had a Blorbo.

All of this to say that Arthurian canon is lovely and goofy and if I see someone make Morgan le Fay into Mordred's mom again I will spew fire and rain hot, bloody terror from the skies. I also think we should start adding OCs to it again and nobody can stop us.

#long post #i just love this shit so much #i didn't even get into the goofiness that is merlin #text post #queue #king arthur #arthurian legend #arthurian mythology

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verdemoun · 3 months

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That bit with the gang getting Swanson's bible is. Giving me a thought. The gang gathering small/symbolic items for gang members that are not yet there or never will be.

Mary-beth's books are probably a large portion. Arthur's journal is not recovered, but someone decided to commission someone to make a similar one (they're really easy to make actually!!! Would recommend, it's very calming). I can see someone seeing a kids toys section in some store and seeing a collection of horses. A small group of them lies in the Matthews' house - it's probably tended to by Kieran, he remembered the horses, every single one. I can see someone coming over like "hey you have the horse collection here and i saw a figurine that resembled my horse after 1899 can i-" "yes"

Abigail is #1 sentimental person. The Beecher's Hope blueprints that were mentioned before. Jack's literally everything. I feel like she'd see a similar horse toy to the one he had in 1899 and buy it either for her daughter or just for display.

Hats!!! There's plenty of people that still make them, I imagine someone would like a replica of theirs if it can't be retrieved. At least two copies of Arthur's hat and John's each. Arthur and John, and John and Jack. I feel like yes, John and Jack have a bad relationship, but John wants his hat for purely sentimental reasons and Jack wants it in a way like "I did what I was supposed to, I avenged my family, and I want it as proof that I did good". He may be emotionally stuck up and closed off as fuck but it matters to him.

Letters!!! I'm not sure how preserving letters is in the US, but for us, plenty of private mail has been protected and is displayed in museums, or kept in museums storage. Lenny may not get his father back but I feel like he'd want the letter back. Either that, or a replica. He'd remember the letter well enough to commission a replica. Abigail and John's letter which he wrote in Beecher's hope, in the epilogue, asking her and Jack to come back? More like begging not asking but shh <33.

Another category; objects that aren't the same ones but they're similar so they're good enough. A harmonica for Sadie. Again, Lenny, and a pocket watch. They no longer have so much relevance, really, but they're proof of things they survived in their first life. It's home, in a sense.

Yes I'm just rambling. But i really feel like they'd like to hold onto some parts of their last life <3

THE SYMBOLISM

Kieran is accidentally the one to hold onto the gang most symbolically. Despite not being able to read, he owns both one of Swanson's bibles but has a hardback copy of every book Mary-Beth ever published that he displays proudly on a shelf in his room.

His number one prize possession is an early edition of The Lady of the Manor which not only was Mary-Beth's first novel but also an autographed edition. He can run his finger over the page and feel the indentation left by a pen Mary-Beth held when she signed the book.

His second prized possession is a Breyer model Arthur painted to look like Branwen. Kieran collects Breyer and Schleich horse models in general because he is a dork who loves horses despite not having the space required to own one in modern era. He politely pesters Arthur to paint the models to look more like the gang's horses when he finds the perfect model that captures their horses' build/personality and does offer it as a gift when someone timewarps. Most of the post-1899 gangs first interactions with Kieran is him scurrying off and carefully presenting a figure identical to their 1899 horse.

He even gives Micah a Baylock, which Micah will never admit to crying over in private.

Abigail collecting anything that reminds her of Beecher's Hope to show the gang how nice their post-gang lives together were no matter how short. Near identical lamps to casually flex yes my John cared for us so much we had electricity in our humble ranch house and these look just like our lamps in 1911.

Because the gang timewarp with everything on their persons, there is a duplication glitch where both Jack and John have John's hat. Jack timewarping after his execution and John's first immediate thought is the realization Jack is still wearing His hat, the hat he was shot in, because Jack took it off his corpse before buying him and claimed it as his own.

Arthur also being forced in a way to let go of Lyle Morgan's hat. He gets a new hat made for himself at a silly rodeo him and Charles went to on a date that is very similar but identical enough to bring up the bad memories of his father. Finally having what is solely His hat.

Also not US but from what I understand Americans similar to us Aussies have a funny way of important documents that might prove government-allowed historic atrocities getting lost in fires so significantly less letters preserved. But Arthur's Journal is actually found as part of a museum exhibit because it was confiscated from Jack prior to his execution.

Arthur cringing as he reads a little exhibition plaque explaining even Arthur Morgan, a notorious outlaw and murderer, showed a child-like soft side in his drawings of animals and journal entries about how much he cared for the VDL gang like a family.

Also realizing John kept his journal and has his own attempts at drawings in it, that are significantly less artistic. And realizing it was enough of a part of John's life for Jack to also carry it, despite every single page being used prior to Jack inheriting it.

In response to begging, this means Abigail and Jack seeing John's broken heart entry about 'She went and left me... She weren't wrong, I'd leave me if I could' 'I miss Abigail... FOR ALWAYS'.

Lenny using AI to have a voice as similar to his father's as he can find reading his letter, which he does know word for word, to him - for when remembering what it was like imagining his father's voice reading it isn't enough.

Sadie still had the harmonica that Arthur found her on her when she died, which means she not only has the very harmonica Arthur found her in timewarp, but a reason to play it in being reunited with her precious husband.

#rdr2 timewarp au

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sednonamoris · 11 months

Text

unbridled

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A theft gone right and a deal gone wrong.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, strong language, lots of dialogue, lots of horses

Word count: 2,322

A/N: my humble take on horse flesh for dinner <3 this is our last bit of plot before john and ghost have some time alone to figure out what exactly is going on between them next chapter... as always tysm for reading!!

Series masterlist • AO3

—

You manage to avoid Micah and Dutch and your own complicated feelings for all of a week before things start getting serious with these two families, the Braithwaites and the Grays. No longer is there time for your own petty feuds. Hosea has the ear of the Braithwaite woman, and Dutch has sent John to lean on the Gray head of house while he helps that Sheriff, Leigh, drink himself to death or uselessness. Maybe just death; he’s pretty useless all on his own.

You report back on the Braithwaite horses - finely made English Thoroughbreds with pedigrees to boot - and soon enough John sends for you and Javier to meet him at Caliga Hall. Arthur is supposed to join you there, too, but between playing sides and settling as a husband and surrogate father he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone rustle a stablefull of horses.

Tavish Gray waits in his own stable. He seems about as drunk as his brother - face flushed, eyes shot red and out of focus. His clothes are quality but his manner is entirely unkempt. If this is what a store of gold gets you, you might have to tell Dutch it’s not all he’s made it out to be. The animals in the barn don’t even seen that nice.

“Hello, sir,” John greets on everyone’s behalf. “You wanted a word with us?”

“That’s right.”

And what a word he wants.

In his rambling accent, he goes on about those traitorous Braithwaites and how high and mighty that Catherine is with her prize nags. You get the idea pretty quickly that he’d like you to steal them out from under her - knew that before you came, really - but he doesn’t stop there. Soon his rantings turn to how friendly your group has seemed. How troubled things have been in spite of it. His eyes squint as he says it, and his lip sticks out more with suspicion than with the tobacco he stuffs there.

By the time Arthur shows up John is in the middle of selling the usual lie - that your merry band of misfits suffered a failed investment in a railway company out West and came here seeking that ever-elusive American dream.

“We heard good men can do well in this country,” he says.

“Sure,” Tavish agrees, his speech slow. “And bad men.”

In spite of his doubts, though, Tavish promises gold - and five thousand dollars rustling those horses to boot. You give a subtle shake of your head when John raises his brows at the price. They’re nice animals. You’ll certainly turn a profit. But there’s not one fence down here in Nowhere, USA paying that much for Thoroughbreds that’ll have to make it over state lines to sell. Not one.

Crazy old fool.

“Five thousand dollars for horses?” John says when you’re far enough away that the manor guards won’t hear. “Guess we should’a taken a page out of Ghost’s book all this time. We been robbin’ the wrong folk.”

Arthur scoffs. “He doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Who’s his contact?”

“Never said,” you reply. “Worst case scenario I’ll take John and run ‘em out of state myself. It’ll take longer, but the profit might be better. Tidier, anyway.”

“Sure. Dutch won’t be too happy about losing the extra guns, though.”

You roll your eyes. “He’ll be happy enough when we come back with the money.”

He always is. And, selfishly, a week away with John hardly sounds like the worst thing in the world.

“So,” Javier says, “how are we doing this?”

You about fall out of your saddle when John suggests shooting your way in and out, and again when Arthur wants to pose as buyers with the four of you looking every inch the no-good thieves that you are - miles away from respectable. You share a can you believe these morons look with Javier before announcing that you’ll all be riding back to camp before anyone else pipes up with any more rotten ideas.

—

“You been spendin’ too much time with Hosea,” Arthur grumbles as he tugs at the starched collar of his shirt.

After a change of clothes and horses, you’re near to the back gate of Braithwaite Manor now. The four of you cut a much more respectable figure on matching Morgans brushed to a shine with clean faces and clothes that aren’t marked by a lifetime’s worth of wear. You’re still armed, but to Arthur’s point, anyone about to ‘spend’ this much would be.

“Why don’t you leave the finer details of horse theivin’ to them that know better,” you snipe. “You clearly ain’t spent enough time with him if you think you’ll be able to waltz into a place like this all covered in mud and dressed like a degenerate.”

Javier snickers. Arthur glares at you both, which only makes you laugh more, but you sober up the moment the gates are in sight. John talks you all past the guard. It’s only a matter of setting a nice, easy pace along the manicured dirt paths to the stables after that. You offer directions here and there, but John leads confidently. Probably so Arthur can’t say I told you so if he messes this up.

You observe the grounds with an air of practiced indifference as you go. This place was certainly grand once, but a look at the peeling white paint and leaning fenceposts makes you wonder, not for the first time, if the Braithwaites have any riches left. Their horses may be fine enough, but the barn they reside in is decidedly ordinary. The closer you get the less impressive it is; its wood is unpainted, and there are shingles missing from the roof. Bales of straw lie hither and thither, like they can’t afford the help they need to move it all in place. Fence boards are down between paddocks. Only a single hand works out front, oiling a saddle that’s seen better days.

He’s suspicious of you all at first, even going so far as to call Javier greaser, but once Arthur spins a story about stables up in Saratoga he eases off and beckons the lot of you into the barn. A dark bay stallion stands tall and proud in the nearest stall, marked only by the stockings on his legs. His head is finely-featured, his eyes dark and intelligent. His legs are straight. Hindquarters strong. The stallions beside him - black with a star on his face and unmarked dappled grey, respectively - are much the same. Their ears flick to attention at the prospect of visitors. The grey tosses his head and paws, willful, but the black stud brings his head right over the stall door to whoof at your pockets for treats.

“We call him Old Father Time,” the stablehand says. Talking about his charges has warmed any remnants of suspicion right over. You almost feel bad he’s taken the bait so easily. “He loves his apples. Here,” he produces one from his pocket for you.

Father Time’s whiskers tickle as he gently takes it from your flat, outstretched palm and you can’t help but smile. You give an affectionate rub to the white snip on his nose while your new best friend tells you everything else there is to know about these animals. The bay stallion is named Cerberus. The grey one is known as Autocrat. Each one has a race record, he tells you, and each one is already a proven producer. You ask after specifics in their pedigrees just in case you find yourself forging papers later, but mostly to keep him busy while Javier slits his throat.

“Uh-huh?” he sneers as the body slumps to the ground. Blood pools over hard, dry dirt. “Greaser, huh?”

Autocrat rears up at the dark shift in mood, tossing his head with nostrils flared. The other stallions whicker nervously and dance in place. Their eyes roll white.

“Alright boys,” you say, loosening your gun in its holster and adjusting your bandana over your face. “Grab a horse and get a move on. Time for us to to get gone.”

—

It’s a close thing, but you make it off the manor without losing any horses or getting shot full of holes. Your pursuers turn back through the brush before making it to Clemens Clove, where Tavish’s mystery fence awaits. Everyone - human and horse - is blowing hard and sheened with sweat.

The fence’s covered wagon sits tucked in among the crumbling stone fences of the cove, just off its shoreline. A few horses mill about in temporary fencing. Nothing particularly impressive. Worth a couple bucks at most. But the thing that really turns your mouth in displeasure is the realization of exactly who Tavish’s associates are: Clay and Clive Davies.

“Well, well, well,” Clay drawls as you ride up, “look what the cat dragged in, Clive. The Ghost Rider of New Austin all the way up in Lemoyne and visiting little old us. My, how times change.”

“Fellas,” you greet tersely.

Clay leers a grin. “Ain’t you gonna introduce us to your friends?”

Between clenched teeth you make introductions on both ends. John, Arthur, and Javier, meet Clay and Clive Davies. Professional acquaintances. Old rivals. John raises his brows at your obvious displeasure, but you just grimace a polite smile. You’ve known the twins for longer than you care to recall. Back when you were young and dumb and maybe fifteen - just starting out - they were your biggest contacts. Those boys helped you move stolen horseflesh all across and beyond the state of New Austin. If you didn’t happen to sell to another fence and make twice your usual profits, you might never have realized just how bad they’d been fleecing you. Wool over the eyes. Played like a damn fiddle You were livid, of course, going so far as to tip the law off about their whereabouts - a favor they returned in kind. You’ve encountered them plenty over the years since, both of you ripping one another off in equal turns, and seeing them always puts a sour taste in your mouth.

“I haven’t seen you since you screwed us out of a good spot out near Blackwater,” Clay continues conversationally.

You shrug. “Anybody could’a tipped the law off. Obvious place.”

“Oh, sure,” he snorts derisively. “Anybody.”

“Look, we’re trying to move some horseflesh here. Think you can help us, or do we need to make other arrangements?” John interrupts.

Clay purses his lips and folds his arms, taking a step back to get a good look at your animals for the first time. They toss their heads but stand quietly otherwise. Their coats glisten in the sun. The brand marking each of their shoulders stands out, dark and obvious.

“I know these horses,” he finally says. He flashes a smug little grin your way when he adds, “They ain’t yours.”

“They ain’t yours yet, either. We’re askin’ four hundred a head.”

“Oh, you’re a real hoot, Ghost,” Clay laughs, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Man, that is funny. How about six fifty for the lot of ‘em?”

John bristles beside you. “I was told we could get up to five thousand.”

“And I was told that the moon was made of ladies’ tears, only it ain’t true. Not one little bit.” He leans back on the crumbling stone wall and raises a single, challenging brow. “I ain’t got more than seven hundred on me. You want it, or you want to ride them fellers into town and maybe someone there’ll hang you?”

“We’re gonna need more’n that,” Arthur argues.

Clay puts his hands up. “I ain’t got no more money, pop. Take it or leave it.”

Arthur almost makes to shake hands, but you step forward and block him. “Then we’re leavin’ it. Keep your goddamn money and try a hand at sellin’ the nags you got lined up here. I’m sure there’s a better deal elsewhere.”

“Now wait just a—”

But you don’t wait. You don’t even listen. You just turn and take the horses and go.

—

“Well shit, Ghost,” Arthur says when you and your stolen goods are far enough away from the twins and tucked out of sight among the treeline near camp. “Seven hundred would’a been better than nothin’!”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist. “I told you I can get a good deal. Give me John and a week or so to run ‘em out of state. Plenty of buyers for nice animals like these— Ones that can afford more than seven hundred for the lot of ‘em.”

“Five thousand?”

“Don’t be stupid. Over a thousand altogether, but not without papers. I got somebody who’ll do some up nice.”

Arthur sighs. “Fine. I guess I’ll tell Dutch.”

You clasp his shoulder in thanks. “We’ll be back before you miss us.”

Without another word, he and Javier take the leads of the Morgans you and John rode in on while the two of you pull your tack and whistle for your regular mounts. Moonshine and Old Boy emerge from the brush in short order. Sunlight filters through the tree canopy to paint their coats dappled gold. Arthur and Javier take the spare horses and wave goodbye.

—

It doesn’t take long before you’re on your way, just you and John and Old Boy and Moonshine and three Thoroughbred studs and the wild country ahead.

“So,” John says, “where we headed?”

“North,” you tell him, and he nods along beside you. “We’ll cut through fields ‘til the state line just in case any law is on the lookout, then take the roads up to a town called Thunderhead. I know a counterfeiter lives there who’ll give us a good price on papers.”

With any luck, some decent-looking paperwork will make these animals easy and profitable to sell. Just a breeze across state borders. A quick trip and a neat score.

What could go wrong?

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #ch. 22 #fran writes

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zanazirafanfic · 6 months

Text

25DCC Chapter 13 "Getting Anxious for Christmas" (Preview)

Hello, all! I promise this fic isn't abandoned, and I am *finally* getting somewhere with this chapter after almost an entire month of the worst writer's block I've had in years! Work has been crazy the last few nights, so I didn't have as much time to finish up as I'd hoped, but I'm planning to have it up tomorrow, 3/19, at the latest!

In the meantime, as an apology, here's a little preview. Enjoy!

*~RDR~*

Lone Wolf Stead, Great Plains, WE - December 13, 1910

"And this man's name was what?"

"Cú Chulainn of Muirthemne. He was an Irish warrior," Jack answered. He was only half paying attention to the conversation, thoroughly engrossed in his book while he lay stretched out on his stomach in the back of the wagon. "In this chapter he's defending the kingdom of Ulster from Queen Medb of Connacht's army. She's trying to invade and steal King Conchobar mac Nessa's prized bull, Donn Cúailnge, after she put all his other soldiers under a curse so they can't fight."

John blinked, just taking all of that in for a moment. "You... How did you even get all those names outta your mouth in one go?"

Jack shrugged, turning to the next page with a tiny grin. "I dunno. Just... comes easy to me, I guess."

The elder Marston blew out a slow breath and shook his head. "Well you're a helluva lot smarter than me, that's for sure. Maybe you oughta drive the wagon while I read that book of yours for a while - I clearly need to 'broaden my horizons' some more."

"He's smarter than both of us," Abigail said proudly, turning around to look at him.

Jack hunched deeper into his book, his face flushing pink in embarrassment. "That's... I'm not..." He never knew quite how to respond when his parents said things like that, and it usually just got him flustered instead. He suspected that was half of why they did it, actually.

John and Abigail exchanged a fond smile with one another, and John huffed a quiet laugh as he snapped the reins to urge the wagon horses into a faster trot.

The three of them were on their way over to Lone Wolf Stead, planning to pay an impromptu visit to the Morgan-Smiths. John had been out to Blackwater that morning, leaving in the wagon before sunrise with their surplus milk, eggs, and wool loaded in the back to sell. When he arrived back home a couple of hours later, it was with a grin on his face and a pale cream-colored envelope clutched in his hands. There was no return address except to the post office in Annesburg, but the name "Tacitus Kilgore" was written in the upper-left corner in a messy, looping scrawl.

There was only one person - or, rather, one couple - who would still be writing letters to John under that alias after all these years, and as soon as he'd seen his father pull up to the front porch and noticed the name on the letter, Jack was scrambling into the back of the wagon, all but dragging his mother along behind him.

Aforementioned letter now was tucked securely between the back pages of his book, still unopened for the time being (no matter how tempted he was to take a quick peek). Pa and Uncle Arthur had promised each other weeks ago that whoever received word from Dutch and Hosea first would be sure to notify the other immediately, and John said he didn't feel right opening it before his brother got a chance to see it too. Jack didn't mind, though, since it gave them an excuse to visit his uncles again...

@photo1030

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfiction #prompt fic #zanazirawrites #christmas fic #jack marston #john marston #abigail roberts marston #arthur morgan #charles smith #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #john x abigail #johnigail #arthur x charles #charthur #dutch x hosea #vandermatthews #fic preview

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xyziiix · 2 years

Text

•𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽• III

•PAIRING: mid-honour!Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader•

Summary: Arthur finds himself looking through his journal and rekindling old memories with you.

Warnings: some language? Female descriptions used for reader, sort of mutual pining (mostly young reader pining over arthur) spicy make out with our boah, slight fluff at end.

A/N: hope you all had a very merry Christmas and a happy new year, sorry it took a while to upload I’ve been abit busy myself with the holidays and such, hope ya’ll enjoy! <3

Not proof read!!!!

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𝒲𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈.

𝒲𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃.. 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓌.

𝐻𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇.

Arthur scribbled the words onto the page as he was perched on the edge of your cot, it was routine for him to occasionally empty his thoughts into his precious journal, he had awoken an hour ago and decided to take the time to do some of his drawings and note taking, a sketch of the new horse he’d picked up from the Adler homestead, and one of the wolves you’d encountered yesterday. He liked to put down as much as he could remember onto the pages, so he feels like he can re-read and look back at the sketches of his ‘adventures’ - as you called them. Sometimes so he could look back to the better memories he wrote about and try to re-live them through the paper.

He turned back one page. Last night, you had fallen asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow, looking for John had exhausted you as well as the icy temperatures. And while you slept peacefully Arthur took the chance to add to his book yet another sketch of you, the first time you took notice of how much he’d work away in his journal was before you two had even officially gotten together. He was sat at one of the tables in one of your old camps, scribbling on the pages and seemingly in his own little world, at the time you two were in a confused situation with each other; both of you had admitted to yourselves you were infatuated with the other after nearly two decades of friendship, but were both too afraid to voice your feelings to the other. You had approached him and asked if you could see what he was drawing, and after some light encouraging from you he sheepishly handed you his work, a furious blush on his cheeks as you fawned over the drawings of various members of the gang, little detailed sketches of them partaking in their daily chores. You didn’t bring up how a half-finished- but detailed- portrait of you was on the other side of the page, taking up the whole of the A4 sheet, instead you just opted to complimenting his talent which made him turn a darker shade of red, him grumbling “it’s nothin’..” before you reluctantly handed his journal back, not wanting to make him more embarrassed when you noticed his flushed face.

You’d known each other since you were children, a close bond having naturally taken place between you both even after John joined you and your adoptive fathers - probably because you were both closer in age. At first in was nothing but platonic between you, though you never admitted you’d been pining on Arthur secretly since you were teenagers, your hormonal self having new and confusing feelings for him as he grew from a delinquent boy to an honourable man before your eyes. Even having watched the other have their first-loves and heartbreaks, he vaguely remembers when he caught on to that you were having relations with a young farm-boy in a near by ranch from where the gang had settled in for the time being.

He remembers a younger version of you - about 19 while Arthur in his early-twenties, sneaking back into your camp late hours in the evening, a love-sick smile plastered on your face as you’d go to your tent with an extra kick in your step. He remembers one night when he confronted you while he sat by the fire having a smoke, you’d shared the rest of the cigarette while you informed Arthur of the young man you’d been seeing, your voice full of hope and excitement, while he had an unkind feeling in his chest at the thought of you with another person.

The timing of those events were ones Arthur did not like to dwell on much, he’d been through his first ever dejected relationship, prepared to have his happily-ever-after with a young woman he’d met. Mary Gillis, you and the other members of the older and much smaller gang even meeting her on one occasion. He remembers the strain it had put on your friendship as he drifted away to spend more time with his lover, making things awkward for a while as you struggled to get over the heartache from the realisation that you and Arthur being anything more than close acquaintances was nothing but a fantasy in your naive-mind, you’d forced yourself to try and get over Arthur, busying yourself with various male company to try and fill the space in your heart - but alas, they were nothing more than a waste of time in the end - you’d scolded yourself for feeling so inappropriately towards someone who probably considered you as nothing more than a sister-type figure.

And admittedly that was all Arthur saw you as, at first. You had joined your colourful little family about a year after Arthur had been taken under Dutch and Hosea’s wing. You were a hungry street-kid who’d taken to petty thievery and pick-pocketing just to be able to get something to eat, your mother having passed from the scarlet-fever and your father spending the last couple months of his miserable life looking into the bottom of a bottle, leaving you orphaned around the age of 11. You’d come across the conmen sat at the bar in a rowdy saloon one evening- how you’d managed to sneak in without being caught by the bartender you were unsure of. A gold pocket watch with a pretty glint peeking outside the bottom of Hosea’s tailored-jacket, a pocket watch that your nimble hands had managed to unclasp from his inside pocket and managed to remain unrevealed, the savour of victory watering your mouth. That was until you were pulled backwards with a strong grip on your thin wrists, looking up to see both of the intimidating men staring down at you in a suspiciously calm manor.

Dutch had seen potential in you, he had an anarchistic vision of a world without government interference, a ""savage utopia" free from the intolerance of civilization. Dutch had convinced Hosea that they could find redemption from their sinful lives by robbing from the rich and giving to the poor, similar to the medieval tale of Robin Hood. He saw himself as a revolutionary and thought that if he could get a group of individuals who could resemble his ideas they could be an example to others who would follow their lead. They had saved you from what was surely a way to an early-grave, spending nights in the cold, alone, starving- not to mention whom may have been lurking the streets, finding vulnerability in a child such as yourself.

You had put up a cold exterior at first, your child-like innocence tainted, turning you into a ticking time bomb of bottled-up emotions from the trauma of losing your parents and living on the street. It reminded the pair of outlaws of how Arthur had acted when they first took him in, it angered them to how the modern world could be so critical, even to children. It pushed Dutch further to want to make his vision a reality.

That’s perhaps why the older boy was the first person to make you crack, he had been encouraging you to practice more on your reading- Hosea had been insistent on you learning to read and write just as he’d taught his other protege. You had snapped at Arthur about him leaving you alone and minding his business, going into a fit of rage over something so little before running off to a private area in the camp while you bawled your eyes out. Poor Arthur was flabbergasted at your outburst, and once you’d stormed away from him he didn’t hesitate to inform Hosea about how you’d acted, not to try and get you into any sort of trouble with the adults, but because he’d been in your shoes only a year prior, and knew how alone and frightening it was. And after a long and tear-filled conversation with Hosea’s wife, Bessie, and a sheepish apology to Arthur; you had gradually started to open yourself up more, and before they knew it.. the months had passed and you were the most charismatic child any of them had met. And in the following the years you’d blossomed into a smart, selfless, and beautiful young woman.

It was bizarre to Arthur that he remembered these things, being brought back to the present momentarily as he heard a creak from the floorboards outside the room, where Dutch and Hosea were lounging. He’d been tracing his finger absentmindedly along the pencil lines of your face, scoffing at himself in annoyance as he realised he’d smudged the lines slightly. Turning back a handful of pages he came across a couple of sketches of what appeared to be the elements of nature, a rough doodle of a small stream in the top corner of the worn paper, instantly recalling the scenery in his mind when he’d come across the water while on a hunting trip. On the page was also a drawing of a division of wild daisies, your favourite flower. Anytime Arthur would come across the delicate flowers he’d make sure to bring you back a small bundle of them, loving the way your face lit up at the sight of him carefully holding a hand-made bouquet of white daisies for you.

It sent him into his thoughts again, to when you were both a little older than in his last memory, the farm-boy long forgotten about and Mary Gillis a thing of the past. It would never have worked out between him and Mary, he’d come to accept that for many reasons, one being that their lives could never be compatible.. he, an outlaw, and her, a good girl from a higher-class family. Another being that he’d never get the approval from the woman’s said family. They’d talked about running away together, but one of the things stopping him- and another reason he couldn’t have been truly happy with her- was you.

He doesn’t remember the exact moment he knew he was sweet on you, concluding that it grew from an occasional intrusive thought to something that was right in front of his face, impossible to ignore. He remembers the night after the Van Der Linde gangs first ever bank robbery, himself, Dutch, you, and Hosea had successfully stolen five-thousand dollars, and planned on giving the majority of it to help out those in need per Dutch’s wishes. The gang had celebrated that night around camp, bottles of beer and cheap bourbon being consumed one after the other.

*ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄[next part written as if it were in the present]

Your head was fuzzy as you swayed your upper body slightly, moving along to the sweet tune playing from Dutch’s gramophone, you were situated around the campfire with the others, empty alcohol bottles scattered in the dirt around you. Perhaps you’d indulged on the liquor more than you should’ve, even having been scolded by Grimshaw about how you were going to be sick, and how it wouldn’t be tolerated if you tried to use your oncoming hangover as an excuse for getting out of chores the next day, her lecturing to the younger generation- which mostly was a very intoxicated Arthur and yourself- ceasing when being encouraged by Dutch to join everyone and have a drink, and that chores could wait.

You knew the reason why she’d become so harsh to everyone, the reason being perched on Dutch Van Der Linde’s lap. Annabelle was a very kind and caring woman, and it wasn’t a surprise that anyone she came across would be smitten by her. What was important to you was that Dutch was happy, and he obviously was with a beautiful soul like hers, you just wished that he hadn’t broken Susan’s own spirit when he ended their relationship. Mostly for the fact that recently the skin on your hands had been peeling like a snakes shedding from her constant hounding to doing the laundry of others, your hands being submerged in soapy water for hours at a time, you being the only other female in the camp meaning you were tasked with the more ‘womanly’ duties.

It was you out of Arthur and little John that she parented over the most when you were younger, insisting you acted like a lady, wore skirts and help make the camp as clean as an out-door living area could be. When Dutch and Hosea had started teaching you the ways of conning people, she had opinionated her thoughts about letting a woman indulge in such acts, now she herself was no saint when it came to committing petty crimes, but she didn’t attempt to hide her disapproval when you had begun wearing trousers more, and started carrying around a gun belt on your hips. Her social standards on ‘how a lady should be’ falling on deaf ears when it came to the others, Dutch and Hosea knew you weren’t made to be nothing more than a pretty girl who’s only aim in life were to please other men; they new you were destined for greater things, and Dutch knew you were exactly who he needed you to be to help with his revolution to ‘freedom’. And over-time, Miss Grimshaw’s bigot commentary came to a stop once you started contributing your own fair-share of money you’d worked for to the gangs donations.

That was something Arthur had always liked about you, the way you were so confident in who you were, claiming you ‘ain’t gonna accept a life you didn’t deserve’, which you were sure you would’ve got if you had just sat waiting and lookin’ pretty while a man put money on the table, yet you would still flaunt your elegant femininity a lot of the times, making Arthur sweat from how regal you looked when you’d flaunt your dresses you’d stolen acquired, you also never turned down an opportunity to dress up to fool the men in the saloon as another ‘America’s sweetheart’ kind of girl, posing as a distraction while the boys emptied as many of the drunkards pockets as they could.

On the subject of distractions, Arthur was trying his damned hardest not to openly ogle at you right now. You had played the part as a drunken harlot in your robbery, going into the bank before the others to put on a huge show of rambling about whatever nonsense you think of on the spot. And even though Arthur thought you were anything but a prostitute, you had definitely dressed the part.- not that he was complaining. - You were wearing a fitted Maude-coloured skirt and an off-white corset, even going the extra mile to not wear a blouse under the constricting top, the outfit would’ve gotten a lot of judging stares from other folk, but it was a very fitting costume to wear while playing the part of an intoxicated working girl. He was glad he could blame his flushed face on the booze as he discretely glanced over at you, your tight corset accentuated your chest in a way that made Arthur have to subtly cover his groin area to not give away the fact he was very aroused at the sight of you.

Everyone had taken a couple of minutes to listen to Hosea tell one of his tales about his life as a ‘degenerate’ before he met Dutch, the man seemingly having endless stories of his experiences that always left you on the edge of your seat.

“-So I robbed the poor bastard and left.” Hosea wheezed out a laugh, the others as well as yourself joining in as if it were the funniest thing you’d all heard in a millennium, the alcohol in your system making everything in the moment appear utterly hilarious. Hosea was telling you all about the time he met a feller at his camp in the wilderness, the drunkard claiming he was on the hunt for a centaur up in the mountains, rambling that he’d seen one over a decade ago and he’d been searching for it ever since- even having photographic evidence of the creature; Hosea had entertained him before the man inevitably passed out from the liquor, Hosea robbing what valuable belongings he had, even taking the photograph with him. “When i took a closer look at the picture… it was obviously a blurred photograph of a rancher sat on his horse. The picture taken at an angle, the fool said he’d even paid ten bucks just to keep the picture!” He chuckled before finishing the rest of his bottle.

You were all in good spirits as you reminisced over old times, remembering how embarrassed Arthur had gotten when Dutch brought up how he used to take baths with the gangs favourite member, Copper, the old canine resting near the fire, close by Arthur’s legs. You all bragged about how successful the day had gone, leading to Dutch giving one of his speeches about his Utopia, all of you nearly groaning when he stood from his chair and did the unspoken arm gesture that said he was going to be none stop talking for the next half-hour.

The whole time Dutch was speaking, you’re hazy eyes had wondered over to Arthur sat opposite you from across the campfire, his face bathed in an orange glow, your gaze locked onto the top of his shirt, his top few buttons undone to reveal the light dusting of dark chest hair that disappeared under his tight shirt, you protested internally at the fact his arms were covered by his jacket, hoping to ogle at the way you were certain the tight fabric would accentuate his biceps. His gorgeous face was directed towards Dutch, giving you a delicious view of his side-profile, his chiselled jawline making you wet your bottom lip slightly, you had lifted the bottle of rum to your lips and had been mid-swig when you glanced back up to watch his face properly.. your heart dropping when you realised he was side-eyeing you, catching you red-handed leering at him. You immediately lost control of your gag reflex as you started violently coughing, clutching your chest as you spluttered. Dutch had stopped speaking for a moment as everyone had directed their attention on you, Hosea had even leaned over from his stool to hit you on your back as an attempt to clear your airways, you managed to compose yourself a moment later, Hosea’s hand still patting your back which made you want to die in humiliation.

“M’fine..!” You rasped, holding your hands up to Hosea as he obviously hadn’t gotten the memo that his incessant back-hitting was unnecessary, you didn’t dare look up to Arthur, the awkward tension that everyone else hadn’t picked up on making you pray for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Where was I?” Dutch asked rhetorically with a chuckle, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand as you felt a blush creep up your neck, he opened his mouth to continue before another voice cut in.

“Has anyone seen John?” Annabelle questioned, making you all swivel around in your seats to scan the area of the camp as you all realised Marston had been gone for a suspicious amount of time. Then you remembered.

“Said he was goin’ for a piss ‘bout a quarter of an hour ago.” You sighed as you recalled how he had hobbled over to the trees surrounding camp, the senior members had allowed him to lightly indulge in your victory drinking, the boy clearly not being able to hold his liquor as he stumbled away after declaring he was going to do his business, without so much as a thought from the others. You stood from your seat on unstable legs, your head spinning for a moment. “Kid probably got lost in the woods. M’gonna go take a look..” you slurred and started walking slowly towards the tree line, everyone else humming in approval at your idea before going back to chattering and drinking with each other, you started to feel the cold bite of the air on your skin as moved further away from the radiating heat of the fire.

You glanced over your shoulder as you heard a pair of footsteps follow behind you, when you turned you saw Arthur moving to catch up with you. You gave him a questioning look.

“Shouldn’t be goin’ off inta’ the woods by yourself when you’re all boozed up.”

“You ain’t exactly sober, Mr Morgan.”

“Two drunks must be better then one, right?” He laughed before ungraciously grabbing a repeater that was placed on top of one of the crates you walked past.

“S’that really necessary?” You asked him sarcastically as you descended further into the trees, taking another sip from the bottle of rum that was clumsily swinging by your sides, walking further away from camp. You watched as he uncoordinatedly swung the strap of the gun over his shoulder.

“Kinda is when you’ve jus’ robbed five-thousand dollars from a bank an’ are on the run from the federal government, sweetheart.” He chuckled at his dry joke.

“Y’wouldn’t even be able to shoot the thing wit’ all the booze you been chucking back.” You replied messily with a grin as you pushed a tree branch out of the way of your face.

“Yer one to talk, an’ I’ll have you know I’m one of the best gunslingers in the west, sweetheart.” He said smugly, the pet-name sending a wave through your stomach.

“That’so?”

“Sure is.”

You both walked for a beat in a comfortable silence, forgetting while you were out here momentarily as the thought of being alone in the woods with Arthur started to ring in your head, sober-you would be scolding yourself right now to not do anything stupid. You were dragged out your drunken thoughts for a moment when you spotted white dots scattered along the dirt beneath you.

“Oh!” You gasped loudly, Arthur spinning around immediately, nearly falling on his ass as his impaired body seemed to take it’s time catching up with his brain-signals. Thinking something was wrong, he stared at you in confusion when he saw you crouched down to inspect the ground.

“Jesus, girl!” He sighed a breath of relief, his fuzzy mind immediately thinking to the possibility of danger outside the comfort of camp. “Don’ do that!”

“Look Arthur.” You ignored him, a child-like excitement in your tone as he moved closer to you, bending down slightly to see what you were looking at. “Daisies..” you carefully brushed your fingertip over the delicate petal, Arthur taking a moment to fawn over you, thinking you were absolutely adorable, “they’re my favourite.” You told him as you shot him a bright smile. He faltered for a moment at the way you looked up at him before shaking himself out of it and offering his palm out for you to take, your soft hand wrapping around his as he hauled you back up to your feet.

“Tha’s real cute, princess.” He mocked as you furrowed your brows at him, your mouth opening on it’s own accord.

“Stop with the names.” You said bluntly, he immediately tensed up at your words, instant regret filling him at the thought that he’d made you uncomfortable. “Don’ say ‘em if you don’t mean it..” you grumbled as you stepped onwards.

“Whatchu’ mean?”

“Y’know what i mean.”

“I do not, actually.” He let out a nervous laugh, maybe from the embarrassment of being scolded by you, or maybe from liquor going to his head, he didn’t know.

“Don’ say it if you ain’t gonna kiss me.” You explained as if it were obvious, your focus being more on trying to carefully step over tree roots rather than on the blushing giant behind you. He felt his heart pang at hearing the words leave your lips, oh how he’d very much like to kiss you.

“Do-“ he stuttered slightly. “-Do ya want me to kiss ya?” He asked, hopefulness in his chest. You just shrugged and moved onward, he cleared his suddenly-dry throat before he fell back into step behind you.

You started to feel the chill of dusk spread on your upper-back, the cold covering you like a blanket. Arthur had seen you visibly shiver and noticed the goosebumps forming on your smooth skin.

“Here, can’t have ya freezin’ to death on me.” You heard him rasp as a warmth suddenly draped over your shoulders, the scent of pine and tobacco filling your nose instantaneously, when you turn around you see Arthur looking down at you, an unreadable expression on his face as he pulls his jacket over your front more securely.

“Thanks.” You mumbled as you keep eye-contact, nearly getting lost in the beautiful blue of his irises, you’d never seen his eyes this up-close before. You weren’t more than thirty-steps away from camp, the light from the numerous fires still slightly lighting up Arthur’s face, you took your eyes off of him as you tilted your head upwards and took a considerate mouthful of your rum, the burning sensation didn’t even make itself known, your throat having been numbed hours ago when you’d first started partying. Unbeknownst to you, a small drop had escaped from the corner of your mouth, dribbling down your chin, Arthur’s eyes glued onto it as it tracked down the length of your neck, stopping directly on the top of your bust. He gawked for a moment before racking his brain for a reply.

“Don’ mention it, princess.”

“What I say, Morgan?”- you barely got your sentence out before Arthur’s face suddenly came to yours, his plush lips pressing against your own, you nearly squealed in surprise, Arthur’s heart was pounding in his ears as he barely moved further- waiting to see your reaction - and after your fuzzy mind processed what was happening you wasted no time reciprocating his tender kiss. Your brain going blank as he angled his head to the side so the brim of his hat wouldn’t knock into your head. His warm kisses quickly transition into a searing-passion as he pushed his tongue into your mouth, tasting the liquor and tobacco on him. It’s scorching, heavy. Sucking the soft mewls that stream from you as he meets them with his own, guttural groans. You collapse into pliability as he kisses – no, devours – you.

He manoeuvres your head, tilting it to the right, so he can push further onto you. It takes all that is in you to breathe, clinging desperately to the front of his shirt – for purchase, for plea – and relinquish all your control as his light stubble rubs your face raw. And you soon feel the weight of the tree behind you meet your back, thankfully his jacket was protecting your skin from the sharp pieces of bark sticking out the wood. His hands snake around your waist, palms spreading on the expanse of your back under his warm jacket. Your hands moving to lock themselves behind the nape of his neck, holding onto him as if he would disappear if you didn’t hold him tight enough.

He broke apart from your sticky mouth, ducking his head down to collect the liquid that was drying onto your flesh, his hot tongue starting at the top of your breast before trailing up the path of your neck as your crown hit the bark behind you; giving him better access as you sighed in bliss. A moment later his face was back at yours as he messily licked into your mouth, sharing the bitter taste of the rum that was on your skin.

Arthur didn’t know what had overcome him, he’d never kissed a woman like this - hell, not even a working girl at the saloon had received the passion he was giving you right now - he wanted to blame the booze on his confidence, but the clear answer was the pent-up frustration he felt of having waited so long to taste you.

“Shit!” You both heard a voice to your left, your intoxicated brains lacking the usually fast-response of hearing an unexpected noise. You made a messy attempt of untangling yourself from each other all while your foggy eyes adjusted to see whoever the hell had dared interrupted you, you’d clocked on that it was John as soon as his irritating laugh had filled your ears - suddenly remembering he was the whole reason you were even out here in the first place - dread filling your insides when you took in the severity of the situation.

You and Arthur had kissed.

You’d partaken in a very obscene make out session with Arthur Morgan.

And a fourteen-year old John Marston had just caught you practically licking each other’s faces off like a pair of cats.

Arthur quickly stepped away from you, as if your lingering-touch had burned him, he grumbled under his breath as you both realised you felt completely clear-headed, like you had not drank enough alcohol to satisfy a whole saloon. You stood there dumbfounded as John had finally started to compose himself, his hand outstretched to lean his weight on a tree as he caught his breath from his wheezing, as he angled his head down you started to notice the light trail of crimson falling into his brow, a mild-looking scratch of his forehead.

Arthur kept his head low, his face burning a furious red and not daring to look at you, he hid his face under the brim of his hat as he swiftly started moving away from you, wrapping the boys bicep in a firm but gentle grip, dragging him away from you and back towards the light of the camp. John was stumbling next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides as he started rambling to Arthur; something a long the lines of ‘bout’ damn time’ reached your ears.

You stood there for what seemed like a millenium, mouth agape as you were utterly dumbfounded, the alcohol infused thoughts slowly starting to seep in as you finally forced your feet to move you back to camp.

Kissing Arthur seemed like only a fantasy - a sweet day-dream as you lounged around camp on a hot summers day, that or either a steamy scenario while you touched yourself in the privacy of your tent late at night.- never you would’ve thought you would actually be able to taste him, or that he would want to even indulge in you like that.

A million questions raced through your mind - what does this mean? What do you do now? Do you go and find him? Does he already regret it? - you finally stumbled back into the clearing of your camp, hearing the slopping singing of your fellow gang members as they continued in their celebrating, unaware of the heavy randevu you and Arthur had just had in the middle of the woods.

You looked around the camp as quick as your delayed thought-process would let you, not seeing the cowboy anywhere, instead you got a glimpse of John sat on a chair as Susan scolded him, dabbing a rag to his bleeding head as he slurred excuses, she was also berating some of the senior members for letting the boy partake in some little alcohol consumption in the first place.

The last thing you wanted was the join the others again and forget about what just happened, you quietly made your way back to your tent, shutting the world out behind the flaps of the canopy. You didn’t feel as joyous as you did when the night first started, the adrenaline of the robbery you’d succeeded in had long worn off. You so wanted to enjoy the giddy school-girl feeling at the fact you’d kissed your long-term attachment, but the fact that Arthur had so quickly ran-off and wasn’t even waiting for you back at camp plagued your thoughts with doubts and insecurities you did not want to have to deal with right now.

You wondered if he was in his own tent, thinking the same things as you - or was he just hiding from you as he was embarrassed of himself for stupidly kissing you.

He did kiss you. He initiated the kiss, that had to mean something, right? - that little bit of hopefulness made a small smile twitch your lips as you laid down on your cot, bringing your fingertips to brush against your lips as you couldn’t get it out your mind the way his felt against yours.

It surprisingly didn’t take you long to fall asleep, chalking it up the alcohol you’d drank, you felt like you weren’t even asleep for that long, in a satisfying and dreamless slumber.

“Come on, git!” The jarring voice rattled your brain as your eyes snapped open, and unluckily where you were laid meant a very bright and harsh sunbeam lasered directly onto your cornea. You sat up quickly as the very snappy voice of Miss Grimshaw continued ringing in your ears, your head immediately screaming at you as you sat upright on your cot. “What did I tell you last night? It’s only you that’s gon’ regret drinkin’ so much! Now get up and get to work, this camp ain’t gonna run itself!” She all but screamed at you, you groaned as you squinted your eyes, rubbing the sockets with your palms until you begun to see stars. You finally heard Susan’s footsteps depart with the harsh sound of your tent flaps whooshing back and worth - as they’d probably been yanked by the wench to empathise her desire for you to get up.

You slowly removed your hands from your face, luckily the fabric of your tent dimmed the morning sunlight from your sensitive eyes, you sat there for a moment as you contemplated with yourself whether you felt like you needed to hurl or not, the ‘yes’ side becoming more tempting as the events of last nights flooded your brain like a tsunami; the embarrassment you felt made you want to get taken away by the current of your figurative wave.

It wasn’t embarrassment that you had kissed Arthur - No, you’d be fooling no one if you said it was something you didn’t want to happen - but the fact that now you had to somehow face him when you were very unclear about how he felt on the situation - that’s if he even remembered it considering he was just as boozed up as you had been.

You decided you couldn’t sit there forever, and you were dreading the thought of Miss Grimshaw returning to inevitably strangle you for not getting up. You forced yourself to dress into more comfortable clothes, feeling the relief of removing the tight corset - as you’d forgotten to take it off before sleeping.

You had to give yourself a moment when you finally stood up straight, your thick head battling with your every move, you then begun to search for your hat, in hopes of the brim blocking any bright light from directly hitting you in the eyes. But your hand froze as you went to lift it from the small table you kept by your cot. Next to it was a small heap of white and green.

Daises..

A little bundle of daisies sat on top of the table surface, and under closer inspection you could see they’d been tightly -but very carefully - wrapped together with a small piece of old ribbon, a messy attempt at a bow holding the flowers together. You picked them up slowly and tentatively, acting as if they were fine glass that would shatter as any firmer hold.

You felt your heart warming and tears begin to fill your dry eyes as you brought the plants to your face, the soft and cool petals tickling your cheeks and the tip of your nose as you inhaled the sweet scent of them.

You were grinning like an idiot, your cheeks aching from how big your smile was, a million different questions suddenly all had an answer to them.. an answer you’d waited over half-a decade to hear. And suddenly no doubts played in your mind, even the hangover you were feeling had washed away as you wasted no more time to exit your tent, the bright sun not even phasing you as you walked with an extra skip in your step, determined to find Arthur, the daises still held securely to your chest.

*ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄ *ೃ༄

Arthur shut his journal, as much as he’d love nothing more than to sit and recollect over the times that made you both into the people that you are, and who you were together, he knew he had things to do. You were already up and out of the cabin, helping the girls with chores, he wanted to go and find you just to see your sweet face, but he remembered that he needed to go and see Pearson on how you were running on food, and that meant he’d probably be spending his day out hunting for game.

Alas, he figured he could continue his memories later on -hopefully with you curled into his side as you both laughed and pined over the fond memories you had- and with that he got up and prepared to venture out into the snow.

———————

A/N: i ending up getting too carried away with the past, it was meant to be a quick flashback but I enjoyed coming up with the beginning of Arthur and readers love story wayyy too much lol

Btw here’s an edit I made before, it’s also on my tiktok - @ang31.cc

Go follow me ^^

Xxx

I have no idea why it’s so off beat in here 😑

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan smut #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews

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mykneeshurt · 1 year

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Mister Morgan - Chapter 3

Arthur Morgan x F!reader

All warnings are on the title page

Chapter four

Ascending the steps to return to your tent you poked you head out of the heavy cellar doors, and heard the distant voices of the final watch changing over. All clear. You ran over to your tent and sat down on the cot, adrenaline still coursing through your body. You knew what you needed to do, there was a meadow close by which had California Poppies growing, and these were known for their sedative properties.

But how to get to them? It was still early morning, nowhere in Strawberry would be open yet, you kept yourself busy till mid-morning doing the usual chores around camp.

“Colm?” you asked standing outside his tent, “I need to go to Strawberry. I need more first aid supplies. I shouldn’t be too long.”

Colm opened the flap on his tent and poked his head out, he looked at you up and down, “fine, you got one hour. Any longer I’m sendin’ Tom out to find yah” he huffed before he returned into his tent.

Perfect. You didn’t need any supplies you had enough, but you hid some of them in case anyone went in your tent. You got ready to leave, before grabbing your satchel and volcanic pistol before placing your knife in your boot.

You strolled up to your horse Taliesin, a jet-black Shire horse, he was your fathers, the O’Driscolls letting you keep him was the only respectable thing they did. As you climbed onto your saddle Taliesin let out a huff and a whinny. “I know boy, it’s been a while since we been out. Let’s go.” You tapped the side of the magnificent beast with your heeled boots and set off to the meadow.

You let Taliesin go wild, letting him gallop to his heart’s content, he weaved in and out of trees on the dirt path before you. The summer air blew against your face, the midday sun shone on your back, you could smell the fresh grass, you felt … free.

Colm didn’t let you leave camp much, the last time you left would have easily been over three months ago. Easy to go stir crazy in camp. Just before the meadow there was a cliff you loved to visit looking over to West Elizabeth and the Upper Montana River. As you approached the cliff you pulled back on the reigns to bring Taliesin to a halt, you didn’t have too long to stop and take in the view, but a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.

You breathed in the fresh coast air, letting it fill your lungs completely. Were you really going to do this? What happened if it didn’t work? What if they caught you? What if they killed Arthur? He was your way out. You felt a sharp pain in your shoulder, a brutal reminder of your last escape attempt a year prior. A large scar covered your shoulder from where Colm drove a knife into it as punishment, from which you still hadn’t fully healed. Make no mistake though, you could still handle yourself if you needed too.

You clicked at Taliesin to continue onward to the meadow. He obliged whinnying as he thrusted into a full gallop. You let out a giggle, for a huge work horse he didn’t half think he was a racehorse.

When you got to the meadow you let the gigantic Shire horse graze as you picked the poppies, one full flower for each of the bastards should be enough to knock them out for a few hours while you escaped. One, two, three, four … you kept picking until you had enough, twelve should be fine you thought to yourself, you were going to drug their evening meal and wait till they were sleeping to make your exit. Sitting on the fresh summer grass letting the heat take you.

Your mind drifted back to the way Arthur looked at you, the way he blushed when you caught him looking, how soft his skin was. You sighed. You were engaged once, to a local blacksmith, he was a good man, boring, but a good man. Albert was his name. Sadly, he was killed when he was caught in the middle of a brawl in the Valentine Saloon, he tried dispersing a fight but ended up getting shot in the process.

You longed to have a connection with someone, the O’Driscoll boys treated you like a piece of meat, making comments and whistling at you as you completed chores. Colm too, he arguably treated you the worst, the beatings, the unwanted kissing, you felt like you were on constant eggshells around him.

Being in that emotional turmoil was exhausting, your mind flashed back to when he forced himself upon you, the shame and guilt you felt afterwards. You knew it wasn’t your fault, but it didn’t help those feelings consuming you. You wiped a solitary tear from your face, you had a plan, a plan to get away from them. To get away from him.

As you approached camp you smoothed Taliesin “we’ll get out of here tonight boy, I promise. You’re coming with me.” You hitched him to the post and made sure to have some bottles and bandages in your hand to quash any doubts the gang had about your whereabouts. Running to your tent you put the bottles back in their places and hid the flowers in some folded up clothes. You usually had a small amount of free time in the afternoon which you usually spent re-reading some of the books you’ve managed to find or sewing your clothes. Today you used it wisely and packed some clothes into a small cloth bag ready to tie on Taliesin, you made a few inconspicuous trips to fill your saddle bags with medicine and spare ammo just in case.

“Colm? I’m just going down to see if Arthur’s bandages need changing. I’ll be right back up.” Colm was in the main tent planning their next move, “Fine, Daniel go stand at the top, make sure no funny business is goin’ on.” Shit. This wasn’t ideal you thought, but you didn’t need long.

Daniel opened the cellar doors and light filled the damp musty room, Arthur was still tied to the chair, he squinted up at the stairs, the sunlight bouncing off every detail on his face. “Make it quick” Daniel ordered. You threw him a look and walked down the steps.

“I’m just coming to look at your wound Arthur” you said loudly making sure Daniel heard you. You set your bottles and bandages on the side and walked over to him, as you touched his shoulder a spark of electricity flowed through you. Did he feel it too? You looked over to him shyly smiling behind the strands of hair that framed your face.

When you removed the bandage he winced and grimaced in pain, the skin looked good, it was pink and healthy nothing to worry about. You threw some vodka over your hands before soaking a rag to clean the wound, “brace yourself” you warned. He smiled and braced himself. You used this opportunity to get close to him, you brought your face inches from his ear and whispered, “we’re getting out tonight, I’ll come and get you.”

Just as you finished the sentence you pressed the vodka-soaked rag on his skin, he let out a moan as he looked up at you, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. You’re pretty sure your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll be ready, thank you darlin’” Arthur whispered with a wink. You quickly bandaged up his shoulder and gathered your items before leaving, smiling of your shoulder before you left.

The next few hours you spent busying yourself making the stew, cutting up the vegetables, game meat, adding herbs and most importantly adding the poppies (not before you put your own serving aside). Night fell quickly, the O’Driscolls lined up to get the stew from you, dishing it out with the fakest smile you could muster plastered over your face.

The last one to get any was Tom, “looks funny to me, sure you ain put nothin’ in it?” he asked. You looked at Tom straight in the face “just some new spices I saw in Strawberry Tom, couldn’t wait to try it out” you reply. He scowled at you as he walked away, out of all the gang Tom distrusted you the most. Thought you were a waste of space. You collected the dishes and washed them patiently waiting for them to fall into a slumber. One by one they succumbed to the Poppy’s will, unable to keep their eyes open. This was it.

Scurrying round the camp you double checked they were all knocked out. You flung open the cellar doors and sprinted down the steps two at a time. You looked at Arthur with a twinkle in your eye “let’s go cowboy” you said filled with excitement.

As you walked around the chair you pulled your knife from your boot and sliced the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. “Damn girl” he sounded surprised you managed to pull this off. You grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs, when you set foot on the top step you were tackled to the floor, the breath knocked out of you.

“You bitch! I knew you were up to somethin’! I’ll fucking kill you!” a voice screamed in your face. As you pulled your head up off the floor the moon light illuminated your assailant. Tom. That fat necked fuck, of course it was him. Arthur charged out of the cellar and took him to the floor in an almighty thud, Tom managed to get a lucky punch in Arthur’s stomach which winded him, his sights set back on you he darted over to you and used all his bodyweight to slam you into the floor. Arthur yelled at the top of his voice, unsure if you were conscious.

The two of you thrashed around on the floor, but you managed to get on top, pinning his shoulders into the floor incapacitating him. “I’m gonna make sure this hurts Tom, I’m gonna make you beg me for your pathetic life. I’m gonna enjoy this.” You snatched the knife from your boot and slowly pushed it into his heart, enjoying the resistance you felt, you drove it deeper and deeper. Gurgling sounds escaped his throat “shhh” you cooed at him “give in Tom.” You pushed the knife deeper and deeper, the life slowly drained from his eyes until there was silence.

You felt Arthurs presence behind you. He put his arm on your back “are you alright darlin’?” Guiding you up he turned you to look at him, your face and neck covered in thick deep red blood. You locked eyes with him, a smirk broke out across your lips “I’m fine Arthur. Shall we?”

You led him to Taliesin and he helped you up into the saddle, not that you needed it. He sat behind you and placed his hands around your waist, you felt his firm chest pressing against your back. His beating heart thumped against you. Clicking at your horse he started to move, “lead the way Arthur” you said quietly. His hands pulled you in tight to him, “that way.”

——-

Is this actually any good? 😂😭 I can’t believe I wrote this Jan 2021

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

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mathlann · 10 months

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10 characters | 10 fandoms | 10 a negotiable number of tags

Tagged by @poetikat! Thank you!

1. Selina Kyle/Catwoman- DC. One of my oldest faves, even if I don't talk about her much on here. Something is happening in Gotham City? Is Catwoman going to be there? If not, then I don't care! It's rare that a Batman writer can be normal about her but I'd rather suffer through badly written Selina than no Selina (and God have I suffered).

2. Matilda- The Monk: A Romance. One of the best villains I've read this year, I adored every page she was on! The scheming! The seduction! The audacity! She worked hard for her place in Hell and I hope Satan gave her a promotion!

3. Yennefer of Vengerberg- The Witcher 3. Ever since Geralt showed up Skellige and she gave him those party outfits knowing damn well she wasn't going to like either one of them... I loved her. I immediately got back on the boat to find the right merchant to buy the correct outfit so we could coordinate. Never made the same mistake again.

4. Arthur Morgan- Red Dead Redemption 2. My sweet cowboy! He was awful at crime and riding horses but I kept him clean, fed, and dressed in the finest Cowboy Gucci 1899 money could buy. He rode his white mare off to the Big Train Job in the Sky years ago and I still can't finish the epilogue because I miss him too much.

5. Daeran Arendae- Wrath of the Righteous. Every blessing in his life has turned out to be a curse and he deals with that by being just ....the pettiest asshole. He actively makes my KC a worse person by association but he is never allowed to leave my party. To avoid a dissertation level essay....I just think he's neat!

6. Aloth Corfiser- Pillars of Eternity 1 and 2. My favorite Team Nerd. This elf has never met a crack in the ground too small to dramatically hurt himself on, but also is regularly one of the last ones standing during boss fights. He hates me in Deadfire as of now but his general wizardly wimpiness is so endearing I can't be mad about it.

7. Alicent Hightower- House of the Dragon. Owner of the biggest, saddest eyes in Westeros. She should have been allowed to kill that old man. I wanted her to kill that old man so badly.

8. Maeve Millay- Westworld. Her and Hector altered my brain chemistry for a straight month back in 2021 (their intro! The tent scene!). That show did not do her right because Maeve should've been the special main character android rather than Dolores. The whole narrative ~bullshit~ just makes more sense if it was Maeve. I said it then, I say it now, and I'll be saying it again on my deathbed.

9. Johnny Gat- Saint's Row II. Johnny, my best friend Johnny! He never stops criticizing my Boss's driving but I take him everywhere all the same. Accidentally launched him out the front of a car so bad he didn't come back for what felt like a week. I thought I'd killed him for real and was devastated! Saints Row III is so boring without him.

10. Morrigan- Dragon Age Origins. Still one of my favorite video game character arcs. Platonically. Romantically. To me, she can do no wrong.

If y'all are up to it! Tagging @babeoffrontiers @neocores @feluka @bhaelspawn @gojuo or anyone who wants to!

#tag games #that was so hard omg

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nizzysam · 2 years

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Them Bones

A huge thank you to the lovely @the--end-is--nigh for beta-reading this fic <3

This fanfiction was inspired by @i-can-even-burn-salad who wrote this prompt.

Rating: Mature (for blood and injury)

Pairing: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan

Tags: Soft Micah Bell, Micah Bell Whump, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Bickering, Vulnerable Micah Bell, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, POV Arthur Morgan, Fever Dreams, Men Crying, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Just a kissy kiss, Fluff

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fear of Death, Emotional Hurt, Crying

Summary: Micah nearly bleeds out at Clemens Point after returning from an ill-fated scouting trip. That night he tells Arthur about a dream he had and about a fear he has.

Snippet: "Talk to me. What happened?" Micah didn't answer. This was concerning in more ways than one. Micah always had something to say. His silence, coupled with his current condition, did not bode well for him. Micah's eyes wandered restlessly from one point to another and never again met Arthur's. It was a matter of waiting for the cure to kick in.

AO3 LINK - or read under the cut!

Arthur loved the mornings at Clemens Point. Except for the guards on duty, he always woke up before everyone else, poured his coffee, and walked along the shore of the Lake. The birds sang, the water swayed, and no one spoke. In front of the camp, on the other side of Flat Iron Lake, Blackwater loomed menacingly, reminding him of the failure and all those lives lost.

He stood sipping his lukewarm coffee and gazing at the small islands stretching out in front of him, inhabited by critters he enjoyed watching with his binoculars. Arthur loved animals, quiet mornings, and the first sunshine that shone on his face without burning him. In those moments, he had time to breathe, close his eyes and try to think about something other than money. It was difficult, but sometimes he managed to get Dutch's voice and the memory of Blackwater out of his head.

He could not make out the outline of Blackwater, but he knew that in that direction, behind trees and water, someone was looking for them. The Van Der Linde gang, dead or alive. Preferably alive, at worst dead.

He breathed deeply and took a sip of coffee. The others would soon wake up, and the time would come to work.

After emptying his cup and placing it back in the wash bin for whoever handled the dishes, he decided to feed the horses. He greeted Lenny, who was on guard just ahead. That boy would go far, Arthur knew it.

Arthur laid the hay down among the spare horses at the very beginning of camp. Old Belle was also hanging around there. He watched the horses eat for a few minutes, sitting on the rock beside the fire. The sunlight hit their coats just the right way for him to draw them. The light was great, the others were asleep, and he was in no hurry. It was time to take out the journal and draw. And so he did, focusing on Old Belle in particular. He had always found her uniquely beautiful.

He was adding the final touches to the page when suddenly he heard a neighing in the distance. He looked up from the journal and saw Baylock trotting toward him. As he joined the other horses, Arthur saw a streak of blood on the side of the saddle. The horse looked healthy. Micah left camp the day before to go scouting, but there was no sign of him.

Arthur put the journal back in the satchel and stood on the rock. Something shimmered in the trees. He checked more carefully with his binoculars before heading toward the suspicious area. There he saw the side silhouette of a man sitting on the ground, back against the tree. The gleaming was his holstered gun. White hat, blond hair, black jacket. Micah. He looked closer; he was moving his hand.

A bloody sight lay before him when he finally reached the man. He had expected it given the blood on Baylock's saddle, but he did not expect Micah to be in such a sorry shape. Arthur crouched in front of him and quickly assessed the other man's injuries.

A bullet in his arm with an exit wound, given the blood dripping down his hand. Micah had bandaged the wound with what looked like a torn shirt. Torn off of whom didn't matter. He had a black eye and a cut on his cheekbone that no longer bled, a gash on his lower lip, and a bruise on his jaw that extended to his neck.

Arthur pulled out an open health cure from the satchel and helped Micah drink it by bringing the bottle to his lips. The two had not yet exchanged a word, not even when their eyes met. Arthur held the vial tilted to Micah's lips until it was empty. Then Arthur gently took the injured arm and lifted it to slow down the bleeding. Micah groaned briefly but didn't object.

"Talk to me. What happened?"

Micah didn't answer. This was concerning in more ways than one. Micah always had something to say. His silence, coupled with his current condition, did not bode well for him. Micah's eyes wandered restlessly from one point to another and never again met Arthur's. It was a matter of waiting for the cure to kick in.

Arthur called out to Lenny, and together they carried Micah into the camp. The commotion woke up the others, and they rushed over to see what was happening.

"What is it now?" the sleepy, annoyed voice of Dutch broke out from the tent. When he realized what was happening, he ordered to put Micah on Arthur's bed. "He can't stay on the floor now, can he?"

So Arthur and Lenny laid Micah on Arthur's cot, and Micah lost consciousness as soon as he touched the soft surface of the mat.

“What happened?”

“He ain’t tell me nothing, Dutch. Didn’t speak at all.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Yeah.”

“Search the area in case he was followed.”

“Sure.”

As instructed, Arthur mounted his bay horse and searched the area around camp. He made several rounds and went into the trees to scout out possible campsites. He found no signs of life. Three corpses were scattered in the underbrush a few miles away from camp. O'Driscolls. Judging by the accuracy of the shots, it looked like Micah's work.

---

"Dead O'Driscolls far ahead. Guess that's it."

"Good job, Arthur," said Dutch.

"How's he doing?"

"Miss Grimshaw says he's going to be fine. He's breathing."

Miss Grimshaw and Swanson had already cauterized the wound on Micah's arm and were now talking at the foot of the bed. Arthur could not make out the words.

---

That evening, around the fire, Karen took to drinking and singing as usual. Suddenly, she stopped and in a serious tone said: “Y’know what? Good riddance. He deserves to die.”

“The cheek on you, girl,” said Susan who was walking past the fire just then.

“Why? ‘Cause I say what everyone’s thinking?”

“Everyone here thinks you’re a drunk, Miss.”

“And everyone’s saying it alright. It’s a free country.”

Arthur turned his head back toward his tent where Micah had been sleeping for hours now.

“Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

“It’s a free country, Karen,” he said as he stood up.

“That’s right!”

---

He wouldn't be sleeping in his bed that night, and he was fine with it. It wasn't the first time he had slept in a sleeping bag. So he lit a cigarette and smoked it on the dock. Watching the horizon darken and the trees become increasingly blurred. The water below him had a gloomy charm. It looked like a black hole ready to swallow him. Yet Arthur knew that the water would not even reach his chest at that distance from the shore. The mind plays funny tricks at night.

He stood contemplating his thoughts in the midnight landscape for a few minutes and got the urge to have another cigarette. He searched his satchel and his trouser pockets but found only the empty pack he had finished earlier. Eventually, he remembered he had two packs on the table near his tent.

There was no one there to check on Micah, who still seemed to be asleep. It was the first time he had seen him sleeping. His face had no expression; it was relaxed and almost smiling. At least that was how it seemed to Arthur. He could not be sure of it because of that thick blond mustache. He caught himself observing the man's features and found them to be soft in their sharpness. The curve of the forehead descending to outline a straight nose dappled with occasional sunspots. As did the cheeks, the high cheekbones, and the tired skin under the eyes. The scar cutting down his chin would find company in the one that would grow on his cheekbone.

Arthur realized too late that Micah had opened his eyes and was looking at him. He pretended nothing had happened and grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the table.

“I came to take this. Go back to sleep.”

“I stole your bed.”

“It’s alright.”

“Is Dutch mad?”

“He ain’t.”

“Alright.”

“You should go back to sleep, Micah.”

“I had a dream.”

Arthur opened the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. He lit it and took a long puff. He did not move, Micah's tone suggested that he wanted to talk about that dream he had. He didn't know if it was a good idea to let him talk, but he knew it was a good sign he wanted to. With a cigarette between his lips, Arthur took the chair and sat down next to Micah.

“I dreamed you gave me a health cure and picked me up.”

“That happened for real.”

“Did it?”

“Sure did.”

“Then I was in this black hole. Down in this pit. I looked up and no one was there. I called for my daddy and he looked down at me and left. Called for Dutch, looked down at me. Left. Tried to climb up, get out for myself. The damn walls crumbled on me.”

Micah's voice was slow and sounded distant. He was still lost in that dream. Arthur could tell by the way Micah was recounting it and by the slight swaying of his head. Now Micah was staring at something above him. Arthur realized he was becoming agitated.

“You’re here now. Wasn’t but a dream.”

“I guess. Baylock?”

“He’s here, he’s alright.”

“Good.”

“What happened?”

Micah coughed. “O’Driscolls got me real good this time.”

“Saw a few dead O’Driscolls up ahead. Guessed that was you.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“A bastard got away, then.”

“Ain’t a problem. You scared him off real good.”

There was a moment of silence. Arthur finished his cigarette and seeing Micah was settling down, he decided to stand up. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “Please, Arthur.”

There was a tremor in Micah's voice. A vulnerability he had never before heard in his voice. Arthur looked at him, and even his blue eyes begged not to be left alone. Arthur simply couldn't leave. He cleared his throat and sat back down, unsure of how to react to that plea.

The cut on his cheekbone had started bleeding again. Without a second thought, Arthur took the piece of cloth Miss Grimshaw had left nearby and brought it close to Micah's cheek. The cloth quickly soaked up the blood. Below him, Micah avoided his gaze by looking to the side. Arthur applied more pressure to the wound, just enough to buffer the bleeding. He noticed that a strand of hair was trapped between the cloth and Micah's cheek, creeping into the wound. This couldn't be good for the healing process. With his other hand, Arthur moved the strand of hair away from the cut and brushed his fingers against Micah’s forehead. Micah gasped at the touch so much so that Arthur feared he had unintentionally hurt him.

"Didn't mean to."

Micah didn't answer. His head turned even further.

"Micah?"

Micah's chest was not moving. Arthur had to lean forward in search of his gaze. Concerned by the absence of breathing, he immediately brought a hand to his chest. Micah's heart was pounding erratically. In leaning forward, he noticed that Micah's eyes were closed. He lightly shook him, hand still on his chest. Then Micah exhaled at length. He was holding his breath.

Arthur tried to find something to say but couldn't come up with anything worth saying. Micah broke into sobs, his head still turned. Arthur felt something hard and sharp in his stomach. He tried to lift his hand from Micah's chest, but Micah blocked him and squeezed his hand tightly.

“I feel so alone.”

Arthur could fully understand that feeling. He squeezed Micah's hand back. It was then that Micah looked up at him. His eyes were red and full of tears. Arthur shook his head in disbelief. That weight in his stomach spread to his chest, crushing him under a boulder of misery. He wondered what Micah had been through. He still did not know what to answer. He couldn't tell Micah that he was lonely, too; it didn't seem right. He merely looked at him with a furrowed brow, powerless.

“I’m gonna end up in the pit. Gonna be a big pile of bones.”

“Ain’t your time to die.”

“Should’ve called for you.”

“What you mean?”

“In the dream. Should’ve called for you. You’d come, help me out.”

Arthur wasn't sure about it. That realization made him shut his eyes and lower his head. Micah started sobbing again. Arthur felt terrible. Then Micah let go of his hand. Arthur squeezed tighter.

“I feel alone too.”

“Then we’re both down the pit.”

“I guess so.”

Micah's cheek started bleeding again. With the free hand, Arthur took the cloth and held it on the cut. Micah pushed his cheek on Arthur's hand and closed his eyes.

It was sweet and innocent. Micah started holding his hand again. That weight Arthur felt on his chest grew warmer. He looked at Micah as he did while he was sleeping earlier. But now his face was streaked with tears, and Arthur realized that all he wanted was to ease his pain. If holding him like that was the way to do it, he would do it.

Then Micah opened his eyes and immediately met Arthur's. And Micah smiled slightly, perhaps without realizing it. This time his blond mustache couldn’t hide what was in all respects a smile.

With one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest, Arthur couldn't have been closer to Micah. Yet he pictured himself closer. Arthur shifted his gaze between Micah's eyes, unable to focus. He slightly moved his face forward, and Micah did the same. Arthur paused to take in the other's reaction. And he smiled. Their noses brushed and Arthur placed a kiss on Micah's broken lips.

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #micah bell #whump #arthur morgan #morbell #first kiss #emotional hurt/comfort #dialogue heavy #fear of death #fluff #nizzyfic

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lets-all-calm-down-a-bit · 2 years

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Magic of the Mundane

I wanted to post this because even though it’s not Christmas, these two are tearing me to pieces and I needed an outlet. Also I wanted to add a nice fluffy fic to the pile of sad or sexual ones. I’ve never done this before so please be patient.

Summary: Merlin comes home on Christmas Eve to Arthur waiting for him

Warnings: Some mild cursing but that is it.

Words: 1217

It was Christmas Eve, and Merlin was feeling like horse dung. He did every year when this day came around. The day Arthur died.

He’d waited centuries for Arthur to come back to him, and 3 years ago, he did. Exactly 3 years ago. Pretty on the nose to send Arthur back on the day he died, right? But Merlin wasn't complaining. He had him back, Gods he had him back and it felt so good.

But Merlin couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had. Arthur was back, but he had left so easily. What if some higher power decided it was time for the story to come full circle, and Arthur would die once again? No. Even if Merlin got him back on this day, he would not forget this was the day he lost him. He will never forget.

As people chattered with their families and friends in front of brightly lit shops of red and green, Merlin shuffled past at a brisk pace, brushing snow from his hair to no avail. The thick blanket of shiny white crunched under his boots as he made his way back to his home. Their home. He let out a huff of warm air and watched as his breath became a white cloud in the cold winter sky. He let out a slight smile. Now that was magic. The earth was astounding in so many ways, and he wasn't about to forget it.

When Merlin finally turned down the winding gravel road that lead home, he was beginning to feel tired, lonely, and not at all fond of the cold weather. A freezing, wet, stinging sensation met his head as slightly melted snow dripped from the canopy of bare branches above him. He cursed and muttered a quick incantation to melt it off.

“This bloody weather wouldn't be so bad if Arthur would get his fat arse up and come with me,” He thought, but he didn't mean it. In fact, Arthur had offered to come with him, but Merlin had insisted on him staying home, worried he might catch something and be taken away again.

Once he reached the end of the gravel path and was thoroughly soaked, he made it home. The house wasn’t small, but it wasn't too big either. Perfect for two, and maybe a guest every once in a while. It was sturdy, with stone walls, and charming, with a moss-covered roof and window boxes with flowers. Of course, there were no flowers right now, but you should see them in spring—the garden surrounding the house combined with the vibrant window boxes made for a beautiful sight. Merlin built the house himself.

He stomped the snow from his boots on the doormat and turned the brass knob, sighing as the warm air his face. Quickly he stumbled inside, taking off his boots and placing them by the door. Reaching up to hang his coat, he lifted his voice enough to be heard around the house.

“Arthur, I’m home!” He called, walking toward the living room, shivering. Arthur was sitting in an overly extravagant red armchair next to the fire, looking up at Merlin with reading glasses on and a book in hand.

“Well, you don't have to shout, Mer-lin. I heard you come through the door with all your stomping and carrying on.” He drawled, placing a bookmark in between the pages and snapping the book shut. Merlin rolled his eyes, but internally breathed a sigh of relief. He was here. He was ok. He was still a prat, but he was ok.

“What have you been reading? I'm scared for you, your brain might just burst if you force it to do something so out of its comfort zone.” Merlin quipped, sitting on the arm of the chair and peering over at the cover. Arthur scoffed and shoved him away, holding the book out of reach and hiding the cover from his sight.

“It’s a nice book called none of your damn business, Merlin. I think you could have a lot to learn from it. I should give it to you when I'm finished.” He retorted, concealing it beneath a pillow at his side. Merlin let out a frustrated puff and plopped down on the couch.

“Fine then. Keep your secrets. I’ve just been freezing my arse off outside trying to find milk while there's a shortage. Didn't even find any, by the way, the shelves were empty. I went all the way out there just for nothing, and you won't even tell me what’s on your current reading list.”

Arthur’s eyes softened, and he reached out for Merlin’s hand. Despite his best efforts to suppress a smile, it played on the corners of Merlin’s lips.

“Oh, you know it’s not like that. I’m just planning something, that’s all. You’ll find out in due time, you mad old man.” Arthur said fondly. It turned out that knowing just how to rub Merlin the wrong way resulted in the eventual easy knowledge of how to do it right. Merlin relented and grinned, squeezing his hand and watching the way the light from the fire flickered and reflected on Arthur’s golden hair, giving the impression of a halo, or a crown. Or magic. Merlin thought, moving his thumb back and forth over Arthur’s. He sighed.

“Why don't you come over here? I’m cold and it's uncomfortable holding hands over the coffee table.” He murmured, giving Arthur that half-goofy, half-unbearably mushy grin that he can never bring himself to refuse. After a moment of apparent contemplation and a quick fight between reluctance and exasperation, he gave in and got up, settling down next to Merlin on the small couch. Merlin laid his head on Arthur's shoulder and looked up at him with an expression so warm he thought for a moment he could see the slight gold to his eyes that appears when he does magic. Arthur blinked and realized it was a reflection of the firelight. Regardless, it was beautiful. He was beautiful. He closed his eyes and felt the soothing repetition of Merlin brushing his thumb over his own, taking in the moment.

“You know, your eyes are breathtaking when you do magic. It's like sparks of reflected firelight.” He whispered, feeling Merlin press a kiss to his temple and catching his breath. He’s had 2 years to get used to being touched, to being loved in such a sincere way. But the tenderness of it still catches him off guard. To think that a man such as Merlin could love him after everything he's done was unfathomable. He slowly breathed out as Merlin pressed gentle kisses in the corner of his mouth, on his forehead, and on the bridge of his nose. He was loved. He was loved.

Merlin echoed his thoughts aloud as if he had known what he was thinking. “You are loved, Arthur. You deserve love.”

Arthur shivered and tightened his grip on Merlin’s hand. “I-I know. Don't be daft.” He muttered painfully. Merlin traced Arthurs's face with his free hand, cradling his cheek and pressing another soft kiss between his drawn-together brows.

“Thank you for coming back,” Merlin whispered, his voice wavering. Arthur let his mind slip away, and replied before surrendering to sleep,

“Thank you for waiting.”

#merlin/arthur #arthur/merlin #merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merther fic #merthur #fanfic #i don’t know

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12timetraveler · 2 years

Text

That's a Domino

Chapter 3 of Fleeting Moments

~~~~~~

You were worried.

Your beloved was beyond stressed out. Hosea was constantly going, constantly working. He was trying to keep everything afloat. He was anxious about the Pinkertons, anxious about Dutch, about money, about the others. His cough had gotten so much worse since Colter, and his stress was only making it worse, so he was also anxious about his cough.

He was one big ball of stress. You did your best to help, to make sure he ate and slept. You tried to shoulder some of the weight and help him where you could. But none of it was working, and he was running himself ragged.

Then there was Arthur.

Your friend was even worse off than Hosea. You weren't sure when he last slept or had a meal, or even just sat down. He only popped into camp to drop off some food and money, then he headed back out to do more work. He was skinny and exhausted.

You leaned against the tree in camp, watching as Arthur dragged a large buck carcass into camp for Pearson's table. You knew he'd probably head out as soon as he dumped it on the butcher table. Poor man.

You were wracking your brain, desperately trying to think of a way to help either of them. If only for a minute.

Then it hit you. The perfect way to get both of them to settle, if only for an hour or so.

Arthur was already heading back to his horse. You'd need to be quick. You pushed away from the tree, jogging across camp to catch him.

"Hey, Arthur," you called. He looked over his shoulder at you and gave you a smile, stopping and half-turning toward you.

"My lady," he greeted.

"Do you think you could do me a favor?" You asked. You could see the exhaustion lines deepen as you said it, but Arthur kept up his smile.

"Shore. What is it?" He asked.

"Would you go play dominoes with Hosea?" You asked.

Arthur blinked at you for a minute, surprised by your request, clearly expecting some errand or complicated request. "Huh?"

"He's been working so hard lately," you explained. "Trying to help Dutch, keep everyone going. He's running himself ragged. I've..." You wrung your hands together. "I've been trying to get him to relax but he just... Won't. But I was thinking... He'd never turn down a game of dominoes with you. Please?" You asked, giving him your best doe eyes.

Arthur glanced over your head, scanning camp for Hosea. You followed his gaze. Hosea was standing under the tree near Arthur's tent. Even from this far away you could see how exhausted he was. His shoulders were slumped, his back tense.

"Yeah. The old man does tend to overdo it," Arthur mumbled before turning back to you. "Sure. I'll see if he'll play with me. Might be good for both of us," he hummed.

You watched as Arthur crossed camp to where Hosea stood. Hosea immediately seemed to lighten just for having Arthur around. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but you could see the lighthearted way they were talking. You could practically hear the banter between them.

A moment later Arthur clapped Hosea on the shoulder and guided him to the big table in the center of camp. You grinned as you watched them settle into the chairs opposite each other.

You meandered over to the crate of beer by Pearson's wagon and grabbed three bottles before heading over to join them at the table. You set the bottles down and slid one in front of Arthur and one in front of Hosea before settling down in one of the end seats with the third bottle.

"-a liar," Arthur shouted playfully. "You're not at 15 you're only at 9!"

"How dare you," Hosea gasped with fake offense. "I would never. I take dominoes very seriously."

"Need a score keeper?" You giggled, pulling your journal out of your satchel and flipping to the last page. "Keep you boys honest,"

"Please," Arthur chuckled, popping open his bottle and raising it to you in a silent toast before taking a swig.

"Alright. What are we playing? All threes?"

"Yep," Arthur chirped. "I've got 12 points so far,"

You tallied 6 points for Arthur before turning to Hosea, who looked a little sheepish.

"Erm... 9," he admitted. Arthur chuckled victoriously as you tallied down Hosea's 9 points.

"Alright," you laughed, opening your beer bottle and taking a swig. "Keep going. I'll keep it fair,"

The men played for more than two hours. The only reason they stopped at all was because the sun set and even with lantern light, it was too hard to make out the domino tiles.

To your delight, Arthur decided to sleep in his cot tonight instead of heading right back out.

Hosea was relaxed and sleepy with beer when you guided him to your own tent. He certainly wasn't drunk, just nicely calmed.

"I know that was your doing," Hosea chuckled as the two of you settled in to sleep. "Clever girl, getting us both to relax like that,"

"I'm just glad it worked," you giggled. "Otherwise I was going to have to go with plan B and drug you both,"

Hosea laughed and nuzzled against your cheek.

Within five minutes he was snoring in your ear.

#Fleeting Moments #rdr2 fanfic

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the--morning--room · 2 years

Text

RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F!Reader) Chapter 8: Your station is in my heart

"'I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal—as we are!" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

AO3

As you may be aware, reader, in the tradition of human storytelling, warnings often come in threes. And too often, these warnings fall on deaf ears until it is too late. Consider, for example, the tragic case of one of my own former avatars. He was one of my best avatars—I daresay my favorite avatar of them all—until the fateful day of his defeat. The warnings he received could not have been clearer, in my opinion: First, an uncharacteristically spooked horse weeping tears of blood, then a cup of wine similarly turned to blood, and finally, the sight of a woman washing his own armor of its blood and saying to herself "I am washing the armor of Cúchulainn, who is to die today." Cúchulainn ignored all three warnings, and went on to meet death later that day. I grieve for him still, reader.

The Thorn, as you know, had so far received two warnings against involving herself emotionally with Arthur Harrow: One from Bobbi Kennedy, and the other from Steven Grant. The third was given to her on the morning after Wendy Spector's shiva. The Thorn woke up in her childhood bedroom to the sight of her mother sitting on the carpeted floor, surrounded by the scattered entrails of the Thorn's suitcase.

"I know you only came homoe to try and see Marc," the Mother said by way of explanation, "so I figured after the shiva you'd want to fly back to London as soon as possible. I went ahead and packed for you. You're welcome."

This, reader, was a lie. The Mother had been going through the Thorn's suitcase out of pure nosiness.

The Thorn knew this. "Thanks." However, she was a strong believer in Picking Her Battles.

"I don't recognize this." The Mother held up Harrow's shirt. "It's not exactly your size. Not really your style, either. I would have guessed it was a nightshirt, but you're in your pajamas right now, so that can't be it.

Horror seized the Thorn. It was wrong, seeing the Mother hold that shirt. Unnatural. A sacrilege.

"Do girls in London usually carry men's ratty old shirts around with them? Is that one of those weird British trends I wouldn't understand?"

The threat of bile stung at the bottom of the Thorn's throat.

"You know, come to think of it, here's something interesting: After we got home yesterday and you were acting all loopy and ignoring me, I googled your tattoo. 'Symbol of scales with crocodile heads,' something like that. It took a while to find anything helpful about it; I ended up in some pretty dark alleyways of the internet, but eventually I found a well-hidden website about a group of people who worship some Egyptian crocodile demon. I remembered you saying you were studying modern-day worshippers of the Egyptian gods, and that you were going to London to do some on-site research, so I kept reading. And you know what? There was a picture on the front page of that website, of a man with a tattoo just like yours, wearing a shirt just like this one."

The Thorn considered plucking her eyes from her head and hiding them in her closed fists, so that she wouldn't have to look at the Mother.

"Just tell it to me straight," said the Mother. "Are you fucking this cult leader?"

"No!"

"But you want to."

"No."

"Why else would you sleep with his shirt?"

"It's none of your business."

"How old is this guy anyway? He looks at least fifty."

"Mom, I'm not going to talk with you about this."

"This is a new low for you, you know that? Pining after a man old enough to be your father, that's such a cliché, honey. I'd like to say I'm disappointed in you, but that would imply I had expected better."

The Thorn imagined holding her eyeballs, one in each hand, slick and slimy and delicate.

"When you told me you were going to grad school, I thought you were finally getting your shit together. I was actually proud of you for once. But it seems you've taken this great opportunity for real success, and turned it into just another embarrassing failure."

The eyeballs would roll back and forth of their own volition, and the motion would create a slight buzzing sensation on her hands.

The Mother sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly confidential. "Is this about your father? Some Freudian thing, you know? Trying to 'replace' him with this cult guy so you can feel loved?"

"What?"

"Do you have one of those 'Electric' complexes? Because that would certainly explain why you hate me so much."

"I don't hate you. I never hated you. All I ever did was try my best to make you love me, and the more I tried to, the more you told me I was the spawn of Satan and would never amount to anything. I can't remember the last time you said something nice about me. You don't even hug me. It's clear that you're the one who hates me, Mom, and I just want to know why."

The Mother responded with an icy stare, then applauded slowly, each clap of her hands ringing with venomous sarcasm.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

She stopped clapping. "Being a single mother is hard, you know," she said. "Have you ever stopped to think about what getting pregnant with you did to my life? My career was ruined, I went into all kinds of debt, your father walked out on me, and you know what? If you had been a different kind of kid, I might be able to say it was all worth it. But I can't say that, because you were a fucking nightmare. Even before you were born, you used to kick me so hard that the doctor made a dumb joke about my baby being a Rockette. Easy for her to laugh about it, she wasn't forced to raise you for the next eighteen years.

"Would it have hurt you to at least try being a normal, happy little girl? You seemed so miserable all the time. All you did for fun was read about mythology and watch that stupid 'Tomb Buster' movie over and over, and when you weren't doing that you were moping around feeling sorry for yourself. God forbid we go and, I dunno, get manicures together like a normal mother and daughter. God forbid you crack a smile sometimes. But I guess I'm the bad guy here, right? I'm the villain because I wasn't a perfect mother. You know what? You try it. You try raising a kid like you, see how you feel about me then."

There was a time, not long before this, when the Thorn would simply have nodded and accepted the Mother's words. However, that was before she had found the community hall covered in blood and seen a woman die at her feet. It was before she knelt beside Marc in the street and watched him suffer as old wounds in his heart reopened and bled out in the form of Steven Grant. She had been useless in those moments, a mere witness to pain she could neither prevent nor understand.

But she hadn't always been useless, had she? She'd saved someone's life—nervously, clumsily, but still. "Don't think I've forgotten," Harrow had said. "I owe you my life. I had a feeling I wouldn't regret welcoming you here." And when he read her scales: "You have nothing to hide. Ammit sees only goodness, in your past as well as your future."

"Do you think I wanted to mope around and be miserable?" the Thorn said. "Did you ever stop to think there might be a reason I acted like that? You made me miserable. You made me hate myself for no good reason, just because I wasn't the picture-perfect daughter you wanted. And I wanted to be that perfect daughter. You just never gave me a chance. I think you wanted to resent me for some reason—maybe because my dad left you, maybe because I ruined your career, I don't know and I don't really care. I'm done caring about this—about you. I think I've given you more than enough chances to change, and it's clear you're not going to, so that's it. I don't want you to be in my life anymore."

The Mother's face was no longer ice, but blank. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

"You do know I'm the only family you have, don't you? Cut me off, and you don't have anyone else."

"I have the closest thing to a family now that I've ever had."

"What, that cult?" the Mother scoffed. "That's what you think a family is?" She got up, shaking her head, and went to the door. "You're a lost cause."

She paused and turned around, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. "You say I've never said anything nice to you? Well, savor this then, because I'm about to say something nice to you now, something I wish my mother had said to me before it was too late. You can mess around with—sorry, research—this cult as much as you want, I couldn't care less about that. You can lust after their leader as much as you want—

"Mom!"

"Oh, please. Don't you dare try and deny it. Anyway, I can't stop you sleeping with his shirt. I can't stop you sleeping with him, for that matter. What I can do is warn you. Don't trust him. Don't believe a single word that comes out of his mouth. Even if it's what you want to hear."

"You don't even know him."

"I don't need to. I've known men like him, and trust me, all they do is lie and cheat and manipulate. They trick you into believing they care about you, then you trust them with your secrets and they turn around and use those secrets to stab you in the back."

"Are you sure that's not your 'daddy issues' talking?" asked the Thorn, the words like venom in her mouth.

If only the Mother had loved her daughter more, or at least tried to. If only she'd nurtured her in childhood and respected her in adulthood, then maybe the Thorn would have heeded this warning. Maybe she would have at least considered the Mother's words before returning to London.

But instead, she kept her promise to Harrow and arrived back to the commune less than three days after her departure. Harrow, however, was not there to greet her. Instead, she was met by Billy Fitzgerald and his obnoxious small airplane, and carted off without warning or explanation to a chalky green-and-white nowhere of a village in (she would find out later) Northern Ireland. I have fond memories of Ireland, reader, and of Ulster County in particular; its only great flaw is that it plays host to a branch of the Followers of Ammit.

It was early morning when she found him. The air was heavy with life, and the rusty red of Harrow's clothing stood out like a splash of blood against the lightening horizon. They were just outside the village, and he was standing with his back to her, resting against his cane. He could have been a statue, but for the silver crown of hair blowing softly behind him.

She approached carefully, her shoes brushing whispers over the tall grass.

"You came back to me," Harrow said, turning to face her with a smile, "like the good little lamb you are."

"I'm not a lamb," she replied, aching for his touch. He supplied it, folding her into his arms and placing a kiss on her cheek. She had never wanted him more, and she hated herself for what she knew she must say to him, what she had come here to say. "We're close to releasing Ammit, aren't we?"

A horrible smile cut across Harrow's face. "I believe we are, yes. The scarab is in our possession, and our contingent in Cairo is prepared to assist us when we arrive."

She reluctantly pulled away from him. "I promised to help you find Ammit, so I will. But I never promised you anything after that, so once we've released her I'm leaving the community." The moment the words left her mouth, she longed to take them back.

He didn't look surprised or hurt, as she'd feared and hoped he would. Instead, he simply nodded and said, "I've been thinking along the same lines. Once Ammit is resurrected, I intend to stay by her side as long as she permits. My duty to her will be the sole focus of my life. You, on the other hand, have a long and illustrious career ahead of you, which shouldn't be hindered by even the noblest of causes. As hard as it will be to say goodbye to you, my dear little friend, it's for the best.

"This village houses a branch of our community. They can offer you everything we have in London—albeit with a much lovelier view. You will stay here and finish your research, and I will follow my goddess, and we will forget each other."

"I'll never forget you," she said in a broken voice.

"It feels that way now," he said. "I understand. I must confess, I feel an affinity to you that is unmatched by any of my hundreds of wonderful disciples around the world. With you, I feel the closest thing to joy I've ever known in my life. In an ideal world, I would keep you close to me and never let that connection between us break. But this is not an ideal world, which is exactly why we need Ammit. And besides," he stroked her cheek, which shuddered under his touch and erupted in silent tears, "this is what you said you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'll miss you!" The dam broke, and she was consumed by sobs. "You're the most incredible person I've ever met. You treat me with respect, you support my career, you tell me I'm a good person. You're my family. I don't want to leave you, it's the last thing I want, but I have to, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because it's all an illusion. That's what you do, isn't it? You take lonely, pathetic people like me, and you manipulate them into thinking you care for them. I can't be just another disciple to you. I can't let you use me as a pawn anymore, not even for Ammit. I'm worth more than that, Arthur. And you know what? According to Ammit's own criteria, my scales balance and yours don't. So that means you should be the one begging me to stay with you! You'd be lucky to have me around forever, don't forget that."

Harrow was smiling. "Well said, my love," he told her, and in one sweeping gesture he took her in his arms and claimed her lips with his own. Reader, you should be grateful that you were not there to see it. No one makes romantic passion look grotesque and repulsive quite like Arthur Harrow. The Thorn, however, had her eyes closed and was therefore ignorant of the intensely unsettling look of manic rapture on Harrow's face. All she knew in that moment was a complete and perfect bliss—and yet, less than a second later she found herself breaking away from him and staggering backward.

"What was that?" she cried in a panic. "Why did you do that?"

"Lamb," Harrow said quickly, stretching out a hand, "sweetheart, come here."

"You said you wanted me gone, you were sending me away, and then—"

"It was unforgivable of me. I apologize. Now please, come and let me hold you. I won't kiss you again—not yet—just let me hold you. It's cold; I'll keep you warm. Come to me."

"I can't."

"Then just listen." He knelt before her.

"Please, don't," she whimpered as a fresh cascade of tears fell from her eyes.

"Why not?" Harrow pleaded, taking her hand in both of his, caressing it, kissing her fingers, laying his cheek against it and closing his eyes in reverence.

"You already have a goddess to worship."

"The woman I worship is here. She is more precious than any goddess, for she is the best of humanity. She is beauty and goodness incarnate, and I offer myself to her knowing I am unworthy of her love."

"'Offer' yourself? Do you mean…"

"I am asking you to marry me. Please, my darling, my treasure, please say yes."

His words rung in her ears. I am asking you to marry me. It was too perfect to be real.

"Do you love me?" The question escaped her lips.

"I love you, I adore you, and I vow to protect, cherish, nurture and honor you, sweet lamb, my precious jewel, to the end of my life—and beyond even that."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Everything I have ever told you before today has been true. Why would this be any different?" Arthur Harrow, master of the loophole—now, there's something about him that even I can begrudgingly admire.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Harrow asked.

She shook her head. A knife was twisting and untwisting itself in the depths of her stomach. "I want to. You have no idea how much I want to."

"Then say yes. Say you'll be my wife, and let me prove to you how much I adore you."

"Why me, though? I'm nothing special. I don't have anything to offer you."

"You have yourself, and your love. Those are the only things I need from you."

She tried to think. There was no other answer but yes, right? She loved him. He was all she ever thought about, night and day. If she were to picture a perfect life for herself, a "happily ever after" if you will, it could only exist with him beside her.

"Stand up," she said. "I don't like you kneeling like that."

He stood, retrieving his cane from the grass and clutching it with a strange—nervous?—grip.

"Okay," said the Thorn. "I'll marry you."

Rapture blossomed across his face. "Oh, my love," he growled, taking her in his arms again. He pressed his forehead against hers and stared into her eyes. "You will marry me?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Say my name."

"Arthur, I will marry you."

"Do you love me?"

"I love you, Arthur."

They kissed. Now she felt joy in its purest form. She let herself give in to his body, tasting his lips, his jaw, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder to inhale the scent of his neck—no longer just his shirt, but him.

"Are you happy, my love?" Harrow asked her.

"Yes," she whispered, nuzzling his shoulder. And she was happy, reader, though she couldn't ignore the faint metallic chill of the crocodile's head held against the small of her back.

#moon knight #moon knight 2022 #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fanfic #marvel #mcu #arthur harrow x reader #arthur harrow x f!reader #arthur harrow #khonshu #the morning-room #resurgam tmr #resurgam ch8

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